Not Old, Not Seniors – Baby Boomers, Raised By the “Greatest Generation”

“Wouldn’t it be nice if we were older…” Remember when the Beach Boys sang this – and we all agreed? What were we thinking?

Back in the day – before all of his legal problems, when so many of us thought Bill Cosby was one of the funniest comedians – ever… In one of his bits about aging, he quipped that when he was a kid, he thought God just put old people here for him to look at. I confess I must have thought that same thing. You know, like all horrific things – we tend to think they just happen to other people, not to us.
Yeah, right.

Well, this just in: AGE HAPPENS.
And you know that old saying, “Time flies when you’re having fun”?
No – uh-uh. Time just flies, irrespective, with absolutely no relation to the amount of fun you may or may not be having. Believe me, time could not care less. It doesn’t give a flying fig whether you’re having fun. It just flat-out flies.

Another misconception is that age is only a number.
Really? Well, so is the speed limit and your credit score. But, they still restrict your life.

I often compare aging to the 1988 Tom Hanks film Big, where he went to bed a 12-year-old, and woke up 30 years old. It is exactly like that! One day you are young and cute, then, bam! You wake up – well, old.

But, wait! Old is a word we must never-EVER use (in reference to our generation). Nor do we use the s-word – senior – unless it gets us a discount on something – wink! Otherwise, my fellow readers “of a certain age,” specifically born between 1946 and 1964, we are forever Baby Boomers. No other label shall be applied.

That said, it used to be a lot more fun being a Baby Boomer.
I think it really struck me that this giant g-g-g-g-generation of mine was really special (and kinda cool) in the early 1980s. We had all grown up, had jobs, mortgages, credit cards, and kids. But, we were still under the safety net of our parents’ “greatest generation,” you know, the one that survived the Great Depression, and World War II. Overall, they still held all the most powerful positions in business and government. So, we Boomers were just old and strong enough to control our personal lives, finances, and maybe push some limits.

Now, when I identify as a Baby Boomer, I feel like that scene in the movie Space Cowboys where the young astronauts send a round of drinks to the old guys – bottles of Ensure! 🤦🏻‍♀️

A few years ago, I had the unfortunate obligation of attending a family Easter dinner at the home of someone else’s family. I overheard the
40-ish year-old host explaining to his 12-year-old son how this country’s financial crisis is due to all the Baby Boomers’ mismanagement when in power, and because they’re now sucking the Social Security. Seriously! He said this right in front of his own parents, both likely Boomers, though they seemed considerably older than I. At any rate, he didn’t seem concerned about whom he might be offending or, for that matter, the validity of his theory.

And another thing – I am tired of being treated like an old person. Seriously, a few months ago, a dentist noticed my shoes, and said I was the second patient that day to be wearing those same shoes. I cautiously asked, “Was she old?” And without missing a beat, and zero effort for diplomacy, he said, “Yes, she was.”

I just thought, “Well, kill me now.” It was these shoes.
👇🏻 👇🏻

So, are Skechers now the official shoe of (what others consider) old people? Well, I have been blessed with good health, and can walk as briskly as ever in them – maybe even run. Besides, I’m not sure they still make PF Flyers.

Anyway, just a few things this Baby Boomer misses and wishes she could still do:

• I wish I was still capable of breaking a guy’s heart – not intentionally. It would just be so nice to have someone so attracted to me, that if unrequited, it could be heartbreaking – just for a little while. 💙

• I miss the occasional double-takes – not the lewd kind – the subtle complimentary second looks.

• I miss hand-written love notes.

• When the phone rang, and you didn’t know who it was – ahh, the hope and eager anticipation that it might be someone special – calling me.

• I even kinda miss PMS – a valid reason for being cranky.

From Dreams to Best Sellers? Not Always – Maybe Just Subconscious Reminders

I have read and heard that some of Stephen King’s books (and consequent films) were based on his dreams. Apparently, he had the presence of mind to recall them well enough to write them down when he woke up, then embellish, as needed. As a lifelong dreamer (literally and figuratively), I have often wished I had done that with many of my subconscious mental masterpieces. If I had promptly penned some of the kaleidoscopic concepts of my sleep state of altered consciousness, you might have seen my name in lights – or at the very least, maybe I would be seeing my name on royalty checks, instead of uh, you know, just free fonts.

Recently, I had a dream I did feel compelled to write down. It was not the stuff of which great novels or even movie scripts are made. It probably isn’t anything that would likely even make it onto the printed page back in the day when I was paid a little money to write for actual publications. But, it was powerful to me, not just immediately upon waking – it stayed with me – really lingered.

