Moving In

            For Kim, moving in means making decisions –  how to organize the kitchen with its limited storage, what furniture to bring down from Michigan and where to place it when it gets here, what furniture we need to buy, what colors to paint the walls, what artwork to place where, how well the various major appliances work, how to use bathroom space most efficiently, etc. For her, it’s a grand creative opportunity, one that uses her massive artistic and domestic skills. Think of doing a painting, but instead of moving paint around, you are arranging all the details that give your life quality.

 

            For me, it was, at first, quite a bit simpler. After a day or two I had what I needed: a bed, a coffee pot, and a wi-fi connection. Kim soon let me know that this did not complete the process. I also got all of our utilities set up on auto-pay. But still, I am getting a sense that all of my work does not happen on my computer.

 

            And it goes beyond our unit in our building. We are setting up all of our medical appointments – a dentist, a dermatologist, an oncologist, Kim’s monthly chemo-, our primary care doctor (who, we discovered, is a gerontologist!). Plus, someone to cut our hair, which happens to be downstairs from a nearby tattoo parlor. Thanks to Genne´, who lives one floor above us, we are learning how to get to the various grocery stores we need, where we can find a Home Depot, an Ace Hardware, a good bakery, a liquor store, and our doctors. 

 

            We are making progress. Last week we finally replaced our ailing toilets with two that work, and we got the “comfort height” models that make it possible for us to get off the seat when we are finished. We replaced the washer and dryer, appliances that probably were installed 50 years ago. We installed a reverse osmosis unit under the kitchen sink to protect us from questionable water.

 

            We’ve also learned that a big part of moving in has to do with moving into a city. Part of it is the traffic, which includes jammed roads and very aggressive drivers. And the sounds are different here. Instead of the wind in the trees and waves on the beach, we regularly hear sirens and speeding motorcycles just outside our windows, plus the nearby trains. And there is also an element of risk that we did not experience Up North. We have lots of security here in the Stacks, with fences and gates, passwords and “fobs” that unlock the doors into each building. But last week a few people climbed a fence and broke into 17 cars, smashing the windows and looking for, what, guns? cash? sunglasses? Fortunately, Kim’s Handicap Parking tag and our supply of Kleenex and Covid face-masks were not touched.

 

            Moving in also means that I have to change my routines. (I’m all in favor of change, as long as I don’t have to do anything different.) I can’t keep my keys in my bedroom drawer, for two reasons: 1) I don’t have a bedroom drawer, as we won’t move our bedroom furniture down until the house sells, and 2) if the keys are not always in my pocket I will lock myself out. Some routines I have not abandoned. I still have my leftover coffee before breakfast, so as not to waste it, and I have a booster around 11 and another around 3, both accompanied by a snack of some kind, often sweet. We also start the day with a morning hug.

 

            Moving in has made me uncomfortably dependent on technology. My car’s GPS, named Gertrude, has become essential with my questionable memory and Atlanta’s size and traffic. And so much of the medical world happens through the My Chart app on the computer. An app on my phone is required to open the gate to let in visitors (if we had any), and another app to keep me in touch with the Stacks Book Group and Writing Group. I will go into technology challenges in a future blog post.

 

            Some days, to be honest, we long for our simpler life in the Bark House on Torch Lake, though the maintenance requirements and isolation are very real. We continue to plan where our Craftsman furniture will go when the house sells, and we are thinking about buying a small second unit in the Stacks so Kim can have an art room, we both can have storage, and guests have some privacy. Or maybe a place out of town where we are more in touch with birds and butterflies. We sometimes wonder if the move to Atlanta was a mistake.

 

            On the positive side, we have this really cool loft in the Stacks – a small thrill every time we walk in the door, and a lingering thrill feeling part of its history. We are enjoying our neighbors – folks who are drawn to a place like this –  as we slowly meet them and try to remember their names. We also are blessed to have Genne´ living so close – for her company, and for her ongoing help driving us around and showing us some of Atlanta’s cool places (yesterday: Piedmont Park and The Flying Biscuit Café´). It’s also an easy walk from our new home to some outstanding restaurants. Atlanta has a lot to offer that at this point we only suspect. Those speeding cars have to be in a hurry to get to somewhere appealing. And we found an Uber pick-up spot near our front door.

 

            This is the adventure we signed up for!

