Today is the first anniversary of our new residence in North Carolina, after 30 years (for me) living in Los Angeles. Mr. P lived there even longer, and was born in San Francisco; he’d been to the East Coast for various purposes over the years, but he’s always been a California boy.
Warning: this is not a happy, cheerleading kind of post, so if you don’t want a dose of late-midlife reality checking, might want to click away and wait for the next reading roundup.
We didn’t move here free of obligations. I’m still working full-time, will need to continue that at least until I can enroll in Medicare, and if gopmaga destroys that program like they’re destroying everything else good about the USA, all bets are off.
We moved here at the request of my parents, to live with them in their big house, to be on hand when they need help. Various minor crises have already arisen. The point of our being here is not to have endless happy family fun times together, as many seem to assume. It’s so we can learn basically everything about the structure of their lives and gradually begin managing it as they inevitably decline and eventually die. This isn’t vacation. It isn’t retirement. It’s a long goodbye.
I’m glad we came when we did, while Mom & Dad are compos mentis, able to take care of their own needs. I’m really glad that they are both unsentimental realists (I had to get it from somewhere, right?) who don’t pretend that the decline and the death aren’t on the horizon. The estate plan is done. I’ve been introduced to Dad’s file cabinet. Their financial business will soon all be in the hands of local professionals (they also moved here from elsewhere).
Key people know that we live with them, that the house will transfer to us in due course, and that we’re here by request (the estate attorney had concerns), having completely uprooted our own lives to get here.
As to the new community: it’s a work in progress. Everything here is Bible this, Jesus that, churches around every corner. It doesn’t make a nonreligious couple feel secure, especially when both members of that couple aren’t white. When someone’s primary social network isn’t a church, it’s built around their kids, grandkids, and/or sports. These are fine things, if you share those interests.
The first question most people ask is if I have children, as if that’s the most interesting thing I could possibly have done with my life. Those people, when I say “No,” typically find a rapid (if generally polite) way to exit the conversation. The first question most people ask Mr. P is about his profession. When he says he’s now retired, some ask what he’s doing with his time. He, at least, is given a way to continue the conversation.
Earlier this year I invested in season tickets to the Flat Rock Playhouse and to the Brevard Music Center. Those outings have been terrific. We’ve also recently revived our dance life thanks to the Bluestar Ballroom in Asheville and the Hendersonville Ballroom Dance Club. It looks as though we can pretty much count on getting out to a dance every other Sunday or so. Since our best friendships for our entire relationship were made through social dancing, this is a very hopeful development.
As to our long-term plans: we don’t have any. Our choices are limited to what’s open in the moment something changes. This stage could last many years: Dad is in not-so-good shape at nearly 88, but Mom is in good shape for 86.
I am in no hurry for the next stage to begin, believe me. In the meantime, when not performing the day job, I continue writing (a thing almost no one is interested in hearing about), watch TV every night, and read a lot, as any reader of this blog knows. Mr. P keeps himself occupied and waits for the day it isn’t objectively dangerous for a brown American to be out and about by himself.
Finally, what’s in the pipeline? This first cross-country year has not been a good one on the writing / publishing front, but I am close to completing and pitching a series. Watch this space.