My First Time Fishing

My First Time Fishing

They say it’s never too late to learn, so at the ripe age of 70 I cast my first line into the water. It was an auspicious day, the breeze tossing my hair gently, the clouds protecting me from a burning sun, and the water gently lapping under the dock were I was stationed. How to hold the pole, cast the reel, bait the hook was painstakingly explained by my patient son. Other old timers on the dock were watching in amusement as this neophyte gingerly lowered her bait into the water. I learned so much that day as I threw and reeled, dreamed of fish meals--. Here is what I learned. Fishing should be called casting.  Fishing is a lesson in patience. Fishing is competitive as we all eyed each other any time there was pull on our line. Most people don’t catch anything and when they do catch it has to be thrown back; it’s too small or it’s’ not a fish but debris, or a shark, or someone else’s pole.  I learned why whenever I see a picture of a man or woman hosting a smile as big as the wide blue sea, with a big fish on a hook, why they were smiling. What a day. No fish, but plenty of learning and darned if I don’t want to go back and do it again.

Almost Perfect

Almost Perfect is the name of my newly released E-book. Every  boomer has a dream. What is yours?  Mine was to write, write, write. Funny how when you reach a certain age you find yourself reflecting on what you and didn't do with your life. There is also the stark realization that we have pretty much accomplished what we will and that some doors are beginning to shut on us. The magazine articles are full of stories about people our age who are traveling, dancing, living life in the fast lane. Good for them, but I can't help but wonder who are these seniors?  Do they have bum knees, multiple doctor visits, a dip in the energy tank. I don't doubt they are out there but for the rest of us I would say Life is Almost Perfect. We have some realities we have do deal with but we certainly can take it from there. We must become artists designing our lives around our abilities and inabilities. I for one, am grateful that I can still write. I do it in my journal everyday. I do it on the computer when the mood hits, and I do it in my head when I encounter different people with different challenges. There are so many stories out there and my heart skips a beat with a desire to tell them.
In truth it is passion that keeps us going.  Passion is a motivator and motivation gets more and more difficult with time, unless there is something that lifts us high. My sisters are artists, and musicians. They will never grow old. Passion is the kindling that helps us light the fire. If life is almost perfect that is good enough. My son shared a great piece of wisdom recently.  'Mom', he said, don't think about what you can't do, Do what you can do". Well put my son.
My book is a reprint of a story of love and challenges set in the post war period. I hope my followers enjoy it and pass it on. For me this is a part of my journey and my mother so often said, "the joy is in the journey." I wish you all joyful journeys.

Marketing to the Boomers. Let's Get Real!

It’s a New Chapter

We spend a lot of time reminiscing about the good old days, but they are gone, except in our memory vaults. Today will become the good old days when we jump even further along the time line for another some twenty years. So there are adjustments and there are opportunities.

Adjustments. In spite of the never ending advertisements touting remedies for younger skin, more hair, energy boosts, and smiling, bicycling, jogging, dancing, and yes prancing seniors there is something blatantly missing in the picture. Realistically we don’t have the energy we used to, our youthful bodies have had a tendency to go south, our hair has often times suffered a drought and does not grow, and then there are the hairs that grow where you don’t want them. Here is where a good sense of humor comes in. In fact, it’s downright necessary. No we certainly are not who we used to be, except maybe deep down inside. That young, hopeful spirit can exist right until the end.

Now that we feel like we are dating the Medical community, and buying pill holders, and keeping antacids handy, a met-amorphous is taking place. We are getting OLD, say it out loud OLD! And what does that mean in real time terms. It means we have to accept and adjust.  No more pretending. Do what we can to the max, but recognized what we cannot do without painful consequences. All right diet, exercise, mental stimulation; we all know the speech. The advertisers jump hoops not to use the word OLD. It’s ok. If not old, we are at least older. We have to look beyond that to what enriches our life; our children, our garden, our hobbies, our friends. We must capitalize on that which brings us joy and the opportunity comes with the new found time we finally have on our hands. The accolades of the past do not serve us anymore. There are no performance evaluations going on, except for those initiated by ourselves. So the moral of this story, look for opportunities, accept the inevitable consequences of an aged body and mind, and go from there. Nourish the child within, see the wonder of living, and live in the present and most of all Be Happy.

A Halloween Poem for the little people in your life

Gene and the Ghost

Gather round children I’ll tell you a tale,

 Of witches and goblins and cider and ale.

I’ll tell you this story, but don’t be afraid

 Gather your courage and try to be brave.

Once upon a moonless night

 When owls were whoo o-o-ing out of sight,

There lived a little boy named Gene

 Who was dressing up for Halloween.

