Archives for February 2018

Everyone knows by now that retirement and old age are going to be defined differently by the baby boomer generation, and that’s okay. We were different from the start so it makes sense that we’re going to be different when it comes to the end of life experience.

But here’s one curve you may not have seen coming. Cemeteries are running out of plots and the ones they do have are costing an arm and a leg…along with a head and a torso. Land shortages for urban cemeteries are the norm now and they refer to it as a “space crunch.” Finding 50 acres of land to build a new cemetery when you’re up against the NIMBY effect (not in my back yard) has contributed to the maxed out capacity crisis.

A single burial plot in an urban cemetery can run anywhere from 6 to 8 thousand dollars. That’s a big reason why many more people are opting for cremation. While boomers may find that they can just squeeze in (sorry for that mental picture), millennials are out of luck once again. They will blame boomers for that too, but we’ll be dead so there’s that.

Green or natural burials are growing in popularity as a direct consequence of the space shortage. The body is buried without embalming or a coffin, allowing it to decompose naturally, so the land ends up being a conservation ground. Sounds oddly efficient but it still requires enough space to accommodate millions of boomers. Plus there’s the whole humans as fertilizer aspect to it that can be a downer (the death itself being the ultimate downer).

Do you think many of the 78 million or so boomers have given much thought to this looming crisis? I think not. Sure, many have secured a plot or prescribed cremation in their wills, but I’m betting that the vast majority are not worrying about it. We’re a fairly optimistic bunch not often known for advance planning. So it looks like many boomers are going to be sticker shocked or scrambling to come up with alternate disposal plans for themselves and their loved ones. You might consider a Grateful Dead song at the funeral. And We Bid You Goodnight would work but consider planning now for that end.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

On Monday I made my best effort at pretending to be done with this current version of a cold or flu or whatever it is that for the last week has made me feel like throwing in the towel. “I am better,” I kept telling myself, certainly well enough to shower and dress and sit bravely at the kitchen counter while Eloise made dinner.

There I sit, making believe I’m over it, talking about the weather and whether or not I need to cancel some appointments. “Oh, I’m fine now,” was my position. Then in an instant there came a series of realizations that no, maybe things really aren’t exactly right in my world. It’s as though a piercing bright light comes on, then switches off, then flashes to signal an emergency state as I comprehended in rapid succession that I feel a little woozy and am having a struggle to hold up my head, then wait a minute here, I’m keeling over, and oopsies, dark fear, now it’s clear that I have lost control of the situation, yep, sure enough, here I go, I’m on my way down to the floor.

I remember making an attempt to tuck and roll the way they explained in the AARP Magazine, but by now the room was bucking and spinning in such a way that it was all I could do to lie there spread-eagled and hang on to the tiles.

The last time this happened to me was in Amsterdam where jet lag and too much of too many good things brought me to my knees. I knew I was finished, unable to communicate except to mumble about calling an ambulance. On that occasion all I needed was a sugar cube and a big glass of Coca-Cola to correct the blood sugar levels and revive me.

What was happening on Monday was no doubt the same thing all the other flu cases are reporting this season. Sweat kept coming and then chills and the certain knowledge that I was going to need to crawl to get to the bathroom. Standing was out of the question. If there is an happy ending, it would be that I made it to the toilet without incident. I didn’t sleep much and the next day there was a dull ache all over that now and then focused on a specific body part. Pain in the ass is not just a figure of speech.

Anne Animas lives, writes and hides out in Southern Colorado.

I’ve seen movies that show families eating dinner together, but it wasn’t like that at our house, a Southern California bungalow tucked into a working-class neighborhood out by the tomato cannery.

Mom went to bed as soon as she got home from work. My older sister and I cooked dinner and ate together at the Formica dinette dominating our tiny kitchen. We served a plate to Dad, who ate on a TV tray in the living room.

My father was barely domesticated, but somewhere he learned to make the best tacos on the planet. On taco night, everything was different. Out came a special tablecloth, the soft white cotton stained and torn with a fading vintage pattern of red and blue fruit.

Mom emerged from the bedroom and shopped the list:

1. Corn tortillas
2. Ground beef
3. Cheddar cheese
4. Iceberg lettuce, tomato, onion
5. Hot sauce

While Mom made salad and my sister grated cheese, I spread the shabby cloth as if decorating for a fiesta. I’d brown the meat, adding salt, pepper and generous sprinkles of my secret ingredient, celery salt.

Mom poured 1/8 inch of vegetable oil into a cast iron pan and set the flame to medium. She’d run her hand over the pan until the oil felt hot. Then she’d holler for Dad.

“The grease is ready!”

Dad took a flat tortilla and held it in his palm, adding a spoonful of browned meat onto one half of the tortilla. He would carefully lay the meat side of the tortilla in the oil, allowing the tortilla to soften at the crease so he could fold it on top of itself. After the first side was golden, he’d flip it over and lightly brown the other side.

When the tacos were done, he held them with tongs over the pan to drain the extra oil before laying them side-by-side on a sheet pan lined with paper towels. Cooked properly, the body of the tortilla gets crisp and lacy, while the part near the fold stays moist and supple.

My father taught me to dress them so the cheese melts against the warm meat, then hot sauce, then salad. A shake of salt. Mom declared them, “A la supreme.” We’d all laugh, as we ate tacos together, just like in the movies.

I still make tacos the way Dad did. It’s like time travel. I drop the meat in the pan, and it begins to sizzle. I break it apart with a metal spatula. Flip and chop. And just like that, it’s taco night, and everything is different.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

Years ago I swore I would never be caught going to an early bird dinner. The whole idea of going to eat early to save a buck just nauseated me, as in made me lose my appetite. Now I guess I don’t have to worry, because it would appear that the Early Bird Special is going extinct.

