I Knew I needed my New Knee Now.
Well, it’s been a while since I sat down at my laptop to jot out a note. I am actually in the third week of recovery after knee surgery. I have finally scaled down on my pain meds enough to tell night from day and have stopped sitting in my chair with a drool towel, staring at spots on the wall,
taking swipes at attack bats.
Actually, after three days in the hospital, I was finally in my own bed, sleeping soundly and very well sedated. During that first night, I was lying on my side, with my right arm between two pillows and with my hand hanging out the end. Somehow, I woke up enough to see my hand, fingers wiggling at me and was convinced it was a monstrous spider from hell trying to kill me.
I leapt into immediate action and did everything I could do to kill it, before it got me. I woke up from the pain caused by me trying to bite it to death.
I understand that people even do illegal things to gain access to these kinds of pills. That is a great mystery to me.
Well, I am now back in a decent relationship with my hand and even my wife has hope that I am returning to normal life again. I am walking upright, without walker or cane and even gone out to eat. Life is good again.
Getting through this process took more than just surrendering my knee. Just signing into the system took hours longer than the operation itself. By the time I went through various levels of interviews and tests, each with its own color coordinated wristband and numerous sheets of waiver of rights declarations, I had forgotten exactly why I was at the hospital.
I even had to sign several releases that told them what to do with either my non-functioning body or my dead body, and sundry body parts should things not go well. I think I had to agree that if I died, it was all my fault and not theirs’ or the doctor whom they said actually did not really work for them.
My attitude was, “Hey. Whatever, just get me the pills.”
I can’t complain too much. While overdosing on TV this week, I wondered who would ever want to buy something from a furniture company in the area that was advertising its goods and finishing off the TV ad with a half second flash full screen of microscopic fine print. Now that was scary. Glad I don’t need a new chair.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Ed Decker's Saints Alive August Update report
Newsletter Update August 2009
A Note From Ed
This summer has zipped by at warp speed. Normally summers have been financially bone dry for ministries such as Saints Alive, but this summer, we have been able to meet all our needs, thanks to so many of you friends .
I have been a little off center for the last month. A little necessary maintenance on a body with too many miles on it. I am slowly coming out of the fog that goes with knee replacement surgery. I went into the hospital on July 20th and came home on the 24th. I’ll spare you the details, but suffice it to say, it has been a trip.
I have had both visiting nurses and therapists getting me back in shape and I am doing great. The main problem has been the medications. I know I needed them to help with the pain, but spent a lot of time staring at spots on the wall. It has been only in the last few days that I can actually function long enough to answer some e-mails and get this newsletter out the door. One blessing already. Because of the bad knee, I was walking like a one legged duck and my lower back was in constant pain. Now that my new right knee is balanced again, the back pain has gone for good.
I am also back to transferring articles from my old website to the new one. It had to go into park for this last month but we should have the transfer completed and an interactive site up and running as soon as I can finish my part of the work. Once it is up, it will be an ongoing
project and fully interactive, so we can be in touch when you want to be.
There is not a day that goes by that I am not praying for a number of you who send in prayer requests. I take that part of my ministry very seriously and I know from experience that prayer really works. We live in a fallen world and bad things happen to good people, but the Lord gave us a path to the throne and it is called prayer. He gave it to us to use.
If you are going though a difficult time right now, lean on the Father. He gave us the right and the way to reach out to him. The Word says to pray for one another. I want to pray for your needs, specifically. You do not need to fight this battle alone.
You can write your prayer need on the enclosed card, send me an email or go to our website and click on Prayer Request on the front page of the website. There are 234 prayer requests on my prayer list today. Every one of them has been lifted up to the Lord.
Your brother in Christ, Ed Decker
pray for one another, that you may be healed.
The effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much. James 5:16 b
The effective, fervent prayer of a righteous man avails much. James 5:16 b
Remember
The generous gifts and prayers of friends like you support Saints Alive. You can do that by sending in a gift on line at our website
or by sending a PayPal gift to gifts@saintsalive.com
What a Difference!
In the Bible published by the LDS Church, on page 1421, Mormons read that "God "Justifieth the ungodly" (Romans 4:5).
However, on page 809 of the appendix in that same Bible, it records how their prophet Joseph Smith rewrote that verse in his Inspired Version of the Bible.
It reads that "God Justifieth NOT the ungodly." That is a very big difference! The Mormons must earn their righteousness by their works. How sad! Ask the Missionaries to explain that "irreconcilable difference" with orthodox Christianity.
