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By Susan Senator / Boston The bus came by and I got on, that’s when it all began –Bob Weir, “The Other One” (1967) Weir at the Greek Theater in Berkeley in 1981 (photo: Rolling Stone ) Weir at the Chicago Theatre on March 11, 2020 (photo: thekingdekalb) I’m not worthy of writing about Bob Weir, the co-founder of The Grateful Dead, who recently died at the age of 78. I did not follow The Dead around the country; I only saw them once, in 1979 in New York City when I was 15, and then and there I fell hopelessly in love with Weir, the Dead’s rhythm guitarist. Two years earlier, my older sister Laura had brought home their greatest hits album, Skeletons From the Closet . We sat on her lime-green shag rug, listening to the entire thing on her plastic record player, and I remember thinking I liked every single song the very first time hearing it. And when “Sugar Magnolia” came on, I tasted summer love: “She come skimming through rays of violet/She can wade in a drop of dew.” I’ve been hooked on the group ever since. I am a Deadhead, through and through, though I rarely wear tie-dye and cannot name more than a handful of their concerts by the date and set. Doesn’t matter. I listen to them and only them, making occasional allowances for Jerry Garcia Band and Bob Weir’s Wolf Bros. The real acid test for me was when I realized that if I could travel back in a time machine, I would rather go back to the Dead’s acoustic show at The Warfield in San Francisco on September 25, 1980, than even go back to 1889 and kill baby Hitler. Before I knew about the Dead, I thought—because of the macabre name—that they were some scary hard rock band for bad boys, like the lascivious Rolling Stones, whose Sticky Fingers album featuring a jeans-clad male pelvis, shocked and embarrassed little teenaged me. The Dead didn’t do that. Theirs were often humorous cautionary tales of people on the Wrong Side of the Law or revived folk songs that were a far cry from the progressive rock groups I loved back then– the band Yes, Emerson, Lake & Palmer and Pink Floyd. I heard the rumbling, rolling, bouncy sounds of “Truckin’” and I thought, with mystified delight, “What the hell is this?” I still don’t know. Every time I try to explain my obsession to a non-Deadhead, I don’t know where to begin. The Dead have been called a true example of Americana, but that sounds too quaint and makes me think of rustic antique shops or stars-and-stripes swags of bunting. Folk rock? Yes, but that doesn’t begin to cover it. The first Jam band? But how does that explain a sweet, all-too-brief ballad like “Ripple”? They’ve even been called “jazz for people who don’t like jazz.” All of those labels are too static a classification. Perhaps the Dead’s concert producer Bill Graham said it best: “They’re not the best at what they do. They’re the only ones that do what they do.” The author and her homemade Jerry Garcia cake And what did they do? “We play for life,” Dead co-founder Jerry Garcia sang in “Jack Straw,” They played because it was everything to them. The Dead played for life, and they played for fun. The Dead are probably most famous for the way they played off each other, the way they improvised together and came up with new versions of the same songs over and over. They were not interested in big profits from new albums; they preferred their own live experiences to going into the studio and cranking out song after song. To Bobby, it was the magic that happened each time they played together—even having a bad night was better than having no night. “We were real good at relating to a live audience,” Bobby said in an April 28, 2023, interview with Dan Rather. “What we were good at was stating a theme and taking it for a walk in the woods.” Bob Weir’s “walk in the woods” gets to the heart of Bob himself. He epitomized the explorer and wanderer, with that laid-back attitude combined with mischievous, fun-seeking dark eyes. He was usually the one who talked to the audience, calling us “friends,” or making wise or obscure comments on talk shows, like when he told David Letterman that he was having “more fun than a frog in a glass of milk.” Always polite and kind, Weir was the Dead’s designated crowd control. In many concert recordings you can hear Bobby humbly begging fans to “take a step back, and another, and another step back” from the stage, while the rest of the band played “Beer Barrel Polka” in the background. Deadheads still argue about which is the best version of “Take a Step Back”. Bob Weir and Don Was performing together in 2018 Longtime musician and Grammy-winning record producer Don Was played with Weir’s other band, Wolf Bros, starting in 2018, though he knew Bob long before that. Was told The Insider how one day that summer, out of the blue, Bobby called him. Bobby said he'd had a dream about their mutual friend, the late composer/bass player Rob Wasserman, who had died two years earlier. In the dream, Wasserman had come to Bobby and said that Don should be Wasserman's replacement as bass player. So, the next day, Bobby called Don and asked if he wanted to come over and jam with him. “We just jamm ed on an A minor chord for about 20 minutes…Bobby took out his phone, called his managers and said, “Okay, book a Wolf Bros tour..” Don described Bobby as “kinda half man, half spirit.” I got to see Bobby with Wolf Bros in 2022, on his 75th birthday. No longer the sweet boy next door, Bobby, with that huge white hair and Wild Bill Hickock beard, was now a thoughtful sage, a wise old Gandalf, and I, faithful Hobbit, loved him in his new form. But now?  What can a Deadhead do, if we don’t want to wait around to see if Dead & Company comes back somehow? Has our long, strange trip come to an end? Not by any stretch. Not while there are cover bands. You can find them anywhere in the country on the Grateful Dead Tribute Bands website . In my town, just three miles away from me, I have found my Church: a bar called The Midway Cafe—though it’s not a cafe and I don’t know what it is midway to. Every Friday is “Hippie Hour,” where I can hear local bands with names extracted from Dead songs or albums, like Reckoning Crew, Uncle Johnny’s Band, and Promised Land. Everyone there looks vaguely familiar, wearing tie-dye, and dancing, with that same air of dreamy worship—just like in the Dead old days. And why? Not because they sound just like the real Dead, or like the polished, media-groomed Dead & Company, but because they are real and live and playing off each other, making mistakes, exploring, and having genius moments. Just like the real Dead. Sometimes when I’m there in that smokey darkness, with the smell of weed and beer washing over me, I feel like the luckiest person in the world, because I can hear Bobby Songs sung with that same friendly openness, the same authenticity. The same walk in the woods.  I get to dance right next to the keyboard, and I never have to take a step back. And as Don Was said, “[Bobby is] living on in his music and in our hearts. We’re gonna miss him like crazy but remember–he’s right here if you need him.” Susan Senator is an author, blogger and journalist living in the Boston area with her husband Ned Batchelder. They have three sons, the oldest of whom is 36 and has profound autism.  Ms. Senator is the author of Making Peace With Autism as well as The Autism Mom’s Survival Guide and Autism Adulthood: Insights and Creative Strategies for a Fulfilling Life . A journalist since 1997, she has a column in Psychology Today , and she has published many pieces on parenting, autism, and living happily, in journals like the New York Times , Time magazine, the Washington Post , the Boston Globe , and NPR. Senator has appeared as a guest on “The Today Show,” MSNBC, ABC News, PBS, NPR and CNN.

