Don’t let Growing Old …
… get you down,
because it’s too damned difficult to get back up.
We Live in a Sheltered Bubble
We don’t have to battle the vagaries of life and living facing the rest of the universe. Mention rising taxes, inflationary grocery prices and burgeoning traffic and you get answers like “I don’t drive anymore” and “My daughter pays all the bills.” That’s life in a senior-living community, more affectionately known as “an old-farts’ facility.”
Jack Reber’s nightly 919 report that embraces San Diego Union, Tribune and Union-Tribune alumni as well as survivors of a few other Copley publications keeps me apprised of some former colleagues’ behaps and I get the Wall Street Journal to read the editorial page and letters to the editor. Most of my news coverage comes out of my computer and I aim the TV remote at CNN, Fox, MSNBC and — sometimes — a local TV news station to stay up to date.
The AZ Republic is a poor excuse for a daily newspaper. It claims 2020 weekday circulation of 116,.000 and 337,900 on Sundays. With a metro Phoenix population topping 4.9 million, that figures out to approximately one out of every 40 people read the daily and one out of 15 get the Sunday edition. The Sunday circulation figure is 40,000 fewer than 2018 and the daily total is 14,000 lower. I couldn’t find any figure for digital circulation.
Fortunately, the need for getting news is not top-priority here at Sunrise of Gilbert. The inmates are more focused on what nibbles we’re getting for happy hour. And why there’s a rwo-drink limit.
Catching Up is Hard to Do
This will be an introduction to my world since we were blocked from this blog in the summer of 2018.
I’m ensconced in a roomy one bedroom apartment in Sunrise of Gilbert, an independent- and assisted-living complex about a mile and a quarter south of downtown Gilbert, one of the two dozen cities that comprise Maricopa County, Arizona, probably better known as metro Phoenix with more than 4.5 million people.
It came to light in a recent conversation that Phoenix is one of the few, if not the only, major U.S. cities that does not have a Little Italy.
The move to this 144-unit building that houses up to 172 people was made 4 1/2 years ago as part of the Californians’ exodus to Nevada, Utah, Texas, and Arizona, turning this long-time staunchly red state into a California-like blue one. Much has changed since the move so there’ll be more on that in the next few installments as I get back up to speed on blogging.
Life here is eventful because they’ve moved me into a volunteer spot as a community ambassador. There are three of us, one on each floor. Among other things, such as supporting staff at community-wide events and spreading the news of developments as they occur, we meet, greet and give an orientation session to newbies. And looking around the dining room now, there are more post-pandemic newbies than pre-pandemic residents here now. That gives you some idea of the turnover, from deaths and movements from this side of the building — independent-living — to the other side — assisted-living — where constant care is required and provided.
There are more than 300 Sunrise locations around the U.S. and Canada (they recently sold a few hundred properties in Britain) but only a handful offer both independent/assisted living services. The massive bulk are assisted-living only.
What stands out at Sunrise, according to the consensus, is the friendly neighborly feeling of each community. Our activities director Mary Weaver works her butt off coming up with events that divert and entertain — theater outings, drives to Jerome, regular shopping trips, jaunts to favorite restaurants, television and slide presentations, swimming-pool nights, BBQs, bingos, card-playing sessions, Western Days, andonandonandon…
I still get out for a bike ride every day, anywhere from three to 8 miles, depending on how I feel, the weather and time of day. Some days I skip it all together. Today, I stopped by the Post Office to mail a couple of packages, picked up a prescription at CVS and stopped at Albertson’s to pick up some chicken wings.
When I got home, computer guru Steve Gubka was waiting in the lounge with news: “I got into your blog,” he said.
We spent the next 90 minutes getting my blog open and me familiar with its new look and operation. And that’s how you got this.
-30-
The Blogger’s Back…
It’s been quite awhile since we last posted here. And a lot has happened since.
Don’t know wot happened way back then but we’ll get you caught up on happenings …
Scary Day …
… yesterday . Bev had terrible time trying to breathe early in morning but improved as the day progressed. Calling for more shots of morphine. The hot-and-humid monsoon weather isn’t helping. Plan to discuss steps-to-come with hospice and long-term-care insurance folks in next few days.
