About 35 years ago, when every senior citizen in South Florida was bedecked in Vera print polyester shirts or dresses, I made fun of their “uniform” to my sister-in-law who was 22 years my senior.
“Someday your peer group will be identified by their uniform just as mine is, and I will expect you to call me and tell me I was right,” she said to me.
There are no phones in heaven, but today after I could not find Hubby’s car when I came out of the store. I looked up and told her she was right – sort of. You see, we don’t dress differently from our kids. Everyone I know from 9 months to 99 years wears jeans unless going to a formal wedding. Our tops depend on the season and the occasion. The uniform of my generation is not clothing. It’s the color and models of our cars. Drive through any clubhouse or supermarket parking lot in the retirement neighborhoods of South Florida and you’ll rarely see a car that’s not silver or tan.
About 25 years ago, Hubby was circling a parking lot near my parent’s over-55 condo. I was picking up something in a store for my mother. When I got back into the car, he informed me, “Almost every old man in this parking lot is driving a white GM car.” He then pointed to al the Buicks, Cadillacs, and Oldsmobiles.”
Every foreign or different colored car we spotted entering or exiting the parking lot was driven by drivers closer to college age than retirement. “I’m never buying another white GM car again – it’s an old man’s car,” said my white-haired husband who was nearing his 50th birthday. GM had no idea that their problems were their cars were loosing popularity because men like Hubby thought they had become cars for old people.
Hubby kept his word because he switched to a foreign car when his had to be replaced, and dared to get a blue one instead of our usual white. But I stuck to white because unlike him, I parked outside all day. White doesn’t show the dirt as much as a dark car nor does it need as long to cool down from baking in the oppressive Florida sun all day. I did switch from an “old people car” to one of the Toyotas when we bought my next car, and my next. The last car we purchased was after I retired. Since my car would now spend a good part of the day in the garage, Hubby convinced me it was time to change colors – and I did: Silver.
That’s around the time I discovered that the uniform of my generation was not our wardrobe, but our cars. Every place I went, it seems someone had the same car as mine, although some were a year older or newer. Even though one of the player’s cars is a different manufacturer, it is still a shade of silver. When my Mah Jong group meets for lunch before we play, we’ve sometimes headed to the wrong car – especially before two of us had our cataracts removed. When the five of us are parked in one driveway, we look like a convention of silver car owners.
Since the players in my Mah Jongg group will all be replacing our cars in the next year or two, we were kidding around the other day to see if we should all get the same color again. After searching the rows of silver and beige cars for 10 minutes this morning until I found Hubby’s car, I decided on a color for our next car. Now all I have to do is convince 4 other very conservative prim and proper ladies like myself that strangers will think we’re years younger and we won’t even need to use Botox. All we would need to do is purchase hot pink cars.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Too Cool for Dieting
Remember the freshman ten – those ten pounds you gained when you left home for college and started living on Ritz crackers and peanut butter and jelly because you hated dorm food? I didn’t shed them until after college when Weight Watchers or its’ equivalent became my way of life.
For the last 40 odd years, I’ve been successfully fighting the battle of the bulge, but since moving to Seniorville, I haven’t won a round. I went clothes shopping this week and the only thing I dared to buy were pants that can hide the extra weight and, if a miracle happens and I get a virus and can’t eat for two weeks, the pants won’t look big – unless the elastic waist is stretched out.
It’s hard to diet when your social life revolves around dining out or having company over for Bridge or whatever. How can you not serve something to guests? I never had anything I would be tempted to pig out in my old home after my sons left for college unless I was entertaining. Hubby’s and my old life style didn’t lend itself to “come back to my home for dessert” or cocktails before dinner. In those days, my northern friends were still working. Now most have to spend a week visiting me in our new surroundings – and I am truly thrilled they do. Even if I only serve “diet” food, when I sit around the table I tend to eat too much of it, and calories do count – even healthy ones.
The cold weather is also preventing me from sticking to any good weight reduction routine. It’s not conducive to drinking glasses of cold water, something that usually fills me up. Instead, I’m sipping diet hot chocolates and cups of salty broth called instant soup. Northern visitors adore walking or jogging in our brisk weather as the sun comes up over the horizon. Usually I’m out there on the trail with them, but the cold chill has been keeping me under the blankets until the sun has had a chance to warm up the air a bit. Yes, we have heat, but it has to be truly freezing inside for me to use it because it sets off my asthma – as does all the extra pollen in the air from the leaves falling off the trees due to the unusual cold – the biggest reason I’m not walking outside.
