The Green Dress

By Peggy Strait, a member of Get Your Wordsworth

I made up my mind. The plan was simple and straightforward. Anything in my closet that had not been worn in the past twenty years, and unlikely to be worn in the next ten years would go into the box for the Salvation Army.

It was easy. Why do I still have those skirts that I could wear now only if I stopped breathing? And those party dresses! Useless!

The box was filling up. Then I came to the green dress. I looked at it and remembered the occasion for which I had bought the dress. I was scheduled to appear before a panel of professors at the Courant Institute of Mathematical Sciences at NYU to defend my thesis for the PhD. I thought that for the occasion I should wear something other than the usual sweater and skirt that I wore to classes. So I made a trip to Bonwit Teller, the high fashion shop on Fifth Avenue at 57th Street.

A Different Kind of Senior Moment

By Peggy Strait, a member of Get Your Wordsworth

I went to meet a friend of mine at the Angelika Theater last Friday afternoon.  He has a wonderful habit of always being at a place before I arrive, but on this occasion I was early.  As I entered the theater, I held the door open for the person walking in just behind me.  He was a tall, well-dressed, good-looking gentleman with an intelligent, kindly face.  I judged his age to be late sixties to mid seventies.  We walked into the lobby – then he turned to me and asked, “What movie are you going to?”  “Midnight in Paris,” I replied.  His face lit up.   “Wonderful!” he said, “I am going there, too!” “Like mind!” was my spontaneous response. 

Why I stopped making strawberry jam and learned to love “Smuckers”

By Peggy Strait, a member of Get Your WordsWorth

Fearful that I would fall into inconsolable grief after my husband’s sudden death last spring, my two sons showered me with love and kept me perpetually engaged in activities.

One evening, my son David called and asked if I would like to go with him and the kids to pick strawberries at a strawberry farm.

“Sure”, I said.

“Good, be at my house tomorrow at 12 noon.”

I set my alarm clock for 10 a.m.  – an ungodly hour for someone who generally slept till noon.  Next morning I was up with the first ring, drank a glass of milk, took two motrins – always do that before a visit with the grandchildren – keeps me functioning as a 67 instead of a 77-year old – and then drove from my country house in Catskill to David’s house in the rural outskirts of Albany.