Almost every evening, under the great willow at Green Valley Park, a little circle of old-timers gathers to watch the sun slip behind the horizon. As autumn cools the air, the jackets come out and the gathering shifts a little earlier. It’s part ritual, part survival—because growing old is easier when you don’t do it alone.
The walkers drift past with their dogs, and the dogs are practically the heartbeat of the park. Everyone has one—grandmothers, retirees, families—and they all stop for a quick sniff-and-greet. While the dogs mingle, their humans do the same.
The talk under the willow drifts with the breeze: aches, pains, doctor’s visits, the small triumphs and tragedies of aging. If no Hoopleheads or MAGA mutts are in earshot, the conversation sometimes turns to politics—usually some fresh insanity from Trump’s gang. Otherwise, it’s the ordinary chatter of life lived day by day.
And maybe that’s the point. Growing old means crumbling here and there, but a little laughter, a little companionship, and a lot of dogs make the crumble easier to bear.
Over on the National Association blog a review of Trump's mental illness.
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