Go to the heart of the retiree republic in South Florida and you’ll see that restaurants are near empty around 4 pm. Early bird specials are for old people. Boomers don’t want to be thought of as “old” so it’s goodbye early bird special.

Back in 2009 it looked like the early bird dinner was making a comeback but it was just a brief flicker of a revival. Restaurants were doing anything to fill seats in non-peak times and the early bird special targeted anyone pinching pennies, not just the grey heads.

Restaurant owners can see that baby boomers are not taking the bait (sorry, the whole worm thing can do that to you), but they have not given up on the concept. New euphemisms have sprung up for it however. Sunset dinner and twilight dinner are now more common terms for dinner at 4-5 pm. The name change has not lured boomers back to the table. Millennials who are scraping by as contract employees without benefits are the more likely customers for bargain meals these days.

The chain restaurants have found another way to get boomers into the seats – namely discounts. There are all sorts of deals for 2-person dining as well as reduced portion specials. Applebee’s gives the 60+ crowd 10-15% off, Carrabba’s gives 10% off to AARP members, so does Chart House, Dairy Queen, Subway and Friendly’s. Dunkin’ Donuts will give AARP members a free donut with the purchase of a large beverage.

The extinction of the early bird special is just one more sign that baby boomer retirement is nothing like mom and dad’s version of the golden years. Boomers don’t want to identify as “retired” so the last thing they want is people gawking at them eating dinner at 4pm. They are out windsurfing or roller-blading and they will eat at a civilized 6:30 pm, thank you very much. Of course, they may still be in bed by 8:30 so at least that sign of being a senior hasn’t changed.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

My mother was an imaginative cook. At least that’s how we framed it in her eulogy.

The thing is, though, she was not a very good cook. Invariably she would not have all the ingredients required for whatever she was attempting to prepare. Since she didn’t drive she could not run out to the store at a moment’s notice to get what she needed. A neighbor might have had what she wanted, but I don’t remember her ever borrowing from a neighbor.

“I didn’t have lemons,” she would say as she set some dish down on the table, “so I used vanilla. I think it will be okay.”

We could never understand her method for choosing the substitute ingredients. Similarity of taste seemed to have nothing to do with it. I had a theory that it was bulk. Whatever would fill up the space in the same way as the missing ingredient was what she used. Or it may have been more random – whatever she laid her eyes on first. She did always replace solids with solids and liquids with liquids, so there was that.

And, no, it was never okay. It was weird. You can’t use vanilla instead of lemon in a sauce for chicken. Or peanut butter where cream cheese is called for. Or sprinkle raisins on green beans because you don’t have slivered almonds.

I wish I could say some of it tasted good. But it rarely did, and on occasion we would all come down with queasy stomachs. Or worse.

When she died, my brothers and sister and I tried to put together an appropriate and loving eulogy to present at the memorial service. Everyone who knew her was aware that she was a little scattered in her housekeeping efforts so we felt we had to address it in some way. We thought the food stories would be fun, but we didn’t want to sound negative. Hence the endearing title of imaginative cook. There were a few snickers from close relatives in the know, but for the most part people just nodded and smiled.

I did learn from her. By the time I had to put on an apron and headed for the kitchen I had learned something important. Something that has served me well for the rest of my life. And this is what I learned: Try to plan ahead a little.

Norma Libman is a journalist and lecturer who has been collecting women’s stories for more than twenty years. You can read the first chapter of her award-winning book, Lonely River Village, at NormaLibman.com.

Here is something I haven’t seen in awhile – sunshine. The sky has been layered in ashy gray light for the whole month of January. Today, though, the sun pours over the snow and turns it white and shiny. Long, inky shadows from the trees criss-cross this canvas like lines of calligraphy. A soft breeze lifts puffs of snow off the roof tops and scatters it across the land. The sun pierces the icicles dangling from the branches and lights them from the inside out. This is the light that flows through my window and across the pages of my notebook.

Many of my friends don’t like snow. They fly down to Florida and gather in trailer-pod parks for the winter. I appreciate how the balmy, perfumed ocean breezes, powdery beaches, and tropical water serve as a tonic for a frozen soul, but its a little too crowded for me. The state is a hodgepodge of strip malls, amusement parks, congealed highways, chain restaurants and hospitals and instant care centers wrapped in a gorgeous coast line. Its a little too flat and congested for me, a crowded and cluttered foreground beneath a vast, empty sky. I prefer the contoured, gently rolling hills covered with evergreens, corn-stubbled fields, fresh water ponds and lakes scrimmed with ice and cattails, and skies filled with purple-bottomed snow clouds. I crave the clean, metallic smell of the air and the silence that blankets the the forest trails I walk on. I love to visit Florida, but if I stay too long, the inland breezes don’t quite cover the smell of gasoline and car exhaust, or the moldy aroma of decay.

Here is my advice for surviving a northern winter: do not go gently into this good season. Do not let it push you back inside. Do not let the silent weight of the arctic cold tether you to the stale breath of the furnace. Instead, go out into the teeth of the season. Let the wind tear your cheeks. Let the cold numb your fingers and burn your toes. Let the icy pellets sting your eyes. Climb the frozen waves along Lake Michigan and spit back at the snow clouds scudding through the sky. Rage, rage at the fury of winter’s might. Stand at the edge of the freezing dark and wring the pleasures from its dying light.

Scott Peterson is from the cold North of Kalamazoo, Michigan