He studied her across the table as she read the menu. He knew what he wanted. His favorite, the spaghetti carbonara. She finally looked up, head canted, her sidelong glance asking, ‘What?’ to his intense stare. He shrugged. What could he say? They had just spent forty minutes at the bar waiting for the table. Like old times, she had her usual Negroni. Talk was easy. It had been thirty years since they had last connected. Much to fill in. At this point they were actually free between divorce for her and widowhood for him. The waiter took her order: saltimbocca, salad, Chianti.

She held his eye and her tongue over a slow sip of ice water. It was his turn, this time to ask out loud, “What?”

She simply looked down.

They both felt it. Or rather didn’t feel it…the buzz. There was no tingle as they tried to pick up the fallen powerline of their past. Does hot leak out, he wondered? He could still see the girl in the woman he used to know when she giggled then spanned thumb and forefinger to the corners of her mouth. Familiar. But different now, her hand gaunt and heavy-veined.

Mirroring his scrutiny, she measured him as well. He could feel her tally his lank gray hair, pouched eyes drooping over scored laugh lines, middle finger pushing glasses up.

Was this too heavy a lift? Trying to revive feelings from half a lifetime ago? Sure, there could be fond recollections, like looking through a forgotten box of photographs. Their snatched time together. But just now, it felt like spinning the rasp on a cigarette lighter—waiting, hoping for a spark to catch, to burst into flame. Their flame.

They worked on their meals. Toasted each other. He forced an old joke. She shook her head, smiled indulgently. Finishing their tiramisu and espresso, he tried to imagine them snogging, maybe more. The image wouldn’t focus. The honey didn’t rise. Maybe he…they, were past it. Or maybe it was just her. Maybe with some other woman…starting fresh, not trying to stoke cold ashes…

“I’m not that throbbing hunk anymore,” just popped out.

She nodded. “As if…”

Under a tight grin, he handed the credit card to the waiter. He always liked her snarky side.

“My turn next time,” she said.

“’Kay,” he said.

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/

You’re doing it right now. Maybe. You’re holding your smart phone and staring at the screen. Flipping through Instagram, Facebook, Words with Friends, Candy Crush, or YouTube videos. Or playing solitaire. Or texting your sister. Your kids, grandkids or friends keep telling you you’re hooked, but you deny it. You can put the phone down anytime you want. Just as soon as you watch one more video of the drunk guy trying to get on a horse.

There was a time in the 50s and 60s when boomers worried about how much time their kids were spending in front of the TV. Now the roles have reversed. The grown-up kids are worried that mom and dad have become smart phone junkies. Mom and Dad are ignoring the grandkids and everyone else for that matter, while they get sucked deeper into the world on that tiny screen. You can see them repeatedly flicking a finger to move on to the next image or video, eyes like zombies.

Oh no! They’ve become screenagers! The smart phone is permanently attached to their hands and they are not letting go for anything. According to a 2019 Pew Research Center survey, two-thirds of boomers own a smartphone and about 6 out of 10 are on social media. They may not be the largest generation anymore, but they still represent a huge number of eyeballs glued to smart phones.

You’ve probably witnessed large groups of boomers in airports or restaurants. Despite being with family or good friends, no one is speaking to anyone else unless it’s to share something they just saw on their smart phone. The sharing act is about as close as they come to actually interacting with each other.

What to do? Call a timeout. Suggest that everyone put down their phones for just a little while and have a conversation. It may start with yourself. You have to recognize your own addiction and then decide there is a time and a place for smart phone entertainment, and it’s not when you’re with your grandkids or good friends.

I’ll join you. I just want to see one more clip where the guy dressed as a tree jumps out to scare pedestrians. I especially like the part where the lady whacks him repeatedly with her umbrella. What could be more fun than that?

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 go to a sport-themed barber shop these days where all the haircutters are women. Can’t hardly find a lonely-hermit, old-timer still hanging his barber pole outside a run-down storefront. When I was a kid, it was a man’s world, a chance for a guy to read a fishing magazine, maybe josh with a buddy and hear a stale joke before ‘getting his ears lowered.’

My current tonsorial parlor is themed like a locker room…sort of. And all the haircutters are women (in a locker room?) And you don’t just drop in and wait your turn, you’re expected to call ahead and reserve your turn for the soothing ministrations by the female staff who run to young and seemly. Then if you pay a little extra, your lady will take you to a darkened cove for a warm-water shampoo and scalp massage. Huh! Well, I can go with the flow. In fact, I have my own favorite stylist, Crista. She really knows how to make a guy feel special by her easy patter and deep throaty laugh at my favorite jokes.

A couple problems though. One, even though I reserve a time, which is posted on a computer read-out next to the cash register, Crista seems to take longer than the other stylists which means I end up waiting in the bullpen watching her tease and flirt with the guy ahead of me. I hate waiting. Two, I feel betrayed. I thought she only laughed at my jokes.

