The Trouble With Four-Door Cars

By Nancy Leitz

There was a very good reason I pretended to sweep my front porch every morning at 7:45AM. Interesting things happened all the time and I think you will enjoy this story of what I saw one morning while I swept up imaginary dirt.

We were living one mile from a very large air force base. There were only nine houses in our circle of homes so we all knew each other.

There was the guy on the corner who had broken the speed record in a jet from Virginia to California hitting Mach 1 for the first time. Next to him lived the pilot who was being court marshaled (I won't go into that). Then our house (Roy was busy at NASA building the helium purification system and the mach 10 and 20 wind tunnels).

On our right lived a C-130 pilot who was leaving the air force to become an FBI Agent and next to them another pilot and his family. Then a house that was owned by an air force fellow who was sent overseas so his house was for rent.

Next to him was the representative of a huge defense contractor for the air Force and then came the air force chaplain (a Protestant minister) and his family. On the corner lived a mystery man we never saw (We all thought he was a CIA agent; we never did find out).

Now that you know all the characters in the neighborhood, I will tell you the story.

One day, a real estate agent drove into our circle and with him were a "bird" colonel and his young, beautiful, trophy wife. She was a knock-out. Red hair and big blue eyes. Long shapely legs and a tight dress.

One of my friends was visiting and when she saw the redhead, she said, "Nice dress. Too bad they didn't have it in her size." I only wish I had Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler here to describe this "dame" to you. Enough said!

They went into the house that was for rent and and after awhile reappeared by the agent's car and began signing a lease using the trunk of the car as a desk. So, we had new neighbors. These two could be very interesting, we thought, and by gum, they were!

They moved in and spoke to NO ONE! But our husbands could not get enough of looking at her. They would mow the lawn all day Saturday and Sunday with no nagging in the hopes of catching a glimpse of her in her short shorts and revealing halter tops.

But, as Al Jolson was fond of saying, "They ain't seen nothing yet.” The best was yet to come. By the luck of the draw, the colonel was sent on TDY (Temporary Duty) to a base in the Azores.

He left on Tuesday, her beach chair appeared in the driveway on Wednesday and there SHE was on Thursday in her bikini (really fashion forward in 1964) lolling in her chair, catching some rays and thoroughly enjoying the attention she was attracting from the men as they left for the base in the morning.

I hesitate to tell you this but even the chaplain gave her the once-over. The guy from the corner broke the sound barrier again rushing over to the Rep's house to borrow a tool he didn't need.

The poor fellow who was being court marshaled stayed away because he was in enough trouble already. Roy couldn't get a good look at her because I was always out there sweeping (Damn!). The pilot/FBI agent was in Quantico training for the Bureau and the other neighbors were busy with their own affairs.

Early Friday morning, the beach chair appeared on the driveway again and that's when I decided I should sweep my front porch. Pretty soon she came out in her teeny weeny bikini and so did the big time rep for the defense contractor and his WIFE!

They came out of their front door and he kissed the little woman goodbye and started walking down his driveway toward the street where his car was parked. The bathing beauty turned toward him to give him a better view but he was busy pretending (for his wife's sake) that he wasn't the least bit interested in her.

I could see his head looking straight ahead but his eyes were shifted as far into the corner as they could get looking at the woman reclining in the beach chair.

He approached his car, all the time looking at her out of the corner of his eye. He opened the door and got in, slammed the door shut and reached for the steering wheel. To his amazement it wasn't there! Where was it? Where the heck was the steering wheel?

You could see the puzzlement in his eyes and then the astonishment on his face as he slowly realized that he had gotten into the BACK SEAT!

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Fishing on the Salton Sea

By Marcy Belson

We bought a new gold-colored car with a rear engine. It was the first new car for us. It had fake leather seats and it snaked down the road like an out of control toy. I remember driving on the freeway, the gas pedal would stick and I would work my shoe under the pedal and pull it up. I never considered getting it fixed.

Shortly thereafter, my father gave us his old wooden fishing boat.

The Salton Sea was about 40 miles away and the Corvina fishing was good. In fact, the fishing was so good our freezer was full. I asked my husband to bury the fish as fertilizer under the backyard fruit trees.

The next morning, I looked out the window, every cat in the neighborhood was in our backyard. He had buried the fish in rows, with their tails sticking out of the ground. He thought it was a great joke.

