These times, difficult, for you and for me,
times no one could predict,
although there were warnings

years ago, months ago,
back when we were making plans — 
plans that melted in a virus haze,

plans to travel, visit loved ones, be in nature,
new adventures to have or old adventures to revisit
because it’s our nature to return to happy places

off-limits now if life is valued over plans — 
without breath, our plans are nothing — 
strength to stay in place, to be caring

in these bad times, difficult times,
we will persevere until this malady passes,
if we love one another enough to stay safe.

These Times was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Let’s change the conversation from the troubled times we live in now to something more lighthearted!

Most of the time, I am listening to music. Much of the time, I am dancing to the music I hear.

Of course, my preference is listening to and dancing to tango. But, I can dance to anything, even the National Anthem, if I have to.

How did I become the dancer I am today?

One day, long ago when I was a young man in Argentina, I was talking with two female cousins and one of their friends. The four of us spent a lot of time together — hey, what can I say, I relate well with women! Even today, most of my friends are female.

We were listening to music and the girls were practicing different dance steps. I was 13 or 14 and the young women were slightly older.

One of them wanted to dance with me, and I refused. What boy my age would have said yes?!

My older cousin said, “You will never get a girlfriend if you don’t learn to dance!”

What?? This was news to me, the boy who wanted to become the next Don Juan! So, I paid attention.

She continued, “All the girls love to dance and they like boys who are good dancers.”

That’s all the encouragement I needed. I started practicing my dance steps a lot, only stopping for Sunday Mass.

When I was older and able to go to dancing clubs, I saw that she was right. Boys were on one side of the room, girls on the other. And, the girls were always looking longingly at the dance floor.

When a boy who was a good dancer asked a girl to dance, he always got a Yes! answer. But, that was the easy part. I could ask. I could dance. But, I found out you also have to be good at conversation, otherwise, as soon as the music ended, your dance partner will drop you like last year’s shoes!

And, those girls not only wanted dancing and conversation, but they also wanted boys to be funny. Now, I had to practice conversation and my humor.

I did pretty well for a long time until something called marriage put my dancing shoes out of circulation.

Fortunately, I don’t need those shoes to dance in my living room or to do the car-dancing I used to do with our grandchildren and sometimes, still do with Dennett.

Sigh, but years pass. . . I used to be able to dance all night long; now, I can’t even watch Saturday Night Fever for more than a half-hour with becoming exhausted!

Little known secret: John Travolta’s character was loosely based on me, but I was better-looking, a better dancer, and a much nicer person 😉

My Dancing Shoes was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I didn’t own a car until I was living in this country. In Argentina, cars were very expensive to own and maintain.

After about two years in the United States, I felt as though people treated me like the proverbial red-headed stepson because I didn’t own a vehicle. Maybe, it was just my imagination, but even though I couldn’t drive, I went to a car lot to “take a look” — yeah, we know how that goes!

A salesman told me I was in luck because he had the perfect car for me — an older car in years, but it was previously owned by a little old lady who only drove it to the grocery store and church.

Perfect condition! How could I pass it up?

A stroke of luck? I thought so and bought the car.

The salesman drove me home — remember, I didn’t have a driver’s license!

During the ride to my house, I noticed that everything in the car made a noise, except the radio, which was silent!

A friend of mine, who was also only a short time in this country and who didn’t have a car but who knew how to drive, took me to a nearby parking lot to give me a driving lesson.

To get to the parking lot, he had to drive my car a short distance on the turnpike. Soon, he was going 80 miles per hour!

I yelled:

Are you nuts? Slow down!

He replied:

I’m only going 80, idiot!

I said:

That’s 130 in kilometers!

Shocked, he slowed down. He didn’t know that even though I couldn’t drive, I had a very good brain!

I quickly learned how to drive and got my license. Two months later, I had a job making deliveries in a van.

Remember, I was only two years in this country and still needed directions to go from my bedroom to the kitchen! And my English wasn’t too good yet. It’s a lot gooder now :)

And, traffic signs — well, I thought an arrow meant that there were unfriendly Indians — sorry, Native Americans — in the area!

So many interesting things happened when I first learned to drive . . .

Like the first time it snowed after I owned my car. The police drove up and down the streets with a bullhorn announcing:

Ten inches of snow expected tonight! Park on the right side of the street so the left side can be cleaned after the storm.

I found parking after half an hour of circling and circling. Except, the spot was almost a mile from my house!

