Dear Porch Neighbors,

I have been living with hoo-mans long enough now to notice something.

They are very trainable.

Not completely trained. But we are making progress.

For example, when I sit down, they sometimes give me a treat.

This is excellent.

So I sit down again.

Sometimes they give me another treat.

Also excellent.

But then, for reasons I do not understand, they stop.

This is where their training needs work.

Big Guy says things like, “That’s enough, Tux.”

Mama is a little easier to work with.

I have learned that if I look at her long enough—with my head tilted slightly to one side—there is at least a reasonable chance the treat department will reopen.

I am also teaching them about doors.

When I stand by one, somebody opens it.

When I stand by it again, somebody opens it again.

Sometimes I go outside.

Sometimes I just wanted to see if they were paying attention.

They were.

Good hoo-mans.

I’m also working on something called “walking.”

Apparently, the idea is that Big Guy and I go in the same direction at approximately the same speed.

I don’t understand why.

There are leaves.

There are sticks.

There are bunnies.

There are smells that clearly require immediate investigation.

Big Guy says, “Easy, Tux.”

I say nothing.

But I am beginning to think he may need more practice.

Still, I have to admit my hoo-mans are learning quickly.

They know where I like to sleep.

They know which treats I like.

And they are getting very good at scratching the exact spot behind my ears.

So I’ll keep working with them.

Training takes patience.

🐾 Making progress with my hoo-mans,
Tux

To learn more about Tux visit TuxFriends.com

I was in the hospital last week.

It is not my favorite place to be, but sometimes life gets in the way of plans.

In my case, I couldn't pee.

Not because I wasn't trying. Radiation from a few years back left my bladder with some lasting grievances, and every once in a while blood clots assemble into a small army, block the exit, and rearrange my calendar.

So there I was in the ER, doing that little dance you do when you desperately need a bathroom—except the bathroom wasn't going to solve this one.

Over the next two nights, I met some people who came into my life at exactly the right time.

I call them my heroes in scrubs.

First was Briana.

There were no rooms available, but she saw I was hurting and decided that waiting wasn't much of a treatment plan. She found a way to insert a catheter right there in the little triage room.

Relief has a way of making introductions memorable.

Later, the catheter clogged and I was parked in another waiting area, back in considerable pain. An unknown nurse appeared with pain medication.

I never got her name.

Sometimes angels don't leave business cards.

Then came Mario, who inserted a larger catheter, gave me straight answers, and distracted me with stories about the dogs he was raising.

He asked about Tux.

Anyone who gets me talking about my puppy has successfully relocated my brain to a happier neighborhood.

Tammy was my night nurse.

She listened when I explained what had worked before, adapted what she was doing, and eventually helped remove the large clot causing the trouble.

Then there was Natalie, my day nurse, who treated me less like Room Whatever and more like someone she knew.

She made sure I was comfortable, kept me informed and, most importantly, helped get me ready to go home.

My luxury suite wasn't exactly the Ritz. The sliding door wouldn't open all the way, which became surprisingly good entertainment since somebody came through it about every fifteen minutes, day and night.

Hospitals apparently don't believe in the phrase "Do Not Disturb."

But somewhere during those two nights, I started thinking about the people walking through that stubborn door.

Twelve-hour shifts.

People hurting. People scared. People impatient because they're hurting and scared.

And nine hours into that shift, when most of us would be looking for an unused supply closet and a pillow, they're still walking into the next room.

They have families waiting at home. Kids. Dogs. Bills. Sore feet. Bad days of their own.

Yet they walk in and take care of ours.

I've been in hospitals before, and I doubt I'll ever put one on my vacation list.

But after the wristband comes off and the discomfort fades, the hospital isn't what I remember.

I remember the people.

Briana. Mario. Tammy. Natalie.

And one nurse whose name I never learned.

To all the heroes in scrubs who bring skill, patience and kindness into a room when somebody is having a very bad day: thank you.

You make a difference in our lives.

Especially when we can't pee.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker and Humble Observer

Please like and restack if you know what's good for you.

