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Back to the College

(A Guest Post by the Spouse)

The spouse and I have recently moved to a continuing care retirement community. It’s located in a rather magnificent old building that looks like the library of a university campus. Apartments spread out from the main building, and the grounds are extensive with fountains and plazas and an arboretum. It reminds me of a well-tended high school or a small college campus. But it’s more than just the architecture that is reminiscent of school.

It’s also the students…I mean the residents. We are a smallish class of about 250. We live in the dorms…rather nice apartments with full kitchens, and we meet each other in the halls going to and from “class.” Today in the morning, for example, there was political science, but this afternoon there is home economics (we’re learning to knit). Tomorrow I have swimming first thing in the morning. (Ugh! I hate morning gym class.) Wednesday is art. The teacher is excellent, but I’m pulling a C in that class. Thursday, English (book club). Friday, French conversation.

After all these activities we meet in the dining room for dinner, though a lot of people like to eat in their dorm rooms. Lots of socializing goes on in the dining room. Topics that have come up in class are often on the agenda. Conversation at dinner often finds its way to talk of children and grandchildren, oh, and health. We are all pretty fit (given all those swimming and yoga classes), but we still have a full panoply of “issues.”

There’s not a lot of gossip (or maybe I’m just not in on it), but I have noticed that John and Marie are often together, as are Liz and Bob. I think they must be considered “an item.” I have seen other couples holding hands (!). There are nerds and jocks, musicians and artists. It’s an eclectic bunch.

We are all pretty style conscious…at least in the shoe department. It appears that high heels for the girls are not comme il faut. Walking shoes — preferably slip-in Skechers — are the order of the day. We walk a lot (the campus is extensive), so comfortable shoes are a necessity. No one would dare break that convention.

So after all these years, the spouse and I find ourselves back in school. It’s a new experience, and it takes some getting used to.

Sorry. Gotta run. I’m a little behind on my English assignment.

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Not the Place to Die

On a previous trip to Florida, we had identified a continuing care community that interested us, but on our most recent visit we no longer liked it. My nephew asked me what had changed our minds.

The spouse and I have toured about a dozen continuing care places, or as I put it, places to die. We have concentrated on Type A communities. That means that the community has facilities for four types of care—independent living, assisted living, skilled nursing facilities, and memory care. The fee structures require a hefty sum to enter and then monthly fees that are also hefty. In a Type A community, however, the monthly fee does not increase should a resident move to a higher level of care. In other words, if I am paying $7,500 a month for independent living, I will continue to pay $7,500 if I move into assisted living even though the facility provides more care than I received before.

What I get for my monthly fee is similar from place to place but never precisely the same. Of course, the fee covers the rent for my apartment, utilities, real estate taxes, and usually weekly or biweekly housekeeping services. Some sort of meal plan is included. Sometimes this is a meal a day or thirty meals a month. In others, residents draw down from a set amount of monthly money. For example, residents may be “given” $350 each month, and this decreases each time the resident orders something. The food is generally cheaper than it would be in a commercial restaurant. The facility may have healthcare such as a nurse practitioner on site, and there is no additional charge for a visit to the nurse. They have aides for an emergency such as a fall. All seem to provide transportation weekly or semi-weekly to grocery stores, perhaps a mall, and religious services. The monthly fee also includes the use of the facilities such as a fitness center and meeting rooms. Many, but not all, have a swimming pool.

The places to die that the spouse and I have visited have 300-400 residents. Many have small, freestanding homes, often called villas, and two or three apartment building that connect with each other. The interconnected buildings almost always contain the public facilities—dining rooms, fitness center, etc. That ability to utilize facilities without going outside has seemed attractive, especially if the mobility of the spouse with her disability becomes worse, and she starts to use something like an electric scooter to get around.

The Florida place that interested us was larger — about 1,200 residents. That increased size allowed it to support better facilities than other places. It had five or six restaurants, while others have two or three. It had at least two fitness rooms that were well-equipped and staffed, good meeting rooms, a theater, and an aquatic center that many resorts would have been proud of. This included two swimming pools, one of which was an excellent lap pool, a spa, and two nearby pickleball courts.

It did not have the usual interconnecting buildings. Instead, in addition to some villas, this “village” had six or so separate 8-12 story buildings set around two “lakes” on seventy acres. It was necessary to go outside to utilize many of the facilities, but that seemed ok in Florida where the sun always shines (right?).

