Manual Transmission: 1, Me: 0

Right before we moved out to the Island, my dad owned a car with a manual transmission. He was an absolute pro at driving it—smooth, confident, totally in command—but he decided that the next car he bought would be an automatic. He wanted something easier for my mom, who was a brand‑new and very nervous driver (she was a city girl), the kind who happily handed over the keys and let my dad take the wheel whenever possible.

So, he bought a Buick LeSabre. My mom took one look at it, fell instantly in love, and christened it Bessie. And just like that, Bessie became part of the family.

When we were first married—many moons ago—my husband decided he absolutely had to have a car with a manual transmission. He was a true enthusiast, the kind who loved the feel of every gear shift. Then he saw the Subaru Justy commercial featuring the Scandinavian ski team (forever remembered as “the Swedish ski team”), showing off the Justy’s tiny size, feather‑light weight, and surprising snow‑climbing grit. That was it. He was sold.

So, he went for the 5‑speed, 4WD model. His little mountain goat of a car and it was a G.O.A.T.

To this day, I’m still not sure whether he bought that Justy because of the Scandinavian ski team or simply because he’s always had a soft spot for Subarus. In the end, it didn’t really matter. Not long after he brought the car home, Washington, DC got walloped by a major snowstorm.

That morning, we’d driven the Justy to the Metro parking lot and hopped on the train to get to work. By midafternoon, the storm hit hard, and the entire city tried to commute home at once. Cars were slipping, sliding, crawling—everyone was having a miserable time.

Everyone except us.

That little Justy zipped right past the poor cars slogging through the snow, climbing over drifts like it had been waiting its whole life for this moment. It was the one day the commercial felt absolutely, undeniably true.

He was very adamant that I learn how to drive the car and I was all for it.  It looked like fun.  One Sunday morning he drove to a large parking lot and told me to drive.  After fifteen minutes he said, "ok let's hit the road" So off we went to this little brunch place we liked.  The drive was a piece of cake, and we were both pretty happy with my accomplishment.  Then we got back in the car, and I started to drive us home.  I went to exit onto the main road.  The exit was on an incline, and I started to go but then hesitated for a second.  The guy behind me slammed into me.  Let's just say I never drove a manual car again.

The number of cars with manual transmissions keeps shrinking. In the 2026 model year, only 24 new car models still offer a stick shift. The die‑hard enthusiasts are hanging on—gravitating toward sporty coupes, hot hatches, and the occasional rugged off‑roader—but the trend is unmistakable. And as a Boomer whose first experience driving a manual was… let’s say less than triumphant, the rise of automatics is perfectly fine by me.

I’m curious, though: how many of you still drive a manual transmission? Weigh in and let’s see who’s keeping the tradition alive.

 

Recalculating: My Life Without Paper Maps

When I was young, my dad made me his navigator whenever we were in the car. He’d hand me a map, an actual, fold‑out, impossible‑to-refold map, you know the kind you picked up at a gas station or Triple A. He would then point to where we were and tell me to get us where he wanted to go. I absolutely fell in love with maps. I was good at reading them too

That early training came in very handy when I landed a job that had me traveling five days a week. Some days I’d hit more than one city, sometimes more than one state. As long as I had my trusty map on the seat beside me, I could get anywhere. I felt totally empowered.

Then along came MapQuest, the biggest thing since sliced bread in the travel world. Suddenly I didn’t have to trace routes with my finger or flip pages mid‑drive. I just typed in my starting point and destination, and just like that I would get turn‑by‑turn directions printed neatly on a sheet of paper. It felt like cheating, but the good kind.

But just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, GPS arrived. A voice, calm, patient, never rolling its eyes, would gently reroute me if I took a wrong turn. I’ll never forget the first time I drove with my dad using GPS. He sat in the navigator seat, the role he once gave me, and we were heading to some place in New Jersey we’d never been. The roads twisted and turned in ways we didn’t expect. After a few minutes of listening to the GPS guide us, he shook his head and said, “I wish we had this back in the day.” And he meant it.

