Let’s hear it for the 90-year-olds of our society. Louder please.
They deserve every applause they can get as they count down the years toward their golden centennial.
My city just lost one of its finest with Andy Rampulla. You could call him classic. A golden-oldie perhaps. But to me, he was that quintessential man of steel who lived up to his nickname as “the city’s oldest teenager.” That’s how he acted—a ripe, young teeny bopper.
His secret was really no secret at all: Live every day to its fullest potential and let God handle the rest. Rampulla succeeded on both accounts.
A typical day for him was firing a short round of golf with his cronies, then making his way to the YMCA each afternoon for a workout.
There, he would chum up with two other 90-year-olds: George Winfield and Sil Fassio. In his younger days, he presided over the City Council and no doubt this African-American would have made an excellent mayor.
As for Fassio, you’d find him every day giving damage estimates from his auto body shop when he wasn’t getting his exercise at “the Y.”
Often, the three of them would combine their workouts and if you didn’t know any better, you would have thought the place was a nursing home gone berserk. First the Nautilus machines, then the elliptical. The topper for Rampulla was the rowing machine. He’d end his hour like he was heading the Charles.
I saw him just before his death in a nursing home and that wasn’t his environment. Rampulla told me he couldn’t wait to get discharged and return to the Y where he belonged. He had a particular goal in mind.
Being given a gold membership at 90 was one thing. If you reached 100 and were still coming to the YMCA, they would have made you their poster “child.” Along with it might have come a few endorsements.
The kicker was this. After Winfield passed, Fassio and Rampulla were left to hold the fort. They continued coming to the Y and one day, they each found themselves at the same nursing home. You can’t imagine the reunion that ensued.
They gave each other encouragement, right up until the time Fassio was laid to rest, leaving Rampulla alone. And now, the three of them are hovering above, working toward a greater celestial profile.
Over the years, I’ve encountered some of the very best who’ve reached that era. Norm Gerson was well past that prime when he was selling furniture from his salon. For decades he was the city’s most eligible bachelor.
I asked him about that once and he answered with a smile, “I’m still looking for the right woman.”
In truth, Gerson was married to his business and his community. He was an icon with the Boys’ Club and rarely turned down an opportunity to help someone less fortunate.
Same with Bennett Nesson. He, too, gave old age a bad name, working in his sweat-shop cleaners up until 90 when retirement might have been a better alternative. A bad day at work was not the 100-degree humidity but when one of his machines broke down.
He enjoyed his days with his family and those periodical excursions to the Catskills. But none finer than greeting the customers who walked through that door.
Retirement? “When you sit and do nothing, trouble finds you,” he once told me. “I’m still having a good time with my life.”
Nobody made a more stellar imprint than Krikor Derderian, a Bradford kingpin who attributed his longevity to farming, a shot of brandy at night, and a cold shower to start the day.
There must have been some truth to that. Derderian fell off a tractor at 100 and brushed away the dirt. At 105, he beat me in a game of backgammon. At 110, he was honored by Governor Michael Dukakis for being the state’s oldest resident.
And he lived well past that, flirting with the Guinness Book of World Records on longevity. If memory recalls, there was someone in the Himalayas that was 120 but I wonder how productive he was at 110.
A man at my church (Charlie Zamgochian) answers every call. He drives, he dances, does his own cooking, and even dates younger women. When there’s a door needed to a classroom, he builds it. He’s living testimony to immortality.
“Look at Charlie,” we all boast. “Not bad for a 90-year-old, eh?”
“Ninety-and-a-half,” he quickly interjects. “When you get to my age, don’t forget the half. Every day counts.”
To all the remaining Armenian Genocide survivors, you remain the living legends of our community. You are our inspiration and our aspiration.
We all should live so long.
Tom Vartabedian
Latest posts by Tom Vartabedian (see all)
- Vartabedian: My Final Column - November 13, 2016
- A Hat to Match Any Occasion - October 19, 2016
- More Smiles Keep the Frowns Away - October 12, 2016
Be the first to comment