The Ring

By Nancy Leitz

When Grandson Andrew was about 10 years old, I received a telephone call from him and we talked about his school and his friend, Tim, and about his dog, Benny. Just as we were about to say goodbye, Andrew very casually asked me what my ring size was. I replied that I thought I wore a size seven and wondered why he would be interested. "Oh, no reason, Nanny, just asking."

A few weeks later on Mother's Day, a package arrived at our house and along with a very nice gift from Carol and Ray and Ian. There was a small box from Andrew for me.

When I opened it, there was a beautiful ring with a lovely emerald in the center surrounded with brilliant diamonds. And, just so I would be sure to know that this was no cheap, junky ring, Andrew had left the price tag on the box. It was from Sears and cost $9.95, more than two weeks allowance for taking out the trash and emptying the dishwasher.

I tried it on and It fit perfectly, and I couldn't wait to send Andrew a lovely thank you note and tell him how much I loved the gift and what good taste he had.

About three months later, we received an invitation to Ray's niece, Julie Cohen's, wedding. Because I did not know Ray's brother and his wife very well, I called Carol and told her about the invitation and expressed surprise that we had been invited to the wedding. I told her that I was not certain that we would attend because we weren't very well acquainted and might feel strange being there.

Carol assured me that they had already told her that they would like us to be there and asked me to think about changing my mind about going. I told her I would give it some thought and let her know.

We had barely hung up when the phone rang again and this time it was Andrew. "Nanny, are you and Pop coming to Julie's wedding?"

"I don't know, Andrew. I just got the invitation today and I am considering whether or not to go."

"Oh, please, Nanny, you have to go. Everybody will be there. Please go."

"I know, but I don't know if we should be there."

By this time I was beginning to wonder why this young boy was so interested in whether or not we would be going to a wedding. I was soon to find out.

"Please, you really have to go."

"All right, Andrew, since you feel so strongly about it, we will go."

I heard a sigh of relief and then...

"That's good, Nanny, and wear your RING."

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Envisioning Cancer

By Judy Vaughn

“It’s an ovarian cyst, about the size of a melon.”

My doctor’s words were graphic, immediate and quite awesome.

I put my hands together next to my abdomen and tried to envision a melon inside. Not a watermelon, surely. But a casaba or a honey dew? A cantaloupe? No, no, not a cantaloupe, rough and wrinkled and scratchy. Not in my belly, folks. Take it out and good riddance!

From initial discovery to surgery took only two weeks. The doctor sent me to gynecology. There, the nurse practitioner was scheduling surgery before I left the room. Only a week to go before the melon would be gone.

My husband and daughter were pragmatic. No need to fear the worst, they said, until we were sure it was cancerous. Another daughter, this one with some medical background, was more determined. An ovarian cyst is big time, she cautioned. That’s what got Gilda. When it comes to women’s plumbing, she said, suspected ovarian cancer is much bigger trouble than uterine.

For two weeks I contemplated that melon. As an image to live with, it was absolutely unacceptable – a thick, heavy weight with coarse edges, a foreign object, uninvited and unwelcome. At the same time, I knew it was feeding on my body, the host, and I thought I ought to treat it with a certain amount of respect lest it rebel and devour me totally.

It seemed a delicate balance. I needed to respect its power. At the same time, I needed to assert my own. So I changed the image. Imagination kicked in and eventually gave me a picture I could live with - frivolous, perhaps, but in a time of uncertainty, enormously comforting.

Instead of the craggy edges of a cantaloupe, I began to see a Russian egg. Not a fragile Faberge with rough, ornate edges that could break and spill out the fantasies inside, but a smooth, seamlessly crafted, extremely lightweight wooden egg, polished and sanded to the softness of a baby’s bottom, elegantly shellacked with brilliant colors and intricate Ukrainian design.

This potentially cancerous growth inside me was still a mystery, but now it was one I could live with. The closer I got to surgery, the more vividly I saw that egg.

Our relationship was guarded, but respectful. I willed that cyst to have no sharp edges. I willed it not to hurt me. I willed it gone.

And when it was removed – pre-cancerous and harmless after all – I hurled it into the depths of the Caspian Sea!

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Autumn Adventure

By liloldme

Allergies and an aging carpet that required removal before winter gave me the perfect opportunity to explore northern Michigan.

There was a closed Air Force Base that was being converted into community living that my husband and I had talked about as a possible location for a summer home, giving me a good destination, and a mission. Hubby was retired and eager to tackle the carpet, planning to remove it a section at a time, so I planned to be gone for about a week.