Even worse for my diet, the crazy cold weather Florida has had this winter demands cover-up clothing – sweat pants and/or long sleeve shirts. The elastic waists allow me to eat a little more than my zipper-front Capri’s would permit and the long sleeve shirts hide the cellulite on my arms. Gone ate the constant visual reminders to seal my lips when dessert is placed on the table.
This year, it’s been cold here for months instead of weeks. I’ve worn the few winter clothes I have that still fit to the point they are beginning to fray – something that hasn’t happened to my winter clothes since moving South in 1973. Usually they go out of style and are in mint condition when I give them to charity. Tonight, when I took one outfit out of the closet to steam it for a luncheon I need to attend tomorrow, even my husband, who rarely remembers what he wore the day before, remarked, “You’ve worn that outfit the last 3 times you got “dressed” to go out.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “None of my friends have an abundance of dressy winter clothes, so the fashion rule this year is “if it’s warm and fits, it’s in.”
Even if we wanted to replenish our winter wardrobes, the stores have restocked the sweater department with bathing suits and cover-ups. They’re more optimistic than me. Right now I can’t remember what it felt like to be so miserable and hot last Fall when I prayed for a cold winter. As much as all my neighbors are hoping the weather warms soon, I’ll bet I’m the only one anyone knows who is praying for the return of our hot and humid weather so I’ll be able to shed ten pounds.
For the last 40 odd years, I’ve been successfully fighting the battle of the bulge, but since moving to Seniorville, I haven’t won a round. I went clothes shopping this week and the only thing I dared to buy were pants that can hide the extra weight and, if a miracle happens and I get a virus and can’t eat for two weeks, the pants won’t look big – unless the elastic waist is stretched out.
It’s hard to diet when your social life revolves around dining out or having company over for Bridge or whatever. How can you not serve something to guests? I never had anything I would be tempted to pig out in my old home after my sons left for college unless I was entertaining. Hubby’s and my old life style didn’t lend itself to “come back to my home for dessert” or cocktails before dinner. In those days, my northern friends were still working. Now most have to spend a week visiting me in our new surroundings – and I am truly thrilled they do. Even if I only serve “diet” food, when I sit around the table I tend to eat too much of it, and calories do count – even healthy ones.
The cold weather is also preventing me from sticking to any good weight reduction routine. It’s not conducive to drinking glasses of cold water, something that usually fills me up. Instead, I’m sipping diet hot chocolates and cups of salty broth called instant soup. Northern visitors adore walking or jogging in our brisk weather as the sun comes up over the horizon. Usually I’m out there on the trail with them, but the cold chill has been keeping me under the blankets until the sun has had a chance to warm up the air a bit. Yes, we have heat, but it has to be truly freezing inside for me to use it because it sets off my asthma – as does all the extra pollen in the air from the leaves falling off the trees due to the unusual cold – the biggest reason I’m not walking outside.
Even worse for my diet, the crazy cold weather Florida has had this winter demands cover-up clothing – sweat pants and/or long sleeve shirts. The elastic waists allow me to eat a little more than my zipper-front Capri’s would permit and the long sleeve shirts hide the cellulite on my arms. Gone ate the constant visual reminders to seal my lips when dessert is placed on the table.
This year, it’s been cold here for months instead of weeks. I’ve worn the few winter clothes I have that still fit to the point they are beginning to fray – something that hasn’t happened to my winter clothes since moving South in 1973. Usually they go out of style and are in mint condition when I give them to charity. Tonight, when I took one outfit out of the closet to steam it for a luncheon I need to attend tomorrow, even my husband, who rarely remembers what he wore the day before, remarked, “You’ve worn that outfit the last 3 times you got “dressed” to go out.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I told him. “None of my friends have an abundance of dressy winter clothes, so the fashion rule this year is “if it’s warm and fits, it’s in.”
