I kept hearing a bang and thump from down in my basement. Had someone left a tennis shoe in the dryer. No, it wasn’t that regular. It was intermittent, at irregular intervals and besides I wasn’t drying any clothes. I eased down the stairs and peeked around the door to the utility room. THUMP. WHACK. A bird was flying through the shrubs into the window over our splash sink. It was a cardinal. A female cardinal. When I walked into the room, it flew away.

Huh. I tried to figure out the cause of that curious behavior. Outside, when I squatted behind the embattlement of yew bushes fronting the house, I could see a reflection of trees and cloud in my larger than typical Michigan basement window. I wondered if the bird thought it could fly on through the landscape mirrored in front of her. Or maybe she was being territorial. Had a nest nearby. Protecting her young from another bird. Or was she the jealous type and didn’t like competition from someone who was as good looking as she was. In any case, I could still hear her whacking her head against the screen as I tried to eat my lunch an hour later.

I debated making a video of the critter to post online. But then I realized it would be redundant. Facebook and Twitter are replete with jokes, cartoons and poster boards of people who bang their heads against the wall, over and over for one cause or another. My bird would be just another obsessive compulsive with blue-sky political delusions or red-head political inclinations—a metaphor for freedom of self-expression, no matter the personal pain.

Or maybe, this bird’s persistence in pursuing her dream is a metaphor for any of us who have an ideal and pursue it despite repeated resistance and the inherent solitude of a personal crusade. As long as it isn’t simply obsessive-compulsive behavior. Or a self-image issue. Or projected hatred. Or…who knows why any of us keeps doing what we do? Habit? Lack of perspective? Single minded determination…stubbornness?

I tried putting a piece of plywood in front of the window. It didn’t completely cover the glass. The bird kept thumping at the sliver of reflection that remained, raising the question, ‘when is the next election?’

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/

In my childhood home, it was hard to be acknowledged as something special. Bringing home test papers marked “100%” or showing off a teacher’s delighted scribble of “A+++” on an English composition elicited, “Well, naturally. You’re my child.” And a quick change of subject.

I yearned for a distinctive talent, one that would truly impress my parents.

Every year Dad and I watched The Miss America contest together. He repeatedly declared, “You were the most beautiful baby anyone had ever seen. Why didn’t we enter you into a beautiful baby contest?” He promised I could be in the Miss America contest when I got older.

In the middle of this fantasy, he appeared flummoxed. “You’ve got to have a talent.”

I couldn’t play an instrument. My teacher was pretty sure I was tone deaf.

My father could draw clever cartoons and comics but my idea of art was a square house with four windows, a chimney belching smoke, a sun in the sky, a flower growing near the path to the house. Essentially, a vision unchanged since first grade. So, not Art.

“I’ll recite a poem I’ve written or sing a song?” Dad winced. He’d already voiced his opinion of my writing when I read him my comic western, Wild Dill Pickle Rides Again.”

“Look,” he’d said, “You’re not a real writer. A real writer gets up at 4 a.m. and writes every day. A real writer watches no TV. A real writer—” I got the idea.

Nevertheless, we continued to watch Miss America together though I was sick of hearing how I failed to measure up. One day Dad had a brainstorm. “Tuck your hair behind your ears and follow my lead.”

“They’re moving,” he whispered. “Hey kids,” he called out to my brothers. “Get in here. Bring your mother!”

With my family gathered round, I practiced in the mirror. My ears danced! And no one else in the family— outside of Dad—had inherited this particular talent. We had found my talent!

For the rest of my childhood I watched in vain for a Miss America candidate to demonstrate my aural dexterity. Ha! No way would I wiggle my ears on TV.

And by the way, I eventually discovered I was a real writer all along. Thanks, Dad (for that stubborn gene in your DNA)

Janet Garber lives in Somers, NY

About 26 million Americans 50 or over live alone. It’s now the fastest-growing demographic in this country.

There’s a lot of reasons but key among them is that women have had more opportunities for career advancement, home ownership and financial independence. So, no surprise, women make up about 60% of the total.

And many of these live-alones feel positive about their circumstances. This, despite the fact that research clearly shows that they will face worse physical and mental health outcomes, as well as shorter life spans. Many of these individuals do not have children, which raises the additional quandary of who/how will they fit into any kind of elder care scheme.

Downsizing is problematic due to a lack of smaller scale housing. Despite the surge in single-person households, builders are focused on bigger and bigger homes. So many of these live-alones are forced to live in more space than they really need or can afford.