Are There Mormons
Who are Really Saved?
That is perhaps one of the most often asked questions in our ministry. A lady asked me, "My sister was a Baptist for 20 years before she became a very active Mormon and now she is deeply offended when I suggest she might not be a born again Christian. Can she actually be both?" My answer, unfortunately was, "Not if she is adhering to LDS doctrine."
Today, the Mormons are using Christian words and phrases to let people think they are true Christians, but they cannot escape the real doctrines of Mormonism. Let's go back a few years and let reality get a hearing.
In the 1947 Mormon Sunday School manual, the late LDS Apostle, James Talmage is quoted,
“Salvation is graded. Thus, it is decreed and provided that every soul shall find his place and mingle with his kind in a state of lesser, advanced, or supreme salvation” (from THE GOSPEL MESSAGE by William Berrett, p. 18)
In the Improvement Era, the official magazine of the LDS Church for many years, taught that “salvation, however, is based on merit...” (Nov.1965, p.962)
In the 1931 Gospel Doctrine Sunday School Lessons booklet, it says: “Quite different from most Christian denominations, Latter-day Saints cannot at any time during their lives boast that they have been saved. Salvation comes not from a mere compliance with Church rituals. A confession of Jesus will not bring it.” (p.107)
How Do I Break Free From the
spiritual chains of Freemasonry?
Another recent question dealt with the struggle to break free from the cultic oaths of Freemasonry. It is a question we are often asked.
God's Word says it is not possible to serve two masters. Anyone who intends to follow Jesus must renounce Freemasonry. The Bible says, " Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers: for what fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?"(2Cor. 6:14)
Can Masonic Oaths be broken? Yes, on Higher Authority. God's Word overrules and overturns man's word "If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness."(1 John 1:9)
As part of the process of renouncing Freemasonry, it is important to formally Demit, explaining to your former brethren that you must now “have no fellowship with the unfruitful works of darkness, but rather reprove them.”Eph. 5:11.
Write or email us for sample demit letters and sample prayers of renunciation.
Get rid of the Masonic Paraphernalia! All that Masonic stuff in your closet, rings, hats, aprons, bibles, and books…all of it needs to be destroyed, tossed in the trash or burned. Every piece is a talisman carrying dark spirits. Get it out of the house at once.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Old Ned Goes to the Doctor
Old Ned goes to the Doctor
I don’t know if it is just my age but I don’t seem to handle things the same way I did a few years ago. We are still in Seattle until Sunday when we head south again. I put off having knee surgery several times this spring, awaiting the imminent death of my sister with advanced, stage 4 cancer. By now, I can barely walk.
At our last visit early this week, she looked healthier than I did. I told her I had to go south for the knee thing and that she would just have to wait until I got back to die. She said she was going to hang around until after my birthday in November. I suggested that she hang around until Christmas and then promptly fell over my cane. She laughed at the sight and suggested that I try to hold out to my birthday myself. I asked if I could have one of her happy pills. She took a swing at me with my cane.
Yesterday, Carol had to drive me down into the Seattle city center to see a doctor at the hospital. I lay awake half the night, worrying about traffic, since they were closing all the west bound lanes of the I-90 bridge [main route into the city] for repairs for 2 weeks and cars would only have the HOV lanes. Close to 80,000 cars would have to jockey for space in an area that could only handle less than half that. The TV news folks forecast a commuting nightmare.
Therefore, I convinced my wife that we had to leave at 11:00 AM for the usual 45 minute drive to the hospital for a 1:45 PM appointment. As you may guess, my ability to guess at traffic patterns is exceeded only by my ability to pick lotto numbers. Needless to say, my wife was less than thrilled. We already had a little episode of her failure to understanding my communication skills earlier that morning.
I took a phone call for her while she was showering and when I yelled in and gave her the message, it didn’t go well. I said, “Honey, Gyner College is calling and your Pabst Beer Test was good. Since when are you doing beer tasting tests?” A few minutes later, she marched out of the bathroom in a towel and handed me my hearing aids and said either wear them or die.
Well, our anticipated 2 hour drive to Seattle took less than 40 minutes and we were two hours early. I thought I was sure to catch some flack over that, but she was all smiles and said, “Great, Ned. Let’s go to the hospital cafeteria and have lunch.” You know you are getting old when eating at a hospital cafeteria is a treat. Actually, the food at this one is better than some.
My wife actually had a good laugh over it. She said, “You know you are over the hill when you get excited about eating at a hospital cafeteria.” I told her that I didn’t know how I got over the hill without ever getting to the top.
