I sit in Ori's small room on a Friday morning, admiring a picture of a white farmhouse and the surrounding animals in the field. It is an aerial view of the one hundred and twenty acre farm he owned and worked on for years. He informs me that the farm belongs to his son now. Other than a few other pictures of his children and wife, the walls are bare. He tells me he was married to his wife, Margie, for sixty-one years. 

"She was beautiful," I tell him as he shows me a framed portrait of the two of them. 

He smiles at me, "Well I know that. I met her when she was sixteen years old, cradle-robber, huh?" He winks at me and slowly chuckles. 

We discuss aspects of his life. He was born in 1924. I ask, "What was it like to live during the Great Depression?"

"I was too young to realize how poor we were. But, I'll tell you something, after the depression my father never kept his money in a bank again."

I am nervous to ask the next question, not wanting to upset or sadden my friend, but always fearful of the answer. "Ori," I begin, "what is the worst part of aging?" 

He leans back in his brown, corduroy reclining chair and says, "Well kid, it's unimaginably hard when you lose a loved one. I miss my wife so much, but somebody's got to go first. At least you have the memories." He smiles sadly. He then adds, "But at least I have Leona." 

Leona, age eighty-seven, is Ori's girlfriend who lives down the hall from him. They met at the nursing home. They walk arm in arm to the dining room every day for every meal. Leona always attentively puts his bib on for him. Their relationship is quiet, loving and genuine. They both lost their spouses and have a mutual understanding of what the other has been through. As they sit on the couch together in the TV room, Leona tells me, "We both plan on living at least another fifteen years, so we will have a lot of time together."

"That's right," Ori chimes in, "as long as she doesn't get sick of me!" Leona giggles and playfully hits Ori's chest. I quickly take a picture. 

Leona tells me about her roommate of the past three years, Maurine. The two had never met before they were assigned to share a room at the home. Maurine says, "We are more like sisters than friends." Leona smiles and nods her head in agreement. They are sitting on Maurine's bed together. I raise my camera and snap a photo of the two of them.

"Watch out for her, she's quick! I hope I don't break your lens, hunny!" Maurine quips, and the two begin laughing. 

I point out the stuffed animals on Maurine's headboard and ask, "Are those for when your grandchildren visit you?"

She smiles and grabs the soft, white bear. "No," she says while squeezing it in her arms, "these are to keep me company."

She and Leona begin laughing again, as though they are sharing a secret joke. These ladies give me a hope for joy, fun and laughter with new friends in the later years of life. 

I leave their room and walk down the hall to the dining room and see a resident sitting alone at a table. I recognize her. Her name is Rosamond. I've observed that she spends much of her days in her room, often reading Reader's Digest. I've also noticed that she makes sure to arrive for breakfast, lunch and dinner an hour early, and sits waiting as she is now. I approach her and ask if I can sit with her. She said yes, and we began to talk. She tells me of her son and what a good swimmer he was, reminiscing that she was the one who first taught him to swim. She recounts the time she delivered a baby entirely on her own in an emergency situation. 

The next week when I visit the nursing home, I head to Rosamond's room first.

After spending time with Rosamond, I then visit her neighbor, Lois. I have not met Lois yet, but I have heard the rambunctious barking of her roommate several times when I've passed by her door. Lois, age eighty-one, has a different concept of companionship than roomies, Leona and Maurine. Her lifelong friend, Patsi Sue, is a black and white English Shepherd and shares Lois' room. I knock on her door and introduce myself. I ask if I can spend some time with her and Patsi Sue.

Lois replies, "You're welcome to as long as she behaves, and I can't promise that." I walk in and Patsi Sue quickly comes to sniff and inspect me. After several minutes of slobbering, tail-wagging and barking, she settles down. Lois sits in her faded blue, cushioned chair. Patsi Sue quickly follows suit and sits in her own matching chair next to Lois. Patsi Sue mirrors her owners mannerisms and body movement. 

I quickly take two pictures of the friends and ask, "How long have you had Patsi Sue?"

Lois answers, "Oh, it seems like forever. I got her right after she was born. She is my family." 

When leaving Lois' room, I hear loud country music coming from down the hall. The music leads me to the room of Millie. I peer into the room and see her rocking in her chair with her eyes closed. Millie is ninety-four years old and is in impressive health. Upon being invited in by Millie, I am immediately drawn to her large collection of recorded VHS videos and what they contain. 

She explains to me, "These are all Grand Ole Opry performances I've recorded over the years. They are no longer aired on television, so instead I watch these." After we talk a bit about contemporary country music (she is not a fan), she pulls out a faded photo album. As she is showing me pictures of her friends and family, she says matter-of-factly, "Most of the people in these pictures are dead." She then finds a picture of herself as a child, smiles and shows it to me. "I loved that dress." 

Across the hall from Millie is Joyce. Joyce is a pleasure to photograph because she continues through her daily life without notice of the camera held up to my eye. I am photographing her while she is doing her daily exercises. 

"Joyce," I say, "I saw that there are group exercise classes here. Why don't you do your workouts there instead, where you could be with your friends?" 

"Oh, that workout is too easy, not challenging enough," she says as she is working out her arms, "I already know how to touch my toes."

Joyce is spunky and fun; we get along well. 

My friends at the nursing home showed me that aging is what you make of it, such as all life is. On my last day there, I asked Maurine what the best part of aging is, and she replied with a smile on her face, "I no longer have the responsibilities of youth. I have nothing to worry about. I have lived my life, and it was fulfilling and happy."