Better Near Than Far

Although I love to leave the city in the summer, there’s no other place I’d rather live for the rest of the year, especially now that I’m retired. Everything is only a walk—or a bus or train ride–away. For Richard, who’s crippled with chronic arthritis, he can use his motorized scooter to go to the library, the supermarket, and even the doctor across town. My daughter and her family live directly next door to me in this lovely, family-friendly building on the Upper West Side, and I can usually count on meeting someone I know as I walk along Broadway. My kind of town.

I’ve never felt alone, even as an only child. I grew up in a boarding house, surrounded by people of all ages and genders. Aunts, uncles and cousins lived close by. Even though my mother spent six months at a rest home upstate recuperating from a nervous breakdown when I was seven, and my father died from tuberculosis when I was 13, there always were people around to help take care of me. Having them around—blood-related or not—made a big difference.

I feel the same way at 84. My daughter lives next door to me with her husband and two children, a small miracle in today’s options of living arrangements in New York City. We didn’t plan to live adjacent to one another; in fact, it never occurred to us—until the opportunity presented itself. Also unplanned, I live in a building that is family-friendly, with a community of people who care and look out for one another. We don’t talk every day, but I know they are there and can call on them if needed. A bit like the boarding house I grew up in.

My son Tom, and his wife Sara and three kids, live in Takoma Park, MD. I wish they lived closer, but it’s only a four-hour car drive away. They, too, value close family living:  Sara and her brother and sister and their families, live within three blocks of one another. Perhaps there’s something in our families’ collective DNA that prompts us to live close to one another.

Looking back, I’ve always been a home body. I’ve lived in the city all my life, including my four years of college at Hunter. I’ve had a few opportunities to live elsewhere, for professional reasons, but always chose to remain in New York. At first, to be near my widowed mother, but later because I didn’t want to leave so many good friends. The idea of adjusting to a new environment and making new friends seemed an unnecessary hardship.

During my professional years as a fundraiser at Fordham, I made many trips to Florida to thank our donors. Most of them were elderly couples who had moved from the northeast to retire on Florida’s sunny shores. All of them had left families behind—children, grandchildren, sisters and brothers, nieces and nephews, and longtime friends. “Why did you decide to live so far from your families,” I’d ask. The answer was always the same: “When my husband retired, he insisted on moving to Florida to play golf and live the good life,” the wife would say, “but I wasn’t happy about it.” Some would go further and say “I’m grateful for all he’s done, but it’s been hard to make friends here and I miss the kids.” I was always glad to get back home to my family and friends.

Many years ago, when my first husband was offered a high level job in Minneapolis, he turned it down to stay near our families. My second-and-forever husband, Richard, feels the same way and is just one of the reasons I married him. On top of which he hates Florida, except for escaping the cold for two weeks in February. He hates golf, too, but enjoys a game of tennis—on television. Most important, I know that if we ever moved, it would be a joint decision.

Richard’s son and his wife live 30 minutes north of us, along the Palisades. Last year they considered moving to North Carolina for lucrative business reasons, but decided to stay put, and travel to and from Charlotte as often as necessary.

When Richard and I retired, we assessed the increased value of our apartment and what we could sell it for. We were tempted to move out of the city and bank the change and had several options to consider–Columbia County, Cape Cod, and the Berkshires. But we thought: “Where better than New York City?” The subway station and bus stop are on the next block, and food stores, restaurants, bakeries, libraries, banks, theaters, movies, museums and parks abound in all directions. If we were to move to a suburban or rural area, I’d have to drive everywhere. At 84, I still love to drive but it’s not great for my aching back; instead, I benefit from the exercise of a daily walk—to the supermarket, the bakery, the cleaners, the library, or taking the train or bus to the pool.

In the suburbs, Richard’s crippling arthritis would keep him at home, whereas in the city he can enjoy some degree of independence by using his motorized scooter to get around. He honks and waves at other scooter riders along Broadway, like Volkswagen Beatle drivers used to do, enjoys conversing with riders in the elevator, and talking at length with our doormen when he goes down to the lobby to get the mail.

Most of all, Richard prides himself on helping me shop for food: he can hang three or four bags of food on the scooter’s handle bars, which saves me from lugging a shopping cart to and from the store. Food clerks recognize Richard in his scooter, and greet him with a cheery “hello-how-are-you” as they ring up the items. In his own way, Richard has built a small community of acquaintances to help him get through the day.

Our love has gotten us through many a hard time. Still does, but our needs have always gone beyond just being together. We’ve loved, and we've needed, having family and friends nearby—still do—and we know when we’ve got it good.