From Caledon to Calgary: Finding Home Again

I’ve arrived. I’ve unpacked. I’m setting up. And I’m settling in. My new home is a seniors’ independent living residence in Calgary, a city I left behind 50 years ago for life in Ontario. And I’m discovering that this new adventure is not just a trip; it’s a process.

The process has many components – and involves much decision making. The first was the decision to move west.

My life in Caledon was pretty awesome. I lived in a close-knit, caring adult community in Palgrave where I was fortunate enough to have a number of good friends and a deep feeling of belonging. But most of what little family I have in this world lives in Calgary, and I concluded that I had spent too many years without those most precious bonds.

I struggled through more than one teary parting, but with the miracle of FaceTime, I now know that it’s farewell and not goodbye, and I’ve enjoyed offering special friends a tour of my new digs via the wonders of the internet.

So once the decision to move west was firmly implanted, the next was equally important. Where do I want to live? Is it a house or a condo? And in which neighbourhood? Or should I perhaps take the plunge and direct my energies toward finding the right seniors’ building?

Now in my 83rd year, I’m happy to report that I’m still functioning rather well, but as those who reach this age will attest, things do start to misalign, or work only at half-speed, or stop operations altogether. While preparing for the prospect of deteriorating mobility isn’t a pleasant thought, it is my reality. Would it not be a better idea to establish life in an independent living building for seniors a wee bit early than to move to my own residence and upheave again in a few years?

Besides, I hate to cook. I’ve lost both my initiative and my creativity in the kitchen. I was in that room (and the grocery store) because I had to be, not because I wanted to be, and this reality was reflected daily in the repetitive, boring meals I put on the table. The fact that meals are provided at seniors’ buildings was a huge draw.

My daughter, Jen, put together a spreadsheet listing all Calgary buildings geared toward independent living for seniors, and we culled, first by city quadrant, then by district, and finally by surrounding amenities. We came up with seven possibilities, which Jen and I planned to visit over the course of a quick fly-in visit to the city, she from her Los Angeles home and me from Ontario.

The first stop was the building she and I had both picked as the most likely, but strangely, it left me cold. No vibe, no “right” feeling, and the next two on our list that first day were also ho-hum.

Dejected at the end of the day, I questioned whether I might have jumped the gun and truly wasn’t ready for this step. But we persevered and hit the gas the next morning, planning to make three more visits.

As it turned out, that wasn’t necessary. The minute I walked through the door of our first building of the day, the Chateau Renoir felt like home. The building’s design was undoubtedly ahead of its time when it was built 37 years ago, but its vaulted dining room ceilings and Scarlett O’Hara open curved staircase gave off a great vibe, as did each member of the welcoming, knowledgeable and accommodating staff.

And it’s across the street from an entrance to the beautifully groomed and manageable 16-kilometre trail that surrounds Calgary’s spectacular Glenmore Reservoir used by kayakers and sailboaters, as well as walkers, bikers and joggers enjoying the awesome view of the Rocky Mountains clearly visible in the distance.

This was it. I signed up.

Then began the hard slog: the move itself. I had lived in my 1,500-square-foot bungalow condominium in Palgrave for close to a quarter century. Yikes, where to begin?

A chat with my investment adviser seemed like the logical first step. Listing my condo with a realtor and hiring a mover were a close second and third.

After that came the gruelling business of making decision after decision after decision. Each and every item of clothing, piece of paper, tool, plate, knife, fork, appliance, art piece, photograph, chair, couch and table had to be thought about and a decision made. Does it head west, get disposed of, recycled, sold, given away or adopted?

This process seemed never-ending, and I will be ever grateful to friends Tina Boyington and Bernie Rochon, who struggled through the process with me.

I decided to cull much of my old furniture and start new in Calgary. But I also wanted some sense of “home” to be with me from the get-go, so along with buying a few pieces from a national furniture chain to be delivered in Calgary, I made sure I would have quick access to familiar area rugs and paintings at the other end.

About this time, I received an email from Bella, wife of my great-nephew Alex. Though I had yet to meet her, she invited me to the Calgary family’s Thanksgiving dinner. This brought tears to my eyes. The last time I had been to my own family’s Thanksgiving was too long ago to remember.

I was happy to quickly find a buyer for my beloved Mini Cooper and promised myself that I’d spend the first winter of my new life carless – to see how I felt about the experience after the snow melted in the spring. Another decision made.

And I flew west.

Discombobulation ebbs and flows. Some days, everything clicks; other days, I wonder what on earth I’ve done. On a recent morning, I spotted a white-tailed deer on the lawn outside my window, and for a moment, the world felt familiar again: the same quiet joy I used to feel in Palgrave. Then later, a call from an old friend made me ache for that life all over again, for the community that knew me so well.

It’s a whipsaw of emotions, this business of starting over. I’ve had to face the unsettling truth that this might be the last place I ever live. But I’d rather that realization nudge me to live fully here, now, than let it cast a shadow.

I am making an effort to involve myself in my new community – and discovering I’m not too old to make new friends. I’ve committed to a weekly bridge game, something I let slide some years ago, and I joined the ukulele group. I’m proud to announce that I have almost mastered three chords on a cute little borrowed instrument.

Maybe that’s what belonging really is: not something you find, but something you build again, one conversation, one song, one shared meal at a time.

Speaking of which, I am off for another dinner I don’t have to cook. And who knows, maybe that cute guy from the ukulele group will be sitting nearby.