I heard the unfortunate words loud and clear from my audiologist: “Your hearing aids can’t make up your deficit in your word discrimination.” 

I just completed the sorting of a 550-piece jigsaw puzzle into 5-quart-size storage bags, each with hopefully related pieces.

I just completed the sorting of a 550-piece jigsaw puzzle into 5-quart-size storage bags, each with hopefully related pieces.

This year I am assuming that my younger son, M, will attend his 10^th high school reunion, as he had both a successful and enjoyable run in high school. And probably, like all 10^th reunion goers, he’ll want to show off his adult credentials.

At my weekly live-ball tennis doubles session, featuring continuous ball-hitting sans serving, the younger, athletic player said he had no interest in pickleball. This made sense to me, since live-ball sessions at our Pompano, Florida, tennis center are a.k.a., cardio-tennis.

On a recent Sunday morning, cars were parked all over our short residential street. All 15 houses, built circa 1926, had parking spaces blocked, save for the driveways. This irritant was because of an estate-sale blowout at the house on our street corner.

My three closest former officemates from the 501 building and I recently met for our first get-together dinner meeting post-COVID. We have kept in touch, even though two of my friends retired in 2007, seven years before my final logoff.

While out with our friends in their new SUV, the question of whether we four senior citizens would ever own anything other than an eco-unfriendly, gas-powered vehicle was entertained.

Recently, my retiree-age literature class was discussing the classic ’50s conformity novel, The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, as if it were a gripping novel of World War II. In fact, there were raw scenes of the main character’s PTSD-inducing war experiences that impacted his rung climbing in the 1950s corporate world.

Recently, my retiree-age literature class was discussing the classic ’50s conformity novel, The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit, as if it were a gripping novel of World War II. In fact, there were raw scenes of the main character’s PTSD-inducing war experiences that impacted his rung climbing in the 1950s corporate world.

COVID’s social distancing has been an anathema for those real crowd lovers. You know, those ultra-social creatures who wade into the July Fourth Boston Pops concert on the esplanade to claim their 1 square foot of personal space.

Since our South Florida city’s dog park was closed in late March, our 2-year-old Boston terrier, Mabel, has missed the socialization opportunities it offered and so have my wife and I, snowbirds from the Boston area.

My late dad and I have both been in the crosshairs of a pandemic, albeit 102 years apart.

Last year I attended my class of 1969’s 50th high school reunion. It was a meaningful event for me because for one night, I was together with fellow baby boomers who marched lockstep in time with me from hula hoops to Hulu TV.

Last year I attended my class of 1969’s 50th high school reunion. It was a meaningful event for me because for one night, I was together with fellow baby boomers who marched lockstep in time with me from hula hoops to Hulu TV.

Surprisingly, it’s taken my third snowbird winter in Florida to realize that at age 68, I still have freckled arms and shoulders.

In our 62 years on Earth together, my dad asked me a lot of questions.

In sixth grade I was forced to miss at least a week’s worth of recess periods. I stayed in the classroom, while outside, my classmates were frolicking.

Supposedly one’s introduction to a Red Sox game at Fenway is always the splendor of the grass. The fan walks up the ramp from the park’s dingy bowels into the glorious green of an outfield so immaculate it appears to have been mown by God.

A few months ago, my childhood friend asked me if I would help out with our high school’s 50th reunion. I immediately said yes. Then I immediately had second thoughts.