Lighting Up
In the course of trying to find something that Bec left when she was here this past weekend, I came across the lights that we had hanging over our patio at our Olive Street house. I had purposely brought them because I thought they would be pretty hanging on our balcony. Like many other things, however, I didn’t know where they ended up once we moved. In fact, I wasn’t even sure they had made it to WC. But there they were! I was very excited. Bill spent much of yesterday hanging the lights on the patio. Unfortunately, when he pressed the “on” button, nothing happened. I’m not sure what happened, but now that I have that in my system, I will find it completely necessary to buy some new lights!

Sounds Shady to Me
Even before we moved into our apartment, I met with — and ordered shades from — a professional window covering designer. I admit that I have never — in all my adult years and despite having owned three houses — ordered window coverings from a professional. Valances were the way to go for me, even after being told that valances were no longer in style. But this time I decided to pull up my big-girl pants and work with a professional to cover my windows. After all, it was the windows that drew me to this place, and I wanted something that showed them off the best. We met, she advised, I ordered, and I went home feeling awful about the money we were spending on window coverings. The installers came last week. After working for over an hour, they came to me to break the news that the shades were too wide. Whoever measured the windows did a very, very bad job, it seems. It seems to me that when you have one job — measuring perfectly normal windows — you should do it right. So, just as I waited literally weeks to get my shades, I am now back again, waiting for my shades. Argh. I should have just gone to Walmart after all.

Peek-a-Boo
I have mentioned before that Google algorithms have determined that, while Bill gets fed news about the stock market and Russian aggression, I get fed stories about the royal family, the Denver Broncos, and fashions. I can understand the first two, but being about the least fashion-conscious person alive, I don’t know why I get fed fashion info. But that’s why I can tell you that apparently the newest Paris fashions feature this look…..

Doesn’t the first woman look so sad. Her shoulders are even slumping.

With that….Ciao!

With all of our celebrating behind us and nothing to do yesterday, we set off with our Wind Crest map to explore. We have been told that you can walk from one end of this campus to the other without ever stepping foot outside into the elements. We didn’t have to worry about the weather, however. It was a sunny, if somewhat chilly, day when we set off on our adventure.

You can’t know how much of an undertaking this is until you see Wind Crest. The campus is huge. In fact, campus is the correct word, because it’s as big as some college campuses. I imagine at some point, someone told me how many acres it is, but what I can tell you is that from the time you enter the gate, it takes in the neighborhood of 10 minutes to get to our front door. There are eight or 10 separate apartments in three (what they call) neighborhoods. Two swimming pools, three or four hair salons, two big fitness centers and several smaller fitness centers, seven restaurants (with more on the drawing board).

I’m going to digress for a bit. Bill and I have always been big map users. I recall being in Washington, D.C. one particular time. I had my son and and my nephew with me, and our goal was to walk from the Lincoln Monument to Georgetown. It’s quite a walk, as you might know. Still, it’s doable on a nice northern Virginia day. It wasn’t however, a nice Virginia day. It was a windy Washington, D.C. day. It was long before the days of GPS on a cell phone. I had my map out and we were walking in the general direction of Georgetown with the wind threatening to whip my map right out of my hands. Finally, after 20 minutes of struggling, some nice person asked me if I needed directions. I’m pretty sure he was the legislative assistant for a friendly midwestern Congressperson, because only midwesterners are that nice. Anyway, he saved the day, and we made it to Georgetown successfully.

I felt that way yesterday as we left the comfort zone of our “neighborhood” and headed into the “Twilight Zone,” map in hand. The difference between yesterday’s experience and the one from years ago was that every time we turned a corner (and we turned plenty of corners in the maze they call Wind Crest), there was a smiling face asking if we needed guidance. When we admitted that we were lost, the person would inevitably say, “Oh, I’ve lived her three years and I still get lost,” or “I’ve never been brave enough to walk all the way over to Town Center because I know I’d get lost.” But the person would either give us very clear directions or tell us to follow him or her and they would lead us to the next elevator.

On the way to Town Center, we passed pumpkins left from a recent carving contest. There were some very cleverly-carved pumpkins with our favorite being one bearing an uncanny likeness to the late Queen Elizabeth II. We grabbed forms to register at the WC Medical Center. We watched people getting COVID boosters at an event of which I was unaware. Had I been aware, we too would have been getting shots. We passed the WC Hobby Shop, locked up tightly. We peeked through the windows, however, and saw that people have been working on the majestic train sets that will be displayed at Christmas.

By time we were ready to turn around, I put my foot down and insisted we take the campus shuttle because my feet hurt and I was hungry.

