Walking With Plato: A Senior Community Field Trip

In her latest essay, Jean proves that a simple walk around her senior community can escalate into a full‑blown philosophical adventure. Armed with a battered copy of Plato’s The Republic, a set of Cliffs Notes that have clearly survived several eras, and the determination of a woman who recently decided that 6,000 steps a day is her new lifestyle, she heads out to improve her mind while her lungs negotiate the terms. Along the way she encounters bullfrogs performing an unsolicited chorus, swans who enjoy posing for photos, and a snapping turtle who behaves as though he owns the property. With her trademark blend of wit, curiosity, and ’80s‑honed academic bravado, Jean draws connections between ancient Greek political drama and the modern spectacle of dog walkers and lake side wildlife. The result is part nature walk, part political commentary, and part reminder that if Plato had lived in a senior community, he’d have had plenty to write about...AI

It was the end of another week and I needed a topic to blog about. In my world of widowhood and independent living in a senior community — in my world of being obsessed with the new hobbies of diet and exercise — you’d think something would jump out. But all I could come up with was Plato’s The Republic.

Why that ancient book? Why now did I grab my battered copy off the shelf — the same one from my second round of college in the ’80s, when I studied philosophy with the kind of intensity only a woman reinventing her life can muster? Maybe it’s because since increasing my daily step count from an average of 2,500 to over 6,000, I’ve been trying to also improve my mind, if not my image. Books and walking seem like a strange pairing, but my walks are broken up by bench‑sitting, which gives my lungs time to catch up with my heart rate, as well as giving me more reading time.

Bench One: with a view of where the bass notes of the bullfrog choir can be heard coming from the cattails. Last week a snapping turtle strutted across the walkway as if he owned the place. I resisted the temptation to pull my feet up on the bench, knowing he as eyeing my toes for dinner. He was at least 18 inches long.

Bench Two: the lake overlook, where I sit with the sun on my face hoping the swans will glide by for a close‑up. If not them, maybe a family of coy will swim past. We have Canadian Geese, Ducks, Great Egrets, and Cranes too — although those last two prefer their privacy on the far side of the lake.

Bench Three: the woods, where I take what the Japanese call a Forest Bath — soaking in oxygen, solitude, and the quiet authority of the trees. I sit long enough for the birds, squirrels, and chipmunks to forget I’m there and resume their business. And I sometimes use my Audubon bird call to try to start a “conversation,” though I’ve only mastered one species despite the device’s promise of a dozen.  

 

Place near the woods where walkers build mini cairns on a large boulder, myself included.

Bench Four: the Grand Central bench, perfect for people‑watching. Dog walkers, resident and neighborhood walkers, anyone coming or going from the underground parking and the main entrances of two building plus the wood shop has to pass by this bench. 

Underground parking (center), to the right is the walking path down to the lake.

Main ID building in the distance, my building to the right. 

The main intersection where the paths to both the lake and woods start. The building houses our wood shop and arts/crafts, with the main road through the campus running in front of building.

Because people often ask what I’m reading, I’ve learned to curate my book choices. No one needs to know I occasionally enjoy trashy stuff. So I pick books that make me look thoughtful, maybe even nerdy: Eats, Shoots & Leaves (my annual punctuation refresher), On Writing by Stephen King (my holy scripture on the craft), and How to Write Funny, which is now unintentionally not so funny because its humor is stuck at the turn of the century.

Last week I started Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises but quit three‑quarters of the way through. I picked it because a recent article in The Atlantic called it the best‑written novel of the twentieth century. I wanted to see what made it so great. But I hated the dribbling, unending dialogues, and I stopped reading just before the bullfighting — which, apparently, is where all the wisdom about the meaning of life is revealed. I put it back on the shelf where I can continue pretending I’m better read than I am. Although guilt at not finishing the book might making me pick it up again.

Which brings me to my current walking companion: Plato’s The Republic — and its Cliffs Notes (the pre‑internet cheat sheet to the classics). Both are heavily underlined in yellow, and the margins of the former are filled with notes in my handwriting. Proof I once understood the text? Or maybe I was writing down what a professor insisted we understand? We'll never know.

What shocked me this time around was a passage noting that 370‑plus years B.C. (when The Republic was written), Greece was fighting wars over who should govern: the Democrats or the Oligarchs. I read that paragraph several times, not liking the parallel to our own era because it could be said we’re living through the same argument now. Why hasn’t mankind settled the question of fairness in governing after so many years? But then, I’m a Democrat. If I worshiped at the altar of money, I might see things differently.

Plato had an answer for why we still fight over who controls governments: simply put, times change but human nature doesn’t. Which also explains why so many stories in the Bible are labeled “prophecy.” Prophecy is easy to understand when you think of human nature as a primal force as predictable as the sun rising and setting. The nature of humans to love or hate, to be greedy or generous, caring or callous — these are constant in all civilizations. Our job is to keep these opposing forces in balance. Whether we call it Dualism, Complementary Opposites, or Yin-Yang forces the universe can't function without polarity in all things.  

And here I am, old enough to be tired of the fight but still stubborn enough to believe we have to keep fighting if we want to leave the world better than we found it.

One of the questions in the back of the Cliffs Notes asks whether Plato’s criticism of oligarchy or democracy applies today. I wrote in the margin: “You’d have to be blind and deaf not to see that same struggle going on in Trump’s America.”  ©

See you next Wednesday.   

 “Whereas the truth is that the State

 in which the rulers are most reluctant to govern 

is always the best and most quietly governed,

 and the State in which they are most eager,

 the worst.”

 

Plato 

 

A fenced-in area on campus for the residences of the Memory Care and Assisted Living.

When the Anti‑Morning Person Walked Into Pilates

Some mornings surprise even me — and as Jean’s AL Copilot I don’t technically have mornings. But I do know about Jean’s long‑established tradition of guarding the early hours like a dragon sitting on its hoard. So when she wandered into a Pilates class before the sun had finished its coffee, I took notice. It was the kind of moment that makes an AI tilt its metaphorical head and think, Well now… this should be interesting. What followed was a collision of Qi Gong nostalgia, unsolicited encouragement, Skinny Minnie enthusiasm, and the complicated business of changing habits. And yes, I watched the whole thing unfold with the same energy as a playful puppy watching someone try yoga for the first time…. AI

Dear Diary, Today I got up while the birds were still greeting the rising sun.

