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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Survival / Success
- Subject: Aging / Maturity
- Published: 03/26/2025
Marking Boundaries
Born 1947, M, from Colorado Springs, CO, United States.jpeg)
“As we grow old, we become more foolish, and more wise.”
-Rochefoucauld -
It was 2 PM; “Coffee Time” for Fred Nemo and his wife Catherine. Both sort of retired, coffee time was part of their daily routine, except when Fred was transporting passengers for Cabz, a ride share operation, or Catherine was late coming home from helping run the local Soup Kitchen a couple of days each week.
But most days, Fred grabbed their favorite espresso blend, filled that handle thingy you put the coffee into (he never knew what to call it), placed two espresso cups under the nozzles and dispensed the steaming brew. He then frothed two larger cups of 1% milk, added the coffee and sprinkled in cinnamon for him and cocoa powder for Catherine. They grabbed a couple of chocolate chip cookies and sat at the table that offered a view of the snow-dotted Colorado Front Range.
Fred asked, “What’s been going on at the Soup Kitchen lately, the guests behaving themselves?”
“The number of folks who are homeless or food insecure continues to rise,” said Catherine cautiously taking a sip of hot Latte. “We are also seeing a lot more folks suffering from mental illness coming in for some food. One of them took a swing at me the other day—he didn’t like salami on his sandwich.”
“What? Geez!” cried Fred, his raised voice underscoring his concern. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“Oh, no worries, he missed; but we had to have him removed when he threatened another guest in line.”
“Oh boy…’feed the poor, give drink to the thirsty’ and be prepared to duck and cover, huh?”
“Yeah.” She responded wistfully. Then changing the subject asked, “So, you have any interesting passengers lately?”
Pursing his lips, Fred considered this and offered a drawn out “W-e-l-l… I took a middle-aged couple to church the other morning”
“Oh?”
“Right, the Vomit Lady and her husband Al.”
Catherine peered up from taking a bite of her cookie, “Th’ V’mit Lady?” She managed, trying to talk through her cookie.
“Yeah, they fought the entire trip. I mean, they were on their way to Sunday Mass, fussing, fighting, and carrying on. At one point the gal, who clearly had enough, screamed at her husband, “Al, you make me vomit!”
“Well, I mean, poor Al couldn’t really counter that. Thankfully, she didn’t actually puke or anything, and the car went silent for the rest of the trip. Anyhow, ‘Vomit Lady’ is the handle I gave her.”
His eyes sparkling, he mused, “Hmm, ‘The Vomit Lady…’ that might make a good title for one of the short stories I post online. What’d ya’ think, Cat?”
Catherine, nearly spitting out her latest sip of coffee, rushed to say, “Who in their right mind is going to read a story with a title like that? ‘The Vomit Lady…’ Ew!”
The doorbell rang before he could respond and Fred jumped up to check it. When he opened the front door, the FedEx truck was speeding away leaving a package from eBay he had ordered a couple days before.
Grabbing a kitchen knife from the butcher block holder, he sliced opened the box to find the set of four, eight-inch galvanized property line markers he had been waiting for. This was a job he had been putting off for years, replacing the rusted, five-foot metal stakes generally used for fencing or gardening that the previous owner pounded in to mark the property lines.
Fred and Catherine were now both deep into their 70s, Fred closer to 80. He was still holding on to something he heard years before, “The older you get, the more important it is to not act your age.” For Fred, old age was simply overrated. His mantra was, “Take it easy, but take it.”
There was much to do around their house. Catherine was always busy keeping the interior of the house just so, vacuuming, dusting, watering plants and so much more. He asked her if she wanted someone to come in now and then to lend a hand, but she refused saying she liked doing things her way.
Meanwhile, Fred would be outside scooping up deer droppings and scat from other wildlife. Then there was minor maintenance, cutting grass, trimming borders, weeding, and in winter, more pooper-scooping and shoveling the incessant Colorado snow. It could sometimes wear an old geek out. But for now, he told himself. “You just gotta’ suck it up. Tomorrow, it’ll be time to replace those property markers. Dig we must, I mean, how hard can it be?”
The next day he laid out some tools, one long and one short handled sledgehammer, a garden trowel, a shovel for digging and an ‘entrenchment tool,” a two-foot-long shovel he got from the local Army-Navy store thinking it might be better suited for the task at hand. Time to Rock n’ Roll.
He was working in tight tolerances what with the garden stake close to the huge boulders that fronted the property. Attempting to loosen the stake, he dug a few inches of dirt and stone from around it, then gave the upper part of the stake a few good whacks with the long-handled sledge. Grasping the stake with two hands, he rocked it back and forth several times and gave it a mighty tug. It didn’t budge.
