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There's an old swag that someone once said that if they'd known they were going to live so long, they would've taken better care of themselves when they were younger. Wise words. And always spoken "looking back", where our vision is always 20/20. For about a week or so before my Monday adventure, I had been feeling "unwell". Not sick really, but not up to snuff, either. Slight fever, some pretty significant teeth-chattering chills, and my left foot hurt for some reason. I didn't see any cuts or anything so it was just another thing to chalked up to OCD [old coot's disease] Well, things just didn't get any better. While taking a shower I noticed a lump on the ball of my left big toe. After further exploration, I determined I must've picked up a splinter or something, so I got out my trusty needle and tweezers, along with alcohol, peroxide, etc., etc. and went "mining". Well, let's just say with my first "puncture", I hit the mother lode. My toe virtually exploded. I will not go into horrid graphics here, but it was a sore toe to make Tom Sawyer proud. Okay fine. I figure, like most festering wounds, now it had been opened and was draining, in a few days it would be okay. No such luck. The skin began to slough off and now I have an infected area about the size of a quarter on my toe. They cut away all of the dead stuff and "open packed" the wound, and my daughter [lucky girl] repacks and changes the dressing on the wound 4 times a day. It's a toss-up at this point whether they will be able to save the toe, but we're sure giving it the good ol' college try. Now, with this as a background, let's move on to my lovely kidneys ... my right kidney to be specific. I had developed a nice little kidney infection for which I was taking antibiotics and drinking an absolute crapload of cranberry juice ... but the medicine wasn't working and so on my second trip to the doctor this last Monday, they decided to send me directly to the hospital. Now, if my daughter hadn't been with me, I probably would've gotten away clean, but oh well. Y'know almost 30 years ago I gave birth to a bouncing baby girl who weighed in at 6 pounds, 12 oz. and she was 19" long. While I wouldn't recommend it as a fun thing to do on a Saturday afternoon, it was surviveable In other words, it hurt like hell, but I did okay. However, from that day to the day before yesterday, I thought it was the worst pain I had ever felt. WRONG. That spot is now reserved for a little piece of crystal smaller even than a grain of ice cream salt. That's right, folks: a kidney stone. On the good note, I seem to be rapidly on the mend from the kidney thing, and as for the toe thing I'll just have to wait, see, and hope for the best. [thoughts and prayers gratefully accepted here] But on a serious note to any of you out there who are or may think you might be diabetic: Diabetes is a silent killer. Often times you don't even know how sick you are early enough to really do anything paliative about it. So watch your diet. Get more exercise. If the doctor prescribes it, take your medicine. And little things: Often times diabetics [like me] have a good deal of "no feeling" in the feet, and a little thing you don't notice at first can turn into something really bad. So be dilligent, okay??? Okay, we're at the end now. You can go back to your regularly scheduled programming. Thanks for all the outpouring of concern, well wishes and especially all the prayers. I know they helped!!
Tags: Aging Health Diabetic Caution
The way I was raised, there were some things that were just "givens". You said please, thank you, and you're welcome whenever it was appropriate. You said yessir and yes-m'am. You didn't call "grown-ups" by their given names, just their surnames with a Mr. or Mrs. in front of it. You didn't start eating until everybody was seated, and you didn't leave the table until you asked [and got] permission first. And you were taught to be forgiving. I don't care what religion you practiced, you were always told that when someone did you wrong it was probably just 'cause they didn't know any better or just weren't raised right. Therefore, you just shook your head, cast your eyes downward, and said "well...bless his heart...he never has been quite right", or words to that effect. [Oh, and by the way, in case you didn't know, in Texas woman-speak "bless your/his/her heart" is a courteous way of saying we really think you're a flaming asshole, but since we're lady-like, we don't say what we're really thinking.] Anyway, since childhood I have tried to follow the example of all the Texas women who helped mold me but I gotta tell you, some days that is not an easy task. In fact, some days I feel like I've turned the other cheek so many times that I'm sure my butt's on fire. Take today for example. It's that time of the year when the state decides to take yet another nip out of my dwindling budget to give me new license tags for my car, making it legal for me to drive on the fabulous [choke-gasp-hack!!] Texas highway system. So I get up very early this morning and take my sizeable fanny over to the DMV license office, proof-of-insurance, driver's license and money in hand, ready to do my duty, as well as being as close to the head of the line as I possibly can be. So, I pull into the