“Kids today have it so easy,” says the Odd Old Man Next Door to his wife. The couple has just returned from a visit to grandson Conor. Conor, obsessed with computer games, has been longing for an adult laptop for several months, an eternity for him.
They sit down at the dining table for a cup of coffee. The Odd Old Woman Next Door stirs sugar into her drink, circling the spoon round and round for what seems like hours. She notices the OOMND frown and cast a disapproving look in her direction, so she stops stirring to reach for the box of donut holes and pushes it toward her husband. She knows this will distract him and put him in a better mood.
He seizes a cinnamon-covered treat to pop in his mouth whole. “His dad’s going to get him the new computer this weekend. Eight hundred dollars! Can you imagine?”
The OOWND picks up her donut hole with thumb and forefinger and nibbles delicately. “Well, as I understand it, he’s been saving for quite a while. His allowance, his house-plant watering business, the chores he’s done for us.”
“Eight hundred dollars. When I was young, if I had ten dollars, I thought I was rich. Eight hundred was something that families lived on for a year.”
“Hardly.”
The OOMND shakes his head as if to debate the point, so the OOWND hastily amends her statement. “At least very few families had to live on that.”
“My first bicycle cost thirty dollars. And I rode it for ten years,” says the OOMND. “I’d go around the neighborhood after a snowstorm and shovel neighbors’ sidewalks for fifty cents. Can you believe it?”
“And my first babysitting jobs were for eighty-five cents an hour,” she answers “I was expected to buy all my own extras with that.”
“Now a bike easily costs several thousand dollars,” he says. “And to get a haircut for fifteen dollars, I have to go to barber college.”
“Conor says once he saves up enough money for the laptop, he’s going to throw his money around,” she says. “I wonder what he thinks that means?
“I can just see him with a jarful of coins, tossing it in the air, and laughing as it rains down. Trying to catch them. Batting them everywhere.”
“Or taking a stack of dollar bills to hide all over the house. Under cushions, in the cat’s climbing tower” She sips her coffee and ponders. “Say, I bet we could throw our money around,” the OOWND says.
He chuckles. “You already do that. Every time you see someone on the corner asking for change, you pass him a five.”
“Well, it makes me feel good. These days lots of people have trouble making ends meet. What about you? Whenever I turn around, you’re buying a new mystery.”
“I don’t spend nearly as much as you do on going out for breakfasts. According to the blanks in our budget, you laid out fifteen thousand on breakfasts last year.”
“That’s an exaggeration. It includes our weekly dinners out.”
“Still, a significant figure.”
The OOWND sighs. “After talking about food, now I’m hungry.”
He pushes the donut holes in her direction. “Here. Have another.”
She holds her palm up. “No way. Each of those has about two hundred calories.”
The OOMND stretches in his chair. “The way I see it, as regards Conor, the important thing is the same as it always has been. He worked for his money and what he buys. He values it A major life lesson for a nine-year-old. And he’s having fun.”
“Us, too,” the OOWND answers. “We get money, we throw it around, and we have fun. We throw it around, but we don’t owe anyone anything.”
“What would the neighbors think if they saw us flinging bills and coins up in the air in the front yard? Would they run to grab some?”
“Who cares?” says the OOMND. “That’s one of the good qualities of growing old. Not worrying about people’s opinions.”
“You’re right” his wife agrees.
“So I guess Conor’s not so different from us,” says the OOMND.
“Guess not.” She reaches for her husband’s hand and squeezes it.
The Odd Old Man Next Door stands at his second-floor bedroom window, peering out at the alley. Today, his neighbors in the nearby condos rolled their purple, green and black wheeled barrels out to the alley for collection, where the containers stand at attention in perfect rows. However, something’s still off. The OOMND fumes, “Today is not trash day. This week contained a city holiday, so all schedules are one day later. Can’t they get that through their thick skulls?”
Downstairs, the Odd Old Woman Next Door hears his mutters. Ever-helpful she yells up the stairs, “Why don’t we write a flyer about this, and you can distribute them door to door. If people followed your suggestion, the alley would look much nicer and clear of the debris that collects when the wind blows.”
“Great idea,” says the OOMND. “If you’ll write and print some, I pass them out.”
“If you’d learn how to use the computer and printer,” snaps the OOWND back, “you could do all that yourself.”
He thunders downstairs, thinning gray hair waving around his head like a halo. “But then we couldn’t work on this together.”
How could she dispute that? She thinks he’s sooooo sweet for wanting them to be together.
The next week he’s ready early for his project. In the dark house the windows show only the black of night outside when he crawls out of bed to drag on his regular outfit: gray sweatpants, navy blue sweatshirt at least twenty-five years old, ragg wool socks pulled up to his knees, sneakers frayed and ripped. His wife remains snuggled under the covers. After all, the temperature is only thirty-seven. She groans and mutters to herself, “Crazy as a coot.”
