Testing the Waters

We are about to test the waters around here.

Frances and I APPEAR to be only the gay couple living in this 55 Plus Community; that is probably not true, but I sure haven't seen any evidence to the contrary.  And it is not like the people  we have met have rushed out to introduce us to other gay couples, or even mentioned any despite our clearly presenting ourselves as a couple.  Whatever the numbers really are, we are, without question,  in a marginal minority. 

That being said, folks have been kind and welcoming and all of that.  No problems there.  But we are definitely birds of a different feather compared to the established residents.  (Not sure yet what the "snow birds" bring to the mix.  I guess we'll find out this fall.)

It is also true that most of the folks who live here are Caucasian.  Not exclusively, of course.  And not militantly.  But we Caucasian folks definitely have the upper hand when it comes to numbers.  Minority families - and the few mixed race families that I have seen - definitely stand out simply because they are different.   

So.  About next week.  We have a 60 year old Caucasian lesbian couple visiting us.  For a week.  And their two adult children - who just happen to be black.  And I think this could be very interesting.   My neighbors, after all, did not grow up watching Modern Family and Will and Grace.

Anyone who wants to be concerned that we are going to bring folks who don't quite meet the standard profile in to this community will have plenty to chatter about. 

It is going to be fine.  And I can't tell you how much we are looking forward to the visit.  But for the first time in a long time I anticipate that we my turn a few heads.

Which feels old and a bit unsettling.  It has been a very long time since anyone has blinked an eye at any of us.  It really doesn't happen much in the northeast anymore.  

And given 10 years, I am sure it won't happen much here either.  Gotta start somewhere, I guess.

Gardening Arizona Style

We have never lived in the desert and have never been much in the way of gardeners.  

Even though we have a big yard (for us!) we have little intention of taking up gardening.  We have an irrigation system that is all electronic and sophisticated and a guy who checks up on it.  We have a lot of fancy plants that we know nothing about.  Our gardening boils down to writing checks and appreciating.

The irrigation system is underground, but it is also basically just fragile rubber hoses that are no match for the Phoenix heat in the summer. So, with some regularity, those hoses melt.  And when they do, they spring leaks, resulting in parabolas of water spraying all over the place - and with some force, I might add!  Over the weekend, we managed to spring FOUR leaks.  

Our yard was a fountain.  Water spraying in to the neighbor's yard.  Water spraying on to the common paths and the road.  You could see this lovely display from the front OR the back yard.  We should have sold tickets.

Thankfully, the yard guy came and fixed it all this morning.  We weren't totally helpless   We had figured out how to turn the irrigation system off in order to prevent the road outside our house from turning in to a canal, but that was a very short term solution.  

I am humbled by how much help it takes to keep us going on a daily basis.  Our furniture is covered by a warranty, so we can't clean that by ourselves.  Our house is under a bug contract, so we aren't supposed to try to kill bugs by ourselves for fear of messing with the mix of the professional chemicals.  We are WAY BEYOND a little watering can and a hose to water our plants.  And we still have a cleaning lady - which is the one thing we may consider letting go of and the one I usually appreciate the most.

Except today.  Today, I am really appreciating my yard guy.  A lot. Which is as close as I am likely to get to gardening in Arizona.

Sweet Revenge

So, a few days ago I attempted to play pool volleyball which is marketed at my 55 Plus Community as "All abilities Welcome."   "Just show up and play."    And, most importantly, "Free."

All of the slogans are true, but the unspoken messaging might read: "We really want to win and expect that you will too."  "We made up the rules, but you need to follow them." And "We'll make room for you and coach you the entire time..."  There are a lot of dues to be paid in water volleyball.

I was mediocre at volleyball, and was coached - supportively, perhaps - by a woman who appears to own the sport.  Her confidence was intimidating and as necessary as it might be, I don't particularly enjoy coaching; so imagine my glee when I showed up at Zumba and the same woman was there.  She had the trademark outfit on - attractively customized to stand out. Her tennis shoes matched her outfit.   I was wearing my Goodwill workout clothes that have seen a few too many exercise classes.

Fear not.  Game on.   I am REALLY GOOD at Zumba. She was right in front of me.  We had to Charleston by each other several times.  We used the same mirror.  We made eye contact.  She was nice.  I was triumphant.  "YES.... I am an asset to this community.  I may suck at water volleyball, but girlfriend, I can Zumba...."

I am aware that this sounds like high school.  Maybe junior high.  In some ways, that is the level that we are operating on here.  Careers matter not at all.  No one is in the least bit interested in what anyone has been doing the last 30 years.  Far more important, and a regular topic of conversation, is "Where were you raised?"  "Where are you from?"  Roots are important - corporate affiliations are avoided as much as possible.  The unspoken priority is for who you are now.  

Who I am now, evidently, is a Zumba-loving, volleyball-aspiring, 52 year old woman with zero interest in being defined by my past and some renewed passion for building a future.   I am going to have to tolerate some volleyball coaching, and I am going to shake my booty shamelessly in Zumba - neither of which , to be clear, I would have been comfortable with in high school!

  

Pool Volleyball

Since we just moved to Arizona and school is out for the summer (so I am not subbing), my job has been meeting people.

There are several challenges to meeting people here:  First, the "snowbirds" are gone from this 55 Plus Community, resulting in a) fewer people to meet; b) fewer scheduled activities; and c) less open hours at the club house.  Second, it is hot, so folks are never outside.  The trick to survival in this climate is to pull the car in to an attached garage, bring the garage door down, go inside and huddle around the air conditioning vents. Not exactly the porch sitting with lemonade of days gone by.

Still, I persevere.  Yesterday, I presented myself for pool volleyball.  I had gone to the pool simply to be around people, so I hadn't PLANNED on pool volleyball, and wasn't attired correctly: pool shoes would have been good, and a pool shirt with long sleeves would have been better.  A cap with a full rim or back flap would have been excellent.  Supportive gear for my fingers and wrists would have fit right in.  I made do with sunscreen, sunglasses and a baseball cap.