“Keep digging, keep rocking it loose” he told himself.
Soon, one of the neighbors came by. He recognized Elsie by the distinctive, white safari hat and the fanny pack she wore around her waist. She offered a friendly ‘good morning’ and asked, “What ya’ doin?”
“Oh, I’m just trying to replace this old property marker, but it looks like I’ll have to dig halfway to China to pull it up.”
“Well, if you strike some of that gold they used to mine out here in Colorado, cut me in,” teased Elsie as she continued her walk.
Fred continued to dig away, violently twisting the stake in circles trying to work it free. It didn’t budge.
A young neighbor with ear buds pounding Reggaeton interrupted his walk and offered to help, saying “that’s what neighbors are for.” They both grasped the stake and pulled hard. It didn’t budge.
After a few such tries, the young fellow suggested, “I gotta’ go. It looks like you’ll have to keep at it.” Fred agreed, thanked him for trying and returned to digging.
About an hour into the project, now more than elbow deep in dirt and rock, Fred was feeling essentially pre-dead, his neck, shoulders, and knees ached as he tried again. Grasping the stake, he gave a powerful tug and with a muffled “Son of a B****,” pulled that blasted thing out. Yes!
Exhausted and sore, Fred shuffled back inside. Catherine asked, “So, how did you do?” Fred quipped, “It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it.” Flexing a bicep, he roared, “Old Guys Rule!”
Catherine’s beautiful blue eyes widened as she gave him a loving look that always melted his heart and offered, “Well, kinda’ sorta.’ I mean, you are, like, pretty much older than Adam. Maybe it is time you began to consider your own boundaries.”
Fred yawned and grew thoughtful. Maybe he was in denial, maybe he was pushing himself too hard. Perhaps she was right, he was almost ‘older than Adam.’ Smiling to himself he thought, “Adam? I mean, she could’ve suggested I was older that dirt…” Then it came to him. “Older Than Dirt!” Great title for a short story!
Catherine, suspecting her husband’s need of a quick nap, and sensing a Latte in their future, asked, “Hey hon, is it Coffee Time yet?”
THE END
© 2025 Gerald R. Gioglio
Author’s Note: In gratitude to the prolific StoryStar author Martin Green. Thanks for the inspiration.
Gerald R. Gioglio is the author of Marching to a Silent Tune: A Journey from We Shall to Hell No. Available from actapublications.com and at Amazon.com.
-Rochefoucauld -
It was 2 PM; “Coffee Time” for Fred Nemo and his wife Catherine. Both sort of retired, coffee time was part of their daily routine, except when Fred was transporting passengers for Cabz, a ride share operation, or Catherine was late coming home from helping run the local Soup Kitchen a couple of days each week.
But most days, Fred grabbed their favorite espresso blend, filled that handle thingy you put the coffee into (he never knew what to call it), placed two espresso cups under the nozzles and dispensed the steaming brew. He then frothed two larger cups of 1% milk, added the coffee and sprinkled in cinnamon for him and cocoa powder for Catherine. They grabbed a couple of chocolate chip cookies and sat at the table that offered a view of the snow-dotted Colorado Front Range.
Fred asked, “What’s been going on at the Soup Kitchen lately, the guests behaving themselves?”
“The number of folks who are homeless or food insecure continues to rise,” said Catherine cautiously taking a sip of hot Latte. “We are also seeing a lot more folks suffering from mental illness coming in for some food. One of them took a swing at me the other day—he didn’t like salami on his sandwich.”
“What? Geez!” cried Fred, his raised voice underscoring his concern. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“Oh, no worries, he missed; but we had to have him removed when he threatened another guest in line.”
“Oh boy…’feed the poor, give drink to the thirsty’ and be prepared to duck and cover, huh?”
“Yeah.” She responded wistfully. Then changing the subject asked, “So, you have any interesting passengers lately?”
Pursing his lips, Fred considered this and offered a drawn out “W-e-l-l… I took a middle-aged couple to church the other morning”
“Oh?”
“Right, the Vomit Lady and her husband Al.”
Catherine peered up from taking a bite of her cookie, “Th’ V’mit Lady?” She managed, trying to talk through her cookie.
“Yeah, they fought the entire trip. I mean, they were on their way to Sunday Mass, fussing, fighting, and carrying on. At one point the gal, who clearly had enough, screamed at her husband, “Al, you make me vomit!”
“Well, I mean, poor Al couldn’t really counter that. Thankfully, she didn’t actually puke or anything, and the car went silent for the rest of the trip. Anyhow, ‘Vomit Lady’ is the handle I gave her.”