By Bonnie Fishman / San Francisco Bay Area Bonnie and her sister Marcia standing in front of their house (circa 1965) The 1950s and ‘60s were great decades to grow up in especially in Oak Park, Mich., a quiet new suburb of Detroit.  We were carefree, our parents sent us out to play and told us, “Be back when the streetlights go on.” We didn’t worry about strangers snatching us off the street, we could ring someone’s doorbell and ask to use the bathroom or the phone and some of us didn’t even lock our doors. (I never had a key!) One of the best parts of that era is that we ate whatever we wanted with reckless abandon. Did it have enough protein? Did it have too many carbs or sugar? Did it have plenty of fiber and vitamins? We had no clue about any of this, because that was not the focus of anyone’s life. We were happier then. Now we have to be concerned with not eating too much sugar, fat, carbs, or preservatives.  We make sure we consume the proper number of grams of protein a day. If we had bread for lunch, maybe we had  better skip it at dinner. Those of you who were born before 1965–true Baby Boomers–know what I’m talking about. We had a worry-free mentality about eating. We didn’t even think twice.  Younger readers, buckle up because our childhoods were way more happy-go-lucky than what we all are dealing with today. I remember that in high school, I never ate the hot meals. Instead, every day I would have tuna fish on white bread, 2 Hostess cupcakes, and chocolate milk. Then I would go home and eat more before dinner. Did I count calories or think about the fact that it was too much sugar for lunch? Heck no! We ate. We were relaxed. We didn’t fret. A red-letter day in my life came in September 1964 when Kellogg’s Pop-Tarts came on the market. It was life changing!  That became my go-to breakfast. They were great snacks too. We had a “Pop-Tart” cabinet above the broom closet. All our friends would hit that spot when they came over after school. My mom baked from scratch almost daily but somehow the allure of this treat was intoxicating. I personally enjoyed blueberry without frosting. Closely following Pop-Tarts for breakfast came Carnation’s Instant Breakfast drink. This was the precursor to smoothies, except these had not a shred of good qualities. I did love the chocolate, however. How did we survive these culinary atrocities? Going down the candy aisle was a real adventure. We had Pixy Stix (straws filled with flavored sugar), Candy Buttons (colored dots of sugar stuck to a sheet of paper) and small wax bottles with sugar water inside. (We ate the wax afterwards!)  But we did have real chocolate. Nowadays, if a candy bar says “chocolate candy,” there may only be a morsel of cocoa butter in it. Pixy Stix Candy Buttons Wax bottles with dyed sugar water We can’t have this conversation without discussing ready-to-eat meals. They were offered in the freezer section of the supermarket. Our household never had TV dinners, but we did indulge in Swanson Chicken Pot Pies. (They cost a whopping 29 cents in the ‘60s.) On occasion, we even ate Mrs. Paul’s Fish Sticks. Oh, the shame of it all!  As far as snack food goes, when Pringles came on the market in 1968, they were all the rage in that red cylinder tube. Guess what? They’re not even potato chips but made out of potato flour. Our mothers also cooked with an uncanny amount of Campbell’s soup, a highly processed food. Who knows what were in those cans anyway? The Cream of Mushroom was a particular favorite of mine. I loved the tuna noodle and green bean casseroles made with it.  I’ve been able to recreate these two dishes using real ingredients. I’ll share the recipes another time! What we ate began to shift in the '70s when health concerns became important.  Yogurt grew in popularity, especially when fruit on the bottom was born. We  watched various food trends emerge over the coming decades, some of which are still with us–gluten-free, high protein, low-carb. It can be quite stressful to navigate them. Like I said before, we were happier then! Today’s recipe is a throwback to the good old days. This time I’m making homemade Pop-Tarts. When I was at the grocery store today, I happened to read the label on the present-day Pop-Tarts label. Don’t ask! Feel free to substitute strawberries, raspberries, or cherries for the blueberries. I happen to prefer frozen fruit (a rare occurrence) due to the fact that the berries have a consistently sweet, full taste. Sometimes I buy fresh blueberries, and find they’re just not that flavorful. When I heat  up these delicacies in the toaster oven (they don’t fit in a regular toaster), and I close my eyes as I’m eating, I’m a little kid again! Bonnie’s Homemade Pop-Tarts      Yield: 9 pastries Dough: 4 oz. butter or margarine, softened 1/2 c. sugar 1/2 tsp. baking powder 1/4 tsp. salt 1/2 c. full-fat Greek yogurt 1 lg. egg 1/2 tsp. vanilla 2 2/3 c. flour Filling: 1 c. blueberries, raspberries, or sliced strawberries (frozen or fresh) 1/4 c. sugar 1 Tbsp. cornstarch 1 tsp. fresh lemon juice Icing: 1 c. confectioners’ sugar 1+ Tbsp. milk 1/4 tsp. vanilla Make dough: In a stationary mixer with a paddle, or in a bowl with a wooden spoon, beat together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Blend in the baking powder and salt. Beat in the yogurt, egg, and vanilla. Add the flour.  Stir until just combined. Divide the dough into 2 balls. Flatten into discs. Wrap each in cling film and refrigerate for 2 hours. Make filling: Put the berries in a small saucepan over moderate heat. Cook for about 2 minutes, mashing the fruit with the back of a spoon. Combine the sugar and cornstarch in a small bowl. Blend into the berries. Cook, stirring constantly, until the mixture gets bub-bly, translucent and thickened, about 5 minutes. Stir in the lemon juice. Transfer to a small bowl. Refrigerate until cooled completely, at least a half an hour. Assembly: Roll out one of the discs on a floured surface into a large rectangle, about an 1/8” thick. Using a ruler as a guide, cut into a 12” x 9” rectangle. Cut the dough into 9 4”x 3” pieces. Place them on a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. Preheat oven to 375°. Using a pastry brush dipped in water, brush the edges of the dough pieces. Evenly divide the berry filling among the rectangles. Spread out filling leaving a 1/2” border. Roll the second disc in the same manner as the first. Place a rectangle on top of each pastry. Using a fork, press all edges together to seal. Prick the tops with the fork going down the center four times. Bake for @ 15 minutes, until the edges are slightly brown and the bottoms are light brown. Icing: In a small bowl using a fork, whisk together the confectioners' sugar, milk, and vanilla. You want a consistency that is loose enough to drizzle on the pastry. You may need to add a little more milk. Drizzle on the icing with the fork in a cross-hatch pattern.  Allow the icing to set. Cream together the butter and sugar until light and fluffy.             Add the yogurt, egg and vanilla.   Blend in the flour just until comes together.             Divide into 2 balls, flatten them into discs, wrap and refrigerate. Using a ruler as a guide, cut dough into 9 even rectangles. Distribute filling evenly leaving a 1/2” border. Whisk together the confectioners' sugar, milk, and vanilla. Use a fork to drizzle icing in a cross-hatch pattern. Bonnie Fishman attended the Cordon Bleu Cookery School in London. Later, she owned and operated Bonnie’s Patisserie in Southfield, Mich. and Bonnie’s Kitchen and Catering in Bloomfield Hills, Mich. She has taught cooking for over 35 years and created hundreds of recipes. She is now living in Northern California.