If you enjoy Downbeat, I gathered 25 of these stories into a book you can keep on the nightstand, coffee table, or wherever retired people put things they swear they’re going to read.
Downbeat — Volume 1: Stories from the Porch is available in paperback and Kindle on Amazon.

Subscribe now

A short playlist of a few more episodes:

How do I travel now that my energy isn’t what it used to be?

This is a practical question with an emotional shadow. Travel used to mean freedom. Now it can mean logistics, fatigue, and wondering why airports are designed like endurance tests.

Earlier in life, you could power through. Late flights, long drives, packed itineraries. You wore “tired” like a badge and recovered by Monday.

Now your body is less impressed by your ambition. It wants rest. It wants fewer transitions. It wants a chair that doesn’t turn your spine into punctuation.

The earned insight is this: travel can be scaled without being ruined.

Slower doesn’t mean smaller. It means you’re traveling in a way that respects who you are now. Fewer stops. Longer stays. Morning adventures, afternoon breaks. One big plan per day instead of six “quick” activities that are never quick.

There’s a kind of freedom in admitting you don’t have to prove anything to the itinerary. You are not being graded by how many museums, restaurants, overlooks, and gift shops you can survive before dinner.

You can build in recovery time. You can choose the hotel that costs a little more because it saves your back. You can fly earlier, stay closer, rent the cart, take the shuttle, or sit down without apologizing to a travel brochure.

Zooming out, retirement travel is less about collecting experiences and more about actually experiencing them. Being present. Not rushing through. Not returning home needing a vacation from your vacation.

A trip counts if you enjoy it. Even if you do less.

If you’d tell a friend about this later, Restack it now.

Steady on,

Bill Black
Porch Caretaker & Humble Observer

Subscribe now

If you’d tell a friend about this later, Restack it now.

If you enjoy Ask A Retired Guy, I gathered 26 of these reflections into a book—because apparently retirement has given me enough time to start answering questions nobody assigned me.
Ask A Retired Guy — Volume 1: Notes from the Porch for the Next Chapter is available in paperback and Kindle on Amazon.

Keep the chair warm—try these next:

1. The Library Due Date Still Has Power

I am grown.

I am retired.

I still feel slightly guilty when a book is late.

Some institutions

raise you permanently.

2. The Car Wash Dryer Is Optimistic

It roars for thirty seconds

and assumes the job is finished.

Then I drive away

with two wet mirrors and hope.

3. Every Drawer Has One Mystery Battery

No package.

No label.

No known purpose.

I keep it anyway,

because throwing it out feels reckless.

4. I Misplace Things In Plain Sight

The item is not lost.

It is simply resting somewhere obvious.

Eventually I find it

and pretend I checked there first.

5. This Week’s Unexpected Gratitude

A clerk who smiled without rushing.

Not a big moment.

Just a human one.

Those count.

# # #

Would you send this to one person? Restack it and save a step.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

A few more that tend to land well:

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I used to think the Moving Bed was a very large place where Big Guy kept the Little Glowy Rectangle.

Then I learned something.

It goes places.

This week, Big Guy opened the door and said my name. I climbed in and found my spot. Mama was there too, and everything smelled familiar.

The Moving Bed started making its road noises.

At first, I watched everything carefully.

Trees went backward.

Houses went backward.

A very serious bird disappeared behind us.

I looked at Big Guy.

He kept one hand on the wheel and talked to us like everything was normal.

So I decided it probably was.

I put my head down and listened.

There are many things I don’t understand yet. Why hoo-mans need so many buttons. Why they stop when there is nothing interesting to sniff. Why Big Guy says we’re “almost there” when almost can take a very long time.

But I am learning about the sounds that mean we are going somewhere.

And I am learning that wherever the Moving Bed takes us, I am not going alone.

That seems like a good thing to know.

🐾 Filed from Moving Bed Level,

Tux

I did not intend to paint a porch gate Sunday. I intended to watch someone else paint a porch gate, which is one of the skills I’ve become particularly good at in retirement.

Earlier in the week, I called a painter who had done great work for me a couple of years ago. He said he’d have somebody out Saturday.

