Category: baby boomers

Let’s give thanks

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Let’s see: Thanksgiving is over and Christmas looms ahead as the pandemic rages on. What are we giving thanks for?

We just have to be creative thinkers. Sometimes you have to be grateful for what you don’t have any more.

If you, like me, are watching a lot of television and are annoyed by the repetitive commercials — mostly by automobile and insurance companies — I do have a little good news: The Medicare enrollment period ends on December 7th!

That means the insurance companies can pack up their commercials for another year. This doesn’t exactly mean the peace comes to our valley, but it does mean that we don’t have to listen to all those pitches for a few months. Goodbye Joe Namath, United Healthgroup, Humana, Aetna, et al.

Phil Swift has never looked so good.

When Polio Was Our Enemy (Part 4)

The scourge of polio (or poliomyelitis) pales when compared to Covid-19 or the Flu Pandemic of 1918, primarily because of the relentless spread of both diseases.

Patients in iron lungs

It is estimated that about 500 million people or one-third of the world’s population became infected with the flu in 1918. The number of deaths was estimated to be at least 50 million worldwide, with about 675,000 of those deaths occurring in the United States.

As I write this, the current number of Covid-19 cases in the United States is 10.4 million, with 250,000 deaths. Worldwide cases stand at 51.6 million cases and 1.28 million deaths.

And they tell us the worst is yet to come.

Still, Polio was a formidable enemy:

In just the United States in 1952 alone, over 50,000 children were infected with the virus; 21 thousand were paralyzed, and more than 3,000 died.

The paralysis was not limited to a child’s legs. If a patient’s breathing pump muscles were paralyzed, they were placed in an “iron lung” – a sealed ventilator – that breathed for them. Only a child’s head was outside the long tube. If a child was lucky, like the boy on my street, they would eventually recover and not need the iron lung anymore. The unlucky children could spend years in them.

For lucky children like me, though, help was on the way.

From the WABAC Machine: Anacronism

We need to laugh this week and there isn’t much to laugh about. I found this post from an older blog that I had and it seems appropriate.

It’s my response to a WordPress daily prompt: Anachronism (noun): an error in chronology; a person or thing that’s chronologically out of place. Write a story in which a person or thing is out of place, or recount a time when you felt out of place.

Aging Hippie strangles Yuppie at National Folk Festival

In 1985 and 1986, the National Folk Festival came to the newly created Cuyahoga Valley National Recreation Area (now a National Park) in Akron, Ohio. I lived just a mile or so from the festival, so I packed up the camera and went to see what I could see and hear.

They had laid wood down on the grass to make a dance floor and, as the music took hold of the crowd, a few people started clogging. The man and woman in this picture did not start out together but they eventually came together on the dance floor. He raised his hands while he was dancing and I took the photo. It’s still a favorite of mine and I still don’t know exactly what was going on.


“Mom, what does the gold star mean?”


I’m a  baby boomer, born a few years after World War  II. I remember walking past houses on my way to school that had a  gold star–or multiple stars–displayed in their front windows, just a simple gold star printed on a square of white card stock. There were enough of them in our neighborhood that I knew they were significant, so I asked my parents what they meant.

They explained that the family had lost someone in the war. It was a star honoring the family and the fallen service person.

I would walk past those houses with a quiet reverence, and say a prayer for them, much like I still do when I wait for a funeral procession to pass by.

I know, and I suspect most decent people know that it’s not about us.

Why I understood Betty Draper


I always had mixed feelings about Mad Men, although I was a faithful viewer. Having lived through that period in the 60s and 70s when it seemed like the whole world was exploding, I appreciated being able to view that time from a distance so I could reconsider the period without having to live through it again.

“Change” was not a big word in the neighborhood where I grew up: stability was the goal. World War II had ended a few years earlier. The veterans came home to get married, start a family, and not talk about what they had seen.

The houses on our street were built especially for the returning veterans, so the families were approximately the same age. The homes were nearly identical, save for a different front door or the bathroom tile and no one seemed to have a problem with that.

Neighbors became friends; the neighborhood became their social club. There were summer picnics for the families and winter holiday parties for the adults. Weather permitting, we children played outside all day–sometimes into the night with games of Flashlight Tag (otherwise known as Hide-and-Seek during the daylight hours).

It was difficult to see some families move away, less so others. But then we had new neighbors to meet, so we busied ourselves waiting for the moving van and getting our first look at the new family.

The Sullivans–Bill, Maggie, and their 3-year-old daughter–moved in early 1960. The Sullivans were about 15 years younger than my parents. I think my mother and I both thought of Maggie as our personal friend. She was tall and almost beautiful. She was an artist and vocalist, but she mostly set those talents aside to be a wife and mother.

You would see her in the morning wearing a tattered bathrobe and a pair of Bill’s socks. That evening, when I came to babysit, she’d changed into a black sheath dress and pearls and reminded me of Jackie Kennedy.

I’d arrive before they went out for dinner with two other couples. They’d met at their house for hors d’oeuvres and martinis and would return for a nightcap after dinner.

After they left, I’d wash the martini glasses and line them up on the counter. I’d wrap the cheese and return it to the refrigerator until about a half-hour before they all returned from dinner. Then, I pulled out the cheese and crackers, made sure there was ice, and brought out fresh napkins ahead of their return.

My mother was a wise and wonderful woman who taught me countless, invaluable things. Maggie taught me a few more: how to be a gracious hostess, how to make everyone feel that they truly were the most important person in the room.

What I rejected was the desire to be the corporate wife.

