Jiggity Jig.

Every day of my childhood when my mother pulled the car into our dirt driveway, she recited the last line of that silly nursery rhyme: “Home again, home again, jiggty jig.” And then I did it too. Through forty years of family life. Going to and from work and hauling children and dogs to and from everything. Always. Until, at last, there was no one in the car with me except the crazy, special-needs labradoodle. Ultimately, I just said, “jiggity jig,” to her and she woke up from her nap, knowing we were home.

Last fall, I moved to a retirement community. A really fine one. The residents like to say they live at “the manor.” The marketers refer to the small, separate apartments as “villas.” The ten-story apartment building is called “the tower.” The dining room is called, “The Magnolia.” It really is a very nice place, but I was initially put off by all the grand nomenclature. Ever the rebel, after the FOR SALE sign went up in front of my house, when asked, I simply I said I was moving to the old folks’ home.

Little by little, I began to do just that. I had an estate sale and got rid of two-thirds of everything. I took cuttings of all my beloved garden plants in hopes they would root. I learned a heart-breaking new word: downsizing.

Miraculously, at just the right moment, just before the house sold and I would have had to make an interim move, my name come to the top of the waiting list at the old folks home and I was given the opportunity to move into a tiny “villa.” It would not have been my first choice, but it suited my budget and the timing was right. I signed all the papers, paid the fees, had my doctor certify that I could live independently, passed the mental agility quiz ( I did draw a blank when trying to come up with “Donald Trump.” I’m not sure why.)

My house was paid for. I loved it. Deeply. I especially loved the grove of coast redwoods I had planted twenty-five years before. I loved watching all ages of neighbors take and return books from the Little Free Library I had put up in the front yard.

But the house was huge. Year after year I was hiring more and more people to do the things I had always done myself: yard work, cleaning, climbing up on ladders to wash the upstairs windows, raking leaves, cleaning out the gutters, treating the moss on the roof. “Paid for” is a term that is slightly misleading.

Every day for two weeks, the labradoodle and I drove across town twice bringing Subaru-loads of stuff to the villa. I focused on being very methodical, carefully measuring and drawing schemes of where things would go. Being very diligent and business-like staved off sobbing. More or less.

I began to meet some of my new neighbors. Such nice, happy, friendly people, smiling and telling me how much I was going to like it here. I had been properly brought up and knew how to act nice, happy, friendly, smiling. However, at that point, it was pretty much an act. Introverted me begin to ask myself how I was going to do this. All these jolly old folks were clearly Stepford Old Folks.

The staff had been properly brought up too. Someone along the line had schooled them on how to treat us, but it all seemed so natural and authentic. They were infinitely patient, kind, friendly, and helpful. They all seemed happy to be working here. Were they the Stepford Staff?

Then, surprise, surprise, I began to really like these old folks who were now my neighbors and the staff who seemed to be able to answer all my questions and respond to my requests. So smart. So interesting. So welcoming.

And I began to love my new place. I mean really. If I were to win the lottery, which is unlikely given that I don’t even know how to buy a ticket, I don’t think I’d even move to a bigger place on campus. Well, maybe I’m getting a little carried away here.

So, before long, things began to come together. The Subaru stopped automatically heading toward my old place and began to home in on our new route.

And that’s the thing. I have always contended that the words “house” and “home” are not synonyms. You can buy and sell a house. Home is where you head at the end of the day.

Jiggity jig.