I grabbed an empty booth while she headed for the line. I always felt that a good table was better than knowing what she would order for me. This table even had a newspaper with an un-worked crossword puzzle. This was going to be a good day at the doctor’s office.
We split a sandwich and a slice of lemon meringue pie. I love desserts during times when I am stressed. It’s more than just comfort food. Actually, desserts is stressed spelled backwards. A sure sign of the goodness of a swell piece of pie. I think these words are subtle derivatives of the word, stretched, as in pie belly.
We left the hospital just at the start of the commute time, but again, we breezed through in record time. I hate it when that happens and my wife makes less than subtle comments about my imaginary friend, Ned, the worry wart.
Well, we finally made it home and I settled down in my easy chair to watch the early news and all the ads that are so concerned about many my sex life. At my age, I seem to be more interested in naps. What kind of people sit naked in adjoining bathtubs in the back yard, anyway. Now they are pushing the envelope with obnoxious ads for special super-savings deals for cremation services.
I figure that my kids can figure out what to do with me once I am gone. It’s a small thing compared to what I spent getting them through schools and married and into houses. I don’t really care if they miss the discount special on Channel 5.
My father had me dump his ashes in his favorite fishing hole. I might suggest the same thing with mine, except they would need to dump my ashes down stream, at the next hole.
My dad always got a bit nasty if he thought I was crowding his fishing spots. Which I usually did, since he always knew where the fish were.
Old Ned
I don’t know if it is just my age but I don’t seem to handle things the same way I did a few years ago. We are still in Seattle until Sunday when we head south again. I put off having knee surgery several times this spring, awaiting the imminent death of my sister with advanced, stage 4 cancer. By now, I can barely walk.
At our last visit early this week, she looked healthier than I did. I told her I had to go south for the knee thing and that she would just have to wait until I got back to die. She said she was going to hang around until after my birthday in November. I suggested that she hang around until Christmas and then promptly fell over my cane. She laughed at the sight and suggested that I try to hold out to my birthday myself. I asked if I could have one of her happy pills. She took a swing at me with my cane.
Yesterday, Carol had to drive me down into the Seattle city center to see a doctor at the hospital. I lay awake half the night, worrying about traffic, since they were closing all the west bound lanes of the I-90 bridge [main route into the city] for repairs for 2 weeks and cars would only have the HOV lanes. Close to 80,000 cars would have to jockey for space in an area that could only handle less than half that. The TV news folks forecast a commuting nightmare.
Therefore, I convinced my wife that we had to leave at 11:00 AM for the usual 45 minute drive to the hospital for a 1:45 PM appointment. As you may guess, my ability to guess at traffic patterns is exceeded only by my ability to pick lotto numbers. Needless to say, my wife was less than thrilled. We already had a little episode of her failure to understanding my communication skills earlier that morning.
I took a phone call for her while she was showering and when I yelled in and gave her the message, it didn’t go well. I said, “Honey, Gyner College is calling and your Pabst Beer Test was good. Since when are you doing beer tasting tests?” A few minutes later, she marched out of the bathroom in a towel and handed me my hearing aids and said either wear them or die.
Well, our anticipated 2 hour drive to Seattle took less than 40 minutes and we were two hours early. I thought I was sure to catch some flack over that, but she was all smiles and said, “Great, Ned. Let’s go to the hospital cafeteria and have lunch.” You know you are getting old when eating at a hospital cafeteria is a treat. Actually, the food at this one is better than some.
My wife actually had a good laugh over it. She said, “You know you are over the hill when you get excited about eating at a hospital cafeteria.” I told her that I didn’t know how I got over the hill without ever getting to the top.
I grabbed an empty booth while she headed for the line. I always felt that a good table was better than knowing what she would order for me. This table even had a newspaper with an un-worked crossword puzzle. This was going to be a good day at the doctor’s office.
We split a sandwich and a slice of lemon meringue pie. I love desserts during times when I am stressed. It’s more than just comfort food. Actually, desserts is stressed spelled backwards. A sure sign of the goodness of a swell piece of pie. I think these words are subtle derivatives of the word, stretched, as in pie belly.
We left the hospital just at the start of the commute time, but again, we breezed through in record time. I hate it when that happens and my wife makes less than subtle comments about my imaginary friend, Ned, the worry wart.