parking lot where the DMV office has been since I went there to get my first license at age 16. Well guess what. On the door of that building is a little 3 x 5 card that informs anyone who's interested that the office has moved a good 10 miles away. See you there, and have a nice day. Well now my plans for being one of the first in line are all shot to hell and by the time I find the new place, there's a line of people who look like refugees fleeing R'wanda. And of course, none of them have to just go in, pay their money and get out. And of course, there's no such thing as an "express lane". So I take my place and spend the next 47 minutes [I timed it] waiting for the priviledge of paying the state of Texas $65.26. [to a really snotty clerk, no less...] As I walked out the door to go the half-acre to get to my car, I hear a gawd-awful crunch...grinding metal...squealing brakes...all the good stuff. I look across several rows and what do I see? An absolutely crappy looking rice wagon "stuck" to my front bumper. I know it's stuck 'cause the blithering idiot is jumping up and down trying to get un-stuck. I'm sure he was doing this hoping for a clean get-away, because as it turns out this yutz [who, by the way, can't speak a dime's worth of English] doesn't have insurance!!! I found this out after the cops got there. Luckily, there was a constable on duty at the DMV office and he "held" the guy and called the cops in the first place. So anyway, it turns out this "fine, upstanding, non-citizen" not only didn't have insurance, he didn't have a freakin' license to drive! AND [at 9 o'clock in the a.m.] he was drunk! AND it turns out that he had three outstanding warrants, including one for aggravated assault!! So as I watched the cops drive him away, and I called my insurance agent to report the accident and tell him what happened, and while I was wondering how much it's gonna raise my insurance rates, I couldn't help thinking: Well, bless his heart ... he probably just don't know no better.
Tags: stories in the key of life
 Okay, so now the tax man has come and gone for yet another year and most of us are breathing our collective sigh of relief. Hopefully, we all had the money to pay what Uncle Sugar said we owed, or have arranged a payment plan we can live with. And there are those amongst us who are now eagerly awaiting the refund of those monies the "guv-mint" has used [interest-free] via withholding throughout the tax year.
I don't think that any sane person really resents paying a fair share of the expense of running things. I mean, look around you. There are things that the "guv-mint" does from which we all benefit, not the least being a strong military force to at least give us the feeling of being safe and secure within our borders. But y'know, it's that "fair share" part that seems to stick in most people's craws. The majority of us, I think, find ourselves in the position where we don't have enough to be "rich" and we have too much to be "poor". So here we are, stuck in the middle, paying the biggest portion of the tax burden...or so it seems. So how do we make things truly "equal" when it comes to personal income tax? For the longest time, I've supported a flat tax rate [for example, 10%] on all personal income. Every wage earner would have to file a separate return. No more "perks" for being married, buying a home, having kids, being sick; in fact, no deductions at all. If you make $2000 per year, then your federal tax would be $200. If you make $2,000,000 per year, then your federal tax would be $200,000. And there would be no more withholding taxes from your paycheck in anticipation of filing your return. You know when your taxes are due, and it would be your responsibility to put aside the money to pay them. Your money would truly be your money throughout the year. Simple. Fair. Equal. However, of late, I've been listening more and more to my friends who favor a national sales tax in lieu of personal federal income taxes. Their argument is simple. Attach "X" amount to every dollar spent on anything in this country. [Let's say 5 cents on every dollar, just for example purposes.] Proponents of a national sales tax say that it is the most equitable of taxes. Rich or poor. Criminal or upright citizen. Legal resident or undocumented alien. Everybody buys "stuff"...from groceries, to gasoline, to clothing, to books, to computers, to "buying" someone to mow your lawn. Everybody spends. With a national sales tax, no one escapes paying taxes. Absolutely no one. Plus, it adds a steady stream of income into government coffers, not just in quarterly or once-yearly spurts. With such a system, with no withholding, no federal tax filing, the need for the mammoth machine that is the IRS would largely go away. And more and more, this is sounding like good sense to me. So, now it's your turn. I'd like to know what your solution to the current tax situation would be. Should we be taxed at all? Should we be able to designate where our tax dollars are spent? Do you have a better idea? Please feel free to sign in on this. If you think I'm full of ****, please feel free to say that, too. One need not agree with me to be treated respectfully in my "house". The only thing I would ask is that you watch your language. There are those of my friends who are offended by excess profanity.
