Archives for April 2021

Apparently, baby boomers have taken over e-commerce shopping. From groceries to clothing, rather than risking in-person hunting and gathering, boomers are going online to get just about everything. Peeps over 65 are the fastest-growing demo for e-commerce shopping.

And e-commerce sellers have taken notice. Retailers are jumping on the trend with 24-hour customer service and helpful videos for first-time e-commerce shoppers. The over 65 crowd on average spent $1,615 online between January and October of 2020. That’s a 49 percent increase over 2019. And that’s why they are the fastest growing bunch of online spenders.

Not just content to spend big bucks, the boomers plus group is also buying more often. Frequency of purchases climbed 40 percent over that same period in 2020.

Remember how often you read opinion pieces in the news about how the pandemic might change things forever? Online purchasing might be one of those habits that does not go back to the way things used to be. No longer shy about buying online, the 65 and up demo would rather stay out of the grocery and mall, and that could have real lasting impact on the brick and mortar sector. As in fewer stores and malls. Every day it seems you hear about another shopping mall being converted into apartments and condos. Expect that trend to continue as more of us beyond age 65 are content to get everything shipped or delivered.

According to AARP, consumers 50 and older spent $7.6 trillion in 2018. That was 56 percent of ALL spending in the U.S. You know the old saying about the 800 pound gorilla. Early adopters are no longer influencing the greatest change when it comes to how people are shopping.

We can look at this again a year from now, when pandemic fears and behavior modification are hopefully behind us. But it’s a good bet that many of baby boomers will continue to find online shopping less of a hassle than in-store shopping. Except when it comes to buying bananas. You’ve got to see the bananas in person if you want the best.

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.

It’s true that old friends can be gold, especially in our golden years. Many studies demonstrate the value of a social network to our physical and mental health, and it’s true, but a friendship that has endured for 62 years is something else entirely. I met Vicky when I was five and she was six – playing at her house I remember the calendar on the wall – 1959. She was a tall and skinny kid, infinitely kind, and bookish like me. Together we climbed trees, swam in the river, played in the woods, and rode our bikes to get to the library in our small New England town. We were freckled and bare foot each summer, and as we morphed into teens, we stayed close, looking like sisters with our long brown hair, embroidered shirts and hippie skirts. Together we learned about the adulthood that lay ahead of us, sharing knowledge, secrets, and even the first boyfriend each of us had. When her mother died, I was 21, going to journalism school in Oregon. Vicky was home in Rhode Island trying to keep her family together. On the night she died, it was I who dreamed of her, with a glowing light around her and loving smile on her face. Though Vicky wished she had had that dream, my own mother stepped up her role in Vicky’s life, staying in touch and visiting her over the years.

While we didn’t remain literally close, and there were years we forgot to be in touch, the bond remained. When my husband died in 2010, Vicky showed up to see me through. A year later I visited her in Vermont. More recently, during the long year of the pandemic, when we’ve all had time to mull over what matters most in life, Vicky and I started a habit of monthly FaceTime sessions. We are two old childhood friends on the screen laughing about our aging selves, and talking, for hours, about books, about the men we love, our grown children, and our plans to get together when we can once again travel. Gold indeed.

Lee Stevens is a writer and a Weaver living in the mountains of western North Carolina. www.strawintogoldwriting.com

There was an older woman in the grocery store. First impression…a contemporary. But you know how it is sometimes when you’re shopping, how you keep criss-crossing a person as you cruise from aisle to aisle. About the fourth time we passed, I said, “Excuse me. I can’t help noticing that we keep passing each other. Are you stalking me? Or is that just wishful thinking on my part?”

The woman bowed her head a moment, revealing a thinning spot in her died-red frizz of hair. When she raised her eyes, which was all I could make out above her Covid mask, I had a flash of recognition. She looked familiar. Her eyes smiled. I think she knew me despite my mask.

“Don’t I know you?” I asked.

She lowered her mask past her nose and the oxygen tubes in each nostril. “Tom,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” I apologized, “I just don’t remember your name.”

“Cary, from Sault Ste. Marie.”

Then I remembered. We had rented our beat-up old house in 1974 to a group of college girls. Cary was one of them. Back then, my wife and I identified more with them than, say, our parent’s generation. We wanted to give some sweet girls a break. Won’t do that again. After they slipped home, below the Mackinaw Bridge, that summer, we did inventory. A candle had dribbled down the back of a dresser and all over the bedroom wallpaper. There were nail holes all along the ceiling and down the wall where they had nailed up a curtain to accommodate a stow-away tenant in the hallway. And in the backyard, there was a mouse decaying in a fishbowl. Cary was the only one still in town. Left facing the rap, she made an effort to clean up and explain that her roommates thought it was cruel to use a mouse trap and then forgot to feed the mouse…apparently.