Two weeks later, the same thing, except the police instructions were to park on the left side.

I looked for parking for more than an hour. When I arrived home, my wife said:

Did you park on the left side?

I replied:

No, there were no parking spaces anywhere.

My wife exclaimed:

They’re going to tow your car!

Irritated, I said:

Screw the cops! I parked in our garage!

I was a rebel, even back then.

In the next ten years, I had the chance to buy three other cars that belonged to that same little old lady who only drove to the grocery store and church.

And, let me tell you, I am a lucky guy and she is a very busy old lady!

My First Car was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

At the end of last year, somebody posted a writing prompt asking for stories about any good deeds Mediumites may have done. The prompt was to be a good way to start 2020.

I lost the prompt and as hard as I tried, couldn’t locate it to give credit to the originator. But, I’ve been thinking about it ever since and decided to share a story about a good deed I once did.

About 20 years ago, I was living in New Jersey and to reach the PATH train station, I had to walk about 3/4 of a mile. On the other side of the street, before the station, there was a small shopping mall with five or six little stores.

One day, as I was approaching that cluster of stores, I saw two women stopping people passing by. I assumed they were asking for money as it wasn’t unusual to see panhandlers in that area.

As I got closer, I realized that the younger of the two women had something in her hands. People would look at what the young lady had and then point in the direction from which I was coming. But, when each person walked on, the women looked confused.

I crossed the street and approached the women to see what they had. They appeared to be Asian — the younger one was probably in her early twenties and the other was much older and frail-looking.

The younger one showed me a piece of paper with an address on it. She said in halting English, “Going there.”

The address was on Elm Street in the next town, Kearny. I once lived there and knew the town well. The address was about three miles away.

I looked at the older woman, realizing there was no way she could walk that far. At that moment, a taxi was passing by on its way to the train station. I signaled for him to stop. The driver turned his car around and came back to us. Nobody can make a U-turn like a cab driver can!

As the taxi pulled beside us, I took the paper from the girl, leaned in the window and told the cabbie to take the two women to that address.

“How much will the trip cost?” I asked.

The driver said it would be 12 or 13 bucks. I gave him a $20 bill.

Even though the women didn’t seem to know much English, I tried to explain what I’d done and that the taxi would take them to the address.

I wasn’t prepared for what happened next. The older woman, with a little smile, gave me a soft hug and said, “Merci beaucoup!” Or, thanks so much in French.

My two years of high school French failed me and I couldn’t recall how to say you’re welcome. Instead, I blurted out, “Je t’aime!” Or, I love you in French!

The old woman’s smile widened and the arm she still had around me tightened into a warmer, closer hug.

As the two women entered the cab, I asked the driver to please wait at the address to see that someone was there to greet them. He smiled, nodded, and they drove away.

I stood on the sidewalk, still feeling the hug, thinking that I should do good deeds more often. Not only are such deeds good for the ones who receive them but also for the giver.

Three or four days later, I was walking near the train station and the same driver was parked there. He saw me, got out of his taxi and called to me, “Don’t worry, seven or eight people were waiting to receive the two women!”

We laughed, both of us happy that two good deeds were done that day.

A Good Deed was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Reading one of Dennett’s stories about a Christmas past, I remembered one of mine from a long, long time ago.

I am fortunate to have good memories of my childhood Christmases, although we didn’t have much, just barely enough to get by each day. But, my mother’s love and dedication were all we needed to be happy.

I have one memory that isn’t quite as happy as most and one that was buried deep in my brain.

I was very young, maybe ten years old. My father started buying the afternoon newspaper because I was always looking for something to read. At 10-cents apiece, newspapers were cheaper than books or magazines. (Yes, I am that old even though I don’t look a day over 30 — right, Dennett?)

The newspaper is part of my story because it’s the only possible place I could have seen an advertisement for something — I don’t know what — probably, some sort of toy.

I went to the kitchen where Mami was cooking and asked if I could have whatever was in the advertisement. Mami said, Sorry, we are poor and for poor people Christmas is different. We can’t afford it.

I ran to the room I shared with my brothers, buried my head in my pillow and cried for I don’t know how long.

That could be the end of the story because many, many children in the world wish for gifts they will never receive, but my story goes on.

My mother passed away on February 1, 2016, and this is the first Christmas that I thought about that memory. I remember it as though it happened last week. When I recalled that day, I felt my heart break because I am sure I broke my mother’s heart when she saw me crying because she couldn’t afford to give me that stupid little thing I wanted and now, can’t even remember.