I didn’t realize how dependent I’d become on digital navigation until I went to Europe without a data plan. Suddenly, I was back in the dark ages with no soothing voice or instant recalculating. It was shockingly easy to get lost and surprisingly hard to find our way out. I felt like Hansel and Gretel wandering the forest, except instead of breadcrumbs, I had a half‑charged phone and a growing suspicion that the big bad witch was lurking around the next corner. It did not take long for me to find a cell phone plan and use GPS again.

Travel teaches you many things, but one lesson keeps repeating: the tools may change, but the instinct to find your way never really leaves you. 

As a boomer, leaving paper maps behind is a no‑brainer. I mean, I loved them, I learned from them, and I could fold one like a champ. But let’s be honest: GPS is the most important tool in my life aside from the actual cell phone itself. It’s the modern equivalent of having a wise, unflappable co‑pilot who never sighs, never snaps, “You missed the turn,” and never pretends to know a shortcut that absolutely isn’t a shortcut.

GPS doesn’t argue. (Well maybe a little when it says it is recalculating) It doesn’t get flustered. It doesn’t require me to pull over, spread a map across the dashboard, and squint at tiny print while traffic whips by. It simply recalculates all within seconds.

And once you’ve experienced that kind of navigation serenity, there’s no going back. Paper maps were a rite of passage. GPS is a lifestyle.

Retirement: Where Pajamas Count as an Outfit

 

It was a rainy day.  I had nowhere to be, no appointments to keep. No mahjong games to play.  All I wanted to do was curl up on the couch and read my book. And that, I've discovered is one of the true perks of being "retired".  To make the day even more decadent, I decided to stay in my pajamas. 

There’s this funny misconception that staying in your pajamas all day is some kind of moral failing. A sign you’ve “let yourself go.” But let me tell you—when you’re retired, staying in your pj’s isn’t lazy. It’s a luxury. A perk. A small, silky rebellion against decades of alarm clocks, commutes, and clothes with waistbands.

It’s the quiet joy of choosing comfort over obligation, of letting the day unfold without structure or expectation. Pajamas become a soft little reminder that you’ve earned this ease, this freedom, this delicious ability to do absolutely nothing if that’s what your soul needs.

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For years, I lived by the clock. I dressed for work, dressed for meetings, dressed for errands, dressed for company. I even joked that I shopped for clothes I didn’t have to iron—well, mostly joked, but you get where I’m going with this.  Pajamas were reserved for the last hours of the day, when I was overcome by exhaustion and I finally collapse into bed.

But retirement flips the script. Suddenly, pajamas become a symbol of freedom. They say, “I have nowhere I have to be and no one I have to impress.” They say, “I’ve earned the right to be comfortable.” They say, “This is my time now.”

And honestly, there’s something deliciously indulgent about padding around the house in soft cotton or flannel while the rest of the world is wrestling with zippers, buttons, and business casual. It’s like being wrapped in a quiet little reminder that you’ve already done the hard part. You’ve shown up, worked hard, raised families, paid bills, navigated crises, and survived decades of Mondays.

So, if a day arrives when the pajamas stay on from sunrise to sunset, that’s not slacking. That’s savoring the moment. That’s choosing comfort over obligation. That’s leaning into the gentle, unhurried rhythm of a life well lived.

On a rainy day, with a good book and no place to be, pajamas aren’t just clothing.

They’re a state of mind.

PS and by the way, I have been reading some good books that I will try and share with you at a later date.

The Last Check Writer Standing

 

Checks, who writes them.  Me, sometimes. I mean I don't write a lot of checks but there are certain bills I do pay the old-fashioned way. I like the fact that when I reconcile my account, I still have the digital image of the check. I find it very re-assuring.

Checks. Who writes them anymore?

Well… me. Sometimes.

I don’t write many, but there are a few bills I still insist on paying the old‑fashioned way. There’s something oddly satisfying about it—like I’m keeping one tiny corner of adulthood anchored in the analog world. And when I reconcile my account, I love seeing that little digital image of the check. It feels reassuring, almost like proof of life.

