IRMA

I like rain. Especially living in South Florida where it can cool down a hot day and keep the landscape lush and gorgeous. This is a tropical climate and storms come and go in a matter of minutes. It's almost always a very refreshing experience. I say “almost” because, occasionally, a storm comes along that completely disregards the rules of decorum as regards rain in SoFla. Those are hurricanes and even during the “rainy season” they have their own agendas. They are not here to refresh and delight. Their sole purpose is destruction and they are scary as hell We got our first warning about the possibility of a “gobsmacking” from Hurricane Irma more than a week before the fact. Within days, they began evacuating people from the beach to about 2 miles inland. We live 1 mile from the evacuation area which meant we were on our own. My wife and I took heed and by Wednesday evening, we were making our own evacuation plans. We would get up early on Thursday and drive to Atlanta to stay at a nephew's house. That would keep us out of harms way and we'd get to take a short trip to unwind a bit but when we got up and turned on the news, we noticed that everyone else in the state had the same thought – before we did. There were lines at gas stations, which were running out of gas, lines at grocery stores, which were running out of staples like bread and water and lines on the highways to “get outta Dodge.” The trip to Atlanta was off. We figured that if we could make it to Orlando, we could stay with either one of my daughters who live in the area but that too was out of the question. We had a half a tank of gas which would have gotten us about half way there. Not the optimal situation as gas stations pumps were drying up and people waiting in lines were running out of the precious commodity. For our second choice to save our asses from the ever growing Irma, we decided to get a hotel room. Our assumption being that even with the loss of power, hotels have generators so they would be safe and relatively comfortable given the circumstances. For the ensuing few hours, with the storm still days away, I called every hotel between South Florida and Georgia. Every single one was booked solid. Once again, my ideas proved to anything but original and I was, obviously, too late again. Now I was beginning to panic. We would start feeling Irma's opening salvo on South Florida by Friday evening. “Let's find a shelter.” I said to my wife, “We'll be safe there.” She agreed and we decided that, once things started to pick up, we'd pack a few things and head to one of our local shelters. Once again my timing couldn't have been worse. They kept opening shelters and they would fill up before we could even find out where they were. There were lines to get in and people were being turned away. I was beginning to feel hopeless and desperate. We were finding ourselves with no place to go and no way to get there. For me, panic was setting in. We were sitting smack, dab in the path of, what was then, a category 5 hurricane and we had no options. I told my wife that, even during my tour in Vietnam, I hadn't been that scared. Shit was getting real and I was getting ready to cower in my closet in the fetal position for the next few days until the memory of the war brought me another fleeting thought. One that allowed me to calm down and look at things through much clearer lenses. I realized that in Vietnam we were never alone. We faced the enemy as a “Band of Brothers.” We had each others backs at all times and forged bonds that, 50 years later, are stronger than even some familial ties. I approached my neighbors, most of whom were in the same boat as we were and realized that, in them, I had my “Band of Brothers”to face the storm with. My wife barbecued for all of the neighbors and we all agreed that if there was any flooding downstairs, they could come up to our place and if the roof got blown away, we could go downstairs to them. We had come up with a nice little system to watch out for each other. It was right about then that my cousin contacted me to, a.) check on our status and b.) remind me that it was the “Yarzheit”(Anniversary) of my mom's death and that he had recognized that fact at the last religious service he had attended. We always light a candle of remembrance on the anniversary, so I got ours out and plugged it in. Within minutes, the TV began reporting that the storm had shifted west and that we were no longer in store for the absolute worst that Irma had to offer. It seemed to now be heading straight for every place we initially tried to escape to. I looked at the candle and uttered, almost to myself, “Thanks, ma.” The storm winds began to blow on Friday evening, By Saturday, we still had power but the cable, which is bundled with our internet and our landline, went out. There was no way to communicate or stay informed but we still had lights and refrigeration. My next door neighbor had also lost the cable but was watching the storm coverage. I asked how they were doing that and her daughter said, “I'm from the Bronx. You got a paperclip?” She came in and hooked up our TV which was now picking up 44 digital channels so that if we got tired of the coverage, we could find a movie. By Saturday night it was getting worse. Heavier winds and more rain but still nothing compared to what was on it's way for Sunday. I fell asleep and woke up to find.......we still had power. The lights were on and the AC, which had been malfunctioning all summer, was keeping us cool. “Thanks, ma.” Sunday it started to get worse and by late afternoon things were downright scary. In my 70 years I had never experienced anything like it and it seemed like it was never ending. This was the longest lasting storm I had ever seen. A small tree hit our window, a large tree in the area near the pool snapped in two and palm fronds and branches were flying everywhere. The wind was literally whistling and it was raining sideways. We have double paned, high impact hurricane windows and they held up beautifully. We were now heading into Sunday night and things started to begin to calm down a bit. The rain and wind started to ease and so did my stomach. Throughout the entire ordeal, we never lost our electricity. Every time I would walk past my moms Yarzheit candle, I would say, “Stay with us, ma.” She did. At about 10pm, the cable, internet and landline just popped back on. We made it. “Thanks, ma!” We got up Monday morning to a bright, sunny, hot South Florida morning. There was damage all around us. Trees down, roofs blown to pieces, debris everywhere and, yet, we came through it completely unscathed. All of the people who waited in all the lines to escape to other areas, hotels and shelters were now waiting in lines trying to get home to assess the damage. We went out to see if anyone was serving breakfast. We found a bagel shop a few blocks away that was serving food. There was, as expected, line but we waited. We had just come through a major hurricane with virtually no issues and we were hungry. I got a bagel with cream cheese and lox. I guess I should have taken into consideration that the place may have had refrigeration issues during the storm because the fish was bad. I got food poisoning. I guess it served my ass right for gloating. Thank goodness there was no line to the bathroom.

WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

Let me tell you about one of the dumbest decisions I ever made. My favorite sport is boxing. I'll take boxing over baseball any day of the week. Yes it takes strength to be a good boxer, but, it's much more like a chess game where each participant has to anticipate his opponents next move and make the proper decisions in order to not get hit while attempting to slip his glove through the other guys defenses to try and knock him out. It's about finesse and movement. It's like chess meeting ballet. I love boxing. My love for the sport goes back to all the boxing I watched with my Dad in the 50's. Great names still resonate when I think boxing. Archie Moore, the undefeated Rocky Marciano, Rocky Graziano and the fighter that I consider to be, pound for pound, the greatest ever; Sugar Ray Robinson. I love boxing. I kept following the game as I got older. I lost money on the first Cassius Clay/Sonny Liston fight. Some clown in High School was taking Clay and giving odds. Who knew? I think I lost 6 dollars on that one. By the 70's I was living in Philadelphia and one of my best friends was the WBC Light Heavyweight Champion of the World. I got the picture of the uppercut that knocked him out at the Meadowlands in his third title defense........with HIS camera. I love Boxing. Boxing is a wonderful union of mind and body. The mind has to be strong enough to be able to control your strategy as you defend, anticipate your opponents next move, try to hit him and come up with your own next move. The body has to be able to to withstand extreme punishment while providing the stamina and power to go from beginning to end. The strength of mind has to be equal to the strength of body. I love boxing. I've taught my girls to Box. My oldest was at a party with her now husband (they were engaged at the time) and her ex kept bothering her. She made a number of attempts at resolving the issue, but he made the mistake of touching her in some way. She broke his nose. Good girl. You've learned well. When I first arrived in Dallas, nearly 30 years ago, I was in great shape and was working out at the North Dallas Boxing Gym.  One of my workout buddies was another disc jockey from the network where I worked. He was doing Heavy Metal and went by the name Mad Maxx, but I knew him as Dave, a friend, a workmate and another boxing fan. We lifted weights, worked on the heavy bag and the speed bag, did some calisthenics and jumped a little rope. A terrific workout. One day I decided to venture off the beaten path a little and I asked Dave if he wanted to spar for a couple of rounds. He said sure and we laced up and started to go at it. I threw a right cross. That's about all I remember……until I found myself being dragged to the corner and hearing a voice ask, "Didn't you know that Dave has had 12 professional fights and spars with heavyweights in Forth Worth?" I did now! I never got in a ring again. I try not to even WEAR a ring these days.………..I love Boxing.