By Dr. Nancy Fishman / Morgan Hill, Calif. Almost never! First, let’s start by making a very important distinction: There is a difference between commenting on someone’s clothing, sunglasses or shoes, and drawing attention to their body parts. Acceptable remarks: “I like that sweater. Love the color.” ”Where did you get those sunglasses? They’re so unusual.” “I’ve been looking for a hat just like that one.” It is not okay to comment on someone’s body parts! “You have gorgeous skin.” “Your hair is so stunning.” “I’ll bet everyone says you have the whitest teeth.” As innocuous as these unacceptable remarks might seem, they are actually an intrusion into another individual’s personal space. They shine a spotlight on one who may not wish to be noticed. Sometimes, compliments can even feel threatening, especially when a person feels like the individual making the comment is hitting on them. A severe consequence is when these observations change a person’s self-image and cause them to become self-conscious about something of which they were previously oblivious. Today’s younger generations have elevated awareness of the effects of unsolicited attention given to the outward appearance of others. In previous decades, it was common to compliment people, even strangers, on anything observable. My husband claims he is just being nice when he tells a stranger in line at CVS that she has a beautiful smile. He’s a man who is accustomed to saying exactly what is on his mind. Like others of an older generation, he is grappling with the difference between being friendly and appearing too familiar. There has been a major shift in behavioral norms in our society. In the workplace, Human Resource departments publish acceptable and unacceptable language, topics, and behaviors. Reporting unsolicited remarks or physical contact can lead to an employee’s dismissal for crossing the line. During elementary and middle school, kids are prone to say whatever they are thinking. Thoughtless chatter can be embarrassing and painful for fellow classmates. When I was in junior high school, I developed breasts that were larger than most of my girlfriends. The boys, even my closest friends, nicknamed me Nancy Fishtits. They weren’t being intentionally unkind; they were just being pubescent boys. Nevertheless, I experienced firsthand how demeaning and unforgettable it was to have anyone focusing on my body. Today, there is a national epidemic of cruel social media postings that have left some undefended targets with anxiety, depression, and an inclination to withdraw from social activities, resulting in isolation. Some victims have even taken their own lives rather than to continue suffering the shame and humiliation created in a seemingly unstoppable viral environment. Whole school programs have been created to educate young people about the potentially harmful consequences of their unchecked recklessness. In Margaret Atwood’s 1988 novel Cat’s Eye , the author, through main character Elaine Risely, exemplifies the sustaining effects of bullying and childhood trauma that persisted throughout Risely’s life. Elaine at age 50, often conjures up feelings she had as a teenager when classmates verbally criticized her appearance, leaving her with self-doubt and a lack of confidence. This too common a story shows us the lasting impact living under a social microscope can have. Unwanted attention to personal appearance is a form of objectification, where people are identified as objects rather than for themselves as human beings. Almost nobody wants to be seen as Barbie, Ken or the Troll. Such a disconnect between the perception of true self and of an object can fuel self-consciousness, and worsen anxiety and depression, all of which have negative effects on comfort and freedom in school, the workplace, and in social situations. Severe forms of this can lead to eating disorders, fear of sexual assault, cognitive impairment, and certainly the dismantling of personal goals. So, when is it appropriate to verbalize your observation of someone’s appearance? If your wife asks you how she looks in her outfit, think very hard before you step into that trap. Tell her she looks fine, but another outfit is your favorite. She will decode that message. If you are shopping with your adolescent daughter and she has put on a dress that looks terrible on her, be very careful to comment on the dress and not how her body looks in it. If you are in the dressing room with your best friend and she asks you how her “butt” looks in the jeans she is trying on, you have her permission to tell her exactly what you think in the kindest way possible. Let’s all remember that words matter! This column is devoted to psychological topics that speak to the human condition, such as relationships, family, love, loss, and happiness. The ideas, thoughts, philosophies, and observations expressed here are personal and not meant as professional advice. Names and identifying information have been changed to protect the privacy of real people. Dr. Nancy Fishman moved to Santa Clara County in 2016 from Michigan, where she was a practicing psychologist. Currently, she is a strategy consultant to individuals, families, businesses, family law attorneys and their clients, working on coping, managing, reorganizing, pivoting and innovating. She is the founder of Forgotten Harvest, one of the nation’s largest food recovery operations. She is also the creator of Silicon Valley’s A La Carte food recovery and distribution initiative, and the organizer of Feeding Morgan Hill. Nancy lives on a family compound with her husband, sisters, brother-in-law, and a pack of dogs.   NancyFishmanPhD.com   ForgottenHarvest.org

By Richard Weill / Katonah, N.Y. Playwright Frederick Knott at the desk in West Sussex, England, where he wrote Dial M for Murder (1952) “A disease: thrilleritis malignis ,” Ira Levin called it in his play Deathtrap —an endless fascination with the stage thriller as a unique and ingenious theatrical form. I don’t know exactly when I caught the bug, but I know I got it from my father, who would tell me all about stage thrillers from the 1930s like Riddle Me This! and Whistling in the Dark (where the murder weapon was poison inserted into the end of a tube of toothpaste). Regrettably, I missed Sleuth on Broadway in the early ‘70s, but I was a law student in Boston in 1978 when Deathtrap came through, heading to New York, and knew to order tickets for an early performance at the Music Box Theatre. From then on, I couldn’t get enough of stage thrillers. I watched them, read them, collected them, collected books and articles about them—and then tried writing a few of my own. In 2016, my legal thriller, Framed, premiered in suburban Los Angeles to excellent reviews (“engaging, entertaining, highly credible, and well worth your time”), standing-room-only performances, and a run extended by popular demand. Two years later, I wrote a book about the experience: We Open in Oxnard Saturday Afternoon . Another thriller of mine, Imperfect Alibi , is currently under contract for promotion in Poland with Agencja Dramatu i Teatru, a theatrical agency in Warsaw. The playwright with the original London stars of Dial M for Murder at London's Cafe de Paris: They were there to celebrate Knott’s imminent departure to New York for the Broadway production. (from right) Frederick Knott, Jane Baxter, Emrys Jones and his wife Pauline Bentley. (1952) I have a personal Mount Rushmore of great stage thrillers: Anthony Shaffer’s Sleuth , Ira Levin’s Deathtrap , Agatha Christie’s Witness for the Prosecution , and Frederick Knott’s Dial M for Murder . Shelves of books have been written about Dame Agatha, including several specific to her works for the stage. Ira Levin is the subject of a book written in 1988. Shortly before his death in 2001, Anthony Shaffer completed his memoirs. Other stage thriller playwrights, like Rope and Angel Street author Patrick Hamilton, are the subject of biographies or memoirs. But to my astonishment, there were no books on Frederick Knott. It’s not as if Knott was a one-hit wonder. He wrote three hit Broadway thrillers: Dial M , Write Me a Murder (for which he became the first playwright to win a second “Best Play” Edgar Allan Poe Award from the Mystery Writers of America), and Wait Until Dark . A few brief articles had been written about him, but nothing substantial. And then I learned that Knott’s papers were in the hands of Yale University’s Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library—only 43 miles from my home. But