At the end of the day, my husband likes to drop all his change into an old plastic Atomic Fire Ball bin. A big one – something you would get from Costco or Sam’s Club. The bin was full, but we weren’t sure how to convert it to real money.

I looked into Coinstar but didn’t want to pay the fee. One can avoid the fee by getting an eGift Card, but Dale is a bit of a Luddite and suspicious of all things that start with a small e.

We’re doing it the old-fashioned way.

First, I went to the bank and asked if they accepted rolls of coins. They do. And they provided me with the flat paper rolls. When I got home, I separated the quarters, nickels and dimes. Dale asked what I was doing, and I said I was being nickled and dimed. Which is kind of true, because as it turns out, this is not how he would have done it.

Dale has yet to reveal his secrets to coin-rolling, but since I started, I think he’s extricated himself from any role in this fun family activity. That’s OK, because at this point, it’s like I’m on a mission from God.

So far, I have more than $300 in quarters. I’m out of quarter rolls and asked Dale what he thought about our next move. Should I take what I have to the bank and get more rolls? Or should we wait until we’ve finished and do it all at once?

It’s funny. We are so different, yet in some ways it’s like we’re the same person. Maybe that happens after 41 years. Anyway, we both blurted out, “Let’s do it all at once!” And we started laughing. Somehow, it’s exciting to see the grand total. Maybe that’s just how Luddites roll.

Of course, the real problem is figuring out how to actually carry in this pile of rolls without looking like criminals. Dale said criminals don’t bring stuff into the bank. They steal things from the bank. True, but there’s an armed guard at the entrance, and I can just see us holding some sort of parcel stuffed with coin rolls and the guard thinking it’s a gun or biological agent.

These things never go well for me. I can see it already. I’ll be on the ground bleeding out, and they’ll be apologizing to Dale for the mess and asking him if he wants it in $20s.

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

 

My granddaughter Dana invited me to her apartment for Christmas dinner. At one point she suggested that I might want to, ‘at some point’, consider moving out of my two-story home and moving in with her, ‘being alone and all.’

On one of several trips to the john, I peeked into the spare bedroom that could be my new home. Turns out, Dana is a big-box fan and if you ever had anything to do with that kind of business, you know that everything they sell comes in twos or fours or twenty-fours. The room was chock full of paper towels, toilet paper, boxes of plastic garbage bags, laundry detergent, water softener salt, cartons of cheerios, cheese crackers and windmill cookies.

I finally located the bed under all the merchandise and tried to imagine a pathway to the attached bathroom. I would have to unpack all the paper towels. They were the giant-roll kind that would probably each last me three months. So, twenty-four rolls meant that I was looking at an eight-year supply. I pictured stacking the paper towels, floor to ceiling on the outside wall to at least provide insulation when winter set in. I mean, that’s what they do when they blow shredded newspaper in the walls for insulation, right? Only this way I can add another use to the recycled paper that was used to make the paper towels…environmentalist that I am. I would make sure to leave room around the window to let in light and air. And then the toilet paper…a six-year supply, unless I contracted dysentery.

The 8-pack of Cheerio boxes and a gross of Crystal Spring water reassured me that I probably wouldn’t starve if I somehow got locked in. Funny, isn’t it? You save all that money buying in quantity, but no one calculates the rent for an extra bedroom to store it all. Reminds me of that crook, Whitey Bolger, when they finally caught up to him in California, or somewhere, and he had 108 bars of soap from the Dollar Store stashed in his apartment. “Gotta save where you can…make my stash last,” he said. Well, I guess there is a price to pay for big-box savings—you have to make room to accommodate your institutional-sized economies of scale.

Hmm. Maybe we could swap—my house for her swag in exchange for her room.

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/

 

 

Jell-O, Crocs, Kodak, Wheaties. Say bye bye. Ya busted!

Millennials now dominate when it comes to spending power. As in more than any generation in history. And what do these millennials spend their money on? A more pertinent question from the baby boomer point of view is what are they not buying?

Like I said, Jell-O, Crocs, Kodak and Wheaties are on the way out. Diet Pepsi? Forget about it! Millennials prefer sparkling water. Crocs? There’s a bunch of knock-offs and aren’t they bad for your feet. Wheaties? Who has time to get out a bowl and who keeps milk in the frig? A breakfast burrito and a smoothie on the go works for these big spenders.

What about Campbell’s Soup? Too many preservatives and hinky ingredients. They want something that looks and sounds healthy.

Budweiser? Not the King of Beers any longer. Even boomers have jumped on the craft beer wagon and that is just way too much competition for Bud.

Kodak? Do we have to mention that everyone has gone digital when it comes to photography? Sidenote: You may have missed it, but Kodak declared bankruptcy in 2012.

Jell-O? Where to start? Boomers think about it as colonoscopy prep, hideous dessert rings and associations with Bill Cosby. Millennials don’t think about it at all. And when they see it in the grocery store, they are surprised it’s still being sold.

Chef Boyardee? How did that even get on the roster of busted brands? Even boomers are surprised that it’s still being made. Millennials are happy to get many things out of a can, but spaghetti and meatballs are not what they have in mind.

Victoria’s Secret? It’s no secret that this brand is fading fast. Skinny models in skimpy underwear is so yesterday. The glam is gone and pretty soon so will the stores in just about every mall in America.

Kenmore. Yep, the appliance brand that used to stand for quality is going down with the ship, or in this case, down with Sears, which makes it a twofer. Boomers fondly remember the Sears catalog as a dream machine where one could imagine all the things you could buy. Millennials may have never walked through a Sears store.

Boomers may not be sorry to see these brands go, but in some ways it’s sad that millennials will miss out on the glory days when sugary, crunchy cereals was combined with cold milk to start the day off right. Sugar Pops are Tops!