Well, we finally made it home and I settled down in my easy chair to watch the early news and all the ads that are so concerned about many my sex life. At my age, I seem to be more interested in naps. What kind of people sit naked in adjoining bathtubs in the back yard, anyway. Now they are pushing the envelope with obnoxious ads for special super-savings deals for cremation services.
I figure that my kids can figure out what to do with me once I am gone. It’s a small thing compared to what I spent getting them through schools and married and into houses. I don’t really care if they miss the discount special on Channel 5.
My father had me dump his ashes in his favorite fishing hole. I might suggest the same thing with mine, except they would need to dump my ashes down stream, at the next hole.
My dad always got a bit nasty if he thought I was crowding his fishing spots. Which I usually did, since he always knew where the fish were.
Old Ned
Monday, June 22, 2009
Some Thoughts on the Process of Dying
Some Thoughts on the Process of Dying
Sorry I have been silent for almost a month. Had to go up to Seattle to be with Nan, my terminally ill sister. She is still with us, but cancer is a tough enemy to battle. It is a day-to-day thing. Nice to be in our northwest home for a while.
Gotta clean out the gutters. Those are things at the edge of NW roofs that catch millions of needles from the firs so that they can’t handle water.
I am not obssessively focused on death, even though I have written about it recently. I'm a guy who is all about life, but the recent loss of 4 friends and the stress of my dying sister has made me reflect more on it than I really want. It has kept me from blogging because I haven't wanted it to impact my writing. But, this morning I give up and will just get it off my chest.The whole process of dying is a complicated one. That is especially true when there are kids, grandkids, great-grandkids, siblings, nieces, nephews, close friends and all the care people. We had to set up a visitation schedule. At least everyone but me.
After one of our recent visits, my wife said that I was avoiding eye contact with my sister. I hadn’t realized I was doing that. I guess I was having trouble facing what I was seeing in her eyes. My wife said she needed that eye contact, that connection.
She was right. Hard as it has been, I keep strong eye contact with her. Even through her tears. Mine, too.
The doctors gave her until last January. Guess that’s why they call it ‘practicing medicine.’ We brought her to the desert that month and took her all around. Spent a week on the coast. She moved to Seattle from Upstate New York and had never been there. Had a wonderful luncheon at the Ritz Carlton at a window open to the ocean.
We watched the movie, ‘The Bucket List’ and she put one together and we spent a week doing all of the things we could.
She told me she wanted to ‘hang on’ until her birthday in April. I asked her why everything always had to be about her. I told her that just once in a while she should think about what I wanted and if she wasn’t so selfish, she would ‘hang on’ until my birthday in November. She is tough enough to maybe make it. I should have said Christmas.
I really appreciate the people from Hospice. Never met one I didn’t like. Soft hearts. Real sweethearts. I don’t think they ever get used to losing the people they care for and grow close to. But, they come back for more. Gotta be a special place in heaven for these people. They deserve crowns of glory.
My sister has the same Hospice nurse that took care of our mom a few years back, on her way to heaven. Whenever she gives her care givers trouble about something they tell her this nurse said for her to do ‘it.’ She snaps to it immediately. She is not going to mess around with mom’s nurse.
We will be back in the desert as soon as things take their course. I’m ready to be back to my regular blogging this week.
We took a side trip to Tulsa last week. I spent 6 days with my wife and her three sisters. Amazing how four grown women can carry on four separate conversations at once, for hours and all be involved in them all and understand everything that is said. I won’t even mention the mealtimes.
We had Navajo code speakers in WW2. No one could break their codes. If the need ever comes up again and we run out of Navajos, I’d like to volunteer my wife and her sisters.
Old Ned
Sorry I have been silent for almost a month. Had to go up to Seattle to be with Nan, my terminally ill sister. She is still with us, but cancer is a tough enemy to battle. It is a day-to-day thing. Nice to be in our northwest home for a while.
Gotta clean out the gutters. Those are things at the edge of NW roofs that catch millions of needles from the firs so that they can’t handle water.
I am not obssessively focused on death, even though I have written about it recently. I'm a guy who is all about life, but the recent loss of 4 friends and the stress of my dying sister has made me reflect more on it than I really want. It has kept me from blogging because I haven't wanted it to impact my writing. But, this morning I give up and will just get it off my chest.The whole process of dying is a complicated one. That is especially true when there are kids, grandkids, great-grandkids, siblings, nieces, nephews, close friends and all the care people. We had to set up a visitation schedule. At least everyone but me.
After one of our recent visits, my wife said that I was avoiding eye contact with my sister. I hadn’t realized I was doing that. I guess I was having trouble facing what I was seeing in her eyes. My wife said she needed that eye contact, that connection.