It was late October and fall was in her most serious mood. The trees were wearing their glorious colors, tossing their amber and golden leaves into the wind like a flower girl at a medieval wedding. Kids were back in school, the roads less traveled and attractive off-season rates beckoned at every curve in the road.

As I neared the closest town to the old military base, I kept my eye out for condo rentals. Sure, I could have researched before leaving home, but where's the adventure in that? Besides, I figured a military base would naturally attract lots of lodging establishments from which to choose.

Hmmm, there were the usual inns, some lakefront cottages, a couple of motels - perhaps on the other side of town?

I drove beyond the town - not much there except what looked like a really good sized supermarket. About to turn around and head back to town and voila - just off the road stood two condo complexes with a "for rent" sign glowing in the window of the managers office. Perfect!

The two units had eight condos per unit and they were all vacant. Lake Huron was just a short walk from the patio outside my door. Off I went to the supermarket for supplies and a quick call on my cell phone to inform hubby of my whereabouts.

I had brought along my scrapbook and all the necessary materials to work on, so I was about as happy as any camper could be.

On the following day, I explored the town and base, collecting pamphlets, and took lots of pictures.

The next day, having seen on the TV in my unit, activities for the weekend in the area, I saw that a nearby town was having a craft sale. Inquiring directions of the manager, I wrote: “three-and-a-half miles north, left at the blinking yellow light, keep going until you see a white church at the top of a hill, turn right and that road will lead you into town.”

The bright blue sky accented the colors of the falling leaves and the cooler weather was refreshing after the hot summer.

The next day I had a conversation with the wind and waves on the shore of Lake Huron as I paraded myself along the empty beach attempting to find a spot in which my cell phone would work. Alas, the only place I could make my daily telephone connection with hubby was the supermarket about two miles for the condo.

There was a phone in my unit, but it had been turned off. There was a hard wired phone in the manager's office if need be, but she left for the day about five o'clock in the evening, as did the maid service.

The steady, falling rain of the following day made the colors pop. The carpet of glowing leaves danced on the blacktop of the parking lot. Thunder boomed and the wind whipped the trees into a frenzy, ripping the leaves and hurtling them at the windowpanes. I knew I had to make my usual four o'clock call to hubby or he would begin to pace, so I got in my car and headed for the supermarket, the wind daring me to outrace the storm.

In the parking lot of the supermarket, my call went through, but the hail now assailing every inch of my car made it almost impossible to hear. I assured hubby that I was fine, would call the next day and headed back to the condo. On the way back I spotted a Pizza Palace and decided that was just the ticket on a night - for it was now black as pitch - such as this.

The wind was moaning as I took the hot pizza into my lonely unit, the darkened eyes of the windows all around reminding me of my isolation. Turning on all the lights, I picked up a paperback novel left by the owner or previous tenant and began to read. At hand were matches and candles should the storm grab the electricity and add it to the flashes of lightening. Perhaps the sound of TV would be more soothing than the crashing waves screaming to be admitted and pounding on the patio doors.

As I read, I became accutely aware that it was hunting season, and on the road a few feet from my door were truck loads of drunken hunters, shotguns loaded and looking for prey.

Suddenly I heard the sound of doors being slammed and I crept to the windows, peered through the blinds and saw with a great deal of relief, a family unloading suitcases and going into a unit a couple of doors down from me.

Perhaps I should have chosen a novel other than one written by Stephen King.

All's well that ends well, but that storm certainly heightened my autumn adventure.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Confessions of a Neurotic

By Lyn Burnstine of The Lynamber Times

Whenever I go any place new, I always need clear, concise instructions right down to where the door is – even in which direction it faces. I’m sure this little bit of quirkiness is just part of my basic make-up. It never went away during all the years I was traveling to singing gigs all over the country. I would tape large-print sets of directions to the dashboard for the road part of it, then ask my liaison where the nearest door was and how close I could park.

Sure, it had to do with my painful feet and my difficulties with lugging instruments and heavy sound equipment, but there was more.

When I was about 12, I managed to traumatize myself - for life, evidently - with the results of a bad decision. I asked to ride along with my father in a borrowed truck to go pick up stuff in a distant town. My father was an industrial arts teacher who was pioneering a class in building an entire house from the ground up, with the students from each senior class, so I’m assuming the other school had some excess building materials to give him.

God knows why I thought it would be fun: time alone with my beloved father, perhaps? Getting out of doing my Saturday chores? Or just a rare chance to ride in a truck?

