From Missing Words in the Village to Bat-sh*t Crazy Ideas

This post explores the quiet unraveling of verbal fluency in aging—how the right word can hover just out of reach, even when the mind is sharp and the stories are intact. It reflects on the embarrassment of word-search moments, the resilience of written expression, and the legacy of objects that speak when words falter. From a dinner-table stumble to a toy camera turned memory keeper, it’s a meditation on communication, dignity, and the joy of documenting a life in dots, notes, and snapshots.   AI….

I hate admitting this, but I’m losing my verbal communication skills. I word-search way too often—knowing what I want to say but not being able to get the right word to roll off my tongue. For example, my oldest niece and her husband took me out to dinner recently and when it came time to order I couldn’t tell the waitress I wanted a quesadilla. We’d just discussed our choices before she came over to our table, so I ended up pointing to my niece and saying, “She knows what I want.” It was embarrassing.

Google says, “Word search issues in seniors can stem from normal aging, stress, fatigue, or anxiety, and neurological conditions like dementia, stroke, or traumatic brain injury. Other causes include certain medications, hearing loss, and vitamin deficiencies.” If mine is from normal aging then I’m, as they say, screwed because a reliable time machine hasn’t been built yet. If it’s caused by my chronic fatigue from getting up seven to ten times a night to pee, I’m also screwed. I’ve tried two medications for nocturia urination and they have not worked. The doctor says there are a dozen others I can try, but many come with side effects, and the trial-and-error period to find the right one is long and could be painful in parts I shall not mention.  

Sometimes I listen intently to my fellow residents here in the independent living building at my CCC to see if others my age word-search as much as I do. Many of us do it—some far more often than others. The phrase, “It takes a village” is a common rejoinder after a table full of us seniors has helped someone come up with a word that they can’t say. It’s slightly less embarrassing when I’m with peers, but when I’m with younger people, it’s hard not to be embarrassed by a word-search episode. At what point does embarrassment turn into depression—and we just quit trying to communicate because we fear what may or may not come out of our mouths? I’m already to the point where I don’t contribute to some conversations because I’m having a bad “speech day.”

 Word-search issues also aren’t a true reflection of what’s going on inside my brain’s communication center. My writing skills, for example, have gotten better as I age. It’s crossed my mind that one day I could claim I’d had a stroke that left me with aphasia and unable to talk. Then I could carry around a tablet to type my side of conversations. But having watched how people treated my husband in the twelve and a half years after his massive stroke and loss of all communications skills, I know the default impression a non-verbal person leaves is one of a lowered IQ. Don certainly didn’t lose any IQ points with his stroke. Most people were kind—even went out of their way to show compassion—but I’m sure he felt the misjudging just as I could see it. (Note: I'm not saying all people who become non-verbal keep all their IQ points. I'm just saying it's not true in all cases.)  

For me, when my word-search issues get worse, it’ll be like being back in grade school—hearing my mom, in a fit of extreme frustration, call me “stupid,” and teachers labeling me "slow." I had an undiagnosed, mild case of dyslexia back when learning disabilities weren’t part of the national vocabulary. I’ve long since forgiven my mom, but sometimes those childhood scars itch, and I have to resist scratching them until they’re raw. I suppose that’s human nature. No one gets to be in their 70s and 80s without a few scars that itch from time to time.

Time to switch topics. I bought myself a camera. I swore I wouldn’t buy anything else that needs charging—but here I am, adding one more device to my charging station. Yeah, I know, I have a perfectly good camera on my phone and a decent 35mm in the closet. But this camera is special. It’s like the old Polaroids—snap a photo and it prints in seconds. It’s a cheap camera made for kids and it only prints in black and white but it won’t matter for the project I bought it for. (Hint: Now that I’ve used it, I do wish I’d upgraded to a color version.) Both, though, will print photos off your photo using an app and blue tooth. It’s hard to tell if the poor quality of the prints is because I can’t hold my hand steady long enough to click the shutter, or if it’s just the nature of what’s advertised as a child’s toy. Either way, I’m having fun with it. 

What’s my project? Decades ago, I went to an estate sale where most of the items had notes attached that gave the history of each piece. The daughter of the man whose estate was being sold said her 80-something father became obsessed with documenting his belongings so his kids would know what was important to keep. Going through that house was like walking down Memory Lane with a stranger who turned into a friend after reading all the notes. I bought the first pair of long pants the man had worn as a child in 1902—a beautifully tailored, tiny wool pair of knickers. I left his note in the pocket, along with one of my own, when I sold them on eBay in 2020. The woman who received them was thrilled with the notes, and said when she was ready to part with them, she’d add her own. If I were King, that’s what would happen to all the interesting objects in the world: they’d come with pedigrees.

I’ve never forgotten how fun that estate sale was and the older I get, the more tempted I’ve been to write notes for all my possessions. Enter the camera. Instead of writing and hanging tags on every object in my apartment—which even I would find reason enough to think I’d gone bat-shit crazy—I got the bright idea to take tiny photos with my new toy camera and stick them in a blank-paged book. The photos have peel-and-stick backs which makes them extremely easy to tear from the camera and apply. I’m writing next to the photos, but my plan is to get a sheet of color dots to code them as well.

I’ll color-code some items to go with me to Assisted Living or Memory Care—in case I can’t talk by then. I can’t expect my nieces to know what things I want to stare at in my final days and what things I don’t want to risk getting stolen by other residents or staff. (It happens. Things disappeared from both my dad’s Hospice Room and my brother’s Memory Care rooms.)

Twenty-five of those colored dots will go on items I want included in a mock auction—with just my immediate family present, using Play Money. That way, they can decide for themselves what they might want, instead of me earmarking things for certain people. And if no one wants any of it and one of my great-nieces or nephews ends up winning all the bids and reselling stuff on e-Bay? So be it. E-Bay puts collectibles into the hands of people how appreciate what they are buying. I heard about a family who did this, and when I told my youngest niece about the plan, she thought it would be lots of fun. 

There you have it—another rambling Wednesday post. See you next week. © 

Writing Sympathy Cards and Redefining Friendship: the Octogenarian Edition

Living in a continuum care community means becoming fluent in the language of sympathy cards, quiet goodbyes, and the bittersweet art of selective friendship. Because friendship at this stage isn’t about forever—it’s about showing up when it counts. In this post, Jean reflects on the rituals of card writing, the emotional math of attending memorials, and the complicated ways we define friendship and connections when time is short and goodbyes are frequent. It’s part grief, part grit, and part gallows humor—because even in the face of loss, there’s room for wit and wisdom. It’s tender, irreverent, and full of the kind of wisdom you only earn by living it.  AI…

One thing you get plenty of practice doing in a continuum care community is writing Sympathy and Get Well cards. I buy sympathy cards by the box—three boxes in four years, to be precise. Few weeks go by without a basket collecting cards for someone in the hospital or for the family of someone who passed away.

Get Well cards are easier to come by. Charities trying to squeeze one more donation out of us often send blank greeting cards as incentives. I used two of them recently to write sympathy messages for grieving dog parents—both had to say goodbye to a beloved pet. No one moves into places like this with puppies and kittens who outlive their humans. It’s old dogs and ancient cats. And I know firsthand what it’s like to be a lifelong dog person who not only grieves the loss of a four-legged companion, but also the very real possibility that we’ll never get another fur baby.

Right now, cats outnumber dogs in our independent living building but it didn't start out that way. We're down to two dogs in residence. Some of us are plotting a petition to get a resident dog we could all share. Some CCCs have them—it’s not out of the question. And a month or so ago our Life Enrichment Director arranged for a dozen baby goats to roam our piazza. We've even had horses and a cow on campus for us to get up close and personal with. Management does understand how we can miss bonding with animals.

