Cooking the NYTimes and Other Assorted Retirement Activities

Presenting the Seashell Class of 2020! Over the past 4 winters, I've collected seashells while walking the beach.  Yes, this does mean you pretty much walk with your head down and/or learn to scan the sand while strolling.  I do a combination of both. What has fascinated me is how, on some days, a plethora of one type of shell will wash up on the beach--and then you won't see it for days or weeks or, for me, the rest of the season.  A couple years ago, there were multitudes of a shell.  This year, I could barely find any of them.  Ah, the magnificence and fickleness of Mother Nature, although I'm sure there are scientific reasons behind this. So, here we go!  Let's begin with the 2020 Prom Queen, Valedictorian and Salutatorian: The Lightning Whelk, accompanied by the Princesses, the Buttons. This shell was buried in the sand at the edge of the water.  I saw the very bottom sticking up, gave it a yank, and voila! Next up, the coquina she...

Which one does trepidaciously, at best Often, while walking, I'll use the time to connect with family and friends.  There's something particularly nice about conversing with someone you love as you wander outdoors.  For the past...what is it now, 5 weeks?  6 weeks?  a million weeks?...whatever, these chats have a common thread--the unprecedented, unpredictable COVID-19.  In particular, we express our mutual frustration that no matter what we decide to do in regards to the vixen virus, there's such a lack of clarity to guide which option is right, or best, or even doable.   This damned if you do, damned if you don't, nobody's right when everybody's wrong existence is wringing the resources out of us, one potentially COVID infused droplet at a time (are you an asymptomatic carrier?  And if you are, how likely is it you will infect someone within the socially distant 6 feet?  Or at the grocery store?  Or on your walk?  Do you wear ...

Today is Hank’s birthday. He’s 13 in dog years, 81 in human years. His beagle face is no longer a ruddy rust, rather a distinguished, faded white that simultaneously make his dark eyes pop and signify that he is an old dog. Today is Hank's birthday. This is the first birthday since the virus strangled us that I celebrate with the birthday boy. No Zoom. No FaceTime. No face masks, gloves, hand sanitizer, social distancing. I touch him, talk to him, pet him without fear of catching or passing on the virus. He has no expectations of the day:no presents, celebrations of any sort. With no expectations or anticipations to be squashed, there is no sadness.   There is appreciation of the sameness that all too often seems to suck the space dry. Today is Hank’s birthday. His head perks up whenever I enter his space. When I leave, he follows me into the where/somewhere/nowhere the virus void has us suffocated in. Bathroom?   Lies on the floor nex...