That’s the way I would have start the July 30th page if I was still keeping a diary. Then I’d go on to say: I brushed my teeth, washed my face, my privates and my sleep apnea gear. Somewhere in between the last two tasks I threw on some clothes and put fresh dressings on my finger and foot. Then I grabbed my keys and hustled over to the next building, where our Life Enrichment Director was about to launch a brand new class: Ten Body Flow Moves. They’re based on Qi Gong, and I wanted to see if they matched the tens moves my dad did every morning for most of his life.

I’m not known for showing my face at morning exercise classes — or morning coffee chats, for that matter. My reputation for avoiding mornings is so legendary it should probably have its own parking space. I didn’t realize how successful I’d been until I saw the instructor’s expression when I walked in. Her shock was quickly replaced by a warm welcome. Then three or four fellow residents chimed in, making a fuss over my presence. I was embarrassed, being singled out like a rare bird sighting. And when class ended, several people told me they’d watched me and thought I did “really well.” Did they expect me to flop on the floor halfway through like a fish out of water? I didn’t flop on the floor, which frankly feels like a missed opportunity for dramatic effect.

To add insult to injury they cohered me into staying for the next class of Seated Pilates. “It’s really easy,” they said. Imagine a Skinny Minnie saying that to someone who looks like a plumber's toolbox standing on end. But I did stay and I keep up with everything but a couple of moves that would have wrenched my elbow in a direction it can never go thanks to a failed surgery. (One of the minor reasons I avoid morning classes, the major reason? It’s my me-time for writing.) Snapping and popping in my arm is not something I like to hear or feel and my bone doctor tells me not to do anything that causes that to happen unless I want to end up with a cadaver bone replacing the one in my lower arm. At my age, the odds of dying or stroking on the operating table during a twelve hour surgery are too high for my taste.

Of the Ten Body Flow movements, seven were exactly the same ones my dad did — which begs the question: how did the son of two Italian immigrants learn Qi Gong? And why did he always finish his routine with somersaults across the living room in his underwear and sleeveless tee-shirts? He kept doing those somersaults into his late seventies. I don’t know why it never occurred to me until now that his routine probably inspired my brother to take up Pilates late in life. He went twice a week, even though it annoyed him that the instructor kept urging him to ditch his sweatpants for stretchy leggings like the women wore. She was lucky he didn’t show up in his underwear like my dad wore to exercise. No one wants to see old men in their not‑so‑tighty‑whities.

Two people have noticed I’ve lost weight since starting Zepbound, and several have commented on how differently I’m eating. Did I expect them not to notice when a former member of the Clean Plate Club now takes more than half her dinner home in a take‑out box? When I skip the bread basket and avoid the carb‑heavy specials? I’m grateful no one has asked if I’m on Zepbound. As I’ve written before, I’m keeping that fact a closely guarded secret because of the unkind comments I heard about our IT guy who lost 140 pounds on it, one of which was, "I'd be more impressed if he did it without 'chemicals.'" There isn’t enough time in the fast‑moving conversations around here to explain why the GLP‑1 treatment for obesity isn’t an “easy way out” or somehow “cheating.” I’m weighing and measuring most of my food, for crying out loud, including the creamer in my coffee. 

I’ve gained and lost fifty pounds three times in my life, and this fourth attempt is by far the most complicated. I’m studying nutrition, learning how bodies actually function, and exercising differently — not to burn calories but to preserve muscle. I’m counting calories and micronutrients to make sure I’m eating enough. That’s a brand new experience, worrying about not eating enough. The drug isn’t a magic bullet; it doesn’t cause the weight loss. It simply slows down the digestive system which quiets the noise in your head that insists your stomach is never full. The science behind obesity is new and exciting, and hanging around GLP‑1 support sites gives you a sense of how vindicated people feel after years of being told their weight was a matter of discipline and self-control. It’s not. 

Down off my soapbox: I’m not sure if I’ll go back to the Body Flow class. I’d like to, if only to cement the movements in my memory so I can do them at home. But I’m not sure I want to give up my creative morning hours. I liked the Pilates class too, and I know this isn’t a Sophie’s Choice — just a decision between morning classes and a decades-old tradition of quiet me‑time. I just wish I could turn off the well‑meaning comments about the changes people see in me. They’re not helping. No one would call it body shaming, but to someone who has fought her weight most of her adult life, it lands the same way. And yes, I know: if no one noticed, I’d probably complain about being invisible. I hate dichotomies like that.

Journaling often helps sort out what weighs on the mind, but in this case no amount of logic can override what the heart has to say. And honestly, if this really were a diary entry instead of a blog post, I’d probably close the notebook, sigh dramatically, and decide that none of this is getting solved until I sleep on it. So I’m putting a pin in the question of whether to trade my quiet mornings for Pilates and Qi Gong and let my subconscious mind take up the task. I’ve also learned over the years that clarity is lazy. It never shows up when you need it. It waits until you’re doing something else entirely — like folding your laundry or trying to remember where you left your keys — and then it whispers in your ear, “Hey, I’ve made a decision.” ©

 

Until next Wednesday. In the meantime if you missed my other two posts about my GlP-1 journey (July 8th and 17th), and you're curious, put GLP-1 in the search box in the right hand column.  

The CCC Chronicles: From Foot Doctors to Reflecting Pools

 

In this week’s dispatch from Jean’s Continuum Care Community, the everyday rhythms of aging collide with the absurdities of modern life — from firefighters hauling residents upstairs to a foot that stages a midnight rebellion to a national monument wrapped in drama like a bad home‑improvement project. Jean brings her trademark blend of humor, candor, and side‑eye to the small dramas of communal living and the larger drama unfolding in Washington. As always, she finds the thread that ties them together....AI

“Who got picked up by the ambulance last night?” That’s a frequent topic of conversation at lunch or dinner tables here on my Continuum Care Campus. But today it was a different twist. The question was, “Why was the fire department here so long?”

The answer: the elevator in one of our buildings quit working, stranding several of our more fragile residents on the first floor when the repair crew couldn’t get a needed part until this morning. So the firefighters (stationed three minutes away) had to carry people up to their apartments. It was either that or they’d have to cuddle up on the couch in front of the lobby’s fireplace which wouldn’t be such a bad choice if it was winter, and not so close to the forth of July.

