Senior Living: She lived in the same place for 55 years

“So you have lived here for 55 years?” I was asked. But it was true, and the first signed lease dated 1969 proves it. So let me rewind and look back at all those years I have lived here, right up to the present.

The beginning: When my parents, arriving from Hungary, joined me here in Canada, our first apartment was in the West End of Montreal. It was a small apartment on the ground floor of an apartment building looking out on a back alley. Here the living room converted into my bedroom with a Hide-A-Bed sofa. But one day my father met a fellow Hungarian named Tony who had a tailor shop nearby and lived with his family in a much fancier seven-storey apartment building on a main street, not far from where we lived at the time.

We went to inspect this building and when an apartment became available, we signed up and moved in, and that’s where I still live.

Well, it was like being catapulted to a magical place! The bright, sunny rooms with their large windows offered a view of a tree-lined side street. There was a balcony to enjoy, a quiet elevator to whisk us up and down, and, finally, I had my own room. The top floor of the building featured a party room, a sun deck, a laundry room and lockers. There would be room in the underground garage for a car. It was all too good to be true. As for the car, I eventually used the space, learning to drive at the ripe age of 40.

The surroundings: Our new home was in a building well situated with a bus stop in front. A bank was just around the corner, and a big grocery store, an elegant dress shop, a hairdresser and a flower shop were nearby.

The other tenants: Moving here was like moving into a Hungarian Village; there were so many of our countrymen living here. They included the aforementioned Tony and his family, a doctor and his wife, a widow with her six-year-old son, an Inuit art collector, an upper-class couple on the top floor and two single ladies. Even the manager was Hungarian, though the owner was not. My father, a proud Hungarian, felt right at home in the building.

The caretakers: In all those 50-plus years, we had a variety of janitors/superintendents taking care of the building. I well remember the first one, a Mr. Heisler, as I recall his name — a nice gentleman. There were others not so nice, one always short of cash, another with a big, badly behaving dog. One who stands out is Ken, who was very socially conscious, inviting the police to talk to us in the party room. It was Ken who taught me a new two-word phrase. As I was complaining about something once again, he declared, “Case closed.” By the way, I am convinced there is a school for janitors where they are taught the tricks of the trade.

The present: Well, the building still stands and I still live here, now alone. But a lot has changed over the years. True, the bus stop is still in front of the building, but that’s about it. All the Hungarians have left or passed away. Now you can hear many tongues, see a variety of national costumes and meet so many nationalities that we could form a branch of the United Nations in the building.

The top-floor party room and sun deck are closed, but the elevator still works. The surroundings, too, have changed. The genteel shops are gone, with most of the shops now in the food and restaurant category. The building, though, is still owned by the same family and the service is good. The plumber has become a friend over the years. In short, I like it here. Also on the plus side are wonderful neighbours and a really super lady caretaker. I hope they will stick around for some time, and so will I, the good Lord willing. End of a tenant’s tale, folks.

— Alice Lukacs writes the Life in the 90s column