As he thumps downstairs, she screeches, “Hang on to the banister,” just as she hears his shoe slip and he recovers his step. He calls to the OOWND, “If you hurry, you can come with me to deliver the flyers.”
She groans. “Why would I want to?”
In short order, the OOWND appears in the kitchen, dressed in jogging pants and turtleneck under her paisley bathrobe. “Okay, all set.” She holds a stack of colorful flyers alerting their neighbors to the revised trash collection schedule.
After they finish their chore, they return home to breakfast. “Did you see Stacie?” the OOWND asks her husband over bran flakes (low cal, to promote regularity).
“What?” he asks.
She recalls he can’t hear her unless she repeats at least twice. “Did you see Stacie? Did you see Stacie?”
“No,” said the old man. “Why?”
“She was dragging her trash to the alley when she stopped to read the flyer. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, like What are those odd old people bitchin’ about now? Maybe we shouldn’t pass these out.”
The OOMND snorts and shakes his head. “Bull,” he says. “She’ll appreciate the suggestion when she notices how tidy the alley stays.”
“I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
“What? What?”
The OOWND raises her voice. “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now. . . I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
He splutters. “So much the worse for her if she can’t recognize a great idea.”
“Right as usual,” said the OOWND. She received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a wife to her husband.
“Yes, dear,” said the OOMND. He received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a husband to his wife.
(Perhaps to be continued)
The Odd Old Man Next Door stands at his second-floor bedroom window, peering out at the alley. Today, his neighbors in the nearby condos rolled their purple, green and black wheeled barrels out to the alley for collection, where the containers stand at attention in perfect rows. However, something’s still off. The OOMND fumes, “Today is not trash day. This week contained a city holiday, so all schedules are one day later. Can’t they get that through their thick skulls?”
Downstairs, the Odd Old Woman Next Door hears his mutters. Ever-helpful she yells up the stairs, “Why don’t we write a flyer about this, and you can distribute them door to door. If people followed your suggestion, the alley would look much nicer and clear of the debris that collects when the wind blows.”
“Great idea,” says the OOMND. “If you’ll write and print some, I pass them out.”
“If you’d learn how to use the computer and printer,” snaps the OOWND back, “you could do all that yourself.”
He thunders downstairs, thinning gray hair waving around his head like a halo. “But then we couldn’t work on this together.”
How could she dispute that? She thinks he’s sooooo sweet for wanting them to be together.
The next week he’s ready early for his project. In the dark house the windows show only the black of night outside when he crawls out of bed to drag on his regular outfit: gray sweatpants, navy blue sweatshirt at least twenty-five years old, ragg wool socks pulled up to his knees, sneakers frayed and ripped. His wife remains snuggled under the covers. After all, the temperature is only thirty-seven. She groans and mutters to herself, “Crazy as a coot.”
As he thumps downstairs, she screeches, “Hang on to the banister,” just as she hears his shoe slip and he recovers his step. He calls to the OOWND, “If you hurry, you can come with me to deliver the flyers.”
She groans. “Why would I want to?”
In short order, the OOWND appears in the kitchen, dressed in jogging pants and turtleneck under her paisley bathrobe. “Okay, all set.” She holds a stack of colorful flyers alerting their neighbors to the revised trash collection schedule.
After they finish their chore, they return home to breakfast. “Did you see Stacie?” the OOWND asks her husband over bran flakes (low cal, to promote regularity).
“What?” he asks.
She recalls he can’t hear her unless she repeats at least twice. “Did you see Stacie? Did you see Stacie?”
“No,” said the old man. “Why?”
“She was dragging her trash to the alley when she stopped to read the flyer. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, like What are those odd old people bitchin’ about now? Maybe we shouldn’t pass these out.”
The OOMND snorts and shakes his head. “Bull,” he says. “She’ll appreciate the suggestion when she notices how tidy the alley stays.”
“I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
“What? What?”
The OOWND raises her voice. “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now. . . I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
He splutters. “So much the worse for her if she can’t recognize a great idea.”
“Right as usual,” said the OOWND. She received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a wife to her husband.
“Yes, dear,” said the OOMND. He received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a husband to his wife.
(Perhaps to be continued)
The Odd Old Man Next Door stands at his second-floor bedroom window, peering out at the alley. Today, his neighbors in the nearby condos rolled their purple, green and black wheeled barrels out to the alley for collection, where the containers stand at attention in perfect rows. However, something’s still off. The OOMND fumes, “Today is not trash day. This week contained a city holiday, so all schedules are one day later. Can’t they get that through their thick skulls?”
