Joyce Jed and a few friends in the Park Slope neighborhood of Brooklyn, N.Y., got together in 2014 to brainstorm how to start an aging-in-place organization. Forty people came to that meeting. A second meeting a month later garnered 70.
Bernette Rudolph showed her art in February at the Good Neighbors of Park Slope Art Show“We advertised by putting signs and flyers at a local greenmarket and collected email addresses of interested parties, but this didn’t generate a large number of potential members,” said Jed, 75, a retired horticultural therapist. “What did was word of mouth.”
By 2015, Good Neighbors of Park Slope (GNPS) was up and running with nearly 600 members. It offers affordable annual membership dues, free or low-cost social activities and services that older adults need and want to help them remain safe and independent in their homes.
“I think of us as a senior center without walls,” said Jed, president of the organization. She is a longtime resident of Park Slope, a neighborhood of more than 60,000 known for its politically aware and active residents.
A Growing Demand to Age in Place
The need for older adult services is becoming more and more evident.
As of 2015, 45 million U.S. adults, roughly 14 percent of the population, were 65 or older. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, that number is expected to rise to 55 million in 2020. With this increase in older adults, a demand for aging-in-place organizations has also emerged.
In order to learn more about aging in place, GNPS joined the Village to Village Network, an organization that helps grassroots, membership-driven nonprofit older adult groups start and maintain aging-in-place programs.
Neighborhood residents 50 and older may join GNPS for an annual $30 membership fee. It has no office and runs on volunteer help.
“Instead of paid officers who might be actively employed yet may not have the time nor energy to devote to the organization,” Jed explained, “we have unpaid officers who are for the most part retired and have time to do the work necessary to run this organization.” Most of the activities and events are member-generated.
Early on, the group decided to seek nonprofit status instead of incorporating and also opted not to seek government or foundation funding or donations, although it did receive an anonymous donation of $5,000.
How 'Good Neighbors of Park Slope' Grew
Leaders of the group planned its development in two phases. First, it organized inexpensive social events and activities that have proven popular with members, the majority of whom are between 60 and 80.
Activities include card games, book reading groups, day tours, coffee gatherings, meditation, a walking group, exercise classes, get-togethers in members' homes, a show of members' art and readings of members' writing.
Once that foundation was firmly established, the group moved on to the second phase, which incorporates services provided by member volunteers. These include basic tech support for computers, escorts to medical appointments, errands like picking up a prescription or package at the post office, temporary plant or pet care, assistance with incidental household tasks or simply a friendly visit.
Feeling at Home
Janis Jacob, 72, a 35-year resident of Park Slope, heard about the organization at a GNPS-sponsored event.
“After I retired, I realized that I didn’t have a lot of friends in my neighborhood and most of them were still working,” she said. “I’ve met a lot of interesting people in GNPS and enjoy running into them when I’m out and about.
“But the best thing is being with people who understand what happens when we age and limitations come up,” Jacob added.


'Good Neighbors of Park Slope' Helps Residents Age in Place

Debbie L. Miller

RiptideSome mornings I think, for the thousandth time, that I will leave no legacy, no footprint, nothing that says, "I was here and what I did mattered."
I'm a retired high school teacher.
The other morning, although it was fall here in L.A., it was 81 degrees as I leashed Riptide, my Labrador Retriever-mix puppy, and drove to the dog park. 
Some mornings I think, for the thousandth time, that I will leave no legacy, no footprint, nothing that says, "I was here and what I did mattered."
En route, Rip lunged at the rear window, barked madly at dogs, UPS trucks, skateboarders and squirrels.
My dog park friends (many of whom seem to have earned a Ph.D. in dog behavior) assure me that Labradors mature into obedient adults at two, but the other day at the vet, as two techs held Riptide in a headlock for Dr. Moss to check his ears, I asked if what my dog park friends tell me was true.
Dr. Moss smiled.
"Will he mature by three?" I tried.
He smiled again.
"Five? Promise me he'll slow down by seven. I'll be 75, then."
Another smile.
It was noon, with no cloud cover, when Riptide and I entered the park. The lone shady spot had already been claimed by a professional dog walker and her five exhausted pups.
I pleaded with Rip to chase Liberty, the brown and white pointer, to wrestle Eddie, the howling husky, or to follow Banjo, the scrappy Chihuahua-doodle running sprints.
Instead he moseyed over to the water fountain. I cranked the handle to give him a drink, but even slurping seemed of no interest.
I looked into his almond eyes. "Really? You're done?"
Scout, the German shepherd, hurdled him on his way to fetching a ball. Rip ignored him and belly flopped onto the artificial turf.
"Home?" I asked.
Riptide leapt, paws pushing against my shoulders.
As we headed toward the gate, a woman wearing a Bob Marley t-shirt and sunglasses that covered not only her eyes but much of her forehead, approached.
Writer Dennis Danziger and Riptide"Excuse me," she said. "Were you ever an old teacher at Palisades High?"
When I taught English at Palisades High, I was middle aged. Now, I'm old. But I didn't say that. I just nodded.
"See that woman?" she asked, pointing across the park at a woman in her early 40s wearing a Dodgers baseball cap. "She thinks you were her teacher."
Riptide and I walked over to the woman to say hello. She smiled shyly. "I don't know if you remember me, but I saw you here before, but I wasn't sure it was you, so I didn't say anything."
"I'm Dennis Danziger," I said.
"I was your student. I'm Jackie Nunez."
Suddenly I saw the young girl she had been. "Jackie, I absolutely remember you."
"I graduated in 1999," she said.
Twenty-four years evaporated as I recalled the windowless bungalow at the back of campus where administration stuck all the new teachers. "You were in one of my ninth grade classes," I said.
"Exactly," she grinned. "And I'll never forget this one day in your class. I think about it a lot."
"Because?" I asked. Even Riptide was suddenly attentive.
"That day changed me," she said. "I was staring into space, being a rebellious 14-year-old, and you came over and asked what I was doing. I said 'nothing'. And you told me it was impossible to do nothing."
"I remember that," I said.
"Do you remember I argued with you? I told you I was doing nothing, and you said, 'Jackie, you can't do nothing. Even when you're dead, you're decomposing. You're doing something.'"
Riptide sat perfectly still, listening, as Jackie kept talking.
"I fought back. I told you I was doing nothing, and you said if I wrote a short essay explaining how I could do nothing, you'd give me extra credit. You told me that if you're alive, you're always doing something — daydreaming or breathing or tapping your pencil or thinking about lunch. And you said it again. 'It's impossible to do nothing.' And when you walked away, I started writing."
"You helped me understand that every moment matters."
Although I could see the 14-year-old and could almost smell the air — that combination of chalk dust and Lysol — I could not remember what happened. "And?" I asked.
"I wrote the essay, you gave me extra credit, which raised my grade to a B. But what I remember most was that you didn't get mad at me for not doing the assignment or for being disrespectful. And you helped me understand that every moment matters."
"I'm glad," I said. What do you do now?"
She told me she works as a hair stylist and make-up artist and teaches those crafts to young people trying to enter the profession.
"So, you're a teacher," I said.
"Well, I never think of myself as a teacher. But yeah, I guess," she said, and her smile widened.
We said farewell, and Riptide and I headed out of the park. As we walked, I realized that although I have no tangible, physical evidence that what transpired in the 20,000-plus, 54-minute classes that composed my career, some conversations, some assignments, some moments still resonate inside at least with some of my 5,000 former students. Maybe, I thought, just maybe I've left a legacy.
Riptide bucked and howled at a cocky crow in our path. I yanked him close and thought, "Wow, I'm feeling good," even knowing that I'll continue to wonder about my legacy.