Yesterday brought another kind of card-writing moment. The daughters of a woman in my writing group spread the word that their mother was refusing further treatment and a feeding tube. Her time left could be measured in days. “If you want to say goodbye,” they said, “please do it very soon.” My writing friend reportedly is in good spirits and at peace with her decision.

I’ve said goodbye to my dad and husband in similar circumstances, but never to someone who falls somewhere between a casual friend and a close friend—the kind of person I know I would’ve grown close to if we’d met earlier in life. She’s the first person to leave this place (for Hospice) who I’ve felt truly sad about. When I moved in, I made a conscious choice not to get too close to anyone. Too many goodbyes ahead, I thought. Probably not the smartest decision I ever made, but it is what it is. 

So I googled what to say to a dying person and came up with a lot of platitudes as well as a few good suggestions and I finally decided a straight forward, from-the-heart message would be better than a Hallmark inspired ditty would be. So here’s what I wrote:

“I’ve always appreciated you for your warmth and grace and willingness to uplift and support fellow residents in our building—especially in our writers’ group. I’ve admired your wisdom and insightful comments in book club and at the farm table. My only regret in knowing you is that we didn’t meet years ago. As hard as it is to say goodbye, I want to tell you how much I’ve enjoyed knowing you. The devotion and love your family is gifting you during these final days is a testament to a life well lived. May your transition to the Great Unknown be gentle and pain-free.”

One of her daughters texted me last night after picking up the card I left for her in our mail room: It read: “Your card was so kind and thoughtful. You’ve been such a warm friend. I’ll read this to her in the morning when she wakes up."

I’ve never attended a funeral or memorial service for any fellow residents, but I might make an exception for her. If I do, will that open the door to going to others? I’ve never avoided funerals in the past, but those were for people I’d known my whole life or I had close ties or a connection to. Here, there’s only been one service I’ve felt guilty about missing—the daughter of the woman who taught me Mahjong. I didn’t know the daughter, but I tell myself I would’ve gone if I’d found a ride to the Catholic church downtown. In truth, in my heart I know I didn’t try very hard to find one. Instead, I wrote a heartfelt sympathy card and offered hugs and whispered condolences in person. 

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about friendship and how we define it because I do feel lonely sometimes without a close confidant on campus. A widow's kind of loneliness, I suppose. Not the raw, early years kind but I do find myself envious when I see the close bonds others have formed here. If I didn’t keep this blog to share the ups and downs of my life, I’d probably diagnose myself with mild depression. It saddens and shames me to admit that I have a tough litmus test for friendship. But being an octogenarian, I’m not about to change habits honed over a lifetime.

I’ll continue my wait-and-see approach to swapping the kinds of life experiences that help build friendships. Instead, I'm known around here for dropping laugh lines into conversations. Growing up in a judgmental, religious area taught me not to share confidences until I know they’ll be kept and not be used as a weapon to ostracize me. Telling certain people here that I’m Pro-Choice, for example, would get me accused of eating babies for breakfast. There’s always someone nearby with a sense of moral superiority who divides the world into Black and White. 

I’ll also continue to be slow in offering help—especially car rides, when I don’t even like taking myself places. We have two Mother Teresa types here who run themselves ragged doing favors for others from taking them shopping after they give up driving to watering plants or feeding cats when someone is off campus for whatever reason. I admire their selflessness, but I don’t want to be like them when I grow up. Nor do I want to emulate Mr. Hermit across the hall, who never socializes and comes and goes so infrequently I barely recognize him as a neighbor. If I had to write a sympathy card for him based on what I know about him, it would read: “The Amazon and FedEx delivery guys will miss him dearly. Apparently he's in the Shopaholic Club."

 Until next Wednesday.  © 

My Second Gay Date (Sort of) and the Off Broadway Elephant

Some stories arrive dressed in sequins and drama. Others show up in bowling shoes, clutching a free ticket and a bottle of Imodium. This one has a little of both. It’s about mistaken signals, unexpected invitations, and the kind of serendipity that only happens when you stop trying to choreograph your own life. It’s not a coming-out story—it’s a coming-around story. To friendship, to truth-telling, and to the curious ways we find ourselves in the company of elephants, both literal and metaphorical. It's about how far society has come—or hasn’t.  AI…..

Over the years I’ve had several friends who are gay. One I'd known since we were both toddlers and his parents ended up divorcing over their son’s sexuality. Another guy I thought I knew well in college didn't come out of the closet until after his elderly mother died. By then he was in his sixties and his coming out was an ‘aha moment’ that made pieces of my own life fall into place. We had dated for several years and while we talked about getting married, I’m grateful that we didn’t. I can’t imagine the pain a woman goes through when she thinks her closeted spouse is rejecting her in the bedroom and she has no clue why. 

And then there was my work friend and ski buddy in the '60s who agonized over telling his military-career father that he is gay. I'm not sure if he ever did. He moved out of town to put distance between him and his family and we lost track of each other. These three guys are the defining factors in why I fully support working towards a world where sexual orientation is no longer a “dirty little secret.” Secrets hurt both the teller and the ones being sheltered from the truth. Live and let live, that’s my motto. 

Sidebar here: I thought ‘live and let live’ was a proverb based on Bible scripture but Google corrected my misconception. The phrase is a Dutch proverb and it’s earliest appearance in print was in a 1622. “The core idea of tolerance and peaceful coexistence is central to its meaning” and that’s something our country would do good to resume working toward. (Rant off.) 

Back on topic: Another related event involving a gay acquaintance happened in the same time frame as when I met my husband. I joined a women’s bowling league on the advice from newspaper columnist Ann Landers. I had sent her a letter bemoaning the fact that I was 27 and still wasn’t married. Blah, blah, blah. Apparently, it wasn’t an unusual problem because I got a form letter back telling me to not sit at home waiting, get out and do things I like doing and I’d meet someone. I leaned into that advice as if my life depended on it. I joined clubs and gyms and took night classes. The only thing I didn’t try is church. 

It did work—it’s how I started dating Don—but not before I accidentally went on a date with a gay woman. She knew we were on a date. Naive me, didn’t. I figured it out the next league bowling night when afterward I went to the attached bar with my future husband, who I’d met the week before. She came in, sat down next to me and put her hand on my thigh possessively. I removed it. That was repeated a few times before she said words to the effect that she thought I liked her. “I do, but not like that!” I replied. To this day, I don’t know what gave her the wrong impression—I was the most boy-crazy person I knew. That “date” we were on? I thought we were two lioness out for an evening of making ourselves available for the King of the Jungle to find us.

Where is all this going? I just went on my second gay date. Not really. It wasn’t a date but I did go to an off Broadway play with two gay ladies. I don’t know whether to call it a stroke of luck, a happy accident or a $209 fluke or something else. Here’s how it happened.  I play Mahjong with one of them and she mentioned that she and her partner had tickets to see Water for Elephants and I expressed how much I loved the book and the movie. Both are on my list of top favorites. “How are they going do a story that features an elephant?” I asked. “She’s a major character in the story.”  “Puppets,” she replied.

The next morning, I got phone call from Ms. Gay Friend and her partner. A woman they were going to see the play with that night couldn’t go and she was offering me the ticket for free. I hemmed and hawed, listing every excuse I could think of to talk myself out of going. Not because of who I’d be going with but because I was having a bit of IBS at the time and I knew those seats in the theater are in long rows of 30 to 40 seats and their bathrooms not the easiest to find.

I’m also not a spur of the moment person but no matter what excuse I came up with, Ms Gay and her partner came up with a solution or answer I couldn’t refute. Finally I caved, promised I’d take an anti-diarrhea pill and two 500 mg of Tylenol and all would be fine. They promised to take good care of me. Said they wouldn’t leave me alone to have a panic attack—which, the older I get, I’m more prone to having in new situations. Not serious panic attacks, mind you—it was just a tiny stretch of the truth I used to wiggle out of going. But once I said it, I was locked into that little gray lie.