His eyes sparkling, he mused, “Hmm, ‘The Vomit Lady…’ that might make a good title for one of the short stories I post online. What’d ya’ think, Cat?”
Catherine, nearly spitting out her latest sip of coffee, rushed to say, “Who in their right mind is going to read a story with a title like that? ‘The Vomit Lady…’ Ew!”
The doorbell rang before he could respond and Fred jumped up to check it. When he opened the front door, the FedEx truck was speeding away leaving a package from eBay he had ordered a couple days before.
Grabbing a kitchen knife from the butcher block holder, he sliced opened the box to find the set of four, eight-inch galvanized property line markers he had been waiting for. This was a job he had been putting off for years, replacing the rusted, five-foot metal stakes generally used for fencing or gardening that the previous owner pounded in to mark the property lines.
Fred and Catherine were now both deep into their 70s, Fred closer to 80. He was still holding on to something he heard years before, “The older you get, the more important it is to not act your age.” For Fred, old age was simply overrated. His mantra was, “Take it easy, but take it.”
There was much to do around their house. Catherine was always busy keeping the interior of the house just so, vacuuming, dusting, watering plants and so much more. He asked her if she wanted someone to come in now and then to lend a hand, but she refused saying she liked doing things her way.
Meanwhile, Fred would be outside scooping up deer droppings and scat from other wildlife. Then there was minor maintenance, cutting grass, trimming borders, weeding, and in winter, more pooper-scooping and shoveling the incessant Colorado snow. It could sometimes wear an old geek out. But for now, he told himself. “You just gotta’ suck it up. Tomorrow, it’ll be time to replace those property markers. Dig we must, I mean, how hard can it be?”
The next day he laid out some tools, one long and one short handled sledgehammer, a garden trowel, a shovel for digging and an ‘entrenchment tool,” a two-foot-long shovel he got from the local Army-Navy store thinking it might be better suited for the task at hand. Time to Rock n’ Roll.
He was working in tight tolerances what with the garden stake close to the huge boulders that fronted the property. Attempting to loosen the stake, he dug a few inches of dirt and stone from around it, then gave the upper part of the stake a few good whacks with the long-handled sledge. Grasping the stake with two hands, he rocked it back and forth several times and gave it a mighty tug. It didn’t budge.
“Keep digging, keep rocking it loose” he told himself.
Soon, one of the neighbors came by. He recognized Elsie by the distinctive, white safari hat and the fanny pack she wore around her waist. She offered a friendly ‘good morning’ and asked, “What ya’ doin?”
“Oh, I’m just trying to replace this old property marker, but it looks like I’ll have to dig halfway to China to pull it up.”
“Well, if you strike some of that gold they used to mine out here in Colorado, cut me in,” teased Elsie as she continued her walk.
Fred continued to dig away, violently twisting the stake in circles trying to work it free. It didn’t budge.
A young neighbor with ear buds pounding Reggaeton interrupted his walk and offered to help, saying “that’s what neighbors are for.” They both grasped the stake and pulled hard. It didn’t budge.
After a few such tries, the young fellow suggested, “I gotta’ go. It looks like you’ll have to keep at it.” Fred agreed, thanked him for trying and returned to digging.
About an hour into the project, now more than elbow deep in dirt and rock, Fred was feeling essentially pre-dead, his neck, shoulders, and knees ached as he tried again. Grasping the stake, he gave a powerful tug and with a muffled “Son of a B****,” pulled that blasted thing out. Yes!
Exhausted and sore, Fred shuffled back inside. Catherine asked, “So, how did you do?” Fred quipped, “It was a tough job, but somebody had to do it.” Flexing a bicep, he roared, “Old Guys Rule!”
Catherine’s beautiful blue eyes widened as she gave him a loving look that always melted his heart and offered, “Well, kinda’ sorta.’ I mean, you are, like, pretty much older than Adam. Maybe it is time you began to consider your own boundaries.”
Fred yawned and grew thoughtful. Maybe he was in denial, maybe he was pushing himself too hard. Perhaps she was right, he was almost ‘older than Adam.’ Smiling to himself he thought, “Adam? I mean, she could’ve suggested I was older that dirt…” Then it came to him. “Older Than Dirt!” Great title for a short story!
Catherine, suspecting her husband’s need of a quick nap, and sensing a Latte in their future, asked, “Hey hon, is it Coffee Time yet?”
THE END
© 2025 Gerald R. Gioglio
Author’s Note: In gratitude to the prolific StoryStar author Martin Green. Thanks for the inspiration.
Gerald R. Gioglio is the author of Marching to a Silent Tune: A Journey from We Shall to Hell No. Available from actapublications.com and at Amazon.com.
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