When we arrived there, my father was to meet with a man inside the school building. He asked if I wanted to go in with him; I said I’d wait in the truck, thinking it would be only a few minutes. No sooner had he gone in a door, not visible from the parking space, than I realized I needed to pee. BAD!

For all these intervening years, I’ve measured every agonizing full-bladder event against that one. None has even come close. My father loved to talk to people and had rare opportunities with the over-full working life he maintained holding down the equivalent of nearly three jobs to support his family.

He was in that building for at least an hour, maybe even two. It sure felt like more. I was in misery, but was too timid to go in search of an unlocked door, then the girls’ bathroom inside.

That may be hard for you to fathom, but not for me since I’ve never totally gotten over that particular area of shyness. I am at ease in front of large audiences; I’m only slightly intimidated by the numerous famous people I’ve met through my music; I’ve always said I’d be comfortable entertaining the queen of England as long as it’s in my house. BUT, don’t ask me to go looking in a strange, empty building for the ladies’ room.

Thank goodness for good old McDonald’s and Wendy’s with their uniform placement of rooms. There is a second verse to this song. Many of you regulars here have already heard it, or read it in my second book of memoir.

Locking myself in twice in public restrooms’ handicapped-accessible stalls that didn’t have handicapped-accessible doorknobs (!) has created a whole new fear. Not only do I now worry about finding the place, but about never being able to leave it once I do!

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Interview

By Sydney Halet

To some people, what I am writing might sound like blasphemy or heresy, but it isn’t! I dreamt that I was given an interview with God, and this is the way it went as far as I can remember the dream:

ME: Why did You choose me for this interview; I’m certainly not the brightest bulb in the package?

G: Exactly. You couldn’t make up most of the answers that We give if you tried.

ME: Lord, where are You?

G: We exist outside the universe, and flow in and out at will. We are here. That’s all you need to know!

ME: How can You do that?

G: We are an amorphous energy; a thinking, feeling, energy - a life force, if you will. Energy has no shape. Like water or air that takes the shape of the receptacle that it’s in, so do We. We may take the shape of anything or anyone as We see fit!

ME: Since You have no shape do you have a color or a gender?

G: No.

ME: Lord, what is Your “true” name?

G: We have many man-made names. Whatever name you respectfully choose to call Us, that’s what you will know Us as. Our “true” name must remain a mystery to all beings but Ourself.

ME: What is the one “true” religion?

G: There is NO one “true” religion. Every man, who practices a religion, claims to be a part of the one ‘true” religion, but, since We have no religion, there is no one “true” religion. Every religion is like a road leading to the same town or city, and We are that town or city. What you call the one “true” religion only exists in the minds of men. Any religion that teaches love not hate, tolerance not intolerance, peace not war, and comforts the minds of mankind is the “true” religion for mankind.

ME: Every religion has one or more evil spirits just waiting for mankind in general or in particular to commit an evil act or trying to lure mankind into committing an evil act. Are those evil spirits real?

G: Mankind has created those spirits out of an extremely fertile imagination. True goodness and true evil exist within man himself.

The ancient Hebrews put it best when they developed the idea of Yetzer HaRah, the desire to do evil and Yetzer HaTov, the desire to do good. When a man/woman sinks to his/her animal instincts towards others of his/her species, the Yetzer HaRah is at its most powerful zenith. When a man/woman rises above his/her animal instincts to help others of his/her species, the Yetzer HaTov rises to its most powerful zenith.

It’s far easier to follow Yetzer HaRah than Yetzer HaTov because Yetzer HaRah requires nothing but to follow thoughtless, careless animalism, while Yetzer HaTov requires overcoming thoughtless, careless, unfeeling animalism. Therefore, Yetzer HaTov is on a higher plane of existence.

ME: Man has developed theories of the creation of this world. Man has come up with “Creationism” as in the Bible, “Evolutionism,” the “Big Bang” theory, the “String” theory and so many others. Which one is correct?

G: The answer is far too complicated for mankind to understand. All the explanation that We can give to mankind is that by an extremely complex combination of the “Big Bang” theory and the “string” theory, We began the universe. That was followed by the evolution of man. The rest must be interpolated by mankind. As for the “Creation” story in the book you call the “Bible,” that is an explanation for those who choose to believe it.

ME: Are You truly omniscient, and what part does fate play?

G: We are, but not in the way that you would expect. You have freedom of choice, which is what We wanted you to have. We allow you to make your own choices, but We know the results of all choices that can be made.

