Speaking of easygoing, I hate buying new stuff, but I do appreciate tools that make jobs less of a chore. The weather is starting to get really nice, so I took it upon myself to clean up the patio furniture. I used a brush and garden hose to get some of the dirt off, and then it was all over. You see the difference, clean versus dirty, and what can you do but keep going?

I was worried about my back and wrists, which are both sensitive. I called to Dale, who was conveniently absent for the ritual washing of the patio furniture. I asked about a power washer. Would this clean up without a brush if I had such a tool? He said yes, and I said let’s go.

Off we went to Ace, where we killed it with a credit card and dragged it home. It was pretty easy to set up and worked like a champ. I probably saved my back and my wrists and maybe Dale’s life, because you know, cleaning patio furniture – so not his thing.

Then there’s the lawn. We have a small patch of lawn in the backyard. It used to be thin and scraggly, and we I mowed it with a little push mower. Then late last fall, we had a yard makeover and got new sod. This is the real deal. Thick and hearty.

Here’s the agreement I made. I will mow and blow, but that’s it. Nothing else. Nada. Either we throw money at it, or it’s Dale’s job. Mostly that means we threw money at it and have a service that takes care of the rest. Just another marriage-saver tip from Retirement Confidential.

The new grass had time to grow over the winter, but I hadn’t mowed it yet. When the rain finally stopped, I got out the push mower and almost collapsed. I couldn’t get it through the grass. I did do it, but I had to use my whole body and stop several times to catch my breath. I thought, well, the grass is just thicker because of the rain.

A week later it was a bit easier to mow but still awful. I told Dale I thought we should get a small electric mower. He said nah, it would probably get easier. He reminded me of my father, who used to smoke and drop ashes on the floor, suggesting it was good for the carpet.

I said, OK, will you please try it once and see what you think? And that was when we decided to buy an electric lawn mower. It’s small thing, light as a feather and whips through that grass with ease.

Key word. Ease.

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

I own a collection of clothing with provenance. Like many Baby Boomers, I believe the ‘60s and ‘70s were peak fashion years, and there’s no reason to fix what isn’t broken. I’ve just returned from a visit to my closet, and this is the report.

Category One: New Clothes. We Baby Boomers believe new clothing is politically incorrect. However, one must maintain a small stable of this attire for occasions like the graduations of people who might otherwise find our appearance mortifying. I have a new dress. I feel about it the way one feels about an irritating neighbor who’s always out watering the lawn. You wave, you smile, you quickly part company.

Category Two: “Found” Clothing. This includes a pair of ancient blue jeans, worn to the texture of satin. I saw them wadded up on the folding table at the laundromat as I sat over my Mu Shu Pork at Happy Noodle restaurant next door. Even from a distance I knew they were divine. I monitored them all through dinner, lingering over tea and fortune cookie, praying their owner wouldn’t return. I claimed them when I left.

Category Three: Vintage. These are my nostalgia pieces, notably a 1920s mink jacket from the flea market, perfect except for some bald patches. Its owner said her dog kept attacking it. For some reason, she decided to sell the jacket and keep the dog. Also, a century-old gauze blouse to wear at friends’ birthday parties, so that something in the room will be older than the celebrant.

Category Four: Donations. This includes a red satin blouse, a gift from a sympathetic friend after I was jilted one Valentine’s Day. Also, high-end items handed down from the mistress of a criminal. I never met her, but she wore my size. When her paramour went to prison for embezzlement, she fled back to Italy and gave her clothing to a mutual friend who passed them along to me. They include a white suede blouse, leather stirrup pants, and a flowing gauze skirt and matching vest with crystal buttons. I never wear them. The dry-cleaning costs would bankrupt me, but I take them out on an occasional Sunday morning and worship them.

That’s one of many advantages of being a Baby Boomer. Our clothing is our history. We wear it proudly. Even stolen blue jeans, dog-abused jackets, and fabulous garments with a shady past.

Rose Marsh lives in Cloverdale, CA. Read more at https://www.marshroseauthor.com.

When I walk downtown in our city, I pass the Medical School. I guess we need it to produce a steady supply of doctors, to competently handle our ongoing medical issues. But then when I watch television, I see a concerted effort to medically educate the general public. I’m talking about all the health-related commercials. Just the superb animation alone, used to show the workings of our vascular, neural, skeletal and other systems, is enough to make a layman think he has completed anatomy 101. Computer artists take us on journeys through veins, bowels and electrical pathways in the service of solving or at least alleviating distress and dysfunction with their specific patent medications. These value-added ads are a much more sophisticated version of a carnival huckster offering cure-all nostrums by the bottle. Viewers who grew up on Sesame Street flashes of information, feel at home with the gorgeous visuals, graphs and progression from ‘the heartbreak of psoriasis’ to clear skin in thirty-second info-bursts. Who needs to dissect corpses like Hippocrates (he of the oath) and anatomical artists like DaVinci to grasp the intricacies of body systems? “We saw it on television, doctor: ‘This is the letter C for Cold, Constipation and Cramps.”

And then there are the ads related to mental/emotional conditions. It’s enough to get viewers wondering what’s wrong with them if they aren’t depressed, sleep deprived, suicidal, forgetful or addicted to one substance or another. OTC comfort meds for colds, throbbing sinuses, itchy bottoms and gippy tum… what a relief they are! get addressed with more ads.

An additional bad side effect of medicinal ads is the list of side effects rattled off in a near unintelligible rush in the last three seconds of the commercial. Any hypochondriac worthy of the name will register every single one and whisper, ‘thanks for reminding me.’

To anchor my point, have you noticed that you almost never see a doctor wearing a lab coat, x-ray in hand, endorsing a medicine in a commercial anymore? There’s no need. We are all expected to be our own doctors. We’ve just been shown how our bodies work (or don’t) and what treatment/medications we require. Doctor authorities are currently relegated to guest appearances on evening news shows speaking to breaking developments in pandemics and other health issues too fresh for ad agency animation.

And just in case your aches have momentarily subsided, a good ad can quickly remind you of all the age-related throbs, pains and disabilities you might expect—if you don’t yet have them.

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. In, Pinata Belly, and other tales of later love, Novara reminds of the limits and ultimate hope for online dating sites.