But I don’t FEEL Sixty

“I can’t believe I’m sixty.” My friend Marlena sits across from me over lunch, my treat, a few days after her somewhat raucous sixtieth birthday party, held in a local art gallery and featuring a DJ and enthusiastic dancing along with the usual delicious food and cake. “I’m not ready to be sixty,” she says in a plaintive voice, shaking her head. “I don’t feel sixty.”

Read More 0 Comments

Sixty More? – Sequel to But I Don’t Feel Sixty

This one is considerably more “edgy” than the previous post. I was going to hold off on it, but there has been such a great response to “But I Don’t FEEL Sixty . . .” that I have decided to go ahead and put it out now.
— Don


I’m eating lunch with my friend Marlena, sitting next to a window streaked by the chill November rain, our umbrellas dripping against the wall.


“Remember our conversation last time?” she says, “The week after my sixtieth birthday party?”

Read More

Getting back in touch

Felton and I were friends in high school.  Not real close.  He was Black and I was white, and close friendship was a little dicey back then, in the late 50s, in Kansas City, Missouri — or so it seemed to me at the time. So we would see each other at school, and especially after school, at track practice.

Read More 0 Comments

Stop Settling!

“Janice settled,” Marlena declares to me.


We are sitting by the window at the Little Bakery, meeting for lunch on a sunny, cold day in January.


“That’s a judgment on your part,” I reply, finding her statement a little bit offensive.


 “I suppose it is,” she says, “but it’s pretty clear.”

Read More 0 Comments