AARP Magazine had an article recently about what millennials want from their boomer parents. As you would expect, it doesn’t exactly match up. Boomers want to unload a bunch of stuff that their offspring does not want (picture furniture, silver, knickknacks, books, etc.).

But all is not lost. The millennials do want some stuff after all. So here goes. Listen up.

They want photos. Not all of them, mind you, just the family pix that interest them. Okay, that wasn’t so bad was it?

They want knickknacks, but once again, not all of them. They only want some small mementos, a serving dish perhaps, not the entire set of dishes.

Then there’s toys. A cherished stuffed animal or favorite game are things they can pass on to their own children, so there’s a few keepers.

When it comes to actual assets, millennials are not expecting a large inheritance. But if you want to give them one of your cars, or better yet, how about a house, they are all in on that deal.

Grandma’s collection of recipes is something they might cherish. Likewise, with vinyl coming back into vogue, millennials would not refuse your record collection. Face it, there’s some seminal music in there!

Tools are on the list of desirables as well. Hand tools and power tools (if they are in good condition) make the list because it’s quite a savings to have them handed down rather than purchased new.

Jewelry that has special meaning is also on the millennial shopping list. Not the costume stuff, but signature pieces such as one of grandma’s rings or a pendant.

Artwork they made as children is on the list along with items they can repurpose. Using an antique chest as a coffee table or some other purpose appeals to them.

Bottom line: If it’s something that feels like it will weigh them down (the big ugly recliner or a 112-piece set of silver service), you can bet they don’t want it.

Best idea: Ask them now what they would want so you can set it aside and they know it’s there waiting for them. Better yet, if you’re not using it, give it to them now.

What happens to everything else? Do everyone a favor and stipulate that it be donated to people who need and will be grateful for your generosity.

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.

1
It’s as if countless barbed arrows have pierced my back. Every step I take just pushes the arrows in that much deeper. In the kind of rising panic one usually only experiences in dreams, I phone my health care provider. A recorded message says my call was important to them. Ha! Fifteen minutes later, I’m still waiting for an actual person to pick up. Playing over the phone the whole time has been an excerpt from Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons,” music I wearily recognize as Winter.

2
I was reclining on an exam table fully clothed. A nurse, her attention focused on the tablet computer in her hands, asked, “On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being the lowest, how severe is your pain?” “Ten,” I said, and she tapped the screen. “On a scale of 1-10,” she robotically repeated, “with 1 being the lowest, how severe is your pain right now?” I could feel the small bones in my hands and feet wriggling like worms under my skin but was too intimidated to mention it. The nurse looked up from the tablet. Her eyes were the color of dirty slush. When she left the room, she banged the door shut behind her.

3
The voice in my head that used to calmly offer advice has grown shriller and shriller until finally it’s become indistinguishable from the general noise. Today I actually found myself envying the pharmaceutically blessed seniors leading a rich, active life in a drug ad on TV. My own constituent molecules have weak bonds and wobbly orbits and, under even the best conditions, rattle. About the most active thing I dare do these days is lean way out over the railing to see if the Alp at the end of the street is still there.

Howie Good is the author most recently of the poetry collections Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and Famous Long Ago (Laughing Ronin Press).

 

The college town where my husband and I lived was never dark at night. People were always coming and going. When we moved north to New Hampshire, there were adjustments to make. The supermarket was half an hour away. The town had three streetlights, and went quiet after dark.

In time, we found our own fun. The neighborhood families played kick the can until it was too dark to see, and in the winter card games next to the wood cook stove in someone’s kitchen passed snowy nights.

We eventually bought a house where a young forest was all we saw from windows on any side. If a car passed by after nine at night, we sat up and looked at each other. This was what we wanted. But a guest from the college town questioned our choice. Standing at the top of our driveway, she looked around asking, “But, what is it near?”

That was decades ago. When the pandemic shut down life’s usual activities, many people discovered what we already knew. Our home is near a richness of life in its many forms, and we have only to look outside, or walk the trails near the house to appreciate it. In the gardens outside our house, butterflies and hummingbirds enjoy our flowers as much as we do. Flying traffic makes the bird feeder a busy avian airport, and we mark the seasons by the species that flutter in and out. Then there are the chipmunks, who scurry away with dropped seeds and chatter at our cat.

Down the road, geese land in a marsh where they can feed and rest on their migratory journey. They arrive as the dense canopy of oak, birch, poplar and maple leaves turns color and floats earthward. Then the snows arrive. The teeming life so nearby has gone dormant or disappeared underground. Before the snow is deep enough for snowshoes, it reveals the tracks of visitors who don’t want to be seen. Raccoon, fox and deer live not far away. We even hear an occasional owl.

As years accumulate, I know we are closer to the time when the luxury of immersion in a wild environment will no longer be safe or convenient. We can only hope our final home will be near at least a fraction of such a rich, engaging habitat.

Chris Hague’s poems and stories have been published in various literary magazines. She has written an arts column for the Weare Free Press and other weekly newspapers.