The questions were fast and furious. Photo courtesy of retired teacher Maria LaPlaca Bohrer, who, with her husband Glenn, graciously fed and put us up for the night.

Mike, Whitney and I flew into La Guardia last Tuesday evening. The next day, New York City schools were closed due to snow. The next day, schools on Long Island were closed, too, so our Thursday visit to Rall Elementary School was cancelled.

Eyebrows up! Whitney and I finally outlasted Mother Nature on Friday. We spent that entire day at Harding Avenue Elementary School in Lindenhurst, and if you ask me, the questions the kids asked there made the wait worthwhile. Some examples:

• What happens when you have to go upstairs?
• How many dogs have you had?
• What inspired you to write books?
• How do you eat ice cream?
• How can you write books if you can’t see??
• What if your Seeing Eye dog bit you?
• How come you’ve had so many dogs?
• But what if the ice cream is in a cone?
• Can your dog have babies? Why not?
• When you go to shop, how do you pick out clothes?
• How can you drive?
• How come you have to change dogs so much?
• Is your dog with you all the time when you’re at home, too?
• How do you feel if you’re blind?
• You said all you can see is the color black, right, so I gotta wonder if, when your dog pulls you, does she keep you safe?

It took that little boy a while to get that last question out. I sure didn’t mind — it just gave me a chance to lean down and scratch Whitney’s ears while I listened. Bonus: the concern in the boy’s voice motivated me to lift the harness on Whitney’s back and demonstrate how a Seeing Eye dog works.

And so, for our grand finale, I commanded “Whitney, outside!” The kids watched in awe as my magnificent Seeing Eye dog led mea safely around chairs, bookshelves and children sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor to the door out of the room.

This past Monday special education teacher Caitlin Farrell emailed me thank you notes from her class that I can hear. If you are looking for — or need — something to smile about, click the players below to hear their beautiful voices.

I turned 60 last year. Other than my 16^th (I could get a driver’s license), 18^th (I could vote), and 21^st (I could drink liquor legally), I had never paid much attention to the numbers. But 60 kinda got me. So, I did something to remind myself I’m not dead yet—I went to Japan and road tripped with our nephew Brian. Staying in hostels, walking around Tokyo, and seeing a Japanese metal festival reminded me that I’m still 25 inside. But outside, 60 meant unequivocally that I’m, as golfers say, on the back 9.

That’s our nephew Brian and me at a Hanshin Fighting Tigers game at Jingu Stadium, the oldest baseball stadium in Japan.

Of course, I have been on the back nine for awhile. The number 60 just made me more aware. But eventually, I remembered that it’s just a number and it doesn’t really say a lot about me.

Still, we cling to generational labels and stereotypes. Being 60 makes me a baby boomer. But that term has always bugged me. Or at least the notion that it says anything about me. My sister Kris, only five years older than I am, also qualified as a boomer, but she had a substantially different experience than I did growing up. There’s an 18-year range that labels us as boomers. That means a wide variety of experiences—from music you listened to as a teenager (one boomer could be weaned on The Lettermen or Elvis, another on Janis Joplin and The Doors), to whether the Vietnam War was more than controversial—it was a matter of life or death.

And that generational thing doesn’t touch stuff like where you grew up (Alabama? Minnesota? South Side of Chicago? Evanston, Illinois?). So many other factors have always seemed to me to be more important than age.

So it was satisfying to read an op-ed in the March 6 New York Times titled: ‘Millennial’ Means Nothing. Here’s the lead paragraph:

The Pew Research Center announced last week that it will define people born between 1981 and 1996 as members of the millennial generation, embracing a slightly narrower range of years than the ones used by the United States Census Bureau. It would have been better, though, if it had announced the end of what I call the “generation game” — the insistence on dividing society into groups based on birth year and imputing different characteristics to each group.

The writer, an economics researcher at Australia’s Queensland College, focuses initially on the emptiness of stereotypes about millennials:

To see what’s wrong with the idea, take a look at American millennials. In seemingly endless essays in recent years, they’ve been derided as lazy and narcissistic or defended as creative and committed to social change. But these all sound like characteristics that the old have ascribed to the young since the dawn of time. Similar terms were applied to the “slacker” Generation X and before that, the baby boomers.

He adds:

Much of the apparent distinctiveness of the millennial generation disappears when we look at individuals rather than aggregates. Black millennials, like their parents, overwhelmingly vote Democratic. By contrast, 41 percent of white millennials voted for Donald Trump in 2016. That’s lower than the 58 percent of all white voters who went for Mr. Trump, but it makes more sense to attribute the difference to individual characteristics and experiences rather than a generational attitude.