Now you all know on this special night

 You make yourself a frightful sight

And fool your friends and neighbors too

 Guessing which little boy are you!

What Gene wanted to be the most

 Was a scary, s c a r y ghost

His mom wrapped him all in white

 And sent him out into the night

“Now don’t go far, and be real good,

  And mind your manners like you should.

Knock on all the doors of this long street

 And say politely “Trick or Treat”.

Gene saw his friends passing to and fro,

 And knew it was time that he should go

And brave he was, so he started on

 Carrying his pack and humming his song

“S-c-a-r-r-y, scary ghost am I

 Cept I don’t know how to fly

But I’m clever I know what to do

 When kids go by, I’ll say BOO”

Now just then on this same night

 A real ghost stood out of sight

And heard Genes funny little song

As Gene was walking now along.

The ghost snuck up behind Genes back

 And on his shoulder gave a tap.

Gene turned around and then said BOO

 The ghost replied and Boo to you.

The ghost looked into Genes wide eyes

 And started to laugh to Genes’ surprise

“Don’t be afraid, I’m a nice ghost

 If you be my friend I’ll be your host

And show you around this Halloween night

and give you a ride quite far from this site.”

Gene was afraid, but very brave too,

 “Yes, he said, I’ll come with you”.

So he hopped up on the friendly ghosts’ tail

 And into the night the both of them sailed.

Higher and higher they flew with such ease,

 Gene felt as if he was flying a breeze, but

Just then a big black cloud did appear,

 And a chilling laughter filled the air.

First a black hat, then a long nose

 A straggly smile and raggedy clothes

Twas a witch on a broom, flying aside

 Now this was becoming a most interesting ride.

“I’m a witch, and I’m mean and I like to scare people.

  I live beyond that faraway steeple.”

Gene listened and shuddered and wished he were home.

 He wondered how far away he’d already flown.

The witch gave a laugh and pointed a finger.

 You could definitely see that she wanted to linger.

“Big black mean witch, where are you going?

 What trick on this night do you plan to be showing?

Be nice to my friend, he’s a very brave boy,”

Said the ghost to the witch, now slightly annoyed.

The witch gave a kick to her magical broom

 And disappeared fast with the sound of a zoom.

Gene and the ghost dropped down to the ground

 And Gene was delighted at what he had found.

A field of pumpkins all yellow and gold,

 Whispering secrets that shouldn’t be told.

“Were plump and were sweet, and this is no lie,

 We want to be picked for some body’s pie”.

“Pumpkin pie is really a treat,

 A Halloween favorite pie to eat.”

Then they all said their good byes

 And Gene and the ghost returned to the sky.

Back to Gene’s street they flew in a hurry

 Landing down quite in a flurry.

“Now I’ve a surprise, a load full of treats,

Candies and apples and chocolates and sweets.

Fill up your bag and please hurry home.

Your mom will wonder where you have gone.”

Gene took the treats the friendly ghost shared

When he looked up, the ghost disappeared

Gene hurried home fast as a missile.

 Dancing and singing and trying to whistle.

His smile was wide, his hair all a muss

 He knew his mom would make a big fuss.

“Oh mom, he said, you wouldn’t believe

 What happened to me this Halloween Eve.

A real ghost became my friend,

 And flew me around, just like the wind.

“You silly boy, what tale you tell,

 You ate too much, you don’t feel well.

Now sit down here I’ll make some tea,

 And then to bed immediately.”

And now you see no one believed,

 The friendly ghost on Halloween Eve.

But you and Gene ad I all know.

 It really, truly happened so.