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. You can also visit his author page here.

It’s a Wednesday morning, 8:00am, and the traffic comes to a standstill on the highway between Hendersonville, where I live, and Asheville, where I recently started a 20-hour per week job as Director of Development for a small non-profit. The sun is in my eyes, my bladder is full, and I know I will be late for the weekly staff meeting if the traffic doesn’t start moving soon.

Wait. Didn’t I joyfully give up this 45-minute commute a year ago when I retired? Didn’t I feel I was no longer recognized or appreciated or needed as the grant writer for the huge non-profit where I had worked for 20 years? Didn’t I relish the freedom of time and choice I gained when I walked away from it? Yes, yes, and yes. So what am I doing slurping coffee from my travel mug and making this commute again?

Truth be told, there were moments during that first year of retirement when I felt adrift. I did yoga, exercised at the gym, engaged in crafts such as weaving and rug hooking, and spent time writing. I adjusted to being on Medicare and social security, and felt fairly secure about my financial health. But sometimes, when I let myself feel it, I felt a little bit invisible, a little bit restless. And then the opportunity to work part-time was dropped in my lap, doing fundraising for a cause I believe in, with people I genuinely like. I don’t know how long I can do this, I told them. That’s okay, they said, we just really need you right now. It didn’t require a special wardrobe, and I could work mostly from home, except for a few on-site meetings each month. While 20 hours a week suddenly seems like a lot, the padding of my bank account feels good, and even better is the recognition and appreciation for my skills and experience.

“So this is your encore career,” someone comments at a party. Well, one thing I know for sure is this. When the applause from this encore fades, or it no longer feeds a lingering desire for more structure and definition to my days, I will take my last bow and gracefully exit the stage. I will return to the freedom and self-determination I tasted when I first retired, and maybe, just maybe start on that novel I always said I would write.

Lee Stevens is a joyful writer and mostly wise elder in Hendersonville, NC

More people-watching yesterday. I went out as a single and got paired up with a threesome – a married couple and their friend. The married couple appeared to have a large age difference. It’s hard to tell, but he looked to be about 20 or 30 years older than her.

I’ve played with them before, and I nicknamed them the love birds. Every other word is babe this, babe that. They walk off the green holding hands. I know … how awful … a loving couple having fun together. Imagine! I guess I’m a little more buttoned up when it comes to public displays of affection.

Aside from all my judgmental observations, they are quite nice to play with. Interestingly, they don’t putt anything out. One putt, and if it doesn’t go in, they pick up the ball. I have no idea how they score, and I’m guessing they don’t care, which is kind of cool. I wish I were that laid back. The other thing is he stands behind her on nearly every shot and gives “feedback” on her swing. I’d kill him, but that’s me.

I was busy trying to play my game and didn’t give them much thought until the drive home. I was thinking love has no age limit. I don’t know the backstory, so I started imagining various scenarios.

What if she had been dying in the hospital, and he was her doctor? He saved her and taught her to play golf so they could live happily every after. Or perhaps she was a victim of human trafficking, and he was the private detective who found her and saved her from a life of ruin. I guess I had that whole Pretty Woman thing in my head. She could have been the one who rescued him from an otherwise miserable life. Or maybe they met on the golf course a month ago and haven’t fallen out of love yet.

Then I thought, maybe she just looks young. Maybe they’ve been married forever and have a passel of children and grandchildren. Of course, none of this is any of my business, and in the grand scheme of things, I don’t care. I just like to fill my head with idle speculation about other people’s lives. It’s actually an improvement over the rest of the voices in my head.

They say golf can be a metaphor for life. Certainly, I’ve encountered some annoying people on and off the golf course, but I’m learning to appreciate the characters out there, and I am all the better for it.

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

 

 

Poised on the threshold of Old Age, I teeter precariously. Doctors say balance is the first thing to go, that we must build up our core to counteract the dizzying effects of aging . . .

If I keep upright, I risk repeating the actions and reactions I have practiced so well these last thirty years: taking the trains, dodging commuters and tourists and traffic on the busy Manhattan streets, securing the lid tightly on my sip-as-you-go decaf latte, stepping to the same 9 to 5 dance music, uttering the tried-and-true words of comfort, scratching my brain to come up with yet another enriching employee event, reconfiguring the benefit package to gain a few points of improvement. I risk losing it when fellow workers devolve into pettiness, narrowness of perspective, meanness. I’ve heard it all before. My brain will slow down to a canter and go on automatic for a spell.

Suppose I tip backwards, will I ever get up again? My friend, Sherry, insists if we retire, the next waystation is Death! I’ll be condemned to sit on my haunches and helpless, observe the crumbling of my external skeleton, the ominous sounds of my infrastructure dissolving. Creaking joints, bones leeching calcium, misaligned sockets. Laziness may overcome schedules, food and other forms of self-indulgence take on more meaning than they are entitled to have. Getting and spending. Spending and more getting. My life may be defined by a trip to the grocery store, a walk around the block, a perch on the window sill? Will I manage to sit back and take it easy, waiting. . . until the dying of the light?

As the years advance if I manage to stand upright and in place, what will sustain me? Certainly not the sad ruminations about certain family members who have fallen on bad times, friends who disappoint, strangers who look right past me.

My inclination is to lean slightly forward, advance a step of two, more calmly and deliberately than I’m used to but nevertheless oriented in the right direction. The more steps I take, the more confidence I will have. I can once again be Janet the explorer, not certain of my destination, but savvy enough to know the road runs not straight but forks into many separate paths. And if I fall on my face, what have I lost? I just need to find friends to accompany me on my quest.

Janet Garber lives in Somers, NY and is still on her feet.