What It’s Like to Visit Your Retired Parents in Boca Raton

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They refer to it as “God’s Waiting Room.”

Upon my arrival at my parents’ new residence in sunny South Florida last week, they ushered me over to the clubhouse, a staple of the gated communities designed for those aged 55 and up. My father introduced me to his group of male friends, whom I affectionately dubbed “The Clubhouse Crew.”

First up was Harold, a remarkably tanned gentleman in his seventies, sporting a gold “chai” pendant that hung just above his rotund belly. At first glance, he felt almost too stereotypical to be real, as if he had walked right out of a movie about Jewish snowbirds. So many transplants from the Northeast live here that “Brooklyn Water Bagel” has become a local favorite.

Greetings from the Lanai!

My parents now reside on a golf course. Sporting my old INXS “Kick” t-shirt, I spent my mornings in their “Florida Room,” chatting with friends online and playfully signing off with “Hi from the Lanai!” as geckos scurried by and golfers passed through the picturesque scene. (Floridians have many names for their screened porches, unlike, say, Eskimos and snow.)

On my second day in Boca, we visited a deli with a menu that included both lox and nova. That’s when the reality of the situation hit me hard. Over half the diners were accompanied by aides, some relying on walkers, while others delicately munched on whitefish sandwiches with gnarled, arthritic hands. The atmosphere felt eerily reminiscent of a hospital waiting room, a nauseating blend of sickness and sour pickles.

I couldn’t help but picture my eternally youthful mother, who enthusiastically participates in Zumba five times a week, frequenting this deli over the next couple of decades, all for the sake of catching the $5.99 lunch special before 1 p.m. I felt tears welling behind my sunglasses, not wanting her to see how deeply unsettled I was.

I never imagined they’d end up here.

The truth is, I never envisioned my parents settling down in a place like this. Once vibrant hippies, they were the coolest parents among my friends. My dad even owned Long Island’s first head shop, “The Magic Cottage,” when I was a child. Growing up, I had a six-foot-tall bamboo bong in my basement and rolling papers tucked away in my dad’s nightstand. I still remember calling my mother in a panic after my first experience with marijuana, convinced I was going to die. Instead of reprimanding me, she made tea and sat by my bedside, while my dad peeked in, trying to stifle his laughter at my exaggerated fears.

Both parents have always had an incredible taste in music. My dad cultivated a vast collection of rare blues records and educated me on everything from Bo Diddley to The Rolling Stones, and even Frank Zappa. While Jews may not typically be recognized for their rhythm, our family’s legendary dance moves at bar mitzvahs were the stuff of cousin lore.

Off to Boca, the retirement haven.

Two years ago, my father experienced a serious heart attack, leading to a quintuple bypass. During his recovery, he expressed a strong desire—more like a necessity—to retire, which meant leaving Long Island, notorious for having the highest property taxes in the nation. Thus, my parents made the move to Boca, often humorously described as the place where all the Jews go to die.

If Florida is considered “God’s Waiting Room” due to its high retiree population (64 percent in 2012), the Boca/Delray/Boynton Beach area is known for having a particularly concentrated Jewish community. In many ways, it felt like a return to their roots. Their new neighborhood could easily be mistaken for Long Island, just without the snow.

I can’t deny that I’m thrilled to see my father so relaxed, free from the daily stress of work. My mother enjoys a glass of wine in the evenings and goes power walking at nearby nature preserves. They even pop down to the beach whenever they wish.

Still, I feel a gnawing unease, knowing that this is likely the final chapter. This is where I will come when health issues arise, as they inevitably will. Instead of a quick train ride, I’ll need to arrange a flight from New York City for any emergencies.

But my parents are content, and they face this new phase without fear. It’s I who must grapple with the reality of their home stretch. After spending a week in Boca, I realize this chapter will be filled with sunshine. I have to admit—life on the Lanai isn’t so bad.

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Summary

Visiting retired parents in Boca Raton is a bittersweet experience, filled with nostalgia and the recognition of life’s inevitable changes. While the surroundings may feel strange and reflective of a hospital waiting room, the happiness of loved ones provides comfort amidst the changes.


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