She was fortunate enough to have parents who could send her to college but, despite her obvious intelligence and creative gifts, she left school after one year to marry Bill. Her career was to be his wife and raise his children. My mother and I both agreed that she had married down.

After she left the inner circle of her family and friends, Maggie had no first name. Whether it was an article about her work with the Junior Women’s’ Club or her own book club, she was always “Mrs. Robert Sullivan” in the newspaper articles in the “Women’s pages” in those days–weddings, club notes, but nothing truly important to the men.

I remember one summer morning when my mother and I were sitting in Maggie’s back yard. She sat in a lawn chair with a mixing bowl balanced on her lap as she snapped the ends off of some green beans.

My mother and Maggie were talking and laughing. I was mostly observing them, so I may have been the first one to see Maggie’s body tense and her eyes cloud over. Her body stiffened and, as we called her name, she fell to the ground.

Years later, when I read about catatonia in my college psychology classes, the image of her stiffened body returned to me.

Maggie recovered quickly that morning. She laughed and returned to her green beans, but my mother knew there was something seriously wrong. Mom told her that she was trying too hard to be the perfect wife and mother, that perfection was an impossible goal.

I saw it differently. Here was this highly intelligent, talented, and wonderful woman who denied her own talents to become a corporate wife and mother.

I suspect the truth lie somewhere between our generations, which brings me back to Mad Men.

In the first episode, Betty Draper is driving her children in the Ford station wagon when her hands stiffen and she loses control of the car. There is a minor crash on a neighbor’s lawn. To her credit, Betty’s first instinct is to rush to check on her children, who are both fine and giggling over the adventure.

Her concerns, however, tell us much about Betty: it would be all right if her son had sustained a scar from the accident: scars on men are OK, but not so her daughter Sally.

Here was a woman who was certainly better educated than Maggie. She spoke fluent Italian and had a degree in Anthropology from Barnard College. She was prettier than Maggie, but probably not as intelligent. I suspect she was the most important woman in her neighborhood, though.

More importantly, Betty lacked two important things that Maggie had:

  • Loving parents
  • A sense of humor

We never meet Betty’s mother but we learn that she recently died before this fictional first episode. Don grudgingly agrees to pay for Betty’s sessions with a psychologist but then he and the doctor collude about her sessions over the telephone.

Granted, she is married to a deeply damaged husband. But the most important thing we learn about Betty we learn in this first episode and it’s almost a throwaway line: “My mother died a few weeks ago,” she tells the psychologist.

I know how the death of my mother affected me and the time it took for me to recover, but Betty is afforded none on that. She is a grieving woman who is deemed not worthy of consolation.

And so it goes for Betty, arguably the best-educated woman in the neighborhood, but also the unhappiest.

She cannot give love, for she has never known it.

Maggie, however, did know love. I do not pretend to understand her frustrations, although I know that she was capable of so much more, and she knew it as well.

Perhaps it is fine to truncate your goals, to never realize your potential. Maggie knew love and therefore knew how to love. Betty Draper knew that her beauty was her best asset but she failed at love.

In her final letter to Sally, she tells her that she knows her life will be an adventure. Then she spends more time telling Sally what she wants to wear for her final appearance at her funeral. The chiffon dress is in the closet; the lipstick is in her purse.

If Mad Men does nothing else, I hope it gives us an accurate picture of the well-defined misogyny of the era. I lived through much of it.

On our street, however, Maggie was my role model growing up. I would rather be her than Betty, but in truth, I’d rather be myself.

Whose old hands are these?


I never had much luck with fingernail polish. Seems like I can apply a smooth coat of polish to–at best–five of ten nails. I’m sure that is related to the fact that I’m left-handed and all the “good” nails are on my right hand.

I know several women who go for a manicure each week and their nails look lovely, but that’s not for me. First, it involves making an appointment during the week when I’m working. More importantly, I consider those nail salons to be toxic time bombs and my hunch was proven correct by the New York Times recently.

So, I just buff my nails and that seems to work for me. Besides, my hands are not very attractive. I’m glad that I never aspired to become a hand model, because I would be among the long-term unemployed in that field.

What is a hand model, you ask? It is a professional model who is only hired for his or her attractive hands. Their hands appear in images such as the above, although I do detect some retouching on the photo. Is it my imagination or is the skin tone on the fingers pinker than on the hand? Maybe it’s makeup. (It’s a tough business for hand models, apparently.)

My hands work perfectly well, thank you, and that is all I ever ask of them. My fingers are long  enough to exceed a one-octave reach on a piano by one note. That’s a personal source of quiet pride that would be even more satisfying if I actually played piano.

What I don’t like about my hands is that the veins are quite prominent. This makes nurses happy if they need to insert an IV. They say, “Oh, those veins are lovely!” and, before I can warn them that said veins do NOT remain stationary when poked, they try to insert the needle–and miss. As far as I can tell, there is no benefit to having prominent veins on your hands, unless you want to volunteer them to help train student nurses and lab technicians. (And I don’t.)

I’ve lived inside this body of mine for many years and I still feel the same as  when I was a youngster. Unless I’m standing in front of a mirror, my hands are the one part of my body that I see throughout the day. I see then when I’m driving or when I’m typing. Sometimes I wonder when they stopped being smooth or when that age spot popped up.

Despite all this, my hands suit me perfectly. They function as designed and are not gnarled with arthritis or afflicted with Carpal Tunnel Syndrome.  For this, I am grateful.

And on those evenings at home when they look like an old woman’s hands, I just take off my glasses make everything  a little blurry. That works for me.

Who needs Photoshop?