I don't think it is an exaggeration to say that I have not played any form of volleyball since high school - which was over 30 years ago - and trust me, any volleyball played then was not particularly memorable.   So pool volleyball was a lark - something new to me.  I was attracted by the "groupiness" of it - the fact that folks were laughing and having fun and it looked like a better way to meet people than sitting on a lounge pretending to read a book.

The established players were welcoming - sort of.  They were clear that there were rules and that each team was in it to win it.  Their approach to the whole thing was fun - but serious.  Don't use a fist to hit the ball. Don't mess up.  Don't jump - let the person behind you handle any ball you can't reach.  Keep your hands in the air.  Don't mess up.  Did I already mention that one about not messing up?

They play for  2 HOURS.  I said from the get-go that I wasn't in for that long, and I made it an hour before pleading that my shoulders were starting to burn.  I enjoyed the game - I really did.  And I definitely hit the ball some.  But I did mess up.  And it was (surprisingly) difficult to maintain the necessary level of concentration.  Needless to say, by the time I left the pool, far from feeling fully engaged in a great group activity, I was mostly stressed out.  

I don't think that they missed me.

Almost inevitably, meeting new people means trying new things.  And as much as this culture and any number of self-help book encourage BRANCHING OUT and LEAVING YOUR COMFORT ZONE, there ARE complications to attempting something new.  Start with the fact that my bumbling in volleyball interferes with folks who take it seriously and are really good.  Then, there is the entire issue of humility: it is a little stressful to be publicly not very good at something.  And in this case,  there is the added complication that I LIVE with these people.  It's not like I won't see them again,and I don't want to be known as the wimpy player or the one who quits or the person who can't be counted on.  I think branching out is great.  Leave your comfort zone, for sure.  Embrace your active golden years!  And then give yourself a pat on the back and some extra credit - because it is not an easy thing to do.

This morning I went to Kettle Ball.  Had never heard of it.  The established participants were welcoming. The instructor was easy to follow.  And I stayed after class with some other participants for extra coaching where - get this -  I was the ONLY one to be able to align my back correctly.

AHA!  Felt good.  I might actually be good at this Kettle Ball thing.  Problem is, I'd rather be good at the volleyball.....  

For the Birds

I fancy myself a birder.  

At some point along the line I secured a great (albeit heavy) set of binoculars and a comfortable outdoor chair from Lands' End and set myself up to watch the birds.  And to be fair, there has been great intention when it relates to both the chair and the binoculars.  The chair survived any number of pre-move purges and was relocated to Arizona.  And I have carried those binoculars around my neck while hiking, tucked them in my pack while bike riding and shoved them in my carry-on while travelling.  

But those binoculars never come out.  Or if they do, I can't focus them correctly.  Or by the time I have the binoculars unpacked and the focus all set, the birds are gone.  It would seem that my interest in birding - when tested -  ends at the retail level.

But wait. 

Our new house came with a hummingbird feeder -a little red strawberry hanger all approved by the Homeowners Association and everything.  So cool.

Before my kitchen was even installed, I looked up the recipe for hummingbird nectar (4 cups water, 1 cup sugar, boil for 2 minutes) and the timeline for hummingbird feeding in Arizona (year round) and got myself all situated. Boiled the nectar, hung the feeder, looked outside.

Nothing.

I have filled that darn strawberry twice.  Have not seen one hummingbird.  

It turns out that in order to actually SEE a hummingbird, I am going to have to take the time to wait and watch - two activities that up until this point in my life have felt synonymous with "wasting time."  But you know what?  If I can report that I actually saw the miracle of a hummingbird in my own backyard, I don't think that is time wasted.  That is time spent connecting with creatures and the love that sustains them.  Not wasted time at all.
  

Fitting In

I took a yoga class this afternoon.  It was challenging of course.  They really don't take it easy on you here. And boy were some of these 55 plus ladies flexible.  I mean really....  I didn't know it was possible for the human body to contort in to some of the positions.  Let's just say that since I can barely touch my toes on a good day, it was a challenging class.

So, I thought I would take a quick swim afterword.  You know... 10 minutes paddling around in the pool.  20 minutes spacing out in a chair watching the sunset.  

And I DID do that.  But, first Jackie struck up a conversation with me.  She had been in the yoga class, but I hadn't really  noticed her (I hadn't noticed ANYONE; all of my attention was focused on approximating the positions well enough to avoid too much attention from the instructor!).  

Jackie is probably a few years older than I am  - but not many.  Jackie is tiny.  And she is struggling with cancer.  As we stood there in the locker room, her life story poured out.  A late in life marriage.  A daughter. A life blessed with health.  Until this.  She showed me the scar that was left after her stomach was removed. She talked about faith and death and miracles.

I liked her. And she put an exclamation point on something I am finding over and over again as I meet people in this community.  

EVERYBODY, by the time they hit their 50th birthday has a story to tell.   So no one is overly interested with my story.  I have done far more listening than talking since I moved here - which has surprised me, but suits me fine.  As we moved in to this fairly small and gated world, I was concerned that our personal life would get in the way of meeting people.  I felt like we were moving in with a flashing light over our heads: "Gay Irish Ladies with tragic back story."

The reality has been that no one cares.  These folks have their own complex lives.  As long as the landscapers show up regularly to maintain our yard and we don't put our trash out too early  we are going to fit in just fine.

I think I'll take yoga again next week.   I don't expect I'll be any better at it than I was today, but I want to know how Jackie is doing.   

Calling it Home

Within the chaos,  there has been peace.

And given the amount of chaos,  even a few moments of peace amount to a miracle of sorts.

Chaos has been abundant.  Probably always is when you move.  Contractors who NEVER deliver on schedule.  Furniture on a truck stranded miles from where I think that truck should be.  Family members installing and breaking and helping.  Too many carbs.  More checks than I have written in the last ten years combined - most for lots and lots of money and others for nitpicky things like utility deposits and service initiation fees - what a racket.   New furniture that has a persistent moldy-like smell.  Figuring out how the light switches work.