Typical of what I call “dream rules” (to explain the logically impossible events in dreams), I felt I was either observing or participating in a boat trip that ran into choppy waters. It was just a small boat – like a row boat or maybe a large canoe – no sails or motor of any kind. There were several in the small boat. But, the only identifiable figure was a little girl, looked to be about three years old. The choppy water quickly became a violent storm, wildly tossing the fragile vessel into the air; under the massive waves. The few people on board clung for life, and cried out for help.

Again, following dream rules, I sensed I was somehow a part, yet apart – maybe both a witness and a victim. Finally, the sea or whatever kind of body of water it was, hurled the little boat onto a beach, where it turned over, and spilled out its drenched human cargo. The little girl, wet and covered in sand, scrambled to her feet, and started to run away.

But, I grabbed her, told her she was not to leave until she thanked God for saving her. Kneeling down to her toddleresque level, to make eye contact, I explained that every time God answered a prayer, bestowed an unexpected gift, or saved her from any kind of storm, she must thank Him – immediately, upon her realization of the blessing.

When, I awoke, the dream stayed with me. The child seemed so familiar – the dark hair, dark eyes… I dismissed the possibility it might be my niece or granddaughter when they were little. They both had brown hair, but, not dark, dark brown like the little girl in my dream. After an hour or so, I knew where I had seen her – in my own childhood photos. It was little Nancy Sue.

And in keeping with those mysterious dream rules, old Nancy was counseling that inner child. I don’t understand why. Because, ever since as a pre-teen (when I began praying for certain family needs), I made a deal with God – that if He would answer my prayer, I would make it a point not only to thank Him, but that my prayers of gratitude for any particular request would far outnumber the original pleas. Consequently, to this very day, I am still thanking Him for prayers answered over 50 years ago.

This is, in no way, intended as any kind of virtue signaling. On the contrary, something in my soul must have felt I needed a reminder – hence, the dream.

Besides my own recollection of the mental images from that near-nightmare, the other illustration that comes to mind is, of course, from the New Testament gospels of Matthew, Mark, and Luke, where they tell of Jesus calming the storm violently tossing their boat. The Bible doesn’t specifically state that they thanked Him. However, their realization that Jesus was no regular man, that “Even the wind and the waves obey him…” was likely the appreciation He sought.

So, there’s that dream I felt compelled to share – not coming soon to a theater near you. 😉

Barking Dogs – Silence is Not Always Golden

I don’t recall from where I lifted this meme. But, I love it.

And frankly, I love the sound of barking dogs. I understand a lot of people get annoyed by it. But, it’s music to my ears. Seriously, no matter the cadence or pitch, I love the sound.
The only time I have ever stressed about that beautiful sound is when we had multiple dogs, and I worried about bothering the neighbors. Early in my marriage, we had a couple of young collies. Our first house had a chain link fence, allowing them to keep a watchful eye on the planet.

Then, we moved to a new house with a wooden stockade fence, and they could no longer see the world, and until they accepted that limitation, they seemed to bark more. Because the house had an attic fan, on pleasant autumn nights, we could sleep with windows open.

One particular such night, the dogs seemed especially vocally active, and I would shout out the window, “Shut UP!” After a few times, my husband called me out.
No, he didn’t tell me to shut up – he never would. But, he did suggest I stop doing that. When I pleaded concern it would bother the neighbors, he calmly suggested, “They’re probably less annoyed by the dogs than by you hollering ‘Shut up!’ out the window.”
End of discussion; beginning of peaceful, autumn night sleep.

Many years later, we had a similar situation. Once again, we had multiple collies, and for several years, had lived on acreage in the country. Those dogs had no boundaries, and could bark and chase coyotes to their hearts’ delight.

Then, we moved into the city limits – and once again, free range collies found themselves confined behind a wooden stockade fence. Making matters much worse, our next door neighbor was a Gladys Kravitz.

So, when the dogs began barking a bit too much, we would bring them inside, or give them a time out in the garage until they calmed down.

In their defense (and for all dogs), in neighborhoods and populated communities, the bark of a single dog becomes a sort of contagion of telegraphing Because of their keen sense of hearing, a dog hears another one barking miles away. So, he answers, and so it begins…

When we lived next door to Gladys Kravitz, the neighbors on the other side had a Rottweiler, who, I believe, often started it. I swear, he would begin barking, and I really believe the very alpha female collie I had at the time, would run to the fence, and bark at him to “shut up!” – which triggered the age-old counter, “No! YOU shut up!”
“No, YOU!”… and so, it went…

Anyway, barking is what dogs do. They bark for warning, they bark for joy, to sing, and sometimes, just because.
In addition to pawing and tail-wagging, it is their most effective means of communication, and it has major benefits, even beyond the obvious watch dog advantage.

For many years, my family spent part of most weekends house-hunting. One time, we were touring a house, and the owner pointed out remodeling that had been done, because it had once caught fire. The homeowner had a dog, but had that debarking surgery performed on it (yes, there really is such a cruel procedure). So, in the middle of the night, when the fire started, his neighbor called to wake them, and tell them their house was on fire.

