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Archives for January 2025

The End

January 26, 2025 By admin

dodo birdJust came across the umpteenth post about things that baby boomers grew up with that are now or soon going the way of the dodo bird. Things such as photo albums, faxes, voicemails, checks, cash, manual transmissions, fax machines, landlines, newspapers, and many more.

What’s the fascination with this? Is it misplaced nostalgia? Are any of us really going to miss couches wrapped in plastic or the yellow pages? The good China has been disappearing for a long time now and not many of us shed any tears over that.

Handwritten letters made the list and honestly it is astonishing that anyone would still take the time to handwrite just about anything other than a grocery list (and you can do that in Notes!). Shocker – only 24 states require cursive writing instruction. That means we are probably no more than a decade away from school kids thinking that cursive writing is a foreign language.

Ever wonder why when you fill out medical forms there’s a space for home phone and a space for mobile? Who has a landline still? Boomers, of course, and we’re the ones filling out quite a few medical forms these days.

When my mother reached 100 years of age, she wanted me to help her make a list of the events and technology she witnessed in her lifetime. No luddite her, she mastered email at age 94. Computers, cell phones, rockets that orbit the earth, self-driving cars – she had seen it all. But she started out her childhood with a hand-cranked Victrola (and late in life admitted she put the cat on it once…maybe twice).

I only mention her amazement at what she witnessed in her lifetime because baby boomers can and should be equally astonished at what’s transformed our world in our lifetimes. Now we stand at the cusp of the artificial intelligence technology that will transform medicine, science, capitalism and climate. Honestly, many of us are more fearful than optimistic of what AI can do, but it’s here and it’s out of the box.

Nothing left for us to do but make lists of things we grew up with that are biting the dust. You go first. By the way, the illustration of the dodo bird was created with….AI.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is also available on Amazon. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.

Filed Under: ESSAY

Bold Finger

January 26, 2025 By admin

rude finger gestureBilly hunkered for stray marbles on the hard-packed, wild blackberry-vined vacant lot beside his house. He scoured the ground intently, hoping to duplicate a find from the week before – a ruby-red, creamy-swirled Aggie. At six, Billy was too young to shoot marbles with the older kids, who sometimes left one hiding beneath the blackberry leaves.

Two teenage boys, whom he’d never seen, strolled by and stopped. Billy looked up, noticing one was chubby with a crewcut, like Curly of the Three Stooges. The other looked like Shemp, with longish, greasy dark hair.

No Stranger Danger PSA in 1962, but Billy stood up, casting a wary look toward home, where his parents were going about their Saturday morning routines. The Stooges seemed friendly, and Curly said: “Whatcha doin’”?

Billy said he was hunting marbles in the brambles.

“Find any?” said Shemp. Billy said no and turned for home when Curly said: “You want to earn some money?”

Shemp held a Mercury dime that glittered in the sunlight, holding Billy captive. Curly said: “Make a fist with your hand and point your fingers back.”

Billy tried, and Shemp took his hand, turning it around. “Now put this finger straight up,” said Curly, meaning the middle one. Billy popped up the finger, and the pair laughed uproariously. When they finally giggled themselves out, Shemp handed Billy the coin. Curly said: “Go home and do that to your mom and dad, and I guarantee they’ll laugh and give you a dime.” Billy said he would and turned for home – leaving the two in another fit of laughter.

When Billy arrived, his parents were in the kitchen having coffee. He showed them the finger, per Curly and Shemp’s instruction.

“Where did you learn to do that?!!” his father shouted. Dumbstruck by her son’s gesture, Billy’s mother found her voice and said with conviction: “I’ll bet it was that awful Grimshaw boy from down the block.”

Surprised at their reactions, Billy said: “No, two big boys showed me and said you’d laugh and give me a dime if I did it for you.”

“I’ll give them something to laugh about,” said his father, hurrying outside.

Curly and Shemp were long gone.

Billy, confused and with a shiny Mercury dime in his pocket, decided to wait and try the finger on his Nana, who was very jolly and always carried a coin purse full of jingling silver.

William P Adams lives in the Pacific Northwest, writing short fiction inspired by his childhood in the 1960s. His stories have appeared in Macrame Lit and Rockvale Review.