In a world where money moves around invisibly, faster than I can say “autopay,” that scanned check reminds me that I was here, I signed something, I sent it out into the world with purpose. It’s a small ritual, but it still makes me feel grounded.

BUT if I’m being honest, the case for giving up checks is pretty strong. For starters, they’re slow really slow, glacial, even. By the time a check arrives, gets opened, processed, and finally clears, I could have tapped my card, earned points, and moved on with my life. I sent a check for my HOA payment.  Not only did it take forever to be processed, but I got charged a late fee.  HOA's are vicious when it comes to payments.  Most companies now treat checks like a guest who shows up without texting first: they’ll let them in, but only because it would be rude not to.

There’s also the small matter of security. Digital payments aren’t perfect, but a paper check carries every piece of personal information a thief could ever want—name, address, bank, routing number, account number. It’s practically a résumé for identity theft. Our post boxes in my community are not secure at all.  I now carry every piece of mail to the post office. Who knows if that is even OK

And then there’s the convenience factor. Autopay doesn’t forget. It doesn’t run out of stamps. It doesn’t get lost under a stack of mail or sit in the car because I meant to drop it at the post office. Digital payments just… happen. Quietly. Reliably. Without me hunting for a pen that actually works.

Even my beloved digital check images, my security blanket, are becoming less necessary. Banks now give me instant transaction records, alerts, and statements that are far more detailed than a grainy scan of my handwriting.

So yes, there are plenty of reasons to let checks go.

But like all rituals, the real question isn’t whether they’re efficient—it’s whether they still give me something I’m not ready to lose. In this case, the demise of the check will not be that hard for me.

Please share your thought! Is there anybody out there who still writes checks?

The Slow Goodbye of Cash

 

In a previous post (See a Penny), I talked about the quiet retirement of the penny, which in days gone by was our little copper workhorse.  This workhorse of a coin has been rattling around in pockets for over 200 years. I fear it won’t be the last coin to head for the great mint in the sky. Wasn't that a song? Oh, wait, the song was Spirit in the Sky, a one hit wonder. My bad. 

On a recent trip to France and Belgium, I got a glimpse of what a coin‑less future might look like. Belgium still clings lovingly to cash bless their hearts, but France has gone full “tap and go.” Digital transactions rule.

In one shop, I tried to pay with actual money, the kind you can fold, and the clerk looked at me with genuine distress. She couldn’t make change. "Did I have a credit card?" The way she said it, you’d think I had offered her a sack of doubloons which I picked up on quick stop to Brigadoon the Scottish village that appears every 100 years for a single day.

The only time coins were truly necessary was when we needed to pay a euro to use the bathroom facilities. And let me tell you, that became a small crisis. We were having such a hard time using our euros that we couldn’t break any of the bills. Imagine standing outside a pay toilet, waving a €20 note like you’re trying to bribe your way into a speakeasy.

Our next big trip is to Germany, where I’m told cash is still king. Thank goodness. At least we won’t be locked out of the bathrooms. I mean, picture spending an afternoon in the Hofbräuhaus, beer steins so big you can drink half of a six pack in one mug and then discovering you can’t use the restroom because you don’t have the right form of payment. That’s not a cultural experience; that’s a cautionary tale. Coins may be fading, but bodily functions remain stubbornly analog.

But I still love my currency, and it still feels useful to me. I’m just not physically, mentally, or emotionally ready to let cash go. I hope the remaining coins stay in circulation for a while. I’m far too attached to them to say goodbye.

Maybe that’s the real tug beneath all this talk of pennies, euros, and tap‑and‑go terminals. It isn’t just about money. It’s about the tiny rituals that used to anchor our days—digging for exact change, hearing a coin drop into a palm, tucking a few bills into a travel wallet “just in case.” These were small, ordinary gestures, but they made the world feel tactile and knowable.