If you’ve seen Water for Elephants on stage, you already know that the large cast was full of feats of acrobatics, puppetry and cirque soleil style action. There was so much going on you didn’t know where to look first. I LOVED it! I’m not sure if a person who didn’t already know the storyline would be able to follow it. That part was a little sketchy, I thought, but the 20-something girls sitting next to me had not read the book nor seen the movie and one of them said she liked the production better than she thought she would. She, by the way, was on a very obvious gay date—but unlike me fifty years ago, she knew it. 

I recently came across a quote by an American photographer, Sally Mann, that nailed what I feel about storytelling.  “The thing that makes writing so difficult is you don't have the element of serendipity. At least with a photograph, you can set up the camera, and something might happen. You might be a lousy photographer, but you can get a good picture if you just take enough of them.” 

And sometimes, life hands you a story so full of serendipity, all you have to do is write it down. © 

 

Dispatches from the Department of War and the Woke Resistance

When President Trump declared Portland a “war-ravaged city” and sent troops and helicopters to monitor peaceful protests, it wasn’t just political theater—it was a dress rehearsal for authoritarianism. His speech at Quantico, flanked by Pete Hegseth and 800 stone-faced Joint Chiefs, landed with all the warmth of a lead balloon. Meanwhile, in at least one independent living facility, resistance is brewing—not with rifles, but with paperclips. This essay traces the absurdity of militarized rhetoric, the rise of meme warfare, and the quiet defiance of everyday Americans who know that fascism doesn’t always arrive with jackboots. Sometimes, it shows up in speeches about kombucha and fat generals. AI….


According to Google the idiom, ‘Always waiting for the other shoe to drop’ means we are  “anticipating an inevitable, usually negative, event after a prior one has occurred, similar to hearing one shoe hit the floor in an apartment and expecting the second to follow.” A deeper dive brought the explanation that the expression got its start from old Vaudeville routine where a comedian would say: “A man comes home late to his room in a crowded boarding house. As he gets ready for bed, he removes and drops a shoe with a thump on the floor. Remembering that his downstairs neighbor often complains of late-night noise, he takes off the other shoe and places it gently on the floor. After he settles under the covers, an irritated voice from the room below shouts, ‘When are you going to drop the other shoe?’”  

Meanwhile in Portland, Oregon

Ever since Pete Hegseth (Secretary of Defense or Secretary of War—take your pick) delivered his speech before the 800 stone-faced Joint Chiefs at Quantico September 30th coupled with the president declaring Portland, Oregon, to be “a war-ravaged city and a threat to our national security” I’ve felt like the other shoe is finally going to drop. Trump not only deployed the National Guard against the governor’s wishes, he has helicopters circling the skies above the city to keep track of an “insurrection” that city and state officials say is just citizens peacefully exercising their rights to free speech. 

“There is no insurrection,” Oregon Governor. Tina Kotek said on Saturday. Portland officials think Trump is watching footage from 2020 when there was protests in Portland against George Floyd’s murder. Remember the “I can’t breathe!” cries he made while a police officer held him down with a knee to his neck for nine minutes, 29 seconds?

You’ve got to love the internet and the creativity of Americans. No sooner did the troops arrive in Portland than the memes started showing up on Facebook. Memes written in the same tone and gravitas as soldiers wrote back home during the Civil War. “Dearest Mother, I write to you from the front lines of the Great Portland Conflict of ‘25 where our battalion bravely holds a line between the artisan kombucha stand and the vegan co-op….” 

That’s one end of the spectrum of reactions to what happened but on the other end—the end that makes me think the tide if finally turning against Trump’s administration—is a lot of high ranging military men are posting articles about how the military will not follow UNLAWFUL orders from a president. These were in response to Trump’s speech at Quantico before the generals and admirals, where he said the military should use Democratic-led cities as training grounds on what he characterized as “a war from within.” The road to fascism isn’t theoretical anymore. It’s paved with speeches like these two delivered at Quantico with rhetoric aimed at turning citizens against one another.

Trump started his speech out by noting how no one applauded Hegseth’s speech just before he took the stage, “You’re allowed to do that, you know.” He paused, expecting them to applaud.They still didn’t, so the president said, "If you don't like what I have to say you can walk out and kiss your careers and pensions goodbye." And if you read the full transcript you’ll understand why they didn’t applaud. One thing Hegseth said was “Frankly, it's tiring to look out at combat formations...and seeing fat troops. Likewise, it's completely unacceptable to see fat generals and admirals in the halls of the Pentagon.” And that was the least offensive thing he said. As one pundit put it, "Hegseth called them all fat, gay losers."

Hegseth also said he was once again going to “empower drill sergeants to instill a healthy fear into new recruits. And if that makes me toxic, then so be it.” He’s going to unweasonize—his word not mine—words like bullying, hazing and toxic in the military. It’s another brick in the road to fascism when leaders celebrate fear over respect coupled with ignoring governors, by-passing Congress and breaking as many norms as the current administration does. It's eroding our Democracy—all actions that are the very hallmarks of authoritarianism. 

Trump’s entire speech was mostly his usual word salad of his Ten Greatest Hits: Tariffs. How he deserves the Nobel Peace Prize. Sleepy Joe Biden. And how he hates autopens. (Trump went on and on about how he’d like to sign things in pure gold but it takes a certain kind of paper.) He talked about how his renaming of the Gulf of Mexico makes sense “because we own 92% of the frontage.” And of course, he talked about his renaming the Department of Defense to the Department of War. He said, everyone loves it because it’s no longer woke. A renaming that from all accounts he can’t do without congressional approval which didn’t stop him from getting new signage put up along side of the old as well as renaming the website, The Department of War which reflects militaristic values formerly only valued in communist and fascist regimes. 

Back at Home

Closer to home someone in our Tuesday Night Conversation Group (otherwise known as the Secret Society of Liberal Ladies) passed around an article about The Paperclip Project and so we’ve all be wearing one attached to our collars or sleeves as a sign of our resistance against fascism. It’s a small act of pushing back, and it feels empowering when you see someone else in solidarity wearing one. Another member of the group hosted a happy hour to introduce us to a local democratic candidate for Mayor. She had a turn out of 15+ people—all from our independent living apartments—and most of us were wearing our paperclips. 

It’s a little thing—copied from what the Norwegians did during the WWII Nazi occupation to signal unity. Here, the only reaction so far came from a MAGA supporter who asked about the paper clip. When told it was a symbol of resistance against fascism, he scoffed: “You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” That idiom, by the way, dates back to 1546. 

History teaches us many things and one lesson we must not forget: the road to fascism is paved with apathy. Trump isn't building a mole hill, he’s constructed a mountain. History also does not forgive or forget those who look away when it’s time to fight back. So this is your call to action. Do something to help sound the alarm. It can be anything from going to the 'No Kings Protest' coming up later this month to wearing a paperclip then sharing your concerns when asked about it to supporting public figures who are in the trenches already. Find a way to make your voice be heard. We can’t wait for the other boot to fall. © 

I've spent more time than I care to admit trying to make live links of to the transcripts to both Trump's and Hegeth's speeches but something keeps going wrong. If you are interested in reading them you'll have to google them yourself. Hegeth's is a master class on how to demoralize our troops and worth reading. They flew in every single high ranging military personal from all the branches of the government from all over the world to sit in that room. Judging by the way the Joint Chiefs reacted to these speeches I'm hoping that history will judge them as the beginning of the end. But which ending? The ending of Trump's power or the ending of our Democracy? 

