Dear Mrs. Erenstoft,
You are the first person I know to celebrate a 100th birthday.
I'd like to mark the occasion by sharing a few thoughts.
Until 1991, when I read Molly Katz’s book, JEWISH AS A SECOND LANGUAGE, I
thought you invented the phrase “little sweater.” The first time I came
over after school in first grade, you gave us a snack before we headed outside
to play. “Take a little sweater,” you told Inez. Then, every school
day morning when I picked her up, you, in your ‘space shoes’ and short sleeve
bathrobe, made sure that after she finished ALL her cereal with banana and
brushed ALL her teeth, she had “a little sweater.” Once I became an
adopted daughter and was at your house all the time, you made sure I had one,
too. Sweet. Except in 9th grade when Inez and I wanted
bids from Phi Epsilon and went to their sorority barbeque. You came
running over after the party was underway and told the sorority girl who
answered the door, “Inez and Nancy forgot these and will need them.” And
you handed her two little sweaters. We got bids, anyway and did not accept (We
were not sorority girls. We just wanted the invitations), but that night we
were utterly mortified.
Oh Mrs. Erenstoft, it’s my nature to poke fun. I loved 95 North Drive. You
left us lots of fresh fruit and cookies and your freezer was full of ice cream
sandwiches and parfaits. More important, you left us alone. Whether we
were in your finished rec room putting on puppet shows, in Inez’s room playing
dress-ups and telling stories, or in the living room singing along with a new
Broadway show LP, we had space to just be.
You had your own space. I saw that. If you weren’t on the phone
or cooking, you were arranging, coming and going—in your pretty matching skirt
and sweater outfits—to bridge, a meeting, a luncheon or a concert with Mrs.
Fishman, Mrs. Bikoff and your zillion other friends. You had a fun life
with the girls and a huge, fun one with Inez’s dad.
I never called Dr. Erenstoft ‘Sam,’ or you ‘Janet’ but Inez and I had a hoot
substituting your names when we’d sing SOME ENCHANTED EVENING. My
parents, too, burst into SAM AND JANET EVENING when they picked me up at your
house and when we played SOUTH PACIFIC on our stereo at home.
I recently asked Inez for your longevity secrets. Here’s what she said: you
eat three meals a day, have never been overweight, eat dinner early, do not
nosh, do not complain, walk every day, love music, do volunteer work, play bridge,
have lots of interests and tons of friends, get to where you have to go early,
and have many places to go. She also said you have always loved your
routine and didn’t like to deviate from it. Brava to that, particularly
not kvetching and loving your routine.
From knowing you since you were only 41, I’d also say you like yourself,
have been engaged in whatever you
were doing, and gave and received much love. As Robert Frost wrote, “. .
.and that made all the difference.”
You made a difference in my life. You gave me my first friend. A fun
one, too. When she visited me a few years ago, we walked up Park Avenue
backwards in the snow like we did to PS #66 over a half a century ago.
I’ve gotten over the years of hearing “Inez is pretty and Nancy’s good in
math”* and then Inez having the boyfriends while I still had the hang of math,
and Inez spending summers at camp in the boathouse with her boyfriends while I
spent mine saving drowning victims in junior life saving.** Until boys mucked
it up, Inez and I laughed about everything. We’re back to that
again.
Finally, remember your housekeeper, Bertha, who weighed well over 200
pounds? Remember Mary Martin flying on television as Peter Pan?
Remember that beautiful rattan chair in your basement? And how badly it
got broken? And how angry you got? Remember Inez saying she broke it?
She DIDN'T. It was my idea to get Bertha from the laundry room, put
her on the chair, tie a rope around her neck, and the rope to the ceiling to
see if, like Mary Martin’s Peter, she could fly. We got as far as
dragging her onto the chair. It broke. When you came home and hollered, Inez
didn’t tell you that we tried to get Bertha to fly or that I’d come up with
that scheme. She took the rap, saying she broke the chair.
I am sorry for my part in that mess. Sorry, too, that Bertha couldn’t
fly.
Other than the Bertha episode, it went and still goes well. My spirit soared
in your basement. All over your house.
Thank you for that and for being a great role model. Here's to you at
100. Stick with your routines. Take a little sweater. It’s a
SAM AND JANET EVENING. When I think of you, I sing.
Love, Nancy
*I haven’t gotten over Inez being the pretty one, but that’s okay.
It’s material.
**I didn’t save anyone in life saving.
I flunked twice.