Archives for March 2021

Or should that be misinformation? I never had any expectation that baby boomers were a monolithic demographic when it came to their political and social opinions, but sometimes it felt that way when the war was raging in Viet Nam and Selective Service (remember that?) was breathing down the necks of young boomers. We are all in this together, right? Well, maybe not.

Fast forward 52 years, and it’s become even more clear that if there ever was any uniformity to our outlook as children of the 60s, it’s gone now. The truth has gotten fuzzier and facts can be challenged by alternative facts, the latter phrase itself a puzzling and disturbing development.

All this time, even though we watched the same TV shows, listened to the same hit songs, and fixated on the popular movies of our era, it appears that are brains were interpreting these cultural touchstones in very divergent ways. Truthiness became a thing and thus it became okay, if not acceptable, to decode shared experiences as opposing ends of the political spectrum.

The alphabet soup of generations (Gen X, Gen Y/Millennials and Gen Z) have been for the most part shaped by a whole different set of cultural and political influences. Their outlook has been influenced by recessions, rapid technology innovation and rampant social media. Now they are tasked not only with translating the latest operating system updates for our computers, but also helping us separate truth from fiction. With baby boomers grandparents caught between Q Anon and the Onion, what’s a Gen X, Y or Z’er to do? They expected, even welcomed the chance to help boomer parents with technology, but how could they have predicted they would be required as well to debunk fake news. One generation believes if they see it in print it must be true and the other generation finds almost everything that makes its way to the internet to be suspect.

Since we can’t agree on which facts are really facts (i.e. truth), we can only hope that X, Y and Z will save us by confirming the real ABC’s.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

 

 

In my third week at The Company I got a trash can for my office. This is no small accomplishment. The workplace adheres to the open-office philosophy, which apparently also stipulates that people do not generate trash at their desks. Unfortunately, the open-office gurus neglected to invent the peel-less banana.

Late at night on Friday, I was finishing up. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse (this is Industry, after all.) I figured that I should empty my trash can lest everyone see (and smell) my banana peels on Monday morning. (Open offices have glass walls and doors that are left… open.) But where to dump the peels and other (unsanctioned but) accumulated trash? Gazing out in all directions through the glass walls of my open office, I could identify no trash receptacles anywhere. I loaded my work bag with provisions, making sure to pack a change of clothing and a bottle of water for the long trip, set my out-of-office message to “In search of trash bin – may have limited access to email”, and headed out into the unknown to dispose of my rapidly-ripening collection.

As I wandered the vast dark expanse of pristine desks and trash-free meeting-spaces with my overflowing trash can under my arm, I came across a young diligent worker hunched over her desk. The only light in the room coming from her computer screen. Next to her sat her office-mate (age 5?) happily eating a Pop Tart sandwich (five fingers pressed between two Pop Tarts). “Who are you?” cut in the protective mother.

“I’m Evan”, I answered, offering my hand.

“Do you work at The Company?” asked the mom, suspiciously, eying my luggage.

“Yes, I do”, I answered dutifully.

“What do you do?” asked the inquisitor.

“I’m a Vice President”, I beamed.

My inquisitor studied me. She studied my trash can. She considered its slightly aromatic yellow and black contents.

“I don’t believe you”, she retorted.

The little girl, feet dangling from her chair, was noncommittal.

She offered me a bite of her Pop Tart.

It was cherry.

Evan Morris is a professor of radiology and biomedical imaging at Yale. Last year he was a vice president at a biotech company.

 

 

Whadda you mean I’m not 58? I feel like I’m 58.

Yeah, about that. You’re just another baby boomer who thinks that they will live forever. But have you noticed that you are forgetting things more often? That thing where you go into another room but can’t remember why –– is that happening more often? Do you need the TV volume up higher than –– ahem –– some other people in the room? Is figuring out how to do stuff on your computer getting more and more difficult (i.e. requiring the services of random teenagers in order to figure out how to back up your old iTunes –– I know, Apple killed it and they call it Music now. How creative.). Do your knees feel sore after a long walk or a hike? Do I need to continue listing these things or are you getting the message?

You –– we –– are in denial. And the older we get, the more denial we exhibit. I’m not particularly worried about it. It’s normal as we age. I’m more worried about where it stops. This is why children take away the parent’s car keys. I don’t have any children. Does that mean people I don’t even know are going to tell me I should not be driving anymore? I know this day is far off (or is that just more denial?), but it’s never too early to start worrying about it.