Tags: political discussion
Old age is golden, or so I've heard said But sometimes I wonder as I crawl out of bed With my ears in a drawer and my teeth in a cup And my eyes on the table until I wake up ... As sleep dims my vision, I say to myself Is there anything else I should put on the shelf But nations are warring and business is vexed So I'll just stick around to see what happens next ... How do I know my youth is all spent? My get-up-and-go's done got up and went. But in spite of it all, I'm able to grin When I think of the places my get-up has been ... When I was younger, my slippers were red I could kick up my heels right over my head And when I got older my slippers were blue But I could still dance the whole night through. Now I am old, my slippers are black I huff to the store and I puff my way back But never you laugh, I don't mind at all I'd rather be huffing than not puff at all ... How do I know my youth is all spent? My get-up-and-go's done got up and went. But in spite of it all, I'm able to grin When I think of the places my get-up has been ... I get up each morning and dust off my wits I open the paper and scan the obits If my name isn't in there then I know I'm not dead So I eat a good breakfast and go back to bed ... How do I know my youth is all spent? My get-up-and-go's done got up and went But in spite of it all, I'm able to grin When I think of the places my get-up has been!! By: Pete Seeger
Tags: elderly humor
When I was younger...much younger...the prospect of spending a Friday and/or Saturday night alone was, well, anathema. I usually had a date, but even if I didn't, I'd dress myself up and drag myself out to "the scene" where I could, of course, be "seen", which was the whole point.
Then the decades rolled by. There was a 17-year marriage in there somewhere, and motherhood, and then single again, struggling to make a life for myself and the daughter and then sole custodial care provider for an aging, terminally ill parent. To put it bluntly, dating became something that was just more trouble than it was worth.
And now? I'm pretty much by myself, accountable to only myself, and responsible just for myself. Long gone are the days when I have to be concerned what the family thinks of my behavior, or if the daughter approves of some man in my life, or if society thinks it's okay for a woman "of my years" to be out there playing the dating game again. So do I find myself caught up again in the mad social whirlwind of my youth? Are you out of your mind?
Let's take a quick look at the "pool" out there. At my age, I find that the men I meet pretty much fall into three categories. First, there's the vulture. This guy circles the pack, looking for just the right carcass to light upon. He finds an old girl, reasonably nice looking, wearing diamonds he only dreams about. He figures if he hooks up with her, his life will be all pretzels and beer...no, excuse me, what he's expecting is champagne and caviar...and a paid-off home, two cars, and someone who'll cook for him, clean up after him, and always leave the light on when he comes wandering home. Y'know: a mommy. In return, he'll "tumble" her occasionally, make her feel young and desireable, then probably out-live her and inherit everything.
Next comes the freebird. This guy has been through the marriage mill one or more times, financially getting the worse of it each time he has to hire a lawyer. He's usually living in a one bedroom apartment [cause one of his ex-wives got the house in the divorce], but he pays $300 a month to park his boat at the marina. He's reveling in his new "freedom" and really doesn't want a relationship beyond a break from Mama Palm and her 5 daughters, and breakfast in the morning.
Finally, there's the wise old owl. [emphasis on the "old"] This man [now a widower] was married to the most wonderful woman G-d ever created, and he fully intended to spend the rest of his life with her. He still lives in the house they had together, with pictures of her, their children, their grandchildren, and sometimes even the great-grandchildren adorning every wall in the place. He usually meets his women in church or at the synagogue and reluctantly agrees to a "date" on the insistence of friends and family. After all, grandpaw is getting up there in years, and he shouldn't be alone, right? [What this really means is, grandpaw is getting up there in years and we don't want to be stuck with taking care of him 'til he dies, so let's find someone else to step in and do the job...but be sure she signs the pre-nup first before she marries him.]
