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.