I learned two things from our adventure. 1) If I want to attend any class or event at the Town Center, I should either plan on a good, long walk or drive my car; and 2) it is NOT true that you can walk the campus without going outside. We had to walk about 10 steps outside from one building to the next, so it ISN’T possible to walk the entire campus without stepping outside.

I feel somewhat betrayed. I hope my feet don’t get wet as I walk those 10 steps.

Since we arrived back in Denver at the beginning of May, it’s sort of felt like we were running a marathon. That’s probably not a great analogy. Still, we sort of hit the ground running and didn’t stop for several months. We, of course, spent most of the summer going through all of our things, tossing much, donating even more, putting green dots on everything we planned to bring with us, and begging our friends and relatives to take what was left. Still, there were three truckloads of things from which we just walked away and let someone else handle.

We finally moved into Wind Crest, and have spent the past three weeks or so getting settled into our new environment. Having a pinched nerve didn’t help one bit. It required me to sit and look at boxes of unpacked stuff longer than I would have wished.

I’m considerably better now, and we have started Ito really begin to get settled. We’re making friends, we’re getting lost less and less, I’m learning the system and the tricks necessary to maintain a pleasant life.

All of that was preparation for this past weekend. I can’t begin to describe the joy and fun and laughter we had celebrating my husband’s birthday. He was surrounded by ALL of his children, ALL of his grandchildren, his brother- and sisters-in-law, and many of his nieces and nephews. The Saturday party couldn’t possibly have been more joyous. There were lots of photos taken, none of which I’ve yet seen. (When I do, I will share.) Food and decorations and games and birthday cake (with an edible picture of his beloved Ferrari) and ice cream.

We were able to spend time with Heather and Lauren and the boys, who came all the way from Vermont to celebrate with their father/father-in-law/grandfather. The boys are growing up too fast, so I am thankful that they will be coming back for Christmas.

We also were able to spend time with my brother and his kids and grandkids (at least the ones who were able to come). They all came from AZ to party with their uncle and brother-in-law. Likewise, my sister Bec came to be part of the gang, and we were so happy that she was able to break in our new guest room.

A family gathering wouldn’t be a family gathering without Jen and her family. Maggie and Lilly came all the way from AZ as well to be with Bill (oh, and to see their mom/grammie). Jen and B.J. (along with his special friend Jen) rounded out the party numbers.

Now that things will be getting back to our new normal, I hope that I am a more consistent blogger. I thank all my readers for their patience.

Someone told me once that the thing that attracted you the most about your loved one is often the thing that drives you the craziest after 10 years of marriage. The thing that first attracted me to Bill was his sense of humor. He could — and did — see the funny side of everything.

It’s true that very often in the 30 years that we have been married, I have wanted to scream at him, “Just take this seriously for a change! Not everything is a joke!” (And yes, with the exclamation points.) But the truth is, almost everything has a funny side to it. Though I love to laugh as much as the next guy, I tend to see the serious side of almost everything. However, the sense of humor that drew me to him from the get-go has gotten us through a lot of difficult times.

Seeing the light side of things seems to be a McLain trait. I’m basing this on 30 years of experience with my husband and his three children. Years ago, I saw a cartoon that hit so close to home that I cut it out and it has been on my refrigerator for probably 20 years. It even made the cut, and is now on my fridge in our Wind Crest apartment. The husband says to the wife, “You look worried.” She answers, “I am. I try to worry about many things because most of the things that I worry about a lot don’t actually happen.” He responds, “All that worrying can’t be good for your health.” She say, “It isn’t. But don’t worry. I worry about that too.”

Boom. That’s Bill’s and my relationship in a cartoon moment.

Today is Bill’s birthday. He is 80. I wouldn’t necessarily mention his age, but he has been very forthright about it. He isn’t loving turning 80, but he is approaching it with his usual ease.

We all have an age that we consider old. Usually it’s 10 years older than whatever age you are. I think for Bill, he’s afraid it’s 80. He has said again and again, “I can’t believe I’m turning 80. I don’t feel like 80 years old.”

I’m pretty sure for that wonderful husband of mine, 80 years old won’t be any different than 79. He will still be smart, funny, kind, honest, sensible, imperturbable, tenacious, hard-working, and full of love. Full of love for his kids, his grandkids, his siblings, his family and his friends.

Parkinson’s disease has made him quieter, a bit slower, and somewhat more forgetful. But it hasn’t made him lose his sense of humor.

Happy birthday to Bill, who is still the man of my dreams.

I am writing this post on Monday night in a desperate effort to avoid watching the Broncos embarrass themselves on national television. I hope with all my heart that I have to eat my words. It’s true that Russell Wilson seemingly appears to have remembered that he is a quarterback and that quarterbacks throw passes to people wearing the same color jerseys as he. Still, the Broncos on national television can find ways to shoot themselves in the foot. Hope I’m wrong.

