ESSAY  I learned how to drive in a 1952 Plymouth that we called the Green Bullet. It was a stick shift, more than ten years old, with a transistor radio that dangled from a knob on the dashboard. We turned the knob when we wanted to put the windshield wipers on. The car’s name was related to its appearance, not its speed.

My then-boyfriend, Gary, taught me how to drive. There was no such thing as drivers ed in our school in those days and my father wouldn’t teach me. He believed women should not be allowed to drive because they adjusted the mirror and checked their lipstick before turning on the car and that just wasted everybody’s time.

After Gary and I had been married a couple months we woke up one morning to discover that the Green Bullet was gone and a silver Valiant was parked in its place. My father-in-law had purchased the Bullet for fifty dollars and now had an opportunity to trade us up to this new car, and just did it in the night. We mourned because we had a fond place in our hearts for the Bullet. Also, we were offended that we were not being recognized as adults who could make our own decisions. Besides, the Valiant, which we promptly named the Midwest Twang, would not start in the rain – we lived in Chicago! – but made a twangy sound when we turned the key on a wet morning.

Before long we decided to assert our independence and get rid of this car that was so much trouble. We bought a sky blue 1966 Mustang. We even handled the bargaining part of the experience with aplomb. At one point we felt the dealer was trying to take advantage of our obvious inexperience and I turned to Gary and said, “Call your father.” The guy backed down immediately. The car cost $2,000, an outrageous amount in everybody’s opinion. But we loved that car and thought it was worth every penny.

And then, in 1967, disaster of a sort struck. We had a baby. In those days they didn’t have all the neat folding strollers we have now. Try as we might we couldn’t find one that would fold up and fit into the trunk of our car. It was the baby or the car and we’d grown quite fond of our little darling. We had to sell the Mustang.

We moved “up” to a Chevy Impala, which we hated. In fact, we never did love another car like that Mustang.

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.

E  S  S  A  Y   Which is better: 30 inches of rain in 30 days living on a mountain or 6 inches of rain in 6 hours living in a swamp?

Answer: both are equally nasty.

The first October (2011) we lived in Costa Rica, we had thirty inches of rain – in our yard – measured by my own rain gauge.

The first September (now) we lived in Florida, we rode out Hurricane Irma.

Dark clouds do tend to follow us when we move!

Luckily Hurricane Irma decided to take a right turn and go east about an hour before she was supposed to hit us. And she decided to fall apart. What was predicted to be a Category 4 or 5 going right over our heads, turned out to be a Category 2 or 3 that went east of us. Aside from a yard full of debris, we had no damage. We didn’t even lose power.

The storms in Costa Rica were much more dramatic. They came up quickly, got very dark, crashing thunder and lightning flashing all around was a typical storm. The rain would often come in huge cold drops so hard that living in a house with a tin roof, we literally could not carry on a conversation. Usually the storm would pass as quickly as it arrived – often come and go in an hour. Then the clouds would close in around us and we were surrounded by grey.

Hurricane Irma took FOREVER to arrive. We started prepping on Monday for a predicted Saturday landfall. We decided to shelter in place because Irma was predicted to go up the Urethra of Florida. It didn’t seem to make sense to evacuate northward, when the path was northward.

Turns out we made the right lucky decision.

Once Irma made landfall, she took FOREVER to arrive in our neck of the woods. The waiting and not knowing what was about to happen was suspenseful to say the least.  The rain came in warm sheets blown by strong winds. It was project to hit our Charlotte County about dark. It did. We went to our safe space – the bedroom – put the two dogs in bed with us and waited it out.

At 9 p.m. I fell asleep.

Irma (Erma) is the Goddess of War.

Thank goodness she took pity on us newcomers.

Mark Van Patten writes a blog called Going Like Sixty and has been married to the same woman since 1968.

E  S  S  A  Y   Now that I’m 68, the so-called humorous birthday cards about aging are getting on my nerves. Occasionally, one that is funny does come my way — for instance a Maxine cartoon saying “Reach for the Stars! It keeps your chest from sagging” — but usually the cards’ messages are predictable or insulting.

Some attempt to make jokes about conditions they think are typical of aging: baldness; flatulence; impotence; dentures; knee replacements; incontinence; sagging skin; declining memory; constipation; menopause and even dementia — the list of horrors is endless and the jokes fall flat.

The more cheerful cards try to highlight the advantages of being old: you are aged like fine wine; you no longer have to flatter your boss or dress up for work or get up at a set time. A few cards do say something reasonable such as: “You can now volunteer, mentor, and save the planet from humankind’s follies.” And for those of us who are retired, a few take a positive view of forced leisure: “Now you can be a couch potato without guilt.”

These cards are certainly an improvement over the quips about flatulence, but I wish that the birthday cards were more like congratulations cards that say: “Congrats on graduation, your promotion, your new house”, etc. For those of us over 60, the cards I have in mind could say: “Congratulations on outwitting the grim reaper, keep up the good work!” “Congratulations on retirement and on to new frontiers”, or during an economic downturn, “Congrats on still having an inheritance to pass on to your kids.” And if age has to be mentioned at all, “Keep on trucking and best wishes for the next third of your life!”