But wait, you say. What about a nice guy your own age? Someone who has had a succesful business career? Someone who's comfortable in his own skin? Someone who was raised to know how to treat a woman? Someone who knows that any relationship is an equal partnership? Someone who knows that beauty fades with time, leaving in its stead good character and solid values? Well, generally, you'll find THAT guy over in the corner trying to rush the 25-year-old "trophy blonde", and wouldn't give an "old woman" like you a passing glance, even if the truth is you're 2 years younger than he is.
So as you can see, for me at least, it's a rough old dating world out there. That's probably why I don't do it often. Oh there are a handful of men in my life who are long-term friends I've known for years. We drift in and out of each other's lives, fulfilling specific needs at specific times. But I don't pine for them to come along, and I really don't miss them when they're gone. I can take care of myself, thank you, and the state of being alone has never bothered me all that much.
As I pointed out earlier this week, with very few adjustments, I think I could turn myself into a hermit pretty easily ...
Tags: interpersonal relationships amongst those in their golden years
Seems a comment I made has stirred up some thoughts, so let's talk about it, okay?
One of the big reasons people sign up for social networking sites like Boomer's is so that they can have a creative outlet for their writing efforts. They develop friend lists and have the safe assumption that at the very least, the friends on that list will read what they write. This is [they think] probably a larger audience than they've ever had. Finally, SOMEBODY is listening ...
And so we write. We write poetry. We write prose. We write political commentaries on subjects important to us. We write of good love, bad love, and all the infinite varieties inbetween. We write of our desires and of things we avoid like the plague. We express our religious beliefs, or lack thereof. We chat about the goings-on of our everyday lives. We disseminate information, both useful and trivial. We reminisce. Some of us write because we simply can't NOT write.
And, if we're honest with ourselves and others, when we write, we really like it when people read ... and we like it even more when they tell us how wonderful they think we are, and how valuable they think what we had to say is. But is that realistic?
I mean, for example, I really don't much like the book Gone With The Wind. And the poetry of William Blake and John Keats leaves me cold. And try as I might, I've never been able to make it through James Joyce's Ulysses. Now, does that make Margaret Mitchell, Blake, Keats, and Joyce "bad" writers? Absolutely not. I may prefer Edna St. Vincent Milay over Sylvia Plaith, but that really doesn't diminish either, does it?
I think that sort of applies to what we present here. Some of us write really well one time, but really not so well another, but that's to be expected. I mean, Babe Ruth didn't hit a home run EVERY time he stepped up to the plate. And sometimes the subject matter which we're addressing just isn't all that pleasing to some folks. It doesn't mean they don't like your writing in general, they just don't like that piece in specific. And maybe they really just aren't interested in my Aunt Sue's fried pies .... LOLOL The point is, I try not to take any response, or the lack of one, as a personal insult. If a reader doesn't like fried pies, maybe they'll like my recipe for sauerkraut cookies, or like what I have to say about responding to blogs...who knows? And just because they don't write a response this time doesn't mean they won't write a response next time.
However, I do wish there was a button we could push to let all the writers know when we've at least come by and had a look at what they've written. I mean, whether the subject is important to us individually or not, when one writes anything, you're taking a chance by exposing yourself to any range of emotions, positive and negative. That takes guts no matter who you are and I, for one, appreciate your efforts, and encourage you to keep on keepin' on. However, quite honestly, and as hard as it may be for some of you to believe, sometimes I really have nothing to say.
