43 Steps.
That’s how many there are between the ground and my aerie (Penthouse. Attic. Apartment. Take your pick) on South Battery in the “Holy City” of Charleston, South Carolina. Yup, that’s been our spot for about 35 years now.
Oh yes, there’s an elevator. Thank Goodness.
But the freakin’ thing breaks every now and then.
And, guess what? It’s broken now.
When I was 59, that was a minor inconvenience. I could chase my four-year-old grandson Josh up those 43 steps without thinking twice.
At 86, it’s a different story. It’s a bitch.
It was especially hard on Marjorie this past year. Darn near impossible to navigate even with me helping.
“Why do you live there then?” some may logically ask.
We live here because we love it here. Most especially, she loved it here.
As I write this, I’m contemplating my next move since Marjorie’s passing. Staying right here until I can’t anymore is a definite option. Cause, in fact, I do love it here.
I discovered the elevator was kaput late Sunday, February 1. The power was out for about an hour at 3AM that day due to a freezing, wet storm. That was most probably what wounded my elevator.
Not the shining hour for our elevator company. Couldn’t get a repair man out until Friday the 6th. Unfortunately, he couldn’t fix it.
Sooooo. The more experienced repair person is scheduled to appear on Thursday, February 12 at 1130 AM. That’s tomorrow.
I’ve been climbing those infamous 43 for 11 days. Consider it PT for this 86-year-old. I’ve been rationing my trips from my perch with a commanding view to one or, at most, two per day. I am exhausted at each ascent.
Descents are no sweat. Literally.
Hopefully, it’ll get fixed tomorrow. If not, I will still manage, but I won’t be a happy camper.
Funny how the “lift” has evolved from a “nice to have” to a real necessity in these 35 years. Who’d a thunk?
And yet, here’s the truth. I am so damn lucky and blessed to be able, with much effort, to climb those freakin 43. Or even the 7 needed to get to the elevator when it IS working.
Enuf.