How did the neighbor know before the homeowner? Because the neighbor’s dog, not devocalized, was aware, began barking, waking the neighbor in time to alert the homeowner.
Yeah, surgically silence your dog – how’s that working for ya?
If a person thinks he wants a dog, but one that can’t bark, maybe he should consider other pet options, like maybe a goldfish?

I usually try to close my blogs with an uplifting comment – even better if it’s humorous. However, reluctantly making an exception to my self-imposed rule on this one.

So, in closing, on a somewhat somber note – as a person still grieving the loss of my soul dog over two years ago, I feel certain even if people find their dog’s barking somewhat bothersome at times… and I believe many widows might agree with me here.
It’s like when you hear women complain about their husband’s snoring. You will really miss it when they’re gone

Trading Tomorrows – Yea or Nay?

“Me and Bobby McGee,” a song I have probably heard more than a thousand times over the past 50-plus years – finally just struck a solid blow to my heart. Seriously, I never cared for it. That might even be putting it mildly. Because, it was a song that would make me to change the channel if there were other options. For one thing, and I know this is not a popular opinion – but, I was not a Janis Joplin fan. Leaving it at that, I will say I love Roger Miller, who also recorded the song, and am a huge fan of Kris Kristofferson, who wrote it. However, in 1971, I never intentionally listened to country music. That only happened when it was forced on me while in the car with my parents, where my stepfather typically controlled the radio.

Despite my appreciation and admiration of both Kristofferson and Roger Miller, I must admit I still would not likely have related to the song even if I had not first heard it sung by Janis Joplin. True, Joplin’s voice and my overall lack of fandom for her, initially turned me off of the song. But, even if I had first heard it by Roger Miller or Kristofferson, I would have felt, at best, indifferent. The song just did not appeal to me on any level.

Fast-forward a little over 50 years. Oh my goodness! The line “I’d trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday…”
What? Yes, yes, I would so do that! Never in all my years of changing the channel or just tuning out when the song came on had I ever heard that one line so clearly, and now it is stabbing me in the heart.

The first time it struck me, I was immediately wondering how old Kris Kristofferson was when he wrote it. Because, that single line is so profoundly wise and angst-filled – the sort of yearning only older people would truly understand. Well, I looked it up, and Kris was probably about 33 at the time. Okay, over 30, but, still quite young to find a lyric like that in his soul. The complete line, of course, is “I’d trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday, to be holding Bobby’s body close to mine…” an obvious yearning for a past moment with a lost love.

Nevertheless, trading all your tomorrows is not typically something that would even occur to a person only in his thirties. Oh my, in your thirties, forties, even fifties, there are still so many tomorrows to look toward with hope. So, having recently heard that song with a new perspective and old soul, I embraced it. Yes, I would absolutely trade whatever is left of my tomorrows for a single yesterday.

But, oh, wait – when I consider the joy in that prospect, it is definitely through a rose-colored rear view mirror. I would actually only trade those tomorrows for one of my most precious yesterdays – like the warm, fun, happy home we enjoyed when my kids were little, and my family intact, or just one more meaningful day with my mom.

So, before I could completely commit to trading my tomorrows, I would need some assurance that “single yesterday” would be one of those really wonderful days. Because, I’ve seen enough episodes of Twilight Zone, and read enough Aesop’s Fables to have learned the need to “be careful what you wish for.” Oh, yeah, I am still praising God for getting me through plenty of yesterdays that I don’t even want to remember – let alone, revisit.

So, there’s that keeping me from anteing up any tomorrows at this time. That said, it is a beautiful lyric, and just one more reason for me to appreciate the songwriting genius of Kris Kristofferson.

Take it to God, Let it Simmer – No Need to Stir Constantly

Have you ever had this?

That is a little question my daughter and I have always used to validate our own experience when we fear it is just something only happened to us. As an aside, I must add (not proudly) that we both do seem to have the patent on a lot of weird things that seem exclusive to us.
Anyway, it seems like an appropriate opening for this mental meander (blog).

So…
Have you ever had this?

You have a problem or situation, and someone symbolically points an accusing finger with the phrase “The Lord helps those who help themselves.” I am so tempted to insert the hand to face emoji here. But, back in the day, words were all we had in writing for publication. So, I’m relying on my words to elicit appropriate images.

Anyway, responding to that help yourself or the Lord won’t help you. Umm…thank you – comforting and encouraging? Not so much. For one thing, that expression is not scriptural – it is nowhere in the Bible.
True, we can’t simply sit and do nothing, waiting for God to just fix everything. Something is always required of us. Noah didn’t order an ark from Amazon. He had to build that big, ol’ boat in order to be spared the devastation of the great flood.