DESIRE UNDER THE BIG TOP

I've always loved to make people laugh but the true object of my desire, for as long as I can remember, has been to don the greasepaint and run into one of the Ringling Brothers 3 rings as a bona fide clown. I discovered the talent to amuse at an early age. I was 6 and, as was the normal course of my school day, cutting up in my first grade classroom in the hopes of eliciting a giggle or 2 from my friends and fellow students. The teacher was, as expected, the one person who was not amused and had finally had it with my hijinx. Livid, she jumped out from behind her desk, realizing, in all the wisdom that she could muster up in her 24 or so years, that the best way to deal with me would be to embarrass me by treating me just like I was acting. “Bobby B,” she yelled, unable to pronounce my then 14 letter last name, “if you are going to act like a 5 year, then there is no place for you here. Pick up your things and go back to the kindergarten where you belong.” Semi dejected, with shoulders bent and head bowed, I found my way back to the kindergarten classroom, opened the door and saw, to my delight, that it was somebody's birthday and they were having cake and ice cream. It was right then and there that I realized that comedy pays. My course was set by the ripe old age of six. I maintained, to the best of my ability, my status as class clown for as long as I possibly could, occasionally going toe-to-toe with Billy, the spitball king or Eddie, the 3rd grade poet whose “The cow went up the drainpipe” piece made me scramble for anything remotely funny to counter with. If nothing else, they kept me on my toes and my creative juices primed. All through junior high and high school, which I was thrown out of for flushing plastic cherry bombs in the boys room, and, eventually 3 years of boarding school and 6 months of college, I worked on my “chops.” I got into trouble all along the way, of course, but always attributed it to a sadly lacking sense of humor among any and all authority figures. I was determined to be a clown. As I got older, I continued to pursue my passion and ended up doing a morning radio show which allowed me the luxury trying out new material every day but I still wasn't satisfying the initial desire to paint my face, put on a big red nose and baggy pants with giant, floppy shoes and run around the big top. Then, one day while I was doing a morning radio show in Philadelphia, the circus came to town. I was beside myself when I got the call from the Ringling representative who said, “We like to use local celebrities as guest clowns when we are in town and were wondering if you'd be interested?” I could barely contain myself. This was my dream come true and it was actually going to happen. I had a few weeks before the performance and I used that time to become a fairly astute student of the art of clowning. I read up on the master clowns like Emmett Kelly and Felix Adler, read all about the Feld family and everything they had done with show since buying it from the Ringlings, everything I needed to know to fulfill my lifelong desire with aplomb and grace. Finally, the day came. I was so excited I could barely contain myself and hadn't slept a wink the night before. I went to the circus and brought my oldest daughter, who was about 5 at the time, knowing she would have every bit as much fun as I would. As we were sitting in the complimentary box seat provided by the Ringlings, my daughter mentioned that, being about 3 feet tall, she was having trouble seeing the animals so, being the good dad I was supposed to be, I hoisted her onto my shoulders, immediately pulling a muscle in my neck and rendering me unable to turn my head. “Let's go,” I heard a voice behind me say, “you're up next.” I wanted to cry. I just couldn't do it. I could barely get back to my car for the drive home. I never DID get to be a real clown. My daughter is now a 42 year old chiropractor in Orlando and a very good one. She also teaches chiropractic at UCF. If she had only decided to pursue that profession when she was 5.

