As the inaugural unfolded last week I was glued to my TV and radio for the events along with much of the nation. I watched, among the speeches as well as the pomp and circumstance, as beautifully clothed women took their seats at the ceremonies.

I used to think a sure sign of old age was having the rebellious music of one’s youth turned into bland elevator music. One could rise to the tenth floor of a building listening to a second rate orchestra with sobbing violins render a hoarse-voiced, liquor toting, Janis Joplin song into something that could softly fill the quiet in a crowded elevator.

I recently received a catalogue in the mail from a stationary company. I am surprised that they are still in business. Who sits down and writes letters anymore?

When did clothes get so noisy? Particularly t-shirts which all seem to have something written on them. I look back at my childhood which contained not one t-shirt in my wardrobe, as the only people who had them were men who wore them under dress shirts or to work on cars. And all of them were plain white and silent.

I recently had to go to the post office, a trip one should avoid at all costs in December. When I arrived the line went out of the postal area and circled the lobby, with a lot of masked people standing silently on their little green circles six feet apart.

As you read this, it is important to remember that this essay really is a dispatch from the front lines. I get to write about this aspect of what we are going through as a nation, because I am of a certain age, and I have a pre-existing health condition. I do not want to seem mean or cruel or unfeeling, but merely share the viewpoint of someone from this perspective.

I recently had a conversation with someone about an event that took place last week at a big box store. As she shopped she could overhear the voices of two young-sounding girls in the next aisle who were shopping with their mother.

As Thanksgiving approaches, families all over the country are grappling with what to do for the holiday. The hallmark of this day is collecting family and friends together to share whatever makes the day special whether it be turkey, sweet potatoes, corn, stuffing, cranberry, macaroni and cheese, or the ubiquitous green bean casserole.

This is not a political blog, but rather about the family into which I was born. This family, because of its service to the country, voted absentee for years. They served in the military and the diplomatic corps which meant that they moved all the time.

When my husband first joined the Marine Corps, along with the purchase of his uniforms, accessories, and sword, which we ate beans to afford, was the requirement to have calling cards. Who even remembers these complicated little pieces of white card stock?

I recently took a very masked and socially distanced trip. It was the first time I had really ventured out into the world at large since the start of the pandemic. I spent the first part of my travels thinking that the epidemic had made everyone more polite than usual.

Does anyone under the age of seventy know what the accompanying picture is depicting? I have one in my sewing box, not because I use it, but because it belonged to my grandmother.

One of the pleasures of growing older is watching all the children I have known over the years grow up and move into their adult lives.

I started this blog as a venue for looking at the world from a certain viewpoint ---- that of a woman approaching eighty. I have had a wonderful time writing this collection of essays, and have enjoyed the responses I have received from the weekly submissions, particularly from those who remember the long forgotten age in which I grew up.

Today I went to one of my favorite spots --- the dump. Or as it is called in modern parlance, The Multi- Material Recycling Center. I had a trunk full of broken down cardboard boxes which would go into the giant maw of a machine that would happily crunch them up into a mere shadow of their former selves.

I opened up my email last week to see a picture of my 16 year-old-grandson beginning his junior year in high school. As you can see, he is at his desk in his room, his computer open and ready. His school system is embracing distance learning, at least for the time being, cancelling all sports and extracurricular activities.

I am writing this blog in defense of a man I never met -------my father.

Does anyone remember the very old song which contained these lines, “The old gray mare, she ain’t what she used to be?” Those lines, or at least the sentiments from those lines, have had millions of women rushing for the bottle of hair dye the moment the first gray hair made its debut. (As a side note, I would observe that there is no comparable song for the old gray stallion, but that is for another day.)

Who knew you could learn from a whale? I certainly did not until I heard of Shachi, who kind of defines large and in charge. She is an orca whale with a distinguishing tall hooked dorsal fin. Scientists have been watching her and her pod a for number of years, and have come to realize she is the reason her pod of whales is doing so well.

As our current health crisis reaches 180,000 deaths from the virus, I am bothered by the fact that there are people that feel this virus is not serious because they do not know anyone who has died from it.