Hunkering down

In May 2016, with the help of our friends, we moved the last boxes of hoarded treasure over to our new home in the trees of our chosen old growth forest. We would finally experience life in a retirement community. This was no longer a prospect for someday out there. It was to be our home. Now, and probably for the rest of our lives. Both a sobering and giddy thought.

Our two-room apartment is on the fifth floor. A wall of windows overlooks trees, hills, and an expanse of ever-changing sky. The view certainly welcomed us home.

(We’ve moved many times over the years. My first question when about to occupy a new place is not about size, room arrangement, or other practical issues—Hal asks those questions—but what can I see out the windows.)

One of our first experiences as newcomers was writing the largest personal check of our lives and handing it over to the smiling administrative assistant. Actually, we were happy, too, partly because our old condo had just sold, making this adventure possible. But most of our joy was based on faith. This was the right move. Wasn’t it?

In truth, it took a while to actually feel at home. One thing I was not expecting was being overwhelmed at the number of white heads, walkers, and wrinkles everywhere we looked. We were surrounded by old people! This is pure irony, of course. Who did I think I was? Or was becoming?

This strange distress showed me that I had brought with me my own stereotypes of old people, and they were not all positive. For the past few years, I had squirmed when I thought other people were ignoring me, patronizing me, or classifying me as insignificant because I was over 60. And here I was, projecting these same attitudes.

The cure for stereotyping is getting to know people. It’s also the best path toward feeling at home in a community. Slowly, we discovered that our new friends and neighbors were not old people. They were just people. Interesting, sometimes complicated, and often very funny people.

Our fifth-floor neighborhood was even better than the view at helping us feel at home. The larger retirement community is divided into different neighborhoods, each a microcosm of the whole, with its own unique ways of living together. We’ve felt so blessed to be part of the fifth-floor family. From the first day, people went out of their way to welcome us: a bright sign on the door, a basket of goodies (healthy stuff like dark chocolate), but mostly people introducing themselves, inviting us to eat with them, and leaving us alone when that’s what we needed.

The wild-life in an old growth forest can be incredibly diverse. We discovered that to be true on the fifth-floor. As we got to know our neighbors, we found that we were surrounded by some rare and beautiful birds. My red-headed neighbor across the hall was one of the most colorful and enthusiastic. We discovered that in our early seventies, Francie, Hal, and I were considered the kids on the floor. Most of the others were in their eighties and nineties, some approaching 100 years old. For me, still getting used to being 70, someone calling me a kid was not at all offensive.

Down the hall, Bob and Connie invited us in for a visit. We discovered that Bob had served more than 25 years fighting forest fires in California, not as a volunteer, but as a fulltime employee of the Forest Service. 

On the other side of the floor, we got reacquainted with Marie, a friend from college days. She was still as well-dressed and stylish as I had remembered. She showed us photos of herself and her late husband dressed in their helmets and leather suits; they had traversed the nation numerous times on their Harley-Davidsons. As if that were not enough, Marie had also been a professional clown. People have a habit of surprising me.

We met Phyllis who, as a young adult, had served in Africa as part of the Peace Corps. She and her husband spent the rest of their lives active in work for social justice. Now widowed and less mobile, Phyllis continues to change the world by email from her armchair. We met retired teachers, pastors, missionaries, and truckers. Everyone a treasure trove of stories.

Now that we’ve been here on the fifth-floor for five years, it still feels like a family, but in a more realistic sense. Any family has its share of squabbles and challenges. Some people are naturally grouchier than others. Others may not be grouchy on the inside; they just look like it. Sometimes political views clash, and we have to learn with whom we should not mention certain issues. So, we learn to deal with it. Just because we’re all a certain age doesn’t mean we’re all wise or mature. But this gives friendship the chance to grow deeper, become more tolerant. I guess I’ll never stop learning how to do that.

With all these rare birds flying around us, we’ve finally hunkered down, learning to be at home in this old growth forest.