Saturday morning came. No painter.

I texted asking what time his crew would arrive. No response.

Thirty minutes later, I texted again and said never mind, I’d found somebody else.

That got a response.

Apparently he never received the earlier text with my address.

Technology. Always there when you need an excuse.

So I entered the gig economy.

I opened TaskRabbit and found a painter for $53 an hour, plus a $17-an-hour TaskRabbit fee. Seventy bucks an hour altogether.

Still, it was a small job. Two or three hours for a professional, I figured.

I booked him for Sunday at 8:30 a.m.

Saturday, I bought the paint, brushes, filler and drop cloth so he wouldn’t have to waste time shopping. I’d already learned that lesson from the fellow who built the gate and somehow spent an hour and a half buying lumber and brackets from stores ten minutes away.

At hourly rates, shopping can become surprisingly expensive entertainment.

Sunday morning, I walked Tux, had my coffee and at 8:30 checked the app.

“Your Tasker canceled the job, but we can help you find another Tasker!”

It had the cheerful tone of someone announcing my luggage had been lost but reminding me there are many wonderful stores that sell underwear.

I could wait around for another painter.

Technically, I have all the time in the world.

But that’s not the point.

So out came the tape and cardboard. I masked the brick, opened the paint and lowered my 67-year-old body onto the porch.

I actually enjoy painting. There’s something satisfying about watching raw wood turn into something finished. Once I get into a rhythm, it’s almost therapeutic.

It’s the getting back up that has become less therapeutic.

Sitting cross-legged on concrete is apparently something my body remembers me doing in 1974 and would prefer I stop pretending is still an option.

A few hours later, the gate looked pretty good.

And I found myself thinking about this new gig economy.

With a few taps on a phone, we can hire someone to assemble furniture, deliver dinner, walk a dog, hang a television or paint a gate.

Whether they actually arrive adds a little casino atmosphere to the transaction.

Maybe the old rules still work best.

If you say you’re coming, come. If you’re running late, call. Do good work. Build a reputation.

That advice worked long before there was an app for everything.

The gate is painted now.

I saved $70 an hour, got some exercise and ended the day with the satisfaction of having done something myself.

All things considered, not a bad Sunday.

Although if you’ll excuse me, I need to get some paint out of my hair.

And figure out how to stand up.

A Like is a quick clap. A Restack is the standing ovation.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

More from the Porch
If you enjoy Downbeat, I gathered 25 of these stories into a book you can keep on the nightstand, coffee table, or wherever retired people put things they swear they’re going to read. Might make a nifty gift for Meemaw or Grandpa as well.
Downbeat — Volume 1: Stories from the Porch is available in paperback and Kindle on Amazon.

Before you go, a few more porch reads:

Ok, enough Chit-chat. What’s today’s question?

Why do family gatherings feel more exhausting now?

You’re not alone. Family gatherings can be wonderful. They can also feel like a marathon you didn’t train for, except the water stations are chips and somebody keeps hugging you while you’re holding a plate.

Earlier in life, you had more momentum. You were used to noise. You were used to chaos. You could bounce back faster, and your tolerance for stimulation was higher. A loud house was normal. You just lived inside it.

Now your nervous system is used to quieter days. Which is lovely, until forty relatives arrive, the TV is on for no reason, three conversations happen at once, and a toddler hands you a sticky object with deep confidence.

Part of the exhaustion is physical, sure. Bodies don’t recover the way they used to. But a lot of it is bandwidth. Family gatherings come with history. Roles. Old dynamics. The subtle effort of being “on” while also trying not to step on anyone’s feelings.

The lived-in insight is this: being tired doesn’t mean you don’t love them.

It means your capacity has changed. And that’s normal. Your system now values quiet the way it used to value momentum. It’s not weakness. It’s evolution.

What helps is giving yourself permission to step out without guilt. Not dramatically. Just briefly. A walk. A few minutes in a quiet room. The classic “I’m going to refill my drink,” which is really a tactical retreat to the garage.

It also helps to lower the expectation that you must be fully present for every second. You don’t have to absorb all of it. You can enjoy in smaller sips.