New people.  A robust menstrual cycle that will not give up the ghost despite every biological certainty that I am beyond my child bearing years.  Several trips out of state coming up in the next six weeks.  Friends and family members going through some challenging things.  

But in the midst of it....   there are bunnies who play in my backyard.  There is quiet.  There are sunset swims and long bike rides.  There is yoga at 4 PM.  We have been welcomed.  Sometimes I look around and just pinch myself.  Do I really LIVE here?  

The laundry pile is getting higher and I have to go to the grocery store today, so I know that I am not on vacation from the nuts and bolts of life.  But even so,  I feel deeply at home in this landscape - both the planned and cultivated community and the rugged, untouched desert.  

I have felt at home in many landscapes.  But the quiet starkness of the desert describes who I am right now in a way that the meadows of the Midwest or the lush, green landscapes of the East coast no longer do.  The desert does not embrace - rather, it instructs.  "Look," the desert seems to say, "when all seems barren and lifeless and chaotically difficult, there is life.  Beautiful, abundant life."  

Sounds like home to me.   

Welcome to the Neighborhood!

Our official welcomer, the Kare Bear of our neighborhood, stopped by today.

It was interesting.

SHE COULD NOT HAVE BEEN NICER.

She had a plate of warm, sugar-free popovers and a bag full of information related to all of the resources available locally for senior citizens: the county program that offers shut in care; the company that provides home-health medical devices; a chart to keep track of blood pressure; a map to the local hospital; stuff like that.

I enjoyed the popovers. 

She also took one look at me and Frances and gushed enthusiastically about the singles group and how great it is and how Frances and I should give it a try.

Really?  

5 years from now, the Kare Bear packet is going to look much different.  Added to it will be a listing of farmer's markets and library resources.  There might be information about local volunteer opportunities and the county political structure.  Maybe a voter registration form.   5 years from now, the Kare Bear representative will not make the quick assumption that Frances and I are appropriate for the singles group. 

Our overall development is about 20 years old, and our neighborhood has been established for 12 years or so. Moving in to an established neighborhood (as opposed to new construction) means that the original owners - say they were 60ish when they built their homes - are now in their late 70s and early 80s.   Frances and I, in addition to being a tad bit young to begin with, have bought in on the early side of of the inevitable transition from one generation of home owners to the next.

It must feel like the kids are coming back home to roost.

As that transition occurs, as leadership and decision making shifts to a new generation, there will be a new spin on everything.  Some of that will be good - improved use of technology, broader outreach beyond his gated community,  a wider net of social norms and understanding.

The piece I wonder about - the challenge that I see in this transition - is the massive volunteer structure that supports this community.  Will younger people take the time to be a Kare Bear volunteer, or lead a club, or serve on the Home Owners Association?  The original residents did a very good job of building a robust and vibrant community here, or I would not have moved in; active residents are a huge selling point.

But engaged communities full of people who know and care about each other don't just happen.   From my vantage point, my generation really did not excel at community service - we were too busy building careers while raising families and attempting to maintain our sanity.  We've got huge talents and fabulous experience. And at some point - relatively soon - if we want to continue to enjoy this structured and active lifestyle, we are going to have to stand up and contribute to this place and these people that we have chosen to call home and hope to call friends.

The Mirage of Isolation

Yesterday I took my bike and went "off campus" to explore.

It was great to take things slowly.  A bike pace - especially my bike pace -  lends itself to taking a chance with a side road, stopping and looking at store windows (even if those windows are in a strip mall),  pausing to walk through a garden on the local church property.   

In the middle of the ride,  I ducked in to the local library to cool off and read the current issue of People Magazine (there was no way I was handing over $5 to buy my own copy.)   The air conditioned library felt great, but I must admit I was quite a sight with my bike helmet and sweaty self.  I don't imagine anyone sat on the chair I used for quite some time after I had left...

Anyway.

Living in this 55 Plus Community, there is a gate that separates me from the greater community.   The gate is a mirage, really.  If you are in a car and can tell the guards where you are going, they'll let anybody in.  But even that mirage creates an intentional separation.  Returning to the manicured grounds, the quiet streets, the beautiful ponds and water features, there is a sense of life apart.

It's a superficial separation.  We can't live here without the resources of the town around us; within our gates we have no grocery stores, no doctor's offices, no gas stations - no nothing but houses, golf carts and recreation.   And our facilities need the income from welcoming the community-at-large to play golf, have lunch or stage a wedding. 

As a younger woman, I lived in highly diverse communities; we're talking your-car-has-been stolen-several-times-in-a-year sorts of places.   And I have worked, and will continue to, in the local schools.  But I have to admit that it is a welcome change to slip through that mirage of a gate and actually live among people my own age who come from similar economic and social backgrounds.    

Bottom line: I appreciate the town and will be there, by necessity, almost every day.  But even as I am getting used to not locking my bike when I use it "on campus",  I know I need to lock my bike when I stop somewhere in town.  The mirage of isolation seems to extend at least that far.

Walking the Tighrope

Rode my bike to the clubhouse last night.  After a FRUSTRATING day of unpacking stuff in a house full of boxes that will seemingly never be fully unpacked, I didn't think a glass of wine (or two) was a bad idea. Don't worry; I didn't overdo.

Walking in felt good - the staff already has me figured out.  Sauvignon Blanc.  On a bar stool.  More often than not, yes, I will look at the dinner menu.  

Last night there were two seats open at the bar which was otherwise full of couples who built this place.  The pioneers.    They didn't seem to want to talk with me, each other, or anybody else, frankly.  Just sittin'.   

But guess what?   If you are not open to chatting with strangers, ask for a table.  That's my theory.  If you are sitting at the bar, you are fair game.  So I started talking with them. Slowly, things emerged.  After 20 years in this community they have seen a lot of change and are a little bit crotchety about the changes.  For the most part, they are from the Western Suburbs of Chicago.  They are coupled up, but not married.  One of the guys will celebrate his 85th birthday pretty soon.

We talked about cathedral ceilings with recessed lighting and light bulbs that are really hard to change.  We talked about water softeners and the fact that they don't have one, a conversation that included a strong recommendation that we get rid of ours. 

