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
Monday, June 22, 2009
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
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Did I Hear You Right?
DID I HEAR YOU RIGHT?
We went to our community pool yesterday during the late morning and I floated around with all the rest of the old guys, trying to have conversations with our hearing aids out. Had to laugh at the way some of the conversations went.
“The water feels great.”
“What’s that about grapes?”
“The weather is really turning hot.”
“You burned what pot?”
“Are you going to head north soon?”
“Who’s dead? So many people our age die.”
The thing is there were four of us floating around having this discussion and no one thought there was anything wrong. Each question received some answer and the next sentence would swing off that and so on.
Reminded me of that game we played years ago where someone would whisper a sentence in the next person’s ear and it would go around the room and the last person would say it out loud and it would be nothing like the first sentence and everyone would laugh. Except, now, we seem to get to the end of the game with the first pass.
My brother in law came over the other day with a new pair of those new hearing aids they advertise in the Desert Sun all the time. He gave up on his old pair. Said they squeaked all the time.
He said, “Wow, I just love these new aids. I can hear so good now and no background noises. I can hear everything now so plain.”
I said, Wow back. “I could sure use a set like that. What kind is it?”
He looked at his watch and said, “It’s three o’clock.”
I know I have problems hearing but didn’t realize that my wife was going deaf until the other day. I was in my study and could hear her in the kitchen. I yelled in, “what’s for Dinner?’ No answer.
I walked to the hallway door and yelled it again. Still no answer. Man, she has a real hearing problem. I finally walked into the kitchen and asked her again. She shook her head and said, “Ned, for the third time, I said we are having spaghetti.”
I try to get in the pool every day. My right knee is shot and it helps the pain. I am going to get knee replacement surgery on May 4th. The doctor says the new knee will last for twenty five years. I asked him if I should will it to somebody. I figured if I live that long, I’ll be duct taped to a chair with a drool towel, in some nursing home hallway and won’t need the knee any more.
My 20 year old hearing aids look almost brand new. I keep them in a box in a drawer in my bathroom. I figure I don’t need them as much as I used to. I really don’t need to know too much more than I used to know before my hearing went. Even when I do hear my wife telling me something I really need to know, I forget it before I need it anyway. I do have a little notebook she gave me to write things down but I keep losing it.
I am hoping I remember that her birthday is this Monday. Maybe one of you can remind me. I still have last year’s card I forgot to give her so I’m Ok there.
That’s ok with me if I don’t hear as good as I used to or that I can’t remember as much as I once did. I just read a book today that I read a month ago and couldn’t remember that I had read it. My wife told me she didn’t want to spoil my fun but that I had read it twice before. How does she know those things?
I think it’s all working out just fine, as far as I am concerned. I have about 6 or7 authors I like. At least that’s what I have in my bookcase. It saves buying new books.
I have over 100 Louis L'Amour books, but that’s another story. I bought them on eBay and I had to hide them in the garage and slowly sneak them into the house
I figure they should outlast my new knee.
We went to our community pool yesterday during the late morning and I floated around with all the rest of the old guys, trying to have conversations with our hearing aids out. Had to laugh at the way some of the conversations went.
“The water feels great.”
“What’s that about grapes?”
“The weather is really turning hot.”
“You burned what pot?”
“Are you going to head north soon?”
“Who’s dead? So many people our age die.”
The thing is there were four of us floating around having this discussion and no one thought there was anything wrong. Each question received some answer and the next sentence would swing off that and so on.
Reminded me of that game we played years ago where someone would whisper a sentence in the next person’s ear and it would go around the room and the last person would say it out loud and it would be nothing like the first sentence and everyone would laugh. Except, now, we seem to get to the end of the game with the first pass.
My brother in law came over the other day with a new pair of those new hearing aids they advertise in the Desert Sun all the time. He gave up on his old pair. Said they squeaked all the time.
He said, “Wow, I just love these new aids. I can hear so good now and no background noises. I can hear everything now so plain.”
I said, Wow back. “I could sure use a set like that. What kind is it?”
He looked at his watch and said, “It’s three o’clock.”