One of the buildings was brand new. It had lovely apartments with interesting floor plans. We have lived in a distinctive place for a long time and are spoiled by it. Moving into an ordinary apartment box, while perhaps inevitable, is not our first choice. So this was appealing. The place also cost less than many of the continuing care places we had seen in the north.

On our first visit we were only there for a couple of hours, and we didn’t think we should decide based on that. The marketing department said that we could come back for a two-night stay, and we decided to do that. Our concern was not the physical plant, apartment designs, or costs, but something more intangible–would we feel comfortable with the residents.

The spouse and I are lucky in having a broad circle of interesting friends. From our careers, we know scientists, lawyers, and academics, but we also spend time with full-time moms; a NYC reporter; an international correspondent; a marine engineer; investment bankers; Wall Street speculators; artists; a private equity entrepreneur; school teachers; a corporate financial officer; the head of an adoption agency; New York City government officials; architects; potters; bankruptcy specialists; a minister; nurses; owners of a boutique clothing company; restaurateurs; caterers; real estate managers; authors; workers in the tech industry; analysts for the Fed; a furniture company manager; an owner of a bar. You get the idea.

Most of these people are of my generation, but they are not stuck in the past. They often refer to an experience from earlier in their lives, but usually this is done to advance something in the present conversation. We may be old, but we don’t just look backward. When you are younger, fresh input comes from work and social life. That is less true at our age, but our friends are still mentally vibrant; they still want to learn; they are aware of current affairs and fashion and sports; they read all sorts of things, watch different kinds of streaming shows, go to plays and movies, attend concerts and exhibitions. I am lucky to have friends who regularly bring something new to the conversational table and who, in doing so, keep me more mentally alive.

The spouse and I don’t expect to duplicate our circle of friends in some new place, but we hope to find people who, because of their curiosity, knowledge, and activities, will be interesting to be with. We selfishly hope they will help keep us mentally alert and engaged. So we began to look for clues to see whether we might easily meet the kind of residents we hoped for in the place to die in Florida.

Our starting place was with the events calendars. All the places to die put out a weekly or monthly calendar of events. These include bus trips to grocery stores and places of worship, but also on-campus events such as sewing groups, knitting bees, watercolor classes, creative writing workshops, book groups, choral groups, bridge groups, improv classes, often serious lectures, entertainment from the outside, resident entertainment, and so on. We became concerned about our potential place when we realized that although it was three times the size of other places, it listed fewer activities than other places. I expect to be personally interested in only a few of the activities, but a variety of programs in which many participate signals something about the vibrancy of the place.

The calendar, it turns out, was somewhat misleading. The spouse noticed that there was no listing for mah-jongg (a deal-breaker!!!). When she mentioned that to someone, she was told that Joan so-and-so in Building A hosted mah-jongg, as did Mildred thus-and-such in Building C. For such facilities as the fitness center and the aquatic center, it was one community. However, for other purposes, the place seemed to break down into smaller building-by-building communities, and it felt as if you might not be entirely welcome in the Building A community if you resided in Building B.

Every place to die we have visited has a library. The best seem to have an acquisition budget; others are dependent on resident donations. I never expected to find all my reading in these libraries, but most of the libraries seemed to have some books I might like to read. The Florida place to die, however, did not have one library. It had one for each building. I suppose if the weather was inclement, it would be nice to go the lobby and find something to read, but by not consolidating the books, each building’s collection was skimpy. And most of the libraries we have seen had a shelf or more of books written by residents. I did not see that in this “village.”

Presumably some reading was going on. The calendar listed a book group, which later in the month was discussing a novel. But I thought that a place of over a thousand retired folks who had a lot of time to read might have multiple book groups, perhaps one for literature, another for history, and others for current events or poetry. Even my local bookstore has multiple book groups, and the attendees are working and raising families in addition to reading books.

What clinched our decision that we did not want to come to this place was our two meals with residents. The marketing person who took charge of us knew that our son was transgender and that, no doubt, is part of the reason our first night we had dinner in the more formal dining room with a lesbian couple, Maude and Phillie. They had been a couple for a dozen years. Phillie had been in a previous relationship of thirty-seven years, which ended when her partner died. They both had Philadelphia roots and had lived mostly in New Jersey. Maude had been a hairdresser who had gotten involved with organizations for the deaf. The other said that she had been retired since she was thirty-five, but I think she had been involved with real estate agencies.

