I’ve Been Thinking . . . About Gratitude

Our AirBnb in Naples was a single-level cinder block and stucco duplex – a common technique in the area we stayed in.  Given the propensity for utilizing residences for rentals – particularly short-term – evidence of remodeling a single house into a duplex was not uncommon.

Somewhat less common, but sprinkled throughout the area, were houses on pilotis, or what I would call stilts for want of a more commonly descriptive term.  The houses literally are setting on top of what look like 6” x 6” or 8” x 8” posts or concrete columns, much as an elevated deck might have supporting it “back home.”  It is sometimes referred to as Keys style construction and seemingly is intended to keep the structure above water in the event of a hurricane wave surge.

We were walking the dogs along the street one morning.  An elderly woman was climbing the steps of one of the stilt houses that was open below.  The design varied in that it appeared to be octagonal and the steps went up the side of the structure, making a 90-degree turn at a landing halfway up.  I called out to ask if she was the owner.  Affirming, she explained that her husband, Don^{(name changed)}, built it.  An elderly man with a cane was shuffling up the street; it was Don.

Don and Betty^{(name changed)} have been married 51 years – a second marriage for both.  Don is 92 (it would be impolite to ask Betty’s age).  He was a successful homebuilder in the New England area, having built more than 300 homes; hence he built his stilt house.  Considering Don’s background as a builder, I casually mentioned that our son is a graduate in architecture.

We had a pleasant conversation about building houses, where they live in New England, living in Florida in the winter.  They have a son and grandchildren living in Naples and they told us about recently going to watch their grandson play basketball.  Don wanted to pat the dogs, which he seemed to enjoy throughout our brief visit.

Near mid-day we were looking at a possible place to stay on next year’s trip.  We learned of a condo complex from a snowbird who has been staying there for years.  An elderly man (there are a lot of elderly people in south Florida . . . but, of course, I was not one of them ) was getting out of his car to visit the pool.  We asked if he lived there.  Yes.

Coincidentally, Heinz, like Don, was 92.  As a mnemonic for remembering his name, he said with a grin, if his last name was “57” he’d be a rich man.  He offered to take us into the pool area and show us around.  I noted as we walked to the pool that he moved easily, without tell-tale signs of his age.  This stood out for me because my mother, who lived to 94, was similarly able to move freely about into her early 90s.

The pool was busy – busier than any other pool area we had seen in other complexes.  It seemed that everyone we encountered knew Heinz; he introduced us as if we were old friends.  He was spry and engaging in those brief conversations, always mentioning something relevant to each individual we met – how did your daughter’s surgery go; when are the grandchildren going to visit this year; and so on.

During our tour, we learned that Heinz had escaped the Holocaust as a boy.  The Nazi Third Reich implemented and accelerated harassment and economic restrictions against Jews.  Heinz’ father anticipated more dire circumstances in Germany and fled with his family to avoid it.  Heinz’ wife, whom he met and married after immigrating to the US, was a survivor of Auschwitz, where about a million Jews were systematically murdered; in all, the Holocaust resulted in the deaths of more than six million Jews.

We told Heinz we were sorry for his experience.  With all sincerity and humility, he told us, Don’t feel sorry for me.  I survived.  I have had a good life.  I wake up each morning looking forward to another day.  My wife and I had a long, happy marriage (she died five years ago from a head injury sustained in a fall).  I have the opportunity to share the horrors of the Holocaust at the Holocaust Museum and Cohen Education Center, and my wife also used to share her experience surviving Auschwitz.  I have had a good life, not one to be sorry for.  

Heinz was a refugee who came to America following the war to begin a new life.  He met his wife, also a refugee.  They built their lives through hard work and sacrifice and eventually moved to Naples where they bought a condo at the lower end of the price spectrum.  They enjoyed their lives; they knew all too well the travesties that can take them away.

As I reflect on our time with Heinz, I’m reminded of numerous recent comparisons of mask mandates to Nazi fascist rule; of vaccines to Nazi medical experiments on Jewish prisoners; of federal and state legislators sharing the stage with white supremist groups.  I wonder if these events conjure up frightful memories for Heinz.  If they do, it didn’t show, it didn’t diminish his gratitude and enthusiasm for the life he’s made.  I’m grateful that I was able to spend time with this man.

A small workbook, “Start With Gratitude,” introduces its reader to the link between happiness and gratitude:  Do you want to be happy too?  Be grateful. ¶. Practicing gratitude is one of the simplest and most effective things you can do to transform your life.  Research shows that people who regularly take time to notice things they are grateful for enjoy better sleep, better relationships, greater resolve towards achieving goals, show more compassion and kindness, and are overall happier.

Heinz said he woke up each morning looking forward to another day – that’s gratitude!

When we walked the dogs that evening before dinner, we saw Don shuffling up the street; no sign of Betty.  He stumbled a little in his haste to cross the street when he saw us.  We assumed he wanted to pat the dogs again since he seemed to enjoy it that morning.  As we approached with the dogs, he told us to get the dogs away because he might fall.  Reasonable, given his lack of stability on his feet.

Instead of wanting to see the dogs, though, he really wanted to see me.  He mumbled some when he spoke; it took me a minute to understand that he wanted my business card.  I reminded him that I’m retired and don’t have a business card.  He wanted my name and phone number – he said he might have a job for our son.

When we visited in the morning, we had the benefit of Betty being able to casually interpret some of what Don said.  Without Betty, and because of the mumbled speech, Nancy and I never fully understood the job.  It had something to do with a specific project of designing a remodel of a house he owned in New England to create a place for him to live.

Rather unexpectedly, he launched into a diatribe:  I can’t stand my wife.  She makes my life miserable.  Every day I wake up and can’t stand it.  I’m worth $20 million.  Her daughter is a lawyer and I think she’s trying to take my money away from me.  I’m 92 but I think I have a few years left.  I don’t want to spend them like this.  I hate each day I’m with her.  I want to get away from her and her daughter who’s trying to take my money.

The contrast to our pleasant conversation in the morning was shocking.  In the morning, we met a pleasant man with some limited mobility and mumbled speech who wanted to pat our dogs.  In the evening, we ran into a bitter, angry man who seemingly had lived half a century in misery.  We clearly cannot assess whether he’s worth $20 million, but whatever the amount, his fear of losing control of that money to his wife of 51 years and her daughter from a previous marriage was dominating his life – the misfortune of fortune.

A single day illustrated opposing ends of a continuum.  One end featured Don, a 92-year-old who was miserable in seemingly every waking minute.  He was a successful builder who had become a multi-millionaire.  He has a winter home in Naples that almost certainly is worth well more than half-a-million dollars; he has a summer home in a relatively pricey area of New England.  Despite his success, despite his financial and material wealth, he hated his life.

Heinz lived at the other end of that continuum.  Also 92, he was physically and mentally able.  He survived the Holocaust.  He married a woman who survived Auschwitz, and whom he loved until her unfortunate death; his admiration of her was obvious in his comments.  He lives in the small condo he and his wife bought 20 years ago – a condo worth less than half of Don’s stick house.  Yet despite his lack of obvious wealth, Heinz was a rich man who woke up each morning looking forward to the day.