As for Jesus’ first recorded miracle, He didn’t just wave a magical wine wand. He told the servants to fill six jars with water, then take a sample to the banquet host, who (unaware the jars had previously contained water) declared the best wine had been saved for the last. I could go on. But, entire books have been devoted to the miracles of God, and how some action is always required of the human beneficiary.

At some point, most of us face some grievous situation that, despite our best efforts, just keeps bringing disappointment, discouragement, despair. Perhaps we ponder prayer, then consider whether our particular problem warrants bothering God. We think of others facing real life or death issues, or maybe just things that make our problems seem like a broken nail or bad hair day, in comparison.

There can be a struggle between feeling too proud to ask for help (even from God) and showing weakness by doing so and the realization that nothing is too small to take to God in prayer. It might be too small to complain about to fellow humans – but, never too small to ask for God’s help. My mother was always quick to diminish my complaints by reminding me of people with much bigger problems. Mom would never discourage praying about my problems, however small – she only warned of whining about them.

Another aside: When the aforementioned (funny) daughter, was a first grader in parochial school, a charismatic, young deacon told her class a joke she loved and shared. It was something about a child whose mother needed to clean a spill on the floor, and told him to go out on the porch and get the mop. The little boy told her it was dark, and he was afraid. His mother urged him to ask for God’s help. So, he opened the door, and said, “Hey, God, would you hand me the mop!” The message hit home, and certainly illustrated how there are different ways to ask for God’s help.

Whether prayer is the first course of action or last resort, at some point, most believers will be there in times of need. One of the great things about prayer – there is no IVR like: “Press 1 for illness. Press 2 for financial. Press 3 for depression.” It is a direct line to God.
Maybe that perception of prayer as the direct Lord line, causes us to expect more timely results from our requests. Then again, our experiences with fellow humans (especially authority figures) adversely impact our expectations of God.
For example, many years ago, I worked for a Dallas Mayor who was also CEO of a large Dallas area grocery chain. His policy was you should already have a solution in mind before you took a problem to him – a mortal management style – probably not what we should expect from God.
Another boss I had kept a suspense file, where he basically put things off until the last possible moment to respond. Again, likely efficient time management and way to prioritize tasks – not likely God’s system. And yet, as mere mortals, we almost instinctively project our expectations from prayer, based on our human experiences.

Even knowing God is our Father, it is not necessarily accurate to compare His responses to those of our earthly parents. My mom, for example, often responded to my requests with a reflective, “We’ll see…”No, not the dreaded “We’ll see!” More often than not, that was simply a way for her to buy time and diffuse my urgency while she devised a rationale for saying no. While a typical, relatively effective maternal method for addressing requests, it’s not likely one the Lord would use, any more than He would say, “I’ll give you something to cry about.”
Nevertheless, our human experiences with parental and authority figures just naturally influence our expectations from prayer. Because, a divine, loving Father, with no personal agenda, and nothing but the best intentions for us is almost, if not completely, beyond our mortal comprehension.

I had hoped to bring this blog home with some profound wisdom or enlightenment. Unfortunately, all I have is to reiterate that “the Lord helps those who help themselves” is not biblical.
We can take our smallest need to a loving God, and leave it there, with faith that He will provide in His own time. However, we can’t just sit idly, expecting Him to do all of the heavy lifting. Like Tom Hanks’ character in Castaway, once the tide brings in the right material, we need to get busy building that raft.

Don’t Forget to Remember – or Remember to Forget if You Need To

This gallery contains 2 photos.

Memory.Okay, not the most attention-grabbing opening sentence. But, hey, I’m just coming off a long dry spell (okay, writer’s block). So, it’s a start. Many songs reference remembrances – either caressing or cursing them: * The Way We Were” – … Continue reading →

First Miracle – Always Remember

This is not the typical Baby Boomer or humor piece characteristic of my blog. It is simply something I felt moved to share. So, if you were expecting Boomer nostalgia or quirky, observational humor, I apologize for any disappointment, and hope you will find some inspiration.

For quite some time, miracles have been on my heart and mind.

The Bible tells us Jesus’ first documented public miracle was at a wedding in Cana, where, at His mother’s request, He changed the water into wine. While an amazing feat (one I’m sure some of us have, at least occasionally, wanted to do), it was, nevertheless, nowhere near the greatest of the Lord Jesus’ miracles.

It was only the beginning. He would go on to walk on water, calm the turbulent seas, give sight to the blind, heal the sick, make the lame walk, cure the lepers, raise Lazarus from the dead, and the list goes on…

Yet, that turning the water into wine might be considered his protomiracle. Today, we might call it Miracle 1.0.

Transforming water into wine was the one that proved to those who, until that point, thought he was just the nice carpenter son of Mary and Joseph, that there was something more to this Jesus of Nazareth.

