paulmuses

We lived on East Street as I was growing up. It was a brick-lined, hilly road with our house set high on a terrace up an inclined driveway lined by two 10-foot stone walls. Two dormer bedroom windows jutted from the second floor that faced a castle-like house across the street.

My younger brother Peter and I shared one bedroom, while the youngest, Pat, had the other. My bed was next to the window that faced the street. During the summer, when the night cooled, my dad would turn off the large fan in the window that looked out on the backyard where we played wiffle ball. Without the rumble, I heard the sounds of the night.

When I was ten — the same year I read Mutiny on the Bounty, my first big book — I saw a newspaper headline when I picked up my forty-four Times-Democrat newspapers about a maniac who escaped from an asylum. Is a maniac like Dracula or the Wolfman, I wondered.

After supper, my mom walked up East Street to Middle Road to visit Aunt Marilyn and to play bridge. At bedtime, she hadn’t returned. As it got dark, I reversed my position in the bed so that I could look out the open window that faced the street, and hear the sounds: an owl hooting, car tires drumming on the brick pavement…But I couldn’t see the sidewalk. Or the creepy house across the street.

Where I was sure He was lurking, the humpback, shaggy-haired man, ready to strangle my mother as she turned to walk up the long, steep driveway, hidden from the street and our next-door neighbors.

So I stood watch at the window in my tennis shoes, holding a plastic wiffle ball bat, until I spotted her turn into the driveway, and then heard, outside the back window, the turn of the backdoor knob and the click of the lock.

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It was my Donna car, a crocus-yellow Corvair, bought with fry-cook money in 1972, who — sorry, Dion — was most definitely not Prima.

Come to think of it, neither was Sharon, a 1960 Chevrolet Impala, a gift from my father, who bought her for $95 in 1968.

Sharon was my high school girlfriend, and Donna arrived in college. I was lucky to know them. Thankfully, each lasted longer than their namesake to help tutor this clueless boyfriend. I hope life has been good to them.

Yesterday, on a walk, I spotted Donna, who looked not a day over 60. Some angel put her back together.

The accident wasn’t my fault.

It was a snowy morning, and the other guy drifted into our lane at the intersection of Locust and Bridge.

Her front hood hinges held, as did the lap seatbelts for my brothers and me.

Thank you, Ralph Nader.

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It was Halloween 1970 at The Oasis drive-in.

So I hadn’t seen Night of the Living Dead for fifty-five years—the 1968 original, not the 1990 pretender. Would you watch a redo of Casablanca?

There’s also a 1980 porn version, which, naturally, I haven’t seen. But, of course, I am curious. As was Sharon, my high school girlfriend, and I, which is why, at The Oasis, around the same time, we saw I Am Curious, Yellow, an erotic Swedish film with an R rating.

Sadly, the Oasis has been a Holiday Inn Express for three decades.

I re-watched Living Dead yesterday, before dawn—a mistake, as the night before I had forgotten to take out the garbage, and the can is in the garage, with a door we never lock. Alas, the night before, we had salmon, whose skin we didn’t put down the garbage disposal, and didn’t want to throw away because of raccoons who treat our garbage can as a breakfast nook.

Fortunately, Zombies mimic the gait of a 76-year-old man or my 93-year-old neighbor, Hazel, who joined me in a sortie to our waste bins.

We could outrun them.

Some films don’t age well. That is decidedly not true of Night of the Living Dead, from the opening orchestral tone-setting, with the eerie, ominous crescendo that tracks a slow-moving car through a cemetery, all the way through 96 minutes of terror, right up to an ending that still leaves me scratching my head.

I saw the film at The Oasis with three college buddies, Barrie, Denny, and Mike. Barrie picked us up, and I was the first to be dropped off after the film. Good ole Barrie, my best friend in college, who I still talk to a couple of times a year, stopped at the top of East Street, two blocks from my home. “You can walk from here, Gardner,” he offered with a sardonic smile.

For an eternity, or a moment, it depends on one’s perspective; I stood transfixed under a streetlight that, strangely, I had never noticed, though I had walked by it many times. And then I broke into a sprint down the brick street, not wanting to look left or right, only straight ahead to that distant driveway with the 10-foot stone walls that would deliver me to my back door. As I stood on the back stoop, puffing, on that cool fall night, I broke into a sweat. As I pulled the screen door toward me, I looked to my left and saw a figure coming toward me with his hands outstretched.

“I forgot to take the garbage out,” said my Dad. “How was the film?”

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It’s a cold, rainy, and dead-leaf morning at 4:24 on November 1, 2025.

The perfect setting for 

Jody Shapiro ✍️🗃️🐾 I hate November, what about you? Prompt.

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It’s time to reflect upon this time of the year in the Northern Hemisphere.

Ugh.

November gets no respect.

Tomorrow, I’ll be up at 3:24.

The porch furniture has been put away.

No more Tornadoes at The Whippy Dip.

Instead, in northeast Iowa, the La Niña polar express will deliver whiteouts.

And, the Coup de grâce, last November dropshipped Donald Trump on us for the second time.

So, Jody, I’ve begun the long countdown — six months until.