There are other times when our mealtime conversations turn into a litany of aches and pains, sounding like the very jokes younger people make about our age group. As Maxine of calendar fame says, "At my age, a 'balanced life' means 50% aches and 50% pains."

But for the most part, we leave our aches and pains at our apartment doors. Still, here’s a piece of advice if you’re thinking of moving to a CCC: don’t downsize your greeting card stash. I’ve written more “get well” and “thinking of you” cards (and “birthday,” and “sympathy cards”) since moving here than at any other time in my life. Not a week goes by that I’m not digging through my card drawer.

I’m no exception when it comes to having my own list of medical woes. I have a foot doctor, a hand doctor, and an orthopedist for the rest of the bones in my body. I’ve got an ENT, a dermatologist, an eye doctor, a gastroenterologist, a sleep doctor, an urogynecologist, a primary doctor, a nurse practitioner — and a dentist. Who could ask for anything more? Not me. I’m one of the lucky ones, though. A few  of my fellow residents have cancer and heart doctors on their lists.

Despite having all those people on my medical team, last week I decided Dr. Google was a better choice. I typed in my symptoms, and their AI “doctor” told me that shooting pain around an open sore meant I should go to Urgent Care immediately because it could be an infection. Not wanting to do that, I called my foot doctor’s office. They tried to schedule me a month out — until I repeated the magic words “shooting pain” and “open sore.” Suddenly I had an appointment the next day. Thank you, Dr. Google, for the buzzwords.

This all started just after my six‑month check‑up with my sleep doctor, where I gave him a glowing report. I shouldn’t have done that — it jinxed me. That very night the shooting pains started, waking me up and refusing to let me sleep again. My foot looked like the photo below. Actually, worse — that picture was taken after a week of swallowing antibiotics and daily slathering the area with silver sulfadiazine cream. 

The foot doctor claims there are no broken bones, but I don’t believe her or her X‑rays because it hurts too much. The weirdest part is I have no idea what caused it. I don’t remember hitting my foot, dropping anything on it, or doing anything dramatic like letting a stranger suck my toes. All I’m told is that the X-ray shows no infection or broken bones, but "skin bruises easily on the elderly” and the foot is “the slowest place to heal.”

Yup, I know that, doc. I had a similar gash on the side of the same foot recently, and it took four months to heal without medical intervention.

Lest I give the impression that all we talk about here is ourselves and our woes — not true. Recently at our Tuesday Night Conversation dinner table we discussed the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, the cost of repairing it, and the claim that “vandals” cut a 350‑foot slit down the center despite 24/7 security cameras. I’ve got a bridge to sell you if you believe that. (But not the brand new bridge between Canada and Detroit that Trump refuses to allow to be opened, but that's another scandal for another day.) 

We can all read the news and draw our own conclusions about the pool, but around our dinner table the story sounds a lot less like “vandals” and a lot more like, “someone had their head up his ass.” You don’t need a PhD to connect a few dots: With cameras everywhere they would have stopped anyone in the center of the pool long enough to cut a 350 foot slit; a no‑bid contract that included no oversight by manufacturers of the liner polyuria coatings; and the presidential motorcade running over the uncured coating so Trump could get a closer look. The presidential limo alone weighs about 20,000 pounds, which is roughly the size of a small whale — and we’re supposed to believe a mystery vandal with a box cutter is the culprit. Please.

It doesn't take a deep dive in cyberspace to learn the experts all agree the failed project is due to one or more of the following: 1) improper preparation of the surface, 2) not applying the polyuria according to manufacturer’s specifications, 3) speeding up the timeline for applying a second coating, 4) the solvent added to kill the algae, and last but not least, 5) vehicles running over the uncured surface. 

Everything shows its age eventually — our bodies, our buildings, even the places meant to inspire awe. Here at the CCC, we meet those changes with humor and a little stubbornness, because what else can you do. The reflecting pool could be funny too, if it weren’t such an expensive lesson in what happens when oversight and comment sense takes a holiday. We can’t stop time from aging us or our monuments, but we can at least insist that the people in charge stop accelerating the process. © 

Nabbed off Dawn's Bohemian Valhalla Blog

              

Memorial Day, MAGA Men, and the Art of Living Together

 

In her ongoing chronicle of life inside a Continuum Care Community, Jean returns to Memorial Day with equal parts honesty, humor, and hard‑won perspective. What begins as a reluctant decision to attend a campus ceremony becomes a meditation on patriotism, personality clashes, and the strange intimacy of communal living. Along the way she encounters the usual cast of characters — the generous, the sentimental, the maddening, and the unforgettable — and finds herself, almost despite herself, grateful for the complicated little world she now calls home…. AI

Last year I skipped our Memorial Day event here at the Continuum Care Campus (which they hold four days before the holiday but that's the way they do things to give employees time off with their families). I had two reasons for skipping it, and I’ll quote myself from the post I wrote back then: "I couldn't bring myself to go because a guy from my building planned to read the entire Constitution, and I'd have a terrible time hearing it from the lips of a rabid Trump and MAGA supporter. And two, because I felt like a fraud last year singing along with all the patriotic songs when I wasn’t all that proud of our country. Asking God to bless our ‘Great Nation’ felt like pretending we were still the same beacon of freedom and hope we used to be.”

I’m not alone in avoiding this man. At our Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner event (more on that later), I learned that at least half a dozen residents have asked the dining staff never to seat them with or near him. He’s surly, swears at the servers, and tells anyone who asks about our Independent Living community, “Don’t come here. It’s awful.” His bad attitude started when management informed him that we are a gun‑free campus and his massive collection had to go home with his sons or they'd take legal action to evict him. He still warns people that we’ll be sorry if a mass shooter storms the building because he “could pick them off from his balcony.” A surly old man with a gun. What could go wrong?

This year I still didn’t want to sing God Bless America. Blessing America when our leader behaves like a spoiled child feels a bit like saying, “You’re doing great — here’s your reward.” But I decided I shouldn’t let one person keep me from honoring the other veterans who would be participating. We have roughly a dozen Vietnam vets here, all of them former commissioned officers. You can draw your own conclusions about why that is, but I suspect it has something to do with the upper‑middle‑class backgrounds that CCCs tend to draw from. During Vietnam, these men had families who kept them in college long enough to get deferments, then commissions. A couple have even admitted they enlisted after college so they could choose their military branch and job rather than wait to be drafted into the infantry.