there were exacting procedures for requisitioning boxes and folders and making appointments to view them. Maurice Evans, who played leading man Tony Wendice in the Broadway production of Dial M, with playwright Frederick Knott (1954) In April 2024, I took a shot in the dark and emailed the Beinecke Library, asking if I could obtain remote access to portions of the Frederick Knott Collection. In response, I was told: “We can send you the digitized files.” Not only that, but the Beinecke would digitalize and send me other Knott material as well. In other words, I could get copies of any papers in the collection, direct to my home computer. But what to request? The answer came when I stumbled upon a book by Charles Dennis entitled There’s a Body in the Window Seat!: The History of Arsenic and Old Lace . Why couldn’t I do something similar with Dial M for Murder ? Thus began my deep dive into one of Broadway’s greatest thrillers. Soon I was surrounded by drafts, notes, “scribbles” (as Knott called them), correspondence, diaries, and notebooks, struggling to master Knott’s barely legible handwriting. A lot of these papers were out of order; To organize Knott’s piles of Dial M notes, I had to sort them according to the main character’s ever-changing name: Henry Storm, Paul Lime, Max Lesgate, Henry Lime, and finally Tony Wendice. But one note in the pile, with no character names, stood out. It looked different. It was written on different paper. It screamed: this is where Knott’s idea for his play began: Husband gets X to kill his wife. She kills X. Husband fixes things to make it appear that she had murdered X. Wife arrested for murder. or Wife convicted and about to be hanged. About a month after he first hatched Dial M in October 1949, Knott wrote and registered a synopsis with Britain’s Screenwriters Association. It contains about 90 percent of the ultimate story. Obviously, the remaining 10 percent was harder to crack. It took another 17 months for Knott to complete it. I wanted to determine why. What was the impediment? I spent a lot of time trying to figure that out. I think I did. The story of how Dial M for Murder reached the stage is as dramatic as the play itself. There weren’t just bumps in the road; at various points in the journey, there was no road. Dial M itself was “about to be hanged” more than once. But, like the play’s heroine, it survived—and thrived. In late November 2024, I took a second shot in the dark. I found what looked like the email address of Frederick Knott’s son, Dr. Anthony F. Knott. I knew he controlled the rights to his father’s papers on behalf of his father’s estate, and I needed his permission to use material from the Knott collection in my book. What happened next knocked my socks off. No one could have been friendlier, more cooperative, and less intrusive about what my book would say. Tony Knott also shared with me additional papers and photos that, for one reason or another, never made it into the Yale collection. He so appreciated the scrutiny his father’s work finally would receive. (He believes his father would, too, even though Frederick Knott was very protective of his privacy.) When I asked Tony if he would write a foreword to the book, he graciously agreed. Frederick Knott with Grace Kelly on the Warner Brothers set of Dial M . In the film, the actress played Margot Wendice, whose husband Tony plots to have murdered (1953) In a few days, my book, Frederick Knott and Dial M for Murder: The Creation and Evolution of an Iconic Thriller , will be published by McFarland & Company, Inc. It tells the whole story of Dial M . First, its difficult birth: the play’s creation, rejection, the premature sale of its film rights, and its fortuitous first production. Then its charmed life: success in London and New York, the Hitchcock film, and appearances on stages worldwide. Finally, its controversial afterlife, culminating in Jeffrey Hatcher’s 2022 adaptation of Knott’s play. Knott’s other writing is covered as well. And Knott’s complete, original draft of Dial M for Murder is an added bonus. Frederick Knott’s last words of Dial M stage dialogue are: “He’s remembered.” Indeed, he is. Richard Weill began writing plays the summer between college and law school and continued throughout his 40-year career as a New York prosecutor and civil litigator.  A member of the Dramatists Guild, his 2016 play Framed  was a success with both critics and audiences. Weill wrote three books prior to this year’s Frederick Knott and Dial M for Murder : his account of  Framed’s eight-year journey ( We Open in Oxnard Saturday Afternoon ) and two novels: Last Train to Gidleigh , a mystery set in World War II London; and Panic! , about Thomas E. Dewey and Orson Welles.

By Andy Borowitz  March 5, 2026 Win McNamee/Getty Images WASHINGTON ( The Borowitz Report )— While Americans strongly disapprove of Donald Trump’s decision to attack Iran, a new poll released on Thursday shows overwhelming support for sending Stephen Miller there. Over seventy percent of those surveyed “strongly approve” of sending Miller, who bested such other popular choices as Kristi Noem, JD Vance, Karoline Leavitt, Pete Hegseth, and Robert F. Kennedy, Jr. If Trump moves forward with such a deployment, however, he could run afoul of international law, since the use of Stephen Miller against a civilian population violates the Geneva Conventions and would likely be considered a war crime.

By Lydia Hope Wilen / New York City & Stan Fischler / North Golan Heights, Israel My neighbor and I wanted to start a newsletter for our building.  Since this friend loves alliteration and wanted to use our building’s name that starts with an M”, I came up with Metropolitan Mavens. When I pitched it to the head of communications for the building, the woman told me that ‘maven’ was too ethnic. I told her, “So I guess we can also cross off “Two Jews with News.”  It got a big laugh and that was the end of the pitch session. Fast forward to days later, while I was writing my most recent article for the Insider , the word ‘maven’ must have been uppermost in my mind, because I described my autograph guy, Ray Regan, as a “dealer, collector and maven.” Yes, it’s a Yiddish word, but it has become part of everyday language like schlep, klutz, yenta, bupkis, schmooze, chutzpah, and let’s not forget tush (as in football’s tush push). When Ray read my description of him, he sent me this email: Great job! I love the mention too! "The Maven"... I've been a NY Rangers fan my whole life, following a hockey writer known as the “Hockey Maven.”  He’s still writing and I’m still following him. To think I've achieved "Maven" status alongside Stan Fischler.               When I read that name, I was flabbergasted. That doesn’t happen often. (When was the last time you were flabbergasted?)    I immediately went to my file cabinet and got out the six-decades-old article Stan wrote about me in the New York Journal-American , a prominent newspaper from 1937 to 1966. I don’t remember how or where I met Stan, or the circumstances leading up to him writing that article. All I knew is that I thought it would be nice to reconnect with him. The first step in today’s world? I googled him and found podcasts, interviews, his story in a short documentary and a Wikipedia page filled with his accomplishments, and it didn’t even mention his journalistic time at the Journal-American where we first met in person. I was looking to reconnect with a man who has had 100 books published, thousands of articles with his byline, won seven Emmy Awards, was inducted into the U.S. Hockey Hall of Fame as a hockey historian, plus New York State Hockey Hall of Fame; International Jewish Hockey Hall of Fame; voted by Mayor Giuliani "One Of 100 Distinguished NYC Historians," the winner of the award for "Subway Series" for Metro Channel. And, quoting my hockey-fan friend, “He’s a real LEGEND!”    Author Lydia Wilen with Tales of Brooklyn , Stan Fischler's 100th published book -- a funny, poignant, memory-provoking memoir of his young life.  It’s a good thing I don’t get intimidated.  And why should I?  I have bragging rights too. I’ve never been beaten at Boggle.  Hey, yeah … the Hockey Maven and the Boggle Meister. Go for it, Lyd! Lost and Profound Despite all of his interviews on the internet, I couldn’t find an email address for Stan, but I did find one for Doug Whiteman, his friend and agent.  On Feb. 4 , I emailed Doug, asking if he would help me get in touch with Stan. And I sent a copy of the article Stan had written about me some 60 years earlier. (GULP!) On Feb 5 , Doug sent my email to Stan. On Feb. 6 Doug got this response: Dear Doug: THANKS!  