writing

Friend or Foe?

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment
The living room where unsuspecting guests are often greeted by mice.

Mice have always been part of life at Awanabatch.  The difference is they live there year-round; while we only get to visit.  Over the years they’ve sampled our food, nested in the furniture and even raised families inside George the moose.  Unfortunately, they don’t clean up after themselves.  They’ve left enough “historical evidence” to convince me that they should start paying property taxes. 

One of three sections of the bench emptied out.

A couple of summers ago we removed a twelve-foot storage bench that had become prime mouse real estate. It was packed with old magazines, comic books, toys…and enough droppings to form archaeological layers. Nearly every paper item was soaked in mouse urine and had to be burned. Two antique bottles on the top shelf above it each contained a mummified mouse. I’m sure I inhaled enough dust that day to put me at risk for some lung disease I can’t pronounce.

Thurston’s favorite mouse story involves George, our stuffed moose. A family of mice moved into George’s head. During one family vacation, his former mother-in-law was sitting beneath George when a baby mouse suddenly fell out of George’s ear…and landed in her hair.

Every summer the kids competed to see who could catch the most mice. Their names were proudly recorded on the wall like Olympic champions. Brother Steve still holds the title.

Even removal of pesky rodents in the cabin can be a source of disagreement.  Thurston and I are all for elimination. Not everyone is in favor of poison, finding it inhumane and fearing that their pets could be poisoned as well.  Some don’t think we have a mouse problem.  I happen to disagree. 

The master bedroom in the new cabin is the prime spot with the sliding glass door providing a view of the Lake Superior shoreline.  We’ve spent time hanging the ceiling fan and new curtains; making it all cozy.  Thurston and I settle into bed, each of us with a good book. It isn’t long before the quiet of the cabin signals time for the critters to start moving about.

We can’t seem to eliminate them, but plastic does help keep the mice off the beds while we are away.

Sleeping on the right side of the bed puts me nearest the corner of the room.  The exterior walls are made of rough sawn logs.  Where the slightly uneven logs meet the straight interior walls, tiny gaps create the perfect mouse highway. 

I’m trying to read my book, but my eyes keep going back to that corner where I occasionally see big beady eyes giving me the once over.  Only to run back in when I wave the fly swatter at them.  Thurston, of course, is unfazed.  He finishes the next chapter and decides it’s lights out for him. 

I finished my chapter.  I had just turned out my light when I heard scratching.  Then footsteps.  Then something racing across the headboard.   Then…bonk.  Something lands between us.  I panic and immediately fan the bedspread into the air.  Yup – thump…goes the mouse onto the floor.

After slipping on my sandals – afraid I might step on him barefoot – I head for the kitchen.  Armed with a flashlight, fly swatter and rolls of aluminum foil, I return; determined to seal them out for the night.  I wad up sections of foil and fill all the corner cracks – ceiling to floor.  Naturally, Thurston slept through the whole thing.   

I spent the next day with expanding spray foam and caulk, hoping to permanently defend my territory.

In case you were wondering, the old wives’ tale that claims mice hate aluminum foil is wrong. Or perhaps the mice at Awanabatch never got that memo. The spray foam and caulk, however, sent a much clearer message.  Since then, I’ve slept much better. Thurston still just smiles; giving me the impression he thinks I overreacted. I’ve learned over the years that every marriage needs both personalities.  One person who sleeps through the mice…and the other armed with spray foam. 

One of my favorite shots of us together at Awanabatch

Retirement Time

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

Little did I know that agreeing on a schedule with another retiree could require the same level of negotiation as balancing the national budget.

Ask anyone over sixty. Sleep is more elusive than ever, and men and women seem to operate on completely different time zones.

We just returned from a trip to the family property in Canada. While there, we were trying to coordinate a visit with friends.

“We could stop over for coffee in the morning,” Thurston suggested.

“Any time after six,” our friend replied.

His wife gave me a deer-in-the-headlights look and countered with, “What about ten?”

I’m with her. Even if I’m awake by then, why would I want to be dressed and socializing at six o’clock in the morning?

Maybe after lunch would be better? Then we had to compare nap schedules.

Retirement doesn’t eliminate scheduling conflicts. It just replaces meetings, school events and soccer practices with morning coffee, meals and naps.

Half the time, I feel like I’ve just gotten to sleep when Thurston flips on the hall light for his first bathroom call. Mine isn’t until around 4 a.m. Just as I drift back to sleep, Thurston gets a text from his brother — another up-before-dawn and asleep-by-eight kind of guy.

