Patricia Prijatel

I thought moving would be the breeze it used to be—when we were younger, we had been pretty good at it, getting pictures hung, furniture in place, and silverware in the drawer within a week or two. In fact, I once asked Josh if he was bothered by our many moves—five while he and Ellen were living at home. No, he said, we have our things, and you always get us settled quickly so it feels like home.

But nothing is the breeze it used to be. The whole experience was exhausting and expensive. We hired movers and a crew to clean our old house, work we’d once tackled ourselves but which we now needed to pay others to do. Most boxes were gone within a couple weeks, but we did little else but unpack, rest, unpack, rest, unpack, sleep, make martinis.

We’d lived in the old house nearly 30 years, so we knew how everything worked and where everything was. Here, it was all new and we couldn’t even figure out where to put the oatmeal. For too long after the move, I felt somebody else was living in my house and I was living in a stranger’s place. I wanted to go home. This was more disruptive than I’d imagined.

But the rockiness of this transition wasn’t because we should have stayed in our old house. Being this tired was an acknowledgement that this body has logged a whole lot of miles and just couldn’t do what it used to do. I did miss the house, but mainly I missed the young me who had lived there.

We hadn’t focused much on our ages when we moved. I was 75 and Joe was 82, so we knew the story, but we didn’t see that as a limitation. We wanted to age with a sense of adventure and creativity.

That changed with Covid, which hit right when we moved, in March 2020. We sold Joe’s tools at a garage sale full of masked men. We gave away things we might have sold. We’d planned to remodel the kitchen, but we put that on hold because we didn’t want strangers in our house, plus the supply chain was broken. We decided Formica was a midcentury modern trend. And who else do we know with a red kitchen sink?

So here we were, homebound, having left our big house with its multiple outdoor spaces for a small apartment with a shared elevator and a two-chair balcony. There went travel. It would be a year and a half before we saw our kids and grandkids again. And the cool restaurants in our neighborhood, part of the charm of moving here, were closed, or only open for takeout. We could still walk to a few, but we’d have sit on the curb to eat our lunch.

The park across the street was a godsend. I went on long walks with friends and met others on a bench for coffee. An outdoor bar opened an easy walk away, where we could sit on swings or lounge chairs separate from other drinkers.  And we were still able to spend time at the cabin, although we made far fewer pit stops on the drive there.

But pricy things kept happening and we began to feel like Joe Btfsplk, the character from the Lil’ Abner comic strip who walks with a cloud of doom over his head. Our building got sued and, even though the lawsuit was settled in our favor, it cost a fortune. Our water main broke. The elevator stopped working. The roof, which had been under warranty when we moved, began to seriously leak soon after the warranty ended. While we shared these expenses with ten other units, it was a financial shock.

The bed and breakfast next door, where I envisioned our family staying when they visited, sold and is no longer an option.

Then Joe had a slight stroke. He has recovered well, but it affected his eyesight and his gait. He doesn’t yet feel ready to navigate international travel, so we’ve not visited Josh since before Covid, and Joe isn’t comfortable being at our remote cabin for long stretches, away from medical care. So there went that. We now spend less than a week there, rather than an entire summer.

Still, the smaller, smartly organized condo is more comfortable for him to navigate and was a good place for him to recuperate. And this is a great neighborhood for walking, which has helped him recover. When he decided to stop driving because of reduced eyesight, being closer to everything was a huge benefit. We walk to lunch now that things are reopened, and he walks to the dentist and barber. Several friends live in this neighborhood and often pick him up or drop him off, as we are on the way.

From the day we moved in, I have slept better here than I have in years. Even though we are in a building full of other people and on a busy street, I find it quieter here than our house near the airport with neighbors having parties by their firepits and pick-up basketball next door. We share only one wall with a neighbor and have three walls to the outside. The solid construction blocks inside and outside noise; our triple-pane windows combat neighborhood sounds. As I write, I see the German Shepherd across the driveway. He’s barking and I hear nothing.

But in warmer weather, testosterone-fueled motorcycles, designed for speed and noise, break our sound barriers. They come and go quickly, but for a minute or so, it’s hard to focus on anything else. Now that we are here more often than expected, I wish our balcony was larger. Joe would like a building with a gym and more common space. I miss an attached garage. 

Still, the ease of living in a small space has surprised me. I have never been so organized, and my anal-retentive self thrives on everything being in its place. Our belongings no longer grow like rabbits in the spring; once we buy something, we must get rid of something else. There is no room for clutter. I go shopping online and choose nothing; I already have all I need. That’s immensely freeing and gratifying: I need nothing.

I am much less stressed in general and am finally weaning myself off the sleeping pills I’d used for decades. My worry gene has taken a rest, at least where the house is concerned. Sharing responsibilities with a community makes them feel less overwhelming. I don’t always agree with the HOA, but that’s a price I am willing to pay.

We enjoy socializing here. We have friends over for dinner; neighbors drop by for coffee or drinks. Our kids have visited several times. Josh has proclaimed this “a great place.” When Ellen and her family come, we rent them an Airbnb, which gives them more, and private, space. Sometimes the boys stay here with us, so we can spend mornings with them in our pajamas, or else walk to the bakery for a chocolate croissant.

When I awake in the morning and walk into the living room, I often think, “How pretty!” I never tire of the view. I can start seeing the trees greening in early spring and catch the first glimpses of color in autumn. I’ve bored my Facebook friends with “Good Morning” photos of the sunrise from our balcony.

Our kitchen remains in need of remodeling, but visitors tell us they love it. It works for Joe, who now makes treats for our weekly book club—biscotti, croissants, cinnamon rolls, coffee cake, muffins. Oh, my. A neighbor gave him some fancy syrups; his icings now have a hint of orange blossom or black cherry.

I’ve always been uncomfortable with the concept of the “forever home.” It feels like an HGTV ploy. Our lives change too much for once place to be right for a lifetime. But our forever is shorter than it used to be, so we might be here that long. I make no promises, though.

This home is filled with us: the dining room table we bought in the 70s; the coffee table Joe made in the 80s; the desk I bought in the 90s; the vase Josh and Ellen gave me for Mother’s Day when we were in Greece; books we’ve loved for decades, some from my parent’s house; sculptures Ellen made in art school;  a rug I brought back from a journalism convention who knows when; the rolltop desk Joe got from his grandparents; handcrafts Josh bought us in Africa and Central Europe; the cheap purple faux leather chairs I inexplicably love; the plant Joe gave me when Ellen we born.

We brought our memories with us. This turned out to be a choice that suits us well right now. Like life, it is imperfect, but it’s our imperfect. Stop by sometime, enjoy our view, and have a biscotti. Preferably at sunset. But watch out for the man in the closet.