On Memorial Day, we hooked that big boat up to the little, gold-colored car and away we went. We caught a few fish but it was very warm and about noon, we gave it up and headed into the ramp area.

My husband gave me instructions to back the car down the ramp until the trailer was submerged.  He would then gun the boat and get it in position on the trailer.  At that point, I was to wait for his signal of "Hit it!" I would then hit the gas and pull the trailer and boat out of the water.

He did a good job of moving the boat into place and he yelled "Hit it!" So I did.  Except for one error, this would have been a simple maneuver.

Instead of the boat and trailer coming out of the water, I had the gear in reverse and backed my little car with the rear motor into the salty water. By the time I could get out of the car, the water was seeping into the back seat floor board area.

Gordon jumped out of the boat and asked the nearest men where the closest tow vehicle might be. Well, those men were enjoying their fishing day, their cold beer on a hot day and now they were enjoying the spectacle of a tiny, gold-colored car, slowing sinking, attached to a big boat and trailer.

They were laughing so hard, they couldn't tell us where we could find some help.

Finally, someone attached a rope to the car and pulled it out with a big truck. The motor was completely submerged. That was the end of my little, gold-colored car. We sold the boat.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

My Purpose in Life

By Lyn Burnstine

As I wrote my annual summary of my life to send to my friends, I realized there was a very special thread to this past year and the awareness that aging brings. I tried to express it in this letter.

"Each year I try to find a theme to the year’s events, a connecting thread,for my holiday letter as in, 'The year of the — .' Well, I think this year it found itself as I began to think about a year filled with random joys and sorrows, worries and pain, but some fun and golden days.

“I’m going to skip most of the usual family rundown. My family has become so huge most of you don’t even know who they are by name and if I brag about one, I have to brag about all 20 of them. Let’s just say the number stayed stable and I got to see all the five great-grands at least once.

“And I’d just as soon forget the falls, injuries to hands and knee, trips to the ER and one hospitalization for gastroenteritis. The point is, I survived and managed to have many stellar times in between.

“All you really need to know about the year is that I made a difficult decision not to uproot myself and move to Massachusetts, but to stay here near my dear old (and new) friends, the Hudson River, the Walkway Over the Hudson, my beloved writing groups, my amazing aide, my wonderful cooking and shopping assistant, and all my medical people and resources five minutes up the road.

“Daughter and her new husband's move put them much nearer so it is easier to get to each other now. The worst of the problems in my building ended with the eviction of a couple of tenants. Now again I love living here with its gorgeous park-like grounds for walking and photo-taking, so when I realized I was just too tired and decrepit to face a move and a new life, I was able to accept it.

“Which brings me to the theme of the year. As you know, I blog on the Elderstorytelling site and on PNN as well as share my photos on Facebook. From the overwhelming responses I have gotten, especially from younger women, it has begun to dawn on me that there is a need for and a shortage of elders as role models for keepin’ on keepin’ on – leading active, meaningful lives, in spite of pain and disability.

“I hear that from many people, younger ones especially, who tell me I am an inspiration and a mentor to them (and believe me, my circle of friends and fellow bloggers includes several other candidates for stardom in this field – I’m not alone).

“This year I am being filmed and taped as part of a documentary on people in their 70's and 80's dealing positively and creatively with aging. So my feeling of obligation to be that person has increased bringing a recent epiphany: This IS my purpose in life in this home stretch!

“And so there is the title for 2011's newsletter: The Year That I Found My New and Final Purpose in Life. I certainly had no problem knowing what my purpose was when raising my three children and helping raise nephews and a grandson – there was never a question.

“Nor when I was singing for my supper for 45 years, while still putting supper on my family's table every night; nor when I was churning out my three books. But the last few years I have been feeling a bit purposeless, unable to just relax and enjoy playing with my photography, writing, and reading. All my life I have felt I should be accomplishing something all the time, “devils nippng at my heels.” My goal is to banish those little buggers, yet still fulfill my newly-realized purpose.

“So, that, my dear friends, is where I am at the beginning of 2012, eagerly looking toward another year of living, loving, doing and just being. I wish for you a glowing year with good health, good appetites, and good health coverage!"

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Gone Fishin'

By Don (Greywolf) Ford

(For my sweet daughter and fishing buddy)

"Dad, are we going fishing today?" My daughter had been anticipating this for some time. She began by relating to me that she could not sleep the night before. She woke up at 5AM, 6AM, 6:30AM, and here we were talking at 7AM.

"Yes, honey. I promised you if it weren't raining that we would hit the water."

"Do you want me to get dressed right now?" She was more than excited.

"Sure babe, go ahead. Don't wear your good shoes." For the last three years, I had taken my girl fishing. Now at 11, she still wants to go, but will still not chance putting the worm on the hook.

When we arrived at Green Lakes State Park, the questions began. "Are we too early for the fish? This question followed on the heels of, "Why do they take so long to bite?"

"We are here to learn first how to fish and to also learn to be patient. So start with talking to me in a whisper, since they can hear us. Unless they are starving, they will eat when they feel like it."

"Dad, does the worm feel it when it goes on the hook? Does it hurt them?"

"You notice how careful I am, and I don't do it too fast. Maybe if I were too quick and rough it might hurt." I was hoping the questions wouldn't get any harder to answer.

"Dad, that butterfly keeps circling you over and over. Do you know what that means?

"No, honey, but I bet you are going to tell me, aren't you?”

"That's right, I am. It means you are a gentle person. That's what my teacher told us in science class."

Later I noticed the butterfly let me pick it up with my fingers. Shortly after this, a dragonfly landed on my shoulder and my daughter said, "Hey, he likes you too, Dad." But she remembers my famous dragonfly story that I sold to a magazine, where a lone dragonfly saved me from hoards of black-flies.

During today's little adventure, we both caught a fish. This year was different; this year my fish and her fish were the same size. Other years she always caught the biggest fish. That of course remains our little secret, now doesn't it.

Today we only fished for a little over an hour and then headed home. By the time we got back, Mom was waiting to hear the tall tales. "Mom, guess what? Dad exaggerated today. He said the fish we saw in the water was as big as a house."

"Show me how big it was." Then my daughter proceeded to stretch her hands as far apart as she could. "Wow, it sounds like your dad wasn't too far off.”

End Note: There are moments in our lives that we hold on to dearly. This will always be one of those times, along with countless others.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

What Do You Do When You Find You're Losing It?

From William Weatherstone of The Diesel Gypsy

[EDITOR'S NOTE: Some time ago, a friend of The Elder Storytelling Place's own William Weatherstone sent him this article. His friend's name is Colin McKim and he was the Orillia, Ontario, Canada area writer for Huronia Sunday. Bill wanted to share the column with ESP readers and was given permission to print it here.]

As one grows older, the body is not the only thing that becomes incontinent.

I’m losing it.

I’ve always been a trifle absent minded.

But lately it’s been getting ridiculous.

Last week, I was heading down Peter Street and saw a police car coming the other way. Automatically, my right hand jerked up to check if my seat belt was angled across my chest. It wasn’t.

Looking down to grab for the belt, I realized I was on the sidewalk - but not in a car. I was walking. Not a good sign.

Later that day, I discovered a green dot the size of a dime at the base of my left thumb. I was at a loss to explain its origin. For all I knew it was a miniature crop circle. Tiny aliens might at this moment be climbing up my body toward my head, looking for signs of intelligent life.

They better hurry. I’m losing it fast.

Yesterday, I marched purposely from the kitchen, through the dining room and living room into the front hall where I pulled open a drawer full of toilet paper, light bulbs, scraps of wallpaper and other odds and ends. I stared into the drawer without the slightest idea what I was looking for. I tried a few other drawers without feeling any wiser.

All I knew was that I was in the general area of something that I wanted. But what?

I was heading back to the kitchen before I realized it was a newspaper tucked in my coat in the front hall closet I was after. Since I never hang my coat in a drawer (at least not yet), I can’t explain how I got off course and went down what I can only describe as a mental dead end.

Maybe those miniscule aliens are controlling my thoughts, compelling me to open drawers to satisfy their extraterrestrial curiosity.

Either that or -

I’m losing it.

And I’m not the only one.

My editor lost his identity for a month. As he explains it, he walked up to a bank machine, went to punch in the four-digit personal identification number he’s been using for years and drew a complete blank. The number had been withdrawn from his memory bank without his knowledge.

He decided to walk away from the machine, confident the number would come back to him soon enough. It didn’t.

He searched his brain in vain, trying to find the phantom digits. No luck. So, like a someone in a witness protection program, he was forced to assume a new digital identity.

Then a month later, he was in the car when the lost number unexpectedly hit him like a banded bird flying into the windshield. Now with two identities, he isn’t sure who he is.

Driving home a few nights ago, he became completely disoriented at an intersection he’s driven through hundreds of times. The light turned green and for a second, he didn’t know whether to turn or go straight.

As one grows older the body is not the only thing that becomes incontinent.

These days I find I can’t hold a phone number in my mind long enough to get it punched in. Somewhere between my eyes and my index finger I lose it, or part of it, which amounts to the same thing.

And then there’s the mystery novel on the bedside table. Now that I am losing it, I understand why they call them mysteries.

Opening the book where the book marker says I should, I can’t remember where I stopped reading the night before. Sometimes I have to backtrack for pages to find a familiar character or passage. Sometimes I even check the title to make sure I haven’t picked up the wrong book.

It’s the same thing with this column. I had the perfect idea for an ending that would have brought the whole thing full circle. But I forgot what it was.

Like I said, I’m losing it.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

You Can Never Go Home Again - Or Can You?

By Dani Ferguson Phillips of The Cataract Club

When I was eight years old, my family and I moved to a beautiful new home. Having moved from the modest two-bedroom frame home of my childhood, this glorious four-bedroom home felt nothing less than grand.

One of the many attributes of the French provincial home was the parquet floor that went throughout.

I lived in this house with my family until I was 20 years old. Over time, the parquet floors started to show some wear and some of the wooden tiles had become loose and could be removed. There were loose tiles all over the house and I decided I would leave hand written notes under them.

I’d write my name and age on a small piece of paper along with the date and fold it flat and put them under the tiles. Sometimes I would jot down something about my family or who my boyfriend was at the time.

On my wedding day, I was in my room getting dressed when my shoe happened to kick up one of the loose tiles in my closet. I decided to leave one more message.

My parents sold their home in the summer of 1977. Since that time the house has had several owners. Last summer, 41 years after I left home, I was driving past the old neighborhood and noticed there was a garage sale taking place at my parent’s old house. I figured it was a great opportunity to talk to the current owners and tell them I once lived there as a child.

Two women were working the sale when I stopped and asked if one of them was the owner of the house. One lady answered saying that she and her husband and three children lived there.

I immediately told her my connection to the house and I was met with the warmest reception. She was so excited to hear about the house and its original owners and immediately invited me to go inside.

I followed her through the familiar entryway. The den was being used as a dining room and walls had been removed and an entire new family room added on to the back of the house.

Though things had definitely changed since I lived in the house there were many things that I recognized, from the brick fireplace to the parquet floors.

As we continued to tour the house the next room I was shown was my old bedroom. Though the wallpaper had long since been removed, the room was still pink in color and it was now the bedroom of their eight-year-old daughter.

I told the little girl that the room had been mine when I was just her age. I told her about how I used to line my stuffed animals up in the window box just as she had done. I then asked her if she had every found any loose tiles in the floor.

Her face lit up with a look of recognition and she replied she had. She then asked if I was the “girl” who had written the note.

Then the most amazing thing. She walked across her room and opened her jewelry box and pulled out a small, yellowed piece of paper and handed it to me.

I opened it and there were my words: “Today is my wedding day, I am leaving this house of my childhood for the last time. August 1, 1969."

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Irons and Mangles

By Barbara Sloan

When I was eight years old, I begged and begged my mother to let me help with the ironing. Little girls know nothing about what they ask.

My mother began my lessons with sprinkling. She showed me the simple sprinkling tool that she made out of a sprinkler head with a cork over the metal opening that fit into a pop bottle. The piece of clothing was laid on the table, sprinkled liberally with water, folded over and firmly rolled up so the dampness would soak evenly through the garment, then firmly packed in the clothes basket awaiting its trip to the ironing board.

She stressed the need for perfect dampness; too wet, the iron would leave moisture in the item, too dry, there would be wrinkles remaining that were totally unacceptable.

I helped with sprinkling for several weeks until she trusted that I had the proper ‘feel’ for the task.

One afternoon, my grandmother stopped by for a visit. She and I sat at the kitchen table while my mother continued to iron the heaped basket of clothes. My grandmother began telling us about learning to iron during her first job as a housemaid when she was 17.

“One of my major jobs was doing the ironing. You can’t imagine how particular Clara, the head maid, was about perfectly ironed bed linen, towels, men’s shirts, women’s blouses, skirts and dresses.

“Clara told me the key to having everything turn out wrinkle free and unscorched was the temperature of the hand irons when they came off the top of the old wood cook stove. She showed me how to pick up the heating iron, using a thick pad to protect my hand from the hot handle.

“She demonstrated how to test the iron for proper heat by licking a finger and barely touching it to the bottom of the heated iron. It had to have just the right sizzle before it could be used for ironing, not to hot and not to cold.

“You have no idea how many times I burned my hand or testing finger. You are fortunate to have electric irons with dials to regulate the heat.

“Clara checked every piece I ironed for months until she had confidence that I would do a good job.”

My mother sighed as she wiped the sweat off her forehead and said, “Just like you used to check each piece when I did the ironing for you.”

Finally, my mother thought I was ready to learn how to iron. The ironing board was folded flat, hanging on the wall of the laundry room. The first step was to stand the board on it’s hind legs, pull the loop on the end of the wire underneath to allow the legs to unfold, let the front leg unfold, while the board part came down with it until it was level and the right height so that I could use it.

I tried and tried to open that ironing board. All of these activities had to happen at the same time without the whole thing falling over, pinching fingers or half up and half down so the loop under the board became jammed. Step one was the only step.

My Mother finally gave up and for several years always opened the board for me. Each week, I spent hours with my mother standing beside me giving directions for the proper ironing sequence of each piece of clothing until I got it right.

In the early 1950s, my mother saw an ad in the Ladies Home Journal about an ironing machine called the “domestic mangle.” Domestic pressing mangles are timesavers. They are typically used to press flat items such as sheets or tablecloths. Skilled operators can also press shirts and pants on a mangle.

At dinner that night, she showed my dad the ad and said, “I spend hours ironing sheets, tablecloths and towels. I will have more time for cooking and cleaning. You just got a tractor because it will save time with the farm work. I need a mangle because it will save time with the housework.”

He read the ad, shook his head and shrugged. No sense arguing with my mother when she had her heart set on something.

I watched my mother struggle with this new, unfamiliar machine that was supposed to be every housewive's answer to the hated, time-consuming task of ironing. It was OK for sheets and tablecloths but she finally gave up on clothing. The old ironing board was much faster with fewer wrinkles.

I wonder where that old mangle went. As I finish my basket of ironing, I make another resolution to always buy wrinkle free clothes.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

A Woman Who Knows Where She is Going

By Jackie Harrison

Many years ago, I was asked to sing at the installation of the incoming president of the Southern Medical Association. The meeting was held in New Orleans.

Since all my expenses were paid, I was assigned a roommate, whom I had never met. When I arrived at the Royal Sonesta Hotel on Bourbon Street and headed up to my room on the top floor, loud music streamed from my room. I thought, "What kind of roommate is this going to be?"

I opened the door expecting to see some type of rock and roll woman, but the room was empty. The music was coming through an open window facing Bourbon Street. There were cheers as a scantily dressed "woman" in a swing swung back and forth over the street.

The incoming president had selected the songs she wanted me to sing at her installation. As I sang, I noted tears in her eyes and in the eyes of several others. I had not anticipated this response. I thought, "It has to be the pathos in my voice or the words that struck a sentimental chord." Maybe it was both.

Following the successful installation service, I declared my mission accomplished. I said goodbye to my roommate, who turned out to be a nice and quiet lady. I packed my bags and ordered a limousine to pick me up. I waited and waited for it to arrive, checking my watch repeatedly. Finally it pulled up in front of the hotel. I took the only seat left, located in the back of the limousine.

I assumed we were headed for the airport since all the seats were taken and we were running behind schedule. But the driver stopped at the rear of a nearby hotel. He opened the door on my side and flipped down the jump seat directly in front of me. I was unaware of its existence.

Then he walked to the hotel where he took the bags of a somewhat wobbly young man. After placing the bags in the limousine, the driver directed the man to the backseat of the vehicle and pointed to the jump seat.

Making no attempt to sit down, the man stood there looking at me. Then his eyes moved from my face to my feet. He slowly scanned me from my feet upward to my head. When he finished the scan, a dragged out "hummmn" rang out for everyone to hear.

He sat about three feet away from me and began telling off-color jokes to everyone while his liquored breath blew directly into my face.

I looked at my watch, eager to get out of the limousine and away from this man. I also feared that we would be late for my flight. I said aloud, "I hope he hurries or I will miss my flight."

The man immediately asked, "Which flight is it?"

I said, "Eastern 441."

He slapped his leg and joyfully exclaimed, "That's my flight, too." He then proceeded to tell me that the plane stopped in Atlanta and I should get off with him and tell my husband I was delayed.

When we reached the airport, I was certain I could leave this man, in his drunken state, far behind by employing the semi-jogging walk I used on the beach back home. I had walked only a short distance when I heard loud breathing and panting behind me, then next to me.

I looked to my side. There he was! In a breathless but satisfied voice he said, "What I like is a woman who knows where she is going."

I managed to board the plane ahead of him. My seat was next to a young man who looked to be in his twenties. I mustered up enough courage to ask this stranger for a favor. I said to him, "If a man comes over here asking to exchange seats with you, please tell him no."

As soon as I had said this, up walked the man from my limousine. I held my breath as the stranger sitting next to me sternly told him no. I thanked him profusely.

During the flight, the man from my limousine repeatedly left his seat and came over to me, drink in hand, saying, "How about a little drinky?"

I guess he had too many "little drinkies" because I finally lost him.

I often thought his comment, "What I like is a woman who knows where she is going," would be a good title and theme for one of my speeches to women.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Some Music

[UPDATE: So sorry. I initially omitted the byline when I posted this poem. My apologies - RB.]

By Ellen Younkins

Tonight I heard some music
that I knew from long ago,
the music that I danced to
with a love I used to know.

Tonight I heard some music,
we danced the night away.
The sun came up, and now
my love is gone, again today.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]

Food in China

By Johna Ferguson

Some people wonder just what we eat in China. Well, every locale has its own specialties or main fare.

There are several things that natives of Qingdao eat and one of them is cloves of fresh garlic. They eat them just like a piece of apple as an additional flavor to the foods they are consuming. Personally, I don’t like them that way, but do love garlic grated over cucumber bits and sliced cold jellyfish with a little vinegar.

Because rice is usually raised in the south where it is warm, northerners eat wheat instead; noodles and mantous. Mantous are big solid rolls which are steamed since no one has ovens, therefore they look like uncooked brown-and-serve rolls and they are very dense.

One can buy big ones, with about a six-inch diameter or smaller ones about three inches across. They actually look like a big rounded mound of uncooked dough but they are good. Well, by my standards, best when sliced and toasted for they take a lot of chewing even though they are tender.

We eat a lot of tofu. There are many varieties one can choose from; plain, flavored, firm, soft, super soft, smoked, deep fried, fermented (tastes and smells like cheese), dried and tofu noodles.

Zhou cooks our noodles in a big wok filled with water, chopped pieces of Chinese cabbage and bean noodles which are thin and clear when cooked plus a little ground pork for flavor. For spices, he adds a few peppercorns, sesame oil, ginger, and finely sliced green onions.

Jiaozi is a standby of northern people. They are sold in restaurants in the United States and usually called dim sum. But here they are made like small dumplings and boiled in water or fried in hot oil. They are filled with ground meat and some kind of greens or with shrimp, eggs and chopped cabbage - actually most anything is okay.

This is often a family affair, one person mixing the dough, another rolling it into long rolls about an inch in diameter, another breaking off bits to then be rolled into small circles by another person. Then someone puts the filling on the circle and pinches it together and they are cooked and joyfully eaten. I have been known to devour 15 or more plus other side dishes at a dinner.

Because Qingdao is on the Yellow Sea, we have lots of fresh seafood available. Small manila clams are a favorite of mine. Zhou stir fries them in the wok with oil, ginger and vinegar.

Fresh water crabs and fish are available but I am not fond of either for they are a bother to eat, especially the fish as they have so many bones. But I do like fried, very small octopus, body and legs. Shrimp are very popular here also and often added to lots of dishes, but usually with head and shells. The eater just sifts through it all with their teeth and spits the shells out.

Of course, all these foods are consumed with lots of Tsingtao beer. When the Germans took over Qingdao in the late 1800s, they built a German brewery and that beer is now sold world wide. But only in Qingdao I have I ever seen it sold on the street in plastic bags.

In warm months, on many busy corners are kegs of beer. The seller asks how much you want and then he pumps it into a plastic bag hanging from a scale, just like the bags you get at the grocery store. You take it home and hang it on a door knob until you want to drink it. Pretty simple and no bottles to get rid of.

Below are pictures of the two sizes of mantous, our small kitchen where Zhou cooks delicious food and making jiaozi at a friend’s house.

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[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. PLEASE read instructions for submitting.]