OverSixty January 2023 Issue

19 LIFESTYLE OVERSIXTY.COM.AU | ISSUE 3 | JANUARY 2023 The only thing that ever brought a smile to his face was talk of Coffee Humour, love and an unremarkable little dog helped one family stay sane through a dark and challenging time Photo: Getty Images LIFESTYLE Mr Goldstein’s. He’s always losing it.” “Who’s Mr Goldstein?” I asked. “He’s one of the old men on the eighth floor. That’s Mike Goldstein’s wallet, for sure. He goes out for a walk quite often.” I thanked the guard and raced back to the director’s office to tell him what the guard had said. He accompanied me to the eighth floor. I prayed that Mr Goldstein would be up. “I think he’s still in the dayroom,” the nurse said. “He likes to read at night.” We went to the only room that had lights on, and there was aman reading a book.The director asked him if he had lost his wallet. Michael Goldstein looked up, felt his back pocket, and then said, “Goodness, it is missing.” The second he saw it, he smiled with relief. “Yes,” he said, “that’s it. Must have dropped it this afternoon. I want to give you a reward.” “Oh, no thank you,” I said. “But I have to tell you something. I read the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet.” The smile on his face disappeared. “You read that letter?” “Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is.” He grew pale. “Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was?” I hesitated. “Please tell me!” Michael urged. “She’s fine, and just as pretty as when you knew her.” “Could you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow.” He grabbed my hand and said, “You know something? When that letter came, my life ended. I never married. I guess I’ve always loved her.” “Michael,” I said. “Come with me.” The three of us took the lift to the third floor. We walked towards the dayroom where Hannah was sitting, still watching TV. The director went over to her. “Hannah,” he said softly. “Do you know this man?” Michael and I stood waiting in the doorway. She adjusted her glasses, looked for a mo- ment, but didn’t say a word. “Hannah, it’s Michael. Michael Goldstein. Do you remember?” “Michael? Michael? It’s you!” He walked slowly to her side. She stood, and they embraced. The two of them sat on a couch, held hands, and started to talk. The director and I walked out, both of us crying. “See how the good Lord works,” I said phil- osophically. “If it’s meant to be, it will be.” Three weeks later, I got a call from the di- rector, who asked, “Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Yup, Mi- chael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!” It was a lovely wedding, with all the peo- ple at the nursing home joining in the cel- ebration. Hannah wore a beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark-blue suit and stood tall. The home gave them their own room, and if you ever wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a 78-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see this couple. A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted nearly 60 years. ARTHUR FINE REMINISCE I t was a freezing day, a few years ago, when I stumbled on a wallet in the street. There was no identification inside. Just three dol- lars and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been carried around for years. The only thing legible on the torn enve- lope was the return address. I opened the letter and saw that it had been written in 1924 – almost 60 years ago. I read it careful- ly, hoping to find some clue to the identity of the wallet’s owner. It was a “Dear John” letter. The writer, in a delicate script, told the recipient, whose name was Michael, that her mother forbade her to seehimagain. Nevertheless, shewould always love him. It was signed, Hannah. It was a beautiful letter. But there was no way, beyond the name Michael, to identify the owner. So I called information to see if the operator could help. “Operator, this is an unusual request. I’m trying to find the owner of a wallet I found. Is there any way you could tell me the phone number for an address that was on a letter in the wallet?” The operator connected me to her super- visor, who said there was a phone listed at the address but that she could not give me that number. However, she would call and explain the situation. Then, if that person wanted to talk, she would connect me. I wait- ed a minute, and she came back on the line. “I have a woman who will speak with you.” I asked the woman if she knew a Hannah. “Oh, of course! We bought this house from Hannah’s family.” “Would you know where they could be lo- cated now?” I asked. “Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home years ago. Maybe the home could help you track down the daughter.” The woman gave me the name of the nursing home. I called and found out that Letter in the wallet Hannah’s