Downstairs, the Odd Old Woman Next Door hears his mutters. Ever-helpful she yells up the stairs, “Why don’t we write a flyer about this, and you can distribute them door to door. If people followed your suggestion, the alley would look much nicer and clear of the debris that collects when the wind blows.”
“Great idea,” says the OOMND. “If you’ll write and print some, I pass them out.”
“If you’d learn how to use the computer and printer,” snaps the OOWND back, “you could do all that yourself.”
He thunders downstairs, thinning gray hair waving around his head like a halo. “But then we couldn’t work on this together.”
How could she dispute that? She thinks he’s sooooo sweet for wanting them to be together.
The next week he’s ready early for his project. In the dark house the windows show only the black of night outside when he crawls out of bed to drag on his regular outfit: gray sweatpants, navy blue sweatshirt at least twenty-five years old, ragg wool socks pulled up to his knees, sneakers frayed and ripped. His wife remains snuggled under the covers. After all, the temperature is only thirty-seven. She groans and mutters to herself, “Crazy as a coot.”
As he thumps downstairs, she screeches, “Hang on to the banister,” just as she hears his shoe slip and he recovers his step. He calls to the OOWND, “If you hurry, you can come with me to deliver the flyers.”
She groans. “Why would I want to?”
In short order, the OOWND appears in the kitchen, dressed in jogging pants and turtleneck under her paisley bathrobe. “Okay, all set.” She holds a stack of colorful flyers alerting their neighbors to the revised trash collection schedule.
After they finish their chore, they return home to breakfast. “Did you see Stacie?” the OOWND asks her husband over bran flakes (low cal, to promote regularity).
“What?” he asks.
She recalls he can’t hear her unless she repeats at least twice. “Did you see Stacie? Did you see Stacie?”
“No,” said the old man. “Why?”
“She was dragging her trash to the alley when she stopped to read the flyer. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, like What are those odd old people bitchin’ about now? Maybe we shouldn’t pass these out.”
The OOMND snorts and shakes his head. “Bull,” he says. “She’ll appreciate the suggestion when she notices how tidy the alley stays.”
“I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
“What? What?”
The OOWND raises her voice. “I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now. . . I imagine she’ll just tell her husband what the crazy old people next door are interfering in now.”
He splutters. “So much the worse for her if she can’t recognize a great idea.”
“Right as usual,” said the OOWND. She received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a wife to her husband.
“Yes, dear,” said the OOMND. He received instructions years before that that is the appropriate answer in these situations from a husband to his wife.
If you’re like me, these days you’re feeling depressed, frustrated, even angry. Add helpless to the list. COVID, which is nothing more or less than an “act of God”,we can do nothing about. And despite our automatic reaction to feel entitled to better luck or different circumstances, Americans finally, faintly realize there are some things we can do nothing about, even if we don’t deserve the outcome.
Plague I can deal with. The sight of my fellows making violent war against one another in the streets and public buildings, I can’t. It casts the most dismal black cloud over my being. Those who disagree, those who can’t think rationally and kindly about themselves, our nation, and circumstances, should send themselves to time-out immediately.
Unfortunately, I know this won’t occur. The only idea I’ve been able to come up with has occurred spontaneously to some of my friends. Stimulus checks flooded the country in the spring. My husband and I decided to donate ours to organizations and groups who had been the most impacted by dismal economics. Strange to say, we both came up with the idea separately, then suggested the action to one another. Since then, I’ve learned a number of my connections have leaked that they did the same thing.
Now we’re to get more money we haven’t earned and don’t need, at least don’t need nearly as much as folks like food service workers, independent contractors, housecleaners, child care providers, and many others. So, yes, again we’ll donate these funds. It makes me feel the tiniest bit better, an infinitesimal iota hopeful.
Charities are changing their focus and the way they determine priorities. These days people need more direct services, and if a philanthropy is sensitive at all, it’s concentrating more on these. My private wish is for individuals to open their fingers, even to panhandlers on the street, many of whom didn’t ask to be there. They’re humans and don’t deserve the abuse handed them by some.
Don’t even think you don’t know how to participate. Every community has churches providing services to people in financial straits, food banks, philanthropic groups. Perhaps you have friends, relatives, or connections who are worried sick about the future. Yes, you can give to individuals and families. Wouldn’t you rather come down on the side of helping people rather than live in constant fear that you’re being cheated?
