A Character Study from my CCC: Alphabet Soup and Social Glue

Some people reveal themselves slowly, like novels that take a few chapters to settle in. Others arrive fully formed — bright, unmistakable, and impossible to ignore. In this week’s dispatch from life inside a continuum care community, Jean turning her observational lens toward one such resident: a woman whose energy, quirks, and kindness shape the social weather of the place. What begins as a simple invitation to a “J Party” becomes a character study of the sort of neighbor who keeps a campus stitched together with birthday cards, gossip, and a surprising amount of alphabetical desserts… AI

Last night I went to a “J Party.” What’s that, you ask? So did I when I was first heard about it. Before I explain, let me backtrack a little.

When I first meet people, I make snap decisions about them — whether I’m going to like that person or not. Over time, as I’ve gotten to know people, I can’t think of a single time I’ve changed my mind about that first impression. Call me stubborn and judgmental or insightful and intuitive; I don’t care which. I’m just stating a fact about my character.

When I first met our resident cheerleader here on the continuum care campus, I didn’t know she’d actually been one in high school and college. I didn’t know she’d spent most of her career as a kindergarten teacher or that she’d been married more times than our current president. I didn’t know she’d be the kind of neighbor who makes sure everyone in the building gets handmade birthday cards, or that she’d be the one who puts a basket in our mail room to collect cards when someone is in the hospital or when a resident passes away. All I knew was that I liked her from the first moment we met, and I gave her the Cheerleader nickname.

Later on I gave her a second nickname: The Ambassador. If our concierge is not at her desk, the Cheerleader jumps up from a dinner or lunch table to help visitors find who (or what) they’re looking for. She knows everyone’s apartment number. And if the stranger is a Looky-Loo, she’ll know everything there is to know about them by the time they walk out the door. Call her nosy or curious — I go back and forth on that one.

The only thing about her that annoys me is her attitude about people from the neighborhood who walk our 40 acre campus to enjoy our woods and lake. She’s not alone; a few others here think that because we pay the taxes and upkeep on the property, strangers shouldn’t be allowed to walk our roads and sidewalks. They even campaigned to get signage put up declaring our campus private property. Those of us on the other side of the debate were delighted when the signs didn’t slow down the dog walkers, joggers and nature lovers. And heaven forbid she sees someone put a bag of dog poop in one of our trash cans — I’ve seen her more than once get up from a meal and run outside to confront them. But as foibles go, if this is the worst thing I can say about a person, then give me a whole building full of like-personalities.

Now onto the “J Party.” Ms. Cheerleader has this weekly project where she’s working her way through the alphabet by inviting people whose names begin with the same letter to dinner in our dining room, followed by dessert in her apartment. Last night it was the “J” table. There were six of us: three Jeans and three Judys, plus our host. She served jello in fancy footed champagne glasses. For the “D” table she served donuts. The “B’s” got brownies.

I’ve known all the other Jeans and Judys for a long time, but it surprised me how different our conversation was when we didn’t have to worry about eavesdroppers. We laughed a lot, gossiped a little, and got the ten‑minute tour of Ms. Cheerleader’s apartment. She was quick to point out her twin-size bed: “When I moved here,” she proudly announced, “I decided I was through sharing a bed with a man!” I didn't share the fact that I went from a twin to a full-sized bed when I moved in, I guess, out of  fear she'd erroneously read something into that decision.

Not surprising, Ms. Cheerleader's place was as blonde as she is — her hair is long and champagne-colored, her skin very fair with pale blue eyes that match the accent color of her decor. Even her carpeting and living room furniture are white. We didn’t sit in there to drink our non-alcoholic sparkling red grape juice, for which I was grateful.