Monday was a very busy day. We actually had a freeze Sunday night, the first time it got that cold since springtime in the Rockies. When we moved to WC, I brought along my big pot that contains chives and thyme, two of the herbs I use the most. I also use a lot of basil, but I don’t have good luck growing basil in pots. At any rate, I brought it in for the night, but it looks like the temperature will be temperate for the next week or so. Back out on our balcony it will go to enjoy the fall sunshine.

And THAT is good news, because this week is Bill’s 80th birthday, and we’re having a very gay celebration on Saturday. Heather and Lauren and the boys are coming in from Vermont to help him celebrate. My brother and most of his family are coming in from AZ, as is my sister Bec and my niece Maggie and her daughter Lilly. It isn’t every day that you turn 80, and Bill is much-loved by all.

I don’t want to jinx anything, so I won’t mention that we had some very good news from the couple who looked at our Olive Street house Friday morning — the first day it was on the market. Suffice it to say that a bottle of champagne might be opened this weekend to celebrate something else besides just Bill’s B-day.

We live about a mile-and-a-half from what is referred to as Highland Ranch Town Center. It really is the center of the HR universe. EVERYTHING we are looking for is in that area. Our bank, our Target, our grocery stores, my hair salon, Bill’s Sports Clip, sushi, Shake Shack; I could go on and on. It’s a very simple drive from our house to that part of HR, and we have made the drive so many times that I think the car could drive by itself. What’s more, if I bring my scooter here in the spring, and if I pull up my big girl panties, I think I could ride my scooter to the grocery store. That would make me very happy.

Today’s blog was like Seinfeld — a post about nothing. Go Broncos.

We moved into our Olive Street house in 1993, shortly after Bill and I were married. The house was built in 1972, and the appliances had seen better days. I reckon, however, they were not the original. I’m basing that thought on the fact that they were white rather than avocado or brown. Perhaps the original owners were just able to see into the future and knew that burnt orange, brown, and avocado appliances were fads and not likely to ever appear again. (On the other hand, our upstairs bathroom housed a green sink and tub.)

One of the first things we did was replace all of our kitchen appliances, including the dishwasher, rangetop, both ovens, and the refrigerator. They were top of the line at the time. In the thirty years that followed, we had to replace the dishwasher and the fridge. The others still worked fine, though the ovens had to be tweaked on a couple of occasions. I held my breath, because double ovens seemingly don’t come in that size anymore. We replaced the white appliances with white appliances. White was the way to go in 1993.

We operated on what Bill and I called the WWWD, which stood for What Would Wilma Do. Wilma, of course, was Bill’s mother. She was not a tightwad, but as long as something worked, she kept it. When Bill’s dad was still alive, if something broke, he fixed it, and they continued to use it. My favorite example is that when Wilma moved into her independent living apartment in the mid- to late 2000s, she still used the original toaster that she and Rex had received as a wedding present. He had repaired it on numerous occasions, and it still worked fine. “Why would I need a new toaster when this one works perfectly?” she would ask her kids.

It did finally break down, and there was no Rex to repair it, so she bought a new toaster. It never worked quite as well, because new appliances don’t work as well as their sturdy ancestors. Why? Because they are all finicky computers rather than workhorses.

With Wilma in mind, we kept all of the appliances we bought in 1993 unless they stopped working.

We now have state-of-the-art appliances in our new apartment. They aren’t top of the line, but they are new and fancy-dancy, at least to me. Having had limited ability to use all of them, I’m basing this on the amount of beeping and chiming they all seem to do. Both my washer and dryer have little ditties they play, all which mean something: my door is ajar, I’m ready for fabric softener, I’m all finished, the clothes are all dry to your liking, do you really think you need that second Tootsie Roll.

The microwave is like another member of our family, at least based on how much communication it attempts. It communicates way more than my son Court ever did. I have little doubt that what it’s saying is something along the lines of were you raised by dinosaurs? We are struggling with understanding what we are supposed to do to get it to reheat our cups of coffee. We would tap 30 into our old microwave, and it would reheat the coffee for 30 seconds. Easy Peasy. Our new microwave requires us to provide a great deal more information than our golden oldie. Are you reheating leftovers? Perhaps you’re wanting to make some popcorn? Should I defrost those chicken thighs? What it does do, however, is beep and chime.

We will undoubtedly keep these appliances until — as they say here at Wind Crest — you leave for whatever reason.

Yesterday morning, I met with seven or eight women — all who live on the second floor of our building — as part of a get-to-know-us coffee. I now have seven or eight new friends.

We are settling in nicely, and that makes me smile.

Have a great weekend.