The other thing about this setup is that a guy can feel like he’s landed in a girl’s dorm or sorority house. The ladies all carry on an active dialogue…listening, adding comments, laughing. I guess that much is the same as my old barbershop where baseball scores and horse race results bounce between the barbers while the customer is left an outsider-eavesdropper. But this one time, Crista grabbed her cell mumbling, “Uh-huh…Uh-huh,” and the place went quiet. When she picked up her shears again, you could hear a hair drop. Apparently, all the ladies were tuned in to a real-life soap opera. Something, not nice, had happened to their friend. Soon the clippers and hairdryers were buzzing and the background noise was back in play. And before I knew it, Crista had wrapped up my time in the chair. As we walked to the register, she tugged my sleeve. I turned.

“Give me a hug,” she said.

That’s one more thing that would never have happened in my neighborhood barbershop.

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/

As I write this, I am listening to piano music by Chopin— if the composer were asked, where this exquisitely beautiful music came from— he could not have answered. He didn’t go anywhere — except inside his own perfectly pitched brain.

But life, when it hits a vacuum, bubbles full, spills over itself, teems. Me? That space fills propelling me to write and I draw.

My daydream imaginings and “thought-experiments” require a settling-in time before they are converted into words or prose painting. I pick up pastels, markers, drawing pencils and create visual stories.
Am I a tangled, mixed up knot of synapses firing in hopes of ignition? Aren’t you?

Yep. Acknowledging and accepting, I’m off on the longest tangent and I’m grabbing your hand to bring you along. Virtually, of course.

My only hope is that we don’t morph into virtual people before this is all done.

Jill Campbell-Mason  lives in DeWitt, MI

Who gives a _____ ! You can drop your favorite swear word in there. Go ahead. No one can hear you. When you reach what some call old age, you can throw off the anxiety and phobias and just enjoy life. You’re comfortable in your own skin. At least that’s the theory.

According to a Gallup survey done way back in 2011, happiness follows a U-shaped curve. People’s sense of well-being was highest in childhood and old age. Midlife was a kind of a drag (i.e. low point of the U-shape). Maybe for some, but not everyone.

Anyhew, lately some folks are saying it’s all BS. If your life follows the curve, you filled out the survey. If your life sucks, you threw the questionnaire out without opening it. So once again, the surveys and research may not tell us anything.

It’s often been said that long life is a gift. Not clear who is saying it, but there’s a good chance it’s someone who does not yet have to worry about the body letting them down or worrying about when dementia might set in. By the way, it’s not a comforting thought, but the chances of getting dementia double every five years past the age of sixty-five. People marveled that my mother lived to 106 but they had no idea about the toll it took on her physically and mentally. We liked to think she was grateful for a long life, but maybe not so much when your world shrinks down to just you, alone in an assisted care facility.

We want to approach old age with some grace, don’t we? We would like to do fun things, visit places on our bucket list, enjoy our friends, share the good times with our soulmates, and enjoy these things in reasonably good health. In the end (ooh, I hate the sound of that), contentedness in old age will have much to do with how contented we were before we became old. Cranky, self-centered people are going to hate it. Good-humored people are going appreciate their lives, despite having to pee a lot more often.

Best advice: the hell with the U-curve. Enjoy the life of leisure as best you can. It doesn’t matter how full the glass is, so long as there’s still something in it to enjoy.

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’ve been a weaver for 36 years. I sell at craft fairs, on Etsy, and to friends and family. It’s a creative outlet that can be as frustrating and tedious as it is rewarding. Much like life! In fact, weaving has taught me much about life, and I share five of those lessons here.

1) Not everyone sees the world the same way.
What is purple to me may be plum or eggplant to you. Beyond the subtleties of color perception, what I make and market as a kitchen towel may become a runner in your home. A bread cloth may become a towel. I learned from weaving that different perspectives and viewpoints are legitimate and deserve respect.

2) Mistakes are inevitable.
Sometimes I thread wrong, which is easy to do when I’m putting over 500 threads through the reed and heddles in a specific order. I learned from weaving that despite my best efforts, I can’t avoid mistakes.

3) Mistakes can be fixed.
There’s always a solution. I can add a heddle to fix a threading error, or rethread. If I’ve noticed an error in the tie-up of the treadles or in the weaving early enough in the project, I can unweave what I’ve woven, re-tie the treadles and start over. If the warp threads keep breaking, I can cut the project from the loom. And that’s okay. I learned from weaving to respond to mistakes by taking a deep breath and looking for a solution.

4) Things don’t always turn out the way you expect.
I can visualize a mix of colors, I can estimate yardage needed to accommodate shrinkage, and the result can be nothing like I thought it would be. This is not always a bad thing – sometimes the surprise is for the better – but when it’s not, I learned from weaving that there is usually someone who thinks my less-than-perfect result is perfect for them.

5) There are many ways to be an artist.
I’ve struggled with what to call myself – crafter, maker, or fiber artist. I hesitate to use the label artist because to me that is someone who paints or draws or sculpts. I’ve come to realize, though, that creating functional fiber art is still art in a world where so much is made in China. I learned from weaving to nurture and celebrate my inner artist.

Lee Stevens weaves at her studio in western North carolina. See her work at bluetreeweaver.etsy.com