The Do Not Disturb feature is now permanently enabled on Thurston’s phone.

On days when you can’t get back to sleep, you tend to want an early start on your to-do list. The other morning, Thurston was frustrated because his call went straight to voicemail.

“Why aren’t they answering their phone?”

I gently reminded him that while it was a weekday, the business didn’t open for another two hours.

It’s nothing for Thurston to be ready for bed before 9 p.m.The problem is when it’s not even dark yet.  Last night I convinced him to stay up until 10 p.m., which in retirement time is apparently the equivalent of pulling an all-nighter. It wasn’t a text message that woke me up at 5:30 the next morning. It was a pesky mosquito. I fought off getting up until 6:30.

I like to give Thurston plenty of time to get the coffee ready.

After all, everyone likes to have purpose. Some of us just prefer to discover ours after sunrise.

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

— Nora

*As published in The County Journal on June 20, 2026

Drive Down Memory Lane

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

Thurston and I are famous for turning a six-hour drive into a nine-hour adventure.

Although it never changes, I always feel the need to take another picture of the Mighty Mac.

We stop for coffee, lunch, building supplies, groceries and whatever else catches our attention along the way. By the time we reach Canada, we are exhausted from a trip that previous generations would have considered remarkably easy.

Every drive to Awanabatch eventually becomes a trip down memory lane.

As we cruise north in an air-conditioned pickup truck, it’s impossible not to think about Thurston’s grandfather making the 400-mile journey in his car. Was it a Buick? A Packard Eight, or a Ford pickup? A successful attorney from Rochester, Michigan, born in 1878, he traveled north in search of relief from severe allergies and discovered a place that would become part of our family’s story.

Imagine…in the 1930s they weren’t stopping at Weinerlicious or Clyde’s for lunch on the way up. The Mackinac Bridge didn’t open for business until November of 1957. The International Bridge opened on October 31, 1962. The road ended just past the Batchawana River back then as well, so there weren’t a lot of people on Highway 17 if you found yourself in need of fuel or roadside assistance. What feels like a long drive to us would have been a genuine expedition for him – yet somehow, he made the trip that started a legacy that still brings us across the border nearly a century later.

Coffee and muffins are a staple when visiting our friends, this time it was a birthday butter tart.

After purchasing the former logging camp, Grandfather needed the help of locals to clear trees, move buildings and construct the original cabin. The son of one of those helpers remains part of the story. He and his wife became lifelong friends of Thurston’s parents, and no visit is complete without spending time with them. Always sending us home with our favorite – butter tarts.

Grandmother and Goldie, the family’s live-in assistant, would bring young Bonnie (Thurston’s mother) and Henry junior north after school let out and return just before it started again. Their father often stayed until after the first frost. Even then, when the trip could take a day or more depending on ferry schedules, friends would make the trek to join in the fishing, dancing, and summer festivities.

Fast forward a generation to Bonnie bringing up her own family. Heaps of luggage and no car seats. Somehow Thurston’s parents managed to pack five children, a babysitter, the family dog, and everything needed for the vacation into a station wagon. Eventually replacing the luggage roof rack for a trailer for the migration north. Riders in the back seat traveling backwards, inhaling a little car exhaust and other bodily fumes. Brother Steve, always seeming to threaten car sickness to get a ride in the front seat. Dad, never needing to say much when things got out of hand, simply reached into the back seat and placed his hand just above your kneecap—a move we called his “hawker grip.” It was his way of letting you know he’d had enough.

Now we stop at Meijer for gas, groceries, and spirits before crossing the border. After crossing, we stop for fishing licenses and latest lure that promises to catch fish bigger than ever before. Back then, they stopped at Duty Free for their spirits. Planning for cocktails with friends on the deck overlooking the river was a thing even then.

After crossing the border, they filed into Canadian Tire, where the kids all got new shoes for the summer. Followed by a stop at Ontario’s Rone’s Market for groceries, including peameal bacon.

With the driveway just past the mouth of the river, you hope to be greeted by cabin guests waiting on the dock. After a quick honk and wave, you signal your turn into the private drive.

For nearly a century, family and friends have been making that same final turn. The vehicles have changed. The roads have changed. The trip itself has become easier with every generation.

What hasn’t changed is the feeling that comes when the river comes into view and you know you have arrived.

