Happy may be not the *exact* right word. It’s more of a contemplative Friday for me. And that’s because a few days ago, an old family friend — an American man by the name of Truman who played a large role in my life — died, at the age of 108.
Yes, that’s right. He was 108 years old (almost 109, actually.)
And he had been a part of my life since I was seven, when my parents moved to a tiny, old village outside of Rome. Truman, with his hearty laugh and bushy white beard, was a fixture in this ancient place. And he quickly took my parents and me under his wing after we arrived.
My seven year old son helping 103 year old Truman walk home after dinner
My bond with Truman was cemented immediately. He taught me how to do the breast-stroke in the lake that the village is on; he taught me how to perfectly twirl spaghetti onto my fork — which, no joke — is an important skill in Italy. (Foreigners using spoons are ridiculed.) These early lessons in simple things have proved useful throughout my life.
Truman in the kitchen of our house before it was fixed up
As I got older, he remained a reassuring presence. As is often the case, my middle school years were somewhat painful. I was the only foreign kid in the local school, which I joined speaking no Italian, leading to the frequently reinforced impression among my peers that I was a weirdo and an idiot. In addition to the social isolation, I was terrible at math, which tainted so much of my school experience with angst, failure and fear. After school, eager to get away from kids my own age, I would cycle to Truman’s house and hang out with him. He lived in what can best be described as a shack, which was attached to an olive press, situated in an olive grove, and he invariably reassured me that I was not, in fact, an idiot. That actually, systems of learning were frequently wrong about the best ways to help kids learn; that no child (especially not me) was stupid or incapable. He often told a story about Albert Einstein in Princeton, who helped a little girl do her arithmetic homework. But when she showed her teacher, it turned out, much of it was wrong! The message being: don’t sweat the small numbers, it’s the big ones that count. Not even Einstein himself could do long division.
I can't imagine many little kids have such a soothing and constant presence in their life.
Truman and I in the lake, 1983
One of the reasons Truman was such a good antidote for my school girl fears and failures was that he was a perpetual learner. He started a PhD in psychology when he was in his 70’s, driven by the same patience, curiosity and compassion he showed me.
Years later, my son would develop a similar affinity for Truman. After I heard he had died, a few days ago, I went back and watched a video my mother had taken of Truman talking to my son, when my son was 8 months old. In the video, my son watches him with utter fascination, his brand-new brain somehow computing that he was in the presence of someone special. In another video, taken when my son was 7 and Truman 103, the old man listens patiently while the little boy excitedly explains to him the different player’s positions in football.
Anytime we visited in the years after that, my son was always delighted to see Truman. No matter how old and frail he got, Truman’s affinity for small humans remained strong. When we returned home, my son would regale people in school with tales of his friend who was over a hundred years old. To this day, he marks time against Truman’s age.
I have one email from Truman, which he wrote to me as my marriage was imploding. In it, he expresses his sympathies for my troubles and recommends that I find a good therapist:
“i should like very much to help you but i learned never to work with your own family or close friends just to love them…much love and hope jenny and remember that i am always here to help you any way i can, truman at 101”
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In memory of an old (and I mean 108 years old) friend, who died this week
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Happy Friday! 🥳
Happy may be not the *exact* right word. It’s more of a contemplative Friday for me. And that’s because a few days ago, an old family friend — an American man by the name of Truman who played a large role in my life — died, at the age of 108.
Yes, that’s right. He was 108 years old (almost 109, actually.)
And he had been a part of my life since I was seven, when my parents moved to a tiny, old village outside of Rome. Truman, with his hearty laugh and bushy white beard, was a fixture in this ancient place. And he quickly took my parents and me under his wing after we arrived.
My bond with Truman was cemented immediately. He taught me how to do the breast-stroke in the lake that the village is on; he taught me how to perfectly twirl spaghetti onto my fork — which, no joke — is an important skill in Italy. (Foreigners using spoons are ridiculed.) These early lessons in simple things have proved useful throughout my life.
As I got older, he remained a reassuring presence. As is often the case, my middle school years were somewhat painful. I was the only foreign kid in the local school, which I joined speaking no Italian, leading to the frequently reinforced impression among my peers that I was a weirdo and an idiot. In addition to the social isolation, I was terrible at math, which tainted so much of my school experience with angst, failure and fear. After school, eager to get away from kids my own age, I would cycle to Truman’s house and hang out with him. He lived in what can best be described as a shack, which was attached to an olive press, situated in an olive grove, and he invariably reassured me that I was not, in fact, an idiot. That actually, systems of learning were frequently wrong about the best ways to help kids learn; that no child (especially not me) was stupid or incapable. He often told a story about Albert Einstein in Princeton, who helped a little girl do her arithmetic homework. But when she showed her teacher, it turned out, much of it was wrong! The message being: don’t sweat the small numbers, it’s the big ones that count. Not even Einstein himself could do long division.
I can't imagine many little kids have such a soothing and constant presence in their life.
One of the reasons Truman was such a good antidote for my school girl fears and failures was that he was a perpetual learner. He started a PhD in psychology when he was in his 70’s, driven by the same patience, curiosity and compassion he showed me.
Years later, my son would develop a similar affinity for Truman. After I heard he had died, a few days ago, I went back and watched a video my mother had taken of Truman talking to my son, when my son was 8 months old. In the video, my son watches him with utter fascination, his brand-new brain somehow computing that he was in the presence of someone special. In another video, taken when my son was 7 and Truman 103, the old man listens patiently while the little boy excitedly explains to him the different player’s positions in football.
Anytime we visited in the years after that, my son was always delighted to see Truman. No matter how old and frail he got, Truman’s affinity for small humans remained strong. When we returned home, my son would regale people in school with tales of his friend who was over a hundred years old. To this day, he marks time against Truman’s age.
I have one email from Truman, which he wrote to me as my marriage was imploding. In it, he expresses his sympathies for my troubles and recommends that I find a good therapist:
I strongly suggest clicking on the image above and watching Truman tell a very brief story.
Rest in peace my old friend.