My favorite old house in my mother’s hometown that I’ve passed countless times, walking or in my car. About ten years ago it came up for sale.
I walk up the steps to the porch after a long day at work, tired but glad to be home. The streets are quiet, the sounds of children gone from the sidewalks. I notice again the tall oaks lining the street and the way they arch and form a canopy.
The porch is inviting. I am tempted to drop everything and rock awhile in one of the chairs that look out on the street.
But I go inside. This house is more than 100 years old, built around the turn of the last century. It has a small entry hall with a coat stand and hat rack. Not that I have a hat or anything. To the left is the parlor, to the right the living room which I have turned into a study.
Soon a fire will be crackling in the fireplace. I will glance at the shelves of books and select a few to read from after supper. I will put on some nice Mozart adagios to sooth and relax me.
Before much longer I have something on the stove cooking for supper. Music drifts in from the study. The old house feels good, secure and comfortable. There’s a very slight musty, antique smell which I like. Time worn. Generations have come and gone in this house. It has character, personality.
After supper, I settle in my recliner chair. The clock on the mantlepiece chimes the hour. I am lost in thought.
Night sinks deeper into the evening. Embers in the fireplace glow and still warm the room. I am alone in the house, as always. I relish the solitude. Soon, I fall asleep in my chair.
(Written on Feb. 10, 2005)
(Updated on May 15, 2026)
Twenty-one years later, my dream house obviously never appeared or became a reality. I’ve always rented and that’s what I’m doing today, ten years after retirement, and at 75, living on the fourth floor of a 55+ apartment community that is just the next stopover before assorted living or worse. Worse meaning a nursing home, if that, God forbid, should be in my future. I wouldn’t survive it, like most of the residents in those homes, cut off from their families.
I lived in my mother’s beautiful home downtown for ten years during the time I was taking care of her when she suffered from dementia, and while I finished my working life, but it was never “my”home in the sense of buying your own. I loved living downtown very much, but when Mom died, it was just a matter of time before my siblings and I had to sell the house. I miss walking in the garden, sitting on the front porch, and not having to see monthly rent payments disappear down a rathole.
I’m very happy where I live now. I pay the high rent. But there are no property taxes or home insurance premiums to pay as in home ownership.
The thing that weighs heaviest on my mind is how long I can I live here independently. There’s no one to prepare meals or help with any self -care or mobility issues.
I can actually see this small, cozy apartment with a balcony and a nature trail, three minutes by car to the grocery store, and one mile from my doctor, as the last place I live, if I get to the point where I need to hire home aides. It’s not a cheery thought, but it’s the best foreseeable option unless I mover across the country to be near my sister and her family. My brother and his wife are here, so I’m presently not all alone.
Yes, a lot can happen in 20 years, and a lot has. Much to think about and reminisce, but preparing mentally emotionally and physically for the final years is not something I want to dwell on, even as I try to be prepared for any and all contingencies. I keep informed about everything, I think I need to know, but beyond that, at my age, worry is simply futile and destructive.
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