I know I have problems hearing but didn’t realize that my wife was going deaf until the other day. I was in my study and could hear her in the kitchen. I yelled in, “what’s for Dinner?’ No answer.
I walked to the hallway door and yelled it again. Still no answer. Man, she has a real hearing problem. I finally walked into the kitchen and asked her again. She shook her head and said, “Ned, for the third time, I said we are having spaghetti.”
I try to get in the pool every day. My right knee is shot and it helps the pain. I am going to get knee replacement surgery on May 4th. The doctor says the new knee will last for twenty five years. I asked him if I should will it to somebody. I figured if I live that long, I’ll be duct taped to a chair with a drool towel, in some nursing home hallway and won’t need the knee any more.
My 20 year old hearing aids look almost brand new. I keep them in a box in a drawer in my bathroom. I figure I don’t need them as much as I used to. I really don’t need to know too much more than I used to know before my hearing went. Even when I do hear my wife telling me something I really need to know, I forget it before I need it anyway. I do have a little notebook she gave me to write things down but I keep losing it.
I am hoping I remember that her birthday is this Monday. Maybe one of you can remind me. I still have last year’s card I forgot to give her so I’m Ok there.
That’s ok with me if I don’t hear as good as I used to or that I can’t remember as much as I once did. I just read a book today that I read a month ago and couldn’t remember that I had read it. My wife told me she didn’t want to spoil my fun but that I had read it twice before. How does she know those things?
I think it’s all working out just fine, as far as I am concerned. I have about 6 or7 authors I like. At least that’s what I have in my bookcase. It saves buying new books.
I have over 100 Louis L'Amour books, but that’s another story. I bought them on eBay and I had to hide them in the garage and slowly sneak them into the house
I figure they should outlast my new knee.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
When Times Get Rough
When Times Get Rough
It seems like the anchors holding our nation together are breaking free. I do not know anyone who isn't impacted by the present economic turmoil and every time the government announces a new program , a new appointee, it seems we are heading for deeper water with a leaking lifeboat.
Paul said that he learned to be at peace in times of plenty and times of need [ the Old Ned Translation]. Trust God and He will never let you down and will hold you together in these tough times..
Today, I received this in my email pile:
'To get something you never had, you have to do something you never did.' When God takes something from your grasp, He's not punishing you, but merely opening your hands to receive something better. Concentrate on this sentence... 'The will of God will never take you where the Grace of God will not protect you.'
Let's all believe that something good will happen to us; something that we have been waiting to hear.
My wife and I received some good new yesterday from our CPA. Our income last year was so much less than our outgo that we earned a negative net income. All the income taxes we paid are coming back in a nice tax return check.. wow! How good can it get?
It seems like the anchors holding our nation together are breaking free. I do not know anyone who isn't impacted by the present economic turmoil and every time the government announces a new program , a new appointee, it seems we are heading for deeper water with a leaking lifeboat.
Paul said that he learned to be at peace in times of plenty and times of need [ the Old Ned Translation]. Trust God and He will never let you down and will hold you together in these tough times..
Today, I received this in my email pile:
'To get something you never had, you have to do something you never did.' When God takes something from your grasp, He's not punishing you, but merely opening your hands to receive something better. Concentrate on this sentence... 'The will of God will never take you where the Grace of God will not protect you.'
Let's all believe that something good will happen to us; something that we have been waiting to hear.
My wife and I received some good new yesterday from our CPA. Our income last year was so much less than our outgo that we earned a negative net income. All the income taxes we paid are coming back in a nice tax return check.. wow! How good can it get?
Friday, April 10, 2009
My Momma Done Tole Me
My Momma Done Told me…
Don’t know why she has been on my mind so much lately. I loved my mom from the day I was born until the day she went to heaven with her arms stretched up and with a huge smile. and I still do love her and miss her.
I never heard my mom use a swear word. I rarely heard her say anything bad about anybody, including my father who often deserved to have things bad said about him. They had to be pretty bad people to get one of her looks and a word or two. Funny, it was in the last 15 years or so of their lives together that dad finally figured things out and they would walk around town together, arm in arm. He actually turned into a decent guy. I wish he had done that about 30 years earlier. But, she stuck with him.