Mostly, though, they shared their sense of days gone by when "everyone was friendly and the place was not so 'uppity'."  (I am not sure about that one.)  They shared how much the management caters (in their view) to "snowbirds" (or part-time residents).  There were stories about the tensions between the Home Owners Association and the Home Owners -  mostly about how much things cost - to the point that the bartender tried to step in once in awhile to assure me that this really is a great community to live in.

The bartender did not have to worry.  I am not scared off yet.  These folks, despite their belly achin' have lived here 20 years.  A couple of them have already sold their first house in the community and bought a second one for goodness sake.  These are not dissatisfied customers.

But things do change in 20 years.  Prices rise,  procedures are updated and friends die.  I imagine that my neighbors at the bar have long since made peace with the HOA regulation; the challenge is to reconcile themselves to the simple fact that, if this community is going to continue to thrive, it must make way for a new generation and its new-fangled, seemingly-uppity ways.

There is a tightrope here.  It runs between new and original residents; through those born before 1955 and those born later; through those who live hear year-round and "snowbirds".  It's a tightrope worth learning how to walk.

A Down Day

Today feels like a "down day."

Which I find surprising.  Isn't every day here supposed to feel perfect?  A new home - big and full of possibilities; blue skies that go on forever; emerging friendships; quiet; peace.

What could POSSIBLY be downer?  

To start with, moving is disruptive.  Boxes everywhere.  I can't find anything.  The kitchen is almost - but not quite - done.  In fact, most of the house is almost but not quite set up.  But I have hit a point where I can't do too much more with it until someone else does.   So, I wait.  For counter tops to be installed.  For a furniture delivery.  For Frances to put her tools away.  

And then my daily structure is shot to hell.  What daily structure?  Without a teaching gig or other daily responsibilities, my day is kind of my own.  Kind of.  I have to work around the waiting and letting people in to do things, but for the first time in MONTHS I do have time that I can call my own.  I haven't gotten to the point that the time seems freeing - I am more at the point that the scaffolding that I had been using to give my life direction and meaning is glaringly absent.  Which, far from being freeing, is disorienting.

Too, even though I have been living around Phoenix since February, everything is new AGAIN.  We had developed routines, patterns, favorite haunts over our six months in Scottsdale.   Now, with a 45 minute drive between our new home and Scottsdale,  we are having to redevelop everything. Where is the grocery store?  Can we locate the ATM?  What about the post office?  Prior to this move, we had been living in the same place for 15 years, so two homes in six months is pushing my comfort zone.  Big time.

Like most teachers, I have LONGED for this unstructured time and new beginning, sure that I would know how to fill it.  In fact, I am finding that while I know that I want to increase the creativity in my life - I am not entirely sure how that is done.  For sure, it means less restaurant meals.  It means finishing a quilt project once I find my sewing machine.  Maybe it means making the bed.  That's it.  I'll start with making the bed.  I think I can manage that.

  

A Generous Pour

I am sure that there are exceptions to this.  Every 55 Plus Community resident is not a "keep that alcohol flowing for as long as possible" kind of drinker.  

But, from my observations so far, the easiest ones to meet sure are.

Obviously, it is easy to start random conversations with people at the bars.  Everyone is there because they want to drink and chat with their neighbors.  It's akin to drinking at home - no car is necessary to get to the clubhouse, so the restraint imposed by avoiding DWIs does not really apply.  Some folks have to be at work the next day, but many don't.  Have a third! And a fourth!  

There are alternatives of course.  The pools and health clubs are also public places, but most people at the pool are reading a book, lost in their own routines or chatting with people they already know.  And know for a fact that beer and wine are available at the pool food shack at very reasonable prices.  To be fair, I was able to talk with people when I went on a bike ride with the bike club - but that was not exactly focused conversation as we dodged traffic and attempted to keep up with each other.

That bar stool has a lot to recommend it.

I imagine there is a seasonal aspect to this.  As the "snowbirds" return in the fall, I expect to see an increase in club meetings and other activities. But if I am looking at my 55 Plus social life-to-date, a lot of it revolves around alcohol..

A neighbor dropped by last night - wine glass in hand and wine as a gift - and we had a lovely chat.  I think I will like her.  Another neighbor - who I met at the bar - invited me over to her house for cocktails.  Frances and I, not to be outdone, have installed (and stocked) a wine refrigerator and a liquor cabinet.  Can I get something for you?

This "lifestyle" is a strange juxtaposition between Health Spa and Irish pub.  The gym equipment is top of the line.  The biking and hiking can become a way of life.  The golf courses beckon.  The quiet is protected.  The library is carefully cultivated.  One can find one's self here.  

But one can lose oneself just as easily.  Somewhere between the second and the third pour.  

Following the Heart

One can over do thinking things through.

Ponder the possibility of this.  Consider the possibility of that.  Add up the costs and calculate the infinite ways those costs might change.  Spend a lot of time reflecting.

There will always be risks to anything.  And among the many, many things that Molly taught me was that all of the thoughtful calculations in the world can miss - probably WILL miss - the real problems that are going to emerge.  Thoughtful calculation is going to lead you to the same place every time: the anticipated action might go well, and then again, it might not.  

Frances and I are gut instinct people.  We will think things through to some extent, but our hearts are going to overrule our head almost every time.  So when we moved to this 55 Plus Community, we could have spent a weekend here to see if we really liked "the lifestyle".  But that seemed like setting ourselves up for a weekend of intense marketing.  Instead, we had lunch at the bar a few times so that we could talk with the bartenders and the folks at the bar; seemed more "real" to us.  And we felt at home pretty quickly.

We did not spend a lot of time in the desert in the summer before we moved - we just figured that it would be hot.  We had heard that it was a "dry" heat - much different than the East Coast humidity that we were used to. Basically, we chalked up heat waves to a universal truth that there is no perfect place on the planet and we would rather pay our dues with heat than with snow.  So far so good on that.

Of course, we did some rough financial calculations before the move; add the cost of the mortgage; throw some money in for Homeowners Association. pay off the cars before we moved.  After that, our sense was that the budget would all more or less even out.  A tad bit naive.  

