I once knew a bright and shining star that flew across the heavens of my life lighting up its skies. She was a gifted athlete, a remarkable scholar, a deep thinker, a good friend, a treasured sister, and a beloved daughter.

My father, piloting a B-29 bomber in Asia, was shot down and killed in World War II. I was fifty years old before I met a single person whose parent had been lost in that war. That did not mean for one minute that I did not believe in the approximately 400,000 American deaths that occurred as a result of that war. I did not have to know them personally, to believe in their loss in addition to my own.

When I was growing up many of the houses that I lived in and visited had only one bathroom. This was considered normal in the 50s as many of those who lived in the houses of that era had grown up with outside facilities. That lone inside toilet was an appreciated luxury.

I hope the person in this picture is as happy with her life as her daughter thinks she is. To me her expression looks somewhat doubtful sandwiched as she is between her obviously caring daughter’s heartfelt letter, and the too cutsie advertisement with the double entendre use of the word spirits.

I recently spent some time with my ten-year-old granddaughter who shared with me some of her Valentine candy. I was amused to see that her favorite treat had been mine when I was her age.

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.