More of the “New Normal” and Why I Prefer the Old Normal

Society has a whole new set of rules.

A retired friend recently returned to work – a feat in itself that I find nearly miraculous, since I can’t even get an interview at a used book store – but, that’s a whole ‘nother blog…

My friend is excited about being out and about, and returning to the productive population. However, he said it is difficult re-adjusting to things like not shaking hands.

Yes! Someone else is feeling it – the frustration of re-learning how to interact with other humans. A few months ago, after a particularly pleasant experience in the service department of an auto dealership, I instinctively reached out to shake the masked service advisor’s hand, then immediately drew back my hand. My brain reacted like the navigation app in your car when you make a wrong turn: “Re-calculating! Re-calculating!” The service advisor nodded understanding, and we sort of waved in mutual appreciation.

Fear the Fear

In his first inaugural address in 1933, President Franklin D. Roosevelt said, “… the only thing we have to fear is…fear itself...” So true. The danger is in the fear.

Maybe You Had to be There…

I was recently privileged to be invited to a Golden Wedding Anniversary of some dear friends. The guy who served as best man in 1969 was at the party, and stood to toast, and say a few words. He began by telling how the couple met all those years ago. His tribute was great – both heartwarming and humorous. Because of the amusing angles, I wanted to share it with my daughter, then realized she is not old enough to grasp or fully comprehend the comedy.

Though my daughter is officially Generation Y, I have dubbed her an honorary Baby Boomer. She grew up with my music, old movies, and solid values, and has never been an easily offended snowflake type. I had both of my kids watch the film On the Beach so they could get some kind of understanding of the nuclear war/Duck and Cover environment that was my childhood. Nevertheless, I realized she would have no way of knowing about the military draft, and 1960s drama involved therein.

Country Music – More Than A High, Lonesome Sound

Country music was not really a part of my life until my mother met my stepfather when I was six years old. Mom was of the Big Band generation, and always kept up with popular music. She bought records – not just by Sinatra and the crooners of her generation, but also hits by artists such as Johnny Mathis, Paul Anka, and Frankie Avalon.

Enter the Kentucky-born country boy who would become my stepfather, and consequently, lots of Jim Reeves, Patsy Cline, Roy Drusky, and other 1960s country singers. Popular and easy-listening remained the primary music in our home. The car, however, was my stepfather’s domain, and country music radio stations were his choice.

Why I Love Collies

After quite a dry spell – not so much writer’s block as, at worst , starter’s block; at best, finisher’s block, I realized I had to write something – anything. So, with nary a nod to nasty politics, I thought I would start slowly with an elementary school style essay on why I love collies.

Without further ado… ahem…”Why I Love Collies” by Nancy Krenrich:

It should come as no surprise that this Baby Boomer grew up watching “Lassie.” I was too young for the Jeff episodes with Tommy Rettig (1954 – 1957). It was the Timmy shows (starring Jon Provost) that I watched every Sunday night.

It might be that my love of collies is hereditary. I have seen a picture of my big brother (before I was born) holding what appeared to be a tricolor collie puppy, whose name I am told, was Tippy. My mom never had pets, because her mother was not a fan, and was appalled at the very idea of actually keeping and feeding them. Heaven forbid they should be allowed in the house! So, any affection for animals would likely come from my father. After I was born, we had a sable collie named Sandy until my parents divorced. Mom got my brother and me. My dad got custody of the collie.

Paul McCartney – Yesterday and Today – Stories Now Told

I just read the GQ article “The Untold Stories of Paul McCartney.” https://www.gq.com/story/the-untold-stories-of-paul-mccartney Writer Chris Heath’s interviews with Paul revealed many things even this lifelong fan never knew about the former Beatles/Wings/singer/songwriter/icon for a generation.

I was pleased and relieved to realize the energy, intellect, excitement, and mental clarity we perceive in Sir Paul is, apparently, an accurate impression. The 76-year-old is definitely still all there.

Heath unearthed far more than the sweet story behind “Let it Be” of how Paul’s mother Mary came to him in a dream – oh, so much more… I found, especially interesting, the insight to the Wings’ song “Jet.” While the title was for a pony they had named Jet, Paul seemed to suggest that early in his marriage to Linda, his father-in-law was a “kind of a nuisance,” and might have been the “Major” in that 1973 song.

Love You More! No Way…

Closing a text message exchange with a dear family member, in response to my expression of love, she responded with “Love you more.” Like the game of Marco Polo, that phrase has sort of become the Polo response to the Marco of “love you.” However, I was able to top her “love you more” with my “No way!”
And it’s true. I can flat out-love the strongest heartstrings. Just ask anyone who has ever been the object (or victim) of Nancy Love. It is relentless, never-ending affection, commitment, and devotion. Yes, though not particularly proud of it, I can pretty much be the proverbial chewing gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe – really hard to shake off. Besides the relatively few people fixed in my heart, this applies to everything else to which I have attached my extreme affection – from The Beatles to collies.

