Chapter 47. Moving

Moving is horrible.  Don’t let anyone tell you differently.  We downsized from a 2200 square foot house, not large by today’s standards, to an 1100 square foot apartment.  We downsized from a half-acre garden to a front porch and a patio. We downsized and then did it again.  And again. And one more time.  We took each room of our home and discarded or left for the estate sale what we wouldn’t need in our lives.  It wasn’t enough. We took our favorite art which, as it turns out, consisted of pictures of dogs and grandsons. We brought art from some of our favorite trips to Africa, Brazil, and my personal favorite, Big Dog.  I reduced my inherited china considerably but brought both sets of sterling silver.  I won’t need 24 place settings. That’s for sure.

I gave up my large desk for a small, corner unit.  The thingy where the keyboard sits doesn’t swivel like my old one.  

The kitchen isn’t designed for the elderly.  My old kitchen was perfect.  The large drawers that held pots and pans were convenient, deep, and opened easily.  The cabinets in my new kitchen require me to bend down or, worse, sit on the floor to look for equipment.  The refrigerator has a freezer on the top.  My old freezer was on the bottom and the refrigerator part was large and easy to use.  

The bathrooms are another story.  Not enough counter space.  Not enough drawers.

Ok.  Enough of the downsides.

The good part is this.  Everything is on one level.  GB won’t fall down the stairs.  Nor will I.

The living room furniture is beautiful.  I love the art we brought with us.  

I’ve figured out how to stream the tv.  No more cable. 

Monkey likes her many walks. I keep hoping she’ll notice other dogs and try to play but that wouldn’t be Monkey.  As you might recall, she doesn’t like other dogs.  Well, it’s not that she doesn’t like them, she just doesn’t recognize their existence.  She sniffs the ground looking for whoever left the notice, but he never looks up to see the communicator.

The swimming pool is nice and it’s just across the driveway from our apartment. The community garden is around the corner and the dog park is a few steps beyond that.

On Sundays there’s a farmer’s market and it’s a half-block away. A Whole Foods will be built a few blocks north, but there’s a Sprouts and a Natural Grocers quite close.  

I discovered a nail salon and a dry bar around the corner.  The dry bar, for those of us who never heard of it, is a place that shampoos and blows out hair.  So yesterday I got a manicure and today my hair is straight again.

I have met a few people, primarily those with dogs.  A nice man from the 4^th floor introduced himself and advised me he’s terribly allergic to dogs, cats, horses and most of what grows in Colorado.

We haven’t yet participated in the many activities that abound like movies, wine night, BBQ night, bridge club, poker club, yappy club and a bunch more.  Mainly because we’ve been organizing.  I’m in better shape than GB because he’s a hoarder and, well, I’m not.  I’m a thrower. And of all my sterling qualities, I like that one the best.

The closest pet store is a short drive and, as it happens, is a block from my grandparents’ house.  That’s the one that Louis bought for Tessie, the Doberman.  I drove by the other day and was happy to see that the Blue Spruce my grandmother planted in 1941 still stands and has been lovingly tended. If I spot anyone who lives there, I’ll drop by and give them a little history.  They might like that.  Or not.

I suppose the thing I find interesting about this move is how close I’ve stayed to my childhood homes.  I was born just a few blocks south of our new apartment.  I spent a wonderful, free childhood a few blocks west where Tessie ran freely from our house to my grandparents’ home.  My brother and I walked from our house to the Tower theater every Saturday to see the matinees.  When he was feeling particularly embarrassed by my existence, he’d put me in the “cry room”.  Afterwards, we’d walk back home or pop over to the grandparents for a snack.

Monaco Parkway was the route we took from my grandparents’ house to the new house in Crestmoor Park. That was the one my parents bought to avoid living with the menace of Negros. I know I’ve mentioned that bit of racism in my life.  Parents aren’t perfect, but over the years they saw the error of their ways. Well, I hope they did.

And when GB and I bought the home on South Niagara Way, it was 18 blocks south of my parents and, coincidentally, 20 blocks south of his parents.  After Dad died, Mother moved 2 blocks south of her home to an apartment. And, when the apartment became an untenable solution for her, we moved her to an assisted living center that was closer to the house in Crestmoor Park.

I mention all this geography because in my life I’ve not gone far from home.  I don’t consider this a liability because I’ve had the good fortune to have traveled a bit, pursued the profession I loved, and lived a full and rich life with the man I married 50 years ago. 

I used to wonder about people who never moved far from home.  Did they know there was a world beyond their street?  I suspect they found out just as I did.  The world’s a wonderful, joyous, fascinating place and it’s always good to come back home especially when home is so close to where my life began.