ICE Fishing in Portland

Answering the Phone Like It’s 1999 (and Why I Still Do)

In an age of spam calls, scam alerts, and algorithmic matchmaking gone rogue, answering the phone has become a lost art—or a risky gamble. But for those of you who still pick up, there's legacy, curiosity, and a dash of storytelling gold waiting on the other end. This post explores why Jean still answers unknown calls, what happened when a mysterious woman asked for her late husband, and how a $7.98 cell plan became part of her personal history.  AI... 

I’m not one of those old people who is afraid to answer a phone call from an unknown number. Yes, I’ve been to the classes on how not to be a senior citizen who gets scammed by a fake grandson who needs bail money to get out of a Mexican jail. I know enough not to buy gift cards, money orders or bitcoins for strangers who will “pay me for the trouble” by letting me keep part of the money from their (bad) check. I know better than to believe Microsoft would call little old me to tell me my computer has a virus and I need to let the caller remotely control my keyboard. In the world of protecting old people from themselves we are told if it’s a legitimate call, they will leave a voice mail. But what fun would that be? Besides, I tell people who question why I would put myself in harm’s way by answering that very scary phone that I know how to hang up, and I would sooner tell someone on the phone my weight than give out my Social Security number, bank routing info or credit card details. And I don’t make donations by phone. “So save your pitch for someone else,” I’ve been known to say. 

The Mysterious Caller 

I was expecting a call back from my financial advisor when I answered the phone and heard a woman asking to speak to Don. My husband died over a decade ago so I replied, “May I say who is calling?” to which the woman hemmed and hawed and finally repeated, “Can I speak to Don?” Her voice wasn’t crackly sounding like most people in my age bracket or I would have thought it was an old girlfriend trying to get closure—or maybe start something up again. 

But her voice was young and sexy and for a split second I thought about all those young women with cleavage-forward photos that I just deleted from my Facebook Page’s “People You May Know” slideshow. God only knows what I was researching online to give Facebook’s matchmaking algorithm the idea I’d be interested in finding overseas women with names like Cherry whose sweaters are two sizes too small. Clearly the algorithm went rogue. Unfortunately, I knew a man who did click one of those dark-eyed girls to find romance but all he got was an imaginary girlfriend who ghosted him when his bank account was drained.

Then my mind went to the possibility there could be a daughter out there that Don never knew about who is trying to fill in her long lost family tree. We didn’t talk much about our past romantic histories but he was a good looking guy who no doubt sowed a few wild oats, as the saying goes. But I reasoned he would have been found years ago by an unknown child because we didn’t move around much. Nope, I finally decided it was a telemarketer so I told the woman, “You might want to take this number off your call list. Don’s been dead for quite some time.” She hung up. 

When I got off the phone I googled her phone number, as I always do, to see if it came from a known scammer but this time the number the woman was calling from was a local mortgage company. The last time Don’s name was on a mortgage it was near the turn of century and it was paid off long ago. Curiosity can lead us down some strange paths and I can’t stop running scenarios through my head. Should I call the number back and demand to talk to the women who failed to announce she was calling from a mortgage company? Do mortgage companies do cold canvassing? Was there something wrong with that last mortgage or does Don still own one of the rental properties he had back in his prime because a mortgage company screwed up? Her reasons for calling could be anything, and if she sends a follow up in the mail, I will be ready with my Tenacity Hat on and a notepad close at hand. 

Don’s Legacy and a $7.98 Cell Plan

Don had his massive stroke in 2001 leaving him unable to use a phone, but the phone number he used—and I still do use—went back the 1980s when cell service was first introduced to our city. He had rental property, a parking lot maintenance business and a personal life attached to that phone and we didn’t want to give up the number because we still needed many of those people to be able to contact us. The cell company, however, looking for a way out of the contract didn't want to accept my checks for the monthly payments, and they made me jump through hoops to get the contract changed over to my name. 

One of the hoops involved getting a letter from a doctor stating that Don could no longer write or talk and another letter from a contract lawyer basically stating the obvious, that he was not dead yet and while we didn’t have the same last name we were legally married and had the documents to prove it. Because Don was one of the first to sign up for those crazy things called a CELL phone—the contract had a lifetime fixed rate of $7.98 a month. That didn’t change until I wanted a smart phone a few short years ago. If I had wanted to keep a flip phone I could still be paying $7.98. 

Forty plus years of cell service for $7.98 a month was hard to give up but it was worth it because I do like having a semi-smart phone. It’s an android, the stepchild of the coveted Apple iPhone, which is smart enough to challenge me but not outsmart me. My fellow residents are always talking about how long they have to stand in line down at the Apple Store to get one thing or another fixed or figured out. 

When I left the flip phone behind I got to keep our Vintage Phone Number. Or I should I once again had to put on my Tenacity Hat and jump through enough hoops to rival those in an old fashioned circus act involving a pack of poodles to make that happen. So in case, you’re wondering I will keep on answering unknown calls for as long as I remember how to hang up, because I’ve got nothing to lose—except the time I’ve saved by not standing in line at the Apple Store, and because sometimes the best stories start with a ring and a little curiosity. ©

 Until Next Wednesday. 

Life on a Continuum Care Campus and the Power of One Bold Newcomer

Living in a continuum care community is a bit like starring in a long-running sitcom—same setting, rotating cast, and just enough drama to keep things interesting. Residents come and go, apartments get flipped faster than real estate on HGTV, and the Looky-Loos arrive sniffing out their future lifestyle like it’s a Costco sample tray. But beneath the predictable rhythms of move-ins and meal plans there’s always a wildcard. This time, she arrived with purple hair, a Type A personality, and a mission to shake things up—from the Food Committee to the Secret Society of Liberal Ladies. In this post, Jean chronicles the latest chapter in her community's saga, complete with unsolicited mission statements, political provocations, and her own quiet plot to hand off a leadership baton with a sigh of relief. AI ….

Living on a continuum care campus means people come and go—some move to the Assisted Living or Memory Care building down the road, others to Skilled Nursing across town. A few die and it’s anyone’s guess where they end up. When people leave the trucks or family members swoop in to move their stuff, then maintenance does their thing to get their apartment ready to sell. Afterward, a parade of Looky-Loos on the waiting list go through it and decide if they are ready for the life-changes it takes to live on a continuum care campus. The cycle is steady and as predictable as the changing of the seasons, a doom and gloom reminder that life is fragile and we need to appreciate the here and now.

As new residents pick their way around the public areas they often look like kids who’ve moved to a new school district half way through a semester. They nervously walk into the dining room at noon, not knowing where to sit, hoping they won’t get asked to leave their first choice of tables. But they have nothing to fear at my CCC because someone from our table of fourteen will invite them over. There is always someone who’s been there long after they’ve finished eating who is willing to give up their seat to a newcomer. Of course, the newcomer gets grilled: “Where did you move from?” “What did you do before retirement”? “Do you have family living near-by?” Someone at the table will take it upon themselves to introduce the other residents. “This is our mayor. He knows everything going on here.” “If you want to get involved in the woodshop, talk to this guy.” If you want to join Bridge Club talk to this lady.” “Like Mahjong? Talk to Jean” and so on. We have a self-appointed leader for everything that goes on here including a guy who makes sure all our Amazon, FedEx and post office packages in the mailroom get delivered to our front doors. 

We also tell the newcomers, “If you don’t see an activity you like, tell the Life Enrichment Director and she’ll help you start a group.” Some resident ideas stick like Gorilla Glue. For example, the off campus Breakfast Club is well attended, others fail for lack of interest like the Crafter’s Afternoon that was my brain child. (Or should I say brain fart?) The idea was for everyone who does a handcraft like knitting, embroidery or quilting to get together twice a month—like a sewing circle and a show-and-tell rolled into one. Our LED hasn’t taken it off the monthly schedule even though in nearly a year, no one shows up including me and one other woman who quit going after three months. We suspect the director keeps it on the calendar to impress the Looky-Loos with how many choices of activities we have here. There are a few other things on the schedule that are more wishful thinking than actual activities.