Ready for Memory Care Already?
My first thought is that I have been so discombobulated by our move that I have forgotten what day of the week it is. I forgot that yesterday was Thursday, and posted a regular blog instead of my Thursday Thoughts. I have done that before, and have been surprised at how many people really missed my Thoughts. Who woulda thunk it? My thoughts are really not very profound.

No Place Like Home
Both Bill and I have lived in southeast part of the city the entire time that we have lived in Denver. We know it like the back of our hands. And now we live in the southwest part of the metro area, and we are like ducks out of water. Slowly, but surely, we are learning what things are in our new ‘hood and where they are located. One thing we have both discovered we are doing is that, given our unfamiliar surroundings, we both forget that we are still in the Denver metro area. We feel like we are vacationing in another state. I was driving home from getting a pedicure (a new salon after going to the same salon near our former home for 30 years), and the light turned yellow. Not surprisingly, people continued to drive through the yellow light, and then the red. “Wow,” I thought to myself. “People here drive just like in Denver.” Duh. Later that day, I was in the grocery store and saw a young man wearing a CSU sweatshirt. “OMG,” I thought. “He’s from Colorado.” Duh to the second degree.

Making Friends
Thursday morning I went to a gathering of women from Summit Square, which is the apartment complex in which we live. The women couldn’t possibly have been more welcoming. Later, throughout the day, I would see some of the women in the hall, and they made a point of recognizing me and remembering my name. Later this morning, I will join a gathering of women from just the second floor of Summit Square. (You remember our slogan: Second To None; I’m hoping we don’t have a floor song or a secret handshake.) I never thought I would be the kind of person who would enjoy socializing with others. I admit that I am tired of smiling by the end of the day. Still, I am enjoying meeting new people, all who are friendly and very intelligent.

Rock Steady
When we are in Mesa, Bill enjoys the boxing program — Rock Steady — which is designed for people with Parkinson’s (or PWP as the lingo dictates). We were delighted to discover that Wind Crest offers such a program. Yesterday was the first day he was allowed to participate (he first had to be evaluated to determine which level he was in). He enjoyed it so much, but the months of no boxing definitely took its toll. He was worn out the rest of the afternoon. He missed some of the activities offered by the Mesa RSB, but he will adjust, and undoubtedly will enjoy this program as well.

Ciao!

I graduated from the University of Colorado almost 45 years ago with a degree in Journalism. I had taken a so-called Gap Year (or two) after my sophomore year at the University of Nebraska, but returned to school after a couple of years because I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life living in Leadville, Colorado. I chose journalism because we had all watched Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward break the story about Watergate that led to Nixon’s resignation. Newspaper reporting seemed like an exciting career, full of intrigue and surreptitious meetings in dark corners of underground garages.

I was hired by the Douglas County News-Press, a four-day daily newspaper that covered Douglas County and located in Castle Rock. My pay was a whopping $600 a month. Can you imagine that? Furthermore, there was not a single opportunity for a meeting in an underground garage, surreptitious or not. Instead, I sat through Douglas County Planning Committee meetings and Castle Rock City Council meetings, chased tornadoes, and took pictures of neighborhood Fourth of July celebrations.

The biggest story around at that time in Douglas County was that an enormous ranch owned by Lawrence Phipps (who had made his fortune at Carnegie Steel) was sold to Colorado oil and gas magnate Marvin Davis, who planned on building a master planned community on this property that had once fed cattle.

The development of this community, which Phipps had called Highlands Ranch, was a big deal. A very big deal. A deal the size of which the Denver metro area had never developed before. It was too big a deal for this cub reporter to cover, but because of the small size of our staff (four reporters who also acted as photographers and sometimes helped put the newspaper to bed at night), I was called upon to attend some of the planning meetings.

Perhaps the most controversial aspect of the development (which would go on to become the City of Highlands Ranch) was water rights. Well, of course it was. Because water rights are a big thing in the dry western states. And Highlands Ranch’s proposal was to use aquifers as their primary water source. I didn’t then — and really don’t yet now — understand the concept of aquifers. It has to do, I believe, with taking water out of the rocky layer underground for purposes of drinking, watering golf courses, and making our lawns green and pretty.

The concern, as I recall, was that by taking water from rocks, the rest of the Denver metro area would begin to sink. The powers-that-be were able to get the necessary permits, and hence, Highlands Ranch was created.

As snobby young reporters, we all were very critical about this new master-planned community which now consists of some 100,000 people. Well, it’s now 100,002, because Wind Crest is located in Highlands Ranch. Who would have ever thought that I would some day live in Highlands Ranch? I think about it every time I drink a glass of water from my brand new faucet!

By the way, the Denver Metro Area is sinking as a result of those aquifers. Our Denver house sunk a good six inches during our 30 year residency.

Don’t look at me.