Even if we wanted to replenish our winter wardrobes, the stores have restocked the sweater department with bathing suits and cover-ups. They’re more optimistic than me. Right now I can’t remember what it felt like to be so miserable and hot last Fall when I prayed for a cold winter. As much as all my neighbors are hoping the weather warms soon, I’ll bet I’m the only one anyone knows who is praying for the return of our hot and humid weather so I’ll be able to shed ten pounds.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Missing: Tact Gene
When people want my advice or start to vent about personal problems, I usually have a pat answer, which works in most instances. “If you don’t want my real opinion, please don’t ask me for it. I don’t have a gene for tact.”
At this point, some talkers are stopped in their tracks. They realize they should ask their questions to their reflection in the mirror and vent into a tape-recorder. They really are not interested in the truth unless it’s what they want to hear.
Now and then, someone in that category still presses the issue. Recently a friend asked my opinion of her new hair color – orange with blond highlights. I repeated my pat response. She told me, if she didn’t value my opinion, she would not have asked. She lied.
I told her I don’t like hair color that isn’t natural looking, but it’s her hair and she’s the one who needs to be happy. My response got up her ire. “I should never have asked you. You live with old people and have no clue about what’s in. I teach high school, so I do. Purple, blue, and pink streaks are “very in.”
If living with “old-people” prevents me from thinking clown-like hair for women broaching 65 is “in,” I’m glad I reside in Seniorville. The entire episode made me think of a hairdresser incident many years ago. He was cutting my hair when another customer stopped to ask what he thought of her new hairstyle. “Your hair looks great,” he replied.
When she walked away, I told him I would never value his word again. “She looked stupid. It’s puffed out like cotton candy. It makes her face look awful.”
“Listen carefully,” he said. “I told her that her hair looked great. I didn’t say she looked great.”
He had a skill I’ve never developed - tact. That’s why if you want the absolute truth as I see it, ask me.
At this point, some talkers are stopped in their tracks. They realize they should ask their questions to their reflection in the mirror and vent into a tape-recorder. They really are not interested in the truth unless it’s what they want to hear.
Now and then, someone in that category still presses the issue. Recently a friend asked my opinion of her new hair color – orange with blond highlights. I repeated my pat response. She told me, if she didn’t value my opinion, she would not have asked. She lied.
I told her I don’t like hair color that isn’t natural looking, but it’s her hair and she’s the one who needs to be happy. My response got up her ire. “I should never have asked you. You live with old people and have no clue about what’s in. I teach high school, so I do. Purple, blue, and pink streaks are “very in.”
If living with “old-people” prevents me from thinking clown-like hair for women broaching 65 is “in,” I’m glad I reside in Seniorville. The entire episode made me think of a hairdresser incident many years ago. He was cutting my hair when another customer stopped to ask what he thought of her new hairstyle. “Your hair looks great,” he replied.
When she walked away, I told him I would never value his word again. “She looked stupid. It’s puffed out like cotton candy. It makes her face look awful.”
“Listen carefully,” he said. “I told her that her hair looked great. I didn’t say she looked great.”
He had a skill I’ve never developed - tact. That’s why if you want the absolute truth as I see it, ask me.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Senior's Sneakers
“Don’t wear white sneakers,” a young friend counseled me before Hubby and I traveled abroad a few years ago. “Only Americans wear white sneakers.”
Since I had no desire to be an easy target for a terrorist whose goal was to kill as many Americans as he could, I hunted the shoe stores until I found comfortable black sneakers. Under great duress, my husband, who had two pair of comfortable white sneakers, bought a pair of black sneakers. He felt my fear of being an easy target was silly. “You think only sneakers make you look like a tourist? What about your tote bags stuffed with souvenirs?”
The two of us were the only tourists on the cruise ship wearing black sneakers. Hubby pointed this out daily. He also pointed out that the cruise ships put different color stickers right over each passenger’s heart before we disembarked from the ship for each day’s excursion. The purpose of the stickers is to make it easy for the tour guides to know who is in their groups. It also would make it easy for a sniper to kill us – as the comedians pointed out during the evening shows on the ship.
By the end of our vacation, I knew the advice about the color of the sneakers was wrong – in a way. White sneakers are the “uniform” of my generation. Most young people will wear sneakers in every color. No matter what country we were in, if the local folks were our contemporaries and dressed causally, they had on white sneakers. Hubby took delight in pointing it out to me. By the time our vacation was over, I came to think of white sneakers as an age indicator. Hair and sneakers matched.
