Jamie Janosz

I’m sitting in the airport at Charlotte, North Carolina, on a Thursday afternoon. I am on my way home after a business trip. To my left is a grand piano where a pianist is offering a very energetic rendition of the Friends theme song. Also to my left, is a blue haired young man in his 20s with a nicely contrasting lilac bandana across his forehead. He is sitting on the ground, back against the staircase, enthusiastically singing along with the piano player, throwing in special requests (Do you know any Beatles?) and then, without luck, asks if he could jam on the piano for a bit. To my slight right sit two suit-coated men. The older man has white hair, a mustache, and glasses. He’s slowly drinking a beer. His lunch companion (it’s almost 4 pm, so maybe not lunch in airport world?) is a tall young man that looks like a mix of Anglo and Asian. He’s sporting a pin striped linen sport coat that is slightly wrinkled. All of a sudden they jump up and gather their suitca

I'm older. I know that. But, honestly, I still feel pretty young. Well, most days at least Today I received a not-requested senior discount at Einstein Bagels. It appeared as a $1.03 credit on my receipt, along with the cheery explanation. And if other people don't tell me I'm older, my body definitely does. I traveled to and from Chicago last week with my daughter and her friend. Being the self sufficient woman I am, I helped the girls boost their luggage into the airline's overhead bin. Later that day, I felt my mistake. My back has not been happy ever since. I've been putting those sticky heat patches on it, Ben Gay rub, ice, heat wraps, you name it. And still when I turn incorrectly . . . ouch. There are other signs too. I wear glasses now . . . all the time. It started with readers, and then progressed to progressives. And I HAVE to color my hair now. Those pesky roots keep reappearing in an ever-shinier shade of silver. I (briefly) considered embr

There is probably not much my dad loved more than patriotic celebrations, especially when they came with a parade. Every Memorial Day and 4th of July I remember sitting on the cement curb in Thornton, Illinois, or neighboring South Holland, with my skinny legs stretched into the street waiting for the parade to begin. Even though the sun was blazing, we always arrived early, which was okay with me. After all, you needed to be up front and center to catch the wrapped tootsie rolls they would toss out of the cars. The parade always began with local celebrities like the town mayor perched in the back of classic cars. My dad could care less about the people, his eyes were only on the cars. He could name every one: "Yep, Fifty...Two...Ford....Galaxie.  Sharp...Sixty...Nine...Vette." Each word would be emphasized and deliberate. When one passed by that he loved, he'd let out a long, slow whistle. I intravenously absorbed car knowledge just sitting by his side. Next ca