We did learn from them that this Florida place had an active LGBTQ+ organization with over 220 members. Other communities we had visited often touted that they had gay residents, but this was remarkable. That was encouraging, and they should some interest in our son. My reaction changed when I asked them what constituted a typical day for them. They looked blankly at each other. One finally said that they went to the pool two or three times a week. And…..? They confessed that the amount the place allocated for food covered only about fifteen meals a month. They kept a full pantry, and then–giving me the inside scoop–they said they shopped at a Walmart supercenter because it had better prices than the nearer Publix.

The next day we had a poolside lunch with a couple originally from North Carolina where Lorraine had been a third grade teacher and her husband Clay a public school librarian. She said little other than that she was in charge of the place’s thrift shop, open four hours a week, and complained that few realized how much work it took to operate it. Other than an adamant “Yes” when the server asked if anyone wanted dessert, she literally said nothing. She looked surly, as if she had been dragged to a free lunch against her will. Clay’s volubility, however, helped to eliminate any awkward pauses. He told about his days at the village. Two or three days a week, as he had that morning, he went to aquatic aerobics. A couple of mornings he went to the gym. Other mornings, usually with a friend, he walked around the seventy-acre campus, stopping, I am sure, to chat with anyone he came across. Clay smiled proudly and said that others called him the mayor of the village. Clay said that the previous night, they had gone to one of the village’s cultural events—a cover concert of three crossover R&B stars, which he pronounced excellent.

When we told him about our dinner the previous night, he labeled Phillie “a real pistol.” He then went on to say that he had been talking to friends from home and told them that he and Lorraine were going out to dinner with another couple, Joe and Bob. His friends, he said, were amazed. They had not known anyone before who knew — much less dined with — an actual single-sex couple. I felt awkward hearing a story that I might have heard two decades ago.

Clay continued by saying that their travels had made them more sensitive to cultural differences. As an example he cited their trip to Morocco where he said they had made friends with their guide. The Moroccan pointed out that gender relations were much different in his country. For example, he had never kissed his wife in front of her parents. As they were walking, however, the guide took Clay’s hand. This clearly made Clay uncomfortable, and Clay said that this would not have happened in the good old U.S. of A. The guide said that this was a gesture of male friendship in his society. Clay clearly still felt uncomfortable with his memory of walking down a foreign street with another man holding his hand. I wondered why he was telling me this story.

Our assigned dining companions over the two meals were different from each other, but in a way important to the spouse and me, they were very much alike. They did not ask anything about us. That is a slight exaggeration. Clay did ask the derivation of my surname and what I had done for a living, but there was no follow up. And literally, none of the four asked the spouse anything—where she grew up; her education; her career; her hobbies. We certainly gave openings for conversation. We thought we might be early for our lunch, so we carried books. Lorraine and Clay did not even glance at them, much less ask about them. I wore a tee that said, “Be careful or I will put you in my blog.” No comment. The spouse said that we were going to take a trip to Provence in the fall sponsored by my alma mater. Nothing. And so on. Maude and Phillie were the same. They were all more than happy to talk about themselves (and a bit about our son), but a real conversation was beyond them. And in talking about themselves, they did not indicate that they read anything, watched movies, or attended lectures. They were pleasant people on one level, but….

The last night we ate at an informal restaurant on campus. The servers were interesting and funny, and the food, as it had been at the other meals, was good. As we looked around the room, we saw a man come in by himself. He sat down and to our surprise, opened a book. We finished eating before he did. On our way out, I stopped at his table and said, “Are you reading anything good? I am always looking for book recommendations.” He said that the book was about a lad growing up in Ireland, but he did not like the novel enough to recommend it. I pressed on and asked if he had read anything good recently. He paused and said no and continued, “I am not much of a reader.” I smiled, and as we started to leave, I could swear his eyes locked onto mine saying, “Please don’t go yet. I am lonely.”

We were more than ready to leave this place where we thought that we might like to live. Perhaps if we had to, we could carve out an acceptable life there, but….

If we needed a clincher, venturing outside our building to visit other places on campus was a trial. Florida was experiencing an early, but deadly, heat wave which was compounded by excessive humidity. Breathing was difficult and movement exhausting. Florida politicians may not believe in climate change or want to acknowledge global warming, but that will not stop its reality.