KICKS CHANGE

“Some get a kick from cocaine I'm sure that if I took even one sniff That would bore me terrific'ly too Yet I get a kick out of you.” In 1934, Cole Porter wrote these lyrics for the Broadway musical, “Anything Goes.” It was sung by Ethel Merman. 2 years later, the film version was released with a new lyric because of, what was known as, The Hollywood Production Code of 1934. It, too was sung by Ethel Merman. In 1886, Dr. John Stith Pemberton of Atlanta used cocaine to create his own concoction, which became known, based on it's most active ingredient, as Coca-Cola. By 1903, Middle-class whites started to worry worried that soft drinks were contributing to what they saw as exploding cocaine use among African-Americans. Southern newspapers reported that “negro cocaine fiends” were raping white women, the police powerless to stop them. “Coke” took coke out of it's recipe and replaced it with sugar and caffeine. By 1904, it was illegal. The thrill was gone and so was the lyric. In the mid 70's, I decided to see if the original lyric was correct and found that, for me, it was, except, it did more that “ bore me terrific'ly,” it hospitalized me – twice, before I was able to focus on the fact that it was Sigmund Freud's powder of choice that was making my heart seem like it was about to jump out of my chest. Not only did it screw up my heart, pretty much for the rest of my life, but I never really liked it. In the world of rock & roll radio in the 70's, it snowed constantly, not just in the winter. It was everywhere you wanted it to be, so, in my case anyway, I just did it because it was there and everyone else was “playing.” It was the second hospitalization that reminded me of the question my dad had asked me often growing up, “If Billy Hart jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, are you gonna jump off the Brooklyn Bridge?” It was at that point that I was able to pick up the phone, call my dad and give him the answer he had been looking for throughout my formative years - “No.” My short lived cocaine use did, however, lead me to a new source of kicks – meeting characters during the numerous ER visits and hospital stays over the years. A couple of years ago, as I was being moved from an ambulance to an ER bed, I couldn't help overhearing the lady in the next bed. She was 82 years old and had, apparently, had an episode of very low blood sugar and had fallen getting out of a car. She had a huge gash in the back of her head that had to be stitched up and had broken her neck. It was a fracture in a spot where it had broken before. I heard them talking about how she was hit by a trolley car when she was a teenager and how her leg had never been the same, but, she hobbled through life and faced one challenge after another. She was told that she would have to wear another “halo” to allow her neck to mend, but she was having none of it. The doctors said that if she didn’t wear it, she could be permanently paralyzed. This was obviously not the entertainment portion of the show. That came when she would doze off, reacting to the morphine they had given her for the pain. That’s when her daughter and her daughter’s best friend would start to chat and it always seemed to be about booze. Every conversation involved who could hold what liquor, how to mix drinks that wouldn’t give them a headache, how many bottles of wine it would take before they became totally useless and, in one particularly enjoyable segment, how a guy had given one of them a gift of a wooden box with 2 bottles of Sutter’s Home Wine, which she perceived as the ultimate insult. She was worth a more expensive wine than that. During my most recent visit, I had a roommate who had broken his hip while stepping off a cruise ship. He was 72, his name was Bob and he had Alzheimers so, every three or 4 minutes, he would be buzzing the nurse to get help peeing, pooping, standing up, lying down, turning on the TV, changing the channel, turning off the light......you name it, Bob was asking for it. He kept saying, “I can't.” He said that a lot. He seemed pretty depressed so I loaned him my i-pad, on which I recorded a number of old movies. He watched “Topper Returns” and seemed to enjoy it. When he gave my my i-pad back, I realized that he had watched about 23 minutes of the film. Bob was gay and his husband made it a point to stay away as much as possible. It seemed to be his only respite from the incessant demands and having to cater to Bob's every whim. I, finally, while struggling to be understanding, had had enough and as I heard him trying to get out of bed right after hip surgery, I yelled, “DUDE, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” To which he yelled back, in a moment of lucidity, “WHO DO YOU THNK YOU'RE TALKING TO?” I explained that I was concerned and I didn't want to see him hurt himself and I told him a story: When I was about 5 years old, my parents took us to the annual 4th of July Parade that wound down Main Street in my hometown, Manchester, Ct. My mom looked down and I was gone. They couldn't find me and had begun to panic. That's when they saw me marching along the parade route playing a drum with one of the marching bands. When my parents addressed the fact that I didn't play the drums, I responded that, “Nobody told me I couldn't.” That was the day I removed the words “I can't” from my vocabulary, Earlier, Bob and I were chatting about our respective lives and he told me that he was impressed with many of the things I had done and told me that he thought it took a lot of talent. I reminded him of the earlier conversation and told him that it much less to do with talent and everything to do with the fact that nobody ever told me that I couldn't. I told him to get the words. “I can't” out of his head and off his lips. He listened and seemed to perk up at the suggestion. He said that was some of the best advice he's heard in quite a while and he was grateful. Then, within about 40 seconds, he was buzzing the nurse's station and telling them, “I can't change the channel,”as he was pushing all the buttons on his phone, thinking it was his remote. Bob will be fine but a little concerned for the mental well being of his partner, Richard. He was pretty frazzled. I still get my kick from doing drugs......all of which have now been prescribed because of the maladies caused by earlier experimentation. Metformin, Amlodipine, Lisinopril, Eliquis......I could go on but my keyboard is getting writers cramp. I'm sure there's a pill. Bottom line – new kicks caused by old kicks – and yet, those “kicks just keep getting harder to find.”

