Colleagues in the Old Folks Home

Kristin and Jennie are the administrative heartbeat of the twelve-story building where I live. I’m one of about three hundred people who live here, all of us over 62 with incomes under $20K a year (most have substantially less than that). These two kind-hearted, patient women manage the applications, the waiting list, and the changes in income that affect changes in rent; they keep track of maintenance needs; and they plan outings for people who have mobility or cognitive issues that make it difficult for them to get out of their apartments. Kristin helps people find assisted living arrangements when they can no longer live independently; and she and Jennie both broker peace when squabbles arise. One neighbor complains about another’s TV volume; one is offended by cooking odors; another says someone’s visiting grandchildren are rowdy. We have a number of little garden plots, and there is seething drama over allegations of pilfered tomatoes, missing watering cans, and whether a certain laxity enables the growth of slugs. 

As a young woman I eased my fear of aging by laughing with friends about the Old Folks Home of our imagination. We’d have great stories to tell each other, and we’d wear purple capes and feathers and bells on a long porch with rocking chairs. We’d get stoned and listen to 70s music on dusty cassette players while embroidering peace symbols on our T-shirts. 

We no longer have cassette players, and there’s no rocking chair gallery. We have laptops and podcasts and Youtube, and the euphemism is "independent living," which means it's an apartment building, not a "home," and we each have our own kitchen. Marijuana is legal, but it’s so expensive that few can buy any. We do have stories. Some were artists or made unconventional choices. A few were bankrupted by children with mental or physical disabilities. Some were clerical workers, delivery van drivers, waitresses. A few were teachers or academics and some lived in cars or on the streets for a few years. About seventy percent are single and more than ten percent are gay. It’s not the laid back, slap-happy scene I imagined, but in many ways it’s better. Some of us are still passionate about injustice and the environment. We're still making what we can make, like old pine trees producing a phenomenal number of seed cones before they collapse.