She was right. Hard as it has been, I keep strong eye contact with her. Even through her tears. Mine, too.
The doctors gave her until last January. Guess that’s why they call it ‘practicing medicine.’ We brought her to the desert that month and took her all around. Spent a week on the coast. She moved to Seattle from Upstate New York and had never been there. Had a wonderful luncheon at the Ritz Carlton at a window open to the ocean.
We watched the movie, ‘The Bucket List’ and she put one together and we spent a week doing all of the things we could.
She told me she wanted to ‘hang on’ until her birthday in April. I asked her why everything always had to be about her. I told her that just once in a while she should think about what I wanted and if she wasn’t so selfish, she would ‘hang on’ until my birthday in November. She is tough enough to maybe make it. I should have said Christmas.
I really appreciate the people from Hospice. Never met one I didn’t like. Soft hearts. Real sweethearts. I don’t think they ever get used to losing the people they care for and grow close to. But, they come back for more. Gotta be a special place in heaven for these people. They deserve crowns of glory.
My sister has the same Hospice nurse that took care of our mom a few years back, on her way to heaven. Whenever she gives her care givers trouble about something they tell her this nurse said for her to do ‘it.’ She snaps to it immediately. She is not going to mess around with mom’s nurse.
We will be back in the desert as soon as things take their course. I’m ready to be back to my regular blogging this week.
We took a side trip to Tulsa last week. I spent 6 days with my wife and her three sisters. Amazing how four grown women can carry on four separate conversations at once, for hours and all be involved in them all and understand everything that is said. I won’t even mention the mealtimes.
We had Navajo code speakers in WW2. No one could break their codes. If the need ever comes up again and we run out of Navajos, I’d like to volunteer my wife and her sisters.
Old Ned
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Can You Picture This?
Can You Picture This?
I went to the memorial service this week for a wonderful neighbor who was a fine gentleman and who had a ton of friends. Great guy. At the start of the service [I was honored to give the invocation] the family showed a slide show, pictures running all the way back to his childhood through the last years of his life. Everyone clapped when it was over. There were tears and smiles everywhere. His daughter had put the slides together with music to match the events in his life and everyone was happy. It gave the service an easy, loving cadence.
On the way home, I told my wife that we need to go through the entire closet full of boxes full of pictures that we have amassed and pick out the photos we would want people to see when it is “our turn.”
She pointed out that what I would want people to see and what people would want to see were probably two very different things.
We were going to sort through them anyway when we retired and it has been a while now and the closet is still full. She said that it would be an impossible job and we should probably let our children cope with the mess after we are gone. She told me to act like the closet wasn’t there. Easy for her to say. It’s like when she said, “Ned, don’t think about that large pimple on your nose.”
A couple of the kids did try to clean up the wall of boxes as special gifts to us over the past few years. We just ended up with about 20 albums sitting on a high shelf in my study. They gave up. Who wouldn’t? The mound of boxes didn’t seem to get smaller, anyway.
Our kids don’t use actual photos anymore, but use digital cameras and have websites full of pictures and videos of just about everything they and their kids do. They have them on things called Ipods and on their cell phones. How do they know they will stay there?
We tried to give the boxes of photos to them as cherished things to ‘keep in the family.’ They don’t want them. What has happened to our children?
The kids wanted them when they dug through the piles when they were getting married and pulled out the ones they wanted to use so they would look good and cute. I don’t know why I can’t. It isn’t fair. Someday I am just going to do that, all on my own. I still have some really cute pictures of me as a kid.
I am thinking about writing an after-he-has-done-gone-and-left-us directive. It will make them do a slide show of the pictures I want and I think I will pick out the music. I liked that Jimmy Durante song, “As Time Goes by” in the movie, Sleepless in Seattle. “Inky Dinky Doo” would be good, too.
When I was younger, I was more of a Kenny Rogers kind of guy. I still can do a good Kenny. Back then, I knew when to hold em, I knew when to fold them and I knew when to walk away. At least I did then. Now, I’m not so sure.
Don’t tell my wife or kids, but I’ve been thinking about doing some songs myself and putting them on a CD to use at my own memorial service.
Nobody will let me sing while I’m still alive. If I write it into my directive, I think they have to do it after I’m gone, don’t they? I could do a great “Make Someone Happy” just like Jimmy D.
The thing is, I love to sing, but nobody will let me. They won’t even let me sing in church. They even asked me to stop clapping in time with the music. Said it threw everyone else off. And I was a pastor!