Wednesday in the Park with Riptide

Dennis Danziger

In athletics, "peaking" means applying supreme effort at the exact right moment to achieve maximum success.
Recently retired and approaching seventy, I've become a late bloomer, a "late peaker," so to speak. Benefiting from the dual gifts of good health and, with work less prominent, the time to enjoy it, I'm catching up on the experiences, like Western skiing and hiking Colorado's high peaks, that I'd postponed for decades.
Jeff ZilkaWhat makes these activities possible, of course, is that I'm still physically able.
After long suspecting it would complement my enjoyment of the outdoors, I took up fly fishing at 64.  
A half-century ago, after graduation, I envied three fraternity brothers, all avid outdoorsmen, who'd skied Utah's Alta and Snowbird and hiked the Haute Route in the Alps. Today, one once-vigorous athlete has Parkinson's; a second has new knees and cannot ski; and a third fell victim to a cancer that took his life as he neared fifty. I'm thus deeply grateful to be alive, living my long-fantasized outdoor life.
I grew up an urban, middle-class kid in New York City. I hadn't traveled much west of the Hudson by the time I started college. Early-career business trips to far-flung Chicago and Minnesota moved my meridian westward, and I saw my first Western slope in my early 30s, when my wife and I trekked to Park City, Utah.
First Step: Fly Fishing 
Imagine my delight that here in my adopted home of Santa Fe, New Mexico, the trail to the top of Atalaya Mountain, a beloved 9,100 feet peak with a commanding view, is only seven minutes away.
Recently, several authors — among them Tom Vanderbilt, Nell Painter, Rich Karlgaard and Margaret Talbot – have advocated for acquiring a new skill later in life; that the experience of progressing from absolute beginner to proficiency not only adds to one's enjoyment of life's richness, but promotes mental agility. In that vein, after long suspecting it would complement my enjoyment of the outdoors, I took up fly fishing at 64.  
Starting was easy. Three times a year, one of Santa Fe's fly shops partners with the local community college to offer a popular "introduction to fly fishing" course. I signed up and the next four Saturday mornings found myself rigging my rod and making my first tentative casts in the company of four guides and two dozen other neophytes. 
The satisfaction of catching my first fish, a diminutive smallmouth bass, on the Rio Grande during my second lesson was immense.
Along with that bass, I was, all puns intended, hooked. The thrill of learning to read the water correctly, anticipating which artificial lure the fish would take, and then reeling in the splendid creature (and releasing it — I'm a "catch and release" fisherman) proved addictive.
One doesn't always catch actual fish, of course, which sometimes turns a much-anticipated outing into casting practice.
I quickly understood that fly fishing is more about learning to think like a fish – to assess the water conditions and calculate what kind of lure the fish is most likely to mistake for an edible delight – than the physical skill of casting. And then, there's the philosophical side: One doesn't always catch actual fish, of course, which sometimes turns a much-anticipated outing into casting practice. But these disappointments notwithstanding, it is always satisfying to spend time on the river.
Age Requires Accommodations 
Peaking late has taught me that while age requires accommodations, there really aren't any shortcuts. Three years ago, after completing a four-day, 80-mile guided mountain biking trip on Utah's magnificent White Rim, the sandstone plateau that lies 1,000 feet below Canyonlands National Park, two friends and I rented electric mountain bikes for an afternoon's ride. 
What a miracle: The bikes conferred the power to surmount otherwise-gnarly obstacles and the stamina to climb hills that would previously have stymied us.
But while the e-mountain bikes provided the ability to ascend previously impossible hills, they did not bestow the confidence to get down them. Nor did they confer the balance and technical ability to negotiate more-advanced trails. We three walked our bikes down a path we had joyously scaled, humbled but wiser, and unscathed.
When I regained consciousness, the Carbondale fire and rescue chief asked if I knew where I was – I did, "somewhere in Colorado" – and who was the president, which I didn't.
To be sure, peaking late is not without its pitfalls. Biking last year on a paved trail in Colorado, too much speed plus a moment's inattention took me off the path. My skinny tires slipped the asphalt surface, and I knew I was going down, hard. (I did, and don't actually know how long I was knocked out on the roadside.) When I regained consciousness, the Carbondale fire and rescue chief asked if I knew where I was – I did, "somewhere in Colorado" — and who was the president, which I didn't.
I was concussed and had punctured a lung and broken eight ribs. Six months' healing, disciplined physical therapy and considerable good luck that the damage hadn't been worse enabled me to get back on my bike, and back into the game.
All That Has Passed Me By 
There is, finally, a melancholic aspect to being a late peaker. So many things have undeniably passed me by.
For example, the air is thinner than I'd anticipated. I trained this summer to hike Mt. Elbert, at 14,400 feet the tallest mountain in Colorado and second highest in the continental U.S. Despite living at altitude and completing numerous training climbs, I couldn't make it to the top, despite having summited another 14er, Colorado's Mt. Sneffels, only two years earlier.
That melancholy is part of the devastating greater reality that our planet's best days are likely behind us. Daily, I read about America's finest fishing rivers, including Montana's Yellowstone and Big Hole, stressed from the increased heat and low river flows that characterize climate change. Only the introduction of farmed trout maintains the fishing on the rivers — the Rio Grande, Pecos and Chama — that are closest to my home.
Friends tantalize me with tales that "only" 30 and 40 years ago, Ski Santa Fe, a mere 30 minutes' drive from where I live, was blessed annually with more than 90-inch bases, deep powder guaranteed. Now, Thanksgiving opening days are iffy and snow groomers must manicure what's fallen naturally to sustain a 60-inch base.
A friend, raised on winter sports in Colorado, once said that since our perceptions are subjective, we normalize what we first experience. For that reason, I am fortunate: I moved West late in life – yet another late peaker moment. 
What I know today is all I've known. Measured against a lifetime's yearning, it's pretty darned good and I'll take it, thank you very much, better late than never — with gratitude.


