Archives for April 2022

Mom knew Dad loved bacon. It was why she hated it. To hate something your husband loved, that was her way to apply thumb screws.

I wondered: Why bacon? I would understand hating the smell of shit. But bacon? Is there anything better? Garlic, maybe, but bacon is tops.

As she aged, Mom began to focus on hate. “Can you believe that guy?” she said one day, after their neighbor poked his head over the fence and said “Hi.”

Mom died a few years back. Every time I make bacon, I think of how she hated it and Dad loved it. He always ordered it, with breakfast at Denny’s (“Always consistent”). He loved the smell. The crunch. The way it would bathe like a robin in a birdbath full of runny yolk. The way the bacon and yolk would sit like chatty friends on the lip of his toast (“Dry”) as it rose toward his mouth.

It was a small thing that made life worth living.

It was a small thing that drove Mom nuts.

Anyone who didn’t order pancakes, like her, was suspect. She and Dad were together forever, but something ate at the heart of them. Dad never cooked. Late in their lives, when they spent their days dying, I would go over early before she awoke, and make Dad bacon and eggs.

So as not to wake her, I would gently remove the pan from the cupboard, set it softly on the burner, turn on the flame. I needed the fan, to evict the smell, but it was noisy. I just hoped it didn’t wake Mom.
I peeled the bacon from its package and set three strips in the pan. And waited. Waited for the sizzle, the fat bubbles, the aroma, for it to be done, I hoped, before Mom would appear.

“What’re you doin’?” she growled one time, suddenly in the doorway to the hall, from the depths of her housecoat and slept-in hair. “Why’re you using that pan?”

Dad just stood there, waiting for me to finish. I would greet my mother, break eggs into the pan, and wait in silence before sliding the Evil Bacon and eggs onto Dad’s plate. He always smiled as he thanked me and took it to the table. It was all I could do.

Stuart Watson lives in Hood River, OR

As I’ve muddled my way through retirement, I’ve pretty much let go of the idea that I need to accomplish anything. Just hanging out, enjoying simple pleasures. Trying not to worry but worrying anyway about Riley, our cat, and why he likes Dale better. It can’t just be about the food.

However, sometimes I get this idea – I can’t quite reach it – but it feels like something might be pulling me in a new direction. As per usual, I have few clues as to what that might be.

My prediction is that I’ll discover something special to write about, I’ll do some sort of long-distance walk or I’ll find a new focus for my cooking obsession. As I reflect on these speculations, it occurs to me all are a search for a singular passion, which I don’t appear to have. Always the dabbler, we’ll just have to wait and see what comes of my magical thinking.

I’m trying not to stress out about anything. Maybe retirement doesn’t need to be orchestrated. Just live it and do your best to stay healthy and happy. Or maybe it’s a cycle, and you just have to ride out each phase until the next one appears. I don’t know, but I’m open to endless possibilities.

I do these deep breathing exercises in bed before I even get up. It’s almost a form of meditation, and I think that’s when all will be revealed. Until then, I continue to putz around, taking care of things that perhaps don’t matter in the big picture but seem to provide a sense of steady comfort.

This might be the vaccine microchip talking, but I’ve actually had an urge to go shopping. Like not online and for real. It’s hard to imagine I could need anything beyond what’s delivered to my doorstep, but going to the mall seems like such a quaint thing to do.

Although we didn’t have much money, my mother loved clothes and was always good for a trip to The Broadway. It’s gone now. I vividly remember waiting outside with great anticipation for the doors to open before a big sale and was always enthralled with the lingerie section upstairs, where there was a big glass case of fancy peignoir sets. Oh my!

The peignoirs were gone, too, by the time I got old enough to wear them. I do like fancy undies and may splurge if I should make it to said mall. Although I remember the owner of a lingerie store telling me, “If you wait until you can afford it, you’ll look like hell in it.”

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

You’ve heard the expression, ‘shot himself in the foot.’ I wonder where it comes from. Maybe it goes back to WWI trench warfare where a self-inflicted wound meant a ticket home paid for with a permanent limp. Now, it more broadly refers to a tactless act or remark in a social context. Anyhow, when I saw my mechanic friend, Todd, outside a drug store wearing a walking boot, I tried to joke about it. But I actually shot myself in the foot by asking if he had shot himself in the foot.

Todd smirked and shrugged. Oh shoot, I thought. Now I stepped in it. There goes my preferred customer service and best-buddy discounts. He can’t really have shot himself in the foot, can he? Trying to back-pedal, I asked if he had been in a car accident. He shook his head. Next, noticing the shiny metal ‘safety plate’ peeking out of the torn leather of his left boot, I tried to blame something heavy like a transmission landing on his foot. Never a man of extra words, he shook his head again. Damn. Could he have actually shot himself in the foot?

“On accident,” he finally offered, “with a 9mm hollow point.”

What do you say to that? I surely did not want a blow-by-blow account of what was probably embarrassing for him and kind of nauseating to contemplate in detail. And besides, I had to get home with my wife’s pain medication. Todd seemed in no rush and when he shifted his weight to his good leg and blinked a few times and blinked, I realized he actually welcomed his chance to tell a story and wallow in some omigod reactions. This was probably the most excitement he had encountered in twenty years of tune ups, oil changes and greasy skinned knuckles. Here he stood like an unknown comedian enjoying his first break on a late-night show. He finally had a story to tell after having to endure my yarns and jokes every time I entered his shop.

It was my turn to play audience to medical chart notes, surgery progressions, recovery predictions and the long-term effects of losing feeling in two toes. I ‘uh-huhed’ and shook my head with compassion while foregoing the pressing question…what were you doing with the gun in the first place?

Sometimes, I guess, you just have to let a guy have his moment in the sun. He paid a lot for his patter even if he had to provide it himself.

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/