Jack Rosen’s Daughter

My name is Wendy Priestner, but most people at Bristol Glen know me as "Jack Rosen’s daughter." That is an honor and a privilege.

The journey in finding the United Methodist Homes of New Jersey began while our family faced the reality that advancing years takes its toll on and affects each of us, but we don't always know when, or where, or at what rate. As my mother's health continued to deteriorate, my husband, Joe, and I pleaded with my parents to sell their Long Island home and move nearer to us so that they could be a part of our lives, and we a part of theirs. Our weekend commutes to Long Island were becoming unmanageable as Joe and I were both working full time. But my parents really didn't want to sell their home and move. Who does?

Yet Joe and I searched for and looked at many continuing care facilities throughout northern New Jersey, and soon realized that the United Methodist Homes were the best run, the most economical, among the most beautifully built, and continually maintained the highest of standards. We were so glad to learn that such a home, to be called Bristol Glen, was actually going to be built in Newton, NJ, only a few miles from our home.

One day, Joe traveled to the then newly re-modeled Collingswood Manor to see and experience first hand how a Methodist community was run. Joe was warmly greeted by staff, allowed – with residents' approval – to take a brief video to show to my parents, and also to question various residents to hear their comments and learn if they were happy at Collingswood. And they all were. There were no "negatives." Joe also commented that from the moment he walked into Collingswood, it "felt good" – it was a beautiful facility, spacious, tastefully decorated, and had the feel of a well-maintained first class hotel, including all the amenities.

So even though my parents truly did not want to leave their Long Island home of nearly 50 years, the physical toll in caring for my mother was beginning to show on dad, and it was apparent to our family that my mother's health was not going to improve. My husband and I wanted dad to be in close proximity to where we live – to be a part of our lives, to be able to visit with us and our blended family as often as possible, and to let us help him – and he help us – get through the inevitable sad days ahead.

April 2005 was the fourth anniversary of the passing of my mother, Sylvia, just three weeks before the scheduled date of the big move to Bristol Glen. My parent's suburban Long Island home was already under contract—a few packed cartons were lying in the hallway. We were still sitting Shiva, the Jewish period of mourning, when I suggested to dad that he break the real estate contract and just stay put for awhile—since mom had just died the buyers would surely understand. But he firmly stated that he "never has nor will do business that way. I don't break contracts, any contract – I will honor even just the promise of a man's word."

So less than a month later, our family helped dad move from his home, away from his neighbors, friends, family, doctors, banks, restaurants...even the best barber in all of Long Island, leaving behind all the "familiars" and memories of his "American Dream," home in the suburbs. Neither dad nor mom ever thought of Newton as a place they would settle in their golden years, or ever call home. They only knew this rural area from visiting Joe and me. After all, this is "New Jersey," not New York!

It was a tough time for dad, but during these past years, we've watched in amazement as my dad transitioned from staying at our home for a few months, to slowly staying at his Bristol Glen apartment, but only during the week – coming to stay with us on weekends, to occasionally staying with us, to rarely staying with us, to now being so engrossed in his activities that we don't hear from him for days at a time! And everyone at Bristol Glen loves him!

Part of the time – we think – has been spent trying to find a barber that can cut his hair as well as the one in Long Island. Eventually dad got to know the other "Pioneers," as the early "settlers" of Bristol Glen aree called. Everyone was eager to share their life story, and dad enjoyed taking the time to really listen and learn, sometimes commiserating, of sympathizing, and occasionally just being in awe of their many accomplishments.

Dad’s special dietary requirements were attended to; staff and other residents gently encouraged dad to try new activities in addition to his passions of gardening, holiday decorating and tending to everyone and anyone's plants and flowers. Dad has since written little stories about some of his life's events for the resident's newsletter; he is taking art classes – drawing and water color painting; he was asked to join an interfaith council, and has also been asked to teach about and celebrate Jewish holidays and traditions.

With our appreciation and admiration for cultural diversity experiences, encouraged and exemplified by United Methodist Homes, last year during Chanukah, dad took it upon himself to hand grate 10 pounds of potatoes to make dozens of potato pancakes from scratch; with the help of the Bristol Glen kitchen staff, he was able to deliver the “latkes” as they are called, hot and fresh to a number of residents for a Chanukah celebration. One gentleman was so appreciative- he commented that he hadn't eaten potato pancakes that tasty since left Poland many years ago; and another woman kissed dad's hand and emotionally thanked him for his efforts. Dad was so touched he burst into tears.

When you spend your life working hard at building a business to support your family and owning a home in the suburbs, time is a luxury not often available to attend the various community or school events, or to learn a new craft or skill, to sit in at a lecture or seminar, to enjoy a local talent group – or even just to take off an afternoon and "go to lunch with the guys."

Now, almost every Sunday, dad comes to our house for dinner and to play Scrabble with me. Sometimes I even let him win. Then at around 10:00 pm he stands up as I always ask, "where are you going?"

He answers "It's getting late...you have to go to work tomorrow so I'm going home."

And he means home to Bristol Glen. As I watch him get into his car, I gently remind him to leave his cell phone on, and give me one ring after he gets into his apartment so that we know he arrived home safely. I turn my head a little so he doesn't see my eyes water...I am so grateful for his good health, his wonderful spirit, his love and support of family and friends, his creativity, his determination, his enjoyment of every single day and I am equally grateful that he is in turn loved, well cared for and respected by the Bristol Glen staff, administration, and very kind and dear residents.

Thank you, Bristol Glen, for taking such good care of my dad.