In 2015, Larry and I sold our home in Upstate New York and relocated to a community in Central Florida. As Larry and I have fully embraced our new life in the Sunshine State, let us compare our retirement life near Orlando to my parents’ retirement years near Fort Lauderdale.

When the last of the Cohen children headed for college, my parents spent a couple of weeks each winter in Florida. When they retired, they sold the house in Keeseville and moved into their cottage on Lake Champlain. They escaped to Florida for two or three months in the dead of winter, splitting their time between short-term rentals and relatives’ pull-out couches. In time, they purchased a one-bedroom condo in Hawaiian Gardens, a complex in Lauderdale Lakes that they had heard about through a friend who lived at the complex.

After years of living in a community with lots of snow and with few Jewish people, they thrived in the sunshine and in the company of Yiddishkeit, fellow Jews who had moved to the Sunshine State from New York City and Long Island. Their lives fell into a pattern. They shopped at Publix and went to their doctors’ appointments in the morning. By noon, they joined all the other retirees by the small community pool. The women splashed around in the water while the men kibitzed on their beach chairs under large umbrellas. The conversation consisted of bad jokes, condo gossip, politics, and discussions as to which restaurants offered the best early bird specials. My mother had grown up speaking Yiddish to her parents, and my father knew a few expressions, so they started a popular Yiddish Club that met once a week. Dad played poker; Mom went to flea markets with friends.

Outside of my father’s occasional game of golf, my parents got their exercise walking back and forth to the pool. Deerfield Beach was only a half an hour away, but my father hated the sun, the heat, and the sand. As a result, my mother, who didn’t drive in Florida, limited her visits to the ocean to when her children could take her when we visited.

Hawaiian Gardens offered entertainment in the clubhouse, usually a singer or a comedian who had worked on the Borscht Belt. The performers weren’t paid a great deal, many were a little beyond their prime, and the audience could be downright cruel. During one of our visits, a woman singer

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was belting out Broadway tunes. When she asked if the audience would like her to do an encore, one of the residents yelled out, “No! You’re terrible! Get off the stage!”

Larry and I flew down at least once a year and joined them in their routine. In the morning, I would take my mother to the supermarket or the flea market. At noon, we headed to the pool. At three o’clock, no matter how beautiful the weather, we all went upstairs to get ready to leave their apartment by four o’clock for that day’s early bird special. The meals varied in quality, but there were tons of food with enough leftovers, extra bread, lemon slices, and a few Sweet ’n Low packets to take home for the next day’s lunch. Even when they relocated to a larger condo, their routine remained the same. And their lives always included visits from relatives and friends from New York as well as get-togethers with new friends they had made.

Although we enjoyed our visits, Larry and I could not picture ourselves living the sedentary East Coast Florida condo life that my parents enjoyed. When we moved to our adult active community in Central Florida, we felt we had found our own slice of heaven. Our home sat on a large scenic lot with plenty of room for family and friends to visit. Our community had two community recreational centers where I could take exercise classes and swim laps. Larry could play pickleball. We had miles of neighborhood streets where we could take long walks and longer bike rides. Many clubs and groups offered us innumerable ways to meet people from around the country and the world. Many of the activities revolved around the synagogue and the Shalom Club, but we also participated in club activities offered by groups with ties to Italy, England, the Caribbean, and Western Upstate New York. We had a full, diverse life.

Once we lived here for a few months, however, I realized how much we have in common with my parents. Has it been that different? We head to the pickleball courts, the pool, and fitness classes in the morning. Then we plan our doctors’ appointments and our trip to Publix in the afternoon. Flipped schedule, but…. We often head to our favorite restaurant by four o’clock so we can beat the crowds. Recent entertainment included a headliner from the Sixties whose toupee and fancy tux didn’t cover the fact that his body and voice were not what they were fifty years ago. The ocean is only ninety minutes away, but we don’t feel like fighting the traffic. We share a great deal of time with our family and our old friends from around the country. And, like my parents, we escape the summer heat by spending time in Frisco, Colorado. It’s not Lake Champlain, but at 9100 feet it certainly beats Florida’s summers.

Both of our children have visited us in our home in Florida. They and their families have repeatedly told us they were glad that we are so happy here. However, I doubt if either of them or their families would select the lifestyle we have chosen. Our daughter Julie and her husband Sam love living in the Rockies, where they have mountains, forests, and plenty of trails available for hiking and skiing. Our son Adam and his wife love living in San Francisco, enjoying all that wonderful city and California have to offer. I hope wherever my children live, they will enjoy sunny skies, good health, and lots of

activities to keep busy. Most importantly, I hope they find joy in wherever life takes them.

In her eulogy to Grandma Fran, Julie spoke of my mother’s legacy. “She taught me about the woman I’d like to be, one filled with love, generosity, wisdom, wit, empathy, and a belief that we can create our own happiness in life by searching for the blessings.” That is the life my mother, “Frances Fradel” Cohen, lived with her “Dear Bill.” May their memories— and the memories they shared with all who knew and loved them—be a blessing.