Everything I Learned From Living in a Retirement Community

I'll let you in on a little secret.

A month before my son was born, my husband and I packed up everything from our Boston condo to move north - behold, the suburbs!!!

But I did feel tears sting my eyes as we drove over the Tobin bridge, me in the passenger seat of my dad’s unnecessarily large truck.

When we arrived at our little townhouse by the river, my type A third-trimester self went into full GO mode and I began furiously unpacking boxes and directing the sweet little movers where all of our like three pieces of furniture went.

Four hours or so flew by, and I couldn’t tell you what my husband was doing. He knew well enough to stay out of my way until further notice. I had silverware to organize after all.

When the movers left and the dust settled, and it was just the two of us in a space much to big for just the two of us. It felt…sad.

Our Boston condo was beautiful. Brand new. Sparky. Modern. The kitchen backsplash of my dreams. Top notch appliances and tasteful hardwood. When we first moved in there years before, I didn’t take much effort to decorate. My minimalist tendencies let the simplicity of the space speak for itself. But this townhouse was built long before I was born, and was a large departure from what we previously knew.

The sun was quickly setting and I could sense my heart quickening with a looming spiral. A baby boy in my belly and a new home in a small town. It was all happening quite fast. Would we be happy here?

I wanted nothing more than to crawl upstairs and take a hot shower. But as soon as I announced my plan to my husband, he responded with -

Wait, I want to show you something.

He dragged me outside just before the January sun dipped below the horizon. We both took a few deep breaths and looked around.

The air was crisp and clean. And the river was flowing and vibrant.

I remember very vividly this moment in time. Thinking to myself - yes, we’ll be okay here.

Move in day sunset

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Fast forward a few months. We made it through the winter. Baby boy is a few weeks old, and now only one of us is in diapers.

Long walks in the trying Spring sunshine were my postpartum therapy. And I relished in the maternity leave freedom - a few minutes reclining in an Adirondack by the river, just observing my surroundings, taking in the sights of our new home, listening to the birds, and observing our neighbors.

And that’s when I realized.

We were raising our son in a retirement community.

HUH? You might ask.

So maybe I should clarify. It’s not ACTUALLY a retirement community. But it might as well be. We estimate that the average age hovers somewhere in the 70s. The youngest being 55 on a good day, and the oldest probably somewhere in the 200s.

This wasn’t exactly what I envisioned for my growing family when we left the city. But after living here for over a year now, the people in this community man, they know something we don’t.

Here’s what I’ve learned.

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There is beauty in routine.

Every morning around 5 AM we take our son on a sunrise walk to the park. And every morning, we pass Judy’s window. There she sits, at 5:08 AM, give or take a few, waiting for us to pass.

We stand two stories below on the sidewalk, and I bend down to the stroller, instructing my son “wave to Judy baby”, which is hit or miss.

We yell back and forth about the beautiful crisp weather we’ve been having. Occasionally about our plans for the day, or our son’s new developmental milestone. We close with “have a great day!” and continue on our walk.

When we’re lucky, she’ll scurry down from her perch and meet us on the street. Handing us a bundle of cherry bars or shortbread cookies, exclaiming:

I love baking for my friends.

The value of a simple morning ritual isn’t something that’s new to me. It’s pretty much the backbone of my existence. But our daily interactions with our beloved lady in the window have only comfortably reinforced the beauty of consistency. Sometimes, all you have to do is show up. Rain or shine.

Good things take effort, patience, and education.

I swear to God. Our neighbor is literally growing tomatoes the size of softballs on her deck.

And it’s not just tomatoes - Trish’s tiny little wooden porch is absolutely covered in at least thirty different varieties of flowers, fruits, and vines.

But these plants aren’t just alive and growing - they are absolutely FLOURISHING. It is an actual jungle up there. She even has multiple sorts of birdfeeders for all the different varieties of friends who visit her flowers. She’s out there every morning watering each with care, waving to us and signing to us about what a lovely day it’s going to be.

But her plants aren’t beautiful by luck. All spring she spent hours and hours out there potting and planting and fertilizing and doing whatever the heck other witchcraft she’s using. She poured herself into her garden. She didn’t just roll over and say OH HEY I ONLY HAVE THIS TINY ASS DECK LETS JUST GET SOME MINT PLANTS AND CALL IT A DAY. NO. Trish saw her 80 square foot deck and said let’s do this thing.

She put in time. She put in effort. And she had the patience to learn what in the world she was doing. And honestly, that’s sort of a lost art.

Think bigger than yourself

Gail is one of those people who will probably live forever.

Every morning, rain or shine, she’s out doing her little gentle jog in the park. We see her from hundreds of feet away, her small frame shuffling back and forth. But it’s not just her gait that’s distinctive. It’s the green plastic bag she carries in her left hand, which houses the bits and pieces of trash she bends down every few yards to collect.

We always pause and chat. She tells us about her clarinet concert from the night before, and describes the protest she’ll be attending in town that evening. Our son waves bye and we continue on our walk, only to see her peer into trash cans down the block, removing the recyclable items piece by piece.

I told her once, “the world needs more Gails”.

She retracted her frail hand from the trash can, plastic bottle in hand, and responded:

Every time I feel silly doing this, I just try to think globally.

And honestly, if 77 year old Gail is trying her best to save our planet. You probably should be too.

Learn peoples names

We lived in our Boston condo for almost 3.5 years. And I couldn’t tell you the name of a single person who lived in our building.

There was Greyhound Lady, Smelly Dad, and Tall Guy Who Screamed At His Girlfriend.

And that was pretty much the extent of our neighborly relations.

It wasn’t that people weren’t friendly. We all smiled and exchanged good mornings in passing. And there was of course the occasional door hold. You know what I mean. Everyone was nice.

But friendships never formed. No one ever paused.

Here, things are different.

I can’t walk down the block without stopping to chat with Gary, Jan, and Roe. And my friends know that my voice notes are frequently interrupted by

Sorry hold on. Good morning Frank!

and

Sorry - Hi Susan! How are you?

Now, over a year since living in our sweet little town by the river, I may not have made countless young mom friends to go on coffee playground dates with, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Pause. Learn people’s names. Ask where they’re from. Pet their dogs. Be a good neighbor. You can make friends at any age.

Protect your memories

As a total minimalist, the walls of our family room are a sharp contrast to those of the surrounding homes.

When the sun is below the horizon, and all the little square apartments are illuminated by lamp light, we can peer in and get a little visual into our neighbors lives.

Walls covered (and I mean covered) with photos, plaques, and art. Although a far cry from my Home Pinterest board, I have learned to appreciate, and even find beauty in, our neighbors’ displays.

Family reunion photos and wedding photos and printouts of their grandkids’ first days of school. Diplomas and fishing awards and prints collected from years of yard sales and exotic travels.

Those walls are their memories. The kind of decor you can’t get at Pottery Barn. And the kind of art worth remembering.

Shiny, new, and sleek isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Maybe we should all focus on being a little less streamlined, a little less curated, and a little more genuine.

We love it here. But so does my son. Because of the ducks, of course.

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And just like that, it’s time for our morning walk. Maybe Judy will have some treats for us today.