We settled there some 48 years ago. The half-acre property sitting in the middle of an urban area gave us all we needed: space for our two cats and two dogs. And it would ultimately give us the place where we would acquire and say good-bye to more cats, dogs. . . . among them our 7 beloved Newfoundlands, 5 mutts, 1 Shih Tzu, 8 cats, 3 or 4 rabbits, approximately 15 chickens, a flock of Australian Finches, one unbelievably brilliant Conure named Paulina, 2 ducks, a recovering turkey, and a little lamb who never stood up to greet life. It would give us a place to remodel numerous times as our tastes changed. The upstairs bedroom became a den and then a bedroom again when we rescued Alba, then 14, from forced return to Nicaragua. After she left, it became a den again only to return as a bedroom for Alba’s boys, Eyad and Omar, and then, later for Eyad and his friends from med school. The kitchen, once a small box that kept me away from others, was opened. The upstairs windows, once tiny and aluminum were expanded and trimmed with warm wood. The upstairs deck became a large terrace with stairs down to our half-acre, always in progress, garden.
The 2200 square foot home resembled a mix between Godzilla and Frank Lloyd Wright. Large overhangs protected the square brick home. The home had a master bedroom on the upper level, a living room, fireplace set on the floor, gold shag carpet, a small bathroom, a walk-out deck, and an orange-colored kitchen. The lower level contained three small bedrooms, a laundry room, a standard size bathroom by mid-century design ethic and an efficient family room that opened onto a patio.
And by the time we left it six months ago, the half-acre boasted gorgeous gardens and a home that had been remodeled from top to bottom. Our office overlooked the garden and throughout the year, we could watch the seasons change, the birds fly through, the dogs romp. There were times when the setting sun lit up the gardens and created small firestorms that played along the tree branches. It simply took my breath away.
We no longer live in the house where we settled those many years ago. We transferred our home to a young couple eager to garden, raise dogs and, I hope, chickens. Maybe a child or two.
GB didn’t want to move. The decision was mine. I knew we had to. In fact, I couldn’t wait to settle elsewhere. We looked at condos. Didn’t want to own anything. Looked at apartments with great mountain and downtown views. Everyone was young. We’d be isolated and from what I had read (and my own thinking) isolation is a bad idea at our age.
We looked at 55+ apartments. And the one we chose is the one where we now live.
In November 2024, I began my blog. It was supposed to be about aging and its challenges.
GB was facing brain surgery for hydrocephalus. Our home and garden had become a burden. Our animals were aging, Monkey was 16 and Boomer nearly 11, old for a giant breed dog. The chickens were healthy and active.
A year ago, I was exhausted. GB had been deteriorating for three years, so much so I had sent him home from Israel after a few days in the country. Our previous vacations had been marred by the numerous falls he took. I had been able to take my trip to Rwanda to sit with the gorilla. It was a good trip. No, it was a wonderful trip. But it was a little sad without GB to enjoy it with me.
The surgery to relieve GB’s hydrocephalus was scheduled in November 2024. It was iffy. It might work. Might not.
It’s good to look back a year and see what’s changed. GB’s surgery was successful. He no longer loses balance, although his confident stride of years past has been replaced by a more tentative walk. His cognition has improved although there are remnants of the damage. He lacks the ability to deal with numbers, gets them confused like, 1,000 becomes 100. He has trouble following the crazy Euro-thrillers we binge. He also forgets things about me, like I have been diagnosed with macular degeneration. He thinks I need reading glasses and when he suggests them, I get angry. Very angry. His incontinence has improved.
That year brought us sadness. We lost Boomer, our last Newfie. Sweet sweet boy. I rehomed the chickens to a 35-acre farm north of Denver. They now live with 40 chickens, a bunch of roosters, horses and goats all rescued by a woman and her daughter.
GB is well enough to take a trip and we’re going to Cabo San Jose next week. We’ll eat, hike a bit, kayak, take an ATV (somehow, I think that’s not a good idea), and shop for art. When we moved, we sold nearly everything so that our downsized life would accommodate what was left. Seems now we’re moving to a larger apartment in February, so we need to collect some more art.
The freedom granted to us through better health and lack of property ownership has been amazing. It’s a gift. And it gives me the chance to think about stuff, like, this morning, I thought about my brain and how it’s doing.
Maybe ok. Not sure. Last night our friends Harold and Susan came over for our weekly viewing of a documentary. We began with the American Revolution. I had no idea Washington was so amazing. Then we moved to LBJ. The documentary was showing his first speech to Congress after the assassination. I wondered who wrote it for him. Was it Dick Goodwin? No, said Harold. He came along later. Sorenson, I asked? Maybe. I googled it. Sorenson it was.
What an amazing memory I have. I can pick Ted Sorenson out of the far reaches of my memory, but I can’t remember the plot of Tehran, an Israeli thriller we’re watching again because a third season is scheduled to air in a few weeks.
Is it normal aging or dementia? Everyone seems to have dementia these days, so I don’t know why I’d be immune. My brain has always been my favorite organ. I’ve always loved the way it thought, the way it reasoned through things, or didn’t. When I was young, I’d be just talking away, and people would ask if I was drunk. Or stoned. I was neither. It was just my brain in an unhinged state of thought. I know that half the time, GB hasn’t followed what I talk about. I don’t bother with a segue. I think the only person who ever understood me was my mother, who, as it seems, had a brain like my own. And my friend Feutz. She understands me. She even laughs at all my jokes.
My mother died when she was 99 and her brain was just fine.
So, I figure, is mine. Except, what was I watching? Did I read that article in Atlantic? Did I listen to the podcast or just fall asleep. Why in God’s name did I put my nightgown in the car? Where are my glasses?
Whew. Found my bra. It was in between the couch cushions.
It’s a little worrisome.
Air. 
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