 

 

Doll’s Head Trail

            This post is not about Valley of the Dolls. No, it's about Doll's Head Trail - a distinctive art experience in Constitution Lakes Park, just outside of Atlanta.

            Located on the site of an abandoned 19^th-century brick factory, the nature preserve was bought by Dekalb County in 2003, and they began constructing trails. The Doll’s Head Trail itself is the creation of a local carpenter, Joel Slaton, who envisioned an art project created from discarded doll parts and other trash scattered around the site. For some reason, the site had been used as a dumping ground for years, and flooding also, somehow, produced more art objects - one source said from homes that were flooded. Slaton turned it all into a found art experience, and he encouraged visitors to make their own contributions, but only objects found on the site – not brought in from outside. As the sign on the trailhead says, “Litter makes the angels cry.”

 

            Here are some samples of what Kim and I saw:

             

Do you have a favorite?

Some of you may find these creepy. Perhaps, but they also say something to me about mortality - what Time does to us, and how there is a kind of beauty in what happens. A creepy beauty, perhaps . . ..

 

 

Catch

    My brother Bob and I used to play catch, when we were maybe ten years old. The rules are simple: You get a baseball and your baseball glove, stand about 40 feet apart, and throw the ball back and forth. There is no keeping score, no winners or losers. Nobody tries to burn them in too hard for a brother to catch safely. The competitive stuff came later. 

     After the invitation to play, there was usually no conversation – at least, none that I can recall. The invitation was brief: One of us would ask, “Have a catch?” Later this got shortened to “Havva?” Then out we would go to the back yard. I don’t remember where we kept our ball and gloves.

    This was a guy relationship. Girls – and now women – usually knit together their relationship through conversation. You know, “How are you doing?” or “What’s new with you?” or “How was your trip?” or even “How’s your love life?” All are some version of “How are you feeling?” It is no surprise that most of these conversations require the women to talk about their feelings.

    I admit that these were adult women I heard talking. My sister always dragged the phone into her bedroom so nobody could overhear her girl talk, so I don’t know if young girls talk about their feelings. All of which makes me wonder how guys can best re-create the kind of “communication” Bob and I experienced when having a catch. Some ideas:

• Hunting. I don’t hunt, but I picture two guys sitting silently in their tree stands, maybe a quarter of a mile apart. This constitutes “hunting together.”

• Fishing works about the same way, except in some cases the guys find themselves in the same boat, which makes it tough.

• Jigsaw puzzles. This can be a co-ed activity, but it only works if the conversation is only about the puzzle itself.

• Watching sports on television. Yes, there can be an expression of feelings, but they are feelings about the game. There is a kind of bonding, but it’s an external bonding. Like having a catch. Or, maybe it’s deeper than that – hard to say because the guys don’t talk about it. Wearing a shirt or hat associated with the same team constitutes a similar non-verbal bonding.

 • Tennis. This can work because there is some kind of interaction, but being separated by a net allows you to avoid anything like conversation about your feelings. Throwing your racquet may count as an expression of feelings, though not about human relationships. The problem is that after the match is over, it’s natural to have a cold drink together, which might lead you to, you know, talk about your feelings.

 • Drinking. Two guys enjoying a drink together don’t need to talk. Or so I imagine. This is why guys like drinking at a bar – no need to interact with the person next to you, for you are probably just looking straight ahead at a mirror or some bottles.

• Music. One of the best times of my life was when I was part of a jazz combo. We didn’t talk much if at all, except through the music. We connected.

    I remember that a friend of mine, a woman, told me about a conversation with her doctor. She complained to him that her husband, a patient of the same doctor, seemed distant, unaware of the beautiful life they could be sharing, and non-communicative about what is going on emotionally within him. The doctor’s response: “So, you wish your husband were gay?” No wonder so many of us men are screwed up, and why relationships are so difficult.

The Stacks

            Our condo is in one of the buildings that made up the Fulton Bag and Cotton Mill, originally constructed between 1881 and 1888, then recycled as condos and apartments beginning in 1997. It is the eighth oldest building in Atlanta.

Much of the charm of the old buildings remains. 

 

 

            It’s clear, even from a distance, why the complex is known as the Stacks.

 

 

           

A number of items from the factory are still here.