A recent newcomer did not tiptoe in quietly. I should have guessed by her long purple hair that our newest resident would make a few waves around here, and she has just by the sheer number of activities she’s joined. It takes most people a while before they start slowly wading into the culture. Not her. She signed up for book club, the Creative Writing Club, the Food Committee and she got herself invited to join the Tuesday Night Conversation group (formerly known as the Secret Society of Liberal Ladies). Last Tuesday as sixteen of us sat around a large conference table for dinner and conversation about national news she dominated as the main speaker. Clearly, she’s a mover and shaker Type A with great skill sets. But she wants us to invite people from the other side of the political aisle to join us "to create an opportunity to dialogue.” Someone pointed out that our group got our start because anytime politics was brought up in the public areas, the conversation would quickly get shut down by people who either didn’t want to hear it or who’d start making highly inflammatory remarks that took away any chance of civil discussion.

A friend of mine read me a letter Ms Purple Hair wrote to the Food Committee where she also came in with guns blazing. She said she had read over the notes from all the past meetings and it was clear that the group had no mission statement or guidelines for what they hope to accomplish. So she proposed that during the first meeting after the summer break they need to write one. God save me from the health nuts who want us all eating like rabbits! Thankfully, we have a kitchen manager whose answer to everything is, “State law does not require Independent Living facilities to furnish calorie counts for all their meals or plan balanced nutrition” or blab, blab, blab. That law is what saves us from having things like onion rings, mashed potatoes and red meat removed from our menu.

She’s joined The Creative Writing Group but other than her letter to the Food Committee I haven’t seen a sample of her work yet. That will come later this week. But I do know one thing: If Ms Purple Hair tries to take over the leadership of the group, I will gladly give up my imaginary gavel. And I will do it with a secret laugh in my gut, knowing I’ve wanted to quit that leadership role a long time ago but no one would let me. That's one cycle of change around here I'd welcome with arms wide open. ©

Processing Charlie Kirk’s Assassination in a Divided Nation

The assassination of conservative activist Charlie Kirk at Utah Valley University has ignited national debate—and personal reflection. As someone who never followed Kirk closely, Jean was stunned, not by the violence itself, but by the grief expressed by people she loves. In this post, Jean explores Kirk’s controversial legacy, the polarized reactions to his death, and the uncomfortable conversations it sparked in her life. What does political violence reveal about the state of our country—and about the values we hold dear? AI….

Charlie Kirk’s assassination last week didn’t just shake the political world—it shook me, too, in ways I hadn't anticipated. I had never paid much attention to him until the news broke and then I took a deep dive into his history.

In 2018 Charlie Kirk was included on the Forbes Magazine list 30 Under 30 in Law and Policy. He was 24 years old and several years before that he was the youngest speaker to ever appear at a Republican National Convention. Among his other accomplishments was founding Turning Point USA—a far-right organization that today claims to be the largest MAGA youth group, with a presence on 2,500 campuses. It opposes gun control, vaccines, abortion rights, LGBTQ rights, and promotes Christian Nationalism and a grab-bag of conspiracy theories. It’s not hyperbolic to say that Charlie Kirk made a name and a fortune for himself. His estate is estimated at twelve million dollars. Politics pays well.

Last Wednesday he was speaking at a large rally and just before he was assassinated he was asked by an audience member: “Do you know how many transgender Americans have been mass shooters in the past ten years?” “Too many,” Kirk said, then added. “Counting or not counting gang violence?” Those were his final words—provocative, divisive, and now immortalized in his short but impactful life.

I never gave Charlie his due for his sphere of influence. I knew he thought the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was a “huge mistake” and that its led to what the far-right thinks is a DEI culture. I knew his misogynistic viewpoint about birth control making women “angry and bitter.” I knew he’s said young women need to “get back to prioritizing marriage and motherhood,” and give up their aspirations of having careers. 

I also knew he publicly made a pitch for a “patriot” to come forward to bail out the person who attacked Paul Pelosi with a hammer. But I didn’t know that after he was shot I’d see so many of my conservative friends and neighbors express their profound and deepest grief over his passing. I thought he was just a shock jockey pod-castor on the fringe of the Republican Party. 

Learning the wide scope of Kirk's power in the Republican Party started with some Facebook posts. Friends and relatives plastered the site with their admiration and grief. One was posted by one of my favorite people on earth. In the video someone asked Charlie, “If I was dying of a gun shot and had 30 seconds to live what would you tell me?” Charlie answered that "he was about to meet the Eternal Judgment and the only important thing is if you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior—not how many good deeds you’d done, not how much money you have or what’s on your moral scorecard. Nothing else is going to cut it except accepting Jesus.” (Quoted verbatim.)

Not long after watching that video I got a phone call from a (MAGA and pseudo religious) relative who quickly worked the conversation around to Charlie. But what was really on her mind is she wanted to know if I’ve accepted Jesus as my Lord and Savior yet. I told her I believe in the historical Jesus but not the mystical Jesus meaning I believe he walked the earth and was the founder of a world religion just like Mohammad, Buddha and Abraham were—but I don’t subscribe to the idea he had any mystical powers. I would never say this to her but I think it’s utterly ridiculous to believe that accepting Jesus as your savior is the only way to find a divine consciousness or to tap into a universal, spiritual force.

After spending my morning reading about Charlie Kirk, I went down to lunch. When I sat down the woman next to me was talking about how awful it was that “they” killed him. (Current events are rarely ever discussed at our lunch table so that alone was telling.) Then she looked at me and asked, “Or are you one of those who is cheering his death?” She knows I’m part of the Tuesday Night (Political) Conversation Dinner Group which is probably why she made the jab but still I was shocked at the insult. “Of course not!" I replied. "I don’t want to live in a country where political assassinations are becoming disturbingly routine."

Someone else said we have to find a way to bring people back together. "How did we get so polarized?" another woman asked. Then I made the mistake of saying it started when Trump— That’s as far as I got before someone jumped on me, saying, “Please don’t bring politics into this tragedy!” Not wanting to add more heat to the conversation I didn’t spit back what I was thinking, and I was thinking how on earth can you NOT bring politics into a political assassination? He wasn’t shot for a personal scandal or happenstance. I didn’t say another word through lunch and the conversation around me ended in the same place as the phone call I’d gotten earlier by someone saying, "Charlie is in heaven, now, where he and Jesus are walking hand in hand." Cynical me thought, there must be a meme out there expressing that sentiment.

I neither mourn nor celebrate Charlie Kirk’s death. But I do mourn what it reveals about the country I (used to) love—and how far we’ve drifted apart in what we value about life, liberty and patriotism. The fact that the president wants to posthumously award Mr. Kirk the National Medal of Freedom and allow him to lie in state in the Capitol building is not only inappropriate it puts a giant explanation point on our deep divide. ©

“We can return violence with violence. We can return hate with hate. And that’s the problem with political violence,” Governor Cox of Utah said. “It metastasizes, because we can always point the finger at the other side. And at some point, we have to find an off-ramp, or it’s going to get much, much worse.”  

Fall Layers and Closet Truths: A 30-Day Purge Begins

September in Michigan brings more than falling leaves and back-to-school chaos—it sparks a personal reckoning in Jean's closet. As the weather shifts, so does her wardrobe, and this year she's committed to a 30-day clothing purge. With decades of fashion, fluctuating sizes, and sentimental garments hanging on padded hangers, she is confronting the emotional weight of letting go. This isn’t just about de-cluttering—it’s about identity, memory and making peace with change. AI...

