Sleeping Around
One queen-sized bed, one foldout couch, one double-sized bed, one futon, and one king-sized bed. These are places where I rested my head on a recent visit to hometown Chicago.
My initial motivation in accepting invitations from five dear ones was to save hotel fees. And, while it might have been easier to settle into just one of the proffered rooms, and not have to schlep luggage from car trunk to car trunk, each visit brought its own reward: a chance to deeply bond with my host. For despite being acquainted with these friends for years — that ranged from three to sixty-five — we rarely had the luxury that dozens of uninterrupted hours could bring.
Each morning, as I drank coffee that was thoughtfully prepared the night before, I'd listen for the opening of a bedroom door, the sound of slippered feet coming my way, and the familiar greeting from a bathrobed friend.
As I'd watch each enter her kitchen, pull a mug from a cabinet, and pour her hot drink, I felt as if I had been reunited with a long-lost sister. But it wasn't DNA that matched us, simply years of traveling together through life's joys and sorrows. A trio of these friends had known me through first marriage and divorce, and all cleaved to me through my second husband's illness and death.
In the dark Evanston, Morton Grove, and Chicago mornings, we'd bring each other up-to-date on the goings on during the nearly five months since I departed from my longtime home. And even though I chat frequently with these friends, and view Facebook status reports, these early morning kitchen conversations were as precious as an heirloom.
These recent scenes were what I had been attempting to create many years ago with my daughters. When I was still living in Chicago and they would visit from Boston or Los Angeles, I would plead for them to stay at our house. After all, Tommy and I had a spare room with a queen—sized bed that was decorated with photographs and paintings of these girls and their families. I would often joke to my friends that this space was a shrine to my kids.
I had tried to explain the joy of seeing a loved one slowly drift down the stairs from the second floor to the kitchen, where I had been up for hours. Their hair tossed like brunette haystacks, eyes still sleepy from travel and time differences, crinkly tee shirts and shorts serving as pajamas, and faces still unfolded from sleep.
While one daughter easily accepted my invitation, the other insisted on a hotel. "I'll be over first thing in the morning," she'd promise.
"It's not the same thing," I'd say into the phone, my left hand cradling cheek and chin. How could I explain that the showered, dressed, and put-together young woman who would be ringing my doorbell was not the one I had longed to envelop.
Once though, when both daughters were traveling with their children, the recalcitrant gal agreed to stay over. I can still see my grandchildren leaping from bed to air mattress, jumps that doubled my delight.
After Tommy died and I moved to my River North high rise, one of its bonuses was a fully furnished guest apartment. I was in heaven! Now, just 10 floors down from my 19th-floor unit, my clan was tucked in for easy access. As soon as I'd wake, I'd check my cell phone to learn who was up, who wanted coffee, and who was available for breakfast. Although they weren't within my four walls, I could win the early morning scenes I relished.
Now that I live in Los Angeles and are about three miles away from my offspring, I will frequently hire a Lyft or Uber to take me in the 6 a.m. darkness to their house. Along with my just-awoken daughters, I now am blessed with grandchildren still wearing their own nighttime outfits, their hair adorably messed, and yawns intermixed with "Hi, Grandma."
In a few months, I'll likely venture from LA and return to Chicago to again see my left-behind dear friends. Because I was a good guest -- stripped linens and picked up an occasional restaurant check -- I assume their queen-, double, foldout, futon, and king-sized beds will welcome me. If not, could I sleep at your place? An air mattress will do, but you must promise a first-in-the-morning cup of coffee with a sisterly hug for me.
Happy Holidays
I was the seventh resident to tape a greeting card to the wall of our building's elevator. The design I had selected, and affixed with double-sided Scotch tape, was as holiday-neutral as the others. Snowman, Santa, a sprig of holly (mine), and wintry scenes. No figure on the cross, crèche, or menorah.
When I first saw the cards on the elevator wall, which bore people's first names only and their apartment number, I thought, how quaint. At the time, it didn't occur to me to join in on the display because I had only been a resident for a few weeks.
Although I had introduced myself to several neighbors on my walkway and said hello to fellow passengers in this small elevator, I didn't feel long-term enough to post a greeting card. (I feel a need to explain the use of "walkway" rather than "floor," which would've been the terminology in a high-rise. But I live in a 24-unit building, which is square-shaped and overlooks a ground floor landscaped courtyard. To me, it's very film noir.)
But on this elevator day, after going up-and-down several times to do my laundry, I decided, why not? My card read, "Happy Holidays." I added in pen, "to all!" and signed Elaine, #21.
Some background: I have lived and adjusted, in a variety of neighborhoods; I count 15 since 1960, the year of my first marriage. This condominium building, which houses a few other renters like myself, is my latest challenge. I have a one-year lease — enough time to plant myself and see if I flourish. Or, if I'm seasonal, like the holly on my card.
One nourishment -- along with my family -- is the fact that I have settled in a fertile neighborhood called "Beachwood." My daughters and her friends have told me that this is the place where they all docked when they first moved as a troupe from Chicago to L.A.
I like the idea that I'm in a setting of fresh starts, hopefulness, and even youthful enthusiasm, even though I've topped all newcomers' ages by several decades. Why can't this also be blossoming soil for the older set?
In an earlier essay, I claimed I wanted to find a place that was walking distance from my daughter Jill. I thought the proximity would ensure an easy transition from my former home and life in Chicago, and that I could untangle any familial knots and knit a new tapestry of family love so tight, it'd be impossible to unravel.
So, while I was temporarily housed in an Airbnb that was walking distance from my kin in Silver Lake, I reviewed half a dozen places nearby. Alas, none felt like home.
But, as soon as I stepped into this Beachwood apartment, I sent a text to Jill: "it's perfect." When she — in a reversal of roles that had her playing the scrutinizing mother and me the silent daughter — came for a viewing, she agreed and the year's lease was signed.
So, instead of walking distance to Jill, I'm a 30-minute bus ride (#2 along Sunset Blvd.) or a 10-minute Uber or Lyft car ride ($8) to her home. But in the swap of neighborhoods, while losing easy access to dear relatives, I gained a grocery store a block away (the amazing Gelson's), a comedy club, (Upright Citizens Brigade), and a second-hand bookstore (Counterpoint where I bought Alice Munro's "Friend of My Youth").
Another bonus of my new home -- that helps to make up for the distance from Jill -- is that I'm a 15-minute walk from buses that can take me to several favorites: Temple Israel of Hollywood, a reform synagogue for Saturday morning Torah study, to Target on La Brea, or to The Grove on 3rd and Fairfax with its Farmers Market and Apple store.
And recently, I walked 1.3 miles to The Trails coffee shop in lush Griffith Park. It's that benefit that has me grateful for my locale, for from opposite directions, mother and daughter recently met for coffee, conversation, and hugs.
Eventually, the holiday cards that are decorating the elevator will be tugged down. Perhaps before that happens, passengers will take a moment to flip the cover of each card and read the name of the signer. Most will have no clue about "Elaine." I figure I have the coming new year to correct that mystery; not only for my neighbors but also for resident 21 herself.
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