Even my littlest grandkids cry, “Poppa, please stop singing, please. You are hurting our ears.”
This surly attitude about my gift of singing really began when I was a freshman in high school and tried out for the choir. There were about a hundred of us on the stage and as the choir director led us in some singing, he kept cutting the group in half over and over again until there were just a few of us left. I thought, “Wow! I am probably going to be a lead singer.”
After my little group sang for a few seconds, he called me to take a few steps forward. I did so with a broad, knowing grin. He pointed at me with a shaking finger. “You, please leave and don’t ever come back. You have thrown off the entire choir. Go. Don’t ever sing again.”
Maybe they will be sorry when they hear my deep mellow voice bringing life to my own slide show. I have some great shots of me fishing.
I went to the memorial service this week for a wonderful neighbor who was a fine gentleman and who had a ton of friends. Great guy. At the start of the service [I was honored to give the invocation] the family showed a slide show, pictures running all the way back to his childhood through the last years of his life. Everyone clapped when it was over. There were tears and smiles everywhere. His daughter had put the slides together with music to match the events in his life and everyone was happy. It gave the service an easy, loving cadence.
On the way home, I told my wife that we need to go through the entire closet full of boxes full of pictures that we have amassed and pick out the photos we would want people to see when it is “our turn.”
She pointed out that what I would want people to see and what people would want to see were probably two very different things.
We were going to sort through them anyway when we retired and it has been a while now and the closet is still full. She said that it would be an impossible job and we should probably let our children cope with the mess after we are gone. She told me to act like the closet wasn’t there. Easy for her to say. It’s like when she said, “Ned, don’t think about that large pimple on your nose.”
A couple of the kids did try to clean up the wall of boxes as special gifts to us over the past few years. We just ended up with about 20 albums sitting on a high shelf in my study. They gave up. Who wouldn’t? The mound of boxes didn’t seem to get smaller, anyway.
Our kids don’t use actual photos anymore, but use digital cameras and have websites full of pictures and videos of just about everything they and their kids do. They have them on things called Ipods and on their cell phones. How do they know they will stay there?
We tried to give the boxes of photos to them as cherished things to ‘keep in the family.’ They don’t want them. What has happened to our children?
The kids wanted them when they dug through the piles when they were getting married and pulled out the ones they wanted to use so they would look good and cute. I don’t know why I can’t. It isn’t fair. Someday I am just going to do that, all on my own. I still have some really cute pictures of me as a kid.
I am thinking about writing an after-he-has-done-gone-and-left-us directive. It will make them do a slide show of the pictures I want and I think I will pick out the music. I liked that Jimmy Durante song, “As Time Goes by” in the movie, Sleepless in Seattle. “Inky Dinky Doo” would be good, too.
When I was younger, I was more of a Kenny Rogers kind of guy. I still can do a good Kenny. Back then, I knew when to hold em, I knew when to fold them and I knew when to walk away. At least I did then. Now, I’m not so sure.
Don’t tell my wife or kids, but I’ve been thinking about doing some songs myself and putting them on a CD to use at my own memorial service.
Nobody will let me sing while I’m still alive. If I write it into my directive, I think they have to do it after I’m gone, don’t they? I could do a great “Make Someone Happy” just like Jimmy D.
The thing is, I love to sing, but nobody will let me. They won’t even let me sing in church. They even asked me to stop clapping in time with the music. Said it threw everyone else off. And I was a pastor!
Even my littlest grandkids cry, “Poppa, please stop singing, please. You are hurting our ears.”
This surly attitude about my gift of singing really began when I was a freshman in high school and tried out for the choir. There were about a hundred of us on the stage and as the choir director led us in some singing, he kept cutting the group in half over and over again until there were just a few of us left. I thought, “Wow! I am probably going to be a lead singer.”
After my little group sang for a few seconds, he called me to take a few steps forward. I did so with a broad, knowing grin. He pointed at me with a shaking finger. “You, please leave and don’t ever come back. You have thrown off the entire choir. Go. Don’t ever sing again.”
Maybe they will be sorry when they hear my deep mellow voice bringing life to my own slide show. I have some great shots of me fishing.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
My Twitter Won't Tweet
My Twitter won’t Tweet
Things are spiraling out of control. I think I have become lost in a world of electronic madness.
One of my sons informed me this week that my cell phone has become obsolete and I must head down to the Cell Phone store and get a phone that is contemporary with the time.