If you need more recovery time afterward, that’s not selfish. That’s maintenance.

# # #

Does this deserve an encore? Restack it and let it take another bow.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

More from the porch
If you enjoy Ask A Retired Guy, I gathered 26 of these reflections into a book—because apparently retirement has given me enough time to start answering questions nobody assigned me.
Ask A Retired Guy — Volume 1: Notes from the Porch for the Next Chapter is available in paperback and Kindle on Amazon.

Got another minute? Try these next:

Subscribe now

1. The Car Dashboard Speaks In Symbols

A light comes on.

It looks like a tiny submarine or a teapot with ambition.

I stare at it

like we share a language.

2. Lawn Chairs Have Become Personal Furniture

Some fold easily.

Some attack your fingers.

Some never return to the bag they came in.

Mine has opinions.

So do I.

3. The Freezer Is A Time Capsule

I found soup from a season I cannot identify.

It might be dinner.

It might be archaeology.

Either way,

it has frost confidence.

4. Instructions Are Printed For Younger Eyes

The words are small.

The diagrams are smaller.

The arrows suggest a level of patience I do not currently have.

I squint with purpose.

5. This Week’s Unexpected Gratitude

A simple sandwich.

No cooking project.

No cleanup drama.

Just lunch behaving itself.

# # #

Was this worth your time? A Like tells me it landed.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

Before you wander off, here are a few more:

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There is a Bunny who lives near our house.

I don't know his name.

I don't think Big Guy does either, which is unusual because Big Guy seems to have names for almost everything.

Every morning, Bunny appears in the grass.

And every morning, he looks like he is late for something.

He stops. He eats. He looks around.

Then suddenly—ZOOM.

I have no idea what happened.

Naturally, I would like to ask him.

The problem is that Bunny does not seem interested in meeting me.

I have tried standing very still.

I have tried sitting.

Once I even gave him my best I am just a small puppy with absolutely no plans whatsoever look.

Bunny was not fooled.

He took off across the yard like somebody had just opened the Surprise Box store.

I followed.

This is when the Rope became involved.

Apparently, the Rope has different ideas about Bunny research.

Big Guy said, "Easy, Tux."

I looked at him.

Easy?

There is a Bunny loose in the neighborhood who clearly has somewhere important to be.

Shouldn't somebody find out where he's going?

Big Guy didn't seem concerned.

He just stood there holding the Rope while Bunny disappeared behind a bush.

So I sat down beside him.

We waited.

A minute later, Bunny came out the other side and started eating again.

That's when I noticed something.

Maybe Bunny wasn't going anywhere.

Maybe that's just how Bunnies do things.

Eat some grass.

Run somewhere.

Eat different grass.

I can respect that.

I do pretty much the same thing with toys.

I still plan to meet Bunny someday.

But for now, I watch him from the end of the Rope.

He has his yard.

I have mine.

And apparently, we both have very important things to do.

🐾 Filed from Ankle Level,

Tux

That was my plan.

I was out fly fishing, having one of those rare days when the trout and I had reached a temporary agreement. I caught and released rainbows, tiger trout, and golden trout, which made me feel briefly competent in a way that should never be trusted.

Then I caught a little white sucker fish.

He was about ten inches long and came in with the enthusiasm of a wet sock. After a day of trout acting like they had legal representation, this fellow offered almost no resistance.

I set the hook with my usual retired-guy confidence, and the poor fish became airborne.

Not metaphorically.

He landed on the bank and began flopping toward the weeds like he had remembered an appointment.

I removed the hook, and before I could help, he wiggled toward the water. I figured he had it handled. I made another cast and returned to pretending I knew what I was doing.

That’s when the crow arrived.

It landed where the sucker fish had disappeared and began searching with the urgency of a man who misplaced his reading glasses on his own head.

The crow knew something was there. It just could not find it.

It hopped. It tilted its head. It left. Then it came back with the same irritated energy I have when my phone is not in my pocket, not on the counter, and somehow in the refrigerator.

This time, the crow found the fish.