So, now there she was standing in front of me. Cary. We hugged. Sometimes you gotta live dangerously despite the plague.

On the way home, I calculated she had to be twenty years younger than me. But, at first, I took her for older…at least my age. Hell, I must be an old fart when a kid, a generation younger than me, looks old. Damn. My mirror’s been lying to me.

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara and his wife live in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/

Bridgeport Connecticut does not have the right side of the tracks—both sides are the wrong ones. South of the tracks is the Connecticut Turnpike, storage areas both outdoors and a cinderblock building with a row of stores which houses the Lucky the Clown shop where we got our orange wigs, spring-loaded books with a pop-up penis’, and next to that is the gefilte fish wholesaler, He’ll sell retail also but, the owner, Flash Horowitz, doesn’t get much local business. He’s got two refrigerated trucks, Flashes Fish, with a water scene and two baited hooks painted on one side and a man in cement shoes with his fedora floating above him on the other.

The north end of the tracks has the Marina Village projects with broken glass filled parking lots and another cinderblock building housing a liquor store, Liquors in a Flash “the city’s largest selection of pints and half pints” and it’s owned by the gefilte fish guy’s father—also called Flash.

There a cigarette store that sells girly mags, makes book, and posts the pink sheets with the Daily Number in the window as soon as they’re delivered—usually around 3 PM after the third race for the day is run. At the end of the building is Dr. Horwitz, the Tooth Doctor—Flash’s brother who’s semi-retired. There are two empty stores that are being held for Flash’s son, Sparky, for when he graduates from the University of Bridgeport’s law school which may be a while depending on how his trial for arson goes. The sign had been made as a bar mitzvah present from Zeyde Flash. It reads, Horowitz, Horowitz, & Horowitz attorney at law. It’s made from red oak and the letters, filigree, and flames are real gold flake.

Rumor has it that Sparky’s going to need a lawyer most of his life rather than be one.

Paul Beckman’s a Connecticut writer whose latest flash collection, Kiss Kiss (Truth Serum Press) was a finalist for the 2019/2020 Indie Book Awards. Some of his stories appeared in Spelk, Connotation Press, Anti-Heroin Chic, Necessary Fiction, Litro, Pank, Playboy, WINK, Jellyfish Review, and The Lost Balloon.

 

My granddaughter is talking to me on FaceTime. I’m so pleased that she calls and is willing to share with me. But sometimes it feels like she is still the one-year old baby handing grandma a soggy corner of her cookie that I can’t refuse and have to pretend to eat. See, she is upset over Covid isolation and the enforced solitary confinement she faces. ‘They,’ ‘somebody,’ ‘the government’ is depriving her of an essential and irreplaceable part of her young life. She’s missing out on graduation, prom, the final track meet and all the processing with her best friends about boys, over burgers.

I try to listen and absorb and acknowledge without offering advice. It’s hard. Because she hasn’t been constrained, yet. And well she shouldn’t be, after all. She’s just a young woman whose body hasn’t been hijacked by pregnancy for a year at a time. Can’t tell her that. She has to go through it herself. Maybe more than once.

And as she moans and whines, I remember the time my girlfriend Inga and I went to visit her Danish grandparents on their farm. We got stuck there in a blizzard. For three days. At first, I was frantic, felt trapped. Then her grandmother lit candles. Got out blankets and warm wool socks and hot cocoa and a big fire in the fireplace and we snuggled in. Her grandmother called all this hygge (hoo-guh). And I got the feeling that the word meant cozy, getting cozy. Like the way it feels so good to hunker down in a warm dry house in a pounding rain storm.

Or maybe like my Italian grandfather did one lazy summer day when he sprawled out on his postage stamp lawn, pants rolled to his knees, socks down to his shoes—his idea of sunbathing. He puffed on his Chesterfield cigarette, eyes closed but not sleeping. When I asked him what he was doing, he replied, ‘dolce far niente.’ It wasn’t until I took Italian in college that I figured out the words but I got the sense of it right then…to sweetly do nothing.

But how can I tell her all that. She would just say, “That’s easy for you to say…you’re old. What have you got to do that’s exciting anyway.” But she won’t because…well, because. And she has her whole life to learn that sometimes less is more.

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara and his wife live in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/