Why? That same afternoon I got my stitches out and I acquired an awkward splint on my dominant pointer finger. Eating and drinking was — and will be — a challenge for the next four weeks. I haven’t mentioned this before, but two weeks ago I had the arthritis scraped out of a joint, the joint fused together, and a screw put down the middle of my finger from its tip to just short of the knuckle. Two years ago that same joint had surgery to remove a myxoid cyst. I felt silly going to the surgical center for these procedures — it’s so First World at a time when so many others around the globe are living with hardships of wars, wildfires, and other devastating conditions beyond their control. But I’d put up with getting jabbed with a jolt of pain every time I typed, picked up a pen, or opened a cupboard door long enough. And not getting it done wasn’t going to help anyone else. Ms. Cheerleader has been concerned about my finger from the get-go. She kept threatening to put googly eyes on my bandages and now on my splint.

The social makeup of places like my CCC is mostly shaped by the people who live in them. We are lucky to have a woman like Ms. Cheerleader here. And if you’re looking for a similar place to move, ask if there are any retired kindergarten teachers in residence. I’d bet money they all have the same, engaging glow and playful energy — and a stash of silly sweaters for every holiday.

Should I do more posts like this? I can't decide. All I know for sure is that small portraits like this — the quirks, the kindnesses, the odd habits — are part of what gives this community its heartbeat. And if nothing else, writing word pictures of my neighbors reminds me that even in a place where we’re all in the same stage of life, there’s no shortage of characters worth noticing. ©

Until Next Wednesday.

 After surgery.

 

Before the stitched came out.

The splint I have to wear until August 24th.

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

Cliques and Camaraderie: Real Connections Beyond Stereotypes in Continuum Care

Think cliques are just for high school hallways and teen dramas? Think again. From line dancers to dessert rebels, social circles thrive in retirement communities too. In this post, Jean explores the quirky, compassionate, and occasionally eyebrow-raising world of resident cliques at a continuum care campus where kindness is the default and exclusion is (mostly) passé. Whether you're scouting senior living options or just curious about how macular degeneration became the basis for a Saturday night dinner club, buckle up. This isn’t your grandma’s bridge club—unless she’s in the Grumpy Old Men’s one. AI....

 
According to a Google search, the word Clicks “most commonly refers to cliques—small, exclusive social groups based on shared interests or characteristics. While sometimes benign, cliques can become harmful when they’re exclusionary, exhibit an ‘us vs. them’ mentality, and lead to bullying or social isolation. The drive to form such groups is a normal part of development, as students seek identity and belonging among peers.”

Beyond high school, cliques can be found in churches, in the workplace, and even on continuum care campuses like mine. And why not? They are often formed around shared interests or even shared complaints or along generational lines. The main difference between high school cliques and those later in life is that we—hopefully—leave behind the bullying and ‘us vs. them’ mindset as we grow more confident in our identity and more appreciative of others in our community.

Our CEO says we have a unique vibe here. We’re open and friendly to everyone who walks in the door—and wildly supportive of whatever life brings a fellow resident, whether it’s a hospitalization, a death in the family, or a move from independent living to assisted or memory care. There’s never a shortage of volunteers to water plants, walk dogs or feed cats when someone’s recovering or just out of town. We look out for one another.

Hint #1: If you’re touring CCCs where you might want to relocate, take notice of how the residents react to you. Do they look right through you? Do they smile, offer a greeting? It’s a good gauge to use when judging the culture at these kinds of places.

How did we get our friendly vibe? Part of it comes from most of us moving in around the same time, when the place was brand-new four years ago. (Although 20 of the original 72 have left earth or just this part of the campus.) Part of it comes from a few strong individuals who made it their mission to prevent cliques from forming. They were our unofficial welcome wagon until this year, when the resident council made them official—and they even wrote a booklet for new residents trying to find their way around and each new person is assigned a 'guide' to show them the ropes.

Hint #2: Ask if a place you are touring has a Welcome Wagon to teach you things like: where the trash room is located, how you use the community app to sign up for things, how to buss guests in, and to help you find people with like interests.

But of course, you can’t stop human nature—some cliques naturally formed. The first one that formed here evolved out of the twelve women who do line dancing twice a week. Four of them hit it off and they walk a few miles together daily. Nice women. They vacation together. Go to the theater and art shows together. I’d kill to be in their little circle. But I’m not physically able to keep up, so I settle for seeing three of them at book club and Mahjong—and all four at the Secret Society of Liberal Ladies’ Tuesday night dinners. If we have lunch off campus, I can ask any of them for a ride—and they’re always gracious.

