Good Morning.
At some point, one neither desired nor enjoyed, every older person has to acknowledge that it's time to move out of his or her cherished, familiar, interesting, wonderful, comforting home. The house is too big and stair ridden to deal with it gracefully, and certain tasks have become daunting. I have processed all that unfortunate information, but as anyone who knows me even slightly will attest, I am not one to go gentle into that good night and certainly not an apartment with white walls and beige carpeting. My current residence has railings made of galvanized plumbing pipe and a garage door of barn wood with weathered strap hinges. The guest bathroom sink is a brightly painted bowl with the copper now peeking through; I bought it for $29 and had it fitted with a drain. The wall in the stairwell is covered with crumpled up brown paper, the kind that comes on a roll. They call all this stuff texture, and the apartments I can afford do not have it. No wonder the country is in trouble.
This whole moving thing sucks. For starters, there's something called downsizing that sounds like an interrogation technique in a room with bare light bulbs and peeling paint. It involves, among other tedious tasks, going through file cabinets with birth certificates and medical records, closets with clothes that need to be hauled to Good Will, and boxes with memorabilia not gazed upon for decades. My younger son has supplied me with post-its in three colors to apply to every item in the house: red means move, yellow means pitch, purple means give away or sell. Some of the purple items have gone to the curb with a FREE sign; passersby have taken planters, a room divider, patio furniture, and a couple of lamps. My son-in-law has already taken three huge loads of junk to the dump, and we ain't done by a country mile yet.
The larger pieces of furniture not appropriate for an apartment are one thing, but then there's the matter of Father Christmas. He used to be a mannequin, a full-sized female type I purchased at a department store sale. I fashioned a new face with papier mache, paint, and a beard and sewed up some pants with suspenders, a woolen vest, and a long velvet robe trimmed in mink I took from a coat once worn by my father's third wife. I purchased leather boots at Payless and found some nice old mittens in a trunk. Nobody in my family wants her now him, and I just don't think it's right to tag her now him with a yellow post-it. Father C is going with me.
Which brings me to the business of apartment hunting. I need a place that accepts good-sized dogs and has green space that requires little or no effort to reach. I need parking and dumpsters that aren't a block away and a shower, not a tub that may cause bodily injury when I try to climb in and out of it, grab bars or not. I do not need nor do I want a party room or a fitness center. I have checked out a dozen places, all of which are suitable for tenants a third of my age and none of which are senior friendly.
Which also brings me to the rules I've been perusing in the various tenant handbooks. I can't do anything fun to the walls, change out the ceiling fans for a chandelier that might inspire me, or install curtain rods for the drapes that are desperately needed to soften the vertical blinds. I can't have a private grill, a guest for more than three days in any two-week period, or use nails or even those stickum things to hang my wonderful art. If my dog barks, she will be asked to vacate the premises. If my stereo is too loud, a distinct possibility, I will be leaving with her.
I am contemplating the purchase of an RV and may be in your area soon.
Best regards,
Elisabeth
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