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Resource Directory for Pennsylvania
COVID’s social distancing has been an anathema for those real crowd lovers. You know, those ultra-social creatures who wade into the July Fourth Boston Pops concert on the esplanade to claim their 1 square foot of personal space.
Since our South Florida city’s dog park was closed in late March, our 2-year-old Boston terrier, Mabel, has missed the socialization opportunities it offered and so have my wife and I, snowbirds from the Boston area.
My late dad and I have both been in the crosshairs of a pandemic, albeit 102 years apart.
Last year I attended my class of 1969’s 50th high school reunion. It was a meaningful event for me because for one night, I was together with fellow baby boomers who marched lockstep in time with me from hula hoops to Hulu TV.
Surprisingly, it’s taken my third snowbird winter in Florida to realize that at age 68, I still have freckled arms and shoulders.
In our 62 years on Earth together, my dad asked me a lot of questions.
In sixth grade I was forced to miss at least a week’s worth of recess periods. I stayed in the classroom, while outside, my classmates were frolicking.
Supposedly one’s introduction to a Red Sox game at Fenway is always the splendor of the grass. The fan walks up the ramp from the park’s dingy bowels into the glorious green of an outfield so immaculate it appears to have been mown by God.
A few months ago, my childhood friend asked me if I would help out with our high school’s 50th reunion. I immediately said yes. Then I immediately had second thoughts.
During the three months that my wife and I wintered in Florida in 2018, we befriended a few small lizards who jumped right into our pool, but no fellow snowbirds.
My paternal grandparents’ Jan. 18 anniversary was a big deal in our family and elsewhere.
A decade ago, my 88-year-old dad lamented being forced to stop driving.
One of my least favorite bumper stickers is “Ask Me about My Grandkids” — for a couple of reasons.
Recently, during my 9-year-old Boston terrier’s second echocardiogram appointment, I was not, unlike the first appointment, focusing on the intimacy of Cookie’s beating heart tissue and blood flow on the screen.
As a grade schooler in the late 1950s, I really missed my dad on Saturdays. Dad would close down his dental practice at noon, come home, and then jump into a car with Grandpa and a few racing pals and head to the local horse track.
This past Chanukah I gave my 21-year-old son, Matt, a gift of a book. Compared to Matt’s other gifts of cool clothes and a Budweiser can candle, I feared that the book would be rated a distant third.
We are just a click away!