Sh*t Happens

Dear Readers:

Please forgive my East Harlem language. It says what I mean, it means what it says.

Every day things out of my control happen. 

Some good.

Some bad.

Nothing stays the same.

That’s life.

We didn’t ask to be born.

We may have a “say” in how we die, or when.

I call it “luck.”

Again, I repeat, some have it and some don’t.

In Yiddish, it’s called “Mazel.”

I’ve had it thus far in “spades.”

I can only hope it continues.

A practical, realistic man, I know at the age of this writing, 108, I don’t have far to go.

Like Betty, I hope to leave this world with a smile on my face.

My daughter Judy says, “Dad, you’ve lived some life.”

I sure have.

Like it or not.

I will leave footprints in the shifting sands of time.

Millions have done so before me…

Good luck


(August 1, 2022)

Author: Morrie Markoff

Centenarian (born in 1914) who lives in Los Angeles, and is also a metal sculpture artist and the Author of "Keep Breathing," available on and other book seller sites.