I am, perhaps for the first time in my life, consciously drifting.

The word—drifting–has long carried negative connotations for me, conjuring images of lethargy and passivity. It suggests surrendering control rather than seizing it. In my world, to describe someone as “drifting through life” means they lack purpose and energy.

Plus, drifting rhymes with “grifting,” which only deepens its negative associations.

So, when I first realized that I was drifting through my days, I became alarmed. “Uh oh, I better start getting purposeful…fast.” But then I started imagining the “lazy river” section of a water park, where one floats gently on an inner tube, letting the current carry them along. This form of drifting provides a sense of weightlessness and peace. Next, I pictured a log drifting down a river under a warm, blue sky. I began to think of drifting as less about fecklessness, and more about surrendering to the journey rather than focusing on the destination.

Plus, the lazy river is circular, you end up where you started. Is that such a bad thing? I don’t want to be stagnant, but maybe I like the idea of returning home each day.

Drifting is very different from being adrift. Being adrift implies being lost at sea, a tiny speck in a vast, uncharted ocean. In contrast, drifting along a river provides the comfort of nearby shores, making it relatively easy to steer toward solid ground if I really need or want to.

Even as I grow increasingly comfortable with the notion of drifting, I recognize it’s only an interlude. Life’s currents invariably intensify, necessitating decisive action sooner or later. On the other side of the bend, I could be headed toward dangerous waterfalls, or cliffs, or the current might send me spiraling toward a rock. Or maybe I’ll just get sick of the circular motion depositing me where I started every day and yearn for a dramatically different landscape, pace and experience.

At that point, my nature and external events will compel me to make a more deliberate move. It’s just a matter of time.

Until then, I drift.

Johanna Wald lives in Dedham, MA

“Yo, Cory. ‘ssup?” I asked. My curly headed grandson, nodded absently, kept wiggling his thumbs on his cell phone. Polite in his way. Afterall, I was barging-in on the privacy of his screen time, his cyber world. Perhaps some kind of impulse of respect for an elder caused him to punch out a couple more aliens in his computer game before saying, “Hi, gramps.”

He lived in another world from mine. Hell, when I was his age I didn’t have much to share with my grandfather, here from another world across the ocean. He let me participate once, when he made wine. Or the time he made sausage, or offed the Thanksgiving turkey. But mostly it was a ‘kid should be seen and not heard’ relationship and ‘shine my shoes.’ I was basically shouting across the canyon to someone on the opposite ledge.

Still, I want to try. He nudged me with his shoulder between a grunt and a fast click. We might connect, go from there. Technology is different for him than it was for me. I used to lock- in and lock-out over my radio listening to Tom Mix and Tim Tyler and Captain Preston of the Mounties who were left cliff-hanging at the end of fifteen minute episodes or out of breath in underground rivers, or…or. Distractions. Imagination stimulation. Did it harm me?

At the very least, I learned patience, that everything didn’t happen when you wanted it to, that you had to tune-in-tomorrow for answers. Obviously, Cory’s computer link-ups demand more physical interaction with the media. But it’s still about looking for and finding patterns and conclusions in the chaos of life with the added advantage of having some digital control of events…sort of.

So, I sensed a connection with him. “Can you show me how to play?” I asked. Cory simply kept playing till the screen flashed a new total of points. My grandson paused, stared me in the eyes, considering. Then he shook his head, slightly, like I was out of his league. Took me back to the time I didn’t make varsity basketball, or was cut from the state finals track team. Engaged online again, Cory, eventually looked up, checked me out. Must have seen my disappointed frown. He put the cell phone in his left hand and reached to squeeze my arm with his right. Times change. Togetherness perdures.

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/

So boomers plan to stay put. That is at least 55 percent of the folks that were surveyed said that was the plan. The are not moving any time soon. The problem is that they live in what’s termed “time capsules” – homes that were built before 1980 and have not been renovated. Seventy-three percent have lived in their homes for 11 years or more.

You’ve probably read (numerous times) that boomers are preventing millennials from finding homes for their families. Experts call it a generational tug-of-war. When boomers finally buy the farm (give up the ghost, cash in their chips, push up daisies, kick the bucket, we could go on and on…but wait, no we can’t), these homes are going to need substantial renovations.

Only 25 percent of those surveyed were planning on making accommodations for aging in place with safety and accessibility features. Go ahead. Picture that walk-in bathtub. Don’t lie. You know the one. It’s the one you see advertised on Facebook and in AARP publications.

When millennials finally get their hands on these properties, they could be looking at a substantial investment –– either to upgrade roofing, plumbing, mechanicals, etc. or just the removal of two dozen grab bars and a walk-in tub. Some good advice for millennials might be to invest in home improvement companies over the next few years because those companies will be repairing a huge number of homes in the next 15-20 years.

Eighty percent of the boomers surveyed believed they would leave an inheritance, presumably a property and some cash. But in an odd disconnect, only 51 percent of millennials expected to receive an inheritance. However it turns out, it could be one of those “be careful what you wish for” situations. If it’s a sizable inheritance, that will cover the renovations to an inherited house. If there is no inheritance, a millennial may end up house poor as they try to keep a property that requires extensive renovations.

Something for all the generations to think about.

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. But that’s not all. You can also purchase the Best of BoomSpeak on Amazon.

I attended my niece’s wedding recently in the heart of Virginia’s wine country. Cattle and horses had their run of the lush green pastures and fields, providing the picture-perfect venue for Dana and her groom, Jack, to begin their married life together. I enjoyed many family weddings in the past, but this one was different. Chalk it up to my 70 plus years, I suppose, but something about it touched me deeply.

It started to rain at the beginning of the ceremony, just as Dana’s father, my brother, Paul, escorted her to a gazebo in front of a lake. I prayed for the good Lord to cut Dana and Jack a break and stop the rain, but the drops fell at a steady rate, soaking my trousers and the shoulders of my suit jacket. A suit soaked in rain, I thought, trying to find some hidden meaning in what was unfolding before me.

The bride and groom spoke their vows to one another. Reading from small notebooks they had written in by hand, they stood face to face sharing an intimate conversation we were all privileged to hear. They recounted how they first met, how their relationship developed over the last few years, setting them on the path that led to this rainy afternoon in Virginia. They choked up at times, laughed at other moments, their words mingling with the sound of the rain as it gently fell on all of us. It was as though the rain brought their words to life, like seeds bursting from the ground. What a gift to witness. I looked at the sleeve of my drenched suit jacket and understood. Rain drives the cycle of life from the joy of its beginning to the sadness of its end.

My four brothers and I met up at the reception and enjoyed this rare time of actually being all together. We shared stories about growing up, toasted our dear parents long gone and posed for pictures like aging rock stars from a bygone era.

The music played. The young folks danced as we sat and watched from a distance. My suit dried and I reminded myself to get it dry cleaned when I returned home.

Rain or shine, I vowed to wear it to the next family gathering.

Joe Cappello lives in Galisteo, NM