After my mother died at the age of 93, independent and healthy until the last few days of her life, I began thinking more about women of her age who live alone, have outlived their partners and most of their friends, and do not want to be uprooted. Despite our ongoing conversations and despite my awareness that our time together was not endless, there were so many aspects of my mother’s life that are still mysterious to me. And so I set out to meet women of her generation — women over the age of ninety who live alone. By photographing them and listening to their stories, I am trying to capture something personal to me and universal to all of us.
I don’t feel old in my head. I’m happy I wasn’t caught by the Germans and I wasn’t killed and I survived. Dying? I wanted to die, but I didn’t want to be killed.
I force myself to have structure in my life. For instance, sometimes I wake up in the morning, and I think I'd like to stay in bed. And instead, I say to myself that I’m wasting the time given to me and I make myself get up. I make myself dress every single day. Not just throw on something. Then I try to figure out what I'm going to do that day. I do a lot of knitting and listening to books on tape. I also have about five people who read to me, either over the phone or in person so I have a lot of books going at once. I’ve always been a reader.
I will not feel sorry for myself even though I am unable to do what I want to do when I want to do it. Because circumstances in my life have changed. I accept them. I certainly try to be as positive as I can and not be negative about what's going on. And I try very hard to be as grateful for the life I've had or been given.
Dios está conmigo en este momento y me da fuerza.
Weaver, dancer, devoted civil rights and community activist, made my life full and meaningful. With gratitude and love for family and friends and inspiration and love from my life partner and husband, Jim Bartow.
My mantra is: “we’re all connected, we need each other and we can't do it alone.” The secret to aging is friendship, not casual friends but real friends. Because loneliness is a sadness.
I love being 95. It’s better than 94. It’s a fabulous number and a new stage of life and I hope I make it to 100. Of course, it’s not easy. There are always small losses; each year there’s something else you can’t do that you used to be able to do and in a way you’re always mourning these little losses. All my cousins and my friends and my classmates and my partner are gone. My world has narrowed. But I still work out. I have a personal trainer twice a week. And I meet outside with a private dance teacher twice a week. In January, I’m going to Iceland with my family. I’m still a work in progress but I hope that when I recognize that I’m dying, I’ll be able to accept it and won’t be frightened.
Aging has definitely narrowed my horizons. I don't feel surefooted anymore and I carry a walking stick. Going to the theatre is almost out of the question - getting there and finding a taxi home is very difficult. On the other hand, my brain still works surprisingly well and I'm grateful.
I’m considered a Holocaust survivor even though I was not in a camp. But I was in Germany during the war. I came here in November 1940 so my experiences are somewhat different than other survivors because thank goodness I wasn’t in a camp. So I didn’t consider myself a survivor until recently. I donated all my papers to the Museum of Jewish Heritage and I give talks there a few times a month.
I feel that I’m a burden on the younger generation and I feel like I’m a little bit of a hanger on. I miss the earlier part of my life very very much. I was a seamstress and then an art teacher and when I stopped teaching I had a little alteration business out of my house so I saw a lot of people. Now nobody calls me all day. It’s quiet. But I’m fortunate. I still go out, have a little walk, do some shopping, and do some knitting and crocheting in a senior group at the synagogue.
This stage of life, if you have a positive attitude and decide to make the best of it, is okay. It’s very carefree. It’s very lonely at times, but with a lot of freedom.
I don’t spend my time well anymore. I wish I could do something, but I don’t really want to work anymore.
It’s hard when you realize that your life is reduced, that there are things that you used to do easily are hard to do. You have to work around that and you have to enjoy the things that still give you pleasure. And there are always things that you can find that give you pleasure, sometimes tiny things. So far, that’s where I am.
At my age, one's life is depeopled--you look around for a friend or colleague and they're gone. If you're lucky, and I'm very lucky--you might be healthy and strong (this minute, this day) and have a loving family and close friends who’ve survived along with you—and YOU can feel warmed by the memory of past loves and the pleasures of rewarding work. Resilience is crucial and, of course, an optimistic nature with which to view what’s ahead.
I was never a home person, you know. Unfortunately, I never had children. And so I was always out. But now I'm at home as a prisoner. I can't just open the door and get out and do things. The whole thing is very discouraging for me, because I was always a very active person. And I feel like I'm just not getting any exercise, not even exercise for the brain.
Most people my age just sort of drift along, go to dinner, see their friends. I have made it a point to stay very active physically and mentally. Before COVID I would say I was agile, but I have much more flexibility now. I started two virtual exercise classes every day and I still take them. Truthfully, I do not like to exercise. I can't wait for the class to be over. There isn't a day that I don't want it to be over. I'm being honest. But I know what it does for me.
it's a shapeless, formless time. I wish, that there were some more substantial things to do. It’s ridiculous. I mean, I do still have some abilities. And I shouldn't be just sitting here letting it all just melt away.