I have mentioned before that the artist in me didn’t blossom until late in life.  Wait.  Shouldn’t “artist” be in quotes.  Oh, yeah, that’s better.

Having just attended a lecture on the “Joys of Downsizing” at the local senior center—packed, by the way—I have decided to grab the bull by the horns, meaning the crap in my house.  I figure it might be about time.

It used to be easy to “steal” someone else’s package.  Left on your doorstep, hey, it’s yours, baby.  But now Amazon has grown smarter.  It has its delivery people take a photo of exactly on which door the package has landed.

Growing up, through high school and college, girls/women never wore slacks or jeans.  It was always skirts and then for fancy occasions dresses.  Were we being punished for being female?  At least we could wear saddle shoes or white bucks with socks and didn’t have to worry about straight seams until the weekends.

I just read a rather ridiculous appeal to an advice columnist for—advice.

Like successful authors—unlike me—I should have written the same book over and over and over again, with minor variations.  I understand that people like to know what they’re getting when they pick up a book by a author they love.  But it was just something I couldn’t force myself to do.

I think about July 4 lately, when this unpatriotic American will be presiding over the festival of our freedom.  What a sad state of affairs we’re in.

Little things in life pile up, don’t they?   I’m adverse to talking on the phone, but there are so many appointments one cannot make via email or texts.  When I do connect, it seems that no one has the time or the timing is inappropriate.

Haven’t we all at one time or another been in a situation that was morally fraught, where we asked ourselves what we should do?

Whither or wither our common heritage?  I often ask myself that question  when listening to news shows on television or even talking to friends.

I can’t do it.  As wonderful as I am, I can’t stand before people and tell them how wonderful I am.  It’s just not in my nature.

I like to consider myself one with nature.  Maybe not the fauna so much but definitely the flora.

Now, despite the two cancers and Covid, I’m a great believer that nothing is going to go wrong with me, that some day I shall just say, “Bye, bye, Earth,” and make a quick exit.

No longer do we just turn away, muttering, “Each to his/her own opinion.”  Now someone must pay for annoying us.  They have to lose their job, be shunned by the community, be sued—be shot to death.

I feel guilty even writing about this subject.  I know there are people who would love to hear, those whose hearing was never there or those whose hearing loss can’t be helped.  And yet, I debate whether to get a hearing aid or not.

Now my husband has insurance.  Regular Medicare and a supplemental.  Northwestern says Medicare won’t pay, and I’ll have to appeal.  But I still owe $323 for a less-than-seven-minute conversation to fill out a form.

In September we will have been married for 59 years.  In 2013 my husband fell and suffered a traumatic brain injury.  That sort of spelled the end of our “normal” marriage because he would never be “normal” again.

Now there’s one good thing about me technologically.  I don’t read booklets, but if someone explains it to me verbally—perhaps many times—I get it.  Yes, I stumble and things need repeating, but I’m not a total dunce.  My husband, who could become impatient with students who didn’t understand statistics—like who does!—was very patient with me.

In some families the children would band together to protect one another.  In ours it was each man/woman for him/herself.

This latest effort submitted to the WANKER poetry group might be a bit squirrelly.