Late Peaker

Jeff Zilka

One sunny afternoon not long ago, I left my garden-level residence and sauntered over to the turquoise-blue heated swimming pool for a respite from caregiving. During the 500-step walk, the flow of the lake fountain with egrets soaring past was instantly calming.
Sheryl Stillman and her mother in Sheryl's apartment in Estero, FloridaIt felt as though I resided at a five-star resort. With equal parts guilt and wonder whenever viewing my surroundings, I ponder whether renting at this stage in life — I was 57 at the time— is the most intelligent decision.
More Older Adults Are Renting
For many women aged 50 and older, divorce, children moving out, the death of a loved one and other life events catapult us into contemplating our long-term home situation. In late 2022, I left an empty nest in Minneapolis to relocate to a two-bedroom apartment in Estero, Florida, only a few miles from where my mother lives, to support her on her Alzheimer's journey.
According to the Pew Research Center, 30% of adults aged 55 and older live in rented accommodations, more than at any time since 1965. For me, with house prices and mortgage rates high and my mother's prognosis uncertain, it seemed more prudent to sign a lease rather than take on a mortgage when I arrived in Florida.
It has been more than a year since I settled into my apartment complex, and I have been pleasantly surprised by the lifestyle benefits available to me as a renter but that were out of reach as a homeowner. In talking with several other women — two financial advisors and one psychologist — here's where we netted on the pros and cons of letting go of the "American Dream."
Freedom, Flexibility and Simplicity
Lori Keller, 63, no stranger to renting, moved into her first efficiency unit when she was 18 and has been shuffling in and out of apartments and homes across the country since then. Keller recently transferred to Southwest Florida from the Pacific Northwest to be near family and determine her next chapter. "Living in an apartment offers me the utmost freedom, whether I want to move across town or the country," she said. "I love that!"
Additionally, there is more time for fun and relaxation when one is not burdened with fixing, upgrading or maintaining a house or yard. "My place is low maintenance and turnkey," Keller said, "providing flexibility to spend my free time enjoying life." That can mean going to the beach with friends, taking a road trip or reading an enjoyable book, she added.
"It's nice to have both a sense of privacy and community at hand."
Alyssa Roberts, a practicing psychologist, researcher and senior writer at Practical Psychology, supported that approach to life. "Having more time and energy to focus on personal goals, relationships and leisure activities is vital for mental health," she said.
Keller said another bonus of downsizing is having a smaller space that encourages a less-materialistic lifestyle. "I have lived in homes with room for storage and a basement: it's amazing how quickly things accumulate," she said. "Apartment life fosters a 'less is more' lifestyle, which I'm partial to as I've gotten older."
Amenities Mirror a Vacation Lifestyle
When surveying potential rental locations, finding developments where you feel comfortable and safe are top considerations for older women. Beyond those, you may want to focus on communities that offer amenities whose costs are included in your rent. These facilities range from heated indoor or outdoor pools, hot tubs, firepits, 24/7 fitness rooms, business centers and dog parks.
Another advantage of living in an apartment house versus single-family home may be accessibility. That is the case for Carolyn Davis, in Providence, Rhode Island. Davis is 64 and uses a wheelchair, so elevator access, package services and 24-hour security are paramount in maintaining her quality of life.
"One of the concierges brings me my mail; there is an elevator, and the ground level is flush with the outside, so I never have to worry about stairs," Davis explained. She also appreciates having neighbors close but not so close, she added. "Because I am physically vulnerable, it's nice to have both a sense of privacy and community at hand."
When Kam Magor, 78, sold her three-bedroom house in Austin, Texas, her initial plan was to live the "van life." Unfortunately, health issues delayed her departure, and she became a renter in limbo. "At the time," Magor said, "I wasn't thinking whether I would like apartment living, but it turns out, I really enjoy it."
A few unexpected perks she described include an aesthetically pleasing complex and the convenience of being within walking distance of a dog park and small outdoor pool.
Alissa Wolf, 67, shared the same sentiment regarding her space in Maple Shade, New Jersey, "I live in a cheerful community, have a beautiful balcony I decorate with each season, and a view overlooking a pretty park."
Alissa Wolf's balconyProximity Encourages Connections
Back in Minnesota, my rambler, or ranch house, sat on a quiet cul-de-sac with five other houses tucked into our corner of the world. As a single mom with a full-time career, my neighbors were often a lifeline for me, whether they were assisting with furniture, letting the pup out or lending something. Yet, with the long winters, we could go months without running into one another, which is different in communal living.
According to Roberts, one study found baby boomer renters were more engaged with neighbors and twice as likely to exchange favors than suburban homeowners.
It's easy to understand how this happens when living in a community with hundreds of other residents (sometimes more). For example, familiarity lends itself to quickly learning and ultimately caring about one another when sharing the dog park, chatting at the mailboxes or attending social events with neighbors.
"Unlike isolated single-family homes," Roberts said, "the constant opportunity for social connection has been proven to dramatically reduce loneliness and improve mood and cognition in adults over 50."
Discovering the Drawbacks
With all the favorable lifestyle reasons highlighted above, you may ask, "What's the downside?" I won't lie; several negatives come with renting rather than owning.
The women I spoke with, me included, worried about noise and nosy neighbors when moving into housing without soundproof walls and people milling around at all hours. While valid, these are minor annoyances in the scheme of things — the more significant drawbacks center around not controlling your entire environment.
Specifically, management sets rules of shared facilities, visitor parking, the timing of sprinklers going off or when landscapers arrive (always during a Zoom meeting) and the hardest to digest, rent increases when your lease is up for renewal.
Or the opposite, when the cost of the same style units is lowered to stay competitive in the marketplace, management may require its current tenants to "transfer" apartments to enjoy the savings.
Lastly, as renters, you have no say in what eventually happens with the place you temporarily occupy and no opportunity to benefit from any equity in the property.
Here are some financial considerations when reviewing housing options.
Weighing Risks and Rewards
One of the more apparent benefits of renting versus buying is not parting with a hefty amount of cash, whether for a down payment or significant expenses such as fixing the roof or replacing appliances.
Laurie Itkin, a Certified Divorce Financial Analyst, encourages newly divorced women to rent for a year or two as they get their bearings on where they want to be long-term.
"You wouldn't want to purchase a home if you think you may leave soon," she explained, "since there are transaction costs with buying and selling, including paying a broker, mortgage application fees, refinancing fees and moving expenses." All of these reduce any potential profit when selling.
Itkin also cautioned that if you buy a home and are over 60 or 70, what would happen to the house if you had to move into an assisted-living facility? Would you have enough money if the time comes, or would you be able to extract the funds out of your house?
The author's apartment complexPamela J. Sams, a Chartered Retirement Planning Counselor with Jackson Sams Wealth Strategies in Herndon, Virginia, stressed the importance of determining where you are on your retirement track before making any decisions. "Be sure your retirement is well-funded before buying a [or another] house," she stated.
"Often, clients discount renting because the 'American Dream' is to own a home," Sams added. "But it could be at the detriment of not having enough money later in life."
She offered key questions to ask yourself:
What do I want to accomplish?How much money do I still need for my retirement?What is the long-term savings between renting and buying?If buying a home, is it for investment purposes or to create generational wealth (for example, leaving it to children to sell and split proceeds)?Does having this asset make sense for me if I don't have kids?"Living in an apartment offers me the utmost freedom, whether I want to move across town or the country. I love that!"
Don't forget there may be additional costs of home ownership, including property tax (if you reside in a taxed state) and HOA (Homeowner Association) fees. Sams recommended adding 20% to your monthly mortgage amount and then comparing it to the average rent in your area. Depending on where you live, rent may be less expensive in the long run.
For instance, while my rent is over 20% higher than my last mortgage, my spending is lower because I no longer have the continuing expenses of managing a home. I make an automatic payment for rent and utilities on the first of every month, which is all I will pay for the next 30 days. Many people believe renting is "throwing money down the drain." However, Itkin refers to this as "paying a premium for flexibility."
Of course, whether one should rent or buy is an entirely personal question, often with an "it depends" answer. After listening to other renters and experts, I will be more relaxed and confident strolling down the walking path.
For now, my decision to live the apartment life is a good choice for me and a wise investment in my overall well-being.


