Moving On Down

In 2021, in the aftermath of his serious cardiac procedure and grueling recovery, our father’s children began to pester him to depart his home and get a place all on one level. Pops needed time to heal properly. Going up and down flights of steps in his two-story house (or down to his basement to do laundry) was not going to aid his recuperation. It was also murdering his already replaced knees. But, he was dead set against selling his house and he stubbornly, flatly refused to depart for easier one-level living. He just put his ears back and made do until he was well enough to try to return to his daily routine. 

Then, out of nowhere this past mid-summer, he alerted us that he had found someone to buy his house and that, at long last, he would be moving into an apartment a few blocks away. We reeled a bit, especially since it all happened so suddenly. We were naturally awash with concern that he had been scammed or was being taken in a ploy. It happens to elderly people all the time. He gruffly reminded us that he was not a dupe and stolidly went on with his plan. Pop Bare is, if nothing else, headstrong.

In just a few weeks, the Old Man will transition from a homeowner to a renter. He only ever rented briefly once before in the time since he arrived home from the Army in 1963, and that was when he was waiting for contractors to finish building a previous house. Otherwise, Pop Bare has owned his own home(s) in one form or another for sixty years. That’s a long time to get used to possessing and controlling one's property and domicile.

As I mowed and tended our grounds the other weekend, I mulled over what it would be like to climb down from owning our home and property and descend into the weird and possibly scary realm of renting. I didn’t like the way it made me feel even just as a mental experiment. 

I have always assumed that at some point we would move, maybe to a smaller house, more suited to just the two of us on a bit of land where I could raise bees and Micki could raise a few chickens and maybe some goats. To move into an apartment, give up ownership, owe rent, and have no control over the destiny of our grounds or house is frankly unpleasant to me. It goes directly against my deeply independent nature. I’m naturally feral about my freedom, but that freedom originates and thrives from the place we call home; the hub of our privacy, the source of our ability to be masters of our destinies. An apartment is owned and tended by someone else. Thin walls prevent that essential barrier between us and other humans. To depend on someone to mow or fix the plumbing or rewire a light fixture (except when I have to call my brother for help) is not something I think I could live with. Not right now, anyway.

That doesn’t mean that I always get all my chores done, or manage to effectively sort out all that needs fixing, but that’s part of the freedom even if it drives me bonkers. At some point, as Pops informs me, you get tired of always needing to mow or blow leaves or weed or wire or rebuild or paint. At some point, the recliner just feels better and the chores can wait. That helped me feel a bit better. He’ll certainly feel as though he has less hanging over his head after his move.

Of course, we’re young and healthy. We have another thirty years at least (I hope) to downsize without stepping into a rental agreement. If, at some point, we become mysteriously wealthy, I assume we would be able to afford that dream cottage on a small patch of land with a glorious view of the sunset and a wide porch to sit on. I see us sipping tea and listening to the crickets each evening as we observe the daily solar art. We could hire nurses and yard scapers to help us as we age. I’m going to have to face it, though, at some point, we’ll have to shed our homeowner’s freedom. I’ve got to plan now for how I’m going to want to react and try to curtail my squealing when the time arrives.

I have nothing against people who rent. It can be a necessary stage in adulthood to live in an apartment or a rental house for a while. We both did it briefly (albeit separately) but I hated every minute of my experience. I am happy being able to keep my arm's length from the rest of the world.

We are extremely lucky to have our own place. Modern trends have made it incredibly difficult for younger generations to afford homes. We are maybe the last generation for a while to have that freedom and that wealth. I’m very grateful for our situation.

Pop Bare had to come to grips with the need to move on his own terms, I guess, but he eventually made the choice himself. Our senior adult parents have been healthy examples to us of how often the golden years require compromise with our best-laid plans. There will come a time when we will no longer be able to handle the immense house we live in, now. Even our fantasy cottage might become too much after a few more decades. There may come a time when we have to depart our homes and move into an ‘independent living unit’ at a retirement community or into assisted living. It’s not something that either of us wants, but it is something we have to face—eventually. When that time comes, I am practicing not to be recalcitrant, at least about that.

Our children deserve to be unburdened by their elderly parents in that foggy future. I would not ever want to become a parking brake stuck in the on position in their lives. I would no more wish that than to be tossed into a human-sized food processor filled with salt and lemon juice. I want to be independent and I think we both intend that, but if we eventually cannot be, then we will not be a drain on our kids.

This is not to say that Pop Bare has been a drain on us, exactly. He is stubborn and willful and does things according to his own idiom but he’s still master of his destiny and retains his autonomy and independence. That’s always been the case with him. He is getting older and it worries us that someone will try to take advantage of him or that he will become too frail to manage on his own, but he’s not there, yet. He’s far too obdurate to give in that easily without a fight.

All my life I thought I was the black sheep because of my tendency toward surly mulish pigheadedness and my inexplicable desire to do everything the hardest way. I now understand that I get my obstinate personality in the same way that I got my genetic cardiac condition: legitimately and directly from the Old Man.

Our kids will have to be aware of my propensity to be bull-headed. It will take patience from them and effort on my part, too. Maybe, as I get older, I’ll become more docile and less tetchy. Pops has calmed down a lot, too. I live 500 miles away, and it’s hard to be ill-tempered over the phone, but he seems to be easier going.

While I find the reality of no longer being a homeowner extremely distasteful, I’m proud of how well Pop Bare is handling his move, so far. He did this all on his own, despite years of pestering from his adult sons and their families. My brother helped to clear out some items Pops kept for both of us but otherwise, he used his realtor and lawyer to good effect.

The benefits of this move to him outweigh (by far) the detriments. He will no longer have the knee-shredding stairs to deal with. He will no longer have the temptation to start his snowblower or touch up the shoddy mowing of a landscaping company. Just about any other form of maintenance that a homeowner would need to deal with will no longer be on his mind. His pavements will be salted and shoveled. The only thing he will have to worry about is walking his little dog and the occasional trip to the grocery market. Aside from being stuck (for now) in the transition between moving out of one place and moving into the other, he seems to be ready and maybe even eager to make the change.

Longevity runs in both of our families, so there may be a chance that we live to be venerable little white-haired so-and-sos, the center of every family celebration, blissfully redolent of years of life experience and overflowing with grandchildren and great-grandchildren. We will tottle about and give advice and tell stories of ‘our day’ and because we’re ancient, people will listen. But that’s a long way off. I want to live free in this moment, enjoying the days as they dawn and working toward aging less like an old cuss and more like a man who is grateful for what he has.

No matter what the future holds, whether we wind up moving to an apartment or assisted living,  we’re lucky to have the responsibility of owning a home and property. I’ll enjoy it now and be thankful for whatever comes.