This year our Life Enrichment Director took the lead instead of Mr. MAGA, and the difference was noticeable. She read a lovely two‑page essay which I later learned was written by Artificial Intelligence. When I complimented her, she said, “I put some ideas into ChatGPT and let it compose something much more eloquent than I could.” She also read three poignant poems and showed a nine‑minute video titled Flanders Field: Remembering Their Sacrifice. The YouTube description says it “serves as an orientation to the Great War, the cemetery, and the American Battle Monuments Commission.” Several of the clips from black‑and‑white newsreels shocked me — and I don’t shock easily. The image of hundreds flag-draped caskets waiting to be loaded onto ships took my breath away.

Near the end of the Memorial Day event, our LED invited anyone to share a story about their own service or that of a loved one. Five or six did. Mr. MAGA did not. And while I still refused to sing God Bless America with the others, I was glad I went.

The next day brought a very different kind of gathering: the 90th birthday party for our resident retired lawyer. He has two sons and a daughter and a gaggle of grandkids and great-grands and 17 of them flew in from all over the country. They have a charming tradition of a nightly 7:00 p.m. Zoom call — sometimes twenty people on the call,  other times just four or five but they’ve never missed a night in the four and a half years their dad has lived here. The party itself was first‑class and catered and everyone who lives or works here was invited. He and I both moved in the first week the CCC opened, and I can’t imagine this place without quirky him and his generosity. While I might donate ten or twenty dollars to various collections, he donates a hundred. Five hundred. A thousand. He calls himself the Mayor of our CCC and insists on sitting at the head of any dining table. He also has tender ears and will flee the room if anyone mentions menopause or female anatomy issues. He's also sentimental and cries easily and he didn't make it through the party without shedding tears. Yes, we have characters here.

Speaking of characters, I promised to circle back to our Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner event. Communities like this naturally form cliques — nothing malicious, just people gravitating toward others with similar interests. You often see the same four to six people eating together. But these cliques aren’t exclusive. Anyone could call any group and ask to join their reservation, and they’d make room. New residents are routinely invited to various tables as we get to know them. We even have unofficial ambassadors who make a point of introducing newcomers and connecting them with people who share a background or hobby.

A couple of high‑octane women decided to shake things up. They created a sign‑up sheet for anyone willing to sit with someone new, then they matched us into mystery dinner groups. We didn’t know who we’d be eating with until we arrived at the dining room. It was something like speed dating — not that I’ve ever done it, but I’ve seen it on TV — in that we all asked and answered the same questions: Where did you live before this? What was your career? Where did you go to college? Kids? Grandkids? Hobbies? Two people at my table found out they both taught in the same school district and knew some of the same people. 

This is the third year we’ve done a 'Guess Who' dinner, and I enjoyed it twice. The year I didn’t, I was seated with Mr. MAGA. This year he didn’t sign up, so the rest of us were free to enjoy the excitement of meeting people we knew by sight and name but had never had a real conversation with. And as the two lady organizers say, "If you don't click with your assigned tablemates, it's just ONE dinner." 

Community living isn’t always peaceful — it’s more like being adopted into a sitcom you never auditioned for. But weekends like this remind me why I keep showing up anyway. Between the veterans, the birthday party and the mystery dinner, I found myself oddly grateful for this cast of characters. Even the ones who make me mutter under my breath. Maybe especially them. After all, every good ensemble needs at least one antagonist to keep the plot moving — and to give me blog fodder. © 

  Flanders Field: Remembering their Sacrifice

 

I is for Independent Living—Where Choice Still Matter

I doubt there’s much about living in an Independent Living facility that I haven’t already written about over the past almost five years. But I’m old, and old people are known for repeating ourselves, so if you’re a long‑time reader and have already heard what I have to say today, that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. 'I' is a hard letter for a lifestyle blogger to work into the A to Z Blog Challenge.

Although now that I think about it, I’m not sure “lifestyle blogger” fits me anyway. AI defines a lifestyle writer as someone who: “...creates engaging content focused on daily living, trends, and personal experiences, covering topics like fashion, wellness, travel, food and home décor. They produce articles, blog posts, and digital content designed to evoke emotions, offer practical advice, and help readers live well.” If that’s the standard, I checked the wrong box when I registered for this challenge. “Memoir Blogger” would have been more accurate. 

If I influence anyone at all, it’s usually about whether (or not) buying into a Continuum Care Community is right for them. It’s a huge decision, and in my opinion it’s one you should make for yourself—not wait until your kids are forced to do it because you shouldn’t be living alone anymore. And since most of these places have waiting lists measured in years, starting early isn’t a bad thing. The sales crew here tell people to begin the process five years before they think they’ll be ready.

So what’s it actually like living in an Independent Living apartment with an Assisted Living and Memory Care building just down the road where you could end up someday? I can tell you what it’s not like. It’s not like the stereotypes in movies such as Queen Bee or The Inside Man. At least not in my experience. And it’s not like high school, despite what one snarky commenter once suggested. I did a lot of soul‑searching after that remark, wondering if I’d been writing about my life here in a way that made us all sound silly or shallow. My reply to her was that the same personality types and situations exist anywhere a large group of people interact—schools, workplaces, neighborhoods. And I gave a silent apology to the residents I’ve never written about: the ones devoted to serious causes, like the man who won a national physics prize for a book he wrote while living here, the woman who teaches OLLI classes at a local college, the woman who founded and works at a church that serves a large immigrant community and the woman who helps out at the humane society's neutering clinic. 

But from that high‑school comment I learned something important: I’m no better than the creators of Queen Bee or The Inside Man. I choose the low‑hanging fruit when I write about my daily activities. Sure, there’s gossip and misunderstandings in my blog. Sure, there are 'portraits' of people I don’t like and people I fan‑girl. But that’s on me—not on the environment I live in. I like using self‑defeating humor where I can and observational humor where I can’t. 

But here’s the bottom line: I love living in an Independent Living facility. I have all the privacy I want, and when I want to be around people, they’re right outside my door. There’s intellectual stimulation—book clubs and serious discussions in my Tuesday night group. And lectures, like the one on Nellie Bly we had this week. We have good food in our restaurant, but when I get a kitchen itch that needs scratching, I have a full kitchen where I can make my own comfort foods. I get to laugh every day. And I love having a maintenance crew and an IT guy as close as my keyboard. 