I pointed out that the fancy Razor/Slim line phone with camera built in that he made me trade my perfectly good flip-top Motorola cell phone for two years ago still works perfectly fine. Well, except for the camera thing. Never could figure that out.. Even the few times I actually did take pictures I couldn’t figure what to do with them and gave up.
That is except when I would push the wrong button and take a video of the ceiling or my feet.
Seems the issue is that I am unable to text with the tiny little 3 character buttons. “Hi, son,” would come out looking like, “Gh Qmo.” My grandkids have even spoken to my wife about Poppa’s crazy text messages. Give me a break. What ever happened to actually talking on a phone? Isn’t that what they were invented for?
They want me to get one of those phones that you can turn upside down and sideways and has a typewriter keyboard with keys about one-eighth the size of my pinky finger.
One of my four sons is a realtor whose real occupation is fly –fishing. “Way to go, son.”
Or in my text language, “Xbz um Io, rmo.”
We were floating the Yakima River in his guide quality drift boat south of Ellensburg, Washington. We were miles from anything remotely resembling civilization. Rock canyon walls were on either side of us. Bear with me as I try to explain this strange thing.
His “Blackberry” rang. It was blue and I asked him why it wasn’t called a Blueberry. He shook his head with that ‘dealing with an elder despair’ look I get a lot these days. It was another realtor who called to say that the sellers he represented had agreed to my son’s client’s changes and he had the signed documents in hand.
My son told him to FAX the papers to his office and he would get them signed and Faxed back, to close the deal that morning. A minute later the phone rang and he hit a few buttons and looked over the FAX, now on the Yakima River with us.
He then called his clients and told them he was Faxing the papers to them to sign and asked them to FAX them back to his office. While he was waiting, he hooked into a fat rainbow and was just releasing this 22 inch beauty as his phone rang again with the signed FAX from his clients.
He called the other realtor and told him he was sending the signed papers back by FAX. The deal was closed. He smiled and just said, “You are a little behind the times, Dad.” I guess I am.
I thought about the sixty million dollar a year business I ran with 1800 employees, all without a Blackberry that played music, took videos, pictures and communicated with Facebook and Twitter.
I signed up under duress for Twitter and Facebook, so my seven kids, their spouse, 13 grandkids and 2 great grand kids could communicate with me in the modern way. I figured I could handle something as simple as Twitter with only 140 characters of space.
That was before one of my grandkids hooked me up for Tweeter, Tweetree, Twhirl, Twitterfon, Tweetie and Twittererific Tweetdeck, Twitpix and something that sends every message to my cell phone and every other program within the texting world.
My phone was beeping every three minutes with the details of everything except the bowel movements of the entire next generation. I am not ready to live like this. I keep my cell phone in the garage in my golf bag.
The kids bought me a GPS for my last birthday because they say I get lost every now and then going over to the grocery store or library. I keep that in a box under my tool bench with the Blue tooth [it’s red] phone I am supposed to use when I drive. I wore it once and was standing in line at Barnes and Nobles talking to my wife as every one in the nearest 50 yards was glaring at me. Seems I have to take my hearing aid out to use it and got a little loud.
I mean the GPS looked pretty smart on my dash board, but the lady inside was the most annoying, rudest person I had run into in a long time. Every 10 minutes, she would sarcastically say, “Re-calc-ul-ating” You would think that she could be nicer. It was like she could barely tolerate me. She would let go with a deep sigh and then tell me to make a U-turn at the next light. Then when I would make a right turn instead, it was not good.
When I get really lost now, I call my wife and tell her the name of the cross streets and while she is starting to develop the same tone as Gypsy, the GSP lady, at least she loves me.
To be perfectly frank, I am still trying to learn how to use the cordless phones in our house. We have had them for 4 years, but I still haven’t figured out how I can lose three phones all at once and have run around digging under chair cushions and checking bathrooms and the dirty laundry baskets when the phone ring.
The world is just getting too complex for me. They even mess me up every time I go to the grocery store. You would think they could settle on something themselves but this sudden “Paper or Plastic?” every time I check out just knocks me for a loop.
I bought some of those cloth re-usable bags to avoid looking confused but never remember to take them in with me.
Now I toss it back to them. When they ask me, “Paper or Plastic?” I just say, “Doesn’t matter to me. I am bi-sacksual.” Then it’s their turn to stare at me with a blank look.
Have a nice weekend
Old Ned
Things are spiraling out of control. I think I have become lost in a world of electronic madness.