It pulled him from the grass and made a sound I had not heard from a crow before. Not the usual caw-caw. This was more official.

A second crow appeared.

Apparently, this was now a meeting.

The crows were standing over lunch when an eagle cruised by above them. One crow gave chase, as if filing a complaint with upper management.

They landed in a tree, where I assume the crow explained property rights and the eagle considered the fish.

Meanwhile, the second crow guarded the prize.

Then the buzzards showed up.

First one. Then another. Then two more, all hopping in with the slow confidence of relatives who heard there was pie.

The crows tried to move the fish, dropped it, huddled over it, and seemed to realize the neighborhood had changed.

Just as the buzzards closed in, the eagle returned.

Everything scattered.

The eagle swooped down, took the fish, and flew away, apparently deciding that a small meal was still a meal.

The whole thing took maybe three minutes.

I stood thirty feet away with my mouth open, holding a fly rod, watching nature run an entire restaurant dispute without me.

I had video sunglasses on and never thought to turn them on. Some moments happen too fast for technology and just slow enough for wonder.

Nature works.

Not always gently. Not always fairly. Not with much concern for the little sucker fish.

But it works.

And every once in a while, if you are lucky, it lets you stand nearby and remember that the world is still running wild, even while you are just trying to catch a fish and find your glasses.

# # #

A Like is a quick clap. A Restack is the standing ovation.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

Here are a few more that go down easy:

How do I talk to my spouse about aging without making it depressing?

That’s a tender question, and I respect it. Because “aging” can feel like a word that drops the room temperature a few degrees.

Earlier in life, you didn’t have to talk about it. You just lived. Bodies mostly cooperated. Time felt generous. You assumed you’d always recognize yourself in the mirror, just with better hair someday.

Now the signs are less subtle. Knees negotiate. Sleep has opinions. Friends start mentioning surgeries the way they used to mention vacations. And the idea of “someday” gets replaced by “maybe we should think about this.”

It makes sense you don’t want the conversation to turn gloomy. Nobody wants to sit at the kitchen table and feel like they’re reviewing the warranty on their own body.

The lived-in insight is this: the talk doesn’t have to be the talk.

It can be small, normal, even lightly funny. “If one of us falls, we agree not to pretend it didn’t happen.” Or, “Do we have a plan if driving at night becomes a mess?” Humor doesn’t erase seriousness. It makes seriousness bearable.

It also helps to frame it as teamwork, not tragedy. “I want us to take care of each other well.” That sentence holds a lot of love without sounding like a sermon.

And it’s okay to start with practical things. Not because you’re avoiding emotion, but because practical things are easier to hold. They give the heart something solid to stand on.

Zooming out, this is what long love does. It adapts. It keeps choosing each other in new conditions. That’s not depressing. That’s intimate.

Aging is going to happen whether you talk about it or not. Talking about it gently just means you’re facing it together instead of alone.

Did you read to the end? Thank you. Applause is optional, but appreciated. (Like.)

# # #

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

Keep the calm rolling—a few more:

1. The Doctor Portal Wants A Relationship

I just wanted one test result.

It wanted a username, password, code, and security question.

Apparently my bloodwork

needs a bouncer.

2. Street Sweeping Day Is A Strategy Game

Cars move, neighbors watch, timing matters.

One wrong decision and the ticket arrives.

It is chess,

with curbs.

3. The Refrigerator Door Collects Evidence

Coupons, photos, reminders, magnets from places I barely remember.

It started as storage.

Now it is a family archive with condiments behind it.

4. I Trust Sticky Notes More Than Technology

A phone reminder can vanish.

A sticky note stares at me from the counter.

Bright yellow judgment.

Very effective.

5. This Week’s Unexpected Gratitude

A clean countertop.

For seven whole minutes,

everything looked possible.

# # #

Did this feel like a good exhale? A Like or Restack helps it travel.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

If you’re reading like you’re unwinding, these help:

Subscribe now

Big Guy put me in a harness and clipped a Rope to it and said we were going for a walk.
I thought we were leaving forever.