Moreover, the writer holds than none of the popular generational tags really tell us much. And he throws a bone to us 60-year-olds:

Some may argue that the generation game, if intellectually vacuous, is basically harmless. But dividing society by generation obscures the real and enduring lines of race, class and gender. When, for example, baby boomers are blamed for “ruining America,” the argument lumps together Donald Trump and a 60-year-old black woman who works for minimum wage cleaning one of his hotels.

Which is all to explain, I guess, why I felt a greater kinship to those young’ns who were out on the street Saturday for than I do to some of my contemporaries. Here’s to kids of all ages.

Greetings from New York City! I’m speaking at some elementary schools in Lindenhurst on Long Island tomorrow and Friday, but Whitney, Mike and I flew in yesterday to spend a couple days in Manhattan first.

We booked a hotel room two doors down from our dear friends Benita and Henry on the Upper West Side, and after enjoying cocktails at their place last night, we all walked to a nearby restaurant for dinner (with live piano music, oo la la.) We made it back to the hotel before the weather turned, but when we woke up this morning, it was snowing.

The view from our hotel entrance on 81st Street. On the other side of the street, a dog park is beckoning Whitney.

It still is. Snowing, I mean.

We’d had ideas about taking a long leisurely walk through Central Park today and meeting up with my nephew Michael Hornburg (he lives in Brooklyn) for a book sale in a nearby library. But, alas. The snow is wet (feels like you’re walking through snow soup), Central Park sidewalks are sloppy, and the library book sale is cancelled.

Eyebrows up! There’s a dog park across the street….

Beth posted here a couple weeks ago about what her memoir-writing students wrote in response to the prompt “If you could have a guarantee that one specific person would read your memoir”. Kathy Zartman, one of her students—and our good friend—named Tim Kreider as that one person. Here’s Kathy writing about why:

“His take on his mother’s move into a retirement community, his analysis of the only hope for curbing gun violence, and his feelings when he kills, or does not kill, household ants — on all these topics he expressed, far better than I ever could, exactly how I feel.”

The cover of Tim Kreider’s recently released book.

Well, as much as I like to think I’m up on things, Kreider’s name was new to me. So I looked him up. Kreider made his name initially as a cartoonist—his “The Pain, When Will It End” series earned a large and loyal following. And he’s published a couple collections of his essays, the most recent being “I Wrote This Book Because I Love You.” And, he’s a regular contributor to the NY Times Opinionator section.

Kathy has recommended his first collection, “We Learn Nothing,” and it’s on my list. In the meantime, I’ve been working through his NY Times pieces.

Kathy is absolutely right: Kreider  expresses things I feel and think, sometimes better than I could. Which, as a writer, kind of pisses me off. (Filmmaker Judd Apatow, in a blurb for Kreider’s first book, kind of sums it up: “He can do in a few pages what I need several hours of screen time and tens of millions to accomplish. And he does it better. Come to think of it, I’d rather not do a blurb. I am beginning to feel bad about myself.”)

My envy aside, Kreider is a completely satisfying read. A good example: an Opinionator essay called “Cycle of Fear” that opens with this reflection that I’m guessing a lot of you can identify with. I know I can:

Like many people, I like to set aside a few hours every day, generally between 3 and 6 a.m., to lie quietly thinking about everything that could go horribly wrong with my life and all the ways in which I am negligent and reprehensible. I have spasms of panic over things I shouldn’t have written, or, worse, things I should have; I regret having spent all the money and wonder where more money might ever conceivably come from; I wish I’d kissed girls I didn’t, as long ago as 1985. I’m suddenly convulsed with remorse over mean things I did in middle school (I am sorry, Matthew Reeve); I force myself to choose my least favorite death (drowning).

It’s worth noting that the order in which these items preoccupy me is more or less the inverse of the order in which I ought to be worrying about them.

All of this is to set up a discussion about his bicycling in New York City. His overall point is that, although it would seem that someone who lies awake mornings in angst wouldn’t enjoy something as nerve-wracking as riding a bike in a busy city, in fact, cycling in New York is an antidote to that angst. From the piece:

Natural selection has made us hypervigilant, obsessively replaying our mistakes and imagining worst-case scenarios. And the fact that we’ve eliminated almost all of the immediate threats from our environment, like leopards and Hittites, has only made us even more jittery, because we’re now constantly anticipating disasters that are never going to happen: the prowler/rapist/serial killer lurking in the closet, a pandemic of Ebola/Bird Flu/Hantavirus, the imminent fascist/socialist/zombie takeover.