Likewise, saying goodbye never gets easier. After group photos, hugs and promises to see each other again soon, departing guests wave sadly from their cars to those lucky enough to be staying a little longer.

The drive has always been part of the experience. The anticipation on the way up. The stories that are born in route. The reluctance to leave when it’s over.

Some trips simply take you somewhere. This one brings us to our home away from home.

Becoming our Parents

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

Progressive Insurance commercials about turning into your parents are pretty darn funny — until one day you realize you’re living inside one.     

We had barely stepped out of our cabin on a Rhine River cruise when it began. A fellow passenger emerged from two doors down, made eye contact, and proceeded down the hallway at a snail’s pace; kept upright with the use of his walking sticks. Leaving us stuck behind him like a slow-moving vehicle during planting season.

Our fellow travelers were mostly of the “mature” variety, and it never failed — every time we turned a corner, it was another version of the infamous commercials.    

There were helpful repeaters. The ones who loudly restated every instruction as if the rest of us hadn’t heard it the first time. And, of course, the occasional passenger who felt it necessary to critique the entire experience out loud for everyone within earshot.

On one walking tour in Germany, one particularly vocal traveler pushed things a little too far. After several failed attempts by others to quiet her, my husband — the least confrontational person I know — finally spoke up. Not “please be quiet.” But “please shut up.” I was both shocked… and proud.

With five days of rain, we had no shortage of weather conversations. Traveling with a group of older people also means a lot of noise – grunts, groans and unsolicited commentary.

The funny thing is that it’s easy to spot these habits in other people. The harder part is recognizing them in ourselves.  Because if I’m being honest, the signs are already there.

It starts with desiring a routine.  We typically plan dinner around Wheel of Fortune. Then we switch channels to The Big Bang Theory. Slightly neurotic, the characters seem like they would be fun to hang out with; unlike the brainiacs on Jeopardy.  Oddly, I feel like enjoying Jeopardy would be a step on a very slippery slope.

Thurston might be up before the sun but after considering the time spent napping in his recliner, our days end up even.  We all know that if someone is bragging about how early they get up, they also are sure to be the ones taking naps and falling asleep before 8 p.m.  

For years, I swore we’d never become those people.

Turns out, it’s not something you decide.

It just… happens.

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

— Nora

Naps are the best at Awanabatch

As published in The County Journal on June 6, 2026

Awanabatch

/ sfosas0211 / 1 Comment

When people imagine a writer retreating to a cabin on the shore of Lake Superior, they probably picture something far more glamorous than reality.

Case in point, I am not the thirty-something blonde in a string bikini we both picture in our daydreams. Instead, I’m sixty-two, wearing leggings, a flannel shirt and reading glasses, waiting for my morning coffee to do its job.

The view of Lake Superior, however, is exactly as advertised.

Purchased by Thurston’s grandfather in 1932 – or 1935, depending on who you ask – the property has breathtaking views and nearly a century of family memories. The second cabin on the property was Uncle Henry’s dream, and I think he would be pleased with what is finally nearing completion.    

Along with the work on the “new” cabin, we’ve been working on preserving the history of the original cabin.  We completed a half-baked attempt at a kitchen remodel a couple years ago but even with its inconvenient features and worn-out amenities, it’s still the preferred meal spot.  The walls are decorated with childhood artwork from Thurston’s generation; recently preserved by laminating.  The dining room table can sit about 14 uncomfortably.  Sit down suppers are tradition here, regardless of how little elbow room you have.  Family dogs find themselves under the table, anxiously awaiting table scraps.   

The first addition to the original cabin was built to accommodate guests.  Thurston’s mom remembers her parents having dances in that room when it was first built.  Now that room has been relocated and serves as the laundry and bath house.  Replaced by a bigger and better version in the nineties, it now doubles as another bedroom or a place for board games or cards. George, the stuffed moose, guards the original living room.  From the cathedral ceiling, model airplanes hang.  A favorite rainy-day past-time of years gone by.  There are shelves and shelves of books and with our family, it’s nothing to see everyone in the main room with the fireplace roaring and everyone with their noses buried in a book with a steaming cup of coffee next to them. 

We have a no television policy here.  Occasionally we have radio service but sometimes we just break out the old CD’s or records and fire up the record player.  Days begin with coffee and bacon and Batchawana fries.  Like his dad before him, Thurston loves making breakfast for the family. You never know what you will find in the scrambled eggs! Staples are housed in the tin lined closet.  A place where paper products and perishable food items are safe from sampling.  Mice and bats have been known to try and join the party.  