There is nothing I can do about it. I can’t go to her and tell her I’m sorry for making her feel so bad. If I could, I know she would kiss me and tell me everything is fine.

Oh, how I wish I could tell her I am sorry.

Oh, how I wish she could kiss me one more time.

In response to this Weeds & Wildflowers December Remembered prompt by Dennett:

December Remembered

Christmas Remembered was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Sub-sub-title: How I Spent Thanksgiving Morning

In response to this Q&A prompt tag by Mark Starlin:

Dennett’s Questions, My Answers

If a cosmic blast of animal-matter rays hit the Earth, turning all humans into animals, what animal would you hope to become, and why?

I would become a beaver because being a beaver would make use of my engineering skills.

(Dennett is typing this and laughing hysterically!!)

If you could go back in time to any place, when and where would you go and why?

Buenos Aires, 1966. I’d be single and playing the field. ( Without any skills whatsoever).

(Dennett is reading this, Captain. Are you sure this is your answer??)

What is your ideal meal?

Grilled beef and ensalada rusa (potato salad) cooked by me.

If you could be the best at any one thing, other than writing (don’t be so predictable), what would it be?

Counseling men to have better relationships with women and make them happy.

(Dennett says, “Then, you’d better change your 2nd answer!”)

What is your favorite place, and why?

New York City. The people.

If you could pick a super-power, what would it be?

To cure people.

If you could have your own planet, what would you name it? (Describe it for bonus points.)

Venus Mall. All the women from Venus will come to shop.

(Giggle, giggle from Dennett)

You are on a long road trip. You stop at a gas station for gas. What “food-ish” product would you buy to snack on while you drive?

Hot dogs. And, Dennett will go crazy.

Would you mind if my wife and I stayed at your house for a week? And what weeks are available?

Not at all. That week, whichever week it is, we will be in New York.

Do you prefer hugs or handshakes? (In case I end up staying at your house.)

Women, hugs. Men, handshakes.

If you could have any musician or band (past or present — pretend we have the technology) come to your house and give a private house concert, who would it be? Unfortunately, The Beatles are away on a yellow submarine mission that day, so you’ll have settle for someone else.

Creedence Clearwater Revival.

Thank you, Mark, for tagging me so I’d have something to do inside on a gorgeous Florida day when I should be outside enjoying the gorgeous Florida day.

The Real Me or Not (You’ll Never Know) was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Mark’s Song Done Wrong — Let It Be:

Let It Be

And, it doesn’t end there . . .

Do You Want To Know A Secret? Ask Me Why, From Me to You, he had
A Ticket To Ride, Here, There and Everywhere, In Spite Of All The Danger, and without any Help and the Misery of traveling Eight Days A Week with all the Helter Skelter Across The Universe.

The good thing, he saw Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds and Yesterday, he landed on Penny Lane where the Strawberry Fields Forever are.
But, It Won’t Be Long Now, so after A Hard Day’s Night with
much Twist And Shout,he’s Back In The USSR!

So, Hello,Goobye!

Sorry, Mark, I could keep it at 50 words or less!

(All songs by the Beatles are in bold italics.)

Hello, Goodbye was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I know many people (old people — oops, older people) have the same affliction I have — forgetting things — because somebody came up with a name for it — senior moments.

But, rather than moments, it is senior months for me!

There is nothing safe — I can forget anything. Really, ask Dennett.

But, with my infinite wisdom, I came up with rules that are successful (?) solutions to these problems.

My most common problem is misplacing the key ring that holds the car and house keys. Can any of you identify with this?

My rule is: make absolutely sure that you enter the house with the keys. Then, when you inevitably can’t find them, sooner or later (always later), you will bump into them — because, duh, you brought them into the house — and, you will always — always — find them in the least likely place. Once, I found my key ring in the ice cube tray. Hey, no matter, problem solved, right??

Another problem, putting something to cook or heat on the stove. Can any of you identify with this?

Ya know, don’t even worry about this one because the fire alarm will remind you. Memory attached to your wall! The alarm will remind you to keep a wet towel handy because you need it to cover your face to enter the kitchen and smother the fire — or, to run out of the burning building. Shh, don’t tell Dennett about this — I do the cooking.

So, another situation . . . balancing your bank account. Another no-brainer! The bank will start bouncing your checks at a very lively rhythm. And, out of their good hearts, they will help you remember by charging you a goodly amount for your senior moment. Problem solved! Gotta love the care and concern of our financial institutions.