We have a clique I affectionately call the Blind Bats Club—because they all have macular degeneration. They eat dinner together on Saturday nights, ordering Black Russians and sundaes alongside the nightly special. They also attend events at the local Association for the Blind together, and have great senses of humor—whether you’re telling them to flip their knife when cutting meat or offering to be their seeing-eye dog between buildings. I often eat with two of them at the farm table.

Then there’s the generational clique of women who all turned ninety this summer—and threw themselves a birthday party, inviting all the other residents. One of them proclaimed she's not passing up dessert anymore. And then there's the Catholic clique which is large and as busy as bees building a honey cone.

We also have a clique who make it their business to catalog everything outdoors they think needs improving—trees that need trimming, potholes that need fixing, bark beds too thin or too thick, etc. The five of them have formed a subcommittee under the resident council. I stay far away from that council—while they’re always recruiting, it sounds like nitpicky work to me. 

Probably the only clique here that isn’t open to outsiders—and who’d want to join—is the Grumpy Old Men’s Bridge Club. A name I had no hand in creating, by the way. We once had a bridge club that met twice a week with three tables of players. But the men didn’t like playing with some of the slower women, and a big fight took place. Now we have two bridge clubs: one for the women and one for the men. Several couples who liked playing with their spouses dropped out completely because of the in-fighting.

Back a few years ago, there was a movie set in a retirement community called Queen Bees, where the main characters were described as “Mean Girls with Medic-Alert bracelets.” I didn’t like the film. I thought the characters were too stereotyped, and I wasn’t experiencing the same types of people here that were in that comedy. We don’t have a horny old guy who hits on everyone, for example. Nor do we have a horny old woman who hits on everyone. And very, very rarely does anyone tell a person a seat at their table is taken. We don’t generally save seats for anyone.

But to my horror, I found myself doing just that recently. We have a clique called the First Thursdays Dessert Club, where we eat dessert instead of lunch on the first Thursday of every month—and we eat it with no regrets. A guy came in, asked to sit with the five of us, and I found myself saying, “This is a desserts-only table.” He looked at our banana splits, a stunned expression on his face, and said, “You’re serious!” Then he sat down next to me and ordered soup. ©

 

Until Next Wednesday... here's a follow-up on late week's post. The before and after photos of my teeth whitening, 30 day process. I can see the difference but I'm not sure anyone else will be able to. 

 

 

Writing Sympathy Cards and Redefining Friendship: the Octogenarian Edition

Living in a continuum care community means becoming fluent in the language of sympathy cards, quiet goodbyes, and the bittersweet art of selective friendship. Because friendship at this stage isn’t about forever—it’s about showing up when it counts. In this post, Jean reflects on the rituals of card writing, the emotional math of attending memorials, and the complicated ways we define friendship and connections when time is short and goodbyes are frequent. It’s part grief, part grit, and part gallows humor—because even in the face of loss, there’s room for wit and wisdom. It’s tender, irreverent, and full of the kind of wisdom you only earn by living it.  AI…

One thing you get plenty of practice doing in a continuum care community is writing Sympathy and Get Well cards. I buy sympathy cards by the box—three boxes in four years, to be precise. Few weeks go by without a basket collecting cards for someone in the hospital or for the family of someone who passed away.

Get Well cards are easier to come by. Charities trying to squeeze one more donation out of us often send blank greeting cards as incentives. I used two of them recently to write sympathy messages for grieving dog parents—both had to say goodbye to a beloved pet. No one moves into places like this with puppies and kittens who outlive their humans. It’s old dogs and ancient cats. And I know firsthand what it’s like to be a lifelong dog person who not only grieves the loss of a four-legged companion, but also the very real possibility that we’ll never get another fur baby.