Filed Under: FICTION

The Room

January 26, 2025 By admin

woman wearing leggings and legs crossedMany times, I sit in a room and wonder how life manages to hold itself together with its simmering stew of people. The first thing you probably want to know is whether this affected my mind.

It was the 1980’s life created feelings both powerful and intimate with scents of female sweetness. Enough of those sad songs I now look at clouds through colored glass. What will happen one day people will write about in self-help books.

That girlish voice, wearing black leggings and a tank top, a wandering eye I was looking, my curiosity catchy, I loved edgy cool girls. Could this be something real.

A connection to the universe. I was available for a conversation the ensemble we meet. Something didn’t necessarily mean I am interested in the path that runs straight and true.

Freckled face, clutching at her book. Shari those long fingers the greatest smile I have ever known. There was a fraternity party that weekend would she be interested?

She introduced me to my childish apparitions. A personality of vulnerability is what made me. The many reasons to size up my mental acuity called forth by her voice. Scatterings of colored pillows, playful attitude not a small love did I hear.

There was a magic formula a bunch of college girls many in miniskirts in an enclosed space without parents and they become real. An instance of intense emotions, kindhearted examination of aspiration understand that is what makes us

In my dreams I cried out to her; to explore ideas around value and identity, she refused my proposal of an all-night just the two of us date. The portrait of her in my daydream looks back with such a smile over her face.

She remembered to sometimes look over to the 3 rows of chairs and smile as if the world stopped and we were the only ones alive. The depth dimensions of my pretend affair created visions worthy of exploration. My thought process forced to feel broken negligence without redress.

Shari was distinct edgy, provocative yet playful in an innocent kind of way. She gazed at me earnestly several minutes pass she returned to the room before leaving the room again and not returning. She dropped that ethics class and I never saw her again. It all started in that room and ended in that same room.

Brian Sluga

 

Filed Under: ESSAY

It’s All About the ‘Tude

January 12, 2025 By admin

Acute neck painGot a bad attitude about aging? The aches and pains wearing you down?  Afraid you won’t make it past 80? Is that what’s bugging you bubby?

A recent article in the NY Times extols a change of mindset. When you read that you may be thinking, “well if I could change my mindset that easily, I wouldn’t be depressed about aging.”

Sure, the experts say, having a positive mindset is conducive to aging well. The article cited a study that showed that those with a positive attitude about getting older lived seven and half years longer than those with a bad (read that as negative) attitude. Crikey. If it’s that easy to pick up seven years, why isn’t everyone doing it?

Ahh – that’s the crux of the problem right there. It’s not that easy to have a positive attitude when your hip hurts, your knee creaks, your hearing is fading, and your blood pressure is rising.

Platitudes don’t work, that’s for sure. When someone who has not seen you in 10 years tells you that you haven’t aged a bit, feel free to kick them in the shins and see if they think you still have a great attitude.

What does work? You need to actively promote positive aging beliefs according to experts. Start analyzing your own beliefs about aging. Do you moan about the bad knee, the hair loss, or the tennis game that’s not what it used to be? Find some role models of positive aging. You know they are out there. There’s the 90 year-old diver, a rare case for sure, but there’s also the 80 year-old who is still going to yoga classes. You can’t force positivity or paper over the genuine health issues, but experts believe that positive images of aging can improve your attitude and your physical function.

One example that hit home is the man whose left hip was aching much of the time, which in turn made him cranky about aging. When it was pointed out that his right hip was as old as the left and it was pain-free, it made him think that maybe his physical condition wasn’t so bad after all.

That’s a segue to the last advice for aging boomers. Try to remind yourself that with age comes the acquisition of useful information and wisdom.

That never gets old.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. His newest mystery novel, Rio Puerco Demise is available on Amazon. His first mystery novel, Head Above Water, is also available on Amazon. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.

Filed Under: ESSAY

Miracle

January 12, 2025 By admin

Chevy Chase streetLast summer I discovered that death plus time can bring about a certain miracle: it restores to us the way they were.

