For forty-seven years my husband Jim and I lived in the same house in Newton, Massachusetts. We raised our three children in that house, and, as the years went on, we were able to welcome them back with their partners, and then their children, and the many dogs that cycled through with them. We had a sofa bed in the basement, where we tucked in a small nursery, another sofa bed in the study, bunk beds in one of the four bedrooms—and voila—room for the 12 of us.
We have many wonderful memories of the house, memories of our own young children merging with memories of our grandchildren. Our children tearing down the sidewalk in front of house on their big wheels, making screeching turns into the driveway. The grandchildren messing around in the garden, in the "digging pit" I made them to save my flowers. Our children doing their homework at the kitchen table. Thanksgiving and Passover at the large wooden table that belonged to my great aunt, family birthdays and then baby namings and teaching the grandchildren to cook.
Even with the joy we got from our home, as we were reaching our eighties we realized we didn't need—or want—to be living in a 4 bedroom house in the suburbs. We could still manage the stairs, but we could easily imagine a time when stairs would be too much. We said, too, that we didn't want to leave the responsibility of clearing out the house to our children. This was true, and made us feel somewhat noble, but a larger consideration was living in the house alone. If—when—one of us died, the other didn't want to live in the house alone.
Our search for an apartment went on sporadically for several years. Nothing seemed right. Every place we saw felt like we were saying "we're old, we're going to die, it's time to move." We didn't feel a sense of adventure, the exhiliration that comes from entering a new stage of life. Admittedly, that's a hard ask, since we were old and going to die and it was time to move. But we found it. An apartment that felt like a beginning.
The apartment is in Cambridge, near Harvard Square, and looks out on the Charles River. The building is an old brick building with lots of character—fireplaces, original molding, spacious rooms—and has what Jim calls a "shabby chic" feel, with no lobby or doorman or other fancy amenities. We walk everywhere, enjoying restaurants and museums and classes. Poetry readings.
We have found that we love apartment living. Our neighbors across the hall have become dear friends. We can leave our doors open so their adorable dog, Nella, can scoot in for a visit and go home when she likes. A little like dorm living, if dorms allowed dogs and you had your own bathroom and kitchen.
Several months after we moved, Jim was hit by a car and in the hospital for a week. Our across-the-hall neighbors put food in our refrigerator, other neighbors drove me to settle Jim in rehab and then to bring him home. These are people we had known for months, not years, and they stepped up. And good for us: we had moved to one floor so Jim could come home and navigate the space.
We made the right decision. We love being in Cambridge and taking advantage of all it has to offer. We love our apartment and our building and our new friends. And, although I miss the happy chaos of having our whole family visit, I don't miss it that much. All the activity and noise (and meals and laundry) were getting more difficult. Having them visit in smaller groups works out well. And when they all come, we have discovered hotels.
But nothing is ever one thing or another. When I drive by our old home, it's hard to believe I can't just walk in and drop my things on the counter and grab an apple out of the refrigerator. I get angry when I see the new owners have planted a tree. A tree! If I had wanted a tree there, I would have planted it myself!
I want to give us a whole bunch of credit for leaving our home of so many years and making a move that feels like a beginning. But I keep dreaming the same dream—I am back in the house. In bed with a cup of coffee. Reading. Occasionally looking out at the garden, where the peonies are just opening.
Who are these strangers who walk in, horrified to find me there? What are they doing here? What are they doing there? Where is here? Where is there?
They better get out, and fast.