From Let Me Tell You Before I Forget
In 2004, my wife Erin and I built our dream home in Mendocino County, on one hundred and sixty-two acres in the mountains near the tiny town of Laytonville. 

We designed our house as a place we could live, grow old and die in. It was fire proof, off the grid and all on one level. We had wide doorways for our wheel chairs, when and if we needed them; pull bars by the toilets, and seats in the showers. We were all set for illness, death and catastrophe of every sort.

In the event of a wild land fire, we planned to jump into our pond and wait until the flames passed. Stuck in snow, our pantry was so well stocked we could live for a year. If we got really sick, Erin was a hospice nurse and could steer us safely and painlessly to the other side. 

What could possibly go wrong?

Fast forward to 2019. Wild fires raged around us. Our pond was so leaky that if we’d jumped during a fire, we’d hit our heads on the rocky bottom or be attacked by the rattlesnakes that lurked at the pond’s edge. Our neighbors were getting too old to rescue us if a tree fell on our heads, and crossing the border was getting too dangerous for the fabulous family of Mexicans who worked for us twice a month. Our plumber, the only licensed contractor who served our area, announced he was retiring. The other plumber died of COVID. 

On a summer evening in 2021, some dear neighbors invited us for dinner to watch a documentary they’d recorded on aging lesbians in Willits, the town where we got our mail. We knew most of the women in the film, but many of them were dead or had moved to less remote towns and cities. But the film included a segment on a lesbian group called the Rainbow Women living in Oakmont Village, an over-fifty-five community in Sonoma County’s Valley of the Moon.

We’d never heard of Oakmont Village, but we Googled the Rainbow Women, and by the next morning, Erin was on the phone to the group’s president, learning all about this perfect little town in wine country. The week after that, we were looking at houses. Three months later, with many tears, we packed our dream house, sold it to a couple from L.A.’s San Fernando Valley, and moved with our two enormous country dogs to a 1400-square foot tract home in Oakmont Village.

Unlike our dream house, our new house had steps up to the entry, narrow doorways our would-be wheelchairs would never fit through, and bathrooms so small we couldn’t brush our teeth at the same time. It’s so poorly insulated, we go outside in winter to get warm, and our neighbors are so close we can hear them pass gass if they eat too many beans or burritos.

But….we are near doctors, hospitals, friend’s, Erin’s younger daughter, grocery stores and Dollar Generals. We have mail delivery five days a week, and big trucks pick-up our garbage, recycling and organic matter on Thursdays. No more dump runs in the truck. Beset of all, the streets are overflowing with plumbers, electricians, mobile dog groomers and gardeners.

We’ve learned a few things in the three years we’ve lived at Oakmonth Village:

—If you need a doctor for your knee or hip replacement, a cardiologist for your A-fib, a dermatologist for a basal cell carcinoma, a contractor to replace your kitchen counters, hang out in the jacuzzi after morning water aerobics classs at the West Recreation Center. Just the other day a nice woman told us about an amazing new drug she been prescribed to improve her memory, but she’d forgotten its name.

What I really love about senior living is the freedom we have to talk about death. But that’s a story for another day. Let the real retirement begin!

Footnote: My new book Heat, comes out in June!