I live in an "Old People's Home." That's what I call it, expecting listeners to laugh. I know that I do this because I am still slightly embarrassed by the fact that this is a retirement home and that I am old enough to qualify to live here. That sounds silly and egotistical, I know, but that is my truth. At any rate, any negative feelings about the place itself are dispelled by how fond I am of my apartment here.
It is a small space, termed a "studio." I actually like that word; it connotes something artist-like. It is just big enough to hold all my personal belongings. Over the years, I moved a bit, and I gave up furniture and larger items as I changed my address. Now I live in a space that Goldilocks might term: "just right."
People always ask if there is a kitchen and the answer is yes. I have a recently remodeled space with bright wood cabinets, a stove, and a refrigerator. Not that I use the kitchen for cooking. I wouldn't dream of it. I take my meals downstairs in the dining room whenever my "schedule" allows. (There I go again, suggesting a brisk, busy life!) It looks good though: bright colored utensil holders, colorful teapots, and vivid dish towels. This is a facade. If you tried to create a real meal here you would be disappointed, but it makes me happy. I only need my fire-engine red plug- in water heater and my French Press, and I am content.
My bed is big: a queen-sized one with one of those really good mattresses that you sink into. I know, I know! It cost a lot but it was an indulgence I allowed myself when I moved here.
I have a wildly-colored spread — orange and blue and red — that my son brought me from Texas. This year, I bought myself a really cozy throw that I found in a tiny shop in Ireland. It is grey, just like the skies there. Every time I pull it around me, to drink my coffee or read a book, I am brought right back to the rainy day I found it. I can still hear the lovely lilt of the young shopkeeper's voice.
I have a small divan; I prefer the term "fainting couch," and at least three types of garden chairs. These are not all that comfortable but I love the graceful look of them. I have a coffee table, bought in a secondhand store. My son looked at the large scratch across the glass top and said, "You don't want this one!" I replied, "Oh yes! I like to think that scratch was made on a sunny afternoon on a veranda somewhere, probably Florida, when the hostess was serving a cool glass of gin and tonic to a friend and it slid across the table, making this mark." My son shook his head with a smile on his face.
Oh the art! I have some wonderful pieces. Some bought in New York City, some in Maine, some in Provincetown. Many were painted by friends. My refrigerator door provides a great backdrop for my most valuable pieces: paintings in noisy colors and misspelled notes from my grandchildren. My favorite note says "To Mimi: weird, loving, kind, funny," and there is a little sketch of us all digging in the sand at Coney Island, our favorite destination in summer.
I have several mirrors to catch the light and oh, the light: perhaps that is the most important thing. I don't bother my big windows with curtains. They face west and the light in the mid to late afternoon is spectacular. The windows overlook the garden in the front of our building and I have a wonderful view of trees and flowers when they bloom. There is also a small pond stocked with goldfish. I can count them moving about in the summer but this morning the pond was covered with a layer of silver ice. It seemed even more beautiful.
I love this space. It is my retreat, my hollow, my nest. It makes any of my dismay about living among only older folks, with all the slight irritations, fade away when I close my door. Oh, I forgot to mention my book case. That I will have wherever I live!
I am happy here and very, very lucky to be one of the "old people."