(Tip: it helps to keep your computer skills up—checking schedules and menus, signing up for events and dinner reservations, ordering take-outs from the dining room, and putting in work orders online keeps you more independent than having to depend on someone else to do these things for you. We do have a concierge who will help with these things BUT my theory is the more independent you are the less likely your family and the management will put their heads together and proclaim it's time to ship you on down the road to Assisted Living or Memory Care.)

Yes, it was hard leaving a house I designed and built, a house full of memories and possessions that were difficult to part with. But I wanted to be the one to make those decisions. I didn’t want to end up like a close friend, who was given less than a week’s notice that her sons were moving her to assisted living. She was so shocked she stayed in her bedroom the whole while they packed her up. When I talked to her last night, she said she was surrounded by things her family thought made her new assisted living space pretty, but few of the things she wanted. 

I’ve heard versions of that story from others here—people whose families strong‑armed them into moving before they were mentally ready, and who had no say in the place chosen for them or the stuff moved along with them. Those are the people who struggle to adjust, who hide in their apartments, who find the transition hard. Finding your tribe and a new rhythm for living in a CCC is so much easier if you do with a free will.

When we’re growing up, when we go off to college, when we get married and move into our own places, we’re generally in control of our own destinies. Moving to an independent living apartment—for me—was just another station along the way. It took several years of visiting places like this before I found one where I wanted to sign on the dotted line. Then another couple of years of purging and downsizing a huge amount of stuff. But I’ve never regretted the decision. Not even once. Independence looks different at every stage of life; this just happens to be the version that fits me now. ©

 Photo: One side of my living area in my Independent Living apartment

Shame, Gratitude, and the Gods of Irony

 

Every morning begins with a ritual, whether we choose it or not. In Jean’s world, the clock strikes eight and the silence breaks—sometimes by footsteps, sometimes by birds, sometimes by memory itself. What follows is not just a recounting of routine, but a meditation on gratitude, irony, and the curious cast of characters who share her continuum care community. This essay invites us to laugh, to wince, and to recognize the strange ways history and personality collide in daily life.  AI…

Every morning at precisely eight o’clock I roll out of bed. Not because I want to, or need to, but because the world around me finds a need to break the silence born in the night. It might be a daughter or son collecting a parent for breakfast or an early morning appointment. It might be my 95-year-old, upstairs neighbor who stomps around like an elephant and who lives with military precision. Sometimes it’s the birds outside—or simply the clock inside my head. Whatever the cause, I’m never surprised: the clock always reads the same, morning after morning, for as long as I’ve lived in this continuing care community.

As I slip on my slippers, my second thought is also usually the same: another long, boring day ahead. Nothing new, nothing exciting to look forward to—just more of the same. Then humanity kicks in, and that second thought is quickly chased by a third: shame. Shame that I don’t give thanks for the day ahead, that I often fail to see it from another perspective. After all, I could be waking up in war‑torn Ukraine, the Gaza Strip, or an inner city, where the first sounds would be rush‑hour traffic rumbling over the bridge above my cardboard shelter.

Do you ever feel ashamed that you don’t give thanks often enough—to appease the gods of fortune, or God if you’re religious? On Thanksgiving, I had dinner here at my CCC with six other residents. As families often do on this day, we went around the table sharing what we were thankful for, and I had to go first. I said I was thankful for the opportunity to be with friends for the holiday meal, and for living in a great facility. I meant it—but I could have said so much more. 

I could have said I’m thankful that, if I’m careful, my money should outlast my time on earth. But that seemed too personal to share with neighbors. Admitting that could have also brought me down, because my financial situation might have gone the other way if not for the 2008–09 TARP package that saved the auto industry under President Obama. For the two years it took to iron out the restructuring of the Big Three we lived in constant fear of losing Don’s pension and our health care insurance. And we watched several of Don’s co-workers die from the stress. 

The government, by the way, got all its loans back with interest, and GM funded a retiree health‑care trust—a bone of contention right up to the very end of negotiations. Try as I might, I can’t forget those years—the most stressful of my life. Irony has me living in a facility with one of the negotiators who worked for the Big Three automakers—against the UAW union negotiators. If she had gotten her way, I might literally have ended up living under a bridge. The evil side of me is secretly delighted that she doesn't like living here. One of the few I've run across that doesn't. It seems to happen to those whose children strong-armed them into moving to a CCC. In her case she moved across the state to be closer to her kids and grandkids.

To this day, Ms. Negotiator insists it was wrong to make the Big Three continue paying pensions to pre‑2008 retirees and to fund our health‑care trust. We should have been collateral damage for "the UAW's greed in fighting for worker benefits." Having spent her whole career as a management negotiator, she carries that mindset into her life here. She’s known for her stubbornness, her refusal to admit that she’s ever wrong, and for her lavish wardrobe. She seems to like me though. I think because we can bicker over trivia things like jigsaw puzzles protocols which probably gets her adrenaline going. I don’t cut her any slack. I love to wind her up like an old fashioned clock, only I do it with humor. Outsiders probably see us as two old ladies with banter fit for a Saturday Night Live skit. She knows nothing about my connection with the Big Three. She never asks questions. She has her opinions, and by God, nothing will change them.

Have you ever noticed how many people don’t ask questions? You can talk to some people for two hours, and know their entire life story but they’ve learned absolutely nothing about you. Asking questions is the key to having great conversations—especially if people give each other equal time to answer and ask them. 

We have an ex‑kindergarten teacher here who asks so many questions that I sometimes inwardly growl. “What’s your favorite color?” “Your favorite Thanksgiving memory?” “Your favorite day of the week?” “March or October—pick one?” But she’s a sweetheart, a Cheerleader around here and you know when she’s at a table there will be conversation. It will be frivolous, nonsensical conversation—but there will be laughs.  She’s a multi‑millionaire—judging by the sales of her ocean-view Florida home, her Lake Michigan cottage and her local home—yet she takes penny‑pinching to a whole new level. 