 The following photos show the unit we purchased. Come on in - here's the front door to our building:

The photos show how the condo was furnished and decorated by the previous owner, but you can see the bones. We are starting to bring in our own stuff – more photos will come, perhaps, when we sell the Bark House and bring more furniture and treasures to our place.

 

 

This is my office area, formerly an elevator shaft. We call it "the Crow's Nest" because of our fondness for crows.

This tower is the top of a unit we almost bought. Spectacular, yes, but the 120-foot ceiling in the living room would make the room hard to heat.

            We are happy that our new housing is recycled. Recycling takes place on another level as well: Down at the end of the hall, near the mailroom, is a place where people can leave items that they no longer want, or no longer have room for. We have left off a number of things that just don’t fit here with our limited storage space in the kitchen or anywhere else. And we’ve picked up some good stuff, too – a couple of footstools, a flowerpot, some dishes, a few books. It occurs to me that Kim and I are also being recycled. That's better than the dumpster.

Cabbagetown

            We have moved into a neighborhood of Atlanta known as Cabbagetown. In the 1880s a cotton mill was built in the city (now converted into loft homes), along with a number of small houses for the workers, mostly Scottish and Irish recruited from Appalachia. As the story goes, one day a truck carrying cabbages tipped over, and the residents took the spillage home, and soon the neighborhood was filled with the odor of boiled cabbage. Outsiders applied the derisive name “Cabbagetown,” which the residents happily adopted.

 

            Cabbagetown today wears its name with pride. The most obvious sign of this is the number of murals painted on the walls along Carroll Street. (Interesting fact about the street is that it’s two-way but allows curb-side parking, so it’s only wide enough for one car at a time. This, in Cabbagetown, leads to courtesy.) Cabbagetown promotes a number of events, such as The Stomp and Chomp Festival and two annual mural projects. An indirect indication of Cabbagetown pride is a bumper sticker I saw: “Keep Cabbagetown shitty.” The place has a hippy vibe.

 

            Here are a few of the murals we saw:

Welcome to Cabbagetown

a few of our neighbors

a shop on Carrol Street

This is a painting of the house directly across the street.

These murals are on a long wall next to our buildings in the Stacks.

How can you not love it here?
 

Let the Adventure Begin!

             I am writing from Atlanta – more specifically, the Cabbagetown community in Atlanta, where Kim and I have been living for a couple of weeks. I’ll write more about our new home in future posts. For now, though, I want to describe the transition process.

            As some of you may know, the sale of our Bark House fell through three days before closing, and so we had to back out from our move to a condo on the edge of Traverse City. We decided to opt for more adventure and, with encouragement from Genne´, who wanted her mom close, we chose a loft in Atlanta. I flew down mid-December to see it for the first time and closed on it a day later. Kim trusted me with the decision, reasoning that with her cancer, I might end up living there alone. So, we drove to a home that Kim had never seen – believe it or not, the second time in our marriage this had happened.

 

            The idea was and is to make this chapter of our life exciting and creative. We could have remained holed up in our house, doing chores and watching too much television. Why not start fresh, in a cool new place, meet a bunch of new people, and use Kim’s creativity to make our loft both livable and remarkable. It will be good for us, right? We’ll see . . ..

 

            Packing the car was part of the adventure. We needed to leave enough of our stuff behind so the house would appeal to prospective buyers, and so that we would be able to live there when we returned in April. Kim did all the packing box after box. I was in charge of hauling boxes out to the garage for the movers, and after the loaded and left, more boxes out to our car (fortunately, a mini-van) for the long drive south. We managed to squeeze everything in, even a Christmas fern that was blooming. I left myself a small window for my rear view mirror.

 

            The drive to Atlanta was 1,000 miles. We left with about two feet of snow on the ground, and the first hundred miles or so featured some ice and drifting snow on the road. After that, it was smooth sailing – at least, until we got to Atlanta’s legendary traffic. We spent three nights on the road, allowing us time for plenty of stops. For me, the worst event on the trip was stopping at a toll bridge in Indianapolis. In order to pay the 90-cent toll, I had to learn how to scan a hieroglyph on a screen. Failing that, I had to put my dollar bill in a slot I couldn’t find. A voice on the “Help” channel explained how to do that, but then I had to pick up my ten cents of change in a place I couldn’t reach without leaving the car – my seatbelt preventing me from leaning out the door. The people in line behind me were kind enough not to honk their horns.

