Every Shabbos, I visit this little old lady, Mrs. Gold. She’s very cute, a real young at heart 90-something year old. She loves it when we come, singing Yiddish songs, telling us about her week, and sharing stories of her life.
One particular story that she loves to tell over and over again is about herself and a handsome young doctor. He was young, single, and good looking. All the women would go to the beauty parlor and hair salon to get made up before they went to visit Dr. Dave. Though all the ladies fancied Dr. Dave, Dr. Dave fancied Mrs. Gold (before she married Mr. Gold, of course :P). Mrs. Gold’s first name is Dina, and Dr. Dave would chase after her saying “Dina, I want my dinna (dinner).”
She always ends this story with a little nostalgic smile, as if she wishes that she had married Dr. Dave.
I was thinking about it a few weeks ago.
When this lady (may she live until 120) passes on, one of the things I will most remember her for is this story of Dr. Dave, as well as the other stories she tells us every week.
The thing is that nearly all the stories she tells are from her early 20s – the age I am now.
What we do today becomes our stories of tomorrow, next year, ten years, fifty years from now.
I want my stories to be good ones. Stories of chessed and kindness, of selflessness and giving.
And if that’s the way I want to be remembered, I’d better start living up to that future memory.