Officially old? When your memories get decluttered by your kids | Opinion
As a longtime Miami-Dade resident, I sometimes measure the passing of time less by birthdays and more by the memories my daughters insist on decluttering from my closets — that’s how I know I’m officially old?
My favorite team was the Brooklyn Dodgers. My parents let me stay up on Tuesday nights to watch Uncle Miltie. Ice was delivered on a horse-drawn truck to our bungalow in Coney Island. I saw Fats Domino and Jerry Lee Lewis live at a Times Square rock ’n roll show. The Old Farmer’s Almanac was my Google search engine.
No, actually, the real way I know I’m old is because my mid-50ish daughters told me, rather than asked, that they were coming over to start decluttering our Bay Harbor Islands apartment.
I could have been outraged, insulted or defensive. Rather, I chuckled.
My youngest, at 55, the most “Type A” of our three girls, kept saying how anxious she got thinking about my storage closet. That closet housed boxes upon boxes of love letters, photos, slides, 8-millimeter films, baby books, travel scrapbooks, et al, saved from 62 years of marriage.
I know why she was anxious and why she drafted her 57-year-old sister to help. When I moved their grandmother to the Miami Jewish Home just short of her 103rd birthday and a month before the pandemic lockdown, my brother and I spent weeks packing up her Hallandale condo and then months more sorting through her savings.
My mother saved everything from her high school years to her engagement to her years as a wife, a too-young widow and her ultimate move to South Florida after my father died.
My daughters and two of my granddaughters have worked on three subsequent Sunday afternoons. At first, my middle daughter got lost in her baby book and everything I’d saved from her early grade school days. Then the serious decluttering began.
The last session provided all of us with a wonderful traipse down memory lane.
There’s still so much to do before…
When Robin said she wanted to declutter, which she insists I will also enjoy, is what was left unsaid was before we were “gone and (she) had to do it alone.”
She’s not alone on that thought. While we have owned our “final condominiums” at historic Mount Nebo for years, we had never gone the next step and planned what the funeral industry euphemistically characterizes as “pre-need.”
When a friend passed away unexpectedly, my husband, Michael, and I discussed making all our arrangements as a gift to our daughters, so that they needn’t be burdened by decisions and expenses when the eventual time comes.
I’ve had two hips and one knee replaced and recovered completely after intensive rehabilitation following a catastrophic auto accident in which my family and I were hit head-on on Alligator Alley four years ago. I’ve had two marathon spinal surgeries. Even with some healing complications after the first, I returned to my old active self. Even at that point, I considered my overall health good.
And then… the second spinal surgery resulted in 39 days of hospitalization, sepsis, paralysis of my primary arm and general debilitation.
So, here I am, 2 1/2 years post-surgery, not quite fully recovered and unable to drive. And I’m back in PT working on balance and gait issues.
Sure, I know I’m old, but my brain still works just fine, thank you. I’m back to baking and needlepointing, two of my passions. And, obviously, my fingers are able to type, which has always been pivotal to my sense of wholeness.
And don’t get me started about my grandchildren and great-grands!
Sure, I know I’m old. My heart goes out to all those in my cohort who don’t know when it’s “time.”
Mightily, we try not to go gentle into that good night.
Norma A. Orovitz was a reporter and columnist for the Miami News and managing editor for the Jewish Floridian, both now defunct.
This story was originally published August 25, 2025 at 12:41 PM.