KindredFlame
Twisted Essayist
- Joined
- Jan 27, 2019
- Posts
- 406
The idea is Jerry. Oh read the start it tells you. 
My name is Jerry. I have just turned 50 and I am a widower. I have two daughters – one married, and the youngest away at college. I decided, with their consent, to sell up the family home and move into an assisted living apartment. It is not that I am feeble or anything; I just looked at my situation and decided that having a community around me would feel better than living alone in a house that has no family in it.
My apartment is not massive, but it has a master bedroom with an en-suite bathroom and a guest room, a large living space with an integrated kitchen area. However, good group meals are part of the package. My facility also has extensive gardens where, for a small fee, they offer lessons in yoga, tai-chi, golf, archery, and many other things for those of a mind to join in. Inside, there are clubs like chess, poker, knitting, and so on. I always wanted to learn how to play chess, so this was one of the first clubs I joined. As it worked out, I was the youngest to be part of the community, and as I was single at the weekly dance social, my dance card was often full before the event started. I became friends with two other single men, Roger and Arthur, both great guys who also were high on the dance card lists of many of the ladies.
The chess club was certainly an experience. Most of the players had been at it for decades, their minds as sharp as the pawns on the board, even if their hands sometimes trembled a little when moving a rook. I was, to put it mildly, terrible at first. My opening moves were clumsy, my middle game a mess of misplaced pieces, and my end game usually resulted in a swift checkmate from my opponent, often delivered with a twinkle in their eye. Mrs. Henderson, a delightful woman with a shock of white hair and a reputation for ruthless efficiency on the board, took me under her wing. "Jerry, my boy," she’d say, tapping a finger on a square, "you're thinking too much about what you want to do, not enough about what he wants to do." It was a slow process, but I loved it. The camaraderie, the quiet concentration, the occasional hoot of triumph or sigh of defeat – it was exactly the kind of focused, low-stakes mental stimulation I'd been craving.
But if chess was for the mind, the dance socials were for the soul. Held every Friday evening in the grand common room, they were surprisingly lively affairs. A proper band – usually a trio with a keyboard, saxophone, and drums – played everything from big band swing to foxtrots and even some gentle rock and roll. Roger, a tall, impeccably dressed man with a mischievous grin, was a fantastic dancer, gliding across the floor with an effortless grace. Arthur, a burly, good-natured fellow with a booming laugh, preferred the more robust numbers, often leading his partners in enthusiastic, if sometimes slightly off-beat, jives.
As for me, I had learned a few basic steps over the years, enough to keep from tripping, but the sheer demand for a male partner here made me feel like Fred Astaire. I’d find myself booked solid, moving from one elegant lady to another, some with walkers parked discreetly by the side of the dance floor, others still spry enough to out-spin me. There was Mrs. Davies, who taught me a passable waltz, and Eleanor, who had a surprisingly strong grip and a penchant for singing along loudly to every song. Roger, Arthur, and I often found ourselves laughing over a shared ginger ale during a break, comparing notes on dance partners and the latest community gossip. "Jerry, I swear Mrs. Gable has the highest kick in the entire facility," Arthur once chuckled, wiping his brow. Roger winked, "Ah, but have you tried the cha-cha with Phyllis? She'll wear out your shoe leather."
It wasn't just the dancing or the chess, though. It was the constant hum of life. Walking through the gardens, I’d often stop to chat with someone tending a small plot of herbs, or watch a tai-chi class move in slow, deliberate unison. The group meals felt less like an obligation and more like a daily reunion, a chance to hear stories from lives lived long and full. I found myself listening intently to tales of wartime rationing, cross-country train journeys, and the dizzying changes of the past century. Here, at 50, I was often the youngest, but never felt like an outsider. In fact, I felt like a bridge, connecting my own still-active life with the rich tapestry of experiences around me. It was only a few months, but already, the house that had once felt so empty was a distant memory. This place, my new home, was anything but.
My name is Jerry. I have just turned 50 and I am a widower. I have two daughters – one married, and the youngest away at college. I decided, with their consent, to sell up the family home and move into an assisted living apartment. It is not that I am feeble or anything; I just looked at my situation and decided that having a community around me would feel better than living alone in a house that has no family in it.
My apartment is not massive, but it has a master bedroom with an en-suite bathroom and a guest room, a large living space with an integrated kitchen area. However, good group meals are part of the package. My facility also has extensive gardens where, for a small fee, they offer lessons in yoga, tai-chi, golf, archery, and many other things for those of a mind to join in. Inside, there are clubs like chess, poker, knitting, and so on. I always wanted to learn how to play chess, so this was one of the first clubs I joined. As it worked out, I was the youngest to be part of the community, and as I was single at the weekly dance social, my dance card was often full before the event started. I became friends with two other single men, Roger and Arthur, both great guys who also were high on the dance card lists of many of the ladies.
The chess club was certainly an experience. Most of the players had been at it for decades, their minds as sharp as the pawns on the board, even if their hands sometimes trembled a little when moving a rook. I was, to put it mildly, terrible at first. My opening moves were clumsy, my middle game a mess of misplaced pieces, and my end game usually resulted in a swift checkmate from my opponent, often delivered with a twinkle in their eye. Mrs. Henderson, a delightful woman with a shock of white hair and a reputation for ruthless efficiency on the board, took me under her wing. "Jerry, my boy," she’d say, tapping a finger on a square, "you're thinking too much about what you want to do, not enough about what he wants to do." It was a slow process, but I loved it. The camaraderie, the quiet concentration, the occasional hoot of triumph or sigh of defeat – it was exactly the kind of focused, low-stakes mental stimulation I'd been craving.
But if chess was for the mind, the dance socials were for the soul. Held every Friday evening in the grand common room, they were surprisingly lively affairs. A proper band – usually a trio with a keyboard, saxophone, and drums – played everything from big band swing to foxtrots and even some gentle rock and roll. Roger, a tall, impeccably dressed man with a mischievous grin, was a fantastic dancer, gliding across the floor with an effortless grace. Arthur, a burly, good-natured fellow with a booming laugh, preferred the more robust numbers, often leading his partners in enthusiastic, if sometimes slightly off-beat, jives.
As for me, I had learned a few basic steps over the years, enough to keep from tripping, but the sheer demand for a male partner here made me feel like Fred Astaire. I’d find myself booked solid, moving from one elegant lady to another, some with walkers parked discreetly by the side of the dance floor, others still spry enough to out-spin me. There was Mrs. Davies, who taught me a passable waltz, and Eleanor, who had a surprisingly strong grip and a penchant for singing along loudly to every song. Roger, Arthur, and I often found ourselves laughing over a shared ginger ale during a break, comparing notes on dance partners and the latest community gossip. "Jerry, I swear Mrs. Gable has the highest kick in the entire facility," Arthur once chuckled, wiping his brow. Roger winked, "Ah, but have you tried the cha-cha with Phyllis? She'll wear out your shoe leather."
It wasn't just the dancing or the chess, though. It was the constant hum of life. Walking through the gardens, I’d often stop to chat with someone tending a small plot of herbs, or watch a tai-chi class move in slow, deliberate unison. The group meals felt less like an obligation and more like a daily reunion, a chance to hear stories from lives lived long and full. I found myself listening intently to tales of wartime rationing, cross-country train journeys, and the dizzying changes of the past century. Here, at 50, I was often the youngest, but never felt like an outsider. In fact, I felt like a bridge, connecting my own still-active life with the rich tapestry of experiences around me. It was only a few months, but already, the house that had once felt so empty was a distant memory. This place, my new home, was anything but.
