by Jonathan Goldstein
On Saturday afternoon at 2 o'clock, the staff of Forest Trace, a retirement community just outside Fort Lauderdale, Fla., clears aside the tables and chairs in the foyer of the main building to create a circle for the women and men to dance, though when I say the women and men, I mainly mean the women and Hy Kaplan.
When I walk into the lobby at 2:30, Kaplan, 93, is twirling Thelma Kahn in the middle of a circle of two dozen watchful women in wicker chairs. It is a scene of ethereal beauty. The couple dance among tall white pillars, and sunlight streams in through the skylight high above, giving Kahn's puffy white hair a halo. After a few more twirls, Kaplan returns Kahn to her chair and approaches the next lucky lady.
This is how it works: Kaplan escorts each partner to the center of the circle, where, depending on the song and Kaplan's mood, they will fox trot, waltz, tango or even merengue. As the afternoon wears on, Kaplan's white-leather loafers bounce gracefully about the carpet, and no matter how good or bad his partner, he always demonstrates a little showmanship, throwing in a Westchester step here and there, doing other little fancy things with his feet that I don't know the name for. When the song is over, he extends his arms to the next woman down the line, who always accepts them. There's something in Kaplan's manner that makes it seem as if he has a job to do, as if he's unloading a truck of women in boxes whom he must dance with one at a time before the quitting whistle blows.
A man named Big Nick wears a white suit and plays a white baby grand piano. He belts out tunes like ''Hava Nagila'' and ''It Had to Be You,'' and when he hits the opening notes of ''Bye Bye Blackbird,'' a hushed chorus of women's voices chime in.
I ask the woman seated in front of me if Kaplan is the best dancer here.
''Well,'' she says, ''he doesn't have much competition.''
There are more than twice as many women as men at Forest Trace. All a man has to do is stay alive, and he's guaranteed a full dance card. A couple of these men sit with the women, watching with a sort of aristocratic indifference as Kaplan dances. Simply because they are men, they have their choice of women, but even the casual observer can see that they are a bunch of sleepy yellow-pant-ed Potsies and practical-walking-shoed Ralphs, while around here, Hy Kaplan is the Fonz.
Forest Trace, home to more than 400 seniors, is all about leisure, and as such, a kind of courtlike behavior has emerged here, full of intrigues and legends and gossip. It's the kind of thing you think you're only going to live through once, in high school.
''It's like Peyton Place here,'' says Bea Utal, who is sitting in the foyer. ''There are so many affairs.'' Utal tells me the story of how a Forest Trace couple in their 90's were found naked in bed together. It seems that one of them, during the throes of passion, accidentally pulled the emergency cord above the bed.
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On Saturday afternoon at 2 o'clock, the staff of Forest Trace, a retirement community just outside Fort Lauderdale, Fla., clears aside the tables and chairs in the foyer of the main building to create a circle for the women and men to dance, though when I say the women and men, I mainly mean the women and Hy Kaplan.
When I walk into the lobby at 2:30, Kaplan, 93, is twirling Thelma Kahn in the middle of a circle of two dozen watchful women in wicker chairs. It is a scene of ethereal beauty. The couple dance among tall white pillars, and sunlight streams in through the skylight high above, giving Kahn's puffy white hair a halo. After a few more twirls, Kaplan returns Kahn to her chair and approaches the next lucky lady.This is how it works: Kaplan escorts each partner to the center of the circle, where, depending on the song and Kaplan's mood, they will fox trot, waltz, tango or even merengue. As the afternoon wears on, Kaplan's white-leather loafers bounce gracefully about the carpet, and no matter how good or bad his partner, he always demonstrates a little showmanship, throwing in a Westchester step here and there, doing other little fancy things with his feet that I don't know the name for. When the song is over, he extends his arms to the next woman down the line, who always accepts them. There's something in Kaplan's manner that makes it seem as if he has a job to do, as if he's unloading a truck of women in boxes whom he must dance with one at a time before the quitting whistle blows.
A man named Big Nick wears a white suit and plays a white baby grand piano. He belts out tunes like ''Hava Nagila'' and ''It Had to Be You,'' and when he hits the opening notes of ''Bye Bye Blackbird,'' a hushed chorus of women's voices chime in.
I ask the woman seated in front of me if Kaplan is the best dancer here.
''Well,'' she says, ''he doesn't have much competition.''
There are more than twice as many women as men at Forest Trace. All a man has to do is stay alive, and he's guaranteed a full dance card. A couple of these men sit with the women, watching with a sort of aristocratic indifference as Kaplan dances. Simply because they are men, they have their choice of women, but even the casual observer can see that they are a bunch of sleepy yellow-pant-ed Potsies and practical-walking-shoed Ralphs, while around here, Hy Kaplan is the Fonz.
Forest Trace, home to more than 400 seniors, is all about leisure, and as such, a kind of courtlike behavior has emerged here, full of intrigues and legends and gossip. It's the kind of thing you think you're only going to live through once, in high school.
''It's like Peyton Place here,'' says Bea Utal, who is sitting in the foyer. ''There are so many affairs.'' Utal tells me the story of how a Forest Trace couple in their 90's were found naked in bed together. It seems that one of them, during the throes of passion, accidentally pulled the emergency cord above the bed.
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