Because of a foot problem I developed two years ago, I need a special brand of sneakers. I order a new pair when I need them and the color choice is usually limited to one. When we moved into my Seniorville almost a year ago, I was the only senior on the walking trail or in the gym whose sneakers were not white. Mine were purple and gray. I was eternally grateful when this year’s color choice for my sneaker included white. I once again fit in with my color-coordinated peer group.
Hubby asks me to tell him if I think he’s dressed like an old man – meaning out of style – his stereotype for old men. The other night, while dressing for dinner, he put on his white sneakers with jeans. “Put your black sneakers on,” I insisted. “You look like an old man in those sneakers.”
He did. Then we went to the restaurant where we were meeting several other couples from our development. Hubby was the only one of the men NOT wearing white sneakers. I winked at him, and said, “I’m with they youngest old man in the room!”
Since I had no desire to be an easy target for a terrorist whose goal was to kill as many Americans as he could, I hunted the shoe stores until I found comfortable black sneakers. Under great duress, my husband, who had two pair of comfortable white sneakers, bought a pair of black sneakers. He felt my fear of being an easy target was silly. “You think only sneakers make you look like a tourist? What about your tote bags stuffed with souvenirs?”
The two of us were the only tourists on the cruise ship wearing black sneakers. Hubby pointed this out daily. He also pointed out that the cruise ships put different color stickers right over each passenger’s heart before we disembarked from the ship for each day’s excursion. The purpose of the stickers is to make it easy for the tour guides to know who is in their groups. It also would make it easy for a sniper to kill us – as the comedians pointed out during the evening shows on the ship.
By the end of our vacation, I knew the advice about the color of the sneakers was wrong – in a way. White sneakers are the “uniform” of my generation. Most young people will wear sneakers in every color. No matter what country we were in, if the local folks were our contemporaries and dressed causally, they had on white sneakers. Hubby took delight in pointing it out to me. By the time our vacation was over, I came to think of white sneakers as an age indicator. Hair and sneakers matched.
Because of a foot problem I developed two years ago, I need a special brand of sneakers. I order a new pair when I need them and the color choice is usually limited to one. When we moved into my Seniorville almost a year ago, I was the only senior on the walking trail or in the gym whose sneakers were not white. Mine were purple and gray. I was eternally grateful when this year’s color choice for my sneaker included white. I once again fit in with my color-coordinated peer group.
Hubby asks me to tell him if I think he’s dressed like an old man – meaning out of style – his stereotype for old men. The other night, while dressing for dinner, he put on his white sneakers with jeans. “Put your black sneakers on,” I insisted. “You look like an old man in those sneakers.”
He did. Then we went to the restaurant where we were meeting several other couples from our development. Hubby was the only one of the men NOT wearing white sneakers. I winked at him, and said, “I’m with they youngest old man in the room!”
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The 21st Century Fountain of Youth
I think I’ve discovered the reason my generation looks much younger than our parents did at our ages. No, nothing to do with Botox or face-lifts. You see, many of my contemporaries are really modern-day versions of the Six Million Dollar Man. Obviously, life imitates art, not the other way around.
Let’s start with Hubby and his repaired knee. In July, he couldn’t walk to the front door. When he did walk, his face was crunched with pain and his body bent over. It’s been four months since his knee surgery. He’s back in the gym daily and can do his usual two-mile stroll. Then there’s my neighbor down the block. He has had repair work on his stomach or intestines, (not sure of the specifics). When that healed, he was the recipient of a new knee. Within weeks he was joining the movers and shakers in our social hall.
Years ago, when people’s eyelids began to droop, nothing could be done. People with this condition looked years older than they really were. Today, if droopy eyelids interfere with your vision, insurance will pay to have them picked up. Hence less seniors have the eyes of a hound dog and all the wrinkles that accompanied them.
As my parents generation entered “late middle-ages,” and their arthritic pains and other aches took them off the golf course or tennis court, the doctors gave them shots or medication for the pain. This treatment provided temporary relief, but the pain always returned. Not so today. Today the doctors go "out with the old and in with the new."