While they may prize their solo lifestyle, many of these boomers are freaked out by the looming elder care issue. Who are they going to call when a serious illness arises or a physical limitation makes it harder to live in their larger than needed home?

The solution may lie in some type of communal living option, where live-alones can continue to have the independence of living alone, but in a supportive atmosphere that at least assures their safety and emotional well-being. The co-operative housing movement is picking up steam but will it be large enough and soon enough to meet the demand of 26 million seniors is a big question. If you know a fellow boomer who is living alone, it would not be considered rude to discuss the co-op housing with them. The future for live-alone boomers could be bleak unless we boomers pull together to look for solutions.

It’s the least we can do for each other.

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.

It occurred to me I’m entering my sixth year of retirement, and it seems like it gets better every year. I still rather like the image of me as a slightly eccentric Bohemian heiress who dabbles in what amuses her. Although I am of Bohemian stock, nothing in my lineage includes money, so sadly, I had to earn my little nest egg.

Although I always had creative drive and longed to be a free agent, writing and puttering as I pleased, I didn’t have the will to live in poverty, as is so often the case with idealistic free agents. Instead, I chose a life of working for the man until there was enough to retire, and now I can dabble to my heart’s delight. Some of my jobs were pretty darned good and some sucked, but now I’m glad I stayed the course.

I’m reminded of a woman I use to work with. I made director before she did and was included in a variety of events for “directors and above.” When she wasn’t invited to said events, she’d say, “Another year of being a nobody.” She eventually got promoted and is presumably happy being somebody. I don’t miss all that faux specialness and have settled quite nicely into being a nobody.

While I do believe in the power of positive thinking, I also think there’s a case for not wanting too much. Not everything has to be bigger, faster, stronger or better in every way. For example, I’m a decent golfer, but I tell myself it’s OK to just play. Sometimes you will play well and sometimes you will not.

Hit the ball, hit the ball again. That’s my new mantra.

I also love word games and can be quite competitive. I quit playing Wordle for a few weeks because I was so angry I lost a game. I’m back to playing and have a nice streak going, but before I play, I tell myself, “You will lose. Accept it.” Somehow preparing for less than stellar results keeps me grounded.

Which brings me to Ray Wylie Hubbard, the renowned Texas musician. One of his notable songs is Mother Blues, a song where he and his guitar tell a richly layered life story. It’s such a cool song, and the last lines are pretty powerful.

And the days that I keep my gratitude

Higher than my expectations

Ah! Well, I have really good days.

That’s kind of where I’m at.

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

I don’t have one musically talented bone or gene in my body. But most of me is primed to appreciate music especially since the first time I heard “Rock Around the Clock” by Bill Haley and the Comets. Rock an’ Roll and I grew up together. We were the first generation to be defined by our music and that music was Rock. Everything else was controlled by adults: school, food, clothes, chores, and television. They even decided to call us Baby Boomers. A total waste of a moniker which described them not us. Baby Boomer described what they did after WWII. They boomed out the babies. We were the boomed.

I have always despised the title and do so especially now since it is a term of such derision by the younger “generationwhatthehellever. “Hey, Boomer,” primarily means “Old man who is responsible for the world’s problems.” Implying connection to Trump, Climate change, political chaos inflation and greedy billionaires. But Billy Joel knows “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”

We birthed Rock ’n Roll. Billy Haley, Little Richard, Dion, Buddy Holley, and Fats Domino. It was the only thing that was ours. Adults hated it which made us more faithful to it. Loud, fast and obnoxious was how we wanted it and that was how we got it through the radio. It drove them away. It was also about sex hidden in code. We knew the Thrill on Blueberry Hill wasn’t about increasing our intake of fruit. And when little Richard sang “The Girl Can’t Help It” we knew exactly what that meant. And when Jerry Lee Lewis sang “Shake Baby Shake” we knew what she should shake. It was another way to prove adults weren’t as smart as they thought. We knew the secret.

A lead singer, guitar player and drums were all a band needed to play simple songs about a simple life preferably with no adults in the vicinity. When there was, we just turned the volume up.

WE ARE THE FIRST AND BEST ROCK AND ROLL GENERATION. The First R&R Generation. We have nothing to do with banging the babies out. The title was foisted upon us and has long outworn its usefulness.

Without us Americans would probably still be singing “How Much is That Doggie in the Window?”

Graham Campbell lives in Worcester, Massachusetts