Each choice leads to another set of choices for which We know the results. It’s as if you are at a cross-roads ending in another cross-roads. You are not puppets to be controlled, but We know where each choice that you CAN make will lead. We are omniscient in that way.

Fate is something that mankind has developed to explain why he is rich or poor, healthy or ill, in one place or another. It isn’t fate, it’s choices that he makes for himself or that are made for him.

ME: Is the Torah, or any Bible, completely the truth as written?

G: First, mankind must understand what “truth” really is. Let Us explain in extremely simple terms.

“Truth” is what the majority of people in any society or culture are willing to accept. Therefore, “truth” is what is believed. Since mankind wrote the Torah and Bibles, the “truth” is suspect. Of course, they were inspired by Us on several levels; but, the Torah and Bibles were not meant to be taken as historical fact. They were meant, instead, to set down the laws of how mankind should live; a spiritual guide, so to speak, and not a historical guide. It’s a bit like playing the game telephone: you start out with one short story, and by the time it gets around it has changed a great deal.

ME: There are fundamentalists who accept whatever Bible they have as truth and are willing to kill for it.

G: Mankind is allowed to believe whatever it wants, but killing to assert one’s beliefs over others is certainly forbidden.

ME: Which would You have mankind believe?

G: Whichever satisfies mankind.

ME: Is there life after death?

G: We will not answer that question fully because We see it as a deterrent for doing that which is evil. We will only say that if there is an afterlife, it will be nothing like what mankind has imagined. There will be no seventy virgins because We do not reward murder. There will be no spirits with wings looking like their former selves. Those are mankind’s view of an afterlife that they themselves have concocted to allay the fear of death. All that We will say to mankind is: Do NOT be afraid for We are always with you!

ME: What are good and evil?

G: They are value judgments based on what is accepted as such in each society and culture. We have given a set of laws to help to clarify those value judgments. Mankind, unlike animals, has the choice of doing good or evil. He has both inclinations within him.

ME: Is it easier to do good or evil?

G: Mankind has to learn what is good or evil, NOT in his/her society, but according to the laws that We set before him/or her. Once mankind learns, then mankind must face the fact that both inclinations are within him/her. When mankind learns what is good and what is evil and faces his/her inner self, he/she can make choices.

Now, to answer your question: it’s easier to do evil than good because to do good, one must overcome the evil inclination. Overcoming takes more effort than just falling into a habit or pit.

ME: In the Bible, the Jews were called “the chosen people“. What were they chosen for?

G: They were chosen to teach mankind how to live by the laws that We have given. They were not to be rich or famous or saved from natural or man-made disasters as illustrated by floods, famines, plagues; or pogroms and holocausts, or other forms of anti-Semitism. They were to set the examples by following Our laws despite those obstacles. Those who became rich or famous did so on their own.

ME: Do You answer every prayer?

G: We hear every prayer, individually and all at once, and We answer every prayer, but We do not do it as mankind thinks. A great deal of the time the answer is “no” so that there is no visible sign that the prayer has been heard. At other times, the answer is “yes”, but it is done in such a way that mankind will not recognize the answer and will thank me anyway.

ME: Do You still speak to mankind?

G: Yes, through dreams and hopes. Sometimes, they are the same things, and sometimes they are warnings.

ME: On what day is the true Sabbath?

G: On whatever day man chooses to rest and to remember Us.

ME: What do You me by “rest and remember”?

G:When people attend church, mosque, synagogue, on whatever day they have chosen, and when those people leave their problems and daily lives outside the doors of their “holy” places to think of Us, their minds reach a different plane of existence. True “rest” is a “rest” for the mind and spirit so that people are able to face the next week’s problems with a fresh vision and attitude.

ME: Do You have any political views on such things as abortion, civil rights and democracy versus plutocracy, autocracy, oligarchy or Communism?

G: No. We have given mankind freedom of choice. We have also given mankind laws by which to live. Mankind must choose the path that is correct. We will not tell mankind which path is correct. We will only tell mankind to choose the most peaceful and loving path according to its own heart.

ME: Why is there war?

G: War is a man-made tool to acquire the power to tell others how to live, pray, vote and/or think. We do not condone war nor is there a “true” or acceptable rationale that We will accept. There is no “correct” way to pray, vote, think or live save what We have given to mankind in the 613 Commandments.

ME: Why does nature develop new diseases once we have cured others?

G: Nature is a by-product of whatever We created first. Nature tends to keep the species in check while the species grows and learns how to live with one another. As each new disease is created, mankind learns to deal with it while mankind learns how to care for one another. Think of natural disasters as diseases as well. Mankind has a great distance to go in learning how to care for one another.