Perhaps the cards could comment on interesting things that have come to pass in our lifetimes such as “Aren’t you lucky to have made it to the e-age and many good years of net surfing to you!” Or “Isn’t it great that you lived to see the plug-in car and micro-breweries!” “How fantastic that you lived long enough to have your face on Facebook!” And if you can’t find a decent card, buy a blank one and write your own message.

So what I’ve learned from my card searches is: Come on, Hallmark, get going; hire us Baby Boomers to write for you and we’ll revolutionize that pathetic senior card market!

Judith Amber is a free-lance writer living on California’s Central Coast. She writes on topics including food and wine, the environment, politics, travel, and the arts. She also writes creative non-fiction, humor pieces and poetry.

E  S  S  A  Y    I’m not exactly sure when I knew I was meant to be a writer. It must have been when I was very young. It could have been when I realized words were important because whenever I asked my mother how to spell a word she made me look it up in the dictionary. So words are collected and put in books. Maybe that was the start.

By the time I was in high school, I was typing up short stories that I was sure the New Yorker magazine would be delighted to publish. In college I was bored with the standard curriculum but enthralled to be taking creative writing classes. My mentoring professor told me I had writing talent and I believed her.

Once established in my public relations career, I was writing speeches, congressional testimony, news releases, and articles for publications. I was getting paid to write – I was a professional.

I had enjoyed mystery novels for quite some time but it finally occurred to me that perhaps I could write one. I was living in Annapolis when I got serious about the possibility. The mystery subgenre that interested me most was the accidental detective. A crime is committed and with no experience for detecting, the main character attempts to solve the mystery. It’s even more interesting if it imparts some knowledge about people and places that are outside your own experience. Annapolis and the boating scene on the Chesapeake Bay offered just such an opportunity. And that’s how my mystery novel entitled Head Above Water came to be. I wrote the kind of mystery novel that I liked to read. That was a long time ago.

For years I would not let anyone read it. But then one friend was allowed to see it, and then another, and another and another. All were enthusiastic and encouraging. By then self-publishing had emerged as a real avenue for aspiring writers, so after 13 years, Head Above Water is finally available on Amazon and Kindle. I’m no longer a pre-published author as it used to read in my byline. I should savor the moment but it has freed me up to work on the new mystery featuring an aerial photography pilot in New Mexico. No time to waste because I am not waiting 13 years for this next one to get published.

Jay Harrison is a graphic designer and writer whose work can be seen at DesignConcept. His mystery novel, Head Above Water, is available on Amazon and Kindle.

E  S  S  A  Y  Don’t sweat the small things. That’s what the gurus say.

But sometimes small things – like the carpet-eating moths that have bunked up in my Santa Fe house – cause oceans of sweat.

After moving away from the too expensive and stressful Bay Area; buying, and remodeling this delightful house; meticulously arranging my precious wool rugs from Oaxaca, Turkey, and Iran; and neatly stacking my consignment shop sweaters, I relaxed – until I saw them.

Tiny wheat-colored moths strolling across my favorite wall hangings. I researched: They have bacchanals on wool and silk. One female can lay 150 eggs, which hatch into larvae, which gorge themselves, chewing fist-sized holes in beautiful textiles. Then they pupate, starting their revels over again.

This week I’ve been vacuuming like a woman possessed, inspecting sweaters, scarves, gloves, and socks; taking clothes to the drycleaners, freezing rugs, baking others in the sun, placing sticky traps laced with pheromones to lure the males; and ordering pyrethrin sprays from Amazon to repel the little bastards. I called a rug company in Ithaca, NY, four times – they have moth experts. A fifth time I called just for moral support: What if just one female or one wriggling larva survives all my assaults?

Before breakfast this morning, I was on my knees. Not praying, but looking under my sofa — because that’s where the experts say they lurk. I was thinking: how ridiculous is this? Then I thought of my father.

After being blacklisted by Joseph McCarthy and losing his job, he started a pest control business. It was hard work, crawling around bakeries and other commercial establishments looking for cockroaches and rodent droppings. He was a smart man, and had loved his white-collar job at the Food and Drug Administration. He became an angry man. To his dying day, he said he felt like a man without a country. And though he didn’t say it, I knew he felt demeaned by the dirty work, down on his knees.

I had an epiphany on the living room floor: maybe my moth obsession had something to do with feeling my father’s pain. I remembered him coming home from work, face lined, green coveralls dirt- and poison-soiled. As a little girl, I thought if I was really good, I could make him be happy. I didn’t have that power. And today, no matter how conscientious, I may still miss one damn moth, and there’s not a thing I can do about that. We humans imagine we can control things – from tiny moths to aging and illness — only to find that we control almost nothing.

I’m alive and healthy. I have great friends. I have poetry. And the New Mexico sky is astonishingly beautiful. So I’ll remember what the gurus say. I’ll do my best, and stop sweating the rest.

Joanne Brown is a strategic communications consultant, writer, and poet. Her corporate work can be found at joannebrown.com, and her poetry has been featured in Persimmon Tree and Evening Street Review.