The Allure of Apartment Life

Sheryl Stillman

I was new to a transitioning Washington, D.C. neighborhood when I adopted two rescue puppies in 2015; Tennessee Williams and Hudson River are their formal names. They found a home with me in my urban oasis, a quiet enclave in the District, lined with row houses. And together, we dove into our new community, paws first.
The area was once called Swampoodle — a reminder of the days, in the late 1800s, of a swampy D.C. when the Tiber Creek, now long dried out and buried, used to flood, leaving puddles in its wake.
The neighborhood is now Greater NoMa (North of Massachusetts Avenue) and Swampoodle is the name of our first, and currently, only community park — one part kid park, one part dog park and one part community gathering space. It took more than three years to get that little park, all 8,000 square feet of it, to become a reality.
Swampoodle Park, which was made possible by the NoMa Parks Foundation, an arm of the NoMa BID (Business Improvement District), is part of a vibrant transformation taking place in a neighborhood that spent more than five decades in turmoil after the 1968 assassination of Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr. The changes taking place here are punctuated by the neighborhood's commitment to embracing diversity.
We lobbied for our cause, showing up at every community meeting armed with facts to combat the small, but vocal opposition to a neighborhood dog park.
I'm a bit of an anomaly in my neighborhood — a 53-year old, divorced white woman, born and raised in Manhattan. I live in a world of transplanted millennials, hipsters with young children, aging African-Americans and, with Gallaudet University as a neighbor, a large deaf and hearing-impaired population.
The divisions are physical, too. Above-ground tracks run right through the center of NoMa, bringing in Amtrak and Metro, as well as regional rail. The west side of the tracks looks like Midtown Manhattan with its crisp, new high rises along with NPR, CNN and myriad federal offices. The east side of the tracks has a Brooklyn feel, with colorful row houses dating back to the turn of the century.
Building a Community
2015 was the beginning of the era I affectionately dubbed "The Sandlot Days." That's when seemingly overnight, a locked, fully fenced 60,000-square-feet-plus eyesore of a lot, was miraculously unlocked.
Officially, it was nothing but a plot of land, riddled with city detritus, more dirt than grass or weeds. We were hungry for community and we made it into a gathering space. Hundreds of us "entered at our own risk," vigilantes in it together. We were from all over, even the dogs (including one from Kazakhstan) — with varied geographic histories, backgrounds, educations, ages, races and religions.
But our differences made no difference.
We poured in from each side of the tracks, before work and in the middle of the day, and especially after work — even after dark, during the short, cold days of winter. There were no lights, yet there was an endless stream of people and dogs.
"We all knew we were breaking the law, but we also knew we were desperate for some green space for ourselves and our dogs," says Salim Bhabhrawala, 43, who had lived in NoMa for 12 years before the great unlocking event of 2015.
"My dog Watson and I snuck in there at least twice a week. [Then], week by week, more and more dogs joined in, and organically over time, we had a community … It became 'a thing.' [I] forged lifelong human and canine friends in that old chunk of land," says Bhabhrawala, who is from East Lansing, Mich. He referred to the park community as the "Great NoMa Canine Rebellion."
"I used to call [it] the 'guerrilla park,'" says Lindsay Zoeller, 36.  From Louisville, Ky., Zoeller says she and her husband used their five-year-old dog, Penny, as "our excuse to go and hang out with people, meet our neighbors, socialize. Everyone was there, even people who didn't have dogs would go just to hang out."
It was a "melting pot as far as demographics," recalls DeVonne Mosby, 57, a twice-daily visitor with his Rottweiler puppy, Axel, now four. Mosby has since sold his row house and moved to nearby Riverdale, Md. We became friends because our dogs became friends.
"In the beginning, the sole purpose was to get the dog out for a little exercise," recalls Mosby. "But it eventually became a social outlet for [me]," says the Pittsburgh native who had lived in Greater NoMa, dog-free, for 13 years.
In the warmer months, people would come to the sandlot with dogs in tow, pulling coolers filled with beer and wagons filled with wine, to share with anyone who wanted to join in. We used old, abandoned and rusting barrels as a makeshift bar. And while our dogs romped, the humans connected.
Recent college grads could be seen chatting it up with Washington Post columnists; older residents raised in the neighborhood could be found debating politics with Capitol Hill staffers. There were engagements and weddings celebrated, babies born, new puppies adopted.
"There was a feeling of togetherness with the lot," says Mosby.
'It Was the Start of Something'

We all knew, however, that we were living on borrowed time, that the field was now worth millions and ripe for development.
"So maybe that's what drove us to become a tighter knit group," says Mosby.
Fearing the inevitable, we worried about where our dogs would play in the future. The closest dog park was 35 minutes away on foot. "Everyone was committed to 'going down with the ship' and maybe hoping for a miracle," says Mosby.
We organized park clean-ups to show whomever might be watching that we were dedicated to bettering our community. We moved abandoned poop-bag stands into the sandlot and covered fence holes with chicken wire. And, as our dogs roamed the dirt field — a patchwork of thick, messy puddles in the spring, or frozen skating rinks in the winter — we worked informally on a plan for a real dog park.
"I didn't want to lose that sense of connection with my neighbors, neighborhood and community," says Zoeller. "D.C. is such a transient city, it's easy to live here and never know anyone … to live here and not be a part of the city."
I introduced myself to hundreds of people, collecting human and dog names which I typed into my phone. Another dog mom, a 60-something with a schnauzer named Mickey, brought pens and clipboards lined with paper for people to jot down their names. In less than a month, we collected a list that overflowed with the names of more than 450 dogs who used the park at least once a week.
A 40-something lobbyist for NBC Universal with a cockapoo named Charlie posted an online petition for a park and we invited our city councilman to hear about the community we had built, to listen to what we wanted.
"The moment that Councilman Allen stood [before more than 100 of] us on that lot in October 2015 and acknowledged that he would address our needs, we knew we had succeeded," says Bhabhrawala. "It was the start of something."
We lobbied for our cause, showing up at every community meeting armed with facts to combat the small, but vocal opposition to a neighborhood dog park. That only made us work harder.
Building a Real Park
At the time, dog parks were fast becoming the hottest thing in city parks. According to an April 2015 report, "2015 City Park Facts," published by the Trust for Public Land, the number of off-leash dog parks increased 20% between 2010 and 2015. Other reports documented the benefits to dogs, that "dog parks make for better dogs." According to the American Kennel Club (AKC), "Well-exercised dogs are better neighbors who are less likely to create a nuisance, bark excessively, and destroy property."
Even more powerful was the AKC's research that showed exactly what we'd found at the sandlot: "The love people share for their dogs reaches beyond economic and social barriers and helps foster a sense of community."
And that's why I did it. For community.
And that's why, a year after going to the park twice a day, when the people with hardhats started lurking, and eventually a new lock barred the gates, and my dogs looked at me, waiting for me pull open the latch and let them in so they could play with their friends — that's why I pushed even harder for a community park.
"Apparently, we were relentless," says Zoeller who, nearly four years later, in our new park, which opened in November 2018, loves to listen in on conversations about the "sandlot days."
Zoeller calls it the "bougiest dog park in the city," and it kind of is, with its underground sprinklers and automatic gate locks, a dog-play structure and no mud puddles to speak of.
It's not the sandlot, but it's a community park that continues to bring our diverse community together.


The Joys of My Hipster Dog Park

Cari Shane

Former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright, speaking at the National Press Club in 2018, quoted Robert Frost, "The older I get, the younger are my teachers." 
Maybe Madeleine and I have the same teachers. Dealing with COVID-19, and the results of the systemic racial disparities in our country, while watching our nation teetering on a tightrope between democracy and authoritarianism, it would be easy for me to slip into a feeling of despair that nothing will be right again.
But here's where I luck out. I live in an elegant, slightly quirky, 80-year-old inner-city apartment complex in Minneapolis, made up of mostly young tenants, many of them recent college graduates. 
A lot of them are deeply in debt for their education and work multiple jobs, including maintenance and cleaning in our complex.
I've come to know most of these "youngsters," and while my first impulse was to share all 66 years of my life experiences and advice with them, I've quickly learned that they offer me much more wisdom if I just shut up and listen.
For example: I've learned that those with the least to give, give the most. During the protests over the murder of George Floyd, I watched as they formed groups to keep tabs on what was happening in our neighborhood, stood watch through the night and then went out in the morning to help clean up the streets that were at the epicenter of the looting. 
For example: I've learned that those with the least to give, give the most. 
They continued to demonstrate their commitment to humanity throughout the summer by cooking and delivering much needed meals to the homeless encampments that sprung up in our parks as a result of the economic disaster that unfolded because of COVID-19. 
I've learned that a portfolio of investments means nothing to most of these young adults, but making enough tips from a waitressing job to help pay for food for someone else is an investment of inestimable worth.
I've watched them collect clothes, diapers and hygiene products to give away in the neighborhood. I'm lucky because my portfolio allows me to invest a little cash in their good work, which is a win-win for all of us.
I've learned that as disheartened as the news makes me some days, if I just go outside into our apartment courtyard and hang out for a while, I'm sure to feel a little better. Everyone was out there on the fine summer days, tending a garden plot or practicing the violin or working on a drawing. 
Their generosity of spirit and willingness to accept people of every age, creed, color or sexual identity gives me hope that despite the ugliness I see on all the news outlets, there is a spirit in the young that won't be broken by our fears, our prejudices or our acquired bad behaviors.
I've learned that I have nothing to teach them and every reason to follow their lead.