One of the golfers I know received one new hip last year, and she is just about ready to get her other one done. Her knee was replaced several years ago. I can name three close friends and two neighbors who also have had these procedures done. It is the "in" thing. More popular than botox! People are constantly having surgery on injured rotator cups or other joint-related damage. After all these “bionic” folks heal, they return to their previous life of “running” around – only pain free! Pain makes wrinkles. When the surgeon removes the worn out knees, hips, and what nots, he removes the source of pain. Hence, thanks to surgery, my generation will become known as the Dorian Gray Generation.
Let’s start with Hubby and his repaired knee. In July, he couldn’t walk to the front door. When he did walk, his face was crunched with pain and his body bent over. It’s been four months since his knee surgery. He’s back in the gym daily and can do his usual two-mile stroll. Then there’s my neighbor down the block. He has had repair work on his stomach or intestines, (not sure of the specifics). When that healed, he was the recipient of a new knee. Within weeks he was joining the movers and shakers in our social hall.
Years ago, when people’s eyelids began to droop, nothing could be done. People with this condition looked years older than they really were. Today, if droopy eyelids interfere with your vision, insurance will pay to have them picked up. Hence less seniors have the eyes of a hound dog and all the wrinkles that accompanied them.
As my parents generation entered “late middle-ages,” and their arthritic pains and other aches took them off the golf course or tennis court, the doctors gave them shots or medication for the pain. This treatment provided temporary relief, but the pain always returned. Not so today. Today the doctors go "out with the old and in with the new."
One of the golfers I know received one new hip last year, and she is just about ready to get her other one done. Her knee was replaced several years ago. I can name three close friends and two neighbors who also have had these procedures done. It is the "in" thing. More popular than botox! People are constantly having surgery on injured rotator cups or other joint-related damage. After all these “bionic” folks heal, they return to their previous life of “running” around – only pain free! Pain makes wrinkles. When the surgeon removes the worn out knees, hips, and what nots, he removes the source of pain. Hence, thanks to surgery, my generation will become known as the Dorian Gray Generation.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Sinful Senior Community
The other night my active senior community had a Valentine’s Dance. There are two advantages for me in attending a dance in my development. First, the DJ plays the slow, romantic music of my generation, which means my husband knows the dance steps. The second advantage to dances in my community is the DJ play vocals by singers like Johnny Mathis or the Platters all night. Those crooners didn’t scream and groan and call it music like too many of today’s musicians. At our dance, if people wanted to chat for a moment, they didn’t have to leave the room to hear each other. They could hear each other’s voices while others danced to Frank Sinatra’s songs.
During one of the dance breaks, our perky social director – who must have had her training for the job on a cruise ship - decided it was game time – just like on the cruise ship. The game – the Not So Newly Wed Game – was the same as the one played on the cruise ships we’ve gone on. Experience has taught Hubby and me that if the DJ or Social Director makes eye contact with us, we risk being picked – something neither of us loves. We immediately looked down when they circulated the room the other night for volunteers.
The DJ thought he was being funny and asked if there were any newlyweds in the group. He obviously didn’t think he would get a positive response from a crowd where the average age was around 68. One couple responded that they weren’t newlyweds, but would be within a few weeks. They were picked to participate in the game. Two other couples who made the mistake of smiling at the “cruise director” as she circulated the room were also selected. It wasn’t until everyone was on the stage that our social director realized only one of the three couples was actually married. Wow! Is my very nice development in reality a modern day Sin City? The many couples described as “Significant Others” (aka S-O’s) who reside here give new meaning to the word “active” in Active Adult Community!
There are many logical reasons the S.O.’s prefer their status, and I respect and understand their choice not to be hitched. For folks like Hubby and me who are still on marriage number one, the best part of having so many S.O.s for friends is “new lovers” surround us. Their behavior rekindles our own dormant romantic streaks. Normally Hubby would say no to attending a Valentine’s Dance. We went, and he forgot about his aches and pains and danced. I can’t remember the last time my husband did that willingly. He even remembered to buy me a Valentine’s card this year – before Valentine’s Day. I’m glad I live in a Sinful Senior Community. It makes life more fun than printable!
During one of the dance breaks, our perky social director – who must have had her training for the job on a cruise ship - decided it was game time – just like on the cruise ship. The game – the Not So Newly Wed Game – was the same as the one played on the cruise ships we’ve gone on. Experience has taught Hubby and me that if the DJ or Social Director makes eye contact with us, we risk being picked – something neither of us loves. We immediately looked down when they circulated the room the other night for volunteers.
