George of the Jungle? The Jetsons? The Roadrunner? Huckleberry Hound? Tom and Jerry?

How can any self-respecting baby boomer forget all the hours we logged in front of the TV (mine was black and white) watching cartoons on Saturday morning?

No one was worried about where we were or what we were up to as long as they could hear the TV was still turned on and we were laughing. Unsupervised time to ourselves to indulge our appetite for dogs that could talk and coyotes that could order explosives from the Acme Company. What could be better than that?

But first, we needed to slurp down sugar-filled cereal. Then we planted ourselves in front of the set and didn’t move for hours. Who knows what our parents were doing, but they were most likely relieved to have time to themselves and not worrying about what we were up to.

For me, a few hours of toons was followed by my favorite westerns. Wild Bill Hickok, Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, the Cisco Kid, and don’t forget Gabby Hayes.

The good news is that all that TV surfing was followed by outdoor play where we used our imagination (spurred of course by what we had just watched on TV) to invent our own play scenarios. Once again, no one worried about where we were or what we were doing. That is at least until someone went back into the house with a scraped knee or some other minor injury.

Sadly, for the generations that followed us, the Saturday morning fun ended when the networks realized they were not making much revenue from kids programming. They turned instead to sports and news while cartoons moved to after-school slots. G.I. Joe and Thundercats took over and they were really just half-hour advertisements for toys. On top of that, Congress decided to legislate more educational programming for kids. The ride was over,

But now kids can watch cartoons whenever they want via streaming services. And on their phones for crying out loud!! How can you miss the group watching experience if you’ve never experienced the pleasure to be had from that communal fun?

It’s some consolation that baby boomers can feed their nostalgic jonesing by going online where you can find just about every cartoon you ever watched as a kid (search YouTube for Looney Tunes and you’ll see what I mean).

Next thing you know, you’ll be Googling “penny candy.”

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.

When I look back at my working life, I usually reflect on the negatives. I’m not purposefully a glass half-full kind of person, but it does seem that’s my default. Lately, I’ve been thinking about the positives, and there were a few surprises.

I was reading a golf psychology book, as I am wont to do, and there was a reference to the old nursery rhyme:

Row, row, row your boat

Gently down the stream

Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily

Life is but a dream

I’m not the first to realize this could be a beautifully simple guide to happiness. As I reflected on the meaning behind these lyrics, it occurred to me I sometimes row hard in the other direction because that’s the way I want to go, damn it.

But wait! Is there a benefit to rowing with the current? Going with the flow? Imagine.

Here’s where we come back to my work experience. I was stuck in a nice but dead-end job and couldn’t seem to find a way out. When I wasn’t working, I spent all my time on the job search. I had a few memorable interviews but no offers.

Only one person at work knew I was on the hunt. I actually didn’t know her well but somehow decided she was the one to trust. That’s a little telling, isn’t it?

Anyway, one day I whined I couldn’t get a job. She said, “That’s because it wasn’t your job. When it’s your job, the doors will open.”

Indeed. After interviewing for a job in Minnesota because by that time I would go anywhere, the hiring manager called to tell me I didn’t get it, but they thought I would be a good fit for their company. He offered to shop my resume around, and that led to an interview in Texas.

When they offered me the job, Dale and I stopped to think it through. What if it didn’t come with relocation? The next day they emailed me a document outlining the relo assistance, and it was amazing. Then Dale said, what about my job? Within days, he was laid off and got a nice exit package. And that’s how it all rolled out.

I went from a local utility in South Carolina to a large multinational Fortune 100 company, and while I was quite competent in my field, this was the big show. Easier for some than others. Having been raised by wolves, I had limited social acumen and not a lot of workplace savvy.

But I needed this job, and I was hellbent on figuring it all out. In addition to some great mentoring, the company offered lots of training, especially on the soft skills such as ethics, diversity and interpersonal communications, and I absorbed all of it.

Yes, some might say it was all about being politically correct, but at least we weren’t punching out flight attendants. I have developed new appreciation for having both feet planted solidly on the high ground. Only recently did it occur to me some of those nuances of behavior I learned at work are worth preserving in retirement.

Kind of like the monster’s transformation in Young Frankenstein, it turns out I liked having a calmer brain and a more sophisticated way of expressing myself. Communicating to make someone else more comfortable. Listening rather than telling. Remembering to say and instead of but. You do it enough, and you sort of become the person you were trying to be.

Even though I’ve previously harbored resentment over some of my work experiences, I can now see how the flow took me to a place where I could explore this better version my myself. The wolves had their charms but didn’t exactly give us a good head start.

That’s what I’ve been up to lately. Still learning. Sciatica is nearly gone. I’m walking a lot, playing golf and swimming. Lots of deep breathing – in through the nose, out through the mouth. I’m as surprised as anyone I could spend quality blogging time on all this touchy-feely stuff, but pain changes you.

