Even as a little girl, I understood that 'man plans and God laughs'. My own plan was simple enough--to be a princess, although I had no idea how a prince would ever find me in the little corner bungalow where I was growing up in pre-World War II Los Angeles. My friends and I whizzed up and down sidewalks on roller skates keyed to our shoes and played 'Kick the Can' under clear sunny skies in clean streets literally free of traffic and potholes. I constantly ran in and out of the house, letting the screen door slam shut behind me, and never once thought of a lock.

Eventually, I put all that away, including my 'dream prince' who, I had to admit, was not likely to come for me in a gilded coach, and instead I was happy enough when a 'real prince' did come to court me on a motorcycle, wearing a leather jacket--and then there was his smile--so I revised my plan. It now went no further than spending as much time as possible with him; I did what needed to be done and married him. We were well on our way toward that senior golden sunset when...God laughed.

Alzheimer's settles silently, softly and slowly into your life years before you ever suspect it's even lurking around. The little you thought you knew about it turns out to be all myths. It's not something that only happens to old men when they retire, it's not just memory loss; it has little to do with your life style, how active you are, dental fillings, aluminum pots, diet or education, and most estimates give no more than five to fifteen percent to genetics, as for the rest--who knows?

And that's how it was with my husband, a brilliant, decent man turned into a raging, violent machine who had to be sedated to be physically controlled--the one who only wanted to protect me, loved me just because I walked in this world, now accused me of all manner of obscene acts and turned our lives into chaos. He's been calm for years now, no longer drugged, but after being his caregiver for a decade I had to place him in a care facility for my own well-being. During that time I lived in limbo, everything I did revolved around him and his needs, that's the nature of this vile disease, and after his placement, I woke up to an empty life and an empty house, with only my big yellow lab, Sophie, for company. I felt like Rip Van Winkle--whatever happened to those years? The world had changed--my world--and I had passed through it all like recalling distant dreams.

Being a 'married widow' is not the world's most comfortable position, and the choices I faced were not at all to my liking. Alone in my own home was not disagreeable, I've always been content there and I'm not someone to keep running away, but being by myself all day, every day was a little much. I'd been working and volunteering since my teens, taken lots of classes, traveled, had all sorts of activities, and I didn't care to do any of it over again. It was time to put my feet up, kick back and watch the grass grow for a while. I still had the responsibility of my husband, there were all my little projects, people I see, places I go, but life was becoming too solitary, and I didn't want to wait for the phone to ring, to be an appendage to the lives of my children. I felt the need to have my own life, to bring life back into my home--although Sophie is always very generous with her time.

There had been increasingly awkward moments; well-meaning people that I care about, who have concerns about me asked, "How's your husband doing?" And goodness knows, I'd do the same thing, I'm grateful they care, but I rarely said more than, "He's doing OK." I was uncomfortable hearing my own voice plow the same ground over and over, hardening the inevitable, tweaking my emotions. I had to interact with people who didn't share my past, and, frankly, couldn't care less. If I didn't make new memories, have new people and things to think and talk about, I'd never be able to move on. Not that I wanted to, but how long can one wallow? And so I did something completely foreign to what my life had always been and put an ad in the campus newspaper of a nearby university to rent rooms, males preferred, with no idea of what I was getting into.

Today I live with three young men in a house very unlike the one where I grew up only a few miles away. It's where we raised our family, originally an old small house, refurbished and expanded to four bedrooms and two baths; now awash with male hormones, socks, shampoo and shavers. Cars are jockeyed in and out of the driveway, the kitchen and laundry room are on overload, music filters the air, the phone is always busy. We've had a jealous fit, a hot and heavy romance and a broken heart, (ah, life is ever thus). They joined with my family for Christmas, and we often sit together in the den to watch "Everwood". I'm not sure why, but I don't mind, Treat Williams is always a treat.

Chris, the first to arrive is from the San Fernando Valley, Sascha is from Germany, and Chris, from Michigan. That presented a problem and I fell naturally into calling the Michigan Chris 'Big Chris' because he's a looming 6'4+", and the Valley Chris 'Little Chris' until I was told that I couldn't call a grown man 'Little'. But when I told him that I wouldn't call him 'Little' anymore, he laughed and said it was OK. When he tells people that his landlady calls him 'Little Chris' they always ask with astonishment, "How big is the other Chris?". That's because 'Little Chris' is a long, lanky 6'3". It's his own private joke. Standing tall, I barely skim 5'5"; it's like living in a forest of moving redwoods, but they easily get things from high shelves and change light bulbs out of my reach. On occasion they pull up my trash barrels, lift things, open a jar--so it works.

Sascha looks exactly like my son did at 25--it's weird--and we share a too common childhood trauma, both having been attacked by a dog. At first he was acutely afraid of Sophie and I understood, it took me many, many years to get over that same fear, but now they are friends. On occasion he bakes his own bread--with yeast--melts some imported cheese, has a private fondue party, and gives the house a distinctly European flavor.

He's not a student, per se, but works for a German university to recruit Americans to study there, and he's been quite successful. The most easy-going of the three, he's most likely to turn away from conflict. He's heavy into 'new' music, (I can't imagine what the genre could possibly be called!); gets CD's of various performers, goes to their concerts, interviews them and writes reviews for a German on-line music publication. Although pretty well 'Americanized', it's fun to teach him new English words which he easily absorbs; 'oakie-dokie' being one of his favorites. I'd adopt him if I could, but I don't think 'Papa', who calls regularly from Germany, would be receptive.

Little Chris also works on campus and has to wear a shirt and tie. In the mornings, when he's all fresh and bright, I flash back to my own husband when he was 23, dressed the same way and going forth to slay the dragons--except that he already had a wife and child. Clothes may be the same, but it's not the same life--not at all.

