A couple of years ago, my condo building got two new elevators. Of course, they were replaced one at a time so that occupants could get to their units without using the stairs.  It was a huge inconvenience that resulted in much improved transportation.  All good.

One of the elevator plusses was bumping into other residents, and we often chatted in the lobby before we went our own ways.  Now, the building and its elevators are empty because the building is unsafe for occupancy. (See earlier blog posts.)

Where I am living now, there is one elevator.  But I am usually alone in it, riding to and from the 7^th floor.  And then one day I wasn’t alone.  Going down, a graduate student who lives on my floor introduced himself. Halfway down, a woman with a big suitcase who was off to NYC for the weekend joined us and introduced herself.

Going back up after fetching my mail, I was joined by a middle-aged man from Brazil studying in a  program here who has seen me on Seth’s Amigo Gringo channel in Brazil and told me I am funny.

I may build a whole new community by spending more time in the elevator.

My next hangout destination:  the sofa in the reception area.

We have a new President (or the return of a former President) and on January 20, it was all about the inauguration.  That’s the way it should have been. 

And the powers that be did a great job of moving things indoors and adjusting performances accordingly because of the frigid weather.

But the thing that grabbed me was the First Lady’s hat.  She appeared to be a beautiful woman of mystery, and I was trying to imagine what she was thinking.  We could see her smile, but her eyes would have told the real story.

I wondered what she was thinking.  Previously in the White House with a young son and now back when the young son is taller than his father and a freshman in college.

It’s going to be an interesting four years.

Writing a guest entry for the juggernaut 80-Something Blog after 17 years as a loyal reader feels as big an honor as landing a cameo as a murderer on that other long-running blockbuster I'm a fan of, Law and Order: SVU. That said, in today’s episode I hope to come across as a loyal son to the end, rather than being exposed in the final paragraph as a perverted felon.

Luckily, the only injustice here is that I have had the privilege of being Judy Kugel’s son for 54 years, and you have not. Everything you read about her as a mother, wife, friend and citizen is true: she is deeply thoughtful, loving, generous and — like any internet influencer worth her salt — occasionally reveals more about herself in public than most would feel comfortable doing, all to her fans’ benefit.

I gave her the idea for this blog, back when she was 69 and closer to my current age than her current age, but never imagined she would take my admonition that “to maintain an audience, you need to write twice a week” so seriously. She has now kept it up through the invention of modern social media — Instagram, TikTok, Pinterest and  Snapchat all emerged long after her first blog post, and she has avoided posting to any of them. That’s probably the right decision, though I’d pay to see her thoughts on social security and ageism set to the latest dance trend.

There’s an added bonus for the subset of readers who are her friends in real life: Judy Kugel updates in our inboxes twice a week, through good times and bad. But like them, I still call regularly for bonus material. With a mother this good, you’d have to be a psychopath not to.

As 80-something celebrates another birthday, no one could be more surprised than me.  If I had known in January, 2008, that I would still be writing twice-weekly in January, 2025…

Until Peter died three years ago, he contributed a once-yearly post that was always welcomed by readers.  This year, I have asked our two sons, Seth and Jeremy, to step in to share their experience as blog stars. Today’s post is Jeremy’s.

“While middle-aged dads are known to avoid the spotlight, I have spent recent decades seeking it out. I don’t recall being starved for attention as a child, and 80-Something Blog loyalists know I have a loving – if not doting – mother.

But something in my DNA has led me on an intentional, often wacky – and always fruitless – pursuit of fame. I once founded a company that got me an interview in the Baltimore Sun; I go all-out on Halloween (can you believe Kornacki didn’t retweet this?). I’ve been on a billboard, handled the family holiday mailing, created a comedic riff on Clifton StrengthsFinder, sponsor an annual clementine-eating contest, and performed rap (and Sinatra) on Chilean buses. 

My never-ending effort has even led me to seed this blog post with self-serving links in hopes that a reader will discover me and extend my twelve or thirteen (fifteen seems too generous an estimate) minutes of fame. Geesh, what does a guy need to do to get a couple million fans around here?