Baby boomers just don’t think of themselves as “older adults.” And honestly, why should they? The definition of older adult has been “updefined.” The President is 78. The Speaker of the House is 79. Bernie Sanders is 79 and he’s a famous meme for crying out loud!

Of course, we are not the first generation of oldsters to face this problem. The difference is that we are baby boomers, and I don’t have to tell you, boomers have this group-think tendency to believe we are different than past generations. Not necessarily better, but different. Our culture has contributed to this effect as well. We are living longer and healthier lives. There are more medical and psychological means of deferring events that used to define old age.

So. What to do? Keeping paddling in the Nile? That’s where you will find me. Until or unless someone takes away my paddle.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle. You can also visit his author page here.

Like other widely obscure writers, I leave scraps–morsels of scribbled thought—everywhere. Most of these droppings end up as trash, or they were garbage to begin with. This habit is never a total waste. Some bits can lead home to a better idea later and might find their way into a song or poem or story. I try to find a purpose for what oozes from my pen. There was a time when my only rationale was “to communicate.”

When I was younger, I would write short poems or notes and leave them hidden somewhere whenever I left a dorm or some rented apartment. This notion—a message to anyone or no one—may have emerged from a romantic view that the world of strangers needed my input. Or maybe it was just some naive belief that I had something to say that was so important that feedback was not necessary.

This practice might have come from an old Ernest Hemingway anecdote I once read about. As a wartime journalist, Hemingway and his mates had come across an enemy shack. Food, supplies, and bottles of wine were left in the hideout, an obvious sign that the enemy was nearby and could be back soon. Not wanting to wait around to engage them, Hemingway uncorked a few wine bottles and happily quenched his thirst. He then urinated into the bottles, topping them up before re-corking them. The bottles of wine would have appeared undisturbed, when they had been disturbed in the worst possible way. The great writer could only imagine the scene of thirsty fascists and their first–and last–swigs. Even when I read the story years ago, the whole episode didn’t sound at all literary, but it seemed very “Hemingway.”

We’re seldom in the room when somebody uncorks our writing. Sometimes we don’t care about such matters when we should. As for my own bits and pieces, I remember where most of my anonymous musings were lodged. I sometimes picture strangers as they unearth these fragments. In my writer’s mind, such scraps emit a glow like some comic book treasure. But there are other pieces I don’t think about–like a poem I wrote on 9-11. Promptly thrown into the sea, I can’t recall even one word of it.

Sometimes we write just because.

Michael Riordan, a retired university professor, has published poetry, short stories and feature articles. He won first prize for nonfiction in spring 2020 ‘ageless authors’ writing contest. his piece, “when our hearts become the sky” can be found at Pleaseseeme.com.

In my About Me profile, I wrote:

I like to play golf, walk, swim, cook, read, write, watch TV, listen to music, make art and grow cannabis.

And you know, that pretty much sums it up. I never imagined I’d arrive at this place, but I might be devoid of ambition. Although I was fairly successful in my career, success comes with baggage I no longer wish to carry. That could all change, but during this phase of my retirement, it’s rather pleasant to dabble in what amuses me and be free of expectations and judgment.

While I may be voted the girl least likely to do anything memorable, I’m enjoying simple pleasures that escaped me as I scrambled up the ladder at work. For example, I’ve been playing golf for about 25 years, and I’ve never enjoyed it more than I do now.

For years, I felt every swing was being judged. Every mistake was a failure of catastrophic proportions. Now I just play to play, and I am a much better golfer without all that self-induced pressure. Playing partners frequently ask me if I compete in amateur events, and my response is no, I’m not wired for it.

I’ve also learned to accept imperfection through my woodburning activities. At first, I wanted to hoard my art because that was easier than waiting for someone to say, “I like it.” I started giving it away, and it has been quite liberating. In some cases, I will never know if someone liked it. I only know what was in my heart when I created it and shared it. Somehow, that’s enough.

As for my other hobbies, some are going quite well and others leave something to be desired. Between the virus and Trump’s antics, it’s hard for me to sit still long enough to read. I have a book I’ve renewed two times, and I’m committed to reading it before the next expiration date.

We celebrated 42 years of marriage on the winter solstice. I made tacos.

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