And strangely enough, it’s not all bad if you go with the flow.

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

Recently a long-time neighbor passed away. His family put a nine-yard dumpster in his drive…actually it took two of them to clear his house. A close friend died. There was dumpster in her driveway as well. Some thoughts…

In war time, a gold star banner in a front room window meant a soldier had died. Black arm bands meant someone had died. These days, a nine-yard, open-top dumpster in a driveway can also mean someone has died. The decedents are making decisions about the former’s left-behinds, the walls of books and bed clothes and arm chairs and drapes. Should some go to Goodwill, the library, the church’s second-hand store? Maybe a garage sale would slide the detritus into the slip stream of what we used to call ‘alley pickers’ and now ‘recyclers.’ But sometimes the grandchildren, even their parents just want to tear down the walls of stuff that have piled-up to form gramma’s castle, demolish the ramparts that surrounded her. They have lowered the drawbridge to a dumpster with its hungry maw swinging wide for the raiders to form a bucket line passing along yellowed board games, baseball bats and ruptured-gut tennis rackets, and clothes on hangers, and books in boxes and flower pots and bedspreads faded and lumpy—pillaging a lifetime of memories in paper and wood and cloth. If you know how to read it, it’s a sign to the neighborhood that someone among them has gone.

Understood, it’s not the same as purging before relocating. That’s a sign of moving on like a young couple relocating for work or getting a bigger house to accommodate a growing family—a positive hopeful sign. Nor is it like an elderly couple scaling back before settling into more confined quarters in a senior residence—removing accumulated clutter for a simpler existence.

Some dumpsters in the driveway, for those who know how to identify them, are like mobile grave stones in an unmarked, urban cemetery…someone’s gone to a better place. Bow your head as you pass.

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

Welts, lumps and discolorations mysteriously appear on my body lately, and I don’t remember how they got there. For example, putting on my sock, the other day, I noticed a bruise on my shin. My daughter, Mia, helped me pinpoint its origin. Seems her toddler, Zo (aka Lorenzo), had just come out with a four-letter word. It was a good thing we were on the phone because I beamed from ear to ear, thinking one four letter word out of his first five was a good start for the kid.

Then, Mia lit me up. “I left him with you for two hours while I went grocery shopping yesterday and he starts using an…inappropriate word.” I asked her to tell me the word. “I can’t. He’s sitting right here, all ears…” she said. So, she spelled it. I wanted to respond that it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t even a four-letter word…well, depending on how you spelled it.

As she continued to flay me with her sharp tongue, I found myself getting just a little defensive. “So, I’m the problem. And how did you deduce that, my dear Watson?”

“Huh!” she barked. “We never use that kind of language around junior. And besides, with Covid lockdown and all, he hasn’t been out of the house before or since you babysat him.”

After a short pause to gather my dignity, I replied, “I don’t recall using that word in his presence. But, you never know. Might’ve happened.”

Child psychologist that she became (on our nickel) my daughter allowed that children at her son’s developmental stage pounce on words heard in a forceful outburst of strong emotions. “Were you mad at something or hurt yourself while he was with you?”

I had to think for a moment. “Ah! Yes,” I finally recalled, rubbing my leg, “I did bang my shin on the coffee table when he was here. And yes, thanks for asking…I’m fine now.”

After she hung up, I pondered my increasingly frequent forgetfulness. The softness around the edges of my days. What happened to that pre-school receptivity to all things new; to the vivid awareness of any excitement in the air. I gotta spend more time around that kid. Go, Zo!

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara and his wife live 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 the tony boutique, my fiancée selected several glittery garments and asked me what I thought of them before she tried them on. I asked her if she wanted me to be honest or to tell her what she wanted to hear. After some consideration, she chose the latter alternative and I told her that indeed I thought the garments became her and that if she wore any of them I would without hesitation be delighted and proud to accompany her to a fine dining establishment or a dance club of her choosing since I did not normally enjoy dancing or the people who frequent dancing clubs.

Naturally, this caused her to scowl.

“Emotional support is a two-way street,” she said.

I did not know what she meant by that.

Suddenly, a salesgirl presented herself with her plunging neckline and beehive hairdo and a waft of civet and heat. I felt my cheeks and ears redden as she told us that these garments, Italian made, verily radiated beauty. I thought it odd she put it that way. I could see from her blank gaze and lack of commitment to the pitch that someone, a manager or senior clerk, had scripted the line and she had spent time, perhaps in one of the dressing rooms, memorizing it.

For this I did not dislike her. We do our jobs as well as we can and hope no one in power tries to exploit us for whatever reason.

“What are you staring at?” my fiancée asked.

Er, nothing, I stammered.

Later, she accused me of staring at the salesgirl’s cleavage.

“I saw you staring, too,” I replied.

“That’s different,” she said.

“How is it different?” I asked.

“I don’t know but it is, and you’re fucking sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Salvatore Difalco lives in Toronto, Ontario