Moving Mountains and Molehills

This is a personality test. 

You can only take one of the following three items with you to your next house. Which would you choose?

• Sheet music from your childhood piano lessons. (You no longer own a piano.)
• Foam and duct tape sword your son made in eighth grade. (It looks like a four-foot long gray drooping penis with a handle.)
• Your mother's plastic jewelry box that you played with as a kid. (No jewelry inside.)

Scoring and interpretation:

• You chose the sheet music: Congratulations, you are an optimist! You envision the day, very soon, when you'll get back to music lessons. After all, the research shows that music training slows memory loss. Despite having no room for a piano in your new apartment, you are not discouraged. You've been dreaming of starting a musical co-op where you'll share space and instruments with your baby boomer friends. You can almost hear the jam sessions now!

• You chose the duct tape sword: Congratulations, you are a wonderful grandparent! Your son may protest that he will never want it, but you know that the grandchildren you're planning to have someday will. Your home will be well known as a treasure house, where grandchildren are encouraged to freely exercise their creativity and imaginations. It will be dress-up and put-on-a-play heaven! This will be the perfect prop for that medieval theatre production. You'd better be on the lookout for a suit of armor...

• You chose your mother's plastic jewelry box: This was a trick question. Of course you're going to keep something that was your mother's. This box either helps you remember her warmth and comfort on those days when you miss her, or it's something that you and your therapist will use to trigger a therapeutic conversation about loss. Either way, your kids will throw it out when they clean out your apartment, because they'll only see it as a scuffed up plastic box where you stored the costume jewelry for your grandchildren to dress up in.

Upsizing from the Yellow Brick Road

Once upon a time, there was a preteen girl who lived with her aunt and uncle in rural Kansas. It was a black and white world, with long periods of dullness punctuated by danger and excitement - an occasional fall into the pig sty, a visit from a mysterious psychic, or abduction of her dog. She longed to get the heck out of that place, and dreamed of a world beyond what she knew. But her attempts to escape on foot were foiled by harsh weather and GPS systems not being invented yet.

Eventually, she grew up, went to college, got married, and had children. Her experience of the world changed from black and white to vivid, intense and (sometimes) psychedelic multi-color, as she invented and re-invented herself through careers and hobbies - educator, artist, gardener, writer, volunteer fundraiser, non-profit executive. There were times when she swore the road she traveled was made of yellow brick, paved by each step she took.

In time, her kids moved out, and her husband retired. She had more time than ever to devote to herself, yet she chose to fill it with work. The wheel of her life began in Kansas with only one or two spokes, then grew to a dizzying dozen or more by the time she was 50 years old. As she approached 60, though, she had unintentionally reduced them to two: work and recovery from fatigue.

She found herself dreaming again. This time, it was about how to simply get back home. She had no intention to return to the black and white one of her youth; she wished for one that would continue to be richly colored by meaning, purpose, friendship, and, hopefully, grandchildren.

She also really liked wine, sushi and her Viking range, so she wasn't interested in going too far back into the simplicity of the past.

She noticed, though, that she longed for the best part of her upbringing in Kansas, which was a connection to the land, weather and seasons. In Kansas, sunny days meant planting, watering, walking or watching the birds. Cloudy days meant weeding or harvesting. Summer meant growth. Winter meant storing up energy. Spring felt hopeful; fall felt abundant. Kansas was not black and white; its hues came from the rhythm of nature tinged with tastes, smells, feelings and the warmth of spending time with friends and family.

Then, suddenly, the road she was traveling seemed to turn back on itself. She was presented with an opportunity that felt so counterintuitive, it woke her up.  Rather than making life simpler by downsizing, she had a chance to get back to having a parcel of land for gardening and recreation, with a big, old house thrown in for fun.

So, she and her husband decided that they would unapologetically upsize. They would fix up the big old house. He would view it as a business venture. She would create a new garden, and try to add back a couple of spokes to balance the wheel of her life. She also hoped that her imaginary grandchildren, whom she now compulsively nagged her children to provide her with, would visit her often.

Yes, there's no place like home. And although she was there all along, she needed to build the yellow brick road. Otherwise, how would she notice that she went on the journey she longed for as a girl?

Ok, I'll confess. 

This story is autobiographical, except that I really grew up with my parents, two brothers, and a sister in rural Pennsylvania. 

The rest is pretty accurate, though. 

Upsizing at your age?

My kids, siblings, coworkers and friends shook their heads. "You're doing what?"

"We're moving from our four-bedroom house on 1/4 acre of land to a seven-bedroom, 10 bath, Victorian home with formal gardens and a carriage house on 1.6 acres," we said.

"Why?" they asked.

At first, I pinned it on my husband:

"Bob retired last summer. He always wanted to remodel a big old house. He has been flipping houses since Flip referred to Wilson, not sell-a-house-for-a-profit. Think of it as a five-year flip."

Soon, I included myself in the rationalizing, which made the story longer:

"I want more land for a garden. When I retire, my next big move will be into organic gardening. Design, really. Ummm...I'm really interested in vertical gardening. Rooftop gardening. For urban spaces. Even though I'll live in the suburbs. I'll surely need a garage for my workshop. And of course I'll need land to test...things...in large spaces first. If vertical design doesn't work out, then I want to get into permaculture. What's permaculture, you say?"

I am tired of explaining why we're doing the opposite of downsizing. The core truth is that we're doing something that we have dreamed about since we were in our twenties. We have no plans other than to enjoy ourselves. We're upsizing and not apologizing about it.

We thought we were trailblazers, but I find we're not alone. From baby boomers upgrading the homes we raised our children in, to finding encore careers in our sixties, my husband and I reflect our generation as much now as when we collected Barbie dolls and GI Joes in our youth.

Our generation has been pinned with a "never grow old" mentality, but that's too simple to describe us. We have cared for elderly parents - while we raised our children and lived through our own bouts of cancer. We have buried family members and friends who were our age or younger. We have learned that there is no time like the present. Or, rather, there is no other time except the present.

So now, when people ask why we're doing this, I just say, "Why not?"