Right now, cats outnumber dogs in our independent living building but it didn't start out that way. We're down to two dogs in residence. Some of us are plotting a petition to get a resident dog we could all share. Some CCCs have them—it’s not out of the question. And a month or so ago our Life Enrichment Director arranged for a dozen baby goats to roam our piazza. We've even had horses and a cow on campus for us to get up close and personal with. Management does understand how we can miss bonding with animals.

Yesterday brought another kind of card-writing moment. The daughters of a woman in my writing group spread the word that their mother was refusing further treatment and a feeding tube. Her time left could be measured in days. “If you want to say goodbye,” they said, “please do it very soon.” My writing friend reportedly is in good spirits and at peace with her decision.

I’ve said goodbye to my dad and husband in similar circumstances, but never to someone who falls somewhere between a casual friend and a close friend—the kind of person I know I would’ve grown close to if we’d met earlier in life. She’s the first person to leave this place (for Hospice) who I’ve felt truly sad about. When I moved in, I made a conscious choice not to get too close to anyone. Too many goodbyes ahead, I thought. Probably not the smartest decision I ever made, but it is what it is. 

So I googled what to say to a dying person and came up with a lot of platitudes as well as a few good suggestions and I finally decided a straight forward, from-the-heart message would be better than a Hallmark inspired ditty would be. So here’s what I wrote:

“I’ve always appreciated you for your warmth and grace and willingness to uplift and support fellow residents in our building—especially in our writers’ group. I’ve admired your wisdom and insightful comments in book club and at the farm table. My only regret in knowing you is that we didn’t meet years ago. As hard as it is to say goodbye, I want to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed knowing you. The devotion and love your family is gifting you during these final days is a testament to a life well lived. May your transition to the Great Unknown be gentle and pain-free.”

One of her daughters texted me last night after picking up the card I left for her in our mail room: It read: “Your card was so kind and thoughtful. You’ve been such a warm friend. I’ll read this to her in the morning when she wakes up."

I’ve never attended a funeral or memorial service for any fellow residents, but I might make an exception for her. If I do, will that open the door to going to others? I’ve never avoided funerals in the past, but those were for people I’d known my whole life or I had close ties or a connection to. Here, there’s only been one service I’ve felt guilty about missing—the daughter of the woman who taught me Mahjong. I didn’t know the daughter, but I tell myself I would’ve gone if I’d found a ride to the Catholic church downtown. In truth, in my heart I know I didn’t try very hard to find one. Instead, I wrote a heartfelt sympathy card and offered hugs and whispered condolences in person. 

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship and how we define it because I do feel lonely sometimes without a close confidant on campus. A widow's kind of loneliness, I suppose. Not the raw, early years kind but I do find myself envious when I see the close bonds others have formed here. If I didn’t keep this blog to share the ups and downs of my life, I’d probably diagnose myself with mild depression. It saddens and shames me to admit that I have a tough litmus test for friendship. But being an octogenarian, I’m not about to change habits honed over a lifetime.

I’ll continue my wait-and-see approach to swapping the kinds of life experiences that help build friendships. Instead, I'm known around here for dropping laugh lines into conversations. Growing up in a judgmental, religious area taught me not to share confidences until I know they’ll be kept and not be used as a weapon to ostracize me. Telling certain people here that I’m Pro-Choice, for example, would get me accused of eating babies for breakfast. There’s always someone nearby with a sense of moral superiority who divides the world into Black and White. 

I’ll also continue to be slow in offering help—especially car rides, when I don’t even like taking myself places. We have two Mother Teresa types here who run themselves ragged doing favors for others from taking them shopping after they give up driving to watering plants or feeding cats when someone is off campus for whatever reason. I admire their selflessness, but I don’t want to be like them when I grow up. Nor do I want to emulate Mr. Hermit across the hall, who never socializes and comes and goes so infrequently I barely recognize him as a neighbor. If I had to write a sympathy card for him based on what I know about him, it would read: “The Amazon and FedEx delivery guys will miss him dearly. Apparently he's in the Shopaholic Club."

 Until next Wednesday.  ©