We walked past houses.
Past little dogs.
Past Big Dogs that don't bark.
Big Guy says they're called "deer."
I'm still thinking about that.

There were so many smells I almost forgot to keep walking.
Every tree had important news.
Every bush deserved a closer look.
Big Guy seemed to be in a hurry.
I wasn't.

Eventually we made one big circle.
Then something amazing happened.
Home was waiting for us.
I didn't know home could do that.

Now I understand.
Sometimes you leave...
...just so it feels good to come back.
I've decided Big Guy knows where he's going.
Most of the time.

🐾 Filed from ankle level,
Tux

P.S. (Post-sniff): In case you missed it, here’s last week’s TUX Report:

We brought home a “smart” device the other day because apparently we were running low on humility.

It promised convenience, efficiency, and a smoother modern life. That should have been my first warning. Anything that promises to make life smoother usually begins by asking for my Wi-Fi password, my email address, and permission to update itself at 2:14 in the morning.

This particular device looked innocent enough sitting on the counter.

Sleek.

Quiet.

Smarter than necessary.

The box said it would learn our habits. I did not realize this meant it would start forming opinions about us.

The first few days were promising. It beeped politely. It blinked in soothing colors. It gave off the general impression of something that had gone to college and was trying not to mention it.

Then the judgment began.

If we opened it too soon, it beeped.

If we waited too long, it beeped.

If we pushed the wrong button, it flashed like we had disappointed not only the machine, but several generations of engineers.

I miss the days when appliances had one job and performed it quietly. The toaster toasted. The coffee maker made coffee. The refrigerator kept food cold and occasionally held a child’s drawing with a magnet shaped like Florida.

Nobody asked the dishwasher how I was feeling.

Now everything has a screen, a tone, a setting, and a little light that means either “ready” or “you have failed me again.” The manual explains all this in six languages and none of them are retired guy.

At one point, I stood in the kitchen holding the instruction booklet while the device blinked at me like a supervisor waiting for a quarterly report.

My wife asked, “What does it want?”

I said, “Respect, apparently.”

That is the trouble with smart things. They do not just help. They participate.

A regular machine waits for you. A smart machine enters the relationship.

It remembers things. It suggests things. It sends notifications. It develops preferences. Before long, you are not using it so much as trying to maintain a healthy emotional distance.

I know progress is good. I like convenience. I am not trying to churn butter on the porch or send letters by horse.

But there is something to be said for a knob.

A knob does not update. A knob does not need an app. A knob does not look at you with a blinking blue light because you failed to pair it correctly.

A knob turns left or right, and we all move on with our lives.

Retirement has taught me that simple is not the same as outdated. Sometimes simple is just peaceful. Sometimes the best technology is the kind that does not require a password, a firmware update, or a small apology.

We will probably keep the smart device. It does do what it promised, once it gets done correcting us.

But every now and then, I look at the old coffee maker with renewed affection.

It may not be smart.

But it knows when to keep quiet.

# # #

If you’re new: Like = applause. Restack = share it with the room.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

If you’re still settling in, try these next:

Ok, enough chit chat. What’s today’s question?

How do I deal with adult kids who still treat me like I’m on call?

This one has layers. Love is in there. History is in there. And a calendar that keeps mysteriously filling up is definitely in there.

Earlier in life, being “on call” was part of the job. Parenting is basically a long shift where the phone rings and you answer, even when you’re tired. You were the default solution. Ride to practice. Help with homework. Fix the thing. Pay for the thing. Worry about the thing at 2:00 a.m.

Then retirement arrives and you think, “Ah. Finally. My time.”

And your adult child texts: “Quick question…” which is never quick, and rarely a question.

The lived-in insight is that habits don’t dissolve just because the kids hit 30. If you’ve always been the steady one, people will keep leaning. Not maliciously. Automatically. They’re used to you being the safety net, and safety nets don’t get thanked. They get used.

Also, adult kids are still kids in one way: they forget you have a life. Not because they’re selfish, but because they’ve always seen you as the background support system. Like electricity. You don’t think about it until it stops working.

So what do you do?

You renegotiate kindly.