Gotta chase down Lydia. Then Doug responded with: What a wild story regarding your friend from the past! Makes me think I should dig up an old pal or two of my own. Second Draft of a First Encounter From Stan on Feb. 7 : Dear Lydia: This is like the Marx Brothers in Monkey Business, funny but surreal. And the accompanying pix and my story. How come I didn't call you for a date? Voice from offstage ("Now he tells me.") I kinda liked my story -- and You were funnier than Fischler, which is why I didn't propose. However, if you do answer, I just might propose. Love, Stan (call me Mave) And in the following email: Dear Lydia: In its own little way, our ”reunion” has been an extraordinary event. Right up there in the extraordinary department is the fact that the moment I saw your name, I immediately thought "Hope" is your middle name and I didn’t even use it in the article. Where to begin? For starters, lemme point out that I live on a little kibbutz in the North Golan Heights.    Stan went on to tell me he was married for 48 years to Shirley Walton Fischler, then widowed in 2014. Five years later, in 2019, he moved to Israel to be with his son and his son’s family. His “getting to know you” email ended with a Henny Youngman oldie: Guy goes to the doctor and says, "Doc, my leg hurts, what should I do?" Doc shoots back: "LIMP! " No groans here. Just appreciation for what would follow. Daily emails filled with fun, reminders of the comedic greats, incredible life experiences, membership in the exclusive Marxist Society (devotees of Marx Brothers films) and yes, romance, mostly in the form of song lyrics.  Mave has a rare eidetic memory (more commonly known as a photographic memory) especially for comic bits, and of course hockey, also for songs. He’s known for having a song for every occasion. ’S Wonderful, ’S Marvelous! According to my emails, this would be the start of Mave’s Spotify, or as he would call it, his Spot-a-Fly Playlist for me: “You came to me from out of nowhere You’re getting to be a habit with me. Too close for comfort You do something to me. You make me feel so young. –And I thought about you.” Surprising myself, I came up with this Lorenz Hart lyrical answer: ”Isn’t it romantic?  Every note that’s sung is like a lover’s kiss.” Miles Apart, But Heart To Heart Both of us have active, busy lives (as Mave would say: “Busy as a one-armed paper hanger – with an itch.”)  Since there’s a six-hour time difference between us, my evening emails get to him on his following morning, and his emails get to me when I boot up my computer the next morning. Seems to me I’ve been getting out of bed earlier these days. Hmmm… Hoping for the GWG (Game-Winning Goal) Rather than having Stan read this for prepublication approval, I’m taking a chance by taking a page out of his songbook, ending with this Johnny Mercerish message sent lovingly to Mave after he reads this published piece about us: “And I hope you’re satisfied you rascal, you!” I thought that would be a nice ending to the story, and each of us would continue getting and sending funny and romantic emails each morning.  That is, until the morning of February 28 . Mave’s email that was waiting for me said: WE’RE AT WAR. I’LL WRITE WHEN I CAN. Soldiers at the entrance to the Kibbutz, after the Oct. 7th, 2023 Hamas  and allied Palestinian militant groups attacked   Israel Here, Stan picks up the story from North Golan Heights, Israel: On the kibbutz, when missiles are heading in our direction, we get an almost instantaneous, automated warning through a highly advanced, integrated system known as Tzeva Adom (Red Alert). That's when we go to the safe room. Missiles Are Heading In Our Direction... Before I continue, you should know that right before I started this, Lydia gave me permission– actually, she gave me orders –to share my circumstances, observations, concerns, song/film/comedy references and feelings. Think of it this way, instead of "Dear Diary," it's "Dear Lydia," starting with a missive I sent her on March 3 . This was my granddaughter's bedroom. Now it's my family's "safe" room Not that I want to delve into the day-by-day or night-by-night interludes, but yesterday was a corker. Ariel, my 20-year-old grandson and I were planning to sleep in the safe room. It used to be my granddaughter's bedroom. The trouble is, the "safe" room has a number of features, the most prominent of which is that it's damn unsafe. So, Ariel was already sleeping when I entered and couldn't find the light switch in the pure blackness. I wound up reviving Hellzapoppin ’. And then, with Ariel still sleeping, I had to replay the male role of the Flying Wallendas, bouncing off walls that suddenly emerged out of sheer space. After 10 minutes of subdued frenzy, I found what I was looking for, the Johnson & Johnson shelf with much-needed bandages. By now, Lyd, you should have an explanation for my AWOL and why my absence could have become more permanent if Ariel hadn't stopped the bleeding from my head before the ambulance posse arrived. I'm thinking of You – thinking of me – followed by a paid political announcement. The war here is serious and getting more serious. Hezbollah in Lebanon–very close to us.  Awakened us in the safe room, firing missiles at us and a few other things. Didn't hit our kibbutz, as far as I know, but it did not help future sleeping. I've been told that the Lebanese government, on loan from Duck Soup , has been ordered, as Jack Benny would say, "NOW CUT THAT OUT!" March 5:   Just after I said, "good night," the air raid sirens went off and four of us huddled until the All Clear.  No damage here.  Likely Hezbollah in nearby Lebanon. The Brits and the French forgot how the USA saved their asses in WW II.  Better stop; too pissed for words. March 6: A very long day and still not over. Having done an hour-long hockey podcast and then dinner and checking the news and a possible air raid siren alert, I'm like the guy who rode off madly in all directions. Frankly, my Sweet Lydia, the Maven's Gloom Dodger Machine has been overwhelmed today with bad news.  Hezbollah is shooting way too many missiles and other crap our way. On top of that, I just learned that four or five days worth of my hockey stories did not get through to Hockey News for reasons not even mentioning.  And, your last letter, Lyd, which I wanted to print, somehow skipped town. The Press Box at the UBS Arena, in Belmont Park, NY, named after the Hockey Maven in 2022, three years after he left the U.S. March 9: Nowadays I work on a minute-to-minute life; last night we were twice awakened by separate air-raid sirens. No damage; another warning via phone buzzing and, again, no damage. Apart from the night sirens and other alerts, as the song goes, "I'm Doin' Alright." The main plot is called STAYIN’ ALIVE!  We have failed to neutralize Hezbollah in Lebanon–hence, the missiles–and air raid sirens–were enough to twice awaken us and cause a march to the safe-room. A major challenge is trying to keep my sunny side up while also trying to be patient about my wounds healing. What matters, despite all the tsouris, is that you and I have formed a neat link, emotional, humorous and loving. Again, the Larry Hart song, "Isn't  It Romantic?" Life is very challenging. I do the man's morning prayer ( Modeh Ani ).  It's a 12-word prayer of gratitude for the restoration of the soul, thanking God for life, mercy, and faithfulness. A note to Lydia: You know, I've NEVER held back my growing affection for you. Suddenly, I had the choice of letting it all hang out in this article, but I'm choosing to keep it between us. Let the readers be lucky enough to find romance for themselves. Lydia Hope Wilen began her professional career as a comedy writer on  Personality , a celebrity-driven game show.  Her greatest gig was her extremely successful collaboration with her late sister Joany as nonfiction bestselling authors (18 books), which led to the sisters becoming  popular TV personalities. They continued as journalists (NY Daily News Sunday full-page feature, Celebrity Surveys for Cosmopolitan Magazine, cover stories for Parade Magazine) and got the opportunity to write and talent coordinate a  Nickelodeon  series hosted by Leonard Nimoy. The Wilens had an unusually versatile writing range from  Reading Rainbow episodes, to off-color comedy skits for Dr. Ruth Westheimer’s TV show,  Sexually Speaking, plus  three optioned screenplays. And that's just for starters . . .