Kids anxiously await permission to play on the rope swing.  Those that dare can swing out from the roof of the dilapidated old boat house.  Fishing from the shore of the river has been very successful in the last few years.  It’s nothing to pull in an eighteen-inch, five-pound bass right from the dock.  There are pontoon rides to the party spot where the river narrows to a point that boats can’t pass through.  It’s a great place for fishing or treasure hunting for fellow rockhounds. 

Nearly a century after one man purchased a stretch of shoreline and started a family tradition, the cabins are full of stories.  And I’ve only scratched the surface. 

This cove is about 15
minutes away – a rock lover’s dream.

Sights & Sounds

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

Even something as special as owning a long stretch of Lake Superior shoreline comes with its own set of challenges.   For all its natural beauty, everyone still seems to find their own version of stress while “relaxing” there. For those that haven’t been there, the property faces Lake Superior on one side and borders a river on the other side. While the Superior side is very tranquil and undeveloped, the opposite side faces the river, and a fairly busy private campground.

As I already shared, unwelcome visitors stress some people out.  Trespassers.  ATVs are a constant source of headache whether they are on the beach or creating trenches from crossing the driveway.  Then there are the boaters and wave runners that fly in and out of the launch across the river, seemingly unconcerned about swimmers sharing those waters. 

For others like me; it’s the noise coming from across the river.  What they might consider the joyous sounds of children making memories, I hear something a little less charming.  For me, there’s nothing more annoying than teenage girls screaming to get the boys’ attention.  I can’t imagine any teenage boy gauges their attraction to a young girl in a skimpy bikini by how loud she can scream.  In my house, you had better be in real danger before you decide to start screaming.   I won’t even go into barking dogs.

While we think we are looking forward to the day when our grandchildren are all able to go with us, we might just find ourselves quietly escaping in the boat in search of a little peace and quiet.  Thankfully, the property offers both – space to gather and space to disappear.  Everyone has their favorite space. Some prefer the original cabin with its rustic feel while others gravitate toward the newer cabin with a few more comforts. 

Then there’s scheduling – or the inability to schedule I should say.  Something as simple as a pontoon ride can feel like herding cats.  What should take minutes often takes hours.  Mornings are no different.  Some are up at daybreak with coffee in hand, while others find sleeping in until noon more enjoyable. Add babies into the mix and you have a real scheduling nightmare on your hands!

Last year we learned that not only do the early birds get the worms, but they also enjoy the most spectacular sunrises and see bears!  After years of waiting to see a bear, last year we finally did.  Unfortunately, it was on the back of my son-in-law’s truck.  After a steady diet of discarded “world-famous” apple fritters scraps from the Voyageur this bear was probably just looking to cut carbs.  Broaden the menu.  In hindsight, storing our trash in the truck bed may not have been one of our best ideas.  We managed to scare him off before he ruined the truck’s tonneau cover.  I’m still not sure what possessed my husband to go out and poke a bear with a rake handle. Rather than question his judgement, I did what any reasonable person would do – I grabbed my phone and started filming.  Clearly, old age doesn’t mark the end of bad decision making.       

At the end of the day, these inconveniences are just small blemishes on something truly special.  I can’t let this place be defined by its challenges — because that’s not what keeps bringing us back. 

A Day in the Life

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

By Nora Fields

Mornings here begin the same way every day. My husband is up by 6 a.m. I am not — if I can help it.

Armed with my readers and a cup of coffee, I curl up in my usual spot on the couch, where the television volume is already set to 16. Following our traditional “Good morning, Lovey,” he asks what I have planned for the day.

Yes, that’s his pet name for me — borrowed straight from Gilligan’s Island. For that reason, from this point forward, I’ll refer to my husband as Thurston.

Although he should already know my routine, I proceed to rattle it off.  I start off with Wordle.  Then Duolingo to protect my position in the Obsidian League.  After two years of daily lessons, I still can’t speak a lick. Still, I feel better doing that rather than just scrolling Facebook mindlessly.  While I’m on my phone, I’ll skim over political debates and miracle weight loss recipes, diagnose my own medical conditions, and learn fascinating facts about people I’ve never met.  If things go as planned, I will get dressed and make the bed before 10 a.m.