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A Place to Die

We have recently returned from Florida where we were looking look for a place to die. Of course, that is not the express purpose of the institutions — sorry, communities — that we visited. As the spouse explained after a similar trip last year, (See post of September 19, 2023 “Please Take Good Care of…Me”), they are called “continuing care retirement communities” or CCRCs. Here’s some of what she wrote:

“These popular retirement options (increasingly known as “life care communities” or “senior living solutions” [who thought up such an awful term?!?!?] ) are designed to make your last years on earth as pleasant and carefree as possible. Towards that end, they promise independent living in a comfortable apartment (or free-standing “cottage” or “villa” or “townhome”), meal service (usually one meal a day), housekeeping, a fitness center (machines and pools), day trips, art workshops, chapel, library (either check-out or book swap), book clubs, bridge, mah-jongg, musical events, etc. etc. etc. (God forbid you should just want to relax and read your book.) Importantly, the best ones offer “assisted living” should daily activities (like bathing and dressing) get to be overwhelming, memory care should dementia raise its ugly head, and skilled nursing should such be required. For all this fun one usually pays an entrance fee (higher the bigger the dwelling you select) and a monthly fee. The monthly fee may remain constant as one moves from, say, independent living to memory care, or it may start off small-ish (never really small) and get steeper as one moves to more hands-on levels of care.

“Now. There are several problems with all CCRC’s. While they offer some welcome activities to those of us who no longer get up in the morning to go to work, they also tend to remind us that we no longer get up in the morning to go to work, and we need other things to keep us engaged with the living. Moreover, it requires us to come to terms with the fact that bad things happen when one gets older. But the main problem with all of these CCRCs is that everyone, I mean everyone, is OLD. Some of us old people don’t like the idea of always being around old people. I know, I know, but there it is.”

So, we went to Florida not just to look at life plan communities, but to check out Florida itself. The spouse and I had felt that we had understood the good and the bad about Florida. She had spent formative time there, including her junior and senior high school years. The spouse worked there after graduate school. Her mother continued to live there after her father died. My parents moved there from Wisconsin after my father’s heart attack. I volunteered in a public defenders’ office on the west coast. However, now we were no longer so sure that we understood Florida. It had gone bonkers, banning books and rejecting abortion rights. We were particularly concerned about what seemed to be attacks on the LGBTQ+ community. Would the gay, transgender, and nonbinary members of our families feel comfortable visiting us? Would we feel that we could find a comfortable community in this atmosphere? So we took our son along for a read on the place.

The first leg of our journey to find a place to die started with a hired car to take us to the airport. Our Uber driver—surprise, surprise—was an immigrant. He had come from the former Soviet republic of Georgia. He talked about Georgian restaurants in New York City. He also said that driving for Uber could become boring. But it was only a part-time gig. He also worked for a family business. His father owns a sixty-acre vineyard in Georgia, and our driver was helping to set up a business to import the wines into the United States. We talked about varietals and the name of the family wines. His English was nearly perfect even though he had been in the U.S. only for eighteen months. His mother had taught him, he said. She had gone to veterinary school at the University of Florida.  

Although we had often driven ourselves to the airport, being driven meant that we saw things we hadn’t noticed before. In one short stretch there were three billboards extolling the services of various personal injury attorneys and one reminding us that Jesus saved. I wondered if you had Jesus in your life whether you would have the need for a PI lawyer. In Florida even more attorneys advertised. Indeed, car accident victims are more numerous than in New York City.

On the last leg of our trip to find a place to die, we used Lyft to take us from the airport back home. The spouse asked the driver why he drove for Lyft and not Uber. He said that he drove for both but preferred Lyft. Uber customers, he said, were more obnoxious than Lyft ones.  He–surprise, surprise—was an immigrant. He was born in Jamaica but had been in New York for nine years. He was married with two sons, nine and four, and was looking to buy a house on Long Island. His driving was also part time. He had a computer science degree and had a retinue of clients he helped with their technology issues. His real passion, however, was soccer. He had played professionally in England in one of the lesser leagues with a team hoping to work its way up, but he had blown out his knee. His dreams disappeared with torn cartilage. His four-year-old, however, loved the game, and his father already dreamed of having him play professionally.

Why regale you with taxi driver stories when I’m talking about moving to Florida? These two conversations are part of a broader New York experience. In this city under all sorts of circumstances, I have met people who in a small way have expanded my life. They have given me glimpses into other societies and lives and have given me vicarious new experiences. Perhaps it would happen as much to me elsewhere, but I know it happens to me often in New York City, and I will miss it. Onward to Florida.

