I was Facebook friends with my Aunt Barbara for many years before I saw her begin to post pictures of her oil paintings, a new creative outlet she picked up well into Life’s Act III, like no big deal. Thanks for inspiring me, Aunt Barbara!. – Eugene. Over the years I have enjoyed so many… Continue reading
It’s the 1980s. I’m combing through the course catalog (made of a thing called “paper”) looking for another writing course or two to fulfill my graduation requirements. There is one called something like Scriptwriting for Film and TV that caught my eye. My land-locked school wasn’t exactly famous for being a pipeline to Hollywood, but… Continue reading
Life’s Act III comes with its fair share of creaky knees, misplaced reading glasses, and an occasional moment of walking into a room and completely forgetting why you’re there. But it also has a delightful perk—one I am about to let you in on. Grab a notepad so you can play along at home. See,… Continue reading
Someone asked me the other day what I mean by “Breaking Hip,” the name of this here blog. It had been swirling around in my head for months, but I hadn’t tried to say it out loud before. I gave it a shot. Halfway in, I realized the shot needs a rewrite. Let’s try that… Continue reading
I can’t write. Not in the “tortured artist staring out the window at the rain” sort of way, but in the way where you sit down, full of good intentions, and realize the words, which used to show up like old friends with stories to tell, now skitter off to some dark corner of my mind,… Continue reading
It seems a bit silly now, upon retrospect, but I came up with this cunning little strategy to combat aging. Not a full-blown master plan, mind you, but more of a casual hypothesis, the sort of thing you come up with people-watching while eating a sandwich on a park bench. Probably be a bestseller once… Continue reading
Monday, Monday. Can’t trust that day, they warned, when it was really Wednesday I should’ve been watching out for. I remember the moment the plot twist hit: there I was, flat on my back in bed, staring at the ceiling, barely able to move, mumbling bits of prayer like they were going out of style…. Continue reading
*Not her real name Let’s talk blood. I can’t donate mine, thanks to a stint living in the U.K. Mad cow precautions, they say. Serious stuff, I know, but when my daughters were little, it was always good for a laugh when talk of a blood drive came up and their dad, me, couldn’t sign… Continue reading