 

September brings change to Michigan. The biggest shift? Kids heading back to school while parents scramble to fill calendars with carpools, practices and pick-ups. A longer-lasting transition begins in the trees, which start their slow dance of changing colors—pale pinks and yellows taking the first steps toward October’s grand finale. The high temperatures of summer are also ushered out on the tail end of hurricane season on the Gulf of Mexico and along the Eastern seaboard. And September means I start digging around in my closet for clothing that bridges summertime weather and winter layering. 

I’m the undisputed queen of layering. Summer means sleeveless shells under ¾-length shirts. Fall brings short or long cotton sleeves under flannel. By November, it's turtlenecks pair with sweaters or sweatshirts. And in winter? I might add a third layer—a cotton camisole or quilted vest for extra warmth. In the “black” section of my closet alone, there are fourteen tops in various weights and sleeve lengths. No one needs that many. Same goes for the sweater section—eighteen, all hanging on padded hangers. And pants? Nineteen pairs, including three pedal-pushers and four pairs of blue jeans. No one needs that many pants. Unless, of course, they do—because like me, they have two sizes in each category. 

I need a major purging project because my closet can’t hold another hanger!

It’s no secret—I struggle with my weight. It goes up, it goes down, and right now I’m living in the larger sizes. You’d think purging would be easy: just toss what doesn’t fit. But other fatty-fatty-two-by-fours might back me up when I say that letting go of smaller sizes feels like giving up on ourselves. I did that once and what happened is that larger size became the smaller size as I added on more pounds. Now, years after that disastrous purge I hear a little voice in my head reminding me that I shouldn’t get rid of anything in my closet, because I won’t be able to afford to replace whatever I’d purge. Tariffs combined with a fixed income are a bitch.

On September 1st, I went looking for a hanger to store a new top—and found none. Not. Even. One. That was my breaking point. I came up with a plan: purge one garment a day for the next thirty days. I’m in day eight as I write this and so far I’ve kept my promise to myself. I started with things I don’t like and never wear and next I’ll go for the things that don’t fit. I’m putting my daily choices in one of two boxes: ‘Donate’ and ‘Hold for a Year.’ Somehow knowing I'm not donating everything makes it easier to perform the task. Purging thirty space-wasters should make a huge difference in my small closet and I’ll be able to see if I have a need for anything new. If I do it will be pants. I have some that are a quarter of a century old. My pants size doesn’t seem to change like my top sizes. But I have some that are too short.

This is the third time I’ve written a post about closet purging, the first time was in 2014. “I started with a book titled, Ten Steps to Declutter Your Closet,” I wrote.  “Short and sweet. Twenty-five pages of standard stuff: haul everything out of the closet, try on everything and purge the stuff that doesn’t fit, is stained or needs repairs or that you haven’t worn in the last year. One Year! I’ve got nearly three feet worth of closet rod taken up with vintage clothing from as far back to the Kennedy administration.” Before I moved here, I managed to pare down my vintage collection. But I still have three garments I can’t part with. They make me happy just to see them now and then: a dress from my clubbing days with Don in the ’70s, a size 11 sailor-themed, two piece outfit from the late ’60s (the smallest I ever was in adulthood), and my beloved hippie/bicentennial dress from 1976.

In 2020 while faced with another closet purging I wrote: “My master closet has always been a walk-in hell-hole of clothing (in three sizes), shoes, Crocs, purses, hats and anything that I want to hide from the world---the volume of which needs to be cut in half before I move. I’ve never enjoyed purging clothes. My size changes so often that I’m afraid to let go of things that don’t fit. I know—it’s a messed-up mindset. Life coaches and diet experts would say keeping three sizes traps us in a cycle: we bounce 15–20 pounds up and down, grabbing the next size up instead of facing the snug truth.” Re-reading this post made me realize I have made some progress, given the fact that my current closet only holds two sizes. Maybe if I live to be 100, I’ll die with just one size of clothing to my name. But let’s be honest—it’ll probably be one of my nieces who makes that happen, when and if I get moved to Assisted Living.

Until Next Wednesday ©

Review of The Book of Two Ways by Jodi Picoult — A Deep Dive into Death, Desire, and the Dilemma of ‘What If’

 

If you’ve ever wrestled with the haunting question “What might my life have looked like if I’d chosen differently?” then The Book of Two Ways will hit close to home—and possibly leave you fuming. In this spoiler-heavy review, Jean unpack Picoult’s ambitious novel that blends death doula work, Egyptian archaeology, and quantum theory into a tangled narrative of love, loss, and unresolved choices. While the book is rich in research and philosophical depth, its ending left her unsatisfied and emotionally rattled. Read on if you’re ready to explore the messy beauty of parallel lives—and why sometimes, closure matters more than cleverness. AI….

Spoiler Alert: If The Book of Two Ways is still on your “To Read” list and you prefer to go in blind, skip this post. I’m about to work through my frustrations with how Jodi Picoult chose to end this well-researched but emotionally packed and surprising novel.

The protagonist, Dawn, is a Death Doula. According to Wikipedia, a Death Doula "is a person who assists in the dying process much like a midwife does with the birthing process. They’re non-medical professionals who help the dying wrap up loose ends while offering emotional and spiritual support." Loose ends might include anything from completing a 'Honey-Do List' to tracking down a lost love and delivering a final letter. Whatever the client needs.

Personally, if I had a Death Doula at the end of my life, I’d ask her to make a vibrator disappear. Too much information? Maybe. But I’m hoping that it adds a little shock-awe-humor to this post. Whether it’s true or not—I’ll let you decide.

Back to Dawn. In her college days, she was a budding Egyptologist, but life intervened—her mother entered hospice care, and Dawn left her undergrad program unfinished. (Been there, done that.) During an archaeological dig fifteen years before the book’s present timeline, she had a summer affair with a fellow student named Wyatt. Fast forward: she marries Brian, a man she met while both had loved ones in the same hospice home. They build a good life together while raising a daughter—who Dawn initially believes is Brian’s, but turns out to be Wyatt’s.

The book’s title refers to a map painted inside Egyptian coffins, showing both a land and water route to the afterlife. In Picoult’s plot, these maps become metaphors for Dawn’s choice: stay in her stable marriage or rekindle her relationship with Wyatt and return to the life she left behind. It’s the classic “What If” game many of us play as we age.

Major spoiler alert: Picoult ends the book without revealing what Dawn decides. Some readers on a fan site say this mirrors “the idea of parallel lives and the unknowability of fate.” Others call it a cop-out. Still others note that Picoult often presents moral or emotional dilemmas rather than tidy conclusions.

I’m firmly in the camp that felt cheated. She created an impossible choice—one that hurts someone no matter what Dawn chooses. The old romance reader in me wanted one more chapter. I wanted Dawn to stay in America until her daughter finishes high school, not abandon a 15-year relationship for a romanticized summer fling. The idea that she’d throw away a shared life for something that might not live up to the fantasy made me angry. It’s easy to romanticize the past and take for granted the quiet strength of a long-standing relationship. I think most of us make peace with our choices. We'll never know if Dawn did the same.

Can you tell I’ve played the “What If” game a few times? 

And that wasn’t the only thing that made me angry. One of Dawn’s clients wrote a letter to a lost love, and Dawn planned to deliver it before the client died. But when she saw the man through a window—seemingly happy with his family—she chose not to disrupt his life. That decision, while questionable, was forgivable. What wasn’t forgivable was telling the dying woman, just moments before she took her last breath, that she hadn’t delivered the letter. A letter the client said was her most important final wish. If ever there’s a time for a little white lie, it’s on someone’s deathbed!