Alas, my sports photography Instagram account boasts just 190 followers at the time of this writing (but maybe nearing 200 by the time you read this??).

Despite all that effort, it’s become clear that my most prodigious flirtation with fame has been here on the 80-Something Blog, representing the Maryland Kugels in regular – if generally unauthorized – appearances.

So, dear readers, I thank you for allowing me to become at least sorta famous. It may never get better than this. And that’s totally OK by me.”

Host of the annual Head of the Charles Regatta, the Cambridge Boathouse has been in my Cambridge life for decades.  I go past it regularly on my walking route.  I have been to all kinds of celebrations there.  It is a Cambridge icon.

On Saturday night, it was the site of a bittersweet event.  An Olympic Women’s Rower who lived at Riverview arranged a celebration there for all (former) residents. 

Wine and delicious food appeared.  Some who lived at Riverview for 50+ years were there, one who broke into tears as he spoke to us.  One woman who bought a unit, but never got to move in before the evacuation, was there.  All the concierge staff, who lovingly took care of us attended.  Our sometimes gruff, but always wonderful building staff was there.  It was a love fest.

A goodbye love fest

The Ethel, a newsletter produced by AARP, is not perfect for everyone (is anything?), but it does speak to the challenges/opportunities we are likely to face as we age.

So, with credit to a recent The Ethel, here are four things that “promise” to make us happier:

1. Sit or stand up straight. When I was young, I was unusually tall, at 5’10”, towering over all my girlfriends and most boys. My mother used to whisper in my ear “SB,” her signal to put my shoulders back as I slumped through adolescence.  I still hear that voice, and I still have imperfect posture. But if it is going to make me happier…
2. Have fresh flowers. I don’t need The Ethel to tell me flowers make me happier. Peter always knew that a bouquet of daisies would cause me to forgive any of his rare transgressions.
3. Be near water. Lake, river, ocean—it doesn’t matter—Being near water is my default cure for feeling blue.  Does it always work?  Nope, but it’s worth a try.
4. Clear the clutter. I probably wouldn’t put this in my top four ways to be happy, but I do feel a certain comfort when my “to do” pile on my desk is under control.

How about you?

I don’t “do” sick. It’s never on my agenda.  But things can go wrong.  And have.

This is my 8^th day of not leaving my apartment because I am sick with a mysterious--not Covid--something.  Even worse, I am home and not being productive because when my body says “lie down,” I lie down.

I’m on the mend, and I hear that it’s not much fun outside in this very cold spell anyway. 

But I’ve had enough of me.

I began to blog twice-weekly at 70-something.com seventeen years ago this month in order to “process” my aging.  Of course, I knew that there would be good times and difficult times, but I never expected to lose the home and community that were such a part of my happy life.

At 80-something, disruption has been a little harder to take as is the uncertainty of whether I’ll be renewing a lease in my hastily found apartment, or once again be packing up for a move in twelve months.

One thing I know for sure—my mother’s two-dozen crystal stemmed dessert dishes that I have never used and the kids don’t want will soon be donated to the closest church’s thrift shop, never to be wrapped for packing again.

It’s never too late to learn… 

It is true that as we get older, the years go faster, probably because they are a smaller percentage of our age.  So welcome to 2025.  It came very fast.

Of course, I am not in the business of predicting, but I hope that this year will be better than I anticipate.  I am basically a worrier.  I worry about global warming.  I worry about our divided country and more.  But I hadn't worried that I would have to move myself and my possessions out of the place I expected to live for what I hoped would be a long time.  And that’s been hard.

I’ve been in my new place almost four weeks now.  It’s smaller, but I was able to cram in all but one bookcase. It is a bit of a challenge to walk between the end of my bed and my dresser. It helps that I am thin.  On the upside, this building has a gym, and I am back on an exercise bicycle for the first time in several years.

Of course, the downside is a loss of a community that I loved. 

Onwards.