Our first bumps in the road came with  utility bills. Mercy me.  We did not spend a lot of time researching those.  Correct that.  We spent no time researching them.  Which became obvious when I opened the first electric bill.  A little research might have been helpful in this area - we weren't even here for half the month and the bill was more than I had ever paid for any utility.  And then there was the cost of the service call to fix the air conditioner that went out somewhere between three teen aged boys in and out while we were moving in and the contractor leaving every door in the house open.  

We had signed a contract on the house before we became aware that we would need to pay for things like landscaping ($145 a month) and extermination ($50 a month) that are not regular expenses anywhere else we have lived and had not even occurred to us.  We also didn't factor in additional insurance costs - including insurance on the golf cart which is a new vehicle that we are going to have to take care of.   

I am not giving up having a cleaning lady.  So there is that, too.

The overwhelming gut instinct was to move.  Have there been surprises along the way?  Yes.  Might it have been prudent to do a bit more research?  Perhaps.   Do I have any regrets?  No.

Happy Birthday

Today would have been my mother's 77th birthday.

I miss her.

Our new house is the definition of happy chaos.   Nephews are painting and installing light fixtures.  Frances' mom is building IKEA furniture.  A contractor is finishing up installing cabinets.  Some furniture will be here in an hour (or some I am told; I will believe it when I see it).  Air mattresses are strewn everywhere.

Mom would have looked forward to being part of this transition.

Frankly, I would not have always wished for Mom to visit.  My mother was efficient.  She wrote articles comparing raising her children to running a business.  Her primary advice for pain or insult was "take your mind off of it."  We are not talking Mary Poppins.

I always loved my mom in the way that you do.  You know.  "I love my mom."  And yet, as I have aged, and been challenged  I have developed a deep respect and appreciation for her that I did not have when she was alive.  

Her life was a story of dreams compromised, deferred and adjusted.   Her marriage was challenging - to say the least.  Motherhood was her life's work, and for the most part, her three children exceeded expectations. But motherhood was a detour from talents that she would have enjoyed developing: music, sewing, writing. She eventually got an MBA and enjoyed her career as a certified financial planner.  Born at another time, I doubt my mother would have chosen a family life.  Born when she was, she saw marriage as a destiny more than a choice, and she lived in to that destiny with enormous creativity and all the passion she could muster.

She had great taste - her possessions all had a similar style that I could never quite identify before I spent time sorting through them after her death.  I was never able to select the right gift for her when she was alive; I am pretty sure that I could now.

Perhaps I see her in a different light as I have aged because I look in the mirror and I see her.  I take a bike ride and I know that bike riding was her passion before it was mine.  I cook a healthy meal with the recognition that she was right about the importance of healthy eating and that it took me a long time to get on board with spinach and cauliflower. I am grateful that she managed money so well, but recognize that I will not do the same.  I understand her mid-life drive toward transition - her desire to travel to Europe alone; her decision to go to graduate school; her commitment to building a career.

Even as our house is full of boxes, Mom is part of this.  A bedspread that she made and was very proud of is on the guest room bed.  Her mother's old spice tins are displayed in our new kitchen.  I've got her measuring cups and a a thought that maybe I will bake if our kitchen ever gets done.

Even so.  While I sense her presence, sometimes that really just isn't enough.  This is the first major transition of my life after her death.  I look at my patio chairs and my wine refrigerator and feel only Mom's absence. She would have enjoyed cocktails, cheese and crackers on the patio after spending the day unpacking boxes and organizing the office.

My office would be better organized if she were here.  Mom would have had some creative decorating ideas that I am never going to think of - and would have probably liked.  She probably would have said something that would have gotten on my last nerve.  And I know that I would have irritated her, too.  And it would have been okay.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Not Quite Yet

Some of this is going really, really well.

Like, I walked in to the clubhouse bar last night for the big 65th Wedding Anniversary Karaoke Party that offered free drinks to anyone who showed up, and I immediately felt at home.  I was not a stranger.  I knew a few names, met some more folks, enjoyed the conversation.  It was fun.    And the bartender knew my name, asked where Frances was, and remembered my "usual."   

Not bad for living here just over a week.  And no, I have not been to the clubhouse EVERY DAY.  Not quite.  

I will say this, though...  it is the nature of these homes to drive in to the garage, close the garage door, and walk in to the house without encountering a soul.  Had I not picked up my butt and proactively sought people out, I would have met nobody.   There is work involved in this.  Or so I tell myself as I sip a second glass of Sauvignon Blanc!

The social stuff is what is important, really, and I have been impressed with the folks I am meeting.  Kind, generous, interesting.  Many are still working.  By and large, they have well-rehearsed stories that they tell well and enjoy telling.  

And my oh my, if the couple celebrating their 65th Anniversary is any indication of the benefits of this lifestyle, then sign me up.  They appeared to be vibrant, healthy and very, very happy.

So, there is that.

And then there is the rest of this crap.  Moving sucks.  Plain and simple.  The moving company, who gave me a THREE WEEK window for delivery of our stuff, is not delivering within that window and decided to share that with me yesterday.  "It's the nature of the business" was their comment.  At least they had a comment; they have only initiated communication with me to collect payment.

And it appears that the kitchen installer guy had quite a Father's Day Weekend..  He needed TWO AND A HALF DAYS to recover.  Which would have been at least understandable if I had not been sitting on my back porch waiting for him.

Definitely not paradise.  Not yet. 

Handling It

Let's see where we are at the moment.

Oh yes.  The kitchen has been torn out and donated to Habitat for Humanity and the new cabinets have been delivered.  But they are not installed. The installer guy was here on Friday - did great work - and has not been seen since (it is Wednesday).  Our stove is unplugged and stowed in a corner.  There are cabinets stacked everywhere.  We have less functionality than when this guy started his installation and I am beyond convincing that he is going to finish this gig anywhere close to on time.  (On time would be tomorrow.  There is no way.)

Which I could handle.