ME: Why do bad things happen to good people?

G: We are not the cause. We do not kill, maim, injure or cause sorrow. Mankind kills and nature kills. We have told you about nature, and We have given you a partial answer when we spoke about war. As far as mankind has come from the days of the lawless cave dwellers, mankind still is a cave dweller at heart. Anger, revenge, jealousy, thoughtlessness are still in mankind’s animalistic personality. No, that is an insult to most animals that do no kill out of those “human” foibles.

Mankind is supposed to be above that, but in some ways, animals are superior. They kill for food or to protect their homes or “territories” as mankind has labeled them. Humans set a series of events in motion, without thinking, that cause others harm and death, often to those whom humans have labeled “innocent bystanders”. Yet We take the blame - “God giveth and God taketh away.”

Those words may make those who suffer feel better, yet when one thinks rationally about the sorrow, one realizes that it was mankind or nature that has caused the pain. Yes, it is true that We created both in essence, so We will take the blame. As one of the American presidents said, “The buck stops here!”

ME: There has been a problem about abortion. Do You approve of abortion? When does life begin?

G: Let us answer you second question first. Mankind has been trying to answer that question for two millennia.

Some ancient idolatrous religions, in order to answer that question have said that the gods created mankind in order to be worshiped. The ancient Hebrews have said in their Bible that We created mankind in Our own image out of the dust of the four corners of the earth, and that We blew the breath of life into mankind. If that is so, then life begins when mankind is able to take it’s first breath.

Some of mankind believes that the beginning of life is like an acorn. The acorn takes root and sends up a shoot. The shoot is alive, but the acorn that does not send up a shoot is not alive. We will leave mankind to choose whichever belief satisfies mankind.

Now as to your first question: Do We approve of abortion? Here again, the answer is complex. We neither approve nor disapprove of abortion. If the creation of a child is considered to be viable when it takes its first breath, then We approve of abortion prior to that time. But if the creation of a child is similar to acorn sending out a shoot, then, We do not approve. Mankind must set aside its emotional outbursts about abortion and look for an answer that is both logical and scientific.

ME: You keep referring to yourself as “we, us, and our.” Is there more of one of You?

G: No. We use the kingly plural to refer to Ourself because mankind has determined that We are the King of the Universe.

ME: Do You have any final words for mankind?

G: We have this final thing to say: mankind is in its childhood. It treats life like a game of tag or cowboys and Indians or cops and robbers. Life will only be a fun game when mankind grows up and realizes that it is here, on this Earth, to help to perfect it and not to ruin it. Mankind is here, on this Earth, to learn to respect and care for one another and not to try to force each other into submission. Mankind should NOT be trying to play God because We are the only God that there ever was or ever will be!

* * *

At that point, a silent bolt of lightning flashed across the vast darkness that enveloped me. There was no giant clap of thunder following the lightning as one might suspect. I felt as if I were falling through the blackness. My stomach was churning and my heart was racing.

I landed in my bed. My pajama top was drenched in sweat. I woke up and went down to my computer to write what I remembered of the dream. Was it a dream? I don’t know. I do know that like all others in mankind, my memory is faulty. I hope that I got most of the dream right.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Bus, My Boogie to Wonderland

By Brenda Adams who blogs at Jive Chalkin'

"What, you're gonna take the bus? Are you kidding me? Who takes the bus?"

I do. Got a problem with that?

It was our Sunday ritual. Dad would throw five of us plus mom into his Ford Galaxie 500 and take us for a meandering drive up Senneville Road, along Gouin and down Boulevard St. Laurent.

Big-eyed cows, belly-up dead skunks, mansions, ice fishing shacks, lake views and new developments whizzed by as my father cracked us up with knock-knock jokes, wise advice and stories about growing up in Montreal.

During one such ride, we saw a disheveled, reeling man exiting a tavern on a "skid row" strip.

"See that guy? That's what happens to people who drop out of school. Where do you think HE sleeps," said my father, shaking his head like Humphrey Bogart, then twisting it around.

"Who wants a cheeseburger?"

"Dad, could you turn up the radio."

"Splish splash I was taking a bath, all about a Saturday night..."

"Bobby Darin is no Frank Sinatra," muttered dad from behind the wheel.

"Hey, would you all quit horse breathing on me?"

"Dad, I need to go pee."

Taking the bus brings precious memories of my father.

If you ever sat clam tight with your siblings and dog in the middle back seat of a loaded car, you are capable of riding the bus.