Just like Robert Redford‘s character (Hubbell) said to Barbra Streisand (Katie) in The Way We Were: “When you love someone, from Roosevelt to me, you go deaf, dumb and blind.”
That’s me. My eternal devotion is basically unshakable – maybe inescapable – well, not completely (more on the flip side of that coin in final paragraphs below).

I confess (with some embarrassment) this is likely because I don’t really, truly love many people. Not proud of that. Consequently, I have fallen back on this excuse for it: Growing up, I had one parent, one grandparent, and one sibling. So, I didn’t really have to spread my affection too thin. Additionally, we moved quite often, making close friendships seem like a pointless pursuit.

I know – I know it doesn’t make much sense. But, it’s the best/only way I can possibly rationalize my limited circle of affection.

Conversely, when I take a disliking to something,.. well, that sticks pretty hard, too. Like the late Robert Kennedy’s own father allegedly said of his youngest son, “When Bobby hates you, you stay hated.”

Yikes. As the Plain White T’s’ song says, “Hate is a strong word.” But, when I “really, really, really don’t like” someone or thing, well, that kind of has a tendency to stay with me.
In my defense, I am working on that. I mean, as a Baby Boomer or “of a certain age,” as the saying goes, I am seriously trying to get into heaven now.
Fortunately, between my extremes, there is a lot of middle ground. So, I’ve got that going for me.

Musings of a Night Person – Maybe We Should Just Go to Sleep

Goodbye, November- always sad to see you go 🍁🍂🍁

Many autumns ago, driving through a rural area, I noticed the bare tree limbs resembled the lingering smoke in the sky after a fireworks display.

It inspired this poem.

What a Difference 1500 Miles Makes (in seasons and other things)

Exhibit A of why you never see travel specials for a “fall foliage tour” of North Texas is this first picture- a typical autumn in the Dallas-Fort Worth area of Texas.

Yes, every few years, we get an early frost or two, and the leaves actually do turn some lovely shades of red and gold.

But, usually, this is it. The leaves just burn in the five-plus month summer scorch, then, eventually surrender and plummet to the equally parched ground.

“A Christmas Story” – No Real Moral, Just a Good Story

 

This year, I broke down and added A Christmas Story to my holiday movie collection so I could watch it all night, (I mean, literally all night – 24 hours on Christmas Eve), like in the old days (when I had cable). I love the movie. Yet, I do take issue with a few things:

• Ralphie, despite his precocious vocabulary and cherubic countenance, was a bad friend. He repeatedly left his pals to get beaten and bullied – even stuck to a flagpole. He never stood up for them. Also, having been a considerably younger sibling myself, it’s my opinion Ralphie was not a particularly supportive brother. I’m confident my own big brother would never have allowed a bully to tip me over in the snow.

No More Virtual – Bring Back Actual

Seriously, the only thing making me sick is the word virtual. I am truly just so sick of hearing about virtual concerts, virtual conventions, virtual fairs. For cryin’ out loud, even the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade will be virtual this year.

The great State Fair of Texas was canceled, offering instead, drive-through photo ops with Big Tex and similar alternatives for obtaining deep-fried Fair food. In all fairness, I understand the relative impossibility of achieving and maintaining any kind of social distancing at such an event.

However, social distancing aside, with all due respect, the State Fair has long been an experience of basically taking your life into your own hands. It’s true that many years ago, either it was much safer, or we were much more naive. For example, the first time I attended the fair, I had only lived in Dallas two years. I went with the little boy who lived next door. Hs mother just dropped us off at the front gate, and we two nine-year-olds spent the entire day at the fair (albeit, among thousands of other elementary school kids). Three years later, at just 12 years old, I boarded a city bus with my friend (Dallas school kids were given bus tickets along with our free fair pass), and we spent the day at the fair, then caught a bus back home. Twelve years old – alone on a city bus from quiet, little, basically suburban, Mayfieldesque Northeast Dallas to the outer edge of downtown. True story. That was simply situation normal in the 1960s. Fast forward a few decades, even with prominent police presence on the fairgrounds, it is highly unlikely anyone would allow their elementary school age children to attend the fair alone.

But, I digress with a not infrequent lapse into a Baby Boomer childhood moment.

My point is the Texas State Fair is an annual event that thousands of people attend, knowing full well the inherent dangers, given the crowds and ingesting all manner of fried foods and delicacies on a stick from outdoor vendors.

And I can’t even say I would have attended the fair this year. I would just like to have had the option.