Still Learning After All These Years

Barbara Snow

The first time I came face to face with a wildfire was a few months after I moved to California. I was driving on Interstate 80 between San Francisco and Lake Tahoe when traffic came to a standstill because of the smoke.
The Washburn Fire burning in Yosemite National Park, Calif., Thursday, July 7, 2022. I watched as flames jumped from the north side of the highway across four lanes to burn grass in the median, then quickly across the other four lanes to the south side of the road and continued to burn across a nearby field.
It was a grass fire, much smaller than most forest fires, but its speed was memorable. The whole event took less than a minute.
Wildfires Everywhere
California offers prime examples of wildfires and prevention, but the state is not unique. The last few years have seen significant wildfires in Oregon, Washington, Montana, Arizona, New Mexico, Florida and Minnesota. In 2022, more than 66,000 wildfires in the U.S. burned more than 7.5 million acres.
"Fire causes have a human factor."
In the same year, fires in one region of France burned 51,000 acres and displaced more than 36,000 people. Australia lost 46 million acres to fires in its 2019-2020 fire season. In the first half of this year, more than 2,000 wildfires in Canada have reduced 14.7 million acres to ashes.
It's not unusual to see fires near highways. A spark from a vehicle or a discarded cigarette can ignite dry vegetation.
"Fire causes have a human factor," Robert Carvalho told me. He is Battalion Chief-Communications for CalFire, the fire agency for the state of California.
There are very few arrests for arson, Carvalho said. Causes are more likely to be accidental — a "campfire out of control, faulty equipment, mowing the weeds when it's starting to get hot."
Lightning can start fires but it rarely does, said David Carle, 72, a retired California state park ranger and the author of 15 nonfiction books, including "Introduction to Fire in California."
"Lightning strike occurrences are statistically rare in the central and coastal sections of the state, but as the year 2020 lightning siege showed, lightning does not always adhere to statistical norms."
Rain Is a Blessing and a Curse
This past winter was one of the wettest on record in California, with more than 145% of average rainfall. All that water may, ironically, lead to an active fire year, Carle said. "Wet conditions temporarily reduce the threat of wildfire, and also promote vegetation growth (future fuel)," he said.
Robert CarvalhoCarvalho said that in a rainy year, once the new growth and old growth start to burn, "you're getting twice as much heat." He cited 2017 as an example. After "significant rain" spurred vegetation growth early in the year, strong winds spread fire through the abundant fuel and more than 1.5 million acres burned.
Working in a newsroom in fire country, I quickly learned fire terminology for reporting the breadth of damage (acres, not square miles) and air quality (six categories of severity). More than anything, I developed a healthy respect for wildfire.
Inferno in Paradise
In the first hours of the now-famous Camp Fire in Paradise, California, in November 2018, one of our reporters texted from his vantage point. "This could be a big one," he said. He was correct. It is the deadliest fire in California history, killing 84 people, and the state's most destructive, charring 153,336 acres, destroying 18,000 structures and causing $16.5 billion in property damage.
The Camp Fire was a reminder of significant fire hazards. First, the remote town was built on a slope in the Sierra Foothills. Flames love to move uphill.
The second was accessibility. Paradise, like many other towns in the hills and mountains, had one main road. It's an evacuation hazard known as "one road in, one road out."
"Everybody knows the same way to go out," CalFire's Carvalho said. "That causes a traffic jam.
"What happens for us? Fire engines can't get in."
"About three-quarters of those who died in the Camp Fire were over the age of 65."
Another factor in the high death toll was the age of the residents of Paradise, as documented in collaborative reporting by KQED, CalMatters and CapRadio.
"About three-quarters of those who died in the Camp Fire were over the age of 65," the media outlets reported. "Same with the fires that ravaged Sonoma and Napa the year before. . . . Across the state, about 2 million people aged 65 and older live in areas where wildfire is a serious threat."
The Los Angeles Times reported that 25% of Paradise residents had a disability. Many who died lived in mobile or manufactured homes.
Another Megafire
Three years after Paradise, the Caldor Fire, which started about 70 miles east of Sacramento, burned 221,000 acres and forced the evacuation of vacationers and residents in the Lake Tahoe region and Sierra Nevada foothills. The fire was active for than two months. There were no human deaths.
David CarleI visited a community center that housed evacuees during the Caldor Fire. People pulled into the parking lot with whatever they could toss in the car, including pets and some valuables. A hollow look in their eyes told me how close they had come to the blaze.
"There's no such thing as a fire season," Robert Carvalho told me. "It's a fire year."
Wildfires can happen at any time of year and firefighting is a 12-month job. Between blazes, crews are actively involved in training and maintaining equipment as well as rehabilitating fire-scarred areas.
Fire crews are experts at putting out blazes, but they cannot control wind direction or speed, meaning that any community can experience smoke damage.
Respiratory Distress
This year, Canadian fires shared smoke with the northeast and Midwest parts of the U.S. In addition to darkening the sky, wildfire smoke is hazardous to people that the Air Quality Index refers to as "sensitive groups." People who have respiratory diseases, are pregnant or are in young and older age groups are at risk.
Thick air from wildfires is filled with particulate matter, microscopic pieces of whatever has burned — trees, buildings, etc. — combined with water vapor. Think of it as wet, burnt sawdust.
Short-term exposure, defined by the Environmental Protection Agency as a few days, causes coughing, watery eyes and bronchitis. It also can aggravate lung diseases and contribute to heart failure and stroke. Prolonged exposure or excessively high particulate matter can reduce lung function.
How to Deal with Smoke
The Centers for Disease Control offers tips on how to deal with wildfire smoke:
Check the severity of particulate matter. The CDC recommends the Air Quality Index page and the Fire and Smoke Map on the Air Now website, a partnership of the CDC, EPA, NASA, National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, National Park Service and tribal, state and local air quality agencies.Stay inside. Keep indoor air as clean as possible. If using air conditioning or fans, circulate indoor air.Avoid activities that increase indoor pollution, including smoking.Dust masks are better than nothing, but they are not efficient for ash or large particles.CalFire offers a website to help people in fire-prone areas to prepare for blazes that may threaten them or their property.
Since firefighting teams are dispatched to other states and sometimes other countries to assist in containing large fires, I asked CalFire's Carvalho if there are enough firefighters in California for the coming fire season.
"I feel like we never have enough," he said.
Why Do Wildfires Have Names?
In the U.S., there is a protocol for naming wildfires. The first firefighters on the scene look for a landmark that identifies their location so additional crews can join them. That becomes the working name for the fire. For example, the Camp Fire was not caused by campers. It started near Camp Creek Road.


