The 61^st annual three-day Head of the Charles regatta is one of Boston’s not-to-be-missed events, attracting about 400,000 fans along its route, including me. A mind-boggling number (approximately 12,000) of rowers participate in the largest 3-day regatta in the world.

And my new apartment’s balcony that overlooks the River is the hottest ticket (although it seats a maximum of three fans.) 

One of the beautiful elm trees along the River (sadly) had to be be taken down.  But that gave the three of us, an unimpeded view.  The 10-15 second intervals between boats allowed for some great catching-up conversation.

We are pretty old, but we are optimists and already have marked our calendar for the 62^nd regatta, just twelve months away.

I think giving up driving is on the mind of lots of 80-somethings and/or their kids.  Children worry about their elderly parents on the road (hurting themselves OR others).  But public transportation is easy in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and I made the decision to give up my car because finding on-street parking was, shall-we-say, inconvenient.

The first real challenge came with my doctor’s appointment this week, easy by car.  By public transportation not-so-easy.  I gave myself plenty of time—a good thing because the walk from the bus I took was about fifteen minutes (although it seemed longer).  On the way back, a couple of sweet high school kids wanted to help, and they made sure I knew the best place to get off the bus.  That, too, was a relatively long walk, but I rewarded myself when I got home…

With a nap.

I said good-bye to my car when I gave it to my grandson Grady two months ago.  And I have been regularly congratulating myself on my easy adjustment—no need to look for a parking space and no worry that I will forget where I finally got a spot on any particular day

It’s also been an easy bus ride to and from my supermarket.

Until Tuesday. 

It seemed a lot of things on Tuesday’s list were a bit weighty or bulky, and a backpack and two heavy bags full of groceries were, shall we say, hard to manage on and off the bus and on the very short block from the bus to my apartment.

I’ve resisted ordering groceries online because I like to inspect each orange or banana or whatever.

My future groceries, however, will be delivered.  I can learn to live with an imperfect apple or two.

I couldn’t find anyone I know to go with me to see “Eleanor,” a play about FDR’s wife, that was playing to sold-out audiences in Central Square in Cambridge and about to end its run. 

So, probably for the first time ever, I bought a ticket for just me.

It was a little strange listening to the pre-curtain chatter of everyone else, but once the play started, it was fine, and I am glad I saw it.

But–I felt a bit sad as I walked home in a light drizzle because the only person I could discuss the play with

Was me.

I think I have a working new TV.  It arrived yesterday in a nice big carton that I managed to get into the elevator of my apartment building.  Rather than take a chance on installing it myself (which was supposed to be easy), I had Comcast send someone. 

The new TV was working when the adorable, Turkish-born repairman left my apartment a few minutes ago. I’m almost afraid to try it, but if by chance it doesn’t work, he did give me his direct number.

I’ve had a lot of, shall I say, “start-up issues” since my apartment building was doomed, now almost two years ago, but somehow, this feels like the beginning of really settling in.

At last.

Whether one is a huge TV fan or not, one needs a working TV. 

I remember when, as a kid, a neighbor got the first TV on our block. Not long after that, my parents gave in and bought a monster-sized piece of furniture that played records, radio and TV.  And I have never been without a TV since then. 

Is anybody?

So when my 2-month old TV from Costco wasn’t working the other night, I was on the phone with the “repair” people and while reading something to them from the back of the TV, I knocked it off the bookcase and shattered the screen!

As I write this, I await a delivery of another TV.

Hopefully, it will have a longer “shelf-life”.

Of course, it did me no good over last weekend to ask the rain to go away.  But it didn’t keep me from going to an outstanding performance of Ionesco’s “Rhinoceros,” at Harvard’s ART theater.  Written in 1959 and still captivating, I can’t imagine how the actors can possibly do two performances of that play every Saturday.

Since 1980, the ART has brought fine theater to Harvard Square, but next year at this time, it will have moved to an almost-built new center across the Charles River, just past the Harvard Business School.

Fortunately for me, still walkable. AND, even better, next to a Trader Joe’s!

It’s been six weeks since my grandson, Grady, and his dad came from Maryland to collect my 2016 Toyota Prius that now belongs to Grady. 

Since my new condo does not have dedicated parking, and since I am just a seven-minute walk to the subway, I decided to go car-free. What could be better than keeping the car in the family?

I’d been a driver for 72 years.  In all that time, I was accident-free except for one teeny-tiny fender bender.  Only my ego was hurt.

I’ve loaded up my Subway T-pass at the senior rate, and I am making the most of it.  One day, I  even managed to make two round trips. 

Quitting while one is ahead is a good plan.

Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday for as long as I can remember.  No gifts, just huge amounts of delicious food.  So, with the first hint of fall in the air last week, I made my plane reservations because our Thanksgiving takes place in Maryland now, hosted by my son Jeremy’s family.

When I looked for flights, I was relieved to see that there were a couple of seats left to DC at the best price, and I grabbed them.

Remember when there was just first class and coach and only one price for seats in each?  Remember when there were no sweatpants on passengers?  Remember magazines being offered by smartly dressed flight attendants (then called stewardesses).

Those were the days…

On a recent Sunday, two generous couples who live in my apartment complex hosted a catered barbecue in the garden behind our buildings, inviting all the residents. On the menu–delicious spareribs with all the trimmings, sheet cakes for dessert, and a wide selection of beverages. With a small group of musicians adding to the festivities, it was a lovely event and a good opportunity to meet some of my new neighbors.

Most of the attendees seemed to be, shall we say, “in my age category.”  But lo and behold, a family with two young children arrived and then a maybe-30-something woman whose name I had seen on many packages in the mail room.  

It’s beginning to feel like a community…