Not long ago, I found myself in my parents’ new home in sunny South Florida, where they had settled into a gated community designed for those aged 55 and older. As soon as I arrived, they whisked me off to the clubhouse, a vibrant hub for socializing. My father proudly introduced me to his band of friends, who I quickly nicknamed “The Golf Crew.”
I first met Larry, a remarkably tanned gentleman in his seventies, sporting a gold chai pendant that dangled just above his round stomach. At first glance, he seemed like a character straight out of a film about Jewish snowbirds—so stereotypically perfect that I almost questioned his authenticity. The community was filled with transplants from the Northeast, evident in the local deli’s claim to fame: “Brooklyn Water Bagels.”
A Life on the Lanai
My parents now reside on a golf course, and I spent my mornings in their “Florida Room,” wearing an old band t-shirt and connecting with friends online. I happily adopted the catchphrase “Greetings from the Lanai!” as I observed geckos skittering across the yard and golfers practicing their swings. (Floridians have numerous terms for their screened porches, and it’s a delightful local quirk.)
On my second day in Boca, we visited a nearby deli with a menu boasting both lox and nova. As I took in the scene, a wave of melancholy washed over me. Many diners were accompanied by aides, some relying on walkers, their hands trembling as they enjoyed their meals. The atmosphere felt reminiscent of a hospital waiting room, the scent of illness mingling with the aroma of pickles.
I couldn’t shake the image of my still-vibrant mother, who participates in Zumba five times a week, frequenting this deli for years to come, chasing after the $5.99 lunch special. I found myself tearing up behind my sunglasses, not wanting to reveal my fears to her.
A Surprising New Home
Interestingly, I never envisioned my parents settling here. They were once the free-spirited hippies, the coolest parents among my friends. My dad had even opened Long Island’s first head shop, “The Mystic Grove,” during my childhood. Our home was filled with eclectic music, and the first time I tried marijuana at a party, I called my mom in a panic. Instead of scolding me, she comforted me while my dad chuckled from the doorway.
Two years ago, after my father experienced a heart attack and underwent a quintuple bypass, he expressed a strong desire to retire. This meant leaving behind Long Island, known for its exorbitant property taxes. They decided to relocate to Boca, a place often jokingly referred to as the final resting spot for many retirees.
While Florida is known as “God’s Waiting Room” due to its high population of seniors (64 percent as of 2012), the Boca/Delray/Boynton Beach area has an especially dense Jewish community. For my parents, it felt like a return to their roots, a familiar place that mirrored Long Island but without the snow.
I’m genuinely pleased to see my father relaxed and free from the stresses of his former job. My mother enjoys her evenings with a glass of wine and power walks through local nature trails. They can easily head to the beach whenever the mood strikes.
Still, a sense of unease lingers within me. I know this is the final chapter of their lives and that I will face more health challenges as the years progress. Instead of taking a train ride to visit, I’ll have to book a flight from New York City for emergencies.
Yet, my parents remain content and fearless. It’s me who must come to terms with their new reality. After spending a week in Boca, I realize this phase of their lives will be filled with sunshine and joy. I must admit—life on the Lanai is quite pleasant.
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Summary
Visiting my retired parents in Boca Raton has been an eye-opening experience. While they have settled into a community that feels like home to them, it forces me to confront the realities of aging and health. Despite my reservations, I appreciate the joy they find in this sunny chapter of their lives.