GRAND THEFT AUTO

        Every single one of us is, occasionally, guilty of gross stupidity and, although the consequences differ depending on the severity of our idiotic choices, we, ideally, learn from them.           This is a story that I have not told often and I'm not really very proud of it. In the world of stupid choices, for me, this one takes the cake.          It was a dark and stormy night. I say that because I've always wanted to open a story with that line, but, it was a pretty nasty night. The year was 1967 and I was in the Air Force, stationed at Sewart AFB in Smyrna, Tenn. which is about 30 miles south of Nashville on the way to Murfreesboro. There were about six of us who shared an apartment in the projects in North Nashville, not far from Tennessee State University. We called it “The Flop House” and it was the site of an ongoing party. The door was always open to our friends, be they military, college or other and our refrigerator was well stocked with the finest wines. OK, maybe not the “finest,” but, as we used to be very proud of stating, “we didn't drink that cheap dollar shit – we paid $1.09.” Gypsy Rose, Ripple, Twister, Bali Hai....nothing but the best rotgut on the market for our friends. There was always good weed and bad wine at “The Flop House” and everybody knew it. We were young and as carefree as we could be with a tour of duty in Vietnam looming over our heads, although, the more time we spent at the place, the less we cared about much of anything. On this particular night, two of us had to get back to the base for our work shifts. We had no car and were left to our own devices when it came to traveling to and from the flop house. We decided we would rely on our usual mode of transportation - our thumbs. I don't remember my friends name (I don't remember very much from those days) but, I know we called him “Superman” or Supe. He was a pretty good sized guy, but, the appellation came from the size of his afro. It was enormous – super, if you will – and he had to buy the biggest hat he could find to “stuff” it into when he was on base. We were close enough to the entrance to the highway that led to the base that it didn't take very long for us to get to. Then, we had about a 30 mile “hitchhike,” a straight shot, to get to the front gate.                   The weather was a very uncomfortable mix of snow, rain and ice that was falling at a light and steady pace. The roads were slick and we were high, drunk and cold, staggering backwards with our thumbs out. There was no traffic. Not a single car to be seen going either way. There were no lights on this particular stretch of road either. It truly was a “dark and stormy night,” and we were smack, dab in the middle of it. We had gone about a mile and were both uncomfortable and oblivious, conditions that could only coexist on the heels of our massive consumption earlier in the day, when we noticed the used car lot we were fast approaching. I'm not sure what prompted us to look in the windows of the cars, but, in one of them, we spotted.......the key. It was in the ignition and the doors were unlocked. It was almost as though one of the employees knew we would be hitchhiking in the middle of a very cold and sleety night and “had our backs.” We got in and Supe drove. The windshield wipers didn't work, so, I reached out of the passenger window and maneuvered them manually.                   We drove about 2 miles when we reached a traffic light that was red. The car died and wouldn't restart. That's when I got creative and told Supe that we should run down a side road and head back in the direction we came from so that we would be hitching towards the stalled, abandoned car in the middle of the road as if we had never gotten that far. We made it back to the car and, as before, the roads were completely empty.                   We got back in, the car started and we were, once again, on our way to the base and our military responsibilities. We had gone about another 4 or 5 miles when I saw the flashing lights approaching us from behind. They didn't pass us, they closed in on us and we pulled over. That was when the drugs and alcohol began to speak for us as we droned on about going to Vietnam in a week anyway, so, “go ahead and take us to jail.” The cop informed us that he pulled us over because we were driving without a license plate and asked to see our “off-base passes.” I showed mine. Supe didn't have one. He was off-base illegally and the AP's (Air Police) were summoned. They got there and took my friend away in handcuffs, leaving me, in a somewhat altered state (although the situation was a bit of a “buzz kill”) to deal with the situation alone. That's when I reached deep down into my creative psyche and explained that we had bought the car earlier in the day and that the paper “temporary tag,” that was taped to the back window, must have flown out when I opened the front window to make the wipers work. My first experience with the art of improv.              I'm not sure if the cop was really tired or just wanted to wrap things up and get in out of the cold, but, he bought it and asked if I was able to drive back to the base. I was not and I told him so, but, I DID know a place where I could park it until the light of day. I asked him follow me as I parked it. I now had a police escort as I drove the car right back to the lot and the parking space that we stole it from.               I then stepped back into the cold, dark night and “thumbed” my way back to the base. I even made it to work in time. Despite the intense exercise in stupidity, I learned a couple of very important lessons that night. I learned that I had a real creative instinct, which, in time, I was able to parlay very nicely into a career and I never again hitchhiked on a “dark and stormy night.” Oh yeah – and it's not nice to steal a car.