Now, I’m confused.

Do I or do I not hate November?

Later today, Rebecca and I will look at the clock and ask, “Is it happy hour yet?” One of us will wonder, Is it 5 o’clock or 3? Then we’ll unite with cocktails, she in the Japanese-looking chair and me in the navy rocker, and agree this setting is so much cozier than the back porch.

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There’s a backstory to this tale. It’s in response to two prompts from a Medium publication called The Challenged. One prompt is about the love-hate relationship many of us have with daylight saving time. That prompt is included in the editors’ No No November prompts.

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Love, hate, no, yes. Ye gods!

‘Get a grip, Paul,’ my mom used to say.

Then, it was teenage angst. Now, it’s, well, at least related to what my new friend AI calls “measurable changes in physical and functional health.”

It’s not easy, I reply to Mom’s spirit. You remember being 76, don’t you?

Besides, it’s 3 am.

But my body thinks it’s 4.

What am I doing up so early, you ask?

You always got up for 5:30 Mass — well, writing stories is my ritual.

Even when they come from a nudge by someone else.

Mom, you always encouraged me to listen to others, to find mentors. One of mine is Marion Roach Smith, who has written a terrific book on writing titled The Memoir Project. I love her insights, except for one. She’s skeptical about what she calls ‘artificial writing prompts.’

Of course, they can be artificial, like hitting a tennis ball against a wall. It’s not the same as practising against a person. However, I make the prompts my own, squeezing them into a frame that stems from my experience. It becomes my story, one that can be told only by me.

Yes, I know, I was always skeptical of advice. Let me give you another example: this morning, it took me too long to change the clock on the Bose radio. I finally had to get out the directions that I had forgotten from last March, when we sprang forward, and thought, this is a senior moment.

You’re right, I used that phrase with you, too often, especially as you aged into your nineties. One of my favorite writers, 

Gary Buzzard

, suggests it can be a cliché.

Your Senior Moments Aren’t What You Think They Are

Maybe it’s time to retire the phrase entirely

medium.com

Gary’s onto something and, importantly, is vigilant against ageism. His story of aging is nuanced and well worth your time.

However

2.

I just watched a YouTube video of another Gary, and a hero of mine, Gary Player, a ninety-year-old nine-time golf Major Championship winner. When I was growing up and learning the game, it was the big three: Arnold Palmer, Jack Nicklaus and Player. In the film clip, he swung a golf club like an aged man, an exceptionally well-conditioned aged man. (source)

Both observations are true.

Two days ago, I dropped into my hands-free step-in shoes and walked a half mile to the local bookstore. That jaunt tipped me over my daily goal of 10,000 steps. As I waited for the proprietor to hand me the mobile credit card reader for my phone, I popped the tootsie roll I had taken from the bowl on the counter into my mouth and began to chew.

On the third grind, I encountered what felt like a pebble. I was about to say something about the hard thing in your candy offering when I thought, no, it’s probably an aging crown or molar my dentist warned me about last visit.

Sure enough, it was.

It’s either a 74-year-old partial tooth or a 30-year-old crown. I’ll find out tomorrow. Regardless, it’s another deteriorating body part.

3.

Last January, early morning, I blacked out while peeing in our San Miguel, Mexico apartment. Here’s the story if you’re interested. (Source) My Mexican doctor said it was heart-related, as in, “you know, Paul, you’re heart is also 75 years old.” A few weeks later, back in the USA, after an MRI, my regular physician said it was also brain-related, as in “you know, Paul, your brain is also 75 years old.”

Everything is shrinking on me except my stomach and prostate. The latter, I can do little about. For the former, it’s a matter of gravity more than weight. 10,000 daily steps controls the pounds. This stretchy mesh belt helps manage the contour of my changing torso.

When I momentarily struggled this morning to turn back the kitchen clock, I knew exactly where we keep the Bose instruction manual. It’s right on top of the Subaru Forester owner’s handbook, with the change clock page dog-eared.

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A week ago, I popped two tootsie rolls in my mouth, one after another, from a plastic pumpkin bucket at the local bookstore. I didn’t feel the pebble until number two. Tomorrow, my dentist will replace the crown.

Two nights ago, we watched Marathon Man, with Dustin Hoffman and Lawrence Olivier, who played a Nazi dentist who tortures Hoffman.

Last night, I clinked goblets with a couple who let slip they were in Mensa.Since it was my second glass of Merlot, a few minutes later, behind closed doors, my phone reminded me you needed a very high IQ to be in that group.

Later in the evening, I approached them and described my fear that once I sit down in the dentist’s chair, all I will think about is Olivier’s evil grin.

“Try not to think about a pink elephant,” both said, skipping no beat.

Precisely, thought I.

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In the first No Kings Day protest in June this year, a speaker asked, “Who is our neighbor?” Below, the crowd is gathering in a Veterans’ Memorial Park across the street from Rebecca’s and my home.

Jay, our Presbyterian minister, suggested a few weeks ago in Sunday school that Jesus gave his answer in the Parable of the Good Samaritan: ‘Undocumented workers were our neighbors.’