Instead of using hired cars, we rented one, which was fine except for one thing: When we returned it, we were a quarter tank short of full because we had not seen a gas station as we neared the airport. We had neglected to learn how much the car rental company would charge us for topping it off, but I assumed it would be the usual extortionate six or eight dollars a gallon. Wrong. It was $12. Fifty-two dollars later, we left the car.

We stayed at a two-bedroom condo on the beach in Fort Lauderdale. It was a high rise among a bevy of beach high rises. This not-exactly-new building was part condo and part hotel. The clientele was American. We had stayed at a Miami Beach place a few years back where most seemed to have come from South America. In any event, the clientele was…well…not to put too fine a point upon it…tacky.

We were hungry and frazzled when we arrived, so we headed downstairs for a drink and some food. We passed up an Italian restaurant off the lobby and headed outside on what was warm and lovely evening. A tiki bar was next to the pool. When we went to check out the water temperature, a large man came over to help us. We asked him his name. He said that everyone called him Big Mike. There was a reason for this. He was BIG. Maybe 6’6” and solidly built. He looked over at his sidekick, an even larger man, and said that he called him Big Fabian. Fabian stuck out his hand and after the question told us he was 6’9”. I nervously wondered why this tiki bar needed to employ these gentle giants. A cat sauntered by as if it owned the place. Big Mike said that he had adopted it and took care of it. The cat’s name—ready for the surprise?—is Tiki. A number of dogs were also in evidence. A sign said that only service dogs were allowed, but Floridians apparently have even more need for service dogs than patrons on the New York subway, or maybe that rule was not enforced.

We sat outside the tiki enclosure and ordered. The drinks came quickly although I am not sure that there was alcohol in my dessert-like tropical concoction. The food took a long time to come, and the order was only partially correct, but the servers were welcoming and friendly, so who cared? One of the servers came over urging us to go to the beach because a full moon was just rising. She helped the spouse to get to a viewing area. Watching a full moon coming over the horizon of a body of water, which I have seen many times, is always a spectacular sight. This was no exception. Huge and golden it rose out of the sea. (Two nights later we watched a spectacular sunset from our apartment windows.)

We passed the tiki bar frequently since it was on our way to the pool or beach. The patrons may have changed from day to day, but somehow the crowd always seemed the same. Even though this was Florida, there were not many old people of our age. And while some colleges were on hiatus, it was not a spring-break crowd. A lot of the people seemed to be local. As I mentioned, it was not a particularly high-class place, but I found consolation in seeing that my overweight body looked almost svelte next to most of the men who had bodies that strained extra-large clothing. There may have been some not-so-young women “negotiating” with older men. There was a middle-aged man with a dog on his lap so small that he should have been embarrassed sitting with it and a woman on his right with a large dog. His hand regularly stroked her ass. I do not know if she welcomed it, but she certainly did not object. Perhaps the bar was best summed up when the son reported that he had seen one woman drinking a can of beer from another woman’s cleavage, urging some men to join in the revelry.

The next day we visited two places to see if they might be good places to die. That evening we headed off to a popular seafood place on the intracoastal waterway. It did not take reservations. When we pulled into the valet parking lot, we could see people — mostly young (duh!) — spilling out of the restaurant and heard blasting music. The parking lot attendant informed us that there would be an hour wait. We left and headed inland where we found a place that could seat us immediately. We sat outside in the balmy air and were especially pleased to be introduced to a new to us dish, a delicious grilled artichoke.

The next day was Saturday and not a day to look for a place to die. Instead, besides walks on the beach, we went off in search of the former home of the spouse. She remembered the neighborhood of the house but not its precise location. The house was on a canal and a half block from the intracoastal. She thought it was a wonderful spot when she was twelve since she could take a powerboat on the waterways. Her house was a modest one, and modest ones still existed in the neighborhood, but not surprisingly, many of the original homes had been replaced by much larger ones. The Fort Lauderdale of the spouse’s youth had changed dramatically. The city only extended a few blocks west of the intracoastal then, but now it goes miles further into what was once Everglades territory.

After cruising the old neighborhood as if we were teenagers, we went to a nearby fish market to get seafood we were unlikely to find in New York City. The spouse settled on yellowtail snapper filets, which she cooked perfectly that evening.

Sunday was a beach and pool day followed by dinner in a lively, popular Greek restaurant with good food. On Monday morning we looked at another possible place to die, which we liked and might choose.