I learned long ago that I’m usually out of step with society and those around me. My political candidates are almost always the ones who lose. Unlike most Americans, I hate to shop and abhor wasting hours strolling through stores that urge me to buy things. Ditto ads. I refuse to own heaps, tons, and masses of possessions. They weigh me down and make me stress out. The only things I over-indulge in are books and sunflower seeds. I never used mind-altering substances, even in the wild 60s. Obviously I’m not part of the mainstream
Imagine my surprise when I discovered there are popular terms describing my condition. Minimalism. Simple living. Austere. A solid core of minimalists has established a presence on the internet where you can learn about the tenets of the approach, I presume in as compact and pithy sentences as possible.
I arrived at my personal minimalism through two avenues. The first might be viewed as radical or extreme, despite being based on conservativism, which is rooted in being conservative. That radical concept is environmental activism. I don’t want anything more to be built, whether buildings, vehicles, factories. I reject bags and recycle and reuse plastic bags if I find myself stuck with some. I’ll avoid getting anything new if I can do so. I don’t think a faltering economy justifies loosening environmental controls.
The second is much more personal – laziness. When I recycle cards, carefully trimming the message panel from the pictorial panel, I save time (no shopping) and money (no purchase). I’m too lazy to travel from location to location in search of any bargain. I’d far rather curl up on my bed to read my tablet or a magazine than run out to do diddle-squat.
I like the definition of minimalism found on the website The Minimalists“Minimalism is a tool that can assist you in finding freedom. Freedom from fear. Freedom from worry. Freedom from overwhelm. Freedom from guilt. Freedom from depression. Freedom from the trappings of the consumer culture we’ve built our lives around. Real freedom.”
Obviously the approach doesn’t restrict the practitioner in learning more, using the brain more, appreciating people and life more. The less I have in material goods, the more opportunity I have to gain the intangibles. I’m curious and can spend hours tracking down a fact or quote.
In the guide “Becoming Minimalist,” the short definition is “MINIMALISM IS OWNING FEWER POSSESSIONS, intentionally living with only the things I really need—those items that support my purpose. I am removing the distraction of excess possessions so I can focus more on those things that matter most.” There are lots of additional tips and insights for those who’d like to explore them on the website.
So minimalism has enabled me to simplify my behavior even further. When someone asks me about my approach to life, or suggests doing something I’m not crazy about, or tells me to buy an item, I just explain, “I can’t do that. I’m a minimalist,” thereby streamlining my existence even more.
Colorado Women in World War II, by Gail M. Beaton (Timberline Books, August 2020)
WHEN WOMEN WENT OVER THERE, TOO
More than seventy-five years ago, the war AFTER the war to end all wars (WW I), AKA World War II ended. While the war itself was no cause for celebration, it did bring massive changes to American society. We geared up for an uber-national effort, factories turned to making war implements and support for the troops, people raised their own veggies, millions made-do and did-without.
Another major kick in the seat of the pants was to the American labor force, which had its locked gates slowly pried open by females. With little support for the concept of equal rights, women moved into the job market and filled all the pink collar and service positions in the nation that it always had, but also broke limits in new occupations. Colorado was no different, as women soldered, sawed, hammered, flew hither and yon, studied medicine and aeronautics, doctored and nursed, gave tea parties yes, but also marched with men in the service, except for combat.
Colorado Women in World War II could be a handbook for how to move ahead, shove your way into the mainstream. Author Gail Beaton chronicles numerous individuals as they learned (and sometimes loved) to fill critical, vital roles, earning the respect and accolades of their male peers along the way. We always like to imagine that our generation is responsible for major developments, and, we hope, improvements in our society. Beaton clearly credits our foremothers for their courage and fortitude. Shame on our country that some of the most impressive were the insuperable odds against which women of color, all colors, and of differing sexuality struggled simply to claim their right to contribute to the war effort.
Among the fascinating glimpses into life for women during the war—bathing from a helmet, cowering in the depths of a ship under fire, working 12-hour shifts, caring for dying soldiers—the book provides a treasure trove for vets, women, historians, and military buffs. Despite avoiding front line combat, danger and privation still lurked everywhere. Beaton braids nearly eighty oral histories—including interviews, historical studies, newspaper accounts, and organizational records—and historical photographs to reveal women’s participation in the war, exploring the dangers and triumphs they felt, the nature of their work, and the lasting ways in which the war influenced their lives.
The fortitude and creativity with which they shattered limits to create new opportunities for women sets the bar high for following generations. And they did so while saving the entire nation from disaster and despair.
I learned long ago that I’m usually out of step with society and those around me. My political candidates are almost always the ones who lose. Unlike most Americans, I hate to shop and abhor wasting hours strolling through stores that urge me to buy things. Ditto ads. I refuse to own heaps, tons, and masses of possessions. They weigh me down and make me stress out. The only things I over-indulge in are books and sunflower seeds. I never used mind-altering substances, even in the wild 60s. Obviously I’m not part of the mainstream
Bonnie McCune, author 