I think the last time I saw my mom’s knees was when I was about 7 or 8. After that, they were gone. Mom would never leave the house without a dress and one of her many spectacular hats on. In her latter days, living in a senior center, she would dress as though she was heading for church just to go down the hall for her mail. Mom never drove a car, never smoked, never drank except in her last years, she would have a drop or two of wine at special dinners at our home.
Her last Christmas was at our house with 5 generations of her family mobbed, half buried in wrapping paper around her in the living room. She was so frail, but laughed the whole time. You see, Mom was an orphan. She ran away from the home she was in when she was 16 and married dad. Now she had a horde of a family. I treasure the time alone in the car with her when I drove her back to the care center. We held hands and smiled at each other.
For almost 20 years she was the receptionist and Sunshine Lady for the city Senior Center. The last few years were hard, because so many of her friends had died before her. I am beginning to understand how she felt. I have lost five good friends in the last month. I hate that. It is so hard to say goodbye. I cry a lot more now than I did when I was in my fifties or sixties.
My baby sister died in her early fifties from diabetes. Mom said a parent shouldn’t outlive her children. I understand that only too well. She is right. The pain is always there.
My older sister is in advanced stage four cancer and had already outlived the Doctors’ predictions, but she is hanging on the edge. She told me in January that she wanted to make it to her April 16th Birthday. I told her that she was being selfish again. I told her that if she really loved me, she would stick around for my birthday in November.
Speaking of my birthday, my mom always told me that I was a Thanksgiving baby, born on Turkey day. A few weeks ago, I was on a web site that tells you the day of the week you were born on if you put in your birth date. Mine came up on a Monday. I mean I got really upset with mom. I have been a Thanksgiving baby for over 70 years and now I’m just a regular Monday boy. Glad I didn’t find out when it really mattered, when I needed that special edge. There are some things you just don’t need to know the answers to.
It’s sort of like trying to understand our toaster. I know that when I push the bread down, the little wires get red hot and the bread gets toasted. I don’t understand why the wires get red hot every time and don’t just burn up or why you don’t get an electric shock if you touch them. I actually tested that a while ago. I pushed the lever down when it was empty and touched the not-yet-red-hot-wires. Nothing. I know there is a reason for this being so. I just don’t know what it is.
The older I get, the more I am realizing that there is a lot I don’t need to know and a lot I need to forget.
Well, I had to let the Thanksgiving thing go. It was just that I loved to have a big Thanksgiving dinner at our house and tell everyone to bring me presents.. Not big ones, just fun presents. . Now I need to try some other way. Maybe not tell anyone I was just a Monday boy. At least my birthday does fall on Thanksgiving every few years.
Don’t know why she has been on my mind so much lately. I loved my mom from the day I was born until the day she went to heaven with her arms stretched up and with a huge smile. and I still do love her and miss her.
I never heard my mom use a swear word. I rarely heard her say anything bad about anybody, including my father who often deserved to have things bad said about him. They had to be pretty bad people to get one of her looks and a word or two. Funny, it was in the last 15 years or so of their lives together that dad finally figured things out and they would walk around town together, arm in arm. He actually turned into a decent guy. I wish he had done that about 30 years earlier. But, she stuck with him.
I think the last time I saw my mom’s knees was when I was about 7 or 8. After that, they were gone. Mom would never leave the house without a dress and one of her many spectacular hats on. In her latter days, living in a senior center, she would dress as though she was heading for church just to go down the hall for her mail. Mom never drove a car, never smoked, never drank except in her last years, she would have a drop or two of wine at special dinners at our home.
Her last Christmas was at our house with 5 generations of her family mobbed, half buried in wrapping paper around her in the living room. She was so frail, but laughed the whole time. You see, Mom was an orphan. She ran away from the home she was in when she was 16 and married dad. Now she had a horde of a family. I treasure the time alone in the car with her when I drove her back to the care center. We held hands and smiled at each other.