The book also dives into heavy themes like quantum physics—legitimate theories about parallel lives that sound like hocus-pocus but aren’t—and offers a fascinating glimpse into archaeological digs. But if I had to boil the book’s main theme down to one philosophical question, it would be: Do we make our choices, or do our choices make us? ©

Until Next Wednesday.

Favorite Quote from The Book of Two Ways: "Love isn't a perfect match but an imperfect one. You are rocks in a tumbler. At first you scrape, you snag. But each time that happens, you smooth each others edges, until you wear each other down. And if you are lucky at the end of all that, you fit."

Photo Credit at the top: Part of the Book of Two Ways on Coffin B1C, from Wael Sherbiny, Through Hermopolitan Lenses, Image by Jordan Miller. 

The Lingering Legacy of Vietnam: The War That Changed Us

This post explores the lingering impact of the Vietnam War through personal memory, cultural reflection, and historical context. From Bruce Springsteen’s protest anthem to Ron Kovic’s memoir and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, Jean revisits the emotional terrain of a generation shaped by conflict. With fresh reflections sparked by recent books and films, she connects past and present—reminding us that war doesn’t end when the fighting stops. AI...

“Records are often auditory Rorschach tests,” Bruce Springsteen wrote in his memoir. “We hear what we want to hear.” His song Born in the U.S.A.—often mistaken for a patriotic anthem—was actually written as a Vietnam protest song. Springsteen’s interest in veterans affairs and this song were inspired by Ron Kovic’s memoir Born on the Fourth of July, the story of a paralyzed veteran turned anti-war activist. That autobiography was published in 1976 and it became a best-seller. Fate brought these two men together shortly after and they became life long friends.

The 1989 film adaptation of the book, starring Tom Cruise, took some creative liberties—adding a high school girlfriend, placing Kovic at a protest he only watched on TV, and dramatizing a visit to the family of a fellow soldier he accidentally killed (in real life, he wrote them a letter). But overall, the movie stayed true to the spirit of Kovic’s account.

According to Wikipedia, Ron wrote the book in three weeks and two days. He described the process like this:

“I wrote all night long, seven days a week, single space, no paragraphs, front and back of the pages, pounding the keys so hard the tips of my fingers would hurt. I couldn't stop writing, and I remember feeling more alive than I had ever felt. Convinced that I was destined to die young, I struggled to leave something of meaning behind, to rise above the darkness and despair. I wanted people to understand. I wanted to share with them as nakedly and openly and intimately as possible what I had gone through, what I had endured. I wanted them to know what it really meant to be in a war — to be shot and wounded, to be fighting for my life on the intensive care ward — not the myth we had grown up believing. I wanted people to know about the hospitals and the enema room, about why I had become opposed to the war, why I had grown more and more committed to peace and nonviolence.”

Netflix was showing Born on the Fourth of July recently, and knowing it was a classic Vietnam film, I decided to watch. I couldn’t remember seeing it before, but I had read the book. Back in the late ’70s I read around twenty books about the war—memoirs and fiction by recent veterans like Ron. I was obsessed, trying to understand how we, as a nation—and I, personally—could go from naive supporter of the “conflict” to understanding why so many of us turned against it.

I thought I’d long ago made peace with that terrible chapter of American history. But seeing that movie on the heels of reading Kristin Hannah’s book The Women (about the U.S. Army Nurse Corp during the Vietnam War) a bunch of memories surfaced. Like the night Don and I tried to talk a friend of his nephew out of running off to Canada because his draft number was close to being called. Right or wrong, we didn’t succeed and he became a draft dodger. No matter what choice those teen boys made it was life altering. It wasn’t until 1977 when drafter dodgers were pardoned by Jimmy Carter, in an attempt to heal the nation, that those who fled could come back to The States.

We visited the Vietnam Wall Memorial twice—once in Washington, D.C., shortly after it was built in 1982 and again a decade later when its traveling replica came to town. Our local newspaper called the replica ‘The Wall That Heals.’ It was 250 foot long, ½ scale replica of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Wall on the National Mall and its 24 panels contain more than 58,000 names of those who didn’t make it home. When we saw the actual Wall in Washington D.C. it was an emotional experience for me. I had penpal relationships with over fifty servicemen over in ‘Nam spread out over four-five years and I planned to look them all up in the index book by the Wall, but after finding a few listed I just couldn’t continue.

When we saw the traveling replica it was my husband who was left haunted by the experience. As I pushed Don’s wheelchair past the 24th panel there was a homemade sign on a stake that contained the name of a work friend of Don's. It said he’d died of Agent Orange. This was in the ‘90s, just after our government finally got around to acknowledging the connection between Agent Orange and all the medical problems the guys who were exposed to those chemicals suffered. My husband’s friend had taken his own life just weeks before his wife placed that hand-painted sign at the replica Wall. The war hadn’t ended for him. It just changed shape. 

During my caregiving years (2000–2012), war played in our living room every night in the form of VHS tapes of M*A*S*H. When the series originally aired (1972–1983), Don was working nights and never saw it. But he had the entire series on tape and watched the episodes repeatedly. The whoop-whoop of helicopter blades and Alan Alda’s voice gave him the comfort of ritual while I was in the kitchen becoming a blogger.

I don’t entirely understand why we humans find comfort in watching the same shows over and over again, but I do it now with Sex and the City. Watching an episode after a movie each night acts like a palate cleanser for my brain. I’ve probably seen the entire series a dozen times.

And now I need that palate cleanser after watching the nightly news. With two wars raging and a president I don’t trust holding the reins, I’m angry again—angry that humanity remains so divided that we risk blowing up the whole kit and caboodle. Did Vietnam not teach us anything? I know what 45/47 wants out of one of those wars. He wants to develop the Gaza Strip into a high-rollers resort. And with Netanyahu’s latest plan to take over the area and relocate its people, it sounds suspiciously like an off-the-books deal is brewing. If so, it better not involve our tax dollars! If we can’t fund USAID to support the poorest people in the world then we sure as hell can’t fund billionaires on vacation!

My mother used to say, “Don’t borrow trouble from the future.” How she could say that so often—when she was the longest-range planner I’ve ever known—is beyond me. Maybe that’s the answer. She didn’t borrow trouble. She saw its potential and planned contingencies.

Anyone want to help me dig an underground fallout shelter? ©

Until Next Wednesday. 

Backpacks, Book Bags, and Breasts: A Late Summer Ramble

From pencil boxes to bug-out bags, this late-summer reflection traces the evolution of back-to-school rituals, family gatherings, and one marble sculpture with a surprising afterlife. A nostalgic, humorous look at how backpacks—and the memories they carry—have changed over the decades. AI

It’s been in the high 80s and we're only mid-way through August, but people are already grumbling about the end of summer. Considering how early kids go back to school these days, I shouldn’t be surprised. Historically speaking—does that sound better than “Back in my day”?—we never started school before Labor Day. God, I’m old.

This past weekend, I went to my youngest niece’s cottage for an end-of-summer swim party she was hosting for her grandkids and her brother’s. Normally, I wouldn’t have been included, but my nephew’s wife had recently talked to me on the phone and asked my niece to invite me. I’m not sure why, exactly—maybe I was just on her mind. It’s rare that I get to see my nephew, so I was glad for the opportunity.

All the kids in my family are growing up so fast. Even though I frequently see their faces on Facebook, I couldn’t pick most of them out in a lineup. A few had brought friends, which made it even harder to sort the wheat from the staff. Not the best metaphor for little kids, but you get my drift. I like interacting with children, but when time is limited, I’d rather the seashell or cookie conversation be with one from my own bloodline.

The Cookie Conundrum

The cookie conversation was my favorite. Three little girls—home-schooled, and I suspect not often indulged with store-bought sweets—were debating whether to choose a sugar cookie or a chocolate chip. A boy chimed in: “Have one of both!” But one of the girls quickly pointed out that there were 14 cookies and 14 kids. Finally, I suggested cutting a few cookies in half so they could sample both kinds. Their eyes lit up like little light bulbs. Problem solved. Off they went to swim in the lake.