Halloween Back Then

Before stranger danger, poisoned apples, hidden razor blades and various threats, there was the Halloween of the 50's.  What a exciting time for the children who looked forward to all that sweet booty, and dressing up in disguises.
In our home we had our own unique customs.  There were 8 of us, and buying a costume was prohibitive. Also it was more common in those times to create your own costumes. Reflecting the time period and the TV shows of the time we dressed as cowboys, ghosts, witches, clowns and scarecrows.
Now, here it is how it was in our home. After school we would come home filled with anticipation for the fun of trick or treating. We then set about for the "hunt". We would comb the rooms for the makings of a costume.  Old jewelry, men's jackets, purses, grandma's hats, broom sticks, pillow cases, sheets; all went into a great big pile in the middle of the living room floor. When our "hunt" was completed we used our imaginations to create. I remember one brother dressed up as a fat lady, pillow case under the dress, a small black purse, long hanging beads, and of course lipstick smeared on his lips. It looked hilarious to us.  There was always a witch among us, donned all in black, a broom at her side, and made as scary as  could be. For the youngest among us was there was always  the ghost; an old white sheet with holes cut out for eyes.  I always favored the more dramatic, like an Indian  Princess attired with a feather on a head band, moccasins, and a fringed vest. I even practiced my yells, much to the chagrin of my parents. We also had our hobos' with tattered clothes, and a pole with a pillowcase at one end.  There were clowns and mom would paint our face with her lipstick and eye color and  as we looked at each other we all burst out laughing.
Finally the sun would give up the day and off we would trot into the night. Being the chocoholic that I am, I knew which neighbor gave out Hershey Kisses, and I never skipped that house. Typical treats were popcorn balls, sugar daddy's, lollipops, bubble gum, tootsie rolls and the ubiquitous  candy corn. Our buckets, and bags filled up quickly and when we finished combing the neighborhood we returned home and entered the next chapter of our Halloween fun.  We each raced to our own  beds and dumped our booty on top. We gobbled what ever we good until mom told us to hold up for another day. We also did trading of our precious cargo and I'm guessing I would give double for each of their chocolates. With our stomachs very full, we went to bed, our stash under the bed to attack yet another day.  What a wonderful time to be a child.

Junior High Home Economics Classes

The smell of cookies baking would permeate the long corridors as we junior high students would scramble between our assigned classes., As seventh graders we would look forward our turn to bake, and more specially eat. Home EC as it was called was taught for one half of the school year. It was a class designed for future moms and wives. The boys took woodworking. Roles were very definitive back then.
We would learn the basics of cooking, sewing, changing diapers, making beds and all the duties pertaining to being a good housewife. In truth they were life skills, particularly modeled after the role of a good homemaker.  Some of us were lucky to have on the job training at home, but post war boomers were more doted upon as dad and mom adhered to the defined roles of their gender.
I loved the room where we were taught, with it's little kitchen tucked in one corner, rows of sewing machines in another section, and a baby doll wrapped in a blanket for us to practice our motherly skills on.
I think when you go to High School a lot is forgotten, but not what you learned in Home EC. Until this day I make my beds with hospital corners. I still have a very weak spot for Snickerdoodels which was the first cookies we baked. I was a pro at changing diapers on our pretend baby, (had a lot of practice with that at home,) and burping the baby doll brought a lot of giggles to us girls.
Sewing was a different matter for me. My first project was a pillow case. Mom bought a ugly piece of purple fabric because it was on sale. I managed to sew the most crooked seams over and over. My sense of direction has not improved over the years and I still struggle with the "simple" patterns that tax my coordination to no end.
Fast forward to this decade; who uses diapers, who makes bread, who bakes from scratch, who sews their own clothes?  The times they have changed, the skill sets needed are a lot different and yet, there are somethings that never change; pride in what you are doing, keeping a home that is warm and inviting, providing meals that are wholesome and delicious, and I would also say making a bed with a nice tight hospital corner.  

The Rag Man of the 40's

I was very young, when memories are soft around the edges, and impressions and smells are intertwined with the actual experience. He was called the Rag Man. I would here the clop, clop of the horses hoofs rhythmically pounding the pavement, and then the deep baritone voice of a dark skinned man yelling Rags, Rags, Pennies for Rags. He drove down the roads where three story tenement buildings were lined chock a block along the narrow streets. In my little mind I wondered why anyone would want anyone's rags. That was a term used for throwaways or garbage. How could he like '"rags" I asked myself. I would run to the window, and watch him holding the reign while the horse trotted slowly as if keeping beat with his masters lyrics. The horses' eyes were covered with a blind fold and as a child I worried how the animal would find his way among the pot holes and ditches, bicycles,and cars .
Families were just recuperating from the hardships of war, and dreaming of ways to better their lives. Money was tight and so my family, like many others, gathered their rags into a pile and waited for the trumpet of the man who paid us for what we would have discarded. In a way it was the beginning of recycling before recycling was a buzz word. A bag would be filled with clothes that were too worn to be mended, to old to be passed on, and yet would provide an income stream, as paltry as it might be.The pennies add up, the family would day.
It was a time of a mend and fix mentality. My grandmother would snip the buttons off the clothes, save the string wrapped around the butcher paper and pastry boxes. Anything that could be reused was and the rag man was playing his part.
I sometimes wondered about that rag man when I was older and reminiscing about the wonders of childhood. Many years later I ran into someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew him. I learned that he had sent his four sons to college.  I guess those pennies did add up on both sides of the coin. He was certainly was proof of that.