Last week Clare called to ask me what I wanted for Christmas. I gave her a few suggestions, but then told her that what I really want is to replace my old ragg wool balaclava. The problem, I said, is that my old balaclava has a brim, and I can’t find one like it.

Clare knows that I have no patience when it comes to shopping, so she immediately started her own online search. Later that evening she called back to say that I might be right. She’d found ragg wool balaclavas, but none with brims. She’d found balaclavas with brims, but none of them were ragg. I told my daughter that unless she could find a balaclava with my exact specifications, I’d just keep wearing my old one until it was more rag than ragg. Even with its occasional holes and thin spots, it still keeps my head warmer than any other hat I’ve ever worn.

A wool vendor used to come to La Crosse every Christmas season. He’d set up a temporary booth in our mall’s main corridor and sell scarves, mittens, and hats. His hat collection included ragg wool balaclavas with brims. The guy doesn’t come around anymore, and I should have stocked up when I had the chance.

More and more I am having difficulty finding replacements for my favorite worn out clothes. For example, it took longer than it should have to find a functional swimsuit. All of the stores in town carry Speedos and multicolored surf shorts, but not much else. I am too old to be wearing Speedos, and knee-length baggy beachwear bunches up between my thighs when I swim. I wanted something less revealing than Speedos, something shorter and more snug than surf pants.

When I finally found the swimsuit I wanted, I realized that my trouble finding it was because my style of swimwear isn’t even marketed as conventional swimwear. It is in its own category called “vintage swimming trunks.” Vintage. Out of curiosity, I looked the word up in the dictionary. One definition of vintage is “outmoded and old-fashioned.” Another is “classic.” My swimsuit has an outdated look to it, but my balaclava is definitely classic.

If there is a sweet spot in life when parents no longer need to watch over their kids and kids need not worry about their parents, my window with Clare has been too small. Other than help with tuition, my daughter has been on her own since she left for college in 2017. Now, not ten years later, Clare feels the need to look after me.

There are two reasons for my daughter’s well-intentioned concerns. The first is my fault, as I possess a baby boomer’s instinctive resistance to technology. I not only don’t know how my computer, my phone, and my tv work, but I don’t want to know how any of them work. Because I call Clare a couple of times a month about a problem with one of my devices, I am regularly telling her that I cannot function on my own. I recently switched internet providers, and my inability to handle that particular fiasco only confirmed what Clare already knew to be true.

The second reason for Clare’s worries is that I have been home alone since early November and will be on my own until March. Manyu is visiting family in Asia, and I remain in La Crosse with our aging dog. Now, whenever I have a problem, Clare jumps into action. When I broke both of my snow shovels, Clare ordered a new one online. When I took Jack to the veterinary clinic with a new ailment, she wanted me to put her on speakerphone while I talked to the vet. When she found out that I was still wearing sandals in December, she paid me a visit soon afterwards.

Part of me is grateful that Clare cares about her septuagenarian dad. Another part is bothered by the fact that she no longer sees me as infallible. When Clare was living at home, she and her mom argued a lot. I was the parent Clare turned to for comfort and advice. Now Manyu and Clare are best friends, and I am the one on the outside looking in. Both of them know that I don’t chitchat, so they conduct their twice weekly phone calls in Mandarin. Even if I was to listen in, I’d pick up only one word in ten. Clare still turns to me when she needs advice, but she no longer needs much advice.

I have to admit that Clare’s input has been useful. When I broke my shovels, the hardware stores had already run out of all of the good shovels, so ordering online was the right way to go. When Clare listened in on my conversation with the veterinarian, she asked better questions than I would have asked. And so long as she visits me every month or so, I don’t really care what her reasons are.

I tell Clare that I am fine on my own, but I suppose that that is what a proud old man, regardless of his condition, would say.