Ask anybody who is dealing with the aging process what the hardest change to adjust to is, and I’m sure the answer will be, hands down, having to give up driving! If we think the current generation is attached by the umbilical cord to the smart phone, that doesn’t compare to my generation’s attachment to our wheels. Most of us grew up in one-car families, and that one car was the property of our fathers. Real equality began when our mothers were given the second (and lesser) automobile. We could hardly wait to get out of school and get a job, so we could get around freely. I learned to drive at 16, but my first car didn’t come until 21, after my first year of earning a living.
I don’t remember the year when my son gently told me it was time to hang up my keys – I was probably in my late 80s – but it was the worst deprivation of my life. It meant I was dependent! And of all things in my life, I had fought hardest for my independence.
With that as background, you will understand my gratitude when Lowell, a man in my Saturday morning study group, told me he would pick me every Saturday and bring me home. And he has done that so faithfully that even when he was to be out of town, he arranged for someone else to substitute for him. Not only that, he has offered to extend his service whenever he thought we might be going to the same place. Frequently, he has said, “Now remember, Harriett, if you need something, you are to call me first!” Not only have I done that, but he and his wife have made me part of their family when events took place and my own family was away or unavailable. They are the nicest, most gracious people.
Last Saturday after my study group, I came out to find his car gone and Lowell nowhere to be seen. Of course, I had other offers and someone else brought me home. No problem. I had no sooner entered my apartment when the phone rang and I heard, “Please don’t fire me, Harriett. This is my only job!” His wife told me, they were about to eat lunch when he clapped his hand to his head. She asked what was wrong, and he said, “I forgot Harriett!”
Of course I have expressed my gratitude for his kindness many times over the years, but I thought this was my opportunity to do it publicly. I am not the only recipient of Lowell Nigoff’s generosity and kindness, so no one who knows him will be surprised by this tale. I have been to funerals when the eulogies were so fervent that I felt like looking into the coffin to make sure I was at the right funeral. Nobody will have that problem at Lowell’s – whoever is in attendance and no matter how glowing the eulogy, his goodness cannot be overstated.
So, Lowell, of course I’m not firing you. Your only job is yours as long as I’m alive, and many thanks for being my substitute son and my thoughtful friend – just no more forgetting! cc