Spelling Bee Love
Four years into our dating, the conversations began about where to live:
“Why don’t you sell your house and get a small apartment near me?” I’d say. “You just need a small place so we can stay independent.”
“Why would I give up my house, my backyard, all the greenery and quiet for a tiny, noisy place in town?” he’d counter.
“But you’re hardly there. You’re in my house!”
“Not always.”
“Since Covid, always.”
He’d moved in when Covid hit in March 2020, and negotiations about how to be together—usually four days together, three days apart—went out the window. He found a permanent spot for his shaving set, stopped worrying in which house he had his raincoat, and took over my third floor to work. I worked on the second floor, and we met in the kitchen for meals, in bed for comfort, and took daily walks to feel powerful in a world of isolation and few choices.
Every day, a different route—in rain, snow, heat, maybe to the woods, maybe up and down sidewalks. The daily decision mattered; it gave us power. We would not be, at 79 and 81, two little old people who should be extra careful about our lives. We were the masked fast walkers. Even when the forecast was 90 degrees by 9 a.m., we went forth. At 6:30 a.m. we were first in line for cappuccinos at Small World Café. We were drinking them on our special wooden bench by 7:00 a.m., and reading the newspaper in a cooled kitchen by 8:30 a.m. Victorious.
A year passed, then summer, and fall began, the leaves turning: “When are we going back to our schedule?” I asked.
He was shocked. “I thought you loved our set-up.”
“I do. I did. But things are opening up.”
“So now you don’t want me around?” The hurt was showing.
“I do. Of course. But we are no longer housebound.”
“I thought we’d become partners for life.”
“We are. But not 24/7. You could still get that apartment….”
And we were off again with tensions rising, going nowhere about our future together. What I wanted, I found out, has a name: L.A.T. (Living Apart Together). I sent him articles about how and why our age group loves this arrangement. Companionship with independence; love with room to breathe. He liked all that and liked having no marriage plans, but he hated L.A.T.—even the idea of it. He’d say, “We are tempting fate by not admitting how much we might need each other. Either we are partners with security, or we aren’t.” I shied away.
Who knew what would happen next at our age? I had loved one man for fifty years, and after he died twelve years ago, I’d gotten too used to making my own decisions. New roof? Buy a new stove? A long bath at 3 a.m.? All mine to figure out. “This house could never be our house,” I said, feeling like the pronoun itself was a betrayal. He said he would always feel like a guest who could be evicted. I suggested we move into two apart- ments down the hall from each other. He said, “Only if we have one front door!”
We were near a break-up when I started doing Spelling Bee in the New York Times. You have a hive of seven letters, and using at least four letters, including the one in the middle, you make as many words as you can. I did pretty well, mostly getting to “Amazing.” But “Genius” was a stretch until he joined in, seeing words that I didn’t, which made me see words that he didn’t. At first, we had a Can-you-top-this? competition with many “How come you missed that one?” But we kept getting to “Genius” together— and even to “Queen Bee” (when you get all the words)—and our quips of self-congratulation turned into “Good for you. I didn’t see that.” It became us against the Times, and we liked it, liked each other, counted on each other to come through.
It was soon after that I had a revelation: “Why don’t I get the small apartment instead of you? I don’t mind shuttling back and forth like you do. We could sell our houses, move in somewhere that’s convenient and has trees, and I’ll find a place to write with my special stuff around me.” He was game. He liked that we would live in one house together, and I liked that I could still decide when I’d come and go, unchallenged.
Friends warned, “Downsizing will be tough, merging even tougher!” and we expected that. But our Spelling Bee teamwork kicked in. We easily agreed that his wooden fruit bowl with red, yellow, and blue looked great under my poster in the same colors. And his dining set looked fine next to my credenza. And his kitchen chairs were perfect in my writing space a mile away, now named “The Annex.” Ideas kept bouncing off each other; trust kept building; moving problems got solved. We felt good. Victorious.
True, his piano had to go, no room, and landed in the living room of a young composer friend of his. My dining table and chairs stayed with my house buyers. I like to imagine them standing guard over what once was, as I carry my memories into the future, leaving my younger self behind.
Ten months later, we live in a shared condo, surrounded by old belongings that feel new side by side. Evergreens brighten our windows, sunlight shines in, and sidewalks take me into town— and to my annex. We eat breakfast and dinner together, sleep together, walk late in the day and entertain together, just as he wanted. And I have my own space, just as I wanted. I call it L.A.T.; he calls it feeling secure.
Mimi Schwartz’s many books include Good Neighbors, Bad Times Revisited—Echoes of My Father’s German Village (2021); she lives in Princeton, New Jersey.