It’s Fire Season ... Still

Donna Apidone

"I hope you're right about this," said my husband, Floren, hands gripping the steering wheel as we wove through traffic in Badajoz, Spain, our final stop before crossing into the Alentejo, Portugal's most rural and least populated region.
For more than a decade, we'd been taking side trips from our annual visit to Spain, and I'd spend weeks planning each itinerary. But we'd been so busy prior to our departure that all I'd come up with was a broad-strokes outline: a couple cities whose scenic medieval castles were large enough to be viewed on Google Maps, and could be easily accessed from Route N246, a main road near the Spain-Portugal border.
The view from Marvao CastleI shifted in my seat. Had I doomed this trip from the get-go?
Within twenty minutes, traffic all but disappeared. The landscape unfolded onto green plains punctuated by the occasional farmstead or olive grove. Cattle grazed, and hawks circled overhead, scouting for snacks. I rolled down my window, inhaled the scent of earth and hay, and felt my shoulders relax away from my ears.
Exploring Elvas
Shortly after, a castle materialized on a hillside, squatting above a walled city. We'd arrived in Elvas, a UNESCO World Heritage site that boasts a pair of Renaissance fortresses and the 16th century Amoreira Aqueduct, a 5-mile stretch of arches along the eastern edge of the city.
We spent the afternoon admiring the city's historic architecture and poking our heads into shops and cafes, in search of local specialties like sericaia, a custardy cake topped with preserved plums. 
Once our bags had been deposited at Hotel São João De Deus, a 56-room, converted 17th century convent, we set out on foot. Our first stop: the Praça da República, Elvas's main square, home to a compact Gothic church that looks out over a mosaic-paved plaza. At a little after three p.m. — typical lunchtime in Spain but late for Portugal — it was mostly empty, as were most of the nearby restaurants.
Based on its modern-meets-vintage aesthetic and large menu of small plates, we chose Mercato, where a college-age server, brunette curls escaping her ponytail, suggested different dishes: codfish croquettes, cream of carrot soup with chopped boiled egg, and clams steamed in olive oil and white wine. We dug in, listening to a pair of gray-haired men in tweed caps debate soccer with the cook.
We spent the afternoon admiring the city's historic architecture and poking our heads into shops and cafes, in search of local specialties like sericaia, a custardy cake topped with preserved plums. Around one corner, a wizened woman in a housedress and cardigan sat on a wooden chair, shucking peas and watching a group of small boys tossing a broken cassette tape — an exotic relic from another age — back and forth. Under a balcony hung with a patchwork quilt, a young man in a T-shirt and jeans leaned against a doorway, cigarette dangling from the corner of his lips.
The wind had picked up, and I tugged my jacket around me as we walked the star-shaped perimeter of fort Nossa Senhora de Graça. Every overlook felt like a view into an eternity of rolling farmland, holm oak and lemon groves, and yucca plants with a central spire taller than me.
As the sun slipped down the sky, we took a seat outdoors at Acontece, a busy restaurant fashioned out of a vintage 1950s service station. We sipped white sangria with tropical fruits and snacked on a salad of fresh tuna atop aioli-coated potatoes, taking our time, savoring the flavors and lively atmosphere.  
Back at the hotel, I threw open the windows to the garden patio below and fell asleep to the soundtrack of rain rattling the long-leaved palms, their dried yellow tips rapping against the glass.
Amoreira Aqueduct in Elvas, PortugalA Town Called 'Hope' 
In the morning, we drove through a number of small towns named after saints and decked out in azulejos, tin-glazed decorative tiles that have been made in the region since the thirteenth century. Panning around on Google Maps, I announced, "Let's stop in Esperança," for no better reason than that I liked the idea of a town called "hope."
The sleepy façade of Esperança, with its neat, low-slung white buildings trimmed in bright shades like azure, butter and magenta, concealed an unexpected treasure: the entrance to a 9-mile walking trail through the Sierra São Mamede Nature Park. Named for the largest mountain range south of the Tagus River, the park has several distinct microclimates that have given rise to cork oak forests and scrubby habitat for the rare Bonelli's eagle.
The trail's points of interest also include former frontier outposts, a wine cellar and rock paintings that date to the Neolithic. We paused at the latter, transfixed by human figures and geometric shapes rendered in red, orange and black ochre faded from millennia of sun exposure, but still a powerful testament to humankind's desire to make its mark.
Breath caught in my throat, I stared out over the forested slopes and swooping valleys 
We turned onto route M517 and into Mosteiros, a tiny northern municipality of less than 500 people along a tributary of the Caia River. Along the iron-fenced river walk, we walked apace a female swan and her cygnets, who squawked out a dialogue while paddling around the water's perimeter.
Heeding the call of my grumbling stomach, I shaded my eyes against the sun and looked for restaurant signs. "There," I said, pointing to a terrace with umbrella-shaded tables. "That's where we'll have lunch."
Floren shrugged — Why not? had become the theme of our trip—and we sat down to lunch in Sede F.C. Mosteirense, the headquarters of the local soccer club. Our server placed a bowl of fresh green olives and glasses of ice water on the table and left us to peruse a menu packed with regional fare like fried cuttlefish served with paprika-laced dipping sauce.
Sated, we continued north, past crumbling homesteads with quince trees growing up through their roofs. An old, rickety green car trundled past, the suntanned arm of its driver waving to us. Out the passenger's window, I made eye contact with an enormous, unblinking white bull who observed us from a hillside pasture, lower jaw working a mouthful of cud.
The Breathtaking View in Alegrete
The car wheezed uphill, toward Alegrete, a town carved into the side of a mountain. "Should we —," Floren began.
"Yes," I answered, without hesitation.
Alegrete CastleThe only tourists in town, we walked the diminutive main square and up a steep street, toward Alegrete Castle, a Moorish fort conquered by King Alfonso I in 1148, and used to surveille a medieval trading road. Although its keep and part of its outer walls are all that's left, it's somehow more picturesque in ruin. Breath caught in my throat, I stared out over the forested slopes and swooping valleys, the only sound the distant ringing of a cowbell and the call-response bleating of sheep and goats.  
Back in the car, at a sign for a waterfall, we detoured onto a bumpy dirt road clustered with prickly pear, their mittenlike branches blooming with fruit that glowed flame orange in the late-afternoon sun. We took a quick half-mile walk downslope, past a large praying mantis that paused sunbathing long enough to put up its dukes. In the distance, the São Julião cascade flowed in a narrow stream between rocks and trees. We paused, listening to the trickle of the water and the breeze that played the tree leaves like tambourines.
Keeping a Lazy Pace 
In less than 20 minutes, we reached Marvão, the highest spot in the Alentejo. Located at a vertiginous 2,700 feet, it was first settled in the prehistoric era, then fell to the Romans and later to Arabic conquerors. Their legacies are still felt in the Roman ruins of Ammaia, founded in the first century BC in the river valley, and in Marvão Castle, built during the Islamic Umayyad dynasty.
Elvas, PortugalThe latter is spectacularly preserved, even among European conservation standards, its blocky garrisons and curving towers as sturdy as the day they were erected. We walked its walls, which seemed to stretch for miles, over a tumbling landscape of hills, valleys and forests. I closed my eyes, the weight of the past — and all that's lost and gained as empires rise and fall — settling around my shoulders like a mantle.
We wound through the tidy cobblestone streets of downtown Marvão, where tile-roofed houses were adorned with clay pots bursting with flowers and herbs. Pat Benatar's "Love Is a Battlefield" blasted from the open door of a bar, an incongruous reminder of the modern stewards of this ancient city. In a tiny bakery, we sampled sweets made from chestnuts. At a craft shop, we admired carved wood bowls and figurines. Each stop punctuated the lazy pace of the day with a new delight.
As twilight shrouded the landscape in pinks and violets, we sat down to a meal at Varanda, an old school European restaurant with lovely views over the rooftops. We ate in companionable silence, absorbing the impact of the unexpected treasures we'd unearthed simply by slowing down and letting go of the idea of seeing "everything."  


