So, I lug in this big armful of juniper for Old Smokey’s next feeding.
“Nothing like wood heat,” I say with a wheeze, peering through the haze at Fairy.
We’re in our cozy cabin in Arizona high country this wintry day and I’m busy talking myself out of shoveling the driveway. Wind will just blow it back in, I tell myself. Snowplow will be by in a matter of hours and just push it all back in anyway. It’ll be warmer tomorrow. Damn, I’m easy to convince.
It was about then that Fairy calls me over to the computer screen to show me this house we might be interested in. She’s been looking for some time. That’s what she does.
This one is down in Arizona’s low country, home of the Flatlanders as we proud mountain people call them. The house is in a new development, not too far from places with names such as Valley of the Sun. Paradise Valley. Sun Lakes. Carefree. Green Valley. You get the idea. Warm. Nesting places galore for snowbirds.
The way the sun glitters off the icicles hanging from the eaves helps me see the light. Fairy may be on to something.
Right off the bat, though, I see one potential problem with Fairy’s warm-weather retreat. This house she’s looking at is in a 55-or-older age-restricted community. It’s not that we’re unqualified in that department. We’re over-qualified actually. But surrounded by geezers? Fogies? Us? Ruled by a home-owners’ association?
Fairy’s well-worn argument that “it won’t hurt to check it out” wins the day and we stow the snow shovel, snowshoes, my prized ear-flap hat and make the five-hour drive down the mountain.
Turns out it’s a nice development. Clean. Manicured. New. Grass. Flowers. Sidewalks. Ponds. Parks. A feeling of safety. Warm. No snow. No fireplaces.
The developer has put together a list of questions, a quiz, to ask yourself to see if this kind of lifestyle is right for you. I give myself the test. It says a score of 80% and above means you’re making the right choice. I score zero.
The questions are aimed at being social, and mixing, and participating and joining in. Oh, Kumbaya. Everything I hate. Spare me.
I can’t explain what happened next. Fairy and I have our own real estate company. We always tell ourselves we know what we’re doing in these matters. We don’t always get it right, but more often than not we do.
On the spur of the moment, we buy a new two bedroom, two-bath home with an office and big garage on a large lot. The developer throws in a free golf cart to sweeten the deal. Unlike our mountain cabin, everything is new. And works!
And it turns out I was right. I hated it. Or at least I thought I hated it.
I thought I hated it because I thought other people expected me to be what I thought they wanted. Follow that? Of course not.
In short, to my surprise most everyone left me alone. There was pickle ball, bocce ball, ice cream socials, exercise classes, concerts, bus tours and on, and on and on.
Some people seem to thrive on that kind of stuff. I can do without. And do. There’s no pressure to join in. When I realized that, I quit hating it.
I take an occasional class, go to the gym, go swimming, go walking on the trails through the development. By myself usually. No one notices. No one cares. Just friendly waves, a cheery “hello,” a little chit-chat now and then.
There’s lot more to be said about active adult communities (lack of teenagers is a big topic), but that’s for another day. It’s not what I imagined, and that’s a good thing.
I’m sure Fairy will have a somewhat different view. She usually does. Just to annoy me.
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