City life, lake light, every level of care.

I've walked White Rock Lake since 1971. I wasn't going to live anywhere I couldn't still walk it. Now I do the full loop on Saturdays with the walking club.

We sold the house on Lakewood Boulevard and moved two blocks. Same church, same doctor, same Saturday farmers market. Less yard.

Mother moved to the Garden Floor last spring. The staff read her life-story profile before they met her. They knew she'd taught at Woodrow Wilson for thirty years.

My hip rehab was in the Health Center. My wife came down from the sixth floor every afternoon. That's the whole point of this place.

I go to more concerts and lectures now than I did when I was working. The car's always waiting.

The contract was the clearest one we read. They answered every question in writing.

The night nurse called at midnight to say Dad was fine after a fall and the nurse practitioner had seen him. We went back to sleep.

I learned to video-call my great-grandkids at the library help desk. Now I call them every Sunday.

The chef remembers I don't eat cilantro. That's either very good service or a very good memory.

I paint in the studio three mornings a week. My granddaughter says my lake is better than the one in the museum.

Daddy's last weeks were in the Health Center with the window open to the garden terrace and the chaplain stopping by every day. It was dignified, start to finish.