September 17, 1998

"Something about Harry"

Last Sunday I had a public relations assignment to photograph Grandparents Day in one of the local nursing homes where I frequently do PR work.

The yearly event draws a multigenerational crowd of close to 2000 people. The home is "home" to more than 700 senior citizens, 33 of them centenarians.

The day is a virtual photo fest; an intergenerational coming together, often families of 3 or more generations enjoying a day of bard, games and celebration. The highlight of the day, for some, was a visit by Dr. Ruth (Westheimer), who not only signed copies of her new book "Grandparenthood," she also dispensed advice about more provocative matters, though humorously declining commentary on the current Presidential "affaires du coeur." Several residents celebrated their 100th and 104th birthdays.

My photos were more or less dictated by the needs of the home for their upcoming gala dinner dance "journal" which depicts a "year in the life" of the residents and employees.

Lucky for me, Helene Grossman, the director of public relations likes my work enough so that she hands me a list and says: "go girl," allowing my own interpretation of the day's events, rather than forced grip and grins.

After nearly four hours, I called it quits, having gotten pretty decent PR pictures, while maintaining a somewhat journalistic feel for the day.

 

While walking toward the car, I came across an elderly gentleman, frocked in a black suit and tie, and a black beret, playing the harmonica to his friend Elsa. I quickly took a few frames and stopped to listen to the melodic sounds coming from the harmonica. I surmised that he was blind because his eyes didn't quite focus on me when I introduced myself, and he had a long white cane leaning across his body. He told me his name was Harry, and that he was 86 years old. I wrongly assumed that Harry was a resident of the nursing home, until he set me straight. "No, he said, I'm visiting my friend Elsa here." Elsa, sitting beside him was a younger 79! "I live on Fieldston Road," he said, "have lived there since 1960." I told him that his playing was beautiful. He said: "Oh, and I can sing, too..."

86 year old Harry Richmond played the harmonica last Sunday for his friend, 79 year old Elsa Murcia, a resident of the Hebrew Home for the Aged at Riverdale, as Grandparents' Day festivities drew to a close. © 1998 Susan B. Markisz

At this point, a small crowd had gathered and had begun making requests. He began singing in Yiddish and several people sang along the words of the soulful tunes, which have virtually been lost because many of them have only been handed down in oral tradition.

As he sang and later resumed his harmonica playing, I photographed him every which way but Sunday, wide, then tele, then with a macro lens. The waning afternoon sunlight was beautiful but I eventually took out a roll of Tri X and photographed him in black and white too. There was just something about Harry that made me want to take pictures.

"How long have you been playing the harmonica?" I asked him.

"Oh, I guess about 5 or 6 years. Taught myself," he added.

"How long have you been blind?" I asked him.

"Does it matter?" he asked, matter-of-factly. "A long time."

I asked if Elsa was his wife and he said that no, they were friends, friends for a long time. He told me that he comes to visit her when she's lonely.

He said he'd been married for 31 years, and that his wife had died in 1968, 8 years after they'd moved to Riverdale from Massachusetts, where he'd been a kosher butcher.

"What was her name?" I asked. "She was one girl in a million," he said. "No, what was her name?" I asked. "I never called her anything but "one girl in a million," he quipped.

Harry entertained the few lingerers, and this photographer for almost an hour, playing the harmonica, and giving us his recipe for Spinach Pie, which he had made himself, with the help of a home aide, to bring to Elsa. A discussion ensued as to whether spinach pie required 2 or 3 eggs. People copied down Harry's recipe. Harry's secret to spinach pie, he said, was a lot of love. I couldn't help but smile and think what a gift he was, and how after 5 hours of photography, this is what it was all about.

Susan B. Markisz

September 17, 1998