Returning to my initial premise, I am sick of the cancellations and closures. I can’t even go inside the veterinarian’s office with my dog. It is now a drive up, call in, tell them what space you’re in, they send someone out to get the dog, then the doctor calls you with the diagnosis, your credit card is processed inside, then card and dog returned to your car.

It’s like everything is the Chick-fil-A drive-thru, but without that exacting efficiency.

I was definitely never, by any stretch of the cocoon, a social butterfly. Yet, all of these non-interaction interactions and virtual events have made me appreciate when actual human contact was at least an option.

I understand if people with underlying health problems that make them more vulnerable to viruses want or need to self quarantine. But, at the risk of sounding selfish, I would love to return to an America fully open for business, events, and celebrations.

The current state of isolation and impersonal existence is virtually sickening.

Now, for the proverbial “call to action:”
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Nancy 🌹

“Victory Over Japan” Perspective of Someone Who Wasn’t There, but learned to fear “fear itself…”

Nancsue's Blog (Mostly Baby Boomeresque)

Today marks the anniversary of what they called “Victory over Japan Day” or “V-J Day,” when Japan surrendered in World War II, basically bringing that world conflict to an end on August 14, 1945. The surrender document officially ending the war, however, was signed on September 2.

The initial surrender by Japan occurred just nine days after the bombing of Hiroshima. That atomic bomb seemed to galvanize the concept of war and peace into a single, treacherous, and disturbingly quiet “cold war.” Seventy years later we have grown relatively complacent with the positives and negatives of nuclear power. We accept it in our homes for the convenience of a microwave oven (it’s true – popcorn used to take at least five minutes). We submit ourselves to x-rays and other medical uses of radiation. Only after a disaster like Chernobyl in 1986, do we pause to ponder anew…

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If It’s Five O’clock Somewhere, and The Mood is Right

One of the first college psychology courses I took had a lesson about how alcohol does not lift your spirits – it only amplifies the mood you’re in. That was actually something I already knew from experience. No, not from any underage drinking. I was an adult student, because I didn’t go to college until I was working full time, and could pay for it myself. Anyway, with that bit of experiential and textbook knowledge, I made it a point to never drink when I’m in a bad mood.

Don’t Be Shocked – It’s Not Just About the Lights

Nancsue's Blog (Mostly Baby Boomeresque)

In the old days (read “when I was a child”), most people called the electric bill their “light bill.” Because, lights were pretty much the primary leeches of that magic current flowing into the house.

Even the logo for the power company was “Reddy Kilowatt,”a sort of spokes-filament lightbulb character.

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Caring Rightly or Accepting Solitude

Nancsue's Blog (Mostly Baby Boomeresque)

Don’t assume, Do not think for a single minute that there is another human on this planet who cares as much about you as you care for them.

Be it friend or family, It is not likely they think about you the way your mind is consumed with thoughts of them day after day, and all through the night.

They do not worry about you the way you spend endless hours agonizing over their wellbeing.

They don’t see you in every sunset

Or long for you when the moon is full.

They have no urge to call or text you to share a good joke – or memory.

And in the outside chance that you ever do find another human who places that much value in knowing you – who truly loves you more than they love themselves – THAT is THE ONE – your soulmate for life.

Otherwise, just…

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Caring Rightly or Accepting Solitude

Don’t assume, Do not think for a single minute that there is another human on this planet who cares as much about you as you care for them.

Be it friend or family, It is not likely they think about you the way your mind is consumed with thoughts of them day after day, and all through the night.

They do not worry about you the way you spend endless hours agonizing over their wellbeing.

They don’t see you in every sunset

Or long for you when the moon is full.

They have no urge to call or text you to share a good joke – or memory.

And in the outside chance that you ever do find another human who places that much value in knowing you – who truly loves you more than they love themselves – THAT is THE ONE – your soulmate for life.

Otherwise, just focus on God. He is the only one who loves you even more than you can possibly love Him.

I realize how cynical this sounds. But, I have had years to learn this lesson, and more than enough time to ponder and accept it as an unfortunate truth.

When I was very young, my mom taught me the Twenty-third Psalm, and encouraged turning to it whenever I was fearful.  Mom was right.  Reciting those words of comfort has always consoled me.  Even now, when I find myself agonizing over the welfare of loved ones who have no such interest in my well-being, I try to turn my thoughts to The One who does care.  David, the psalmist, needed a shepherd.  These days, I think of God, not so much as a shepherd, as that much needed relationship of loving care.  And so, I added this beginning to my recitation of the Twenty-third Psalm:   

          The Lord is my shepherd – my loved one, my friend

           I shall not want – not ever again

And so, at times, I am reminded of where my focus needs to be.