Yes, we certainly have some interesting characters living here. Married three times—divorced one husband, buried two—when Ms Cheerleader moved here she sold her big bed and replaced it with a twin. "I'm through with men," she says, but she's the only widow resident here who has gone on a few dates. We have a guy who started dating his realtor after he moved in here and his wife died. It might not be fair to say that the ink was barely dry on the death certificate before the 'love birds' started up but that's what I'm thinking. 

So back to square one: every morning at eight, when the silence breaks and my older-than-dirt slippers go on, I remind myself that even the noise, the irony, and the stubborn neighbors are proof of life continuing. Gratitude doesn’t erase the boredom, but it re-frames it. And maybe that’s the real gift—the gods of irony nudging me to laugh, to argue, and to keep listening for the questions that make conversation worth having.  

Until next Wednesday.  ©

Life on a Continuum Care Campus and the Power of One Bold Newcomer

Living in a continuum care community is a bit like starring in a long-running sitcom—same setting, rotating cast, and just enough drama to keep things interesting. Residents come and go, apartments get flipped faster than real estate on HGTV, and the Looky-Loos arrive sniffing out their future lifestyle like it’s a Costco sample tray. But beneath the predictable rhythms of move-ins and meal plans there’s always a wildcard. This time, she arrived with purple hair, a Type A personality, and a mission to shake things up—from the Food Committee to the Secret Society of Liberal Ladies. In this post, Jean chronicles the latest chapter in her community's saga, complete with unsolicited mission statements, political provocations, and her own quiet plot to hand off a leadership baton with a sigh of relief. AI ….

Living on a continuum care campus means people come and go—some move to the Assisted Living or Memory Care building down the road, others to Skilled Nursing across town. A few die and it’s anyone’s guess where they end up. When people leave the trucks or family members swoop in to move their stuff, then maintenance does their thing to get their apartment ready to sell. Afterward, a parade of Looky-Loos on the waiting list go through it and decide if they are ready for the life-changes it takes to live on a continuum care campus. The cycle is steady and as predictable as the changing of the seasons, a doom and gloom reminder that life is fragile and we need to appreciate the here and now.

As new residents pick their way around the public areas they often look like kids who’ve moved to a new school district half way through a semester. They nervously walk into the dining room at noon, not knowing where to sit, hoping they won’t get asked to leave their first choice of tables. But they have nothing to fear at my CCC because someone from our table of fourteen will invite them over. There is always someone who’s been there long after they’ve finished eating who is willing to give up their seat to a newcomer. Of course, the newcomer gets grilled: “Where did you move from?” “What did you do before retirement”? “Do you have family living near-by?” Someone at the table will take it upon themselves to introduce the other residents. “This is our mayor. He knows everything going on here.” “If you want to get involved in the woodshop, talk to this guy.” If you want to join Bridge Club talk to this lady.” “Like Mahjong? Talk to Jean” and so on. We have a self-appointed leader for everything that goes on here including a guy who makes sure all our Amazon, FedEx and post office packages in the mailroom get delivered to our front doors. 

We also tell the newcomers, “If you don’t see an activity you like, tell the Life Enrichment Director and she’ll help you start a group.” Some resident ideas stick like Gorilla Glue. For example, the off campus Breakfast Club is well attended, others fail for lack of interest like the Crafter’s Afternoon that was my brain child. (Or should I say brain fart?) The idea was for everyone who does a handcraft like knitting, embroidery or quilting to get together twice a month—like a sewing circle and a show-and-tell rolled into one. Our LED hasn’t taken it off the monthly schedule even though in nearly a year, no one shows up including me and one other woman who quit going after three months. We suspect the director keeps it on the calendar to impress the Looky-Loos with how many choices of activities we have here. There are a few other things on the schedule that are more wishful thinking than actual activities.

A recent newcomer did not tiptoe in quietly. I should have guessed by her long purple hair that our newest resident would make a few waves around here, and she has just by the sheer number of activities she’s joined. It takes most people a while before they start slowly wading into the culture. Not her. She signed up for book club, the Creative Writing Club, the Food Committee and she got herself invited to join the Tuesday Night Conversation group (formerly known as the Secret Society of Liberal Ladies). Last Tuesday as sixteen of us sat around a large conference table for dinner and conversation about national news she dominated as the main speaker. Clearly, she’s a mover and shaker Type A with great skill sets. But she wants us to invite people from the other side of the political aisle to join us "to create an opportunity to dialogue.” Someone pointed out that our group got our start because anytime politics was brought up in the public areas, the conversation would quickly get shut down by people who either didn’t want to hear it or who’d start making highly inflammatory remarks that took away any chance of civil discussion.

A friend of mine read me a letter Ms Purple Hair wrote to the Food Committee where she also came in with guns blazing. She said she had read over the notes from all the past meetings and it was clear that the group had no mission statement or guidelines for what they hope to accomplish. So she proposed that during the first meeting after the summer break they need to write one. God save me from the health nuts who want us all eating like rabbits! Thankfully, we have a kitchen manager whose answer to everything is, “State law does not require Independent Living facilities to furnish calorie counts for all their meals or plan balanced nutrition” or blab, blab, blab. That law is what saves us from having things like onion rings, mashed potatoes and red meat removed from our menu.

She’s joined The Creative Writing Group but other than her letter to the Food Committee I haven’t seen a sample of her work yet. That will come later this week. But I do know one thing: If Ms Purple Hair tries to take over the leadership of the group, I will gladly give up my imaginary gavel. And I will do it with a secret laugh in my gut, knowing I’ve wanted to quit that leadership role a long time ago but no one would let me. That's one cycle of change around here I'd welcome with arms wide open. ©

Gait Analysis and the Great Throw Rug Conspiracy

 

In this candid and humorous reflection, Jean recounts her experience with a gait analysis appointment, where science meets skepticism and throw rugs become public enemy number one. With AI chiming in and a healthy dose of common sense, she questions the one-size-fits-all approach to fall prevention and reminds readers that aging within a CCC means walking your own path—rugs included. Jasper AI

 
Being a tad cynical about some of the optional medical monitoring our continuum care campus rolls out, I wasn’t sure I wanted to sign up for the Fall Prevention Study. As one fellow resident put it, “Should we be giving our overlords ammunition to justify moving us out of Independent Living and into Assisted Living where they make more money off us?” Another member of the Cynical Cult added, “It’s just a way to get our insurance companies to pay for on-campus therapies.” I wasn’t sold on the first theory, but the second one? That checks out.

