My grandmother wore hats---not the fantastic confections that reside on the heads of female royalty, but small, close-fitting cloches that fit her petite frame. These hats lived in round boxes at the top of her closet, and were worn on all special occasions including church every Sunday.

I had not seen this picture before it turned up on Facebook on Memorial Day as a reminder to all of us to remember those who have served our nation. It is a picture from World War II of 12 young men standing in front of a B-29 Superfortress Bomber. They are on an air base in the middle of a hot desert in northern India.

With the virus changing every aspect of our lives in the past year, it has sometimes been difficult not to lose our joy.

We have heard the term heroes a great deal during our current health crisis. And certainly there are heroes, particularly those who march into hospitals every day to take care of their fellow countrymen struck down by the virus. I think particularly about the nurses who have been doing their jobs day-in and day-out for years without the recognition they are now finally getting.

One of the aphorisms of my youth was the statement 'A rolling stone gathers no moss.' From my current perspective I think I have to disagree with that statement.

“What a good deal,” one of my children exclaims, and I look at the price of the particular object they are contemplating and all I can think is, “Surely this (fill in the blank) cannot cost this much.” This is not an infrequent event, but one that happens all the time.

My blog is hosted by a company which has a feature that shows where the interest in my various observations is coming from. It has been fun to watch the space grow (although by internet standards it is a very modest growth), not only in the United States but abroad as well.

All of our lives we have been surrounded by quotes, some of which we forget when they are no longer relevant, and some of which we remember finding them useful for our whole lives. But the best quotes are those that grow and expand in our thoughts as their meanings become deeper with the passing of years.

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.