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

I saw an article recently that heralded the fact that you’re never too old to climb a mountain. It suggested that we pay too much attention to our age. Then it asked if we start to feel a bit low in the run-up to our birthdays or do we plan ahead for what we hope to accomplish in the coming year. Further, it suggested that the adage that we’re as young/old as we feel becomes more important to our overall wellbeing.

All of this got me thinking about Mount Taylor. This particular mountain was 70 miles from my home. Even on a cloudy day, I could see its profile on the horizon every time I stepped outside. It never occurred to me that I would climb to the top of it. That feat was not on any bucket list until friends related their experience of hiking to the 11,900 foot summit.

WHAT? You can hike to the top of it? Of course you can. There most likely isn’t a mountain in the continental U.S. with a summit that cannot be reached by an ordinary hike. Difficult maybe. Treacherous even, but it can be done.

So if you’re as old as you feel, and you’re feeling old, then of course you would reject the notion of climbing to the top of Mount Taylor. I wasn’t feeling old. I’m still going on hikes that are quite strenuous. Some have elevation gains of 2,000 feet or more. The Gooseberry Springs trail that leads to the Mt. Taylor summit is 6.33 miles in length and has an elevation gain of 2,126 feet. The Navajo refer to it as Turquoise Mountain and consider it one of the four sacred mountains. We stopped frequently to catch our breath and as we reached the bare slope of the summit the winds picked up significantly. On one switchback the wind helped us climb, but as we turned into the next switchback, it created fierce resistance. Stopping to rest, we saw a hiker below us climbing at a rate much faster than ours and gaining rapidly. Turns out she was a through hiker doing the Continental Divide Trail. In her 20s, she was in much better shape than us 70-year-olds but we all arrived at the summit about the same time.

It was a moment to savor and while we could admire the 20-year-old’s stamina, we took the time to congratulate ourselves for making the effort to climb to the top of an iconic peak. We were/are as young as we felt/feel.

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.

My son came to visit and said, “I have an idea for your eulogy.”

That was a bit off-putting, but I tried to stay calm. “What do you mean?” I said. “I’m not dying yet.”

“Of course you’re not,” he said. “I just want to be prepared. And I think I have a really good idea: Ten Things You Don’t Know About My Mother. We can work on it together.”

Actually, I know a couple of people who have written their own eulogies and they swear it’s a great way to help you to think about your life. And I had to admit, my son’s title was rather provocative. I immediately thought of two things people don’t know about me and I have no interest in informing anyone on the subject. I said not one word to my son.

But what is there about my life that I would want people to know? The people at my funeral, presumably friends and relatives, what don’t they know? That I have a hard copy of every article I’ve written for newspapers or magazines in two four-drawer file cabinets in my garage? We’re talking somewhere between 500 and 600 and nobody is going to want them. That although I have been a writer and teacher all my life I also have a degree in hotel management, from which I learned that I never want to manage a hotel? That I played girls’ basketball for one semester in college and I liked it and was pretty good at it. This would be remarkable to those at my funeral because, presumably, they would all know that my height is five feet, one inch. It turns out there’s a method for making baskets even if you are short and I learned how to do it. As long as you are not playing against super tall players who can jump up and just drop the ball in the basket, you’re good to go.

Or how about this: If I could have done anything in the world for a career I would have wanted to be a singer. Anyone who has heard me sing knows it all worked out for the best.

I’ve got a long way to go to complete the list. I wonder what my son is coming up with. But I recommend the exercise to anyone who wants the opportunity to look at themselves in a new light. And I’m sorry I won’t be able to hear the eulogy delivered.

Norma Libman is a journalist and lecturer who has been collecting women’s stories for more than twenty years. You can read the first chapter of her award-winning book, Lonely River Village, at NormaLibman.com.

I am not ready to retire.

No, that’s not right: I’m ready. I’m more than ready. I am not able.

I meant to be rich and famous someday. Or at least rich. Or at least not broke.

I joked about it — in 2010 I said I was disappointed to learn that the Mayan calendar had been mistranslated and that the world would not end in 2012 after all. (Spoiler alert: It didn’t.) But, see, I said I was rooting for the End of the World in 2012 because my credit cards would have just about maxed out by then.

In reality, I scrimped and saved and got my credit cards back under control (the last of my five kids finishing college helped a lot in this regard). But I’m not out of debt yet… and I’m not likely to ever be completely out of debt.

Actually, it turns out that reaching retirement age is in some ways like being a teenager all over again, except without the hormones (darn it): As my friends in high school all turned 16 and got their drivers’ licenses I wasn’t 16 yet and I was kind of envious because I wasn’t yet old enough. Now my friends are all retiring and I’m not quite old enough and I neglected to get a pension from anyone.

That was poor planning on my part.

This is the ‘second wave’ of retirements in my case: Some years back, when I was coaching at what I called Bluejay Park, a lot of my fellow coaches started turning 50. That may not strike you as a particularly important milestone. But most of these dads were City workers — cops mostly, but some firemen, at least one guy in the Department of Forestry) and they had their 30 years in with the City and were therefore eligible to retire and collect their full pensions. Many did retire. Most found other jobs, too, meaning they had some pretty good earning years while I was rooting for the Mayan prediction to be true.

I had a plan about how I was going to get a pension — lots of plans — none of them practical.

So I’m still here, still pursuing plans that are unlikely to bear real fruit. But I’m more at peace now with that. And I’m prepared to muddle through.

Come sit next to me on this bench in the Blogosphere. I’ll tell some stories, and maybe I’ll even make you smile.

Or piss you off. In 2021 I suppose that seemed more likely.

Curmudgeon is a self-described dinosaur — an Ozzie and Harriet person living in an Ozzy and Sharon world. And sometimes it confuses the heck out of him. He writes a very amusing blog at Second Effort.