Except that our moving truck seems to be permanently stuck somewhere in New Mexico.  Our move is relatively small, so we have no pull with the company.  They will deliver our stuff when they get good and ready and have nothing better to do.  Which is beginning to feel like it could be weeks from now.  

Which I could handle.

If it weren't for the relatives who are piling in here tomorrow to help us unpack. A great-aunt, my mother-in-law (who just had shoulder surgery), a sister-in-law and her three teen aged boys.  We have been saving assembly jobs for the boys so we will be able to keep them busy, although my best case scenario is beginning to look like three teenagers tripping over the moving guys who will, in turn, be stacking boxes around the cabinet installer.  And there will be nowhere to put anything because the cabinets are not installed.

Which seems like a lot to handle.

One additional wrinkle.  We don't have beds for these relatives.  Our first shipment of new furniture (including beds)  is delayed in Mexico for some reason that is not entirely clear to me; we do have an air mattress on the truck that is currently in New Mexico where it appears to be going to stay. I am led to believe that some sleeper couches are due to be delivered in two days.  Might as well add to the chaos.  

I don't blame Frances for working the whole entire time - we could use the overtime.  But it does mean that I get to preside over all of this.

Which I am just going to have to handle.

This Is Not a Senior Citizen Class

I confess that my initial thought was that I am in pretty good shape and that taking an exorcise class in my 55 Plus Community would  not be particularly challenging for me.

After all, I am younger than most folks who live here and in the last few years I have pushed and climbed and disciplined myself into what feels like the best shape in my life.

Let me be very clear.   The Body Conditioning class kicked my butt.

The teacher was Jamie - a young, African American guy with a military demeanor.  "Kate Owes Us Two" he announced - with a smile on his face - as I struggled to lift myself up off the floor and on to a step using arm muscles that I was previously familiar with but cannot identify.  "We'll wait for you, Kate," as I struggled to listen to his direction and follow it at the same time.  He corrected my form.  He was nice about it, but he was also firm.  Everyone got a taste of his "personal attention" as he bellowed "THIS IS NOT A SENIOR CITIZEN CLASS."

Jamie was careful to point out, as I sat on the floor with both legs in the air, torso raised with one hand overhead, that the woman next to me was 76.  She was having no trouble with any of it.  I was panting like a dog.

Jamie's style could have been considered intimidating, I guess.   But I found it inspiring  He learned my name; he used it.  I was not anonymous and I was challenging myself - reasons one and two why I moved here in the first place.

The other folks in the class were all in good shape, clearly valued fitness, and encouraged me to come back after chastising me for not bringing a water bottle.  I may have been the youngest - but not by much.

I would like to think I will go back.  After my arm muscles recover!

Wasting Time

There is a couple who lives here that I had noticed before.

Older than most.  Probably mid 80s.  

They sat down next to me at the pool when I first noticed them.  I was not trying to eavesdrop - in fact I was wearing noise cancelling headphones in an attempt to drown out the 1970s soundtrack that plays over the speakers all day.  But the headphones were not terribly effective and I could not help but follow along with their conversation.

She has dementia.  No doubt.  As we sat resting in the sun, he patiently - or at least as patiently and anyone could be expected to - answered her as she asked the same questions over and over again.  "Who is coming to dinner?  Are we going to the clubhouse?  Are we having chicken or pizza?"  

She was once beautiful.  Her hair and nails are well-kept.  She wears her bathing suit with a perfectly coordinated cover-all.  Her lipstick is red and perfectly applied.  He sits at the pool doing Soduko, hoping I suppose to keep his own brain firing.  There is a tenderness there.

They are not the typical 55 Plus Community couple.  Many of my neighbors are still working; Frances played golf this past weekend with two women who are still very much at the top of their careers - one in anti-terrorism and one in retail management.   Young families visit the pool, eat in the restaurants and visit. Most of us are at least several golf games and a 20 mile bike ride away from a nursing home.

I imagine that this older couple is trying to hold on to what they once had, and I get that.  It was not surprising that they were at the pool again today.  They were in the water...  cooling off.   I couldn't help but make my way up to her, smile and say hello.  

She smiled and said to me, "This is a lovely way to waste time, isn't it?"

Oh my.  Is that what we are doing?  I feel myself adapting to the leisurely and somewhat indulgent pace.  As I read books and take Pilates classes, I tell myself that I am recuperating after years of turmoil and six months of insanity in an 8th grade math classroom. 

But she nailed it.  The risk IS that I am wasting time.  The risk is that I become insulated by this gated community and confuse its petty dramas for the real world.  The risk is that I am not the better or the more effective for living here. The risk is that I confuse this "lifestyle" with a life.  

Something to Talk About

Woke up this morning to a text from a new friend: "You were at the the bar last night; just heard all about it! See you at dinner tonight."

I HAD been at the bar the night before.  By myself.  Talking to a few folks, but mostly just chatting with the bartenders.  No dancing on stools.  No slurring my words.  Left on a bike.  Nothing memorable.

Since our kitchen is a construction zone and because the club house is the only place to get breakfast within a 5 mile radius, Frances and I went back to the same bar for breakfast.  And the bartender - who must work a million hours - came up to us and noted that he knew we were coming back for dinner because folks had been talking about us last night.  .

And to add to the small world of it all, when we were at dinner, someone visited our table noting that she had met us last year when we had been visiting and had stopped by the bar to talk with people and get a feel for the place.

Welcoming?  I am choosing to think so.....  Do we stick out a little bit?  I think that is true too.

But hey, Frances is up early to play golf with new friends  Which is a good thing because she needs to figure out the golf courses around here; our living room carpet won't take too much more putting practice!

Breaking the Rules

It is 7 AM and the garage door is open.

And it is going to be open all day.   For the next four days.

And we have a guy who is sawing in the driveway. 

We must be breaking at least 20 of the 1,000 or so rules of this place.  I imagine PATROL driving around trying to figure out what do with us as I type.

I have never been an outlaw, and would much prefer to not be drawing attention, but there is not much alternative here.  If we are going to have a kitchen - a room boldly torn out and given to Habitat for Humanity last week - then we are all going to have to endure some inconvenience for a few days.   