Not with speeches. Not with guilt. With simple lines repeated calmly. “I can help, but I can’t today.” “We can do that, but we need a day’s notice.” “I’d love to, but we already have plans.” Plans, by the way, can include sitting quietly and being a person.

At first, this can feel harsh. Especially if you were trained to be endlessly available. But boundaries aren’t rejection. They’re clarity. They keep resentment from sneaking in through the back door.

You can still be generous. You can still be present. You just don’t have to be on call.

Gotta go. My phone is ringing.

# # #

If this feels familiar, a Like helps it find another porch.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

More from the porch
If you enjoy Ask A Retired Guy, I gathered 26 of these reflections into a book—because apparently retirement has given me enough time to start answering questions nobody assigned me.
Ask A Retired Guy — Volume 1: Notes from the Porch for the Next Chapter is available in paperback and Kindle on Amazon.

If your brain likes gentle, keep going:

Read another Ask a Retired Guy

1. The Gas Pump Has Too Many Questions

Rewards number?

Car wash?

Receipt?

Zip code?

I came for fuel.

Now I am taking an exam outdoors.

2. I Still Keep Receipts For No Reason

They go from pocket to counter to drawer.

Then they become historical documents.

Someday I may need proof

I bought bananas in June.

3. The Ceiling Fan Chain Is Always The Wrong One

One turns on the light.

One changes the speed.

I pull both,

and the room enters negotiations.

4. My Shoes Make More Decisions Than I Do

I used to choose shoes by occasion.

Now I choose by forgiveness.

If they support my arches,

they are invited everywhere.

5. This Week’s Unexpected Gratitude

A shady parking spot.

Not close.

Not fancy.

Just shaded.

A summer blessing.

# # #

Did you enjoy this? Tap Like. Know someone who would? Restack it.
Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

For the readers who like the quiet ones:

Subscribe now

Dear Porch Neighbors,

Everything I knew disappeared in one afternoon.
A nice lady handed my Rope to a hoo-man I'd never met.
He smiled a lot.

The other hoo-man scratched behind my ears exactly where I like it.
I decided not to panic just yet.
They opened the door to a Moving Bed.
I climbed in.
Mostly because I wasn't sure what else to do.

The Big Guy talked almost the whole ride home.
I didn't understand a single word.
But his voice sounded happy.
Mama kept reaching over to rub my shoulder.
That part made sense.

After a while I stopped watching the road behind us.
I started watching the two hoo-mans in front of me.
Sometimes you don't know where you're going.
You only know how someone makes you feel.

By the time the Moving Bed stopped...
...I wasn't wondering where we were going anymore.
I was wondering if these two hoo-mans were mine.
I think they are.
🐾 Filed from ankle level,
Tux

Come back next Wednesday.

I’ll have another story waiting.

Editor's Note from Big Guy:
Tux has been with us less than a week. He already thinks he's in charge. He's probably right.

There was a time when commercials knew their place.

If you grew up with radio and television, they were simply part of the deal. The show would pause, somebody would try to sell you toothpaste, a new car, or cereal with enough sugar to power a small city, and you’d use the opportunity to refill your coffee or make a quick trip to the kitchen.

Nobody complained much.

In fact, some commercials became more memorable than the programs they interrupted. We still remember jingles from fifty years ago, even if we can’t remember why we walked into the garage.

Commercials were a fair trade.

The television station gave us entertainment. Advertisers paid the bills. We watched a few minutes of ads, and life moved along.

Then came cable.

Then streaming.

Then recording shows so we could skip right past the commercials like they never existed.

I admit I’ve become spoiled.

If I’m watching football, I usually start the game about thirty minutes late. That gives me enough of a cushion to zip past every timeout, halftime report, and commercial break. By the fourth quarter, I’m caught up with everyone else and haven’t learned a thing about prescription drugs or pickup trucks.

It’s one of retirement’s little victories.

But that’s not what bothers me.

The real offenders are those tiny videos on YouTube.

You know the ones.

You need a three-minute lesson on replacing a faucet washer. Or maybe you’re trying to figure out why your garage door suddenly sounds like it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

You have a wrench in one hand.