From Fidias Podcast in Cyprus, March 7, 2026 Fidias Panayitou is a member of the European Parliament

By Jessie Seigel / Washington, D.C. Originally appeared in My Washington Whispers on Feburary 27, 2026   Occasionally, when the crush of news comes raining down from all directions like the deck of cards attacking Alice at the end of Lewis Carroll's Wonderland tale, it becomes too much for an opinion columnist to coherently address. This was one such week for me. There were the Supreme Court’s decision against Trump’s tariffs and Trump's determination to sidestep it; Trump’s threatened attack on Iran; the Republican regime’s efforts to take over and thus steal the midterm elections; further monstrous Epstein File revelations and efforts to cover them up; further news of ICE perpetrated murders; as well as various reports of government spying on ICE observers and journalists to intimidate them or charge them with conspiracy. There were also the Clintons' appearances before Congress, Trump’s State of the Union lies, and the People’s State of the Union event. With all of these important stories, where is one to start? When adroit attorney and commentator Joyce Vance needs a small break, she writes in her Substack column about her pet chickens. I do not have chickens. Or a dog. Or a cat. When I, for a moment, can’t take any more, I turn on the tv in the morning and escape by watching a rerun or so of Leave It to Beaver  before getting out of bed to face the day. I do not watch that show to escape into some unreal but nostalgic middle class past where everyone in the neighborhood was white, the mother wore pearls while preparing dinner, and the worst problems were whether Beaver or older brother Wally ever mildly misbehaved. In fact, when I first saw Leave It to Beaver  (I was about 12 years old; we didn’t buy a TV until then), I disliked it intensely. I felt it was false and ridiculous. The relationships were stilted and facile. There seemed a cavernous divide: me parent, you child. That is, the children never confided in the parents. The parents never really asked the children what was going on. Their little problems would easily have been resolved if they just communicated. I much preferred Father Knows Best . Though these days, that title might be considered paternalistic, the show was not. That show portrayed a family that had true warmth and real communication. Although of the same era as Leave It to Beaver —the husband went to an office and the wife, Margaret, was a housewife—the marriage was a partnership. The occasional conflicts between them rang true. The children’s problems were never severe but were realistically presented.   But back to Beaver . Why do I watch it now?  Partly because it is there, something easy and non-combative to watch from bed when I wake in the morning. It does not require too much in the way of adrenaline or brain cells. And it has cheerful theme music. And why am I bothering to write about it? Because, although I still see its flaws, I now see those flaws from a slightly different perspective.  It is, as I remembered, simplistic. The various episodes seem to be almost parables—short lessons—for right and honorable behavior. And for communication. There are numerous episodes in which the  father, Ward Cleaver, warns Beaver not to do something. Persuaded by his friend Gilbert or Wally’s always conniving friend, Eddie, Beaver does the thing and is afraid to tell his father, making the situation worse. But when Beaver eventually does confess, his father says that he should feel he can always come to him when in trouble. Although Ward takes pride in his sons’ accomplishments and is disappointed when they fail, he is nevertheless a contrast with the father of Wally’s friend Lumpy, who egotistically sees Lumpy only in terms of how the kid reflects on him. The punishments Beaver and Wally receive further reflect these differences in family treatment. They usually are lectured or must go to their room. This is repeatedly contrasted with how their friends are treated by their fathers—getting hit or yelled at—sometimes for nothing. Perhaps the Cleaver family was not meant to represent the norm, but a model to which to aspire. I still find that model lacking in the complexity a real family navigates, and its lessons too obviously stated. Nevertheless, its goal to teach honesty, fair-dealing, respect for each other, and communication (even if backhandedly set up), makes me judge it a little less harshly this time around. Especially in these days when honesty, fair dealing, kindness, and communication are in such peril. Jessie Seigel’s journalistic career began with the political Washington Whispers column, written for The Insider . Since The Insider ended its run in 2023, Seigel has continued the column as My Washington Whispers, www.mywashingtonwhispers.com . In addition, Seigel has had a long career as a government attorney, has received two Artist’s Fellowships from the Washington, D.C. Commission on the Arts and Humanities for her fiction, has been a finalist for several literary awards, and has had professional staged readings of her plays, Tinker's Damn , and The Three Jessies . More on Seigel can be found at  www.jessieseigel.com .

By Marilyn Mars / Santa Fe, New Mexico LUANATEUTZI/SHUTTERSTOCK A paradox that has always fascinated me, while working with people in their homes as a clutter-clearing practitioner, is that we get used to seeing things so often that we no longer see them anymore. It can be as simple as a kitchen cabinet filled with mugs. You grab your favorite one while the others sit stagnantly waiting their turn as the years go by. Or a stack of magazines you keep hoping to “read someday” and there they sit unnoticed as you walk around them like you would a piece of furniture. Maybe it’s a sewing machine you inherited from your grandmother that’s been sitting in a corner for over a decade. Clutter blindness is a phenomenon where you become so accustomed to the clutter in your environment that you stop noticing it altogether. The crowded counter, the piles of mail, the overflowing closet with clothes that haven’t seen the light in years become such a normal part of your daily routine that you become blind to them. The more time you spend in a space, the more you get used to seeing it that way and it becomes the norm. Your brain begins to filter it out. But what I’ve found is that when you become aware of your space and consciously make changes, it can open new possibilities in your life. I had a client whom I’ll call Henry who felt like no matter how hard he worked or how talented he was, he continued to hit walls when it came to his work world. We decided to take a look at his office space together. The first thing I asked Henry was what did the faceless man mean to him? He said, ‘what faceless man’? He had a painting of a man without a face hanging near his desk. This item was a gift from an artist he liked years ago. Henry had stopped seeing it. The faceless man represented a man without a presence. In his office, Henry was surrounded by clutter and had many other items that represented emptiness to him. In my experience, clutter blindness happens in homes and offices for various reasons. Often it occurs as people experience some form of trauma or stress. They become overwhelmed and the outer environment reflects what’s happening in a person’s life. Henry’s office had become cluttered from the stress of lack of job opportunities. The hodgepodge continued to build up and not only was there no room for what he wanted in his life, his space was continually reflecting his invisibility. We did a thorough clutter-clear of his office over a number of days which gave his office a lighter feeling. He decided to let the painting of the faceless man go, since it had no meaning to him anymore.  