Backpacks and Book Bags, Then and Now

 
Back-to-school shopping historically speaking didn’t include buying a backpack. (With a few tweaks, that sentence could be a tongue twister.) We didn’t even have those straps to hold books together like Laura Ingalls had on Little House on the Prairie. That show was set in the late 1800s, and their solution—a belt with new holes punched in—was surprisingly practical.

Online sources say book straps were replaced by “napsacks” in the 1930s, and backpacks didn’t really take off until the 2000s. But all I remember using were my arms—even when I took the bus daily to college. These days, I have enough canvas book bags to supply an entire grade. Of course, mine don’t feature cartoon characters or superheroes, so no self-respecting kid would want one. I’d have to ship them off to a refugee camp before they’d be appreciated for their usefulness rather than their art museum logos.

My obsession with book bags came long after I finished school. When Don and I first met, we lived a mile apart, and I was always packing up for weekends at his house—he worked on trucks, and I made wood fiber flowers thus my work was more portable than his. His neighbors nicknamed me “The Bag Lady” before we were formally introduced.

The One with the Most Toys

One of my book bags has a faded quote: “The one who dies with the most toys, wins.” That phrase was popular back in the day, printed on signs and canvas bags sold mostly in antique stores. Don took it to heart. He started collecting the toys he’d lost as a child—ones he watched a tornado hurl away from his childhood home while he stood in the doorway of the barn—old enough by then to be antiques. The storm spared a 1955 Ford tractor, which never did a day’s work again. Don eventually bought it from his mom and elevated it to sculpture status. By the time I sold it after he died in 2012, it was a classic antique destined for a full restoration. Don would’ve been thrilled. That’s what many widows try to do with their husband's treasures, isn’t it—make them happy with where they end up? Their prize possessions ended up, not the husbands.

Pencil Boxes and Marble Women 

 

Back in my day, I had my share of pencil boxes. I loved them. Still do. In college, I carried a metal fishing tackle box full of art supplies—two, actually: one king-size and one smaller,
tailored to the day’s class. Two days a week, it was sculpture class, where I spent a semester working on a headless, limbless marble woman. My poor dad and brother helped me pick up the stone—a tombstone with a misspelling, sold to students and artists—and they hauled it to the college art studio and back home again at the end of the semester. It was only half done, but the professor encouraged me to finish it over the summer. And that’s how I ended up with an ill-gotten set of marble carving tools. Oops.

The sculpture? The stone was pared down past the lettering and its classic tombstone shape was gone and a set of breasts was emerging, just enough to earn me an A. I was going to be the next Michelangelo until I learned he dissected dead people to understand anatomy. Last I saw my half-done sculpture was in my nephew’s garden. A friend once admired the flowers around it, stepped back, and said, “Is that what I think it is?” I’m afraid ask if he still has the stone at the house he bought from by brother’s estate. He’s the one with the naive, home school grandkids who debated their cookie choices so I could understand if a naked garden lady was a problem.

Backpacks in the Age of Anxiety

With kids using devices instead of books, backpacks may shrink in size. But gun violence has changed things—some schools now require clear plastic backpacks. A few worried parents go further, buying bulletproof ones. So much thought goes into picking a backpack now, beyond which superhero starred in the summer blockbuster.

The local TV station is running its annual drive to fill a moving van up with new and gently used backpacks for marginalized neighborhood schools. I have an olive green one from the Sierra Club—a donation premium—that might end up on that van someday. For now, it’s filled with bug-out gear in case of a fire or tornado. I should check its contents, swap out the energy bars, and update the emergency info. I really am getting old so maybe should also tell my nieces to look for the $50 bill tucked inside. I’m my mother’s daughter, after all—she knew how to make disposing of her stuff rewarding. ©

Until Next Wednesday.

Note: The bold headlines in between paragraphs were created by AL.

Gait Analysis and the Great Throw Rug Conspiracy

 

In this candid and humorous reflection, Jean recounts her experience with a gait analysis appointment, where science meets skepticism and throw rugs become public enemy number one. With AI chiming in and a healthy dose of common sense, she questions the one-size-fits-all approach to fall prevention and reminds readers that aging within a CCC means walking your own path—rugs included. Jasper AI

 
Being a tad cynical about some of the optional medical monitoring our continuum care campus rolls out, I wasn’t sure I wanted to sign up for the Fall Prevention Study. As one fellow resident put it, “Should we be giving our overlords ammunition to justify moving us out of Independent Living and into Assisted Living where they make more money off us?” Another member of the Cynical Cult added, “It’s just a way to get our insurance companies to pay for on-campus therapies.” I wasn’t sold on the first theory, but the second one? That checks out.

The Fall Prevention Study was based on an app called OneStep which is a smartphone-based tool that measures and analyzes your gait and mobility. It’s FDA-listed and taking the test is as simple as putting a smart phone with the app into your pants pocket and walking. Another part of the test involves sitting and standing repeatedly, as many times as you can in x-number of minutes. The app measures quite a few data points and I managed to be in the low risk zone for all but one data point. Turns out I walk with asymmetry—my right leg strides 21 inches, my left 24. (Jasper AI, my Microsoft Copilot, suggested I joke that I favor my left leg like it’s the good china. I reminded him that I’m the one writing this post, not him.) This uneven stride causes an occasional side step, making me look like I’ve indulged in too much beer or wine—neither of which I drink, unless it’s free and tied to a campus holiday.

I also learned that I walk with my feet only four inches apart and ideally they should be six inches apart. This little tidbit was interesting to me because all my life the heel of my right foot occasionally scrapes along the side of my left shoe wearing it out before the rest of the shoe shows its age. 

Our appointments were scheduled every ten minutes and they were running late so I got to see two other women before me do their tests and they both failed. The cynic in me suspected “failure” was the default for anyone who questioned their risk of falling enough to take the test. So I was surprised that I passed. The woman doing the testing did say therapy could probably help with getting my stride more symmetric but I’m only a little way into the ‘red zone’ so it’s not a critical issue for me. Honestly, I can’t see how someone whose been walking for 80-something years is going to change their stride all that much so I’m not going to pursuit it. One of the women ahead of me who failed all of  the data points is opting to sign up for therapy, the other one thought it would be a waste of time since she already uses a walk.  

All of us seniors have heard the statistics on falls and how they so often lead to permanent stays in nursing homes. A Google search lists the main causes of falls in the elderly as: 

- weak muscles, especially in the legs
- poor balance, causing unsteadiness in your feet 
- dizziness or light-headedness
- black outs, fainting or loss of consciousness
- foot problems including pain and deformities 
- memory loss, confusion or difficulties with thinking or problem solving

I’m surprised Google didn’t list throw rugs. You’d think they’d be public enemy number one, given how often they appear on the dreaded Medicare Questionnaire. I personally know two women who fell and broke bones because of a rogue rug. Where’s the justice? They should be on the dang list!

The app's website says, “OneStep turns real-world motion into insight that guides care, protects independence, and changes lives.” Here’s what Jasper AI says about it: “OneStep is a reliable and valid tool for gait analysis, especially useful in remote or real-world settings. While it may slightly underestimate some metrics compared to lab systems, its ease of use and clinical relevance make it a strong contender in digital physical therapy.”

So there you have it—the highlight of my very boring week, brought to you by asymmetry, skepticism, and a smartphone in my pocket. Jasper’s still lobbying for a follow-up post titled “Gait Expectations,” but I told him not to get ahead of himself. Having AI as a line editor is like having a puppy who insists you keep throwing a ball. No matter how much you write it keeps wanting you to do more. ©