mother had died. The woman I spoke with gave me an address where she thought Hannah could be reached. I phoned. The woman who answered ex- plained Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home. She gave me the number. I called and was told, “Yes, Hannah is with us.” I asked if I could stop by to see her. It was almost 10pm. The director said that Hannah might be asleep. “But if you want to take a chance, maybe she’s in the dayroom watch- ing television.” The director and a guard greeted me at the door of the nursing home. We went up to the third floor and saw the nurse, who told us that Hannah was indeed watching TV. We entered the dayroom. Hannah was a sweet, silver-haired old lady with a warm smile and friendly eyes. I told her about the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw it, she took a deep breath. “Young man,” she said, “this letter was the last contact I had with Michael.” She looked away, then said pensively, “I loved him very much. But I was only 16, and my mother felt I was too young. He was so handsome. You know, like Sean Connery, the actor.” We both laughed. The director then left us alone. “Yes, Michael Goldsteinwas his name. If you find him, tell him I still think of him often. I never did marry,” she said, smiling through tears that welled up in her eyes. “I guess no-one ever matched up to Michael.” I thanked Hannah, said goodbye, and took the elevator to the first floor. As I stood at the door, the guard asked, “Was she able to help you?” I told him she had given me a lead. “At least I have a last name. But I probably won’t pursue it further for a while.” I explained that I had spent almost the whole day trying to find the wallet’s owner. While we talked, I pulled out the brown leather case with its red lanyard lacing and showed it to the guard. He looked at it and said “Hey, I’d know that anywhere. That’s This story first appeared in Reader’s Digest in 1985 and has since become a much-loved classic Photo: Getty Images LIFESTYLE Aman’s search for the writer of a 60-year-old message leads him on an extraordinary journey “Do you know where you are?” These were some of the questions we would ask him daily. Sadly, we never got the answers we were hoping for. Then one day, as I was reeling off the standard list of questions, my mind started to wander and, before I knew it, I was think- ing about Coffee again. Without realising it, I blurted out: “Is Coffee a tiger?” Thinking I was being silly, Mum turned to tell me off but stopped suddenly when she saw Dad move: slowly, the corner of his mouth began to turn up. Even under the tape that kept the oxygen tube in his mouth, it was unmistakeable: he was smiling. It was the first sign in four months that Dad had showed any aware- ness of what we were saying. After that, Dad’s condition stabilised and he was moved out of intensive care. Howev- er, there was still a long, hard road ahead. Over the next nine months, Dad had to go through extensive physiotherapy to relearn all the basic things we take for granted. Even sitting up for longer than five minutes was difficult for him. Dad, who was a fiercely in- dependent man with a successful career be- fore all this happened, found it increasingly frustrating and degrading. The only thing that ever brought a smile to his face was talk of Coffee. Somehow, Coffee wriggled his way into most of our conversations. I would remind him of how Coffee, for some reason, hates walking on grass. We had a massive back- yard in Melbourne and every time we threw a ball, Coffee would run along the edge of the garden on the brick pavers, to the clos- est point where the ball had landed, tip-toe onto the grass to pick it up, then run back along the pavers again. When Mum, my sister and I would mas- sage Dad’s arms and legs to prevent his muscles fromweakening, Mumwould often comment that he was the luckiest man alive to have three women massaging him, and I would always chime in: “Now all you need is Coffee to give you a ‘lick-lick’ foot massage!” No matter how many times I repeated this comment, the whole family would laugh. It took almost a year of extensive physio- therapy and rehabilitation before Dad was well enough to return to Australia – and it was a homecoming I’ll never forget. Natu- rally, Coffee was there waiting for Dad and, with no idea he wasn’t as steady on his feet as before, Coffee promptly launched him- self into Dad’s arms, almost bowling him over. But Dad didn’t seem to mind one bit: the smile on his face was the most beautiful I’ve seen and the tears in his eyes said it all. It seems unbelievable now to look back and realise that, during the worst crisis my family ever faced, it was humorous stories about a silly little dog that kept us all sane, but that’s the truth. It’s not just smart dogs that save the day – Coffee is living proof of that. BONUS SECTION