So we might have found a place to die, but how about Florida? Its politics are terrible, but our transgender son deemed it “okay” and “non-threatening.” We were helped in that conclusion with a conversation with a woman who showed us around one of the potential places to die. Her son is transgender, and we learned that he had good medical care and had carved out a life for himself in Florida. Maybe we can live in the state and join its librarians in fighting book bans.

Monday afternoon we flew back to New York City, and if I believed in omens, my future would have been decided. On the one hand, it makes much sense for us to move to a place to die. On the other hand, I will miss New York City and don’t want to leave. As we approached JFK airport, we could see an almost complete arc of a rainbow welcoming us back to our home.

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Please Take Good Care of . . . Me (Guest Post by the Spouse)

The husband and I have just returned from Altamont (with apologies to Thomas Wolfe) where we visited five continuing care retirement communities (CCRC). These popular retirement options (increasingly known as “life care communities” or “senior living solutions” [who thought up such an awful term?!?!?] are designed to make your last years on earth as pleasant and carefree as possible. Towards that end, they promise independent living in a comfortable apartment (or free-standing “cottage” or “villa” or “townhome”), meal service (usually one meal a day), housekeeping, a fitness center (machines and pools), day trips, art workshops, chapel, library (either check-out or book swap), book clubs, bridge, mah-jongg, musical events, etc. etc. etc. (God forbid you should just want to relax and read your book.) Importantly, the best ones offer “assisted living” should daily activities (like bathing and dressing) get to be overwhelming, memory care should dementia raise its ugly head, and skilled nursing should such be required. For all this fun one usually pays an entrance fee (higher the bigger the dwelling) and a monthly fee. The monthly fee may remain constant as one moves from, say, independent living to memory care, or it may start off small-ish (never really small) and get steeper as one moves to more hands-on levels of care.

Now. There are several problems with all CCRC’s. While they offer some welcome activities to those of us who no longer get up in the morning to go to work, they also tend to remind us that we no longer get up in the morning to go to work, and we need other things to keep us engaged with the living. Moreover, it requires us to come to terms with the fact that bad things happen when one gets older. But the main problem with all of these CCRCs is that everyone, I mean everyone, is OLD. Some of us old people don’t like the idea of always being around old people. I know, I know, but there it is.

Nevertheless, off we went to investigate.

The first community we visited was Meade Valley Farms (not its real name), “nestled in a picturesque setting” about 20 minutes outside Altamont. It comprised about 30 free-standing homes clustered on top of a rise that overlooked pastureland, a corn field, and a community garden. Although maintenance of property was part of the package, one could also add landscaping to the patio portion of one’s own home. Pleasant enough. The clubhouse (meeting room, fitness center, therapy pool) were down the rise and across the road. In other words, you could get all the exercise you needed just by hiking to the fitness center and back. If one of you had to go into assisted living, that facility (which we were not invited to tour) was further even than the clubhouse. One of the homeowners — a retired high school principal and his wife — were eager to open their home for a tour. The husband (we’ll call him Tom) greeted us outside his neatly-organized two-car garage in crisp jeans and a well-worn T-shirt. The house was modestly appointed but immaculate. Scented candles burned; the kitchen was uncluttered and spotless; a pantry showed canned goods stacked alphabetically; homemade quilts graced the beds; the front patio was awash in flowers. Tom told us that he rose daily at 3 AM to take a brisk walk around the grounds. He did indeed look amazingly fit for a man in his 70’s. His wife, clearly a consummate homemaker, was equally fit. They had been residents for some ten years and seemed to play the roles of mayor and first lady. Now let’s face it: My house is not immaculate (I hate scented candles); I do not alphabetize my canned goods; we are not what you’d call in tip-top shape; I don’t garden; I want a lap not a therapy pool; I want a grocery store that’s not 20 minutes away. But still, it was pretty and pleasant.