In Portugal, Uncharting the Course

Robin Catalano

Flaco, the Eurasian eagle owl, escaped the Central Park Zoo when a vandal apparently cut a hole in his steel mesh cage in February 2023; he went on to live freely for a full year, soaring high in New York City. He had been at the zoo for 12 years, his entire life.
Flaco roosting in a Central Park treeFlaco passed away on February 23 of this year on the Upper West Side — the neighborhood where he'd been seen and heard hooting on top of water towers and apartment balconies in recent months. He was discovered lying injured in an apartment building courtyard. Rescuers from the Wild Bird Fund, located just blocks away, quickly attended to him but Flaco didn't make it.
"It's been an emotional experience for everyone at the clinic." 
"It's been an emotional experience for everyone at the clinic," says Catherine Quayle, communications director of the Wild Bird Fund.
The cause of Flaco's exact death is still pending. "The Wildlife Conservation Society is performing the necropsy, and we don't know how long the results will take," says Quayle.
Flaco captured the hearts of so many people around the world — and continues to do so.
Flaco also deeply touched my heart. I'd visited him often at one of "his" trees, beginning when he was scouting Central Park soon after his escape. My favorite spot to visit Flaco was when he'd begun to hang out in a tree near the waterfall in Central Park's North Woods.
"The odds were against Flaco," says Quayle. "In his many years in captivity, Flaco had never flown or hunted, and was loose in a city of glass walls, cars and other raptors with far more street smarts. He didn't eat anything for almost two weeks, and then one day he caught a rat. The joy and relief among the Flaco watchers was immense. Flaco knew how to hunt."
From then on, the owl seemed to thrive, says Quayle. "He found his niche, and he made his unusual situation work for a whole year. This is a story that all New Yorkers and, really, people everywhere, can relate to. It's inspiring."
And she adds, "He was also an extremely handsome fellow. The camera loved him."
Why Flaco Was So Loved 
A beloved pet is a family member and a best friend. When they pass away, the grief can be profound.
I was one of them who would visit when I needed a Flaco fix. And I always left feeling lighter and better after an encounter with this sweet soulful owl.
In many ways, although he was living in the wild, Flaco had become everyone's favorite pet. He was a best friend and a buddy and it felt like he had your back unconditionally. Flaco had visitors coming to him on days when they needed a Flaco wink or stare with those piercing golden eyes or a cute shake of his tufted ears.
I know this, because I was one of them who would visit when I needed a Flaco fix. And I always left feeling lighter and better after an encounter with this sweet soulful owl. He just made life better.
And at night, especially in recent months when Flaco had taken up residency on Upper West Side apartment balconies and water towers, it was comforting and exciting for neighbors to hear him hoot. He also enthralled and surprised unsuspecting residents with a peek inside their window. He was clever and fun.
For the most part during his Manhattan life, post zoo, Flaco made the trees in Central Park his home, especially fond of a couple that he'd return to nightly after his fly out — with his enormous six-foot wingspan like a New York Knicks player — to hunt for rats (and there was certainly no supply issues.)
"When I last saw him a week before his death, he looked as healthy and strong as ever, hooting from atop his favorite water tower and buildings on 86th Street."
Flaco's daily whereabouts were documented on X (formerly known as Twitter) by those who had spotted him on a morning run or on their way to work and by David Barrett, owner of popular Manhattan Bird Alert, who had amassed a huge following, thanks to his daily tweets about Flaco's hoots, or which tree Flaco was in that day, and smart insight into Flaco's behavior, like an owl whisperer.
"I am alright, but missing the beautiful creature whom I visited nearly every day when he was free in Central Park and with whom I often connected at night during his months on the Upper West Side," says Barrett. "When I last saw him a week before his death, he looked as healthy and strong as ever, hooting from atop his favorite water tower and buildings on 86th Street."
Flaco's story is one of triumph against the odds, says Barrett. "He amazed everyone by quickly adapting to life in the wild, learning to hunt and to fly skillfully. By thriving as a free owl after twelve years in a tiny enclosure, Flaco came to symbolize freedom and resilience."
A memorial for Flaco in Central ParkBarrett says there are several Flaco memories that will make him smile in the days and years to come. "Flaco's curiosity about the world around him was charming," says Barrett. "He typically chose daily resting places in Central Park that allowed him to view human activity. He was comfortable with quiet people nearby, enough so to show us his owl behaviors: stretching, scratching, preening, hooting and sleeping. He took us on adventures in Central Park, and then when he wanted to explore new territory, across all Manhattan. He made the most of his year of freedom."
Remembering Flaco 
There is a memorial for Flaco in Central Park beneath one of his favorite oak trees at East Drive and 104th Street — hundreds of flowers and notes and artwork and photos hug the tree. And the outpouring of love on social media has been staggering and continues.
"By thriving as a free owl after twelve years in a tiny enclosure, Flaco came to symbolize freedom and resilience."
There are also efforts to erect a permanent statue in Central Park. Thousands have already signed a petition. "I think the ultimate goal is to have a sufficient number of signatures to encourage the New York City Council to recommend commissioning a Flaco statue," says Barrett.
And the Wild Bird Fund has been receiving donations from all over the country, and overseas, following Flaco's death. "We're truly touched by this outpouring of generosity. It will help many other birds who've fallen on hard times in the city," says Quayle. 
Also, a Central Park memorial service was scheduled for Sunday, March 3 in the afternoon at Flaco's oak tree.
Spring Migration 
It's spring migration time soon, a challenging time for birds who try to navigate through the city.
"The city's lights are a beacon, drawing large numbers of migrating birds into the streets and parks," says Quayle. "Although we have lots of rich habitat for these visitors, much of this habitat is surrounded by walls of glass, which birds can't see or understand. They only see the sky or the trees reflected in the glass. This is why there are so many collisions here."
But, she says, it's important to note that this is not a skyscraper problem. "Most collisions occur at or below the treeline," says Quayle. "If the skyscrapers contribute, it's because of the bright light they emit, attracting birds to hazardous areas. Many of the newer skyscrapers also have floor-to-ceiling windows at the treeline. This is a deadly combination. Reducing the lights at night, and marking those lower-level windows to make them visible to birds, would greatly reduce window collisions."
Flaco, a Eurasian eagle-owl, with a trap zoo staff set out for it, April 2023Quayle says the Wild Bird Fund would like to see many more building owners take the initiative to make the necessary critical changes.
"The other component is light," says Quayle. "We need a solid lights-out program that will substantially reduce nighttime light during spring and fall migration. A bill addressing this issue will be reintroduced in the city council this year, and we hope to see it succeed."
And Flaco will continue to affect change. There is a bill being renamed for Flaco to address the building and window collisions.
Note: It is not believed that Flaco died from a building collision. The thinking is that he died from poison, and most likely falling off a railing as a result of being ill.
Birthday Boy 
Flaco would have turned 14 on March 15 this year (he was born in North Carolina and then brought to the Central Park Zoo when he was months old.) Surely, there will be a birthday tribute in Central Park. As much love and comfort as Flaco brought to so many, I hope he knew how loved he was and that he will always be celebrated. He is really missed.


