Mom takes it as a personal affront that Raley’s has rearranged their stock. She understands about marketing techniques, that Raley’s needs to stay sleek and modern looking, that they are going to change things around so it’s always new and exciting. She gets all that. But, it is easier to blame Raley’s than face her own inability to adapt, to learn new things, to admit her ‘age-related forgetfulness’ has progressed to dementia.

When she forgot her grandchildren’s’ names it was unnerving but, she never thought about losing the ability to solve a problem. That just sideswiped her. She’d been warned that she’d forget names and dates and what she had for breakfast but, she never imagined shed forget how to do things. It frustrates her no end that she can’t find the oatmeal in a store that has misplaced it.

Now she uses the little family-owned market just down the hill from her retirement village. She complains that she doesn’t like it, that it’s too small, that it doesn’t have the brands she likes, that its always out of Mini Pepsis. And, of course she complains that she can’t find anything. But, she refuses to go back to Raley’s, the store that betrayed her.

In Mom’s quest to adapt to a brain that can only process a few things at a time, she’s narrowed her grocery list to about ten items. And still, when I go to visit, I find the cupboards are bare. She tells me she was planning on shopping ‘tomorrow’. I know she’s waiting for me to visit so she can have moral support while deciding which chicken thighs to buy.

Together, we go down the hill and slowly push the cart through the cramped aisles. It would be so much easier for me just to go and do the shopping. I know those ten items by heart, I could be in and out of that store in fifteen minutes. But, there is more to food than just having it. For most of ninety-two years Mom has been the one shopping and cooking and providing the nourishment that goes on the family table.

It’s painfully slow but, for the umpteenth time, I let her discover the raisin bread is on the far aisle and the Splenda is in the middle. As I take deep breaths and calm my impatience, I notice a place in my heart that is growing softer and fuller. I am coming to love my mom more and more as we nourish our fractured mother-daughter relationship through the simple act of leaning on a red-wired cart and discussing the nutritional value of Campbell’s Chunky Chicken vs Progresso’s Clam Chowder.

Lauri Rose is a 66 year writer living in Northern California. You would think, with a background in palliative care, she would have been prepared for her parents’ dementia. She wasn’t, Just like everyone else, she fuddled along and she did the best she could.

I love the title and the concept. Boomer offspring are going and maybe have already started to navigate the avalanche of stuff that baby boomers have amassed over the years.

Do you try to separate the good stuff from the mediocre or just get a removal company to haul it all way (sound of hands clapping…well, that’s that)? If the boomers are dead and gone, the process is unsentimental (dictionary sez it’s a word). But what if we’re alive and kicking and it’s time to downsize with the help of your offspring.

Keep in mind that baby boomers were raised by parents that went through hard times (the depression, duh!) and years of uncertainty. That translates into behaviors that included saving every rubber band, balls of twine, newspapers, and much, much more. On top of having “save everything” parents, most boomers have lived in the same house for twenty years or more. Things come in the door but rarely go back out.

Organization professionals advise boomers and their children to start in the most unsentimental places. Think under the sink, in the linen closet, and down in the basement. There will be less emotional attachment there than with the china cupboard or the photo albums. And don’t even think about the bags full of photo slides that you can’t sort because no one has slide projectors anymore. [Moment of truth: After stalling for years, I finally tossed all my slides from vacations and family events. It was impossible to cull them down to those worth saving, and what would I do with them in any case.]

If you have children or do not, you would be doing everyone a big favor if you started the winnowing process on your own. Make friends with everyone down at the Goodwill store as you make your weekly deposits of furniture, clothing, appliances, books, records, tapes, CDs, and so much more. After you unload everything you can treat yourself to a used flannel shirt or silk blouse. That seems fair, doesn’t it?

Your children/executor will thank you many times over if you make their job easier. I can honestly say I have had very little donator’s remorse whilst thinning out the avalanche. Can’t remember even one time that I thought I should not have tossed/donated something. But we are having fun rummaging through what everyone else has given. The trick is not to come home with it.

Jay Harrison is a writer and creative consultant for DesignConcept. You can also visit his author page here. 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.

“How can you watch all that smash and bash stuff, grampa,” my fifteen-year old granddaughter crabbed.

Hey, it was the Detroit Lions, half way through the season, finally making a comeback in the standing and very much worth following. “Because I’m a caveman,” I replied.

“Huh?”

“Yeah, you’ve seen those wall paintings in caves where some guys charge the prey and other guys come in from both sides. It’s basic strategy. Get your team on the same page working together to bring down the beast…aww, c’mon,” I moaned glaring at the TV, “that wasn’t a foul.”

“See,” Joanna allowed, “you seem like such a cool guy every time I see you. But on football Sunday you get all happy or sad depending on who wins. What’s that about?”

There was a commercial break so I decided to explain. “We all got caveman inside us. We don’t go around bashing other people…

Ha!

…most of the time. But basically, we all want to stay alive. To protect our homes and families. It’s a basic instinct.”

“So, all these guys, wearing weird colored uniforms and special armor, bash and thrash one another and that makes us feel good?

“If we win…otherwise it reminds us to stay alert and keep fighting because life is a fragile thing.”

“Really? If they’re about staying alive and gaining yards and scoring big, why do they have to look like its Halloween with all that colorful armor?”

“So you can tell one team from another. Who you are against. Who you have to beat.”

“Sounds like the evening political news.”

“Well at least this only lasts one hour and sixteen games over a short season and based on where you live, usually.”

“Hey, it sounds more like war.”

“I suppose. But it is a little more civilized than that.

“How so?”

The game was back on. “More Later. In the meantime, think about the Middle ages and Crusades and knights in shining armor and castles and jousting matches. There’s only a short window when guys are at their peak and competitive and able to protect the rest of us us who can only cheer them on. That’s where fans come in. We support our local team. We wear their colors in hats and jackets. It’s a throwback process, a survival instinct—supporting local talent in the ongoing battles of ‘them versus us.’

Speaking of survival, when’s lunch?

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/

Oddly, when the young woman’s head
accidentally falls on my shoulder,
as she loses consciousness
in the seat beside mine,

I remember the kid in college in the sauna,
boasting about having sex with the stewardess.
(They were still called that then,
“flight attendant” not yet a job description).

It was back when they still served hot meals,
even on domestic flights.

The boy, a muscular football player,
bragged how the girl in the airline uniform
brushed his leg when she put the TV dinner
onto his fold-out tray,
rolled her eyes to the cabin in back.

“We did it standing up,” he chortled,
“banging against the wall,
her pantyhose dangling from her ankle.”

The rest of us on the sauna bench
either grunted in acknowledgment
or just nodded off in the dry heat.
Maybe he hadn’t even spoken.

I wondered if he were making it all up.

Just then the woman wakes up,
apologizes for slumping on my shoulder.

“You remind me of my grandfather,” she blushes,
a woman about half my age.

I don’t tell her what she reminded me of.

Charles Rammelkamp