Our community’s Food Pantry announces its reply on the wall.

The arrow in the picture below points to our neighborhood’s physical location in Decorah, a town of 8,000 in northeast Iowa. We live in a bowl surrounded by forest and dissected by the Upper Iowa River.

The wood and water diversify our co-residents to include the youngsters in the first photo. And their father, who is keeping watch.

Of course, peaceful intercourse requires boundaries — good screens make good neighbors.

Occasionally, we employ stronger measures, with due process protections in place. Our community’s Animal Protection Officer — yes, that’s what he’s called — returned this raccoon to the wooded wild.

Sometimes, we have to choose who lives and who dies.

We chose our birch trees over the Asian beetles, including the one pictured below, that we transplanted three years ago. It had to be moved because we put in a new sidewalk and back porch. Yes, we felt guilty, but so far, it has survived.

You may wonder, what about our human neighbors?

Ed and Carol live across the street from us. We’ve had many conversations in their backyard and also at monthly dinners at Rubyiats, a restaurant on our street four blocks west.

They frequently babysit John and Stephanie’s three daughters, who live one house to the east of them. When they can’t, Jim and Kathy, across the alley, pinch-hit.

A couple of years ago, we caught the raccoon when, while on the new back porch, I saw a skunk walk under Hazel’s back stoop. Hazel lives next to us to the west. The skunk escaped, but the raccoon, who happened to be pregnant, didn’t.

Hazel is 93 and a force of nature. Her three daughters visit regularly to help keep Hazel in her home. Josh, a single parent of a boy and a girl, who moved from Arizona, lives next to Hazel and also keeps a close watch.

Craig and Sarah live behind us, just to the south. Sarah cuts my hair and Hazel’s. Craig built our garage and is completing their new cottage as they move toward retirement. Camrin, their daughter, will take over Sarah’s business and has purchased the family home.

When we need new lens prescriptions and frames, we walk two blocks west.

Some day, someone will cart us across the street.

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I love my Ice Silver Subaru Forester. It’s logged 70,000 miles and is seven years old.

In 2018, I traded a 2014 version because I wanted the ‘new’ blind spot detector technology.

I shopped around, whittling my choices to a Buick Encore and the Forester. Both had the detector, and to my surprise, the Encore had better gas mileage.

However, when I was growing up in the fifties and sixties, all my father’s Republican friends drove Buicks, as did he. Today, some of my best friends are Republicans, and they drive Buicks.

I test drove the Encore. It did everything right and was cheaper.

Could I be a Buick owner? After all, my first Forester’s right rear wheel bearing went out at 40,000 miles, which is unusual.

Yesterday, my mechanic removed this failed left rear wheel bearing.

After replacing the right one three years ago.

At forty thousand miles.

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*

My father never beat me!

That thought settled into my consciousness as I finished Ta-Nehisi Coates’ powerful missive to his son, Between the World and Me, two days ago.

Even when, at six, I climbed up on the chest of drawers and rode it to the ground with a loud thud. Seven decades later, I see the relief on his face as he flies through the bedroom door and sees me laughing with my brother Peter.

But then, he begins what I would come to know as his anger routine: teeth clamped around a doubled-under tongue and hands unbuckling his black belt.

That time, he pulled the belt out. But that’s as far as he ever went; the belt never touched his sons, neither hand nor fist.

When Ta-Nehisi was six, he wandered away from his parents on a visit to a park. When they found him, “Dad did what every parent I knew would have done — he reached for his belt.”

Later in the book, Coates elaborates.

My father was so very afraid. I felt it in the sting of his black leather belt, which he applied with more anxiety than anger, my father beat me qw if someone might steal me away, because that is exactly what was happening all around us. Everyone has lost a child to, somehow, to the streets, to jail, to drugs, to guns.

Between the World and Me is written by a middle-aged African-American man to his son, Samori, about what it’s like to be Black in America.

I read it in one sitting, thinking of all the nevers in my favored 76 years. There are many. I’ll tell you about two others.

For thirty-three years, I sped down College Drive, a busy street on the way to my place of employment, usually traveling at 30 MPH in a 25 MPH zone, never being stopped by the police. My Black colleague, James, was ticketed three times in his first year at the college where we both worked.

And, unlike Trayvon Martin, I never worry about wearing one of my two black hoodies during my 10,000-step daily walk around my community.

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I knew it.

My preferred title, ‘Autumn Leaves,’ had been stolen by a time-traveling poet and used for a song covered by Frank Sinatra and Nat King Cole. As you’ve probably guessed, it’s about love and regret. Nat’s version captures the pathos.

Relevant, as it turns out, to yesterday’s task, as in most of the year, I love our ten trees, only regretting them in November.

Further, two weeks ago, the local hardware store had a week-long Autumn Special on leaf blowers. Ed and Carol, across the street and to the east, had purchased one last year. They are septuagenarians like Rebecca and me.

Besides, they offered, “When the wind blows from the west, your leaves end up on our lawn and we need help.”

Unfortunately, this year, an easterly gale reversed fortune, with no leaf blower in stock.

So we raked and raked.

The autumn leaves.

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