I didn’t think this up. My niece, Laurie, did. I was chatting with her this morning, and she commented on the Christmas light show in our Town Center. “You live in a Hallmark movie,” she said.
She’s a genius. She really is.
For forty-eight years, GB and I lived in the solitude of our half-acre garden. The architecture of the house made it impossible for passers-by to see inside the home or get a look at the garden. The only visible prying peek was the front courtyard and the Bob Mangold sculpture located at the rear of the property.
Moving to Everleigh (which I refer to as “the home”) in Central Park (which I still call Stapleton) was based on a whole lot of ideas.
First, our home and garden were no longer a pleasure but a danger. Frequent falls clearly told us we needed to move.
Second, we needed community. Our peaceful isolation had no longer given us comfort but loneliness.
Third, we had to drive everywhere. There were no restaurants or groceries nearby. The closest park was three blocks away and it wasn’t really very interesting as far as parks go.
Fouth, our neighborhood demographics had changed, as they should, over the years. When we moved in we were the youngest. Forty-eight years later, we were the oldest. Neighbors were nice but they weren’t going to invite us to play.
Fifth, we needed the money from the house to create investments that would sustain us for the last twenty years or so of our lives.
Since moving to the Home, life has changed. GB has thrown himself into activities and volunteerism. He’s involved with the Aurora schools to help children with reading skills. He volunteers at the library which is a half block away. He plays poker twice a week and once a month for a tournament. He’s an “ambassador” for the Home, meaning he greets new residents and shows them around. He takes walks and doesn’t fall (thanks to the November 2024 brain surgery). He reads rather voraciously. He fights with his computer. He hangs out at the workshop where the men recently made small, child-sized chairs for kids attending Anchor School for the Blind. Hallmark.
When we walk, we say hi to people. Sometimes we know them. Sometimes not. We stop to admire babies and, of course, dogs. I put Monkey in the stroller, and she always garners attention and awws when I tell them she’s seventeen, deaf, but is a lip reader. Then they laugh. They think she’s sweet. I tell them she’s not but oh, well, she’s ours. The other day, Monkey and I headed out for Natural Grocers, ran into a resident and chatted for twenty minutes. On my way, ran into another resident and had a briefer conversation. I took the long way, passed by the fire department and a selection of incredibly large, gorgeous homes comfortably overlooking a pocket park. Then past another 55+ complex and the nursing home where my friend and former neighbor, Nancy, lived until her death. Then in Natural Grocers, my check-out turned into a conversation about my grandfather’s infidelities. I know you wonder how that happened. Not the infidelities. The conversation. The check-out clerk remarked on my ring, and I told her it was my grandmothers, given to her by Louis. Guilt. She asked if my grandmother cheated on him. No way. No way. Then I told her about my grandmother’s garage sale after Louis’ death. She was selling his guns and sent her sister, Nettie, over to the girlfriend’s house to collect them. My grandmother tried to sell Louis’ false teeth and bridges. I managed to save them and years later, sold the gold with which GB and I used for a trip to Paris.
Not to worry. I didn’t hold up the line.
The trip back from the grocery was less eventful except I realized I forgot to buy cheese. I texted GB at the school. He didn’t see it because of his constant, losing battle with all things technological.
Stapleton is a small town comprised of distinct neighborhoods and architecture. There are parks every few blocks to compensate for the density of the housing. There are homes at all prices, from low-income to multi-million dollars. And here’s what I like: a multi-million dollar set of houses might be just around the corner from low-income (or what they call income-restricted).
And here at the Home, we have our mix of people. No income-restricted, but diverse. Nice people and cranks. Healthy people and ailing. Married and single. Different ethnic groups, different religious groups. The political atmosphere leans left. I wish there were more conservatives like me but most of the ones I’ve met seem to be Trumpers, through and through. I have been scouting for former Republicans who hate Trump.
Of course, my favorite group is the Yappy Club. The more I know this group, the more I like each collectively and individually. I’m new to the group so my friendships aren’t as deep as the others. That’s ok. I’m not an instant friendship person. Plus, I’m a bit of an acquired taste. One of our group has a dog who is quite sick. The dog, Molly, is a sweet, small St. Bernard mix. She was part of a national study on aging and twice a year would go to CSU for tests. CSU has requested that the dog’s body be returned for necropsy. This is just hard for any pet owner. The euthanasia is tough enough but then having to take that hour drive to CSU afterwards is horrible. I told Molly’s person that one of us would go with her. I really shouldn’t have spoken for the group, but I instinctively knew it was true. And if it isn’t, I’d go with her. When I told the group, they all said they’d go.
It’s a small town, isn’t it. Stapleton and the Home. Passers-by know Monkey. I know passers-by. I know their dogs: Jeff the Irish Wolfhound who is spectacularly gorgeous and doesn’t, I think, have a brain to call his own. Alman the Newfie to whom I gave unsolicited advice and kissed on the head. There’s a pair of Border Collies, some Shih Tzu, Frenchies, Pitties, Sheperds, Rotties, Goldens, Labbies and hundreds of mutts. There are children of all ages. They all walk around Stapleton. Many walk by our apartment.
We live in proximity and we share easily. We’re neighbors. We gossip. We know who’s new, who’s died, who’s moves out. We know who the complainers and cranks are.
GB and I never knew any of those things when we lived in the peaceable garden. People moved in and out without saying hello or good-bye. We waved at one another but didn’t generally socialize. Oh, Nancy and I became close friends. And Dick and Susan, who lived across the street, were good neighbors and friends. Each of us lived in our own garden empires, Nancy with her pool and terraced gardens and Dick and Susan with their bird haven. Life in our neighborhood was lived behind walls. Our homes opened to back gardens, not to be seen by others unless invited.
And now life is easy to find. It’s simple to connect to people whenever we want. We merely need to walk out the door.Laurie says that, for sure, carolers will serenade us over Christmas. They’ll be dressed like Santa and Mrs. Claus, and elves. They’ll wear reindeer hats. It’ll snow, big, gorgeous, moisture filled drops. But only in Central Park. Nowhere else. The rest of Denver will be like Arizona. Dry. Dry. Brown. But in Central Park, our Hallmark movie village, the snow will fall
Air. 
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