Deborah Paul

Few experiences are more cringe-worthy than watching old people make fools of themselves.

My grandkids enjoy the pool more than we terrestrial people ever could.

We all had time to fill, so why not be generous and kind? There were no pressures to impress or lifelong wounds to heal.

Concentration is what adult coloring requires, or at least friends—and wine—at the table, like a quilting bee sans a singular goal.

Could my granddaughter’s heart possibly be as full as mine? Does she appreciate the meaning of these moments, that they will endure long after the cooking aromas subside?

Here’s the deal. Two Hoosier inventions have hit the big time, and my concepts are better.

“I will visit the spectacular new supermarkets when I want to be uplifted and inspired by pure possibility.”

I bucked up and responded “yes” to an invitation for my 50th high-school reunion, figuring it would likely be my last.

The following days were hell. I fell flat-out in our foyer attempting to answer the door, at which point my elbows were bruised as well.

“I would sooner go back to sitting on phone books than let technology replace what I learned, what I can do, and what I love.”

When I was this magazine’s managing editor, the editor-in-chief asked—nay, required—that I parrot the book ‘The Official Preppy Handbook,’ localizing the author’s directives. I wrote “Indy’s Guide to Prep” in 1981.

The truth is, I need them as much as they need me, which is why the search continues.

No offense to our neighbors in Mexico or Chile, but I don’t want their produce, or anything grown upside-down in a hothouse. I want Mom’s.

Robert Frost famously said everything he learned about life could be summed up in three words: “It goes on.” This is the season of the next generation—and the next after that.

This past winter, our attic became a haven for flying squirrels. These small tree-dwellers, a protected species in Indiana, banged around over our heads for nearly a week before we gave up and called a wildlife-management organization.