Your phone in the other.

You’re standing in the middle of a project that’s already gone sideways.

You press Play...

...and immediately you’re forced to watch two commercials about luxury vacations, meal-delivery services, or an app that promises to organize your life.

None of which helps me stop the water pouring under the sink.

It used to be you could skip these interruptions after a few seconds.

Now they’re getting longer.

Some can’t be skipped at all.

By the time the second commercial finally ends, I’ve forgotten why I picked up the wrench, the pipe is still leaking, and I’m beginning to think calling a plumber wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.

Somewhere along the way, commercials stopped being little pauses between the entertainment.

They became the entertainment’s gatekeepers.

It’s as if the internet looked at television and said, “Hold my coffee.”

I understand advertising pays for free content. I really do. Those videos don’t make themselves, and creators deserve to earn something for teaching me how to fix things I’ll probably make worse.

But we’ve drifted a long way from the old bargain.

Back then, the commercials politely waited until the show paused.

Now the show waits for the commercials.

Maybe that’s just modern life.

Everything seems to come with one more pop-up, one more subscription, one more notification, and one more reminder that somebody would like our attention—and preferably our credit card.

I suppose that’s progress.

Still, every now and then I miss those old television commercials that simply gave us enough time to grab another cup of coffee.

They interrupted the show.

These days, it sometimes feels like the show interrupts the commercials.

# # #

If you’ve ever clapped after a song, you already know Like.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

If you’re still on the porch, I’ll point you here:

Ok, enough chit chat. What’s today’s question?

How do you stay engaged without overcommitting your time?

That balance is trickier than it sounds.

For a long time, most of us didn’t have to think about it. Engagement was built in. Work, responsibilities, schedules—your time was spoken for before you even got to it.

Now the calendar is more open.

Which feels good… right up until you start deciding what to put back on it.

I’ve had stretches where I said yes to a few things in a row. Nothing big. A lunch here. A commitment there. Something that seemed like a good idea at the time.

Individually, each one made sense.

But somewhere along the way, the week started to feel crowded again.

Not in the old way—no pressure, no deadlines—but still a kind of fullness that didn’t feel quite right.

That surprised me more than I expected.

Because after years of being scheduled, I assumed more activity would feel like a return to something familiar.

Instead, it felt like something I had just stepped away from.

There’s a difference between being busy because you have to be…

and being engaged because you choose to be.

They can look the same on the calendar.

But they don’t feel the same when you’re living them.

I’ve started to notice that the things that feel best now tend to have a little space around them. Not stacked back-to-back. Not filling every open slot.

Just enough structure to give the day some shape.

And enough room left over so it still feels like yours.

It’s easy to say yes when something sounds interesting. Harder to notice when the accumulation of yeses starts to change the feel of your time.

Not in a dramatic way.

Just enough that the days start to feel less open again.

I don’t think the goal is to avoid commitments.

It’s just to leave a little space between them.

Because engagement doesn’t seem to come from doing more.

It seems to come from having room to actually be present for the things you choose.

And that’s a different kind of full.

# # #

A Like is a quick clap. A Restack is the standing ovation.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

If you’re reading like you’re unwinding, these help:

1. Reusable Bags Are Never Where I Need Them

At home, they fill a cabinet.

At the store, they live in the trunk.

I remember them right after checkout.

2. The Package Tracking Map Lies Calmly

It says my order is nearby.

Nearby apparently means three towns over.

I watch the little truck icon like it owes me money.

3. The Garden Hose Has One Bad Mood

I pull gently.

It knots immediately.

Then it catches on a chair, a rock,

and possibly my character.

4. Chairs At Events Are Getting Lower

I sit down fine.

Getting up becomes a small engineering project.

I make one quiet sound and hope nobody files a report.

5. This Week’s Unexpected Gratitude

A cold drink that stayed cold.

Not forever.

Just long enough.

That was plenty.

# # #

Want to support the writing without spending a dime? Like or Restack helps a lot.

Steady on,
Bill Black
Porch Caretaker, Humble Observer

A few more that read like a good exhale:

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