He said he felt like he could breathe again. We even added a few items that made him feel successful and seen. He now had a relationship with his space that supported him. Three months later, I received a call from Henry. His work life had opened up, and his job situation had substantially changed. Clutter blindness can show up as a small mess, like a nightstand piled high with a variety of items contributing to disturbed sleep. It can also show up in entire rooms, making it difficult to function in your own residence. Once clutter builds up, it can feel overwhelming and affect your state of well-being. It can also block the flow of many other areas of your life. A different client, whom I’ll call Cindy, had lost her mother with whom she was very close. After her mother died, Cindy brought an enormous number of her mother’s possessions into her home, surrounding herself with more inherited items than her own belongings. At first, Cindy found it a comfort, but the profusion of objects soon started to overwhelm her space and how she was living. When Cindy realized these items were blocking her from her natural grieving process, she began to let go, start to heal and reclaim her space back.    You may be noticing some clutter blindness in your own life. It takes awareness before you can choose to make a change. The first step is to clarify what your motivation is to clutter-clear. By using techniques like starting with something easy, a small area you can successfully complete, you can begin to reclaim your space and restore order to your surroundings. Start with a kitchen cabinet, or if that feels overwhelming, just clear one shelf. Go through one item at a time and decide whether to keep it or not.  You’re on your way! Marilyn Mars is a clutter-clearing expert and educator, whose passion is discovering the underlying reasons why we hold on to things that no longer serve us in our current lives, Marilyn has worked one-on-one with clients around the country for 15 years and teaches virtual classes year-round. A native of Long Island, N.Y, she took a road trip to Santa Fe in 2001, fell in love with the mountains and decided to stay. She and her husband Guillermo are dedicated hikers. www.marilynmars.com

By Amy Lennard Goehner / Hudson, N.Y. The author as a young reporter in her Sports Illustrated office (1987) Exactly 46 years ago, a column written by the iconic sportswriter Red Smith ran in the New York Times , referencing middleweight boxer Marcel Cerdan. I saved the now-crumbling, faded clipping because it had the best opening paragraph of any story I had ever read. And it inspired me, an unschooled, wannabe sports reporter. At that time, I was working at a clerical job at the Korea Herald , my first stateside job after my Peace Corps and U.S. Army civilian stints in Korea. I mustered up my courage and wrote Smith a letter saying, “Dear Mr. Smith. Three of the four walls in my office get to me. But the fourth wall is filled with headlines that read, ‘Red Smith: Sports of The Times’. Thank you, Mr. Smith, for filling up those spaces.” To my delight, a letter from Smith shortly arrived. It read: “Dear Miss Lennard. Thank you. And I think you should do something about those other three walls.” Those were fighting words and they spurred me on. My introduction to sports had come with boxing in Brooklyn at age five. I’d head upstairs from our garage apartment to watch our Grandpa Abe (who, btw, made the best pickles in Sheepshead Bay), with his eyes glued to the black-and-white Zenith screen watching the Friday night fights. Abe would lean in, crouched in his chair, while holding up his hands and jabbing at an invisible opponent. My second dose of boxing DNA was provided by my equally beloved Grandpa Sam, who lived nearby near Coney Island. Sam had boxed as an amateur. Fast forward from the Korea Herald to an interview at Sports Illustrated in 1984, where I reminded my interviewer (and future mentor), “It isn’t too early to plan for the 1988 Seoul Olympics — and by the way, I speak Korean.” Nailed the job! The author started working at Sports Illustrated in 1984, landing the boxing and horse-racing beats The author (center) reporting at the 1988 Olympics in Seoul, South Korea It has been several decades since my halcyon years as a cub boxing reporter in the ‘80s. But I had a chance to revisit those times not long ago when I was approached by some producers at Showtime. They were making a documentary called The Kings , showcasing middleweight boxing legends Marvin Hagler, Roberto Duran, Sugar Ray Leonard and Thomas Hearns. They asked for tapes of any interviews I’d done with those fighters or their trainers. Luckily, they didn’t need my tape recorder from the ‘80s. It's probably stowed somewhere next to my Betamax or boombox. I somehow found my beat-up duffle bag which had been unopened for ages and was amazed at the treasure trove of cassettes it contained, including interviews with horse racing trainers (my other beat). I found a stash of prized middleweight bounty for the Showtime folks. But I couldn’t resist lingering just a little longer on memory lane, as I came across some unforgettable interviews I’d had with heavyweights ih the '80s.. Wow! Here’s my tape from the three hours I spent at the house of Mitch ”Blood” Green's mom in Queens, NY,— just me and Blood. He was 6' 5" and I was there to talk to him about his upcoming fight with Mike Tyson. But he just wanted my advice on women. He was quite chatty and friendly. So, I was shocked a year later when I awoke to a radio news report saying that Mitch ”Blood” Green had been arrested while impersonating a gas station attendant and robbing cars until the cops showed up. “Surely that must be some other Blood! " I said to myself. Aw , my Gerry Cooney interview! The tape was intact. Sadly, Cooney didn't look that way after his bout against Michael Spinks during “The War at the Shore” in Atlantic City. I had traveled there a few days before the fight to get some story color. On my second day, I ran into Cooney in the hotel lobby — alone! No throngs of reporters! Exclusive quotes!  I asked Cooney if he had some time to chat. “Come to my room in 10 minutes. I’ll be getting a massage,” he answered. I quickly did the math: Massage equals one massagee and one masseuse, that's two people. Phew. "Sure," I said confidently. "What's your room number?" When I entered his room, Cooney lay on a table with just a small towel draped over his 6' 6" frame. He started talking — but not about boxing. It was the first come-hither come-on I had ever received from any athlete. I ignored it and asked him his game plan against Spinks’ overhand right. Cooney stopped pulling punches and quickly fell in line. Yikes! Here’s my interview with a fighter whose name I am still afraid to mention, given that our meeting was part of an investigative assignment I was on to get the goods on a nogoodnik boxing promoter. When I arrived at the godforsaken Outer Borough building for our meeting, NoName was seated at a long table, flanked by two equally unsmiling, large men, their beefy arms crossed in front of them. "Where did you get my number?" one of his henchmen asked me. I had been told explicitly NOT to reveal my source. So I humana-humanad, Ralph Kramden style, all the while trying not to picture the New York Post headline: Day 12: " Sports Illustrated Reporter Still Missing." Hey , where did this tape come from? A cassette from a Sports Phone assignment to cover a New York Rangers hockey game? My boss had asked me to fill in for the hockey reporter. “Put me in, coach!” was my response, regretting those words the minute I stepped into the locker room and into uncharted turf — naked turf. Standing next to these tall men I kept my microphone (and eyes) up, telling myself, “Just let me survive this locker room and get back to my comfort zone.” Get me back to boxing. Red Smith and my grandpas would agree that it’s a civilized sport, where men keep their privates private during interviews! The author and Daisy, the family's rescue pug (2023) Amy Lennard Goehner has always had Lady Luck on her side in landing dream jobs — after college as a Peace Corps volunteer in Korea and years later as a reporter at Sports Illustrated , covering boxing and horse racing. That luck continued with reporting jobs at Sports Illustrated for Kids and at Time magazine. She currently is a contributing writer to AARP’s Livable Communities and is grateful for the opportunity to write about people who are making life better in their own communities.