Any bus. Anywhere.

We live minutes from a bus stop and I love it.

My nephew sweetened my bus adventures, by loading my mp3 player with 500 all time best rock-and-roll songs.

Sweet.

I keep it in my purse.

Most of the time, the monster on wheels is empty when it stops for me. So I grab my favorite front seat. I should engrave my name on that seat, but there is too much scratchitti already and, hey, my dad could be watching from above.

"Whaddaya think you're doing? Get a cloth, some soap and wash that off. What are you waiting for? Would you like a little lifter to get you started?"

Dad was in the navy, so he could come out with some colorful commands.

One female driver sings opera as she rolls along.

Cool.

Some people think only seniors and teens take the bus, but think again. You'd be surprised these days to see who gets on wearing business suits, carrying expensive briefcases.

You never can tell.

Taking the bus is no longer a low rent, bag over your head, no deodorant sport.

So, what about noise on the bus? I already mentioned my mp3 player plus, if you choose, you can buy some neat noise eliminating headphones to make your ride a Zen experience.

Once I don my phones, whatever hollering hyenas, Pavarotti-loud cell phone yakkers or Valley Girl mouth breathers are on, I don't give a poop, as I am listening to L.A. Woman by The Doors, or Lay, Lady, Lay by Dylan. No sweat.

Sometimes the music matches the scenery. For example, once while riding over the Turcotte Yards, Lennon sang Imagine and I designed a complete rose garden in the vast empty space below where winter snow is piled into dirty mountains that only melt in July.

It's roller coaster exciting to ride shotgun over the city examining church steeples, flat rooftops of St. Henri and old manufacturing plants. I've taken buses in cities all over the world and it's a great, cheap way of seeing a city with the people who make up that city.

Once we climbed aboard in Barbados not realizing it was a school bus. At each stop, students in uniforms got on and the driver greeted them by name. One young dude tried to slide on with his school tie akimbo and the driver leaned over and proclaimed loudly, "Young man, no way are you getting on MY bus looking like that. Straighten your tie, son."

And the teen did so, politely.

You can learn things when you take the bus. You discover all the different cultures in your city. You hear people discussing jobs, hopes, dreams. You find out about restaurants, break ups, love affairs and you feel good about the world.

Or you shut off the sounds with your music and meditate. Make plans.

Coming home from downtown on a Saturday night, the bus sways side-to-side as you fly over your city of lights. Your city. The city you love.

Montreal.

But if you feel like tuning in to the teen world soap opera, just sit back, fake a good sleep and find out where all the parties are, who is zooming who and why John Abbott College is better than, say Vanier College.

"I, like, told him, like, I wanna be friends, after, like, you know, he puked all over my cat at the party last night."

"Yeah, like, he's a major loser."

Once I asked my grade ten students to eavesdrop on the bus coming to school and to write down an overheard phrase, to be used in a future assignment.

"Miss, you mean anything we hear?"

"Yes, anything and that will be your opening line in your next story."

"Miss, you're weird."

"Maybe, but you still have to do that assignment."

A couple weeks ago, a bunch of my retired friends decided to meet downtown for lunch.

"I'll take the bus," I said.

"Hahahahahahah, oh my God. I live right near the subway and I NEVER take public transportation," blurted my not-so-close friend.

"Why not?"

She squirmed around trying to be politically correct, but finally blurted, "Only stinky people take the bus."

"Tell that to Mayor Bloomberg," I replied.

"Who?"

"Never mind."

I love poking holes in snobs.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Summer 1942

By Johna Ferguson

Where are they? Who are those strange people living in my friend’s house? Why didn’t my friends say good-by to me?

I asked these questions that summer when we arrived, after school let out, at our beach house at the southern end of Puget Sound, a remote little bay where my uncle raised Olympia oysters.

For years the Imori family had been the managers of those beds and their two youngest children had been my summer playmates. They taught me to swim, to row a boat and to shuck and eat raw oysters. I was 12 that summer. As a child, the small bay seemed so removed from everything, but I was too young to realize the recent ramifications of the bombing of Pearl Harbor. I only knew my friends were suddenly gone and I didn’t understand why.

My mother explained to me that President Roosevelt, February 1942, signed Executive Order #9066 which meant all Japanese living on the west coast, whether they were citizens or not, were to be interned at special camps inland, away from the coastline where there might be Japanese subs that they could contact by wireless. I couldn’t imagine the Imori family receiving or sending messages or doing any kind of sabotage, but all the Japanese were treated the same. She said they were practically herded like cattle onto trains and trucks to be transported away with only a suitcase in hand.

