When our realtor called the morning our buyers were to take the final “walk-through” of our Cambridge house, he told me that our basement had flooded overnight. I almost fainted.
He was kidding, but I wasn't amused.
When he called the next day to say that the closing had gone well, it was as if a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. It was also a moment of sadness because the home we had loved for twenty-three years was no longer ours.
The first week in our continuing care community with its hundred and fifty residents marked monumental change to our lives. Although our apartment is beginning to feel like home, it’s strange to be new where everyone knows everyone else and you don’t. It’s also strange to eat dinner in a “restaurant” with institutional cooking. On the other hand, I no longer have to ask Peter, “What would you like for dinner tomorrow?”.
We feel welcomed. A lovely couple that has taken charge of our “orientation,” had wine and cheese for eight before last Saturday night’s dinner. Every one there has also had an adjusting-to-moving story. One couple said that it took them six weeks to get someone to come set up the grandfather clock that had been dismantled for their move. They said that when they heard its first chimes, they finally felt “at home”.
Today, I have many fewer packed cartons than I did a week ago. I know my way to the gym and the garage. I know some names. It’s a start.