NO NOSTRADAMUS

I tend to shy away from making predictions because I honestly believe that the only thing I can predict with any amount of certainty is that I'm full of shit and my predictions will be wrong. With the notable exception of the fact that I, along with, pretty much everybody I know, will continue to get older every day. I feel like I've been waiting my whole life to understand what it means to get old. Until recently, I didn't even realize that getting old was a “life zone,” for lack of a better term. Not aging, mind you. That's a logical process that just, sorta, comes with the territory. I remember always being dissatisfied with whatever age I happened to be at any given point in my life because I was able to make, what seemed to be, credible predictions about what my future held and it was always rosier than where I was at the time. I just knew the grass would be greener in that next phase. I always considered my younger brother fortunate because he had the advantage of looking at me and saying, “Hell no. I gotta find some greener grass than THAT!” Each year of our life is spent with the anticipation of being a year older, especially when it is a milestone year. We reach these milestones by simply existing for any given amount of time. Get past the first nine years and you're in..... “double digits.” Three more years and you're........a Teenager. Once you realize that being a teen comes with it's own set of issues, you can't wait to be done with all the awkward nonsense. You know that eight years into this particular leg of the journey, you'll reach a milestone that gives you a glimpse of what adulthood will be like. You'll be.........18. The age of majority, where you will now have the opportunity to make some of your own decisions. You will be able to serve your country and, in times of war, you may be drafted.......I was. You can now be thrown into the middle of a conflict and, quite possibly, die. Don't try to get a beer, though. For that, you have to reach the next milestone......21. Now, the wait to quench that thirst is finally over and you can freely walk into a bar and feel like an adult. This is where the prediction of a more idyllic existence is split into 10 year increments. We are aging as well as getting older but that concept is still too abstract to make a difference. “Gee, I'm 25 but when I look in the mirror and I still see 19. Man, I can't wait 'til 30 so I can feel like a real grownup.” This is a general rule of aging but occasionally, rules are meant to be broken. For MY particular segment of the baby boom, part of our generational mantra was, “Never trust anyone over 30.” Once we tuned 30 and began to grow up, we understood that it was time to put down the Daffy Duck doll (that I carried in my back pocket) and start getting serious about raising a family and doing the things responsible adults do as they age as gracefully as they possibly can. After the trauma of turning thirty wore off, the aging process just “was.” The predictions got a little easier. At least for a decade or two. In fact, the only prediction I made at 30 was that I would see the next milestone.....hitting the big 5-0. Fortunately, that one came true. I try not to make them too difficult. Then came the next big one - turning 60, which meant you were now in a decade where it was all supposed to pay off. Words like – retire, pension and Social Security enter our lexicon. And yet, for the most part, I can still remember looking in the mirror and, just like when I was in my 20's, seeing that 19 year old me. I didn't appear that way to anyone else, I'm sure, but I preferred to keep the image in my minds eye alive and milk it for all it was worth. It's a nice perception and it can keep you young until......one day......out of the blue, simple aging becomes “getting old.” It just happens. Real fast. You really don't expect it and you can't predict it. Things start to hurt and fall and clog and change colors and sizes. Your hair turns gray and your prostate gets bigger than your ego. The wait is over. All that preparation and anxiety has come to this. You are now officially getting old. I don't see 19 in the mirror any more.........I see my grandfather and it's pretty unsettling. I certainly never could have predicted, as I took part is the mass drug experimentation of the 70's, that in my 70's the only drugs I would take would be those prescribed to do things like keep my blood sugar steady, keep my heartbeat steady, keep my blood pressure steady.....you get the idea. All the crap that was caused by those years of messing around with all those other drugs. I really can't tell you a whole lot about the experience though. It was the 60's and the 70's and I was there. That's about the only fact that I can accurately remember. These days I don't even try to predict tomorrow. Each morning I wake up and take stock of what aches and pains are waking up with me. That is how I can gauge the “normal” for the day. Each day is a new “normal” and you adjust accordingly. This is what I've waited my whole life to understand? That Bette Davis was spot on when she said, “Getting old ain't for sissies?” I have to be honest. I'm digging the wisdom that comes with getting old. I miss an awful lot about being younger but most of it is physical. I would give anything to be able to play a game of baseball but, I can't. My body will let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I will, if I don't sit down and act my age, most likely break a hip. I've accepted the fact that the list of my contemporaries is getting shorter by the day as is the list of things that I can do without pain and weird noises coming from parts of my body that I didn't know existed. There is, of course, the BIG milestone. The one that we will all reach. As close as it may seem to be getting, I won't be making any predictions. The plan is to stretch the “wait” as far as I can.