It’s been suggested that each of us is connected to every other person on the planet within “six degrees of separation.” That is, by virtue of relationship with friends, family, and acquaintances - and by extension their friends, family, and acquaintances - we are all only six (or maybe seven according to some research findings) relationships removed from almost anyone inhabiting the globe. I don’t travel in celebrity circles, but I can claim two- or three-degree connections to Hollywood elite, U.S. politicos, innumerable recording artists, and a wealth of international chess masters. Of course, the network of connections is not all glamorous – I am also barely removed from the refugees residing in a wretched camp in Ghana, and a New England mafia “family.” Still, it’s rather mind-boggling for this small-town girl to consider the vast number of interpersonal links resident in even my own quiet life.
The intention of this blog is to explore the social interconnections (space) of groups and individuals, and the way that the built environment affects our sense of belongingness to a geographic location (place). I have only recently begun to study these concepts within the framework of the sub-field of environmental gerontology, thus my understanding is provisional at best. I welcome the perspectives of architects, designers, sociologists, psychologists, urban planners, and anyone else who can cast a wider light on the complex subject of how human beings live (and age) together in terms of home and community.
As part of my quest for understanding, I enrolled in an introductory course in Interior Design at a nearby community college. Given my interest in how the built environment impacts the life experience, I wanted to familiarize myself with some basics of interior design. That goal was accomplished, though I soon realized that while I have an appreciation of excellence in architectural and interior design, I have minimal aptitude for creating it myself. Even so, I endeavored to apply awareness of the concerns of an aging U.S. population to the topics studied during the term.
Which brings me to those pesky18 inches of separation. At the same time that I was wrestling with Intro to I.D., a more advanced group of students was tackling a course in interior design for aging-in-place. Their project was the make-over of a 3-level home for a couple of Baby Boomers nearing retirement. The faux clients were educated, active professionals with vibrant social lives and no children living at home. The finished designs included areas for a poker table (his) and a tea ‘room’ (hers). There were no budgetary limitations for the project, allowing the students to incorporate a number of high-end features, including dual-opening elevators, specialty appliances, and customized cabinetry. The final designs were elegant and well-conceived visions of a home that would serve the couple’s needs for many years to come.
One project however, distinctly qualified for the Poor Application of Gerontology Theory in Aging-in-Place Design award. The designer met the client’s desire for a tea room by setting an elevated area roughly in the center of the great room. At 18 inches above the main floor, the tea “room” was non-accessible to anyone who could not climb 2 or 3 steps. When I raised questions about the wisdom of including such an element in an “aging-in-place” design, the visiting designer/instructor scolded me for being critical of the concept. She explained that it would be simple enough to remove the tea room platform in 10 or 20 years when it no longer met the needs of the clients. (She conceded that it would be expensive and inconvenient to remove the platform, and that it was also unlikely that the original flooring material could be matched, degrading the aesthetic of the overall space or requiring replacement of the entire floor.)
Of course, there is no way to design, engineer, or theorize for every unknown. The imaginary clients may indeed be able to enjoy that tea room for 20 or more years. But they could just as easily lose use of it in the next 20 seconds – a simple misstep resulting in a wrist fracture could lead to disability and a diminished quality of life, rendering the tea room a bitter reminder of lost potential.
The issue of 18 inches of separation is one of societal concern, certainly. It is also a personal concern. My father uses a motorized scooter which, while allowing him mobility, limits his access to both physical place and social interaction. By virtue of his inability to negotiate stairs, my father is immediately excluded from the community of the elevated tea room, just as he is unable to join family members gathered in the sunken living room of his brother’s late-1970s home.
Among the questions I’ve been asking are:
What makes a home ‘livable’ across the life course, accommodating as many differently-abled people as possible?
In the long run, does incorporating a high-accessibility element (like a dual-entry elevator) into home design balance out a tea room that is off-limits to anyone challenged by that 18” elevation?
The concepts of connection and separation have been swirling around in my mind for the past several months. It is my sincere hope that this will be a venue not only for clearing some brain space, but also for expanding the discourse about the effect that environment has on the lived experience.