 

            Otherwise, as I said, smooth sailing. I became reliant on Gertrude, the name we gave to the GPS voice in our car.

 

            Atlanta was a challenge. We had planned to drive in on Sunday morning, when the traffic would be light, but the snow in Michigan made us delay our departure, so we entered Atlanta as part of Monday morning rush-hour. I can’t tell you how we (Kim, Gertrude and I) got through it. The highway featured maybe a dozen lanes, sometimes more, and we had to scan a wall of signs to find our way. We noticed right away how aggressive the Atlanta drivers are, with black pick-up trucks tailgating in a dangerous way, and some sort of small white cars passing us on the right, often when we were trying to change lanes to exit I-75. We learned then, and over the next few weeks that for many Atlanta drivers, traffic laws are only suggestions.

 

            But we made it. Genne´ helped us through the security system to get us through a couple of gates, and she let us park in her reserved spot next to the door into the building. Let the adventure begin!

My 80s?

            I thought when I hit my 80s I would settle into a more or less comfortable routine. Yes, there would be health concerns, and perhaps some mobility and memory issues, but Kim and I would have a home, maybe a condo, perhaps with help available from family and friends, or perhaps with some hired help. But we would be settled.

 

            Well, it’s not been that kind of year! We have made offers on ten different homes, but nothing has led to a purchase. In some cases it was because of the contractor’s inspection. Sometimes it was our inspection. Sometimes we were outbid. I’ve written before about how our pulling out of a planned purchase of a co-op in Ann Arbor, when we discovered some serious problems that had been hidden from us, cost us $15,000 in earnest money. But we were feeling pretty good these last few weeks because we had a firm offer to purchase our Bark House, and we were due to close on October 11, and with that in mind we made an offer on a condo in Traverse City. But our buyers pulled out three days before closing. And they hired an attorney to say they would not relinquish their earnest money – a substantial amount. Fortunately, our realtor’s company had an attorney to argue why we should get that all that earnest money. We have three times had to forfeit some or all of our earnest money deposit, and it’s time we got some back. We also had to pull out of our deal to purchase the Traverse City condo.

 

            What makes this especially difficult, in addition to the financial burden (forfeited earnest money, costly contractor’s inspections, some legal fees), is our emotional investment. With each of the houses there is an investment in imagining how we will live, and what we need to do to make it happen. Kim, especially, decorates these future homes during her insomnia hours – choosing paint colors, selecting furniture, deciding what we will take, what we will try to sell, what needs replacing, etc. She also has spent a lot of her late nights packing stuff that we were going to move to the condo. We had contacted a mover and reserved a storage unit. After the cancellation we spent a few wonderful days looking (online) at a spectacular condo in Atlanta, converted from an old cotton mill. (The development is called the Stacks, if you want to look it up.) It’s where our daughter lives, and that is very appealing, but we finally concluded that its 1 bedroom, 1 bathroom size would not work for us, despite the 71 foot ceiling, and we are too old for the snowbird drive. We made an offer, pulled out, then remade it, then pulled out again. We are a realtor’s nightmare.

 

            So now we are right where we were a year ago: in a home we love but is a lot of work. No prospects for selling it – and we can’t sell it while our failed buyer is contesting the forfeiture of the earnest money. We have gone back to our morning search of listings in Traverse City, Ann Arbor, and now, Atlanta.

 

            It’s exhausting. Fortunately, we are each pretty good at helping each other with stress – an affliction that hits me harder than it does my practical wife. I’m fond of my comfortable routines. It was Kim who suggested, in response to intense encouragement from our daughter, to make this last chapter of our life an adventure. Let’s really have fun and do some cool stuff! Let’s move to that awesome condo in the Stacks in Atlanta! I made an offer and felt a rush of excitement – or was it anxiety? I figured that I can probably make the transition to excitement if I can find the Fast Forward button to get me through the real estate transactions and the move. But then my practical but dull brain kicked in, and I withdrew my offer – fortunately, before earnest money was involved.

 

            Now, what? Is the universe telling us to stay in our beloved Bark House, in spite of the isolation and the amount of work involved?

 

            But wait! We found another condo on the Stacks, and it cost less than the Tower unit, is a bit bigger, and is on the first floor, not the fifth. We are making an offer . . ..

 

            Stay tuned!

 

                        “If you are not in transition, you are in denial.”