Generally, I don't ascribe to the "Act first, Apologize later" school of thought, but in this case I think it applies.  And hey - perhaps I will use the new kitchen to whip up some chocolate chip cookies and freshly washed strawberries for my neighbors if we are able to get through this without fines from PATROL.

It occurs to me that I am probably too old to be bothered with what my neighbors are thinking... but I also know that one of the reasons that I am happy to be moving to this community is that it is quiet and ordered and folks generally adhere to the rules.

So, yes, we'll get that garage door down as soon as we can.  Which will be in about four days.

Activity

This morning I am feeling like I need to pinch myself.  Am I really living here?  

Let's see.  I started my day on a 10 mile bike ride with the biking group.  The guys (and it was mostly guys; I was the only woman who could keep up) were really knowledgeable and had ALL lived in Chicago at one point or another.  Since I was raised outside Chicago, that gave us a point of connection right away.  They knew the community outside the gates and were informative tour guides.  Really fun.  And free!

I followed that up with coffee and yogurt at the clubhouse.  Not free, but cheaper than Starbucks and just as good.  Sat outside with breakfast and the paper, called my dad, watched golfers zip by in their golf carts. Bunnies romping around.  Hummingbirds flitting about.  Not too hot yet.  Perfect.

Last night, I headed out to the clubhouse for dinner.  I told myself that I was doing this because we don't have an installed kitchen at this point, but the reality is that I would probably have gone up their anyway. I am ON A MISSION to meet people.  In an attempt to even out the physical toll of too many meals from the bar,  I rode my bike.  Probably not enough to even things out, but I am trying.

I was told right away that it was Karaoke Night.  A big deal.  Special menu.  Fine.  People were friendly, and I guess that I was even invited to sing along on a group number that a bunch of women were doing if you call "And everyone at the bar, come join us" an invitation.  I opted to sit that one out.

The singing was good.  Really good.  I didn't really know most of the songs: I had heard "I Will Always Love You" and "Cabaret" before, of course, but for the most part these folks were digging deep into the 1950s.   Makes me chuckle; I can just imagine these Karaoke nights 20 years down the line with everyone rapping or singing Madonna.  

A couple is celebrating a big wedding anniversary next week at Karaoke night, and to celebrate, they are paying the bar bill for everyone.  It's probably not fair, but I will likely stop by.  Free drinks, some singing, a little neighborhood networking.  What's not to like?  I will also remember to wish the couple well.

If we had just moved in to a typical neighborhood, we would have met 2 people by now.  Maybe.  And we would not have done anything with them.  In less than one week, I have gone bike riding with the biking club, gone to Karaoke night and accepted a dinner invitation for Friday night.

It feels like I am on vacation. I suppose at some point even vacations get monotonous, but for now, I am loving this!

The New

I really did not expect this.

I am surrounded by new.  New time zone.  New house.  New car.  New bike.  New job. New people. New, new, new, new.  My life bares little outward resemblance to what it was this time last year.

And there is quiet.  Lots of waiting for contractors, waiting for deliveries, waiting for paint to dry - very literally on the paint drying    Within that waiting, there is silence.  Our electronics are on a truck somewhere between Washington, DC and Arizona so we are not making much noise.  But nobody else is either.  No trucks, no cars to speak of.  Most folks seem to be inside enjoying the air conditioning.  

I expected both the new and, to some extent, the quiet.

What I (naively) did not expect was the mourning.

Don't get me wrong. I am deeply enjoying this transition and looking forward to all of the new that is yet to come.  We have friends yet to meet, work yet to do.  Rooms yet to decorate, and decorate again.  Still, in every one of those new experiences is a renewed emptiness.  It is as if I had comes to terms with Molly's memory in the corners, relationships and experiences of our old patterns.  Now, whatever unconscious mechanisms work to get me through the day seem to be working overtime to place Molly here. Her absence resonates off of the walls and bombards me. 

I think she would have enjoyed visiting us and would have playfully joshed us about how her parents were getting to be truly old farts.  She would have looked forward to french toast in the morning and clean sheets on the bed.  I must speak Molly's name ten times a day.  Out loud.  Where is she?  I can picture her here, but she will never walk through these doors. 

And mom would have enjoyed this too.   She went through her own "Georgia O'Keefe" period not that long ago after visiting Santa Fe with a friend.   Mom enjoyed the art and the quiet ruggedness of the southwest landscape and came home with a cow skull, which we ended up giving to whoever took her sewing machine; she also came home with a framed O'Keefe poster which I AM going to hang somewhere in this house.

I did not expect to be surrounded by grief.  But I suspect that my soul needs and is ready for  the mourning that is triggered by silence and new spaces.   This is the next chapter in a healing process that is never, ever, going to be complete.

First Night

Spent the first night at the place in the 55 Plus Community.  On the expensive but much needed new mattress.  No verdict yet on if the mattress is the one step short of miracle that it claims to be but I can keep you posted on that.  

Yesterday was dedicated to installation of lighting; it's one of those things that we have wished we had done in our other homes, and just decided we were going to do this time around.  The same reasoning has led to the installation of new kitchen cabinets, a built in entertainment center and integrated shelving for my office.  The money is going to run out pretty soon, or there would have also been new interior doors, a backyard fire pit and some sort of water feature.  Someday.

Frances worked last night, so after the electrician left - at about 6 PM - I decided to go up to the clubhouse for dinner.  Check out the social scene.   Start trying to meet people.   Have a drink.  Test out  this heavily promoted community lifestyle.   And I've got to say that I had a great time.  Bartenders were friendly.  Folks were happy to chat.  Even snagged a dinner invitation for Friday night. 

I certainly was not talking with a scientifically or randomly selected sample, but the people I was talking with last night really love living here.  They were also  - overall - a tad bit drunk.  A benefit, I guess, of living in a gated community where drinking and driving is not too much of an issue.  I was glad that we were on summer hours and the place closed at 7 or I would have likely joined right in.  More like I definitely would have joined right in. Which would have been a BAD idea....