On to Holly Grove. Despite its perky name, Holly Grove is stately and large and expensive. Situated off a main Altamont shopping thoroughfare, it has almost 400 residences including apartments, villas and cottages. Although the villas and cottages were quite pretty from the outside, their fit residents tend to live forever, so you can’t expect one of these homes to become available for at least ten years. Apartment residents are also fit, but they die more readily (and there are more of them), so the apartment waitlist is only five years. To get on the waitlist requires a $1000 fee (not unusual) as well as certification of health and financial solvency (less usual). But Holly Grove has everything: Three dining rooms, art studio, fitness center (lap pool!), woodworking shop, library, mah-jongg, book clubs, auditorium, graciously appointed public spaces, lovely grounds, hiking trails, etc. etc. etc. And indeed, we saw lots of folks coming and going to various activities. Residents’ artwork (some of it surprisingly good) lined the hallways. The three-bedroom apartment we were shown (the owner was traveling in Europe) was elegantly appointed with Persian carpets, antiques, a classic chandelier. All of a sudden, we felt slightly underdressed. (Would I have to wear make-up in the fitness center? What if my shirt has a spot on it? Would people notice?) Everything was all under one roof. A good thing, right? But just to make decision-making as hard as possible, the husband pointed out that if you’re never going to leave the building anyway, why does it matter whether you’re in Altamont or Peekskill? Why are we thinking of moving 1000 miles away from our beloved New York?

Let’s move on to…

Oakwoods. Right up front it didn’t help that they forgot we were coming. It didn’t seem to be an overwhelming obstacle, though, and we were quickly introduced to a marketing person, who was extremely attractive, tanned and healthy, and attentive and knowledgeable about the area and the place. Her very presence, however, reminded us that we were no longer tall and tan and young and lovely. So, even though they had forgotten about us, they were welcoming. The picture in their brochure shows ten people outdoors around a fire pit. Gosh, they’re having such a good time! Everyone has a wine glass; one fellow holds a saxophone. There are six women and four men, but we never saw a male resident. Widows abound…everywhere…not just at this place. Oakwoods is out by Meade Valley Farms…or further out. The drive from Altamont is expressway followed by country roads. The nearest grocery store??? Hospital??? Oakwoods has lots of stuff, but we didn’t see anyone using it. We were, however, graciously invited to stay for lunch. I asked whom we should pay, and our Beatrice said that, of course, it was on them. White tablecloths and waiter service for lunch was nice, but we were alone in the dining room except for one other couple. Assisted living was again in a separate building, a short drive away.

The next place, Haverford Hills, was as big as Holly Grove and in the same suburban-type area of Altamont. They had a marketing approach different from all the others. Instead of a one-on-one appointment, they invited several potential residents (in our case about 25 souls) to a Power Point presentation and group tour. Very corporate. Coffee and not-very-good pastries were available during the presentation. Now. I’m sure it will come as a surprise to you, but not all old people are attentive, knowledgeable, cultured, or good conversationalists. Some talk too much — mostly about themselves; some are just rude; some are all the way to boorish. And when you go into a CCRC, you must expect to meet all kinds of people…as we did with this particular group. However, it struck me as not the wisest marketing strategy to present the opportunity of meeting such unpleasant company as you were considering where you wanted to live for the rest of your life! After a car-sick-inducing bus tour of the grounds (villas, cottages — 10-year waitlist), we had a walking tour of the indoor facilities (nice enough), but no tour of apartments (Covid had scared off residents from inviting strangers into their homes). Floor plans and video tours were made available online. We were invited to stay for lunch…at our own expense which, in our case, was $25. How welcoming is that? Day trips to here and there were available — for a fee. Everything here seemed to be “for a fee.”

Finally, we came to Esterbrook Estates. An hour’s drive from Altamont, this all-inclusive 400-resident place was off the beaten path, but within 10 minutes of a shopping mall with pharmacy and grocery store. All of the buildings were connected. You never had to go outside– ever (even though that particular day the weather showed off admirably). We were invited to have lunch on the house before we met with a marketing agent. The cafeteria-style menu said that lunch would have been $4.75 apiece. When we went into the marketing office, there was a small sign that welcomed us by name. The public spaces were comfortable, but not splashy. The fitness center was fully stocked with brand new machines, but the pool was…not a lap pool. There was the usual art room, meeting rooms, library. Assisted care was in the same building as the independent living apartments. The 3-bedroom apartment we were shown felt large, was full of light, and was near a storeroom (mostly filled with residents’ Christmas decorations in locked cages). A small, trout-stocked lake with a biking/hiking trail around it was nearby. The marketing agent (a man this time) was about 50, tall and personable like a Rotarian might be. He paid close attention to us and our questions. His pitch was complete and enthusiastic, and it included an easily understood account of what at first appeared to be complicated payment options. Deal-breaker (besides the pool): dinner was available in the cafeteria from 5-6:30. Really?!?!? 5 o’clock??!?!? Only old people eat at 5 o’clock!

So. Which one would you choose?