By Dr. Nancy Fishman / Morgan Hill, Calif. When I turned 50 many moons ago, I distinctly remember thinking that although I had lived half of my life, I still had half of it left. I suppose I was making the decision to shoot for 100.  Since then I have become very clear about making it to 100. I even entertained the thought of getting OT (overtime) for additional years past 100. Do people consciously strive to reach a certain age? Are some satisfied with 80 years while others would feel cheated if they didn’t live a full century? It’s fairly common to hear people talking about what they want to stay alive to do. Me? I want to see what my granddaughter chooses for her life. I want to dance at her wedding. I want to be a great-grandmother. How much do desires like these influence  our plans to reach a certain age? It seems reasonable to  try and squeeze out every last opportunity to live life to its fullest. We have examples of this all around us. People in their 80s and 90s are taking adventure trips to exotic destinations abroad; others are camping and sleeping in yurts. There’s a 94-year-old woman living in my neighborhood who recently returned from a cross-country tour she took alone in a motorhome. You have to wonder what people in their late 90s have in mind when they renew five-year subscriptions, purchase season tickets to the opera, or buy new cars. There was an intriguing article on February 3 by Michael S. Rosenwald in the New York Times about Virginia “Ginny“ Oliver. It caught my eye because my daughter and her family live exactly where Ginny lobster fished until she was 103 years old. Penobscot Bay, on the central coast of Maine, lost a local legend in January when she passed away at age 105. I have to wonder what kept her going! At some point, you  begin to think about the time you have left. Do I really want to have that surgery the doctor is recommending, the one that will require a long recovery? Wouldn’t I rather enjoy my precious time having fun instead of spending countless hours in rehab? As some of us consider joining the ranks of centenarians, we consider quality of life. Is the end game the number of years, or the richness of the years we have left? People who are young, and totally unsuspecting of the insidious nature of aging, never imagine being too old to pop right up from sitting cross-legged on the floor. It never occurs to them that learning new computer skills or completing online forms could ever be intimidating. If you don’t have your head in the sand, you must admit that the challenges older adults face at this era require some very creative avoidance techniques. I’m sure I was the last person on earth to get a computer. I thought I would die trying to learn how to use it. When my flip phone fell into the toilet, I was forced to get an Apple iPhone. Once again, I doubted I would survive the transition from raised letters to flat screens. And let’s talk about flat-screen TVs! I swear remote controls will be the death of me. My husband says that if he dies before I do, I will need “a guy” to manage all the technology in my life! Signs of aging appear in many forms and become more and more obvious over time. When you have more age spots than flawless skin, you know you are on the road to 100. When you are going to more funerals than weddings, you can’t help but acknowledge your own mortality. When you find yourself making plans during the day to avoid driving at night, something has shifted. I’m wondering how we make concessions in the graying years. I envision piling all my fun on one side of a scale and all my fears on the other. When my fears and physical discomfort outweigh the fun, I will take it as a sign to avoid the activities that have become too challenging. The trick is to replace those with others that are safer and more comfortable. Adding new activities can feel empowering to people whose once very active lives appear to be slipping away. There is a popular expression about aging that most of us have heard: "Aging is not for the faint of heart.” I never knew what that meant when I was a young person, but now I sure do! I am reminded of this each sunrise when I count the number of hours I have slept, when my body feels punished because I have been eating too many inflammation-causing foods, or when I look in the bathroom mirror and a wrinkled face stares back at me. Somewhere on my way to 100, I realized that I am the older generation now, and younger people are learning from me how to age with grace. Yikes! That thought is somewhere between awesome and scary. But when all is said and done, I am still grateful to wake up on this side of the dirt! This column is devoted to psychological topics that speak to the human condition, such as relationships, family, love, loss, and happiness. The ideas, thoughts, philosophies, and observations expressed here are personal and not meant as professional advice. Names and identifying information have been changed to protect the privacy of real people. Dr. Nancy Fishman moved to Santa Clara County in 2016 from Michigan, where she was a practicing psychologist. Currently, she is a strategy consultant to individuals, families, businesses, family law attorneys and their clients, working on coping, managing, reorganizing, pivoting and innovating. She is the founder of Forgotten Harvest, one of the nation’s largest food recovery operations. She is also the creator of Silicon Valley’s A La Carte food recovery and distribution initiative, and the organizer of Feeding Morgan Hill. Nancy lives on a family compound with her husband, sisters, brother-in-law, and a pack of dogs.   NancyFishmanPhD.com   ForgottenHarvest.org

By Judi Markowitz / Huntington Woods, Mich. Forty-seven years ago, when I was pregnant with my first child, I bought a Jenny Lind highchair. This is no ordinary, run of the mill highchair. The legs, back and sides are distinctive. They are fashioned in the shape of turned spindle posts, better known as spools. The solid, warm oak finish was also a selling point. The moment I laid my eyes on this fine piece of furniture in 1979, I knew it would be a keeper. My four children and nine grandchildren have all enjoyed a hearty meal or snack in this beloved chair. It was my one and only. When I purchased it, I didn’t have a clue about the history of this product. I only knew that it was different from the other highchairs I had perused in various stores. Throughout the years, I became curious about  its distinctive style, and I began to do some research. I soon learned where the name came from. You might say that Jenny Lind was the Taylor Swift of her day. A Swedish soprano opera singer, Lind was one of the first international celebrities. In 1850, initially under the wing of showman P.T. Barnum, Lind began a 93-concert tour of America and created a sensation. Her name and likeness appeared on everything from razors, combs, and colognes to paper dolls, sausages, cigars and hats…and even highchairs. It was reported that President Lincoln slept on a Jenny Lind bed. (Never mind that this style of furniture had been crafted since the 16th century — first by hand and then by steam power.) To this day Jenny Lind continues to be a popular name for cribs, changing tables, dressers, bed frames, and other models that are in demand. Well-built pieces can take on a life of their own and endure the punishment doled out by children. My three rambunctious sons were known to bang on the tray of the highchair tirelessly with their spoons and bowls. They would also stand up and climb out of the highchair when they were less than two years old — much to my chagrin. Lindsay, my oldest, was the first in a long line to enjoy the prestigious highchair. Lindsay has special needs and I was simply elated that she could sit upright and manage to daintily pick up small food items. At times I had to place an extra rolled up towel in the chair to ensure she didn’t lean to one side. However, the boys used the highchair as their base of operation. Todd relentlessly pounded on the tray with his cars and trucks. A large model of Cookie Monster also had to adorn the highchair. Todd’s meals were secondary to play, so he ate quickly and then was on to other endeavors. Chad was the notorious green bean thrower. They were his preferred tool, along with other vegetables. He would toss his food across the kitchen table and take perfect aim at our faces. Chad was quickly relegated to a corner, a few feet away from the table, where his food couldn’t hit us. However, as Chad grew, his aim became better — practice makes perfect. Eventually, Chad stopped this annoying behavior. When it was Eli’s turn to take up residence in the beloved highchair, he immediately began to rock the chair from side to side. I thought he was going to hit the floor, chair and all. Eli loved his meals. He would surround his food with matchbox cars and make sounds like he was revving the engine. Smashing the cars into each other and then pounding them into the tray was his favorite form of entertainment. After each child’s time was up in the highchair, and they were ready to join us at the kitchen table, I would then refinish the wooden tray for the next round. I sanded, stained and brushed on polyurethane in order to bring the chair back to life. After Eli outgrew the highchair, I placed it in our basement and covered it up. It sat waiting for new customers for 18 years when our first granddaughter, Shoshana Leiba, was born in 2008. As more grandchildren joined the family, a long line of occupants continued to keep the highchair in action. Interestingly, there are no safety features other than a removable strap connecting the tray to the seat of the highchair. It easily snaps in place. This simple method was used to ensure that a child did not slip through the chair onto the floor. Only one of my grandchildren performed this feat, fortunately with no visible damage to him. By today’s standards this highchair would have been an outcast. There are so many bells and whistles on the latest models that an instructional manual is needed to help with securing and then removing various straps. Before grandchild No. 8 was born, my daughter-in-law, Alex, was gifted a lovely, modern-style highchair by her parents. It had a harness type strap system that appeared to be user friendly — that is until I was watching Ezra, our grandson. I placed Ezra in the chair, secured the straps and pushed in the clasps. However, when it was time to take him out, the process eluded me. After numerous frustrating attempts to locate the clasps and release them, I had to call Alex for instructions — definitely not my finest moment. My trusty highchair is currently being used by Eden, grandchild No. 9. She eats her food with precise fine motor skills and isn’t bent on destroying the tray. However, she has a good time while crumbling crackers and rice cakes. The grand finale of Eden’s meals is when she sweeps the deck of the tray onto the floor. I might not have to refinish the tray after this child, but my floor cleaning skills have greatly improved! I truly look forward to more occupants gracing the Jenny Lind highchair. If it continues on its present journey, one day it will evolve from a vintage piece of furniture to an antique. However, more years have to pass for that to come to fruition. I hope to be around to see my great grandchildren sitting in the highchair. I will certainly be an antique by then as well! Judi Markowitz is a retired high school English teacher of 34 years. She primarily taught twelfth grade and had the pleasure of having her three sons grace her classes. In addition, she taught debate, forensics, and Detroit film. Judi has four adult children and nine wonderful and energetic grandchildren. She is married to Jeffrey Markowitz, whom she met in high school. They now spend much of their time running around with their grandkids.  The View from Four Foot Two  is Judi’s first book.