Spreading Wings of Love for Flaco

Laurie Bain Wilson

Jeff Bentoff is just one person among two million Americans who started birding during the pandemic. It began with Facebook. The Milwaukee, Wisconsin, resident began to notice photographs popping up of colorful birds taken by friends and neighbors.
Bonaventure Island is home to one of the world's largest colonies of northern gannets. Tens of thousands of the dark gray juveniles and mature white adults migrate to the island every year."I realized that there were all of these amazing, colorful birds all around me ... I didn't know they were here, so it really piqued my interest. It made me wonder what am I missing," Bentoff said.
"I want to know what's happening around me in the natural environment. To me, that's really exciting."
Bentoff bought himself a pair of binoculars and decided to join a neighbor on a jaunt to their neighborhood park. A black-throated gray warbler, unusual in the area, had been spotted, and news had spread through the local birders' network. Bentoff knew they were hot on the warbler's trail when they came upon a gathering of people, including several photographers poised with their signature long lenses.
Since then, Bentoff has invested in a camera specifically for birding, downloaded several helpful apps (like the Merlin app that will identify a bird based on a bird call), and connected with several walking groups for birders. 
He compares birding to learning a language or a musical instrument. His goal is to gain more knowledge through practice.
"I want to know what's happening around me in the natural environment. To me, that's really exciting," Bentoff said.
With travel back in full swing, birders like Bentoff have taken to the skies. If considering a birding trip of your own — or visiting a special spot where you can enjoy a variety of activities including birding — the following four destinations are certain to spark your interest.
The Gaspé Peninsula, Quebec 
Those who love the energy of a crowd — of birds, that is — will love the Gaspé Peninsula's Bonaventure Island. One of the largest colonies of northern gannets in the world resides on this uninhabited isle during the summer months. 
Begin your adventure at Percé wharf where you can pick up a ferry to the island. First, however, the captain will encircle another of the area's draws, Percé Rock. Measuring nearly five football fields in length, the rock is an iconic monolith. It rises out of the Gulf of St. Lawrence, just offshore from the charming village of Percé. The ferry ride will give you a chance to see this natural work of art up close and personal.
Next, it is on to nearby Bonaventure Island and a zoomed-out look at the northern gannets. Appearing cigar-shaped in flight, the birds have a long pointy beak on one end and jagged tail on the other. Their pearly white plumage starkly contrasts with the crisp blue of the Northern Atlantic sky and sea as well as the clay-colored cliffs where they nest. 
Their cream-colored heads and blue eyes come into focus, while at the same time, their multitude blends into an alabaster blur.
The ferry ride is a great opportunity to see the birds in action. Starting as high as 100 feet, they circle the waters looking for prey and then divebomb the water at a high rate of speed.  
After arriving at the dock, take the 3.5-mile colony trail for a look at the northern gannet outpost. You will know that you are close when you hear a cacophony of cawing birds. The wooded trail empties out into a wide-open area on the edge of the island, and it is here that tens of thousands of northern gannets nest. 
They are as captivating to watch on land as they are in the air. Their cream-colored heads and blue eyes come into focus, while at the same time, their multitude blends into an alabaster blur. And as entertaining as their fishing technique, the birds engage in what looks like a sort of sword dance, mated pairs facing each other and scraping the edges of their long bills back and forth.
Percé is located just south of the Gaspé Peninsula's tip, an eight-hour drive from Quebec City. If that seems like a long trek, know that the scenery on the way up the peninsula is as lovely as the birds.
Gulf Shores, Alabama 
Alabama's Gulf Coast is the place to set your eyes on a myriad of species rather than a single colony. (Although you do stand a good chance of seeing northern gannets in Gulf Shores during the northern hemisphere's winter months.) To help pinpoint areas ripe for birders, The Alabama Coastal Birding Trail offers six loops of over 200 miles.
In fact, over 170 species of birds winter along the 53 miles of Alabama coastline, according to the Alabama Ornithological Society. Many others pass through the region as they travel the Mississippi Flyway. 
In the spring, the beaches are a good spot to view permanent residents who nest on its sandy shores. This includes snowy plovers, least terns, black skimmers, American oystercatchers and Wilson's plovers.
You may also want to try your luck watching an aviary phenomenon in action on Dauphin Island, aptly named "America's Birdiest City" for three consecutive years by the National Audubon Society. The barrier island is a short ferry ride from the western tip of the Gulf Shores peninsula. 
A brown pelican comes in for a landing at Gulf ShoresCalled a "fallout," birds, like indigo bunting, fall from the sky following a particularly arduous journey from Mexico across the gulf. Adverse weather conditions require great effort from the birds to the point that they fall out of the sky from pure exhaustion.
However, it is the shorebirds that most enthrall Alabama's visitors. To really get a good vantage point of Alabama's finest in their natural habitats, get off the well-trodden birders' path and kayak the waterways instead. 
Wild Native Tours offers half-day kayak trips through Oyster Bay, the Intracoastal Waterway and Bon Secour Bay and River. Not only will you see brown pelicans, blue herons, great egrets, cormorants, ospreys and belted kingfishers, you will learn about their habits and other fun facts from owner and guide Kristian Aboud. In addition to the birds, you also stand a good chance of kayaking alongside a pod of dolphins.
Pinnacles National Park in Central California 
Pinnacles National Park sits quietly in the shadows of Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks (145 miles west) and Yosemite National Park (130 miles northwest). All the better for the California Condor that frequents its canyons and the tourists who don't need to fight the crowds when coming to see them.
California condors are the largest land birds in North America with a wingspan of more than nine feet and a weight typically reaching 20 pounds. Their longevity is hefty, too; California condors, an endangered species, live over 60 years. Seeing them in their natural environment is a treat, and Pinnacles offers one of your best bets for doing so.
California condors are the largest land birds in North America with a wingspan of more than nine feet and a weight typically reaching 20 pounds.
If you don't mind a bit of an adventure, getting to Pinnacles is fun, too. The park has two entrances, neither road connected to the other. To reach the western entrance requires a seven-mile drive down a remote, winding road that narrows to one lane. To reach the Visitors' Center or campground, enter from the east. 
Each side of the park offers a hiking trail that will take you past the spires that Pinnacles is named for and to a group of talus caves, one of its finest features (aside from the California condor). Hiking through the caves is a bit like hiking through slot canyons: dark, extremely narrow with some mild climbing required. The caves have formed over time as boulders have fallen from cliffs forming a giant pile of rubble.
If you take the western route out of the park following a day of hiking and searching for California condors, consider a stop at Chalone Wineries for a rest and a glass of their signature Chardonnay while sitting amidst the stark beauty of the Gabilan Mountains. The drive is mere minutes from the park's boundary.
Costa Rica's Oca Peninsula 
A toucan perches on a branch at Corcovado National Park in Costa Rica's Osa PeninsulaIn the southwestern corner of Costa Rica lies the remote Osa Peninsula, once an island in the Pacific. A mere 700 square miles, it houses 2.5% of the world's biodiversity including over 460 species of birds. An array of 16 species of hummingbirds are among them.
However, the scarlet macaw is, by far, the peninsula's biggest showstopper. In fact, the Osa Peninsula is the site of Central America's largest population of this colorful bird. Their loud, distinctive crooning often alerts visitors to their presence long before their bright ruby red feathers come into view. In addition to their namesake color, they also boast canary yellow and bright blue on their wings. 
The bird's size gives them away as well. The largest parrots in the world, the scarlet macaw can measure up to 33 inches from beak to tail. In addition to scarlet macaws, guests stand a good chance of catching sight of cotingas, pelicans, cormorants, boobies, antbirds, Amazon parrots and toucans. 
A great place for a guided hike is Corcovado National Park. Keeping an ear tipped to the treetops, the guides quickly throw down their tripods equipped with high-resolution magnifying lenses when they spot a bird of interest. 
In addition to the birds, you will likely see two and three-toed sloths and spider, capuchin, titi and howler monkeys. Be sure to adjust your gaze to ground level from time to time. You stand a good chance of seeing tapirs, wild peccaries, coati and more.


Flock to These 4 Feather-Friendly Destinations

Jenny Wisniewski

The Retirement Gap is a real-life problem. Learn how to prepare for whatever retirement may look like for you.

Growing a business means managing change. Read how entrepreneurs like you have done just that and found resources to succeed.

Nationwide workshops and festivals offer community for aging artists

There is power in talking openly about mental health and mental illness. Featuring expert insight and personal stories, find support and resources on how to challenge stigma and rethink mental health as we age.

Perceptions on Wealth in Retirement

Navigating Change

Art + Aging in Community

Talking About It: Aging and Mental Health