When my older sister turned 70, she asked that all five siblings get together. It had been four years since our mother died, and 13 since the death of my father. After batting around options of where to meet up, we came to a quick consensus—to go “home” to Chevy Chase, Maryland, a suburb of Washington D.C.

My brother drove us from one landmark to another—starting with the house where we grew up, to the drug store where I had my first job, to the park where I learned to play tennis, to our elementary and high schools, and, finally, dinner at the restaurant located a mile from our childhood home.

The residential neighborhoods looked remarkably similar, just spiffed up. The cars outside were fancier, the homes freshly manicured, painted, and renovated.

But those streets were eerily quiet. I remember them as teeming with children moving in and out of each other’s homes, playing kickball in the middle of those wide roads, dogs roaming freely, pooping wherever.

The emptiness practically begged to be populated with ghosts from my past. Then and now quickly blurred as I spotted my mother, wearing bobby socks and loafers, walking down the street carrying groceries. This was a very different iteration of the powerhouse legal figure she later became; rather I observed this slightly distracted, multi-tasking 30-something trained lawyer who practiced a form of “benign neglect” childrearing as she crafted legal briefs on a manual typewriter on the dining room table.

And then I caught glimpses of my dad–the gentle, affectionate, adventurous father who took us on barefoot walks in puddles after rainstorms, mixed iced tea with lemonade before Arnold Palmer, and occasionally let us ride on the roof of his car down the street. He loved to take us to department stores so we could ooh and ahh at the color television sets, still beyond our reach.

These were the “before” versions of my parents: before assassinations, wars and corruption knocked the political idealism out of them, before five teens and two demanding careers in one household threatened to collapse under its own weight at times.

Rather, I saw a young, idealistic Jewish/Catholic legal couple who moved to DC in the early 1950’s intent on using the law for noble purposes, produced five children in rapid fire succession, and then tried valiantly to combine political activism with legal careers and loving, if slightly chaotic, parenting.

They were engaging, lively company and it felt good to welcome them home after such a long absence.

Johanna Wald is a freelance writer, living in Massachusetts, who has been published in literary magazines and publications including slate.com, salon.com, the Huffington Post, and the Marshall Project.

Filed Under: ESSAY

Waiting

January 12, 2025 By admin

Waiting room and clockSitting in the waiting room at the auto dealership recently: some folks studied cell phones, one man scoped the newspaper, one lady knit, one guy just looked straight ahead. All in a holding pattern: waiting in the waiting room. Can’t go anywhere when your car’s in the shop. We were all immobilized, for the moment. How many other times have I felt stuck on pause—awaiting? Just all of my life. Like for mouth-open dentist prods. Or knee taps in the doctor’s office. Or final grades to graduate…hopefully. It’s all about timing, waiting for the right moment to finally arrive. And if we have been good kids, we’ve learned important life-lessons like, “Children should be seen and not heard”? But now that I’m a grown-up, when do we finally get to be seen, if not heard? I’m not a child, anymore. Do we always need to respect this semi-robotic, ‘shh, be still’ state? Isn’t there a time when we can finally ask, to take the initiative, to move?

Where does life-long, self-controlled, time/place reticence come from? Is it first grade — ‘raise your hand to speak’? Is it waiting for the coach to launch us into the game? Or does it come from teaching, ‘sit…stay!’ to our pets, our kids and even to ourselves. Is it possible that we can get so habituated to pausing our turn, being polite, giving others a chance that deferring becomes the norm? Alright, some situations demand patience, timing and turns—waiting for a bus, for an elevator, for an old lady to finish crossing the street. (She would have to be a lot older than me. BTW) But what about the rest of the time? How much of our lives are like that…waiting to be born, to talk, to walk, to drive a car. Not to mention love, marriage, kids, job. When did we learn to just chill, to tolerate, to accept the process? Seems, a large part of maturing is based on biding time…waiting. Like a prisoner eking out a life sentence or a pregnant woman in a nine-month holding pattern. It’s about patience. Okay, there’s a place for that. But how about toddlers breaking into a dance=just because. Or a football player breaking a move after a touchdown. Or a married couple driving around with banging cans and honking horns. Maybe sometimes, we just gotta do it, let it out

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

Filed Under: ESSAY

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