Interesting to note she’s monitoring her own progress in this blog — so, if anyone has a response, they can do so here and she’ll see it.
Mike called before his trip: he’s flying to Toronto tomorrow for Lou’s b’day Thursday, Scaglione tribe picnic Saturday in Hamilton and gathering at Lou’s place next Sunday. Then it’s train to Windsor and final-day with a long-time friend in Ann Arbor the day before he leaves and gets back to Detroit airport two weeks from now. Lou called and he’s getting ready for the visit and the weekend activity. He and Jean are sked to be here in a month. We’re both looking forward to that, Bev much more so to chats with Jean and Lou.
Six Minutes that Changed my Life
The Windsor Star was considered one of the best — if not the best — Canadian newspaper outside of Toronto at the time. Our downtown office overlooked the mile-wide Detroit River separating us from downtown Detroit.
I had been there less than a year when I bashed out some words to show the city editor what a waste of time it had been to assign a photographer and me to cover a God-knows-what-it-was-about conference on a topic no one gave a lick about at a local college. My chore was to write down the names, addresses, titles, etc. of photographed subjects. While we corralled them, I got conversation going by asking what the heck these people did and who wrote the bafflegab in the pile of papers shoved at me as we entered the conference hall.
While waiting for photos to be developed back at the office, I spun a sheet of copy paper into my typewriter and pounded out a piece on how stupid the whole thing sounded as I copied titles I didn’t understand taken at random from that bundle of papers I hauled back to the office. I flipped the copy onto the city editor’s desk on my way to the can and to get a cup of coffee, in that order. The writing exercise took almost six minutes.
As I ambled by the city editor on the way back to my desk, I heard him snicker. He never chuckled or laughed or guffawed – he snickered. He said, “Scag, this is pretty good,” and tucked it into the pneumatic tube that whooshed it up to the composing room to be set in type. The story ran word-for-word just as it was bashed out, wrapped around a small box explaining there was this strange conference in town. For some reason, we never ran a photo.
Several months later, the city editor called me to his desk and said he’d just learned the essay had won a major Canadian journalism award for humorous writing. It took a bit of time for both of us to recover from being pleasantly agape. That win vaulted me to the top tier of newspaper, magazine, radio and television news gatherers and writers on both sides of the river. Job offers began fluttering in by phone, letter, telegram and impromptu conversation. Those six minutes enabled me to pick the spots I wanted from then on where and when I wanted them. My first hop was to the Detroit News – the largest afternoon daily in the U.S. at the time.
This is the Windsor Star piece that opened that door.
Bev enjoyed . . .
. . . the kids’ and grandkids’ visit to watch the July 4 fireworks from our third-floor balcony.
The show was a bit disappointing because the sparkling showers were nowhere near as robust as last year’s, which had prompted the suggestion they come here to view the kaleidoscopic displays here this year.
No matter, the visit was grand and everyone enjoyed the buffalo wings. Shot several buffalo – they looked like bison — earlier in the day for their wings and added sauces to please everyone’s taste – Melia’s, Dean’s, Heather’s, Steve’s, Bev’s and mine.
AND, Steve installed an air-deflector over the bedroom air vent before he and Dean re-connected our desktop computers with our printer, which had refused to talk to them after some sort of electrical glitch late last week.
They Threw Me Out of . . .
. . . the bridge club here because I kept asking “What’s Trump?.”
A Good Day!!!
Not only did The Bev get to go shopping, she got herself a La Z Boy recliner that does everything but pay our taxes. It’s hand control directs its recline position, body massager and heating pad. The color — a beige-brown that fades into any situation — wasn’t her top choice but to wait for her No. 1 pick would have taken six weeks. The chosen chair is sked to be delivered this Saturday.
It was our first outing with me pushing her in the transport wheelchair and she wasn’t all that laudatory about my driving skill. But things will work out.
Closet Clothes-Out
Bev and Heather spent a good portion of the p.m. Saturday gleaning clothing to keep and clothing to take out of her Sunrise of Arizona closet. The pile fills an oversize trash bag.
She’s keeping it for a couple of weeks to let friends go over the selections before wheeling it off to Goodwill.
She said she’s going to attack her shoe collection next.
The fear is that all this will bring on a massive shopping attack.
Mature Life Features 