Six Years in Shangrila

I moved into Shangrila, a retirement complex, expecting only a comfortable place to live in, and found a wonderful, heart-warming environment to spend the rest of my days.

First, here is a thumbnail summary. Three hundred independent apartment residents form a close community of people who share companionship and support each other in times of trouble. I’ve made a number of new friends here. The food is simply marvelous. I love having my apartment cleaned every week, and my plumbing, electricity, heating, and other problems immediately repaired at no extra expense. I am comforted by quick access to excellent medical care. There is a top-notch exercise program, and I have been encouraged to teach a weekly tai chi class. The many daily activities here include concerts, presented talks, and shopping tours. In essence, I’m enjoying a hassle-free life full of entertaining and intellectual activities. Every year the chief administrator reports on the past year’s good annual results. I am thrilled to belong to this active, caring community.

Who would have thought the Y2K computer crisis would catapult John and me into a whole new life? We weren’t seeking an elegant start to the twenty-first century, just a way to avoid freezing in my Minnesota house in January. Because the vital computers that manage power and fuel hadn’t be en properly programmed to recognize the new century, our utilities might cut off on January 1, 2000. In the last few years, computer programmers all over the world frantically revised millions of computer instructions, but there was no guarantee they could finish in time. Since our house ran on gas and electricity and had neither a fireplace nor an oil burner, we might well be left to cope with freezing temperatures.

I always try to anticipate problems, so when I couldn’t find a solution to this threat, I enlisted my husband’s help.

“What shall we do, John?” I asked him. He leaned back in his chair to think about it with his usual amused look. He is a white-haired, laid-back computer scientist with a round head, slightly lined face, high forehead, pink skin, and hazel-blue eyes that peer through silver-rimmed glasses—a lovely man who holds all my affections.

He could not assure me our utility company could keep our house warm, so he finally replied, “Well, my dear, I can think of only two solutions. We could stay with your elderly friend with the oil-burning stove until the crisis is over. On the other hand, didn’t you tell me we are already down on the waiting list for Shangrila retirement home?  Of course, if we decide to move there it would be permanent.  Are you ready for this?

My friend, Mrs. B, replied, “Sure, you and John are welcome to come here, but it would be crowded. You’ll have to sleep in your sleeping bags on the floor.”

The retirement home marketing manager happily answered, “You are in luck. We just had a cancellation, so we can take you in January.”

We were going to move there eventually, so why not now? John didn’t think we were ready for a retirement place, but it was an attractive solution to our dilemma.

At Shangrila, we chose a two-bedroom apartment that faced south for good fung shui (good fortune). There were two bathrooms and corridors wide enough to pass a wheelchair through; they proved very handy. The living room, kitchen, and walk-in closet were adequate. After we measured the rooms, John drew a plan outlining where our furniture would be placed. With Shangrila’s help, we added new carpeting, fluorescent lighting, and a tall bookcase to stand along the entire front corridor. For his computers and their special wiring, John arranged a center table in the largest bedroom, which was to be his study.

Nothing prepared us for the difficult move. Twenty years of accumulated clutter had to be ruthlessly pruned. It was agonizing to pick what to take and what to discard. Clothes, books, furniture, china, documents, and papers: these things held deep memories. Squeezing our four-bedroom house into a two-bedroom apartment has been a monumental task. In fact, even years later, we are still discarding things.

I packed the essentials, and then piled the rest in the front living-dining room for disposal. For more than a month, things were sold; given away, hauled away to rummage sales, the Salvation Army, Goodwill, or finally tossed into the county dump. On an icy morning with a trace of snow on the ground, movers carted our things to our new apartment. Enjoying the warm 72-degree temperature inside our apartment, we knew we had solved our heat problem. We discovered later that moving in early has advantages. The older one becomes, the more daunting the process.

Ironically, the Y2K problem was smoothly solved   on time, without jeopardizing our institutions.