When Zaidy was Old

It's all a matter of perspective

“Did he come yet? Did he come yet?” the man grabbed my sleeve and asked me inquisitively.

I had just entered the convalescent home to visit my Zeidy when this man accosted me at the door. He was an older man and I assumed a member of the nursing home. He appeared vey neat, regal even, wearing a nice suit and tie.

“Is he here yet?” he asked again. “I need to know. Has he come? I’m waiting for him.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? I need to know if he’s here yet.”

I tried to ignore him and head to the receptionist’s desk for information, but he followed me there.

“Is he here yet? Do you know?” he asked, as I awkwardly smiled at the receptionist and tried to ignore this older man.

The receptionist seemed a sweet guy and used to this older man’s antics. I saw the name “Harry” on his name tag.

“Hi Harry,” I said. “I’m here to visit my grandfather, Mr. Friedman. Can you tell me which room he’s in?”

“Sure, sure. Jacob Friedman? He’s at room 212.”

I nodded my thanks and walked down the hall to the elevator. The older man kept following me.

“Is he here yet?” he asked me again.

“I’m sorry sir, I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“He’s not here yet?” He asked as I waited for the elevator. “Well, don’t worry he’s going to come soon.” He left me at that, wondering who this mysterious visitor he’s waiting for was.

The elevator finally arrived and another older man with a bushy white beard stepped in with me. I pressed the button to two and then he shuffled over to me.

“Can you help me young man?” he said. “How does this work?”

“How does what work?” I asked.

“These buttons. This machine. How does it work?”

Did this guy not know how to use an elevator? I thought. Oy.

“Okay, so you press these buttons to go to the floor you need. What floor are you going to, reb yid?”

“I’m going to floor 5,” he croaked. “Okay, so we’ll press this button and you’ll be on your way.”

“Thank you very much!” he exclaimed. “Shkoyach! Shkoyach!” The elevator doors opened and I got out with a sigh of relief. I walked down the hall, hoping that I wouldn’t bump into anyone else. Alas, my hopes were immediately shattered.

“Baruch atah ado-nay elo-heinu Melech ha’olam asher kidishanu bimitzvosav vetzivanu al mitzvas tzitzis!” I heard someone make the bracha on tzitzis loudly. “Amen!” I heard in response.

I turned the corner and glimpsed into the day room. There, at the center of the room, I saw a man putting on tzitzis. However, he wasn’t just wearing one pair of tzitzis. He had on at least forty pairs of tzitzis and a stack of another hundred pairs on the table. The table was filled with tzitzis.

“Baruch atah ado-nay elo-heinu Melech ha’olam… al mitzvas tzitzis!” “Amen!” I heard again.

The man shouting amen looked homeless. He had long insane hair and a crazy wild beard. He was screaming “Amen!” with all his might. I walked past the room, not even wanting to think about what was going on. As I walked, I realized I had no idea what direction the room was. I passed someone and stopped him to ask directions.

“Excuse me,” I said. The man was staring at the ground and when he heard me speak, he quickly covered his eyes.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Do you know where room 212 is?”

He refused to look at me and kept his hands over his eyes. “Yes, keep walking down the hall. You’ll see it.”

“Thank you.”

I wondered why he was covering his eyes like that but kept walking. I was here to visit my Zeidy. No matter how many strange old people I meet, I was going to do that. I wondered though what type of crazy convalescent home my Zeidy was at though. Finally, I came to room 212.

“Ah, Shlomo! I’m so happy you came!” My Zeidy sat up in his bed to smile at me widely. “Let me introduce you to my roommate, Reb Tuvia.”

“Nice to meet you, Reb Tuvia,” I said, nodding politely. “How are you?”

“VG,” Tuvia responded.

“Excuse me?”

“VG, VG,” he said and turned his head away from me to stare intently at the wall. I gave my Zeidy a quizzical look. He gestured to me to come closer to him.

“Reb Tuvia is a massive talmid chochom,” he told me in a conspiratorial whisper. “He doesn’t want to be mevatel Torah, so he responds in acronyms. Like VG! That means ‘very good.’”

“Ah.”

“Look at him now! He’s pashut thinking of a shverer toisafos.” I turned to Tuvia and he did indeed seem deep in thought, staring into space with an intense look in his eyes.

“That explains it, Zeidy, but acronyms were the least confusing part of my visit today,” I said with a laugh.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, when I first walked in there was a man asking if someone is here yet. He kept asking again and again if he came yet. I didn’t know who he was talking about. Maybe a family member?”

“Ah, you met the heilege Reb Moshe. Every day he stands out there in his best clothing and waits for the Mashiach. He has such Emunah and bitachon that he’s sure he’ll arrive any minute.”

“Really?” I asked astonished. “Wow, that’s actually really inspiring.”

“Yes, yes, he inspires all of us.”

“Well, then I got into the elevator and there was a guy who didn’t know how elevators work! I had to teach him about the buttons and everything.”

“Reb Shayale?” Zeidy smiled and nodded wisely. “Oh, you had a moyradika zchus to meet Reb Shayale. He’s the biggest masmid here. They say his mind is so ereingutan in learning that he doesn’t know what’s going on in the outside world. All he cares about is Torah! He doesn’t even know how to use an elevator! That’s how little he cares about the outside world.”

“Incredible! Well, what about the man in the day room. He was putting on hundreds of pairs of tzitzis. There were tzitzis piled up all around him.”

“Ah Rav Chaim Yankel,” My Zeidy smiled and held his hands outstretched up to the sky. “What a Tzadik! He has such a love for the mitzvah of tzitzis. One pair of tzitzis wasn’t enough for him. He was mekabel to put on 150!”

“That’s beautiful,” I said. “But what about the man standing next to him saying Amen to his every bracha? He looked homeless, with wild long hair and a crazy beard.”

“Ohhhhh, Rav Yossel. He’s mamesh a gaon! He literally never stops learning or davening. Always involved in serving hashem. He pashut doesn’t get a haircut or cut his beard because he doesn’t want to be mevatel Torah. I heard that he doesn’t even take a shower because of the bittul Torah that causes.”

“Oh, wow. Well, this one you won’t be able to explain. As I was walking here, a man gave me directions and he refused to look at me! He first averted his gaze, but then kept his eyes covered the whole time he spoke with me.”

“Rav Itche Meir,” my grandfather said knowingly. “What a tzaddik! He’s very careful about shmiras einayim. He doesn’t look at anyone! They say, at first, he only didn’t look at women, but then he heard there was azah tyvah for even men. From then on, he made sure to not set his eyes on anyone.”

“Zeidy, I didn’t realize you live with such tzadikim!”

“Yes, it’s a big zechus. But did you meet Rav Herschel?”

“Rav Herschel?” I asked bemused. “Which one was Rav Herschel?”

“Rav Herschel the receptionist! Were you fooled by his act too? He calls himself ‘Harry’ and dresses not frum, but he’s one of the lamed vav hidden tzaddikim!”

I nodded my head. This wasn’t just a plain old nursing home my Zeidy was living at. This was a home for gedolim!