On a recent Friday, I realized it was time for me to make a decision about downsizing or staying put. The next day, during a phone chat with my kids in Georgia, I happened to mention what I thought was the funny story about hanging over the back of the dryer to fix a torn vent. I guess the part where I mentioned “Aha! My heart doesn’t like hanging upside down anymore” disturbed them. What if Ma were to pass out? How long would it take someone to find her corpse? They discussed the problem and called on Sunday to suggest a solution. “Just hear us out. We want you to think about moving in with us within the next two years.” “I’d need my own bedroom, office, and bathroom.” “We can move to a larger house with a Grandmother suite.” “Okay.” “What?” “Yes. I’ll do it.” I think they were pleased. We all went to bed happy. In the morning I had a better idea. “You know the house right next door to you, the one that was for sale but is now being rented out?” “Yes.” “What if I bought that house?” “How could I make sure you’re OK if you’re living someplace else?” My son was worried about me. “You can strap a device to my wrist and access my blood pressure from your phone wherever I am.” “I guess.” “You really want me living with you, telling you what to do?” “We’d have to set some ground rules.” “How about your house/your rules, my house/my rules?” He was unconvinced but his wife and my daughter got on board with the idea and I now had my sights fixed on the 2-story house next door that was rented out or the cute 2-story house across the street that was in foreclosure. The first thing I did was contact their wonderful realtor. I explained if I couldn’t live next door, I had to live within hand-waving distance, six houses away max. She asked about the stairs, considering my advanced age and the need to keep an eye on Grandma. I explained I had it all worked out. I’d carpet the stairs and install handrails on both sides of the stairwell. If stomping up and down got to be too much, I’d remodel the downstairs for a Grandmother suite. Other than being within hailing distance, my other requirement was that the house have three bathrooms and four bedrooms: one bedroom for me; one as an office; and two guest bedrooms. If I was going to move across country, I’d have to lure Californians and others to come stay with me. That’s not too much to ask, is it? The second thing I did was contact my daughter’s wonderful realtor. She came right out, prepared with comparable recent sales, of which there were none because I have the smallest lot in the city and my little house has only one bathroom. I live in the land of McMansions. The only thing going for me is the school district. “We can move on this right away or wait until you find a house in Suwanee. Would you like to get the house on the market next week?” I had an anxiety attack. Maybe she could tell. She added, “Or we could wait until next spring or summer.” Yes, that was better. It would give me more time to convince someone in Georgia to relocate. My two realtors collaborated, laid a plan, and then got on with their lives. After one week of waiting to find out what my Georgia realtor had found out about the house next door, I had a serious talk with myself and told myself “Relax. Don’t nag.” I repeated the process for week two. “Relax. Let the Universe be in control.” But by week three I couldn’t take it any more and sent an email asking what the neighbors’ replies had been. Nothing. Neither house was available. I think my email jogged the Atlanta realtor’s memory and caused her to check the local listings because within five minutes I got another reply. “There’s a house going on sale tomorrow! It’s around the corner from your kids, only three doors away! It’s going to sell fast!” I found out it had 3 bedrooms, two baths and went “Meh.” She was smarter than I was. She texted my kids. They walked around the corner and took pictures. They sent them to me, saying how cute the house was, but I said “Meh.” In the meantime they outsmarted me by sending the pictures to my daughter, who told me it was perfect. Okay, fine. I asked my kids to try to get a tour the next day, and more importantly, bring a handyman’s tape measure. The next morning the house did indeed go on sale and I was able to see pictures online. Wait! What’s that I see? The owners had added an extension that included a sunroom and an office. If the rooms were the right size, I could have my two guest bedrooms after all! It was a miracle. My daughter-in-law carried the FaceTime video through the house while I was nagging my son, “How big is this room?” I took notes. When they were shooed out of the house, I told my realtor “This is my house. Do whatever it takes to get it.” I wrote a delightfully schmaltzy letter to submit with my offer, spewing dreams of luring my grandchildren there after school with promises of chocolate pudding. My offer was reasonable, but there was one hitch. I wanted a 60-day contingency so I could have time to sell my house to pay for the new one. Both realtors conferred. Assurances of my ability to pony up the cash when this house sold were handed to the sellers’ agent. Things looked good. Then after 3 days of open house, all the offers were in, all fifteen of them. My contingency put me at the bottom of the list. Then the second miracle happened. The owners asked if I could match the highest bid and remove the contingency. I reviewed worst case scenarios, decided to emulate my father and turn to a life of gambling, and agreed to their counter. I won. The house of my dreams that I didn’t know existed four days prior would now be mine, assuming my house sold in time. Both realtors swapped details and the house sale wars began. I’m going to spare you the details and just say that my daughter was right when she said her realtor was the best agent to be found. Walls were patched, painting was done, and half the furniture was hauled into the garage. The open house lasted five days instead of the planned three because people kept begging to be let in. The house sold within a week. It was the school district, you see. So here I am, typing out possibly, maybe, perhaps the last new blog of my previous life. After this one posts, I’ll either have written more, replay blogs that made me laugh in 2018 or go on hiatus until I can get the new office set up and start writing again. I’ll let you know soon which option appeals most. Yes, it’s true. I’m leaving the land of my birth and heading east, not to India as I’d threatened, but to a suburb of Atlanta. The fact that a temple dedicated to my favorite Indian Guru is only four miles away, a lovely Sikh Gurudwara is but a few miles beyond it, and what I’m sure is soul soothing Jewish Conservative Synagogue is a few miles in the opposite direction is enormously reassuring. Atlanta is a very multicultural community, I’m told. I’ll find lots to keep me busy, once we’re allowed to open public doors again in a year or two. Meanwhile, I’m finally going to have a dining room large enough to seat twelve. I’ll practice the old recipes and learn how to cook and bake again. Or, if that’s too fatiguing, I can order in Korean barbecue and serve it on old English plates. People have said they will come visit me. And once the Plague has passed, we’ll all come back here to visit family and friends. That’s the plan. I’m not seeing anyone before I leave because it makes me sad. I’m pretending I’m going on a prolonged vacation. On October 23, I will turn 77. That’s the day I fly to Atlanta, keeping in line with my father’s gambling faith. It’s a doubly auspicious day to start a new life. You know, double lucky number seven? My therapist pointed that out to me. Maybe, perhaps, probably, the blogs of the future will share what it’s like to live in another country. I’m not being facetious. California is its own country, with its own unique culture. Georgia will be a different land, maybe, perhaps, possibly not. I’m looking forward to finding out what scrapes and raptures our heroine will find there. I’ll keep you posted. Wish me luck!