"Slominsky" A Dad Story

This is a very short one. And I am sure true for Dad used to help the men and women around his apartment, a haven for the elderly. This took place in the days before cell phones, clearly, when you had to find a place to call, a booth, a business. Dad was probably older than the woman he helped as it turns out.


She was diminutive and old, very old. 

She handed me a badly rumpled piece of paper on which there was an almost illegible address and telephone number.  I could not help.  She was about to leave, a pitiful figure, distraught, the translucent skin on her face allowing wide red blotches to come through--perhaps because of the unusually cold snap, or perhaps a physical problem.  I stopped her.  "Why don't we call," I suggested. She looked about in total distress. 

"Where?" she asked, looking about.  There are no phone booths on Fairfax Avenue.  Generally, these accommodations are abundant in areas where the young men array themselves, listening for the beckoning sound of their state of the art beepers.  I led her into the Wells Fargo Bank and solicited one of the Assistant Managers seated behind a desk.  He assented, and I called the number, and handed her the phone.  The accent was strong, but her English was fluent.  "The name is Slominsky.  I'm looking for a cousin of the same name, and I was given this address.  Is there some way you can come to me?" There seemed to be a difficulty.  I took the phone, introduced myself as a passerby trying to assist, describing the lady as old, "perhaps eighty or eighty-five."

"I'm sixty-five," she corrected.

"Where can I reach her," said the woman on he phone.  I solicited the information and reported, "The Shalom Home" and gave the address, familiar to me since I live in an adjoining building. 

"It's not that far," said the woman.  "Tell her I'll call her later this afternoon."

Outside, I dared to inquire further on the matter, despite the cardinal error I had already made in estimating her age as eighty or eighty-five.  On further examination, in the light of a noon California sun, I privately thought the guess an underevaluation. 

"Are you Russian?" I asked, the most frequent background of the elderly in this area these days.

"Lithuanian," she replied.  Further probing revealed that she had taught school in Boston and New York, that the Slominsky she was seeking was "a great writer" who she last saw in Lithuania years ago. He was one hundred and one years old.

I asked what he had written. She handed me an article from an unidentified newspaper, which she quickly retrieved before I could read it.  Nevertheless, I had caught part of the headline, "Slominsky 101. . . ". The rest I cannot swear to, but I caught the words, "Writer, Musician."  It was a lengthy article. Clearly Slominsky was still alive. Yesterday, George Burns reached 100.  What can I say?

I suppose "Mazeltov" is as succinct as I can put it.