For almost 20 years she was the receptionist and Sunshine Lady for the city Senior Center. The last few years were hard, because so many of her friends had died before her. I am beginning to understand how she felt. I have lost five good friends in the last month. I hate that. It is so hard to say goodbye. I cry a lot more now than I did when I was in my fifties or sixties.
My baby sister died in her early fifties from diabetes. Mom said a parent shouldn’t outlive her children. I understand that only too well. She is right. The pain is always there.
My older sister is in advanced stage four cancer and had already outlived the Doctors’ predictions, but she is hanging on the edge. She told me in January that she wanted to make it to her April 16th Birthday. I told her that she was being selfish again. I told her that if she really loved me, she would stick around for my birthday in November.
Speaking of my birthday, my mom always told me that I was a Thanksgiving baby, born on Turkey day. A few weeks ago, I was on a web site that tells you the day of the week you were born on if you put in your birth date. Mine came up on a Monday. I mean I got really upset with mom. I have been a Thanksgiving baby for over 70 years and now I’m just a regular Monday boy. Glad I didn’t find out when it really mattered, when I needed that special edge. There are some things you just don’t need to know the answers to.
It’s sort of like trying to understand our toaster. I know that when I push the bread down, the little wires get red hot and the bread gets toasted. I don’t understand why the wires get red hot every time and don’t just burn up or why you don’t get an electric shock if you touch them. I actually tested that a while ago. I pushed the lever down when it was empty and touched the not-yet-red-hot-wires. Nothing. I know there is a reason for this being so. I just don’t know what it is.
The older I get, the more I am realizing that there is a lot I don’t need to know and a lot I need to forget.
Well, I had to let the Thanksgiving thing go. It was just that I loved to have a big Thanksgiving dinner at our house and tell everyone to bring me presents.. Not big ones, just fun presents. . Now I need to try some other way. Maybe not tell anyone I was just a Monday boy. At least my birthday does fall on Thanksgiving every few years.
The whole Thanksgiving scam brought up other things from my youth I was better off not remembering. Like the time during the depression when she managed to get a small, whole chicken to bake for dinner. Mom made mashed potatoes and even made a nice apple pie. This dinner was a great leap from the potato soup and bread we usually had for dinner.
When dad came home, he invited the couple next door to have dinner with us. Mom called me into the kitchen and whispered that we didn’t have enough chicken for everyone and said, “Ned, when the chicken is passed around, say, ‘No thank you, I don’t want any.’ That way, we will have enough for the neighbors.”
I did what mom said and chewed on my mashed potatoes, swishing them through my teeth, watching everyone else eat the chicken down to the bone. Trying not to glare.
When the pie was being dished out, mom said, “I’m sorry, Ned, You don’t get any desert because you wouldn’t eat your chicken.” Such was the life of an obedient son.
You know, I appreciate the closeness we had that she could do that with me. Mom worked hard at a ladies’ dress shop all day, cleaned the house and managed my two sisters and me…. Dad stopped off every night at the bar on the corner when he was finished work and missed half our dinners and that was fine with me. When I was older mom would send me down to get him and that was never pleasant. But I did get to drink beer at a pretty early age and I became a pretty good shuffleboard player.
The strange thing was that I never got into trouble as a kid because I didn’t want to shame my mom. Kept me out of a lot of trouble. I was already working at age 11 and brought my pay home to mom until I left for college. That’s what you did in those days. Nobody talked about minimum wage or underage minors. 25 cents an hour for a 12 -14 hour Saturday was enough to feed the family Sunday dinner.
Mom taught me to be polite. It was always, “Yes Ma’am and Yes Sir.” A failure to take my hat off to a lady would get me a rap of knuckles on my head. She made sure she always thanked everyone who helped her in a store or restaurant. I still thank busboys for their service when they clear my table. I read name tags and use the name when talking to someone serving me. I smile, like mom always did for everyone.
I hope my kids will remember some of the things I have passed down to them. But, my wife, Carol, is just like mom. Just like the song…. Made it so much easier.
By the way, we went to the Indio City Hall offices the other day. What wonderful, helpful people work there. Almost like my mom trained them. We left with smiles a mile wide, just for being treated so nice.
Wish it were contagious. Let’s try.
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