I recall in my college readings a story about David Hume, a philosopher of the 18th century, who believed only what his eyes confirmed — though he was wary of that information as well.  During a conversation with the literary figure James Boswell, Hume asserted a gap existed be

I confess I’m a fan of the television series, Big Bang Theory.  The 30 minute program centers on scientists who are captivated by comic book heroes.  Sexual gags aside, the program exudes a childlike innocence, not dissimilar, I suppose, from the curiosity a scientist feel

I had a long and convoluted conversation with my stock broker this morning.  Times are volatile for the market and for the world, and so we bent our heads together to examine ways to preserve capital.  In the end, we concluded no place was safe.  Putting money in a bank, bonds or i

When I was a child, I’d often stand in front of the Philco radio and pretend I was a concert conductor. “Beethoven’s Fifth” and “Flight of the Bumble Bee,” gave me a good, aerobic workout as did Mussorgsky’s, “Great Wall of Kiev.” 70 years have passed and I don’t d

In August, I read a review of Barbara Ehrenreich’s new book, Living with a Wild God. (Blog 8/11/14)  The work centers around an experience in her early life which she describes as a shift in her level of consciousness.  Having had a similar experience in my 40s, I decided to get m

“What do you want to do when you grow up?”  The question is one we often ask children, but how often do we hear an equally important question asked of those facing retirement?  “What do you want to do as you grow old?”  The question never occurred to my father a

Recently, I had a long chat with my broker.  The subject was how long I could be expected to live and how that projection could affect my investment funds. My mother is 100.  Assuming I inherited her longevity genes, I could go on for another 20 years.  My father and hi

A new chapter has opened for the Shakespeare and Company bookstore in Paris. (Blog 12/30/14)  Having endured the German invasion of World War II, this bookstore, home to waves of struggling and famous writers, would have died with its owner, Sylvia Beach, if George Whitman hadn�

On the way to the gym at my retirement center, there’s a table with a small basket resting on it.  Sometimes the basket is empty.  Sometimes it isn’t  When it isn’t, it’s full of condolence cards addressed to the family of a resident who has died.  As yet I know so few peo

My last official portrait appears on my blog page.  Seventy-three at the time, I knew I was old, but wasn’t prepared when the photographer pulled out a “soft” lens for the shoot. He said he’d take a few images with it.  I might like them better. The proofs showed the