One of my sons informed me this week that my cell phone has become obsolete and I must head down to the Cell Phone store and get a phone that is contemporary with the time.
I pointed out that the fancy Razor/Slim line phone with camera built in that he made me trade my perfectly good flip-top Motorola cell phone for two years ago still works perfectly fine. Well, except for the camera thing. Never could figure that out.. Even the few times I actually did take pictures I couldn’t figure what to do with them and gave up.
That is except when I would push the wrong button and take a video of the ceiling or my feet.
Seems the issue is that I am unable to text with the tiny little 3 character buttons. “Hi, son,” would come out looking like, “Gh Qmo.” My grandkids have even spoken to my wife about Poppa’s crazy text messages. Give me a break. What ever happened to actually talking on a phone? Isn’t that what they were invented for?
They want me to get one of those phones that you can turn upside down and sideways and has a typewriter keyboard with keys about one-eighth the size of my pinky finger.
One of my four sons is a realtor whose real occupation is fly –fishing. “Way to go, son.”
Or in my text language, “Xbz um Io, rmo.”
We were floating the Yakima River in his guide quality drift boat south of Ellensburg, Washington. We were miles from anything remotely resembling civilization. Rock canyon walls were on either side of us. Bear with me as I try to explain this strange thing.
His “Blackberry” rang. It was blue and I asked him why it wasn’t called a Blueberry. He shook his head with that ‘dealing with an elder despair’ look I get a lot these days. It was another realtor who called to say that the sellers he represented had agreed to my son’s client’s changes and he had the signed documents in hand.
My son told him to FAX the papers to his office and he would get them signed and Faxed back, to close the deal that morning. A minute later the phone rang and he hit a few buttons and looked over the FAX, now on the Yakima River with us.
He then called his clients and told them he was Faxing the papers to them to sign and asked them to FAX them back to his office. While he was waiting, he hooked into a fat rainbow and was just releasing this 22 inch beauty as his phone rang again with the signed FAX from his clients.
He called the other realtor and told him he was sending the signed papers back by FAX. The deal was closed. He smiled and just said, “You are a little behind the times, Dad.” I guess I am.
I thought about the sixty million dollar a year business I ran with 1800 employees, all without a Blackberry that played music, took videos, pictures and communicated with Facebook and Twitter.
I signed up under duress for Twitter and Facebook, so my seven kids, their spouse, 13 grandkids and 2 great grand kids could communicate with me in the modern way. I figured I could handle something as simple as Twitter with only 140 characters of space.
That was before one of my grandkids hooked me up for Tweeter, Tweetree, Twhirl, Twitterfon, Tweetie and Twittererific Tweetdeck, Twitpix and something that sends every message to my cell phone and every other program within the texting world.
My phone was beeping every three minutes with the details of everything except the bowel movements of the entire next generation. I am not ready to live like this. I keep my cell phone in the garage in my golf bag.
The kids bought me a GPS for my last birthday because they say I get lost every now and then going over to the grocery store or library. I keep that in a box under my tool bench with the Blue tooth [it’s red] phone I am supposed to use when I drive. I wore it once and was standing in line at Barnes and Nobles talking to my wife as every one in the nearest 50 yards was glaring at me. Seems I have to take my hearing aid out to use it and got a little loud.
I mean the GPS looked pretty smart on my dash board, but the lady inside was the most annoying, rudest person I had run into in a long time. Every 10 minutes, she would sarcastically say, “Re-calc-ul-ating” You would think that she could be nicer. It was like she could barely tolerate me. She would let go with a deep sigh and then tell me to make a U-turn at the next light. Then when I would make a right turn instead, it was not good.
When I get really lost now, I call my wife and tell her the name of the cross streets and while she is starting to develop the same tone as Gypsy, the GSP lady, at least she loves me.
To be perfectly frank, I am still trying to learn how to use the cordless phones in our house. We have had them for 4 years, but I still haven’t figured out how I can lose three phones all at once and have run around digging under chair cushions and checking bathrooms and the dirty laundry baskets when the phone ring.
The world is just getting too complex for me. They even mess me up every time I go to the grocery store. You would think they could settle on something themselves but this sudden “Paper or Plastic?” every time I check out just knocks me for a loop.
I bought some of those cloth re-usable bags to avoid looking confused but never remember to take them in with me.
Now I toss it back to them. When they ask me, “Paper or Plastic?” I just say, “Doesn’t matter to me. I am bi-sacksual.” Then it’s their turn to stare at me with a blank look.
Have a nice weekend
Old Ned
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