Kreider goes on to describe how riding a bike in the city puts to use  his genetically programmed hypervigilance, and that’s why he loves riding—it gives him a kind of Zen state.

And I can totally relate to that state. For all of my life I’ve been an angst-ridden worrier. Sometimes it’s served me, Beth, and Gus very well. Other times it’s taken its toll, mostly on me. For most of my life, I’ve ridden motorcycles. Riding has been my escape from my angsty self on one hand, and the only time that I’m completely present in the moment. It does for me what bicycling does for Kreider. I’d go on, but Kreider has done it better:

When I’m balanced on two thin wheels at 30 miles an hour, gauging distance, adjusting course, making hundreds of unconscious calculations every second, that idiot chatterbox in my head is kept too busy to get a word in. I’ve heard people say the same thing about rock-climbing: how it shrinks your universe to the half-inch of rock surface immediately in front of you, this crevice, that toehold. Biking is split-second fast and rock-climbing painstakingly slow, but both practices silence the noise of the mind and render self-consciousness blissfully impossible. You become the anonymous hero of that old story, Man versus the Universe. Your brain’s glad to finally have a real job to do, instead of all that trivial busywork. You are all action, no deliberation. You are forced, under pain of death, to quit all that silly ideation and pay attention. It’s meditation at gunpoint.

I could not describe it better. Thanks Tim Kreider, for virtually writing my blog post for me today.

And thank you, Kathy Zartman, for the introduction.

PS Here are a couple other posts to whet your appetite.

You Are Going to Die

On Smushing Bugs

During Oscars week this year I asked the writers in my memoir classes to choose a title of one of the films nominated for best picture. “Use that title as the writing prompt for your next 500-word essay.”

No one chose Dunkirk. And just like at the Oscars, “The Shape of Water” won the most votes. Most writers came back the next week with essays about vacationing at lake houses, renovating old bathrooms, learning to swim, that sort of thing. Second-most-popular prompt? “Get Out.” Writers used the prompt to pen essays about escaping scary situations, leaving home, undesireable roommates, blind dates gone wrong.

Wanda, the 95-year-old matriarch of my memoir-writing classes, chose “Call Me By Your Name” and generously offered to let me share her delightful essay with you about how she and her husband came up with a name for their daughter.

Here’s a screen capture of the live feed screen from when Wanda and I were on WGN radio last summer. There’s Wanda in the upper left screen.

by Wanda Bridgeforth I

I was the oldest female of a dozen cousins. For almost seven years, I was the only girl. This age difference resulted in being the first to date, to marry, and to become a mother.

The family referred to my father and his brothers as “We Boys.” They had no sisters, so We Boys name their daughters after themselves. This resulted in Albertine, Claudette, Claudine, Earline, Fredricka, Haroldine, etc. That should give you some idea of our naming process.

We grew up in the age of fairy tales, True Romance magazine and and movies that ended with the hero winning the girl and riding off to live happily ever after. Curtis was in the army, and on New Year’s Eve he called me from a train station in downtown Chicago. He could not say which train station he was at, and he couldn’t leave the station because his outfit was on alert. They were being shipped out, destination unknown. He told me not to worry if I didn’t receive mail because all contact with family would cease until they reached their destination. I told him my pregnancy had been confirmed and we would be proud parents in early summer.

In the meantime, the girl cousins back home got busy compiling a list of names for the baby. My husband’s name was “Marvin Curtis,” mine, “Wanda Geneva,” so you can just imagine the suggestions. True to tradition, we had some doozies. For example: Wantis Curanda. Marvinia. Marvetta. The names go on from there. I guess because of their gender, boy’s names were limited to Marvin Curtis, Jr.

At last in mid-April I received a bag of V-mail from my soldier husband. Much of it was blotted out, but it did say the ship had been at sea for 56 days. In case all the mail didn’t reach me, he wrote his name suggestions in several letters. Only two names were on the letters, one mail, and one female. The boys name was his, and the girl’s name was mine.

I always signed my letters with Roman numeral I after my name, so when this baby girl arrived I gave her my name and added “Junior.” Although she changed her last name when she got married, and she’s been married over 40 years, our family and friends still call us “Senior” and “Junior.”