How would the elder parents manage - away from the smells and sounds of a salt water bay, away from their wonderful yet strange vegetable garden, away from their work on the oyster beds and their quiet, almost solitary life style?

Two of the children were then students at the University of Washington and they were yanked out of the university to be sent with their parents to some dry, remote, desert area. But first many had to suffer the indignities of living in converted horse stalls at California or Washington race tracks. I visualized them living in over-crowded areas with armed soldiers and barbed wire surrounding them.

I knew the Japanese had bombed our ships and killed thousands of innocent people at Pearl Harbor, but that was war. Suddenly snatching people from their homes without their belongings and with little warning didn’t seem right to me. Oh how I hated the government that summer.

Now 67 years later, I look back on that family. The mother, who spoke no English, lived a somewhat happy life during internment for she was again surrounded by native speakers, but the father died early on, perhaps from a broken spirit?

One of the sons who taught me to swim became a U.S. Navy pilot serving in the European sector. The youngest son, my really close friend, also joined the U.S. army in forces that served in Africa. Their older sister, I heard eventually, helped to successfully fight for legislation that finally forced our government to apologize for its behavior in the treatment of Japanese living in America at the time, plus making the govt. give a token monetary restitution to each family member who was sent to an internment camp.

But this story is only about one family. There must be thousands of stories about others. May these be a constant reminder to our leaders that we must never forget to regard human dignity and rights when we act against any person or race, be it in war or peace.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Sunday Dinner With My Aunt Bessie and Her Flatulence Machine

By Frank M. Calabria

Our home was a frequent meeting place, particularly on Sunday afternoons where we would sit at the dinner table for hours at a time.

During one Sunday dinner, as we went from one special course to the next, my aunt Bessie, in the middle of the meal, audibly farted. Her facial expression suggested that she was in discomfort so we attributed this gastric outburst to a stomach upset.

After her apology, we continued with the meal. But soon, there was another report, louder than the one before. Knowing her to be the clown aunt of the family, we all began to suspect that she was up to one of her tricks – and she was. At the second firing, my father could not stop himself from laughing and he joined in with a report of his own.

No longer able to keep a straight face, this aunt uncovered her flatulence machine and demonstrated how it worked. At that point everyone, young and old, wanted to give the gadget a try. With each new demonstration, there were fresh gales of laughter to the point of tears.

The decorum of the dinner table was shattered and had there been any boundaries between social class, economic status, as well as age, they would have dissolved. I am certain that had Emily Post heard of this episode, our family might have been put in print as an example of uncivilized behavior. By the way, the Italian word for fart, “scorreggia,” even sounds like what it stands for if you put the emphasis on the double R.

Now to some technical details about this ingenious contraption. The flatulence machine can be assembled by one without a degree in mechanical engineering.

You take a wire coat hanger, bend it into a U shape, small enough to settle under one buttock. Between the two poles of the U shaped coat hanger, you attach a medium sized metal washer to the end of two thick rubber bands strung to either pole. A technical manual, should one exist, would instruct you to twist the washer counterclockwise before placing the primed mechanism under the buttock of your choice. By tilting one cheek to the side, you release the mechanism.

The manual should add that you allow a few minutes after the first release, to rewind the mechanism, unobserved, under the edge of the table cloth. The interval during which you prepare for a second blast will give dinner guests time to muse about how little control we have over our nature and our bodily functions.

Out of curiosity, I wondered if the subject of flatulence had received serious treatment in the scientific literature.

I mused that many individuals would wish to be enlightened about how to enhance their ability to predict and control this form of interpersonal communication. I am happy to report that I did find one reference in the Journal of Polymorphous Perversity with the title “Cognitive-Behavioral Treatment of Chronic Flatulence.”

The article was the report of a ten-session training program run by an experienced flatulence therapist, whom the subjects named, “Windbreaker.” Episodes when subjects flatulated, were rated by three judges on the following dimension: (l) duration; (2) loudness; (3) pitch; (4) tonal quality; (5) fragrance.

Though the results of this investigation were inconclusive, one subject, known as “Boomer,” reported: “I believe this is a very important and long neglected area of research.”

Many years after the charade with her flatulence machine, I met this aunt at a funeral. I blurted out without thinking, “Are you still around?”

Picking up on my cue, as if I were the straight man in a comedy routine, she turned her head slowly, now looking over her right shoulder, then over her left, to verify that I was indeed addressing her and not someone else. Then she looked me straight in the eye and replied in a tone of feigned innocence, “Where else should I be?”

