These are a few of my favorite things
Today is my Nana’s birthday. She is 81. (Sorry Nana, I think this is something to be proud of…your flowers are on the way).
Nana has lived in the same house for over forty years. Various family members have repeatedly tried to get her to sell her home and move into a more manageable living arrangement. Not a nursing home, but a nice condo in one of those swanky retirement communities.
Nana will have none of it. She complains that all the women her age are “so old.” Instead of spending her time at the community center playing shuffleboard, she constantly finds new projects to improve the house. A year ago it was repaving the driveway, this summer it was installing new windows. She has raised children and grandchildren in her home, shared it with two husbands, and now various transient roommates whose rent supplement her income.
As I begin to pack up my life in Brooklyn, and commit to the full time quest of finding a new apartment, I must pause and reflect on my current home. There are real reasons why I’ve stayed here for five years, despite the cockroaches, rising rent, bad neighbors, and the cell phone tower that was just installed on our roof.
I dedicate this post to Nana. I think I finally understand why you never left. Routine is the act that protects our soul from the loss associated with profound and permanent change. It is far easier to repaint a wall or install a new shelf, or spruce up the couch with new pillows, than it is to uproot and throw yourself upon the great unknown. When a life has been tossed around a lot by sadness, having a “home” and a “neighborhood”, however imperfect, is a security blanket that makes the unexpected bearable.
These are a few of my favorites things about my life in Brooklyn:
The cubby hole in the wall for me to pile my shoes.
The cubby hole between the hallway and the bathroom that the cat box fits in so that it is neither in the bathroom or kitchen. Out of sight, out of mind.
The place in the living room for my dog to lay down between the radiator (to keep him warm) and the couch, so he is always close to me.
The place in the bedroom where my dog’s bed fits next to my bed so that he can look out the door and I can listen to him breath. Right before he falls asleep he will take one deep breath and exhale.
The color of my kitchen walls; bistro orange.
The stone tile I had put into the hallway.
The morning sun in the living room window that makes my plants grow.
Original white trim moldings offset against vivid colors on the walls.
The curtain I made to cover the ugly shelf in the hallway.
The coffee shop around the corner with free wireless access for my laptop. The fact that it is quiet enough for me to work, and that they know me so well, that I can leave my laptop there for a few minutes to go move my car.
The Cali-Mexican restaurant wallpapered with posters and bumper stickers from the Grateful Dead. I’m originally from Los Angeles, access to good guacamole is as necessary as a proper demitasse of espresso is to a Parisian.
And speaking of the French…the patisserie with little treats from France and Great Britain.
The video store, where they know me so well that they don’t even ask for my card before I rent movies.
Trees really do grow in Brooklyn, and so does the Farmer’s Market which happens most every weekend when it is warm enough outside.
My dog gets one very long walk a week, either on Saturday or Sunday morning, and usually I see several neighbors who know me by name and who are either walking their own dogs or pushing a stroller.
My building’s super lives on the first floor and walks my dog for me when I’m traveling. She’s right there in case he howls or needs anything.
And yes of course, that I can live in an apartment with my dog.
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Comments
I guess you become old as soon as you admit you are old. My father is approaching 80 and he seems on death’s doorstep some days and yet others he is so full of cantankerous malice you would think he were still a teenager. More power to Nana.
Posted by: Mick Gordon | October 7th, 2006 12:56