Today I need to order a new clock from Amazon — one with big neon numbers we can read from across the bedroom in the dark. No need for an alarm feature since we’re both awake long before it goes off anyway. While I’m there, I’ll likely discover several other items I didn’t know I needed until they popped up “on sale.” After one or two uses, they’ll quietly wait for a ride to Goodwill with the stash of things from the “old” house that I no longer need.

With my laundry area in the basement, at least I’ll get in some cardio and strength training in hauling clothes up and down the stairs.   

“I think that covers it,” I tell him. “Why do you ask?”

“Well,” he says, “I was hoping you would have a minute to help me look for my glasses.”

“You mean the ones hanging from your shirt collar?”  True story.

As you can see, retirement is a high-intensity lifestyle.

When your retired friends say they’re busier now than they were when they were working, believe them. We’re exhausted — just differently.

Retirement isn’t lazy.  It’s just louder, slower — and a lot harder to see without glasses.

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

— Nora

As published in The County Journal on May 9, 2026

Trespassers

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

We’ve been given an extraordinary gift, a stretch of Lake Superior shoreline on the Canadian side. A place so special that most people only get to visit. Which, apparently, also makes it irresistible.  It’s a delicate balance of being friendly or neighborly and protecting what’s yours.  Especially when people know we are Americans and there isn’t always someone on the property.  You don’t want to overreact, but you also don’t want to find your place has been “borrowed” when you next show up.    

Trespassers have always been part of the story, and for some in the family, a real source of stress.  Yes, people can legally walk the beach and swim, but they aren’t welcome to use the property as if it were an extension of the neighboring public park.  Thurston, for one, has taken this personally. 

In recent years, he’s seen to it that strategically placed signs dot the landscape – gentle but firm reminders that this is, in fact, private land. As you enter the property, a large private property sign greets you. You would think that might be enough to stop people from heading down the long single-lane drive to the cabins. But every so often, someone pulls in anyway—just curious, they say. Or hopeful. “Could we pay to camp here, just for the night?” Or my personal favorite: “Can we just cross over here to get over there?” Well… no. Because that’s private property too.

In effort to keep a clean shoreline, a local establishment recently started providing doggy waste bags.  Thoughtful gesture – until people began filling the bags and tossing them into our woods.  Which raises an important question: if you’re going to throw it into the bushes anyway, why use the bag?  At this point, we’re considering new signage.  Something along the lines of: Save the bag.  Send the dog to the woods.  The bears won’t mind.    

Those on foot are one thing but those of the 4-wheel variety are another.  The sound of 4-wheelers is sure to put everyone on alert.  And one evening, it pretty much ruined what was supposed to be our attempt at a romantic beach night.  The beach side is usually too windy for a fire, but on this rare, calm evening, we made multiple trips back and forth – chairs, wood, blankets, beverages – everything we needed for a perfect evening. 

We hadn’t even poured our first drink before we heard it.  Not the crackle of the fire, but the low hum of engines.  I told myself they were going to the public beach.  They were not.  They turned and headed straight toward us.  Thurston took off like a rocket.  Meanwhile, I stayed behind, mentally preparing to dial 911 for help and wondering – does 911 even work in Canada? 

There were only a few of them, but at that moment, it felt like a parade. My heart was pounding. Thurston—who is very much a lover, not a fighter—was suddenly prepared to defend the shoreline. They pulled up, shut off their machines, and explained.  Fireworks. In August. Apparently, their Canada Day celebration in July had been rained out… and this was the rescheduled event. Expecting not only to drive across our property with their quads and trailers but to shoot the fireworks off our point. They assured us they’d been doing this for over twenty years and had permission from the owner.  Which might have carried more weight… if that owner hadn’t passed away in 2018.

After a fairly-direct conversation about how this sort of thing might have been better handled — perhaps by stopping in during daylight hours and asking permission —we reached a compromise.

They could pass. One last time. As it turned out, the only fireworks that night were the ones in the sky.  They were amazing.  Our romantic beach evening? Slightly less spark. But hope springs eternal. Maybe this will be the year.

Stay tuned.

Sharing Something that Matters

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

Back in the early days of dating my husband, he told me his family owned a cabin in Canada. It was rustic but had modern conveniences like running water and working bathrooms. It was shared not only with siblings and cousins, but also with a few uninvited guests — mice, bats, ants, and the like.

It was clear from the very beginning; he loved that place. If I couldn’t find a place for it in my heart, we probably weren’t suited for the long term. Even then, his retirement dream included spending as much time there as possible.