The DJ thought he was being funny and asked if there were any newlyweds in the group. He obviously didn’t think he would get a positive response from a crowd where the average age was around 68. One couple responded that they weren’t newlyweds, but would be within a few weeks. They were picked to participate in the game. Two other couples who made the mistake of smiling at the “cruise director” as she circulated the room were also selected. It wasn’t until everyone was on the stage that our social director realized only one of the three couples was actually married. Wow! Is my very nice development in reality a modern day Sin City? The many couples described as “Significant Others” (aka S-O’s) who reside here give new meaning to the word “active” in Active Adult Community!
There are many logical reasons the S.O.’s prefer their status, and I respect and understand their choice not to be hitched. For folks like Hubby and me who are still on marriage number one, the best part of having so many S.O.s for friends is “new lovers” surround us. Their behavior rekindles our own dormant romantic streaks. Normally Hubby would say no to attending a Valentine’s Dance. We went, and he forgot about his aches and pains and danced. I can’t remember the last time my husband did that willingly. He even remembered to buy me a Valentine’s card this year – before Valentine’s Day. I’m glad I live in a Sinful Senior Community. It makes life more fun than printable!
Friday, February 12, 2010
Sorry Northerners, Blame It on Me
Folks up North have been having a really miserable winter, and I think it’s my fault and I’d like to apologize. Let me explain. You see, when we first moved to Florida in 1973, we had many cold days during the winter – just not as many as we are having this year. (I even remember seeing snow fall in Ft. Lauderdale in 1978.) Back then, each December the tourists wore shorts while my family was dressed in long sleeved shirts and long pants. We have pictures of me sitting bundled up in winter clothes watching my nieces and nephews swim in my parent’s condo’s heated pool. By the time they flew back to New York, they were sick, but at least they could brag they went swimming in Florida.
In the early 1990’s things began to change, which is why I believe in global warming. By the turn of the century, we had heat and humidity 12 months a year with little relief. Oh, the temperature would show some change, from 95 in the summer to 75 during the winter, but the humidity never seemed to take a vacation. The tourists and snowbirds were ecstatic.
The locals – like me - dreamed of the days before global warming when December through February brought a bit of relief from the heat and humidity. The only exception was those whose livelihood depended on tourists. Northern visitors wouldn’t plan another winter vacation in Florida if they were cold while here. Next time, they would head to Aruba or Puerto Rico when they wanted a break from the cold winters up North.
This summer, during Hubby’s and my daily 7 AM walk, (after 7 the tropical sun is too oppressive to walk), I prayed aloud that this winter should be cold enough that I would need to wear sweaters everyday. My prayer was answered and that’s the cause of your weather problem up North. You see, whatever our weather is, the North is usually about 30 - 40 degrees colder depending on the season, which means instead of having icy rain this winter, they're getting all that white stuff.
As I said, my husband was with me when I said my prayer for an old-fashioned cold Florida winter. This morning, as we slid into our lightweight winter jackets to wear during our morning walk, he asked me if I could pray we win the lottery this weekend.
In the early 1990’s things began to change, which is why I believe in global warming. By the turn of the century, we had heat and humidity 12 months a year with little relief. Oh, the temperature would show some change, from 95 in the summer to 75 during the winter, but the humidity never seemed to take a vacation. The tourists and snowbirds were ecstatic.
The locals – like me - dreamed of the days before global warming when December through February brought a bit of relief from the heat and humidity. The only exception was those whose livelihood depended on tourists. Northern visitors wouldn’t plan another winter vacation in Florida if they were cold while here. Next time, they would head to Aruba or Puerto Rico when they wanted a break from the cold winters up North.
This summer, during Hubby’s and my daily 7 AM walk, (after 7 the tropical sun is too oppressive to walk), I prayed aloud that this winter should be cold enough that I would need to wear sweaters everyday. My prayer was answered and that’s the cause of your weather problem up North. You see, whatever our weather is, the North is usually about 30 - 40 degrees colder depending on the season, which means instead of having icy rain this winter, they're getting all that white stuff.
As I said, my husband was with me when I said my prayer for an old-fashioned cold Florida winter. This morning, as we slid into our lightweight winter jackets to wear during our morning walk, he asked me if I could pray we win the lottery this weekend.
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