Father’s Day – Even For the Fatherless

So, here comes Father’s Day – a Hallmark holiday I always dreaded as a child, because I didn’t have a father. No, I wasn’t a test tube baby or anything. My parents divorced just shy of my fourth birthday. Mom, my big brother, and I moved to another state, and never again saw my father. I have no, as the saying goes, “independent recollection” of ever calling anyone “Daddy,” though I must have done so, since I lived with him for almost four years. There were a few phone calls. But, in the 1950s, long distance telephone calls were a luxury, and luxuries were rare in my childhood. The last time we spoke, I was four years old. Mom handed me the phone, and I said, “Hello, Jack.” (Well, that’s what my mother called him.) he said, “Jack? That’s what you call me? Well, how hardheaded can you get… Put your brother on the phone.” And those were the last words I ever heard from my father – prophetic, though they were. Throughout my life, most who know me would agree with that “hardheaded” conclusion. So, although I didn’t really know my father, he obviously understood a bit about me.

There were no grandfathers. Both died within a few months of each other when I was two, and we lived in a different state from our uncles. Mom remarried after a few years. However, he already had four children of his own. So, he was a nice man – mostly just my mother’s husband. I especially dreaded Father’s Day, because in the 1960s and ‘70s, greeting cards were far less specific. Whereas, nowadays, you can likely find a Father’s Day card for Caitlyn Jenner – to the woman who used to be my dad. Back in the day, there were no Happy Father’s Day to the man who married my mom, drives the car, and keeps us on his health insurance. I suppose divorce was not yet socially acceptable enough to make stepfather cards. Anyway, I never felt comfortable with the mushy “I love you, Daddy” cards, because they just were not applicable for my situation. Fortunately, my stepfather’s birthday was within a few days – some years, it fell on Father’s Day. So, I would usually just give him a birthday card, and add a Father’s Day greeting to it.

My father died when I was 14. So, there was never any reunion. After missing out on the whole daddy experience, one might think that, as an adult, I would have a warm relationship with a father-in-law. However, I married a guy who was, likewise, fatherless, having lost his dad when he was just nine years old.

While I personally knew no paternal relationship, my two children had a wonderful dad.

I don’t know if, in the almost 10 years he had with his father, my husband learned how to be a good father, or if he simply became the kind of dad he always wanted. Whatever the reason, he could have been the poster child/dad for neat, fun father.

Even before we had our own children, the little boy next door would come over, and ask me if my husband could come outside and play.

He was the kind of hands-on daddy who changed his share of dirty diapers, and regularly spelled me for the 2 AM feedings. Of course, it helped that we had that newfangled creature comfort called cable TV, which definitely enhanced that middle-of-the-night quality time for a sleepy parent with a wide-awake infant.

When the kids were very young, it was not unusual for me to return home from shopping only to find every pillow and cushion removed from our sectional sofa, and carefully arranged to accommodate all kinds of wrestling matches or gymnastic feats. My little family was staging stunts long before TV shows like Wipeout and The Titan Games.

Their dad made sure my son and daughter could pitch, catch, dribble, or pass any kind of ball. He taught them to fish in fresh and salt water, to shoot guns and use a bow and arrow. When we lived in the country, we had a pool, regulation size trampoline, huge paved area for skating and skateboarding, volleyball area, a tether ball, and at age 12, my son had a motorcycle to drive in the field.

My kids’ dad made sure they saw Disneyland and Disney World – beaches, mountains, and deserts. They skied, sailed, surfed, hiked, and camped. And all of those experiences were firsts for their mom, as well – this little girl with no dad of her own. So, despite never enjoying Father’s Day as a child, I had every reason to celebrate it as a mother. I did not grow up with a dad. But, my kids were blessed with one of the best.

New Normal and Other Possibilities of a Post-Coronavirus World

When this Coronavirus insanity ends…

When retail stores throw open their doors…

When kids go back to school, and parents return to work…

When the world at large reopens…

When devastation and isolation turn to celebration…

And we trust these things will happen.

Because, well, we have to trust. We have to assume. We must have faith that, at some point, movement and life outside these four walls will be restored. Otherwise, this really is just the end of the world, in which case, COVID-19 is the Ice Age (or asteroids) and we are the dinosaurs – just sittin’ here like, “What-the-heck just happened?”

Why Do They Say “Party of One” When One is Never a Party?

Perhaps one of the few (maybe only) advantages of living alone is you may double-dip without worry. Go ahead. Scoop that chip in the five-layer dip. Take a bite, and dip the same chip in again. I don’t, however, recommend getting into the habit, lest you embarrass yourself, should you ever again dine among fellow humans.

That is just one of the many things I have learned about eating, sleeping – living alone. Actually, I’m not completely alone. I have the most devoted collie. I admit the possibility she isn’t all that faithful. Maybe she just knows she is chipped, and I would find her if she ran away. Well, either way, she’s good company and comfort.