Luckily, I loved the outdoors — fishing, boating, swimming — and didn’t mind sharing space with a few critters. I had a feeling I’d love it too if I gave it a chance.  I was right. I fell head over heels for something that would never be mine.  Thanks in part to Canadian law. 

Owning a cabin with eight other families is a never-ending lesson in compromise. There are hundreds of years of combined memories — some shared by many, others held secretly by just one or two. For the most part, we try to respect that, but it’s not always easy when one person’s treasure is another’s trash.

Case in point: the dining hall walls.

I will never forget the first time I saw them — magazine covers from the Saturday Evening Post, newspaper clippings, and crayon drawings all on display. Seeing drawings my husband and his siblings had made as children was something special. It felt like stepping back into history.

Some see clutter on those walls. I see the work of family elders; people who were here before us, leaving pieces of themselves behind.

In effort to find middle ground, everything was taken down at the end of the season. Everything that was still intact was laminated. If it was worth displaying, it was worth preserving. Before anything could go back up, the walls needed a thorough scrubbing.  Layers of dust, practically cemented to the logs by layers of spattered grease from fried bacon and potatoes, were removed. The best pieces went back on the walls, and the rest were placed into a binder.  Compromise.

The kitchen tells a similar story. After years of talking about it, we gave the space new life with used cabinets, a homemade countertop, and new plank flooring.  After hours on hands and knees, pulling hundreds of old staples and nails, we couldn’t save the original flooring.  Laying new laminate flooring felt like defeat but it had to happen.  Even something as simple as organizing cupboards becomes a challenge when everyone has a different idea of what makes sense. It’s far from high-end, but it’s functional; and much closer to being mouse-proof.

And then there’s the “stuff.”

With nine households involved, the cabin has become the landing place for things no one wants at home. Appliances, dishes, linens — all brought with good intentions. Over time, closets fill, shelves overflow, and much of it goes unused. What remains is a collection of items no one quite claims, and no one feels comfortable discarding. No one wants to be the one who throws out something someone else once loved.

Every effort to update or maintain the cabin becomes a balancing act between practicality and preservation. It’s not practical for nine families to share one property — especially in another country. Yet for now, it’s what keeps it intact.

No one wants to imagine a day when future generations are simply strangers who happen to share ownership. What was meant to be one man’s greatest gift to his family has become something far more complicated.

Sharing a place like this isn’t really about ownership. It’s about deciding what’s worth holding onto — and what we’re willing to let go of. It means accepting that not everyone’s vision will align, that the effort will never be evenly matched, and that what feels perfect to us may not feel the same to those who come after us.

Like a marriage, something like this doesn’t work by accident. It takes intention. It takes patience. And it takes a willingness to compromise.

I just hope we’re all up for it.

Learning I’m Old

/ sfosas0211 / Leave a comment

By Nora Fields

Now that we’ve been introduced, your next question is probably why you should read about getting old. I don’t plan on making this about being old so much as reflecting on how I got here — and giving you a chance to pause and consider your own path toward those so-called golden years.

After spending most of my life going 100 miles per hour, I’m discovering that retirement isn’t what I expected. I can’t help but feel like previous generations withheld a few details. I won’t say we were lied to, but there’s plenty I wish I’d known. Between keeping your head above water and living in the moment, retirement somehow sneaks up on you.

Most importantly, I didn’t know I was old — until I was told.

It took the brutal honesty of my four-year-old granddaughter to deliver the news. She had no idea she had just jeopardized her chances of a full-ride college scholarship from Grandma. (Relax — I wouldn’t really do that.) While she looks just like her mother, she is very much my son’s daughter. She simply tells it like she sees it. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised; I’ve been accused of the same thing a time or two.

If I’m honest, I measured “old” by my grandparents too.  What I considered old back then are now today’s great grandparents.  Funny how your perception changes!

What I didn’t realize about aging is that inside, you feel much the same as you did 20 or 30 years ago. Aside from a body that occasionally files formal complaints, my mind still wants what it always has. I recently heard someone say that inside every adult is an eight-year-old child. The older I get, the more I believe that’s true.

We are the sum of our experiences. Our reactions today are shaped by everything that came before. Yet somewhere along the way, we decided that adults should be able to handle criticism without flinching — especially on social media. News flash: we can’t. That eight-year-old is still in there.

Be kind. We’re all just kids with wrinkles.

We’re all aging.
Let’s do it out loud.

Nora

As printed in The County Journal on April 11, 2026.