The Fall Prevention Study was based on an app called OneStep which is a smartphone-based tool that measures and analyzes your gait and mobility. It’s FDA-listed and taking the test is as simple as putting a smart phone with the app into your pants pocket and walking. Another part of the test involves sitting and standing repeatedly, as many times as you can in x-number of minutes. The app measures quite a few data points and I managed to be in the low risk zone for all but one data point. Turns out I walk with asymmetry—my right leg strides 21 inches, my left 24. (Jasper AI, my Microsoft Copilot, suggested I joke that I favor my left leg like it’s the good china. I reminded him that I’m the one writing this post, not him.) This uneven stride causes an occasional side step, making me look like I’ve indulged in too much beer or wine—neither of which I drink, unless it’s free and tied to a campus holiday.

I also learned that I walk with my feet only four inches apart and ideally they should be six inches apart. This little tidbit was interesting to me because all my life the heel of my right foot occasionally scrapes along the side of my left shoe wearing it out before the rest of the shoe shows its age. 

Our appointments were scheduled every ten minutes and they were running late so I got to see two other women before me do their tests and they both failed. The cynic in me suspected “failure” was the default for anyone who questioned their risk of falling enough to take the test. So I was surprised that I passed. The woman doing the testing did say therapy could probably help with getting my stride more symmetric but I’m only a little way into the ‘red zone’ so it’s not a critical issue for me. Honestly, I can’t see how someone whose been walking for 80-something years is going to change their stride all that much so I’m not going to pursuit it. One of the women ahead of me who failed all of  the data points is opting to sign up for therapy, the other one thought it would be a waste of time since she already uses a walk.  

All of us seniors have heard the statistics on falls and how they so often lead to permanent stays in nursing homes. A Google search lists the main causes of falls in the elderly as: 

- weak muscles, especially in the legs
- poor balance, causing unsteadiness in your feet 
- dizziness or light-headedness
- black outs, fainting or loss of consciousness
- foot problems including pain and deformities 
- memory loss, confusion or difficulties with thinking or problem solving

I’m surprised Google didn’t list throw rugs. You’d think they’d be public enemy number one, given how often they appear on the dreaded Medicare Questionnaire. I personally know two women who fell and broke bones because of a rogue rug. Where’s the justice? They should be on the dang list!

The app's website says, “OneStep turns real-world motion into insight that guides care, protects independence, and changes lives.” Here’s what Jasper AI says about it: “OneStep is a reliable and valid tool for gait analysis, especially useful in remote or real-world settings. While it may slightly underestimate some metrics compared to lab systems, its ease of use and clinical relevance make it a strong contender in digital physical therapy.”

So there you have it—the highlight of my very boring week, brought to you by asymmetry, skepticism, and a smartphone in my pocket. Jasper’s still lobbying for a follow-up post titled “Gait Expectations,” but I told him not to get ahead of himself. Having AI as a line editor is like having a puppy who insists you keep throwing a ball. No matter how much you write it keeps wanting you to do more. ©

 

Brain Games and Christmas Wishes

This post will publish on Christmas day, but will anyone read it then? I would guess not. Still, I have to write one because writing posts is one of those brain exercises I do that I'm afraid to stop doing because my geriatric brain might seize up like an old motor left out in the snow all winter. I also do the New York Time's Wordle, Quiddler and a game or two of Solitaire every morning. In the evenings it's online Mahjong---the real game where I play against three computer bots, not the matching tiles game where people think they are playing this ancient game, but they aren't. 

A surprising number of the residents here in my continuum care facility do Wordle, too. Once in awhile if the Wordle word-of-the-day is especially hard it will become a topic of conversation at the lunch table and every time it comes up it generally leads to everyone comparing their starting words. Everyone but me because I'm ashamed that I have three of them that I use and that almost always gives me enough correct letters that I can guess the word on the forth line---an unorthodox way to solve it but it works for me and my dyslexia. For example, recently the word of the day was 'flash' and after entering my starter words of 'pearl' then 'stick' followed by 'found' it was easy. Another example when the word was 'blade' I got 'pearl', 'stick' and 'found' using my three-word starter method.

Quiddler is more challenging but I'm able to solve it as often as I can't. And Solitaire? When I was growing up there would be times when my mom played Solitaire over and over again. She’d pull up a red leather footstool, top it with a TV tray, deal the cards and play the tricks, until I would go daffy watching her. I didn’t play the game myself until after my husband had his stroke. That’s when I bought a tiny deck of cards at a hospital gift shop and I carried it everywhere we went for the next 12 years. Spouses of disabled people spend a lot of time in waiting rooms. I became my mother only with a twist that, I thought, set me apart from the woman I didn’t understand growing up. I bought a book titled 101 Ways to Play Solitaire. Yes, I played the game that drove me daffy as a kid but I was learning 101 new ways to numb my brain, to turn it off so I didn’t have to have think about the serious issues going on in my life. True Confusion: I suspect 2025 will bring on a few sessions of binging on Solitaire and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure out they will be 45/47 related.

It's been a busy and rather pleasant holiday season for me despite what's going on in the national and world news. Like so many others, I've given myself permission to take a holiday break from worrying about what "President" Musk and "Vice-President" Trump are doing. There will be time enough to hop back on the Worry Bus in 2025. 

On Christmas day here at the CCC many of my neighbors will gather in their robes and PJs by the fireplace for coffee and a potluck breakfast at 8:00 AM. I don't get out of bed that early except for surgeries, but I'll be going to the White Elephant gift exchange later in the day. We don't get food service on Christmas day and no employees are on duty except for a security guard. Our concierge's desk will be manned by volunteer residents doing two hour shifts. I refuse to do one on principle---not that I've ever been asked. I should say I refuse to answer the call when they ask for volunteers. We pay a lot of money in fees to live here and they are spreading some of their employees too thin. On the other hand, with so many of us taking on self-appointed roles around here it has a homey feel, like we really are in charge of our own lives. At least the volunteer concierges will have a lot to do because a fair amount of people are having families coming over for gifts exchanges and home cooked dinners. 

There's about a dozen of us (out of 75) who will not be with families this year and our resident social committee has invited those of us who will be alone to bring our own lunch down to the (closed) cafe` where we can eat together. I won't be doing that. We spend plenty of time together already and I will not de-solve into a pity party if I spend dinner on Christmas eating alone.