A Price to be Paid

We have chaos for sure.

The kitchen has been torn out and a new wine refrigerator has been ordered.   We have virtually no furniture, and while we have ordered some and moved some, there is a bit of uncertainty as to when it is all going to be delivered.  With our luck, we will have three deliveries at the same time as the kitchen cabinets are being screwed in to the wall....which will cause us to exceed our limit of vehicles in the driveway, triggering some sort of sanction.  That being said, the cable has been turned on and we bought a new TV (which is actually kind of cool; the picture is good and the TV connects to the internet very efficiently.)  So, we can sit on the floor with a glass of warm wine and watch a marathon of Law and Order or Orange is the New Black if we want to. 

(A piece of me will miss the simplicity of this home without "stuff.'  But let's not overdue the simplicity thing - my knees will appreciate having chairs to sit in - and get up from!)

My car transpoder for the community gates was installed today.  The appointment was at 9 AM and it was my THIRD visit to the clubhouse to deal with the paperwork/scheduling/installation of this piece of sticky metal.  The whole day was scheduled around this appointment.    And you can easily guess what happened as I lined up my car in perfect alignment with the cones just 12 inches from the curb - - they could find no record of me.  No paperwork.  No appointment.  No name on file. 

I momentarily forgot that these partrol officers were in fact my neighbors. I believe that they understood that I would not be leaving without a transponder and that they would be finding my paperwork.  Which they did.  Eventually.

Overall, despite my frustrations with a slightly entrenched Homeowners Association that appears to be working from a model that made sense when this community was 100 homes and some courageous homesteaders, I am very excited to move in.  This is a beautiful place to live, and the beuracracy that could drive me crazy is exactly what keeps the community intact.  We don't get to do anything we want to do without someone looking over our shoulder.  That was the deal from the get-go.   

We wanted community - and we realize (sometimes less thn gracefully) that there is a price to be paid for that.

Overheard

So, I had to go up to the clubhouse to give the HOA a copy of my car registration (this place is  VERY detail oriented!) and decided to walk through the library to see if there was anything that I wanted to borrow.

Two women were sitting in the libarary - I am guessing they were in their lat 70s.  And they were chatting.   My first thought was, "My goodness, we are talking rather loudly for a library, arent' we?"   But their decibel level did give me a chance to listen in on their chat.

They were talking about grief.  And loss.  And taking things one day at a time and how everyone grieves differently.   One of them metioned that she had written a book.  They were talking about their mothers-in-law and the South and their life-lessons.

Except for the South part,  I think I am going to fit right in.

Slowing Down

I get it.

Sort of.

We have moved in to what is - for all intents and purposes - a retirement community.   By and large the profile of folks who live here would be money in the bank and time on the hands.

So, it works out great for most people if they are told that to have a transponder placed on their car in order to enter the gated community without benefit of a guard,  they need to present themsleves and their car with registration to community patrol on Saturday between 11 AM and 1 PM to have a transponder installed.   It doesn't feel like an inefficient pain in the neck to my neighbors; they have the time and why not let the kind gentleman (I'll be shocked if we are talking about a woman) install the 8 ozs worth of plastic for them

And I can't just show up on a Saturday (I DID try that).   An appoinment is required - mostly, I think, so that they can collect the fee - if due.  We may have a 2 and a half car garage, but only one transponder is included in our Home Owner Association dues.   The process, then, is AT LEAST 2 - pronged: visit the Home Owners Association office to make an appointment (HOA is open 10 AM - 3 PM Monday - Thursday) and then show up for installation.

I am sure that little piece of velcro that they are going to use to install this thing on my windshield requires professional oversight.  No doubt about it.  The HOA lady couldn't just give me the darn thing.  My feeling is,   if I can assemble IKEA furniture,  I can install a transponder. But no.
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In a spirit of full disclosure, I made the first appointment,  so Frances will have to pay the fee for the second transponder.  Ha!  Little chuckle there between me and the Home Owners Association lady.

The HOA lady and I needed the chuckle, because I think we already pushed her buttons on another issue.  We wanted the list of "approved" contractors so that we could start to schedule work before we moved in.  She had our name as buyers and everything - we weren't a mystery to her.  But no.  She could not email the list.  She could not mail the list.  She could not fax, text or courier pigeon the list.  The list was not available on line. But we were sure welcome to come come and pick up a copy anytime between 10 AM and 3 PM Monday  - Thursday.

No exceptions.

Did I mention that we still work?

But I get it.

Sort of.

55 Plus

Let's get one thing straight from the beginning; I am not yet 55.   My dear parter of 30 years is not 55 either.

But, we are moving in to a 55 Plus Active Adult Community anyway.  This should be interesting. We are Irish.  Gay.  I don't play golf, but Frances does - or used to before she banged up her shoulder.  I moved the golf clubs in to the new house today and we have the golf cart in the event that the shoulder improves....

I have met some of our new neighbors.  Bill and Helene from Germany seem nice; she is recovering from knee replacement surgery and he is the "unofficial" mayor of our little cul de sac - or would be if Clint from Montana did not want the job.  Lidia has a heart of gold from what I can tell; she is 75 years old, healthy and - at least so far - not an unkind word to say about anyone.  Of course, we haven't fully moved in yet.

This community is huge and right outside of Phoenix.  Dad wants to know if we have met any illegal aliens yet - this because his only sense of Arizona is from Fox News.  I assured Dad that we most likely had already welcomed illegal alliens into our home several times; case in point, I have not asked for the papers of the guys who are tearing my kitchen cabinets out as I type.  I am pretty sure that the guys who are installing the new cabinets next week will have papers, but I am  not asking.  Don't ask. Don't tell.    Wasn't that the Clinton administration's answer for complicated diversity issues?  Works for me.


We are moving here because we really want to be part of a community.    We want to easily meet people.  We also have more in common with boomers than with parents of toddlers; if I am going to hang out with somebody, parents of toddlers are really not my target market.  Unless they are related to me.  In which case, I have arranged for a slightly uncomfortable pull out couch and I hope that they will visit often.