Now a days everything just hums along invisibly in the cloud. It may be efficient, but also a little, disembodied. When the coins disappear, a part of daily life will disappear with them.

So yes, I’ll keep tapping my card with the best of them, after all, the credit card companies make it awfully rewarding to do so. Many of my hotels in Europe were paid entirely with points, which feels like winning a tiny lottery every time I checked in.

But I will not give up my bottle of pennies or the little stash of coins I use at Aldi or for my beloved mahjong currency. Those coins stay. They remind me of a world where value had weight, pockets jingled, and you could always buy your way into a bathroom with a single, solid euro.

Some things, it turns out, are worth holding onto, even if they’re only worth a cent.

A Trick of the Light: Reading Between the Brushstrokes

I always find it interesting to read authors who aren’t from the United States—it adds another dimension to the experience. Not only do you have to orient yourself to the characters, but you also get to immerse yourself in a different cultural and geographic setting. That’s certainly the case with this book. Louise Penny, a Canadian author from Montreal, sets this mystery in and around her home province of Quebec.

A Trick of the Light is a murder mystery centered around Clara, an up-and-coming artist celebrating her first solo show. The morning after the opening and the party that follows, a woman is found dead in Clara’s garden. To Clara’s shock, the victim is her estranged childhood friend, Lillian. As it turns out, Lillian had no shortage of enemies, and many of them were present at the party—making for a long and tangled list of suspects.

While the book isn’t fast-paced, Penny excels at character development and atmosphere. She draws the reader in slowly, layering relationships and motives with care until the murderer is finally revealed. 

This book was published in 2005 and in total she has written twenty books in the Inspector Gamache series.

Louise Penny’s novels are known for their rich character development, philosophical depth, and the atmospheric setting of Three Pines, Quebec.  Her books are best enjoyed in order, since each book published adds a little more depth and insight to her reoccurring characters.  So, if you are just discovering Louise Penny, start with Still Life where you meet the wonderful and often eccentric characters of Three Pines. And if, by chance, you've picked up one of her later novels without reading the one that started it all, consider adding Still Life to your reading list. 

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Voicemail: The Original Long-Form Message

 

There was a time when leaving someone a voicemail felt like an actor delivering their lines. You cleared your throat, waited for the beep, and delivered your message with the confidence of someone who believed this was the most efficient way to communicate. We Boomers had perfected the art of long, winded updates that could fill an entire tape. Today? Most people under 40 treat voicemails like a nuisance—too much time, too much effort, and far too much talking. In fact, and this is only my opinion, young people are losing the art of conversation.

So, are the replacements better or just different?

I am inclined to agree that voicemails can get very long winded. I just have to listen to one from my husband who absolutely loves to talk bless his heart, Sometimes I want to say, “Honey, just send me a nice, succinct text with the information I actually need.” For me, and for the younger generation, there’s nothing like speed, convenience, and the ability to multitask while texting. 

But when voicemails first arrived on the scene, they were an event. There were blinking lights, rewinding tapes, and the robotic voice announcing your message count.

Why did we love voicemails so much?  I don't know about you, but I loved hearing the actual voice of a loved one whether it was my mother, grandmother or my boyfriend. A voice carried warmth, personality, and presence. A text can’t replace that. Oh, what I would give to hear some of those voices again—people who are gone now, or simply no longer in my life. And if it was someone I didn’t want to talk to? Well, nothing beat the satisfaction of hitting the delete button.

Even now, when my husband leaves one of his famously long messages, I still get to hear him. His voice. His tone. His little quirks. There’s no substitute for that.

Voicemail-to-text is the modern compromise that lets everyone win but once again we lose the sound of someone’s voice telling you they care or that they are thinking of you or that they love you.

Voicemail may be fading, but the desire to feel connected isn’t. I don't know, maybe the real legacy isn’t the message itself, it’s the reminder that someone took the time to reach out.

I loved to hear how you feel about this topic.  Please add your
comments.

Next Up: The Slow Death of Cash

And remember, "We may be losing the things we grew up with, but not the stories they left behind" Me