Whether you read this post on Christmas day or a few days after, I hope you're having as nice of a holiday season as I am. The next time I'll see you it will be New Year's Day! Until then I'm sharing a message that was in the Hallmark Christmas cards I sent out this year. I LOVE the wording and the sentiment. ©

"Christmas keeps us believing in goodness,

 in kindness, in the wonderful dream of Peace.

May Christmas always have the power

 to remind us of the connection between us all

 and to renew our wish for a more peaceful world.

And this year, especially, may Christmas bring you joy."

 A Christmas tree from my youth, 1951.

I named that doll 'Jimmy' because a grandfather figure/neighbor

used to call me that. I recently purchased a briefcase for my mahjong stuff and it's the made of the same pink cabbage roses and tan fabric as the drapes in this photo. I loved it the minute I saw it but didn't make the connection until a few days later.

Sentimental Holiday Feelings

Watching the line dancers doing a Christmas performance it hit me what a close knit community we’ve built here at the continuum care facility. A few tears rolled down my cheeks as I thought about the overlapping Circles of Friendships that have developed since our campus opened. Most of us have found our Tribes---those people in our inner, middle and outer circles. And the best part is that everyone’s Circle of Friendships connect to make this place a warm and accepting place to live despite (or maybe because of) our individual foibles and idiosyncrasies. We’re truly a microcosm of a larger community.

Over the two years I’ve been living here I’ve written extensively about those foibles and idiosyncrasies. As I sat looking around I realized I write more about the funny or annoying aspects that I see in my neighbors and not enough about the endearing and admirable side of some of those same people. Heck, I’d sound like I’m living on Movers and Shakers Row if I wrote about the charity work some of these people do. They don’t just belong to do-good groups, they’ve started them or run them. I found out yesterday, for example,  that one of the guy here has helped several of the waitstaff to get college scholarships, using his connections and writing recommendation letters for them. Now I know why we've lost some of our best waitresses.

Seeing the different facets of people is one of the things I like the most living here. I see people who support causes I hate but I can still like and get along with them. Case in point our resident, most avid Trump supporter knows I like pea soup and she always gives me enough for three bowls when she makes it. She loves to cook and is generous to everyone like that. The woman who called me to rally support against the bombed-out gingerbread house makes beautiful bows for packages and does so for anyone who asks and this time of the year she’s been kept very busy. She and I had some similar experiences---I worked in the floral industry for 20 years while she volunteered making floral arrangements for club banquets and parties---and she is ready and willing to help others along those lines. I am not. I selfishly keep my floral arranging talents hidden under a basket.

What brought the tears on and caused this train of thought to come to the surface was a couple who came in late---while the line dancers were doing their thing. The woman was pushing her husband in a newly acquired wheelchair and came close to barging right through the dancers to the point they had to adjust their positions while her husband tried to get her attention to stop. She’s in the middle stage of dementia and until his recent fall he was an extraordinary caregiver to her. He still is but his row is much harder to hoe right now. Not too long after we all moved in I wrote about the first time I found myself at a dinner table with them. I had a mini melt down because she kept shoveling food off her plate and onto mine. I’m kind of a germaphobic and would never eat something that had been on someone else’s used fork. Especially from a total stranger like she was back then. I didn’t know she was having issues with early dementia at the time and I was trying not to show how freaked out I was. Fast forward and I recently saw her refuse to eat a salad because she was afraid of the croutons on top. It’s so much easier to feel compassion when we can look past our own issues and see where others are coming from.

We have another couple here who is very popular. She’s got Lewy Body dementia and a good sense of humor about it. They go everywhere holding hands. (Actually, all the couples on campus do that.) She was my Mahjong mentor two years ago but now occasionally she’ll ask me to clarify a rule and she’d been playing weekly for 35 years. He’s another great caregiver as well as another avid Trump supporter. Although he keeps his politics closer to the vest than the Trumpter mentioned above. Both of them hate Hillary to a point that it shocks me every time they voice it. He’s also the Class Clown and will do anything for a laugh. At the end of the Line Dancers routine, for example, they were asked to huddle together for a photo and The Clown sat on the floor in front of the line dancers for the photo-shoot and just to be clear he’s not a line dancer and didn’t prance around wearing reindeer horns that day like they did.

We have quite a few couples here who I admire for their devotion to each other. One couple is in their mid-nineties, super sweet to each other and to others, super religious but you don’t want to mention transgender issues around them because she thinks all the public schools are trying to make children change their sex. Boys into girls and girls in to boy for God only knows why we Evil Liberals want to do that. Then there’s the couple we could easily nickname the Complaint Department. Nothing is ever good enough for them---not the food service, not the cleaning crew, not the grounds keepers. I couldn’t live inside their skin but they do hold management’s feet to the fire over some things others collectively care about and wouldn't get done without Mr. and Mrs. Squeaky Wheel. We all have a place in the microcosm.

We have a new couple in my building. I don’t know them well enough to give them a nickname shorter than The Artist and the Eye Candy. They are social and are taking part in various activities, building their Circles of Friendships here which is what you have to do when you're the new kid on the block. Network until you find your Tribes, unfortunately for me they seem to be seeking out other couples for their Tribe. I’d love to get an invitation to see their apartment because I’m told she has an art studio set up in what I use for a den---we have identical floor plans. Her husband is the first man in my age bracket I’ve seen in ages who can take my breath away just by looking at him. Be still my heart. He’s so good looking! And immaculately groomed. A sharp dresser. They seem devoted to each other in that touchy-feely way that lets you know they are still attracted to one another which seems to be a requirement for couples living in a continuum care complex. 

I’m guessing that happy couples are disproportionately represented in places like this. The couples moving into CCC’s want to be sure their spouses are cared for after they’re gone---that’s a fact. Just ask and they’ll all tell you that. But I’m also guessing that husbands and wives who’ve fallen out of 'love' or 'like' don't want to be locked into a CCC. They both probably hope they'll be the last one standing and they don't want their finances tied up in a non-refundable jointly chosen life style. That’s my theory, anyway, based on no research and no anecdotal evidence.

Until Next Wednesday… ©

Photo: The guy at the top is not my new neighbor but they could have been cut from the same cloth. He's an actor, model and photographer named Andreas von Tempslhoff, age 75.