My husband and I bought a house in 1966. We remodeled it multiple times, the last time with the help of an architect friend. It was our intent to stay there for the rest of our lives. It was an intergenerational neighborhood, walking distance to the guitar teacher and the Plez U (more or less a 7-11), full of babysitters. In my heart I hoped our occupancy would last at least as long as we both lived, because I was nine years younger and healthier than my dear spouse. But my husband’s last three years were in a nursing home with kidney failure and growing dementia. Left to fend for myself in a five bedroom house on three levels on an acre and a quarter of land, I moved to the retirement community that adjoins the nursing home where Carl was staying just across the street.
The only other time I had lived in a largely single generation community was in college, and that was always understood to be a transitional situation. But for eight years now I have lived in a community where there are no residents under sixty and an average age probably closer to 80. Which I will be in just a few months. Yes, we are also a transitional generation, but the transitions looming are definitely not of the college graduation variety.
Don’t worry! We retirement community dwellers see younger people. Some of them mow our lawns (I still mow my own, but most don’t) or wait on our tables or tend our ailments (you do get used to having doctors the ages of your grown children). Adjacent neighborhoods bring dog walkers and bike riders because our streets are city streets open to all, and it’s a nice place to walk or ride. The staff at the retirement center are all much younger, including the charming but demanding drillmaster who teaches our exercise class. I have friends on the outside who are too young to live here. I tutor a 12 year old middle school student in language Arts. I go to church, even if right now it is still on Zoom. I am involved in a civic organization that keeps me on Zoom as its co-president. But I do spend most of my time with my generational peers, and I’ve discovered that maybe that’s not such a bad thing.
Here we are all in a new and different stage of life. Most of us are retired. Our days are flexible. We have aches and pains. We suffer losses, losses of sight, hearing, and stamina. Losses off friends, neighbors, family. We forget things. We also commiserate, encourage, and support each other in matters small and large. We learn from each other how to tackle new challenges. We celebrate grandchildren getting married and great grand-children following not long after (or with this generation, sometimes before). Those of us who can still drive give rides to those who can’t. We laugh at our mistakes and comfort one another when life gets hard. In many ways, it is like living in a dorm (or college apartment?), because both house people of the same generation more or less going through the same life changes.
One of the pleasant things about living with a bunch of old folks is that they have long since ceased (with some exceptions) to be competitive. It’s just too hard, and it doesn’t seem to matter anyway. Social events are smaller and more casual. Women who took pride in their cooking now proudly announce that they hardly ever cook any more. Heels are shorter and pantyhose is a thing of the past except for weddings and funerals.
One dividing line in this community is between the still married and the newly single. In earlier decades, some women might be threatened by single women, but at our age, it’s more a question of how we women have a good social life among us when the married ones (some of them) are joined at the hip with a spouse? Often it is a spouse for whom they are a caregiver, but sometimes married couples are just used to doing things in pairs. As a result, a lot of new friendships form on the basis of marital status. At the same time, political polarization has led to a lot of friendships being grounded on a shared view of the world. Fortunately, there are enough of each political and/or religious persuasion in this community of some 250 souls, plus some in the middle, to ensure that there are enough congenial friends to go around. And for those with whom talk of politics or religion might be a dividing line, we can always retreat to cats, grandchildren, and gardening.
I truly believed I would never be attracted to a retirement community. Yet another life lesson of the golden years: never say never!.