Anyway ... here's yet another blog for you to slosh through and to comment on should you have feelings either way. And if you have nothing to say ... well, thanks for stopping by, though I'll never know. LOLOL
Tags: writing, reading, and/or responding to blogs
AUNT SUE'S FRIED PIES: For the crust: 2 cups all-purpose flour 1/2 cup Crisco [no substitutes!!] 1 tsp. salt 1 tablespoon sugar 1 small can Pet milk [again, no substitutes] Mix all ingredients together until kind of "mealy". Turn out onto a floured board and work the dough just until it's well-mixed, adding a sprinkle or two of water if the dough is too stiff. Wrap the dough in plastic wrap and put in the 'fridge to rest for a couple of hours. [this can be done the day before] For The Filling: Use an assortment of fresh or canned fruits according to your own personal tastes and what you have on hand. I use reconstituted dried apples and apricots a lot, sprinkled with a little sugar, cinnamon, allspice and nutmeg, but you can used any good canned pie filling, such as Lucky Leaf [the brand I prefer] To Make The Pies: Take your dough out of the 'fridge and roll it out about as thin as you would to make a pie crust. Then, using a cutter, cut rounds into the dough using all the little bits over and over again until all the dough is used. I use an old one-pound coffee can as a cutter when I make these, but you make whatever size works for you. Next, take a heaping tablespoon full of whatever filling you're using and plop it into the center of one of the dough rounds. Turn it top over bottom [or bottom over top] to form a half-moon shape. Use a fork to crimp the edges and seal in the filling. Set aside until they're all filled, done, and ready for the frying. In a deep cast iron skillet, melt about 1/4 cup of Crisco and 1 whole stick of butter [no substitutes]. You'll know the oil is hot enough when a little pinch of flour or dough "bubbles" in the pan. Fry the pies in the oil until golden brown on both sides; drain on some paper towels to remove any excess oil. At this point some folks like to sprinkle the hot pies with sugar or put a simple sugar glaze on them. I prefer them "as is" with maybe an extra pat of butter. This recipe goes back at least 4 generations that I know of in my family. I hope if you give 'em a try that you'll enjoy them as much as we do. 
Tags: food -- cooking -- recipes
Drinking From A Saucer I've never made a fortune and it's probably too late now As I go along life's journey, I'm reaping better than I sowed. I'm drinking from my saucer 'cause my cup has overflowed. Ain't got a lot of riches, and sometimes the going's rough. But there are those that love me and that makes me rich enough. I just thank G-d for His blessings and the mercy He's bestowed. I'm drinking from my saucer 'cause my cup has overflowed. I remember times when things went wrong and my faith got a little thin. But then all at once the dark clouds broke and the sun shone through again. So, Lord, help me not to gripe about the tough rows that I've hoed. I'm drinking from my saucer 'cause my cup has overflowed. And if G-d gives me the strength and courage when the way gets steep and rough, I won't ask for other blessings -- I'm already blessed enough. And may I never be too busy to help another bear his load, I'll keep drinking from my saucer 'cause my cup has overflowed. ...Author Unknown...
Tags: poetry ... counting your blessings
I remember my mother shaking us vigorously ... first my sister and then me ... and then waking up to the sleepy reality that it was still dark outside. And it was cold. But when Mamma said move, we moved. We fought each other into our closet and struggled into our clothes. Then another "battle" in the bathroom, 'til Daddy came in, told us to shut up and get moving or we'd feel his belt. We threw on our coats and were hustled out the door and into the morning air. It was 3:00 a.m. and it was "time" for another road trip. We all piled into the old Dodge ... a hugh mobile land yacht, built back when cars were still cars and chrome was a symbol of prosperity. The backseat was cavernous and our "spots" were carefully staked out. My sister, being the older, got the seat. I was given the little ledge that was just beneath the back windshield, and I never minded that at all. There's nothing quite like the look of the stars when you're speeding down the highway [at all of 60 mph.], watching the view from such a comfortable vantage point. Oh, there were dangers there, of course. Sudden stops could make things pretty interesting, but otherwise, there were no worries. And as for seatbelts? Heck. We "din't need no steeenkin seatbelts!!" ... LOLOL Daddy always liked to "leave early" to [he claimed] avoid all the traffic. Of course, way back then there were no super-highways...more like two-lane country roads, mostly paved, but not all. Of course, the exception was always the mythical "America's Highway", Route 66, where the big trucks were, and if you could get them to blow their big airhorn at you, it was a wonderous thing. But for most of our trips, the only traffic I noticed milling around that time of day was cows, deer, armadillos, skunks, coyotes, and an occasional escaped pig. We were on our way to the Grand Canyon, but you have to understand something about my father. To him, the journey was just as important as the destination. He was a "side-tripper", and there was lots to see between East Texas and Arizona. If he saw a sign advertising The American Cockroach Museum [or some equally intