The Doll

By Ronni Prior of Rants By Ronni

In retrospect, it was a pretty cheesy doll. Actually, there were two of them - a bride and a bridesmaid. They stood about two feet tall, in similar dresses – one white with a wisp of veil and the other pink. They stood on display by the check-out in the grocery store and as Christmas approached, the piles of boxes behind them diminished.

Trips to the grocery store were always family expeditions at our house. There was only one car and Mom and I didn't get out much - once a week to the IGA was about it. It was our "poor Christmas " and I had been informed that while prezzies would be at an all-time low, family feeling was going to see us through (dammit!). After all, we had each other and we had our health and we had a chicken for the table and a roof over our heads. All else was gravy.

Nevertheless, I was eight and I couldn't help begging for the doll. It cost $10 - an outrageous sum. I knew I wasn't going to get it and resentment boiled over. Frequently.

Making candles with Mom and cookies and cigarette-pack-foil ornaments for the Christmas tree and paper chains with which to festoon our freezing house did little to dissipate the feeling that I was hard done by. My friend Caroline was in a similar position except that she was one of five children and they were, if anything, worse off than we. She and I whined together.

My dad had a job picking holly for seventy-five cents an hour which was the minimum wage at that time. In order to buy the goodies for Christmas baking, we lived on peanut butter sandwiches, stone soup and powdered milk all through Advent. Mom said it was good for our souls. Those trips to the IGA became more and more depressing.

Christmas Eve, Dad's boss gave him his Christmas bonus - $10! He went straight to the store to get me one of those dolls.

They were all gone except for the two display models. As they were slightly the worse for wear, the manager, on the verge of closing for the holiday, let Dad take them both for that price.

I was given the bride, and Caroline got the bridesmaid.

My faith in Christmas was restored.

---

[INVITATION: 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.]

My Favorite Garment

By Lyn Burnstine of The Lynamber Times

My mother was an exemplary seamstress and needle worker. She helped supplement the family’s income by sewing for other people in the Great Depression and later on. Even though we were always cash-poor, on a teacher’s salary supporting a family of five, my mother, sister and I always had beautiful clothes.

Some were made from hand-me-downs, skillfully re-worked; some were made from remnants from the fabric stores where my mother loved to shop. Many of my favorites of the dresses she made me were ones in which I had input: Mother would ask me what colors and designs I wanted and then make them – usually with no pattern, a legendary skill that skipped me and landed on my eldest daughter two generations later while she was still in her early teens.

My eighth-grade graduation dress, made of a delicate pink silk with lavender velvet ribbons woven through the lace trim, was an all-time favorite. Another was a prom gown designed by me, but crafted by my mother. It had a peach satin bodice with spaghetti straps, and a peach rayon full skirt under a light brown tulle overskirt.

We looked far and wide to find the perfect fabrics on sale. I have no photographs of either one, nor do I have any pictures of one of the first dresses I made, one that won 4-H prizes and got me a trip to the Illinois State Fair to model it.

I met and shook hands with the then-governor of California, Earl Warren, later to be Chief Justice of the U.S., and nearly fainted with excitement when I met Rex Allen and the Sons of the Pioneers.

I do, however, have a color photo – one of the first my then-photographer father took using the new Kodak color film – showing my sister wearing a dress that I have always remembered as mine. The picture surprised me because I would have sworn that my red-headed mother never dressed my red-headed sister in pink - only brown-haired me.

I would also have sworn that it was made new for me, but I guess I just always knew it would eventually get handed down, so I claimed it in my heart.

The dress was a masterpiece of smocking: the blouse was pale, shell pink in a delicately crepe-y fabric with short puffed sleeves and a rounded neckline. The sleeves and neck were edged with rows of light blue smocking, making them slightly ruffled. The attached skirt was a light blue silky material with darker blue smocking that cinched in the waist. (Although it felt like silk, it must have been rayon: those were the WW II years when all the silk went for making parachutes; there weren’t even any silk stockings for purchase anywhere.)

My mother continued to make smocked dresses for my two little girls each Easter - true masterpieces that I wished I had saved for the next two generations of sister sets in my family two granddaughters and four great-granddaughters.

The fact that the dress was second-hand wouldn’t have bothered me at all. My being the younger sister and the recipient of hand-me-downs may have set the stage for my later-in-life passion for thrift shops and garage sales.

There came a time when I outgrew my sister and her hand-me-downs; the roles were sometimes reversed in our adult lives. She, too, loves second-hand clothing stores. She, too, receives many compliments on her assembled outfits, as do I.

It is an economic necessity for both of us at this stage of our lives, but even if I were to win the lottery (and you can’t win if you never play), I think I’d still haunt the thrift shops for the likes of the L.L. Bean jacket, the Liz Claiborne coat, the Pierre Cardin sweater and the hand-painted silk jacket from a well-known Vermont artist - all bought for pennies or handed down from a neighbor.

---

[INVITATION: 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.]

Whispers of a Blizzard

By Ann Berger

Our driving mare, Lady, knew her way home as she had proven when Father courted Mother in 1915-1917. Father would drop Mother at her home after an evening out, tie the reins around the buggy whip holder to settle in for a nap and wake up in front of his own barn. The sweethearts married on September 19, 1917.

Into the 1920’s and several children later, Lady still knew her way home. Minnesota winter mornings when snow was too deep for us to wade through snow drifts for the three-quarter mile walk to school, Father would hitch Lady to the cutter, tuck us under cowhide robes and send us off with eldest sister Helen holding the reins.

At the schoolhouse door, we’d wriggle from under the robes and skitter into the schoolhouse stomping snow off our boots in the bell-tower entryway. Helen tied the reins around the whip holder, patted Lady and said, “Go home, Lady.”Lady went home.

Her horse sense could not be trusted to return to school to pick us up later in the day. Who knew where she might wander off in search of oats or four-footed play mates? When school dismissed, the west wind carried us homeward before dark.

Then came the one and only day we were allowed to skip school. A beastly blizzard threatened. I knelt between four-year-old Paul and seven-year-old Donna at an upstairs bedroom window taking in our very own fairyland. In my six-year-old wonderment, I mused, “Why do things look more real under snow?” They both nodded, not uncupping chins resting in their hands.

With elbows on the broad windowsill, our eyes scanned the blanketed lawn, barnyard, windmill and out buildings. Rows of evergreens making for a wind break in front of the grove of butternuts, oaks and maples now seemed closer under a shroud of undisturbed snow. Donna whispered, “See how close the windbreak looks now.”

Silently, Paul’s and my chins dipped in our hands.Looking. Discovering. Wondering. More silence.

Paul's tiny voice squeaked, “What’re those humps on top of the sheep barn?” We girls looked. We shrugged. Looked some more.

The storm door of the back porch banged with a winter thud. Father, with ear flaps pulled down and his brown wool cap covering his eyebrows, stepped into the snow. His boots made deep tracks to the cistern pump beside the back porch. He knotted a long rope to the crook of the pump handle.

We three turned worried eyes to each other, shivering with dread about our neighbor who froze to death in a blizzard trying to find his way from the corn crib to his house.

We watched Father lean into whirling ground squalls and stomp to the barn dragging that long rope across the lawn, across the barnyard to the hitching post outside the barn door. He looped the rope into a horseman’s knot and gave it an extra tug.

Donna whispered, “Now he won’t get lost.”

I nodded.

Paul bragged, “Bet Lady could find home.”

---

[INVITATION: 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.]

A Difficult Subject: R.I.P.

By Lyn Burnstine of The Lynamber Times

I always assumed that I’d grieve deeply if my ex-husband pre-deceased me: for the man I loved for 20 plus years; for the man who was my first and only love for all of those long-ago years; for the father of my children; and for the man whom I thought was my best friend, till he proved otherwise.

When the tearful call came from my eldest daughter that he’d dropped dead unexpectedly, presumably with a massive heart attack or stroke, I remained dry-eyed and unmoved.

I felt terrible for my children and grandchildren who were grieving. I felt relieved that he hadn’t suffered, for his sake and the kids'. I felt comforted by knowing that they had all seen him recently after long years of estrangement, but sad that one of the three hadn’t reconciled and is still carrying a white-hot anger at him.

I was happy that two of our children and their families could go to Toronto for the funeral and satisfied that my middle child did what she needed to do for herself. Unable to go due to time, energy and money restraints (I did offer financial help if that would make it possible), she called around and found a local rabbi who was willing to meet with her, her partner and two of her sons at the exact hour of the funeral, say some prayers with them and explain what the service would be like and the Jewish beliefs on death.

She found that greatly comforting as was the shiva candle he gave her to burn during the mourning period.

I continued to be amazed at my lack of emotion, even when I went searching through some of the old photo albums to find photos of him with each of the kids to give them. I felt sad and lethargic; I had trouble focusing on anything else, but still no tears.

Late the next night, I suddenly thought, “But of course, Lyn, your new nerve pain medicine is an antidepressant and the only other time you were on one, you hurried to get off it because you hated the flat affect and inability to feel your usual range of emotions!” Doh! (I talk to myself like that a lot since I live alone and am free to do so.)

Wednesday, I was totally stressed in the morning trying unsuccessfully to reach Social Security to iron out a problem I didn’t understand and at the same time, I was continuing a battle with my Medicare drug plan that had already gone on for a week. Of all the things I hate in this world, filling out stupid forms and trying to reach unreachable people by phone top the list.

Then I was busy taking my friend for cardioversion for the atrial fib that developed during her cancer surgery months ago. They had been unable to treat it until her Coumadin level stabilized and I had been so worried, since I know atrial fib intimately and had to be cardioverted myself just months ago. She came through it fine, despite all her risk factors, and that was a huge relief.

After I dropped her off and was driving home, I looked at the car clock and realized that it was about the time the casket would be lowered into the grave. All the stress, all the relief, the tiredness did its job, and I had a good cleansing minor meltdown – just enough, brief but necessary. I said goodbye one last time and it is finished.

Had the funeral been held locally, I would no doubt have gone to support my kids through it, but I’m glad there wasn’t that need. I cry at weddings even if I don’t know the bride and groom; I cry at funerals even if I don’t know the corpse. I’m sure I would have sobbed uncontrollably and embarrassed myself, especially knowing that people would be whispering, “Poor thing, she never got over him.”

And I might even have wondered that myself for a few minutes. Now I know. The past is truly the past. I have beautiful memories; I have horrible memories. But they are just that: memories.

* * *

Afterthought: I decided to submit this very personal blog post because it occurred to me that most of our parents didn't have to deal with these awkward situations of complicated emotions. We saw far fewer divorces and blended families in our generation and had fewer models for how to behave and to express these ambiguous feelings. Many people literally did not know what to say to me, and told me so. I hope this proves helpful to a reader going through this passage.

---

[INVITATION: 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.]

One Queer Turn

By wisewebwoman of The Other Side of Sixty

Well, my dear, sometimes you live long enough to see life working out fair. And life is fair, you know, very fair. You see me now, I’m ninety-three, I can talk with some authority about such things.

I was only twelve when I went to the convent and spoke to Mother Perpetua; she was the head of all the Presentation Sisters in Milltown then. I knew I had the vocation. I just wanted to make sure they knew about it too and would reserve a space for me. I was fierce innocent then. A space, imagine!

She kept me standing in her big office with the statue of Our Lady in the corner smiling down at me and the bleeding Sacred Heart with his hurt-looking face behind her on the wall as I asked about the space.

“Oh no, you unfortunate girl,” Mother Perpetua said, her hands folded in front of her on her shiny desk, “Sure, we could never take you!”

I should fill you in a bit now on my background. Did I tell you about my big sister, Lily? Well, my dear, three years before that, Lily had run off with the young Protestant minister of the town. Eloped up to Belfast with him she did. All the way on the train from Milltown in County Cork to Belfast in the County Armagh. Imagine! And of course they married outside the faith.

So let me get back to Mother Perpetua, sitting there, her big, glarey frown withering me up.

“Your sister,” she said to me, “will be confined to the fires of hell for all eternity for what she did. And you come from the family that raised her to do this despicable and sinful act. You are tainted, Frances Murphy, tainted with her sin, and we can’t ever accept you into our holy order of the Presentation Sisters.”

Well, my dear, I thought my head would burst open with all the water locked inside it. I had dreamed of becoming a nun since I was four. I didn’t know what to do with my broken hope so I turned around and ran out the door and down the corridor and into the toilet and between the throwing up and the overflowing tears I was a terrible mess.

And I never told a soul. It was too humiliating and Mammy and Daddy would have been mortified. For this would be on top of the pain of Lily who Mammy had a wake for after she ran away and declared her dead to the family for ever. Daddy never did smile again after that.

But I got over it. I got myself a job as nanny to the local gentry. And they treated me so decent, like one of the family. I even went all over the continent with them. I saw all there was to see with them and their three lovely children. They gave me a small pension too when I was done and later on there was a little remembrance in Sir Bentley’s will.

And that’s when life took one queer turn. I was sixty and retired when Mother Sebastian knocked on my door. Mother Perpetua was long dead by then and Mother Sebastian was her successor.

“Miss Murphy,” she says to me sipping on her tea here in this parlour, “I hear you are reliable and good with the figures and sums.”

“I am,” says I, blushing at the compliment.

“Well,” says she, “We have no one in the convent like that anymore since Sister Caspian passed on. And we are in a bit of a fix. We need someone to take care of the bookkeeping and the office work and arrange the banking. Someone confidential. Someone we can trust.”

I stayed quiet. This was no time to get on my high horse by thinking of myself in that toilet way back then, coughing up bile all over my clean uniform.

“We’d pay you, of course,” she went on. “The going rate. To take care of us all.”

Me! - taking care of them! And a bit of extra money too! I’d have enough to visit Lily a few times a year. I’d never been to the North of Ireland. And now thanks to the nuns I would be able to.

And so I did - for many, many years.

---

[INVITATION: 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.]

A Full Circle

By Johna Ferguson

Did you ever reach that wonderful point when you could actually have a car of your own? My husband always had company cars so I got along as best I could, grocery shopping when he was home on week-ends. But various appointments always had to be made so I could catch a bus with one our three boys and buses weren’t always convenient; my neighbors helped out many times.

Finally, when we could afford a car for me in 1968, I bought a VW bug. It was wonderful to have wheels. I could drive the boys to lessons and whatever came up.

By then the two older boys were into skiing. First they rode the ski buses up, but eventually I let the oldest drive my car until once he slid and they landed in a big snow bank. The two weren’t hurt, thankfully, but the top of the front hood and fenders got all bent out of shape.

The insurance paid for it, but I decided to get a heavier car so I bought a fastback Mustang. I kept that car for two years and then traded it in on something special, a classic pink ’56 porthole hard top/convertible T-Bird. I loved that car until our oldest somehow took out the oil pan.

Parts were difficult to get and it never seemed to run right after that, so I sold it and bought a British racing green TR6. I’d gotten used to convertibles so why not again. I also loved that zippy car, but one weekend our middle son totaled it completely. Thankfully he was not hurt.

The insurance only paid part so I made him pay back the rest over time. Then what to buy? Those had all been used cars so I bought a brand new white Audi, four-door. I thought it might be so boring no one would want to drive it, but then I was hit broadside and it was totaled. Luckily I walked away from the accident; I was saved from injury as I had my seat belt on.

I was a little leery of cars after that, so I shopped for the safest one and bought a new BMWii. I hated that car; it really was a lemon, so I traded it in on a used ’56 classic 354 red Porsche. After all, the boys had all left home by then. It was my most beloved car, but then I took a permanent job in China in 1985, so left the car for my family to sell.

I found though, when I came home on vacation breaks I needed a car, so I bought a red Mazda Miata convertible/hard top. It was fun and snappy and a new image for a just divorced woman. But then I married again and stayed in China so my sons sold that car.

After living in China with my husband for several years, we decided to come to Seattle to live, so I bought a used gray, Honda civic, four-door. It was okay as it was 5-speed and created a good image of the little old lady I was becoming. But after two heart surgeries, the doctor suggested no driving.

I still have my license and occasionally drive my son’s SUV, but the bus system in Seattle can’t be beat so now, just like before when I was first married, I’m back to busing. Actually you meet some very interesting people on the bus.

Even if you drive, some day you should try riding a bus. Not only is it much cheaper, but also good for the environment. And no, I’m not car crazy;,I just liked changes - makes life more interesting.

---

[INVITATION: 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.]

Flying with Egrets

By Jeanne Waite Follett

Late each afternoon, as the earth turns and brings respite from the blue-white heat of day, the egrets cease their daily pursuits and take to the wing. A band of lemon yellow suffuses the horizon as dozens, nay, tens of dozens, of slender white birds fly in waves over the casas and condos, haciendas and houses of Mazatlan, Mexico.

Above the small convenience stores called “super markets,” past the Montana papeleria that sells single sheets of paper or single Band-Aids, still in business despite the behemoth office supply store a half block away around the corner, over the vendor with his two-wheeled cart of tejuinos and large bottles of hot sauce, the egrets fly west into the setting sun.

Drafting off each other in “vee” formations, they fly between the Norfolk pines and the coconut palms, all in the same direction, hurrying before deep lilac and mauve push tangerine to the horizon and chase darkening lemon in pursuit of the vanishing sun.

They fly silently, leading with long beaks and trailing equally long legs, their long tapered wings carrying them swiftly to a nighttime destination known only to them.

I sit in the courtyard with the residents and guests at Burgos condos and watch the daily migration. Often my first glimpse of the birds is a reflection in the shaded windows of the complex. I look up and see them flying low over the two-story buildings.

When I first saw them and learned they were egrets, I wondered what they did with their long necks while in flight. Each evening I watched them, looking for the necks. Then, finally, I saw a fleet at a propitious angle, and could discern those necks folded back on themselves into a snowy white “ess.”

No one in this group knows where the egrets go at night. I considered various options to learn the secret whereabouts of their evening sanctuary. I pondered how to follow the flock before the indigo blanket of nightfall covers the land.

The birds fly too low and too swiftly to track. They abide by their own compasses and do not follow the streets of cobblestones, coarse pavers and yellow-striped asphalt that delineate pathways for earthbound men.

I spent long minutes at Starbucks while Google Chrome downloaded Google Earth. Perhaps an aerial view, a “bird’s eye” view, will reveal some water sanctuary of which I am not aware. Google Earth showed me man-made canals for the exclusive use of palatial haciendas with private boats and beyond that, the great and ever-rolling Pacific Ocean.

Then I explored closer to home: why do I want to know? Surely by the time the birds arrive there, wherever “there” is, the light would be too dark to photograph what must be a mind-boggling number of sleek white birds standing upright, long graceful necks posting their whereabouts.

And then I decided I don’t need to know, don’t want to know.

All we creatures, all the creatures of the earth, need our private sanctuaries, the places we go to rest, regroup, recover and recharge. Like the egrets flying to their place of refuge, we all need that secret destination, even if - perhaps especially if - it’s only a quiet place in our minds.

---

[INVITATION: 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.]

Plastic

By Lyn Burnstine of The Lynamber Times

I threw out plastic containers last night, an entire bag of them. It is so hard for me to do. I love every one of those little buggers. Some had no lids, some had lids that had warped so they didn't fit, some were from Tupperware parties fifty-plus years ago. I do this from time to time, but this was the grandmother of all plastic purges.

If I weren’t such a committed recycler, it would be easier for me but once I get them all sparkly clean, it’s too easy to say, “Oh, I think I’ll just keep this one,” forgetting that my freezer is already full of those kinds of yogurt, cottage cheese and margarine tubs. They will all eventually get emptied and re-enter the decision process – to toss or keep.

I spent many years refusing to buy plastic bags of any size. My aides looked askance at me when I told them to use the plastic grocery bags for garbage. I relented somewhat. I now buy sandwich bags and quart-sized food bags occasionally at the dollar store, but never garbage bags. And yes, I do wash and re-use them if they are not sticky or greasy.

My mother left drawers full of recycled plastic bags, pieces of string and bag twist-ties for us to throw out when she died. I’m not quite that bad. But now, my lifelong patterns of frugality and recycling are becoming popular – the “in” thing – as well they must be if we are going to save our planet.

I was green before green was cool! Maybe one quart-sized yogurt container won’t make a difference, but one every two weeks for twenty years just might. I have to remember, though, that they don’t all need to be in MY cupboard!

---

[INVITATION: 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.]

The Honeymooners

By Dani Ferguson of The Musings of a Middle Aged Woman

I know the world has changed and that some of the moral lessons of my youth are now antiquated, but I believe that a bit of the mystery and allure was lost with the sexual revolution.

When I was a young girl, we had clearly defined rules. There were “good” girls and there were “not so good” girls. Most girls, myself included, strove to be one of the “good” girls. Abstinence wasn’t taught, it was expected and had it not been for this strict value system passed on to me by my mother, I wouldn’t have this tale to tell now.

In 1969, I married my college sweetheart at the ripe old age of twenty. We had dated for a little over a year when we decided we were ready to walk down the aisle. I realize now that decision was motivated more by hormones than maturity. We didn’t have a nickel to our name but we were young and in love and feeling invincible. So after a small ceremony and a cake and punch reception we were off to explore the bonds of holy matrimony.

Now being one of those so-called “good” girls, I was more than a little nervous about THE wedding night. Since we were only going to Oklahoma City, a brief 22 miles from where our wedding took place, we were at our motel in no time. We settled in and my new husband immediately put the “DO NOT DISTURB” sign on the door.

He decided he would take a shower before retiring and left me sitting on the bed wondering if I should make a run for it or just stay and fulfill my “wifely” duties. After a few minutes, my young husband began calling to me from the shower, “Oh Dani, come take a shower with me,” he called.

All the blood drained from my head. I had no idea what to do next. I had never seen a naked man in my life nor had I ever been seen naked. He continued to call out, “The water is warm, come take a shower with me.”

I sat on the bed for what seemed like an hour trying to figure out what to do. I thought, I’m married now, I have to do it, I promised to Obey!

Suddenly I had an idea! I opened my suitcase and removed my bathing suit. I put on the suit and headed for the shower. Then I remembered the “haven’t seen a naked man” part and decided at the last minute to flip off the light in the bathroom. The bathroom was pitch black.

I took about two steps, tripped over the toilet, grabbed for the shower curtain pulling it down with me as my chin struck the tub. Not knowing what the heck was going on, my husband reached for me and in the process felt my bathing attire. He burst into laughter while the shower continued to spray water all over the bathroom.

He laughed so hard he couldn’t keep his own balance as he sloshed through the water to flip on the light. There I was, the new bride, sitting on the bathroom floor, in my bathing suit, with a two-inch gash in my chin.

We spent the remainder of our first night as a married couple in the emergency room getting ten stitches in my chin. I begged my husband not to tell the doctor the circumstances surrounding my need for medical attention, but he couldn’t resist. The doctor gave me a Valium, my new husband the bill and wished him the best of luck!

---

[INVITATION: 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.]

Making Magic

By Brian McGovern aka Hijinx the Magician

Doing magic is all I ever wanted to do since I was a kid. I remember being mystified and astonished by a magician when I was just a little boy growing up in Brooklyn, New York. I knew I wanted to be a magician. I pictured myself traveling around the world floating, sawing and vanishing beautiful ladies, producing tigers and looking spiffy in black tie and tails.

I started out working at a magic shop and the owner booked me to do a show at a birthday party. Besides being terrified, I had no act. The shop’s owner sold me the tricks to perform. That first show wasn’t exactly profitable, but it was a start.

Then life happened. I got married, had kids and got a job. I kept performing on the side but kept dreaming of the day when I could be a full time pro.

Now that my kids are grown, I’ve given up the nine to five in order to follow that dream. I had no idea what I was in for. Nowadays, I’m running all over New York City and Long Island doing magic at every imaginable spot.

Birthday parties for kids, for adults and even teenagers. Teens are a tough audience but once you win them over, they’re more enthusiastic than any other crowd. They really react.

From parties on yachts for millionaires to birthday parties in small Bronx apartments, I see it all. I’m invited into people’s homes to entertain the people they love with the art form I love.

Sleight of hand and illusion are things of beauty. Like a painter who only creates the illusion of a woman with paint and canvas, a magician creates illusions with our senses. When I perform magic and I hear a gasp of disbelief, I’m happy. Not that I tricked somebody, but that I gave them the gift of wonder.

“We are perishing for lack of wonder, not for want of wonders,” is a quote from G. K. Chesterton I really enjoy. I see the art of magic not as tricks but as a source of astonishment.

Sure, we use “tricks,” but not like a liar or a con-man. Just like a movie producer uses “tricks” to make us believe a man can fly, it is a means to an end.

Maybe I’m getting too old for this? I wonder that sometimes as I haul my bag of tricks to the car for another crazy day of hocus-pocus. But when I see that look of wonder in the faces of my audiences, suddenly I feel that sense of wonder too and I’m transported back to that day I saw my first magic trick, and I feel like a kid again.

---

[INVITATION: 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.]