My upscale, gentrified Fort Lauderdale neighbors pride themselves on taking good care of things. They take good care of their homes and their cars and their kids and their elderly parents and, of course, their pets. They like to look good and many of my neighbors, like their homes, have “had some work done.” These suburban Baby Boomers take care of their health too, shopping at Whole Foods, and eating at restaurants like Seasons 52 where they pay maximal prices for minimal calories. The health clubs and Pilate’s studios of Fort Lauderdale are filled even when the economy tanks. What a difference a couple of generations makes.
My grandparents had no such issues; they were fat, happy and long-lived. Hearty, old country European peasants, they were unpretentious and industrious. My maternal grandparents were Slovenian, or maybe Slovak or possibly Yugoslavian; no one has ever been quite sure. I was told as a small boy, in whispers, that Grandpa Ignatz may even have been Jewish. Grandpa Ignatz himself was never sure, and apparently never cared.
He was orphaned as a small boy and lived on the streets of some obscure East European village from the time he was 6 until he emigrated at the age of 20. Grandpa was an immense mountain of a man who did not suffer fools gladly. He ate bacon and eggs every morning, rolled his own cigarettes, and, as far as anyone can remember, never came into contact with a green vegetable in his entire life. Family legend says that on his death he had to have a custom-made coffin, since the stock sizes were too small for him.
His second wife, Grandma Katy, had a huge bosom and, as a small boy I dreaded hugging her because of the very real possibility of suffocation when she clasped me to her chest. Grandma Katy’s husband died around the same time Grandpa Ignatz’s wife died. She needed an income. He needed someone to care for his six kids. They were married within 6 weeks and people gossiped about it for years. True partners, Grandma Katy helped to support her family during the Depression by brewing moonshine in the basement; when the cops came she pretended not to speak English and sent the cops home with bottles of “hooch” that kept them pie-eyed until the next raid. Grandma Katy drank boilermakers while she said her nightly Rosary and breakfasted on raw eggs mixed with beer. She and Grandpa were expert bridge players and cheated as though they were possessed.
On the Italian side, Grandpa Giacomo drank the sweet red wine that he fermented in his basement and made his own sausage, rich and fatty. He smoked unfiltered Camels and as an old man he danced the Tarantella at family gatherings. Grandpa had a glass eye; I have no idea why, but he did. When he was pressed into service to baby-sit for my little brother and me, he would pop the eye out, put it on the table and say “I’ve got my eye on you!” Then he would go take a nap, while my brother and I cowered in terror. Grandpa Jack ate pasta every day and as a small boy I remember hearing my grandmother telling my mom that even as an old man, while some men came home for lunch Grandpa Jack came home for sex.
The object of his ardor, Grandma Filamena, was a cook like they don’t make anymore. Grandma believed that anything that was naturally good could be made better with deep frying, marinara sauce and plenty of cheese. To Grandma Phyllis, a snack could have 3 courses. I remember hearing one of my cousins telling Grandma that she did not want any meatballs because she was not hungry, and Grandma waved her hands dismissively: “You don’t have to be hungry to eat,” she said. Grandma had a horrible temper which she thoroughly enjoyed, culminating in the Christmas Eve that she brained my obnoxious, drunken Uncle Carl with a cast-iron frying pan.
These were my grandparents. They were fat and happy. They ate well, laughed loud, lived large and died old. All four of them lived well into their 80s. By today’s standards, we would say they had an “unhealthy lifestyle” but they never worried about it because they were too busy living to worry about their health.
Fast forward to the 21st Century. I, the product of these hardy souls, am obsessed with my health. I neither smoke nor drink. I watch my sodium intake. I can feel my arteries clogging at the mention of sausage or eggs. I exercise every day. I monitor my waist size, my body fat, my blood pressure, and my cholesterol. A member of the group that is called the “worried well” I am lean and fit and nervous and as I obsess about my health I can’t help but wonder if I will live longer than my grandparents or if it will just seem like a whole lot longer.