How about remembering to pay your utility bill? Another easy one. Don’t worry! The utility company will remind you by shutting off your utilities. Problem solved! Thank them profusely for that reminder — in the dark. Also, helping you to remember next month, they will charge you a hefty sum for their kindness. Who knew our public utilities were so helpful?!

I will stop here — solutions for other problems are forthcoming.

I am here for you and you are very welcome!

Senior Moments was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I am approaching a birthday that will be an important milestone, even if I think my mom had to be wrong about the day of my birth — I can’t be that old!

If she was correct, I’m older than poverty!

And, that can’t be right because, at the very least, I feel young at heart. Well, that doesn’t help much because my doctor said that my heart, which used to run like a clock, is running out of battery.

I know I’m young, even if at times I find myself in the kitchen and can’t remember if I’m there to eat something, drink something, or wash the dishes! But, that’s a natural reaction for somebody who was brought up believing that only women belong in the kitchen.

Another thing that doesn’t help is that the other day I called the local hospital, where I was treated a couple of times. I told them I wanted to donate my organs. But, when I gave them my name, they hung up on me. I called right back without saying my name, and I had to hang up on them because I don’t want to donate my organs now!

Another thing, my kids, who love me very much, sent me a catalog to pick out birthday gifts. It’s a catalog of canes, wheel chairs, and old people stuff. Not a good sign.

But, I’m very active. Every Thursday, I check the local paper to pick a place where to dance the night away on Saturday. But, sigh, it’s very hard to find a band playing disco these days. So, I have to put away my white suit and platform shoes — again.

I know for sure I am not that old because when I walk the street, I see how young chicks look at me. I’ve still got it! Unfortunately, they’re wondering if they should help me cross the street.

A final thought:

I am NOT old — I’m middle-aged — if I live to be well past 150!

Getting Old(er) was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I was nine-years-old, almost ten. My family came back to Santa Fe, Argentina, after two years in Cordoba, a province 700 kilometers (about 435 miles) to the northwest. I resumed my schooling in the third grade at the same school where I started.

My classroom consisted of about 24 boys and girls. But, only one mattered to me. She wasn’t a kid — I was sure she was an angel — blue-eyed, blonde Stella Teresita M. I was thunderstruck.

I sat on the first row and she was on the fourth row to my left. I still have neck pain from turning to look at her all the time!

After school, I followed her home, staying well behind her. Yes, I was one of the first stalkers!

I was sure she couldn’t see me.

What a smart boy I was(n’t)!

She lived in a big house — the only one in the neighborhood that was two stories high.

One day, she got to the edge of the sidewalk, called my name, and gestured for me to cross the street and go to her. My first impulse was to turn and run as fast as I could. I was petrified and my feet felt like lead but, as she waved me over, my feet came alive and walked across the street. In seconds, I was standing next to my angel!

She asked me, “Why do you follow me?”

Obviously I was Mr. Cool as I said, “I wanted to see your house.” What a line — a pickup artist since I was very young!

She said, “Well, you can walk with me, then.” And, she took my hand!

I was sure she would walk me into heaven! (Mental note: never wash that hand again.)

So, we walked and talked. I remember I was quite the conversationalist saying “Yes” and “No” frequently.

I found out much about Teresita and her family, including that she was 37 days older than me.

I liked older women!!

This went on — me walking Teresita home then rushing to my house so my mother wouldn’t worry or wonder what I was up to — until the final day of school.

I dreaded that day. But, she told me that she would ride her bike every afternoon, and I was welcome to come and see her.

A few days later, I walked down the street to her house, hoping to see her riding her bike. Instead, I saw a big truck in front of her home.

Teresita saw me and came out of the house to tell me that her father got a better job in another city and they were moving far away. She told me she liked me very much. Then, she hugged me and gave me a peck on the cheek.

For the last time, I watched my angel Teresita walk to her house where she turned and waved at me. I was so dumbfounded, I couldn’t return the wave.

For a long time, I hoped that her father wouldn’t like his job or her mother wouldn’t like their new city, and they would return to Santa Fe.

If that ever happened, I didn’t know about it.

Even after all these years, once in a while, I think of Teresita and wonder if she ever thought or thinks about me because I still think about her.

(Shh, don’t tell Dennett!)

Darn, too late, I forgot she types these stories for me!

Just as smart as an old man as I was as a kid!

The Older Woman was originally published in Weeds & Wildflowers on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.