“Go read your books; someday you will be a teacher. I don’t want you be a pot-walloper like me, your mama.” Your words must have come from the eight year old child who, arriving in America, was put to work in a cigar factory, stripping stems out of the leaves. When you told us your job, we teased you--“Our mother was a stripper!”

You always demeaned yourself, though you were the finest baker, the best cook, the creator of dresses for me and suits for my three brothers. You knitted sw

I received a fun little comparison between 1965 and 2013 and wanted to share it with the Stage of Life community. If you're a Baby Boomer, you may get a kick out of this (or it'll depress you!)...

1965: Long hair
2013: Longing for hair

1965: KEG
2013: EKG

1965: Acid rock
2013: Acid reflux

1965: Moving to California because it's cool
2013: Moving to Arizona because it's warm

1965: Trying to look like Marlon Brando

"These don’t match," said the Social Security clerk, comparing my birth certificate and my SS application, unamused at my response, "I wasn't born married."

Sometimes, I feel that is the case because life as I knew it is over. Now I belong to that vast sisterhood of unemployed ladies, dismissed from careers as wives, lovers, caregivers and caretakers. To keep busy, we are consummate volunteers, competent babysitters, and advice-givers to teenagers and young marrieds. We play canasta,

Granddaughter Elishe introduced me to Facebook, thus opening the email portal with former high school students, friends and relatives. The latest round of emails began with Elishe, announcing a pregnancy and describing the parent-teacher conferences in the school where she teaches in Jerusalem.

Then an email from Nephew Lee, the talented composer in Brooklyn, giving me access to his 7000 picture gallery and editing my family tree.

An email from Cousin Chuck in California

We were finally going to do it.

After eight years of making do with the threadbare, dog and kid stained, lifeless green carpet (picked out by the previous owners) in our bedroom, Downtown Dad and I decided it was time to do something nice for ourselves for once, and replace it!

But – replacing flooring is never JUST the flooring. Pffft! If you replace the flooring, you MUST paint the walls, and if you paint the walls, you HAVE to repaint the ceiling, and once you’ve change

As one of the Stage of Life Editors keeping an eye out for products and services that can be of assistance to Baby Boomers, I came across the company Wearever. With more Boomers taking care of their aging parents, not to mention aging themselves, the often taboo topic of incontinence is something not everyone is comfortable talking about.

Because of that, we asked Wearever to share their thoughts about this issue in the hopes that it'll help those of you dealing with it, either with

I have lots of stories on my blog:

Frontage Road to Zen: The Retirement Chronicles
http://zen-road-retirement.blogspot.com/

I hope you enjoy!
Joan C.

I moved to Germany this year with my husband when he took retirement .Ive been a "house wife "come part time jewellery making teacher for the past 20 years so I didn't know how i would feel having company around all day but It is fun most of the time .We are finding out so much about starting a new life in a new place that we don't have time to sit still .I have just started a blog about our life here to let folk know there is life beyond work .I would love to here from other folk that are thin

by Ermine Cunningham

I called Mom Monday morning with the bad news.
“Mom, Cousin Carmella’s obituary is in the paper.”
“Oh, poor Carm,” she replied. “She’s been sick a long time.”
“Calling hours are tomorrow. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go together?”
“OK,” she answered. “Just remember when I go, I don’t want any calling hours. If they can’t come see you when you’re alive, why bother when you’re laid out? It’s not right.”<

As the new millennia dawned, Sue and I were knee-deep in preparation for our July 29th wedding. To be honest, she was knee-deep, as the preparations assigned to me were no more than ankle-deep. But still, there were vows to compose. Being a writer—and her, an editor—this was a responsibility I didn’t take lightly, for she’d know immediately whether I’d put considerable time and effort into their creation ... or not. More importantly, I wanted the vows to be special, a reflection of the depth