Still, he's the most complex, the easiest to laugh, sometimes silly and unsure, but at the same time the most reliable, the first to offer a hand, share a moment. He's happiest when all his 'T's' are crossed, his 'I's' dotted, he spends a fair amount of time rearranging things to get more space in his room, and surprisingly succeeds.

He's also our savior, a computer whiz who has wired my house for fast Internet hook-up. Now all of our computers are connected and can access the same central printer; and since one of us is always in some kind of cybertrouble, it's much easier to knock on his door than it is to listen, impatiently, to robots telling us how important our calls are as we continue punching buttons, ad infinitum, trying to get help on the phone. Thankfully, he comes to our rescue with seeming good nature. He also calls the cable company because I have no idea what they're talking about and even less interest in learning. I only subscribed when they moved in--although I soon became a cable news junkie.

For Halloween, Big Chris dressed as 'Romance'. I pinned fresh red and yellow flowers in his hair, and it took him and Little Chris some time to get the hair washed, moussed and blow-dried just right, but he did look like 'Romance'. Sascha wore my short square-dance skirt and ruffled blouse; I showed him how to pull the sleeve off his shoulder and vamp a little. He looked delicious, hairy legs and all. Then they went to the Hollywood parade and afterwards I asked if he'd been propositioned. Oh, yes--and by more than one gender! Little Chris came home with giant bags of candy, Sophie wore her cowboy costume and the two of them had a grand old time barking and frightening all the little ghosts and goblins who came a-begging.

It was no random thought that Big Chris dressed as 'Romance'. He is the most romantic, our resident dreamer with the grandest ideas who wants to do everything and be everywhere. For him, nothing is impossible. He's definitely juggling the most balls, which may account for his routinely losing his wallet, his keys and missing appointments. He works as a physical fitness trainer and three mornings a week we moan and groan and crawl around the floor while he tangles me into dangerously inhuman positions. Don't ask! Since my daughter lives in southwest France and Chris is going to study in Germany over the summer, he suggested that I visit her and meet him in Paris. Hey, how bad can it be when a 28 year-old handsome man asks to rendez-vous with a woman of the troisieme age in the world's most romantic city!

They've formed a 'family' of brothers, share car problems, electronic glitches, (there's enough gadgetry here to launch a rocket), haunt computer stores, go to movies--they're in and out of each others rooms, talking in the hallway, gathering in the kitchen late at night. They food shop and cook together, Big Chris does the cooking, Sascha is the sous-chef and Little Chris handles clean up. We share the cost of the food and that's good because no one dares eat my cooking-I've been known to burn Jell-O. With a chef, a personal trainer and a computer expert, all I need is a live-in hairdresser--I wonder if Sascha...

There's an easy give-and-take with only occasional minor annoyances that break out and soon blow over. Everyone seems willing to pitch in and help each other when needed. Big Chris and I spent a day getting the horn on Sascha's car fixed. And when Big Chris needed surgery on his wrist, Little Chris took him to the hospital, Sascha prepared his meals and I picked him up. He had a cast, so we'd help tie his shoes, open a can, peel an orange from my tree--things like that.

In truth we are four strangers from completely different backgrounds with a surprising mix of complimenting personalities living a rather intimate life together. At any time you are likely to see a damp hip-draped body striding down the hall from the shower. The three of them share the front rooms of the house and I have my private ones at the back so I can be as much or as little of the goings and comings as I like. They tolerate me rather well even though I nag about dirty dishes, tumbled rooms and parking in front of the neighbors. Twice a month I have a crew to clean and someone never fails to ask why he has to clean his room before the maids come. I don't ask them to clean, just get things off the floor so that the crew doesn't need a shovel to get in.

This is the way it is around here these days. It's all good, because I know that one way to have a spotless house with everything in its place is to live alone, and then when you die everything will be sold and dismantled anyway. This is better, it's a life to be lived, a house to be lived in--clean enough to be healthy and messy enough to be happy. Except for my quarters, they are free to roam the house, the yard and garage. They normally ask if they want to borrow something--my husband's generator to fix a flat, garage shelves to store extra books, that sort of stuff--it's good to see things get used.

One morning I woke up to find a peg leg and a fat suit in the front room--Big Chris was going to shoot a movie for his cinema class. I agreed to let him use the house and to also be in the film--the villain, actually. I was made up to look twenty years older and if that's the way I'm going to look, I may decide not to go! For several days there was total upheaval, furniture was moved, lighting was set up and rearranged, strangers appeared and disappeared, pizzas and countless soft drinks were devoured, Sascha was the assistant cameraman and Little Chris, the grip, gruesome murders were committed in every room and even Sophie got her moment in the spotlight when she ate the prop potato chips off the stomach of a corpse.

Everyone has their good days and their bad, but we laugh a lot. Little Chris says we live in a sitcom, and he just may be right. When Sascha and Big Chris went to Mexico for the day, they phoned me to look at a map and tell them where they were, for some reason they'd turned away at San Diego. I looked at the map, but I couldn't tell where they were on a different freeway or which direction they were going in, so I told them to go back to San Diego and follow the signs. How can anyone miss Mexico? Its location is reasonably stable--been there for centuries. You just walk out my front door, look south and fall on your face. I guess they weren't all that amused, but Little Chris and I laughed until our sides hurt.

So this is my new life, a place I never expected to be. And although I no longer wake up every morning and dwell endlessly on my husband, I'd change it all in a nanosecond if I could have my old life back--but that won't happen. This is only an interlude, a matter of time until they each go on to the rest of their lives and, hopefully, other agreeable young men will come along to take their place. But I think they'll always remember these days, their 'brothers', a big yellow lab and the lady who lived in a once-empty house. Sometimes God smiles.

May 2003

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