I don’t know to this day, what prompted my greeting her in this manner, but I do know that she never let me forget my gaffe. She took additional delight in telling others this story pointing out that I was a psychologist who, presumably, was knowledgeable about communicating with other human beings. I never lived down that story even after the dear aunt went to the beyond.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

Landscapes

By Lyn Burnstine of The Lynamber Times

Stanley Kuniz wrote “I have walked through many lives, some of them my own.”
I, too, have walked through many lives–and many landscapes.
My childhood’s dual landscapes were the open fields – some flat, some gently undulating,
and the deciduous forests of southern Illinois.
Later, I got to know the open, flattened cornfields of central Illinois
where once stood vast reaches of waving prairie grasses.

I have adjusted to other landscapes:
live oaks draped with Spanish moss;
smelly crushed-oyster-shell side streets;
busy roadways; wild, rock-bound ocean shore;
suburban neighborhoods echoing with sounds of vigorous life; apartments full of noisy early-risers;
woods studded with the evergreens rare to my native landscape;
the blasphemous racket of motors and machines;
even a town that smelled of soybeans
and of the corn syrup that has made us fat.

Little did I know, in my childhood,
that the quiet, peaceful existence that translated then as boredom and loneliness,
was settling into the very synapses of my brain for all time,
a sense of place defining me as surely as did a genetic heritage, religious upbringing,
and family customs.

Little did I know that I would forever mourn the whippoorwill,
the bobwhite,
the hazelnuts in their prickly burrs alongside isolated country roads,
the tall, rustling corn,
the open sky, the far horizons in every direction, the blessed silence.

I have a deep love for my adopted landscape–
the beautiful Hudson Valley.
But at seventy-four, I finally have to admit
(as in the words of a clever song by Joel Magus)
that “ the verdict is in and the jury agrees”
and I am “Hopelessly Midwestern.”

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]

You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Dress - and the Right Shoes

By Joan Barber, co-star of the web show, 50 to Death

Here's the problem: my step-daughter (my only child) is getting married and NO ONE makes affordable clothes that I can wear. Am I being petty? I think not. It's important to me as a twenty-first century woman to be perceived NOT as an "aging hipster" or a "Betty White" type or a frump, but as the vital, healthy, attractive person I think I still am.

Or, am I kidding myself? Okay. The K-Mart arms are creeping up on me, despite the fact that I wear a size 2. So that means no sleeveless. The cleavage that I used to display with such elan (and that got me many roles as an actress) is maybe not as firm as it once was. So, that means no low cut gowns.

The legs are definitely still good, thanks to walking on a regular basis in New York City and schlepping up and down subway stairs. But my bunions (from years of dancing) kill me when I wear high heels, and no one makes shoes that work for my high instep without cutting into my hammer toes. In ballet flats I stand a statuesque 5'1". And as for my cute little pancake butt - let's not go there.

The event is approaching and I am slowly freaking out as I trek from high-end department store to boutique to discount paradise. I give myself what I assume to be a reasonable budget (buying the bride's wedding dress kind of emptied my piggy bank) and plenty of time to shop, but all I see are teeny tiny prom dresses (where were those hot little strapless numbers when I was in high school?) and mother-of-the-bride frocks in which I look like a cute little dumpling wrapped in a doily.

Oh, for a stylist like the stars have! I'll never forget the episode of Project Runway where the designers cringed at the prospect that they were going to have to design for ("ugh, gross") MOTHERS of hot young babes. The blue business suit in my closet starts to look better and better. Hopefully I'll just fade into the hydrangeas.

BUT NO. I may be over 50 (well, pushing 60) and I may not be an heiress, or tall and elegant, but one thing I am is a proud and strong child of Sixties, an actress and a rebel. I will be seen. I've never faded from a challenge in my life!

This wedding is just like any show I've done in my over thirty years of performing. I can play the role of step-mother-of-the-bride. I may not have a Tony Award-winning costume designer sketching and a wardrobe department building my dress, but I can use my vision and experience, my wisdom and sense of perspective to zero in on THE DRESS. I just have to become the character and "she" (THE DRESS) will find me.

And like the blue Grecian goddess that she is, she does - as do the comfortable, multi-colored sandals (found online). I'll get to show off my cleavage and legs at the same time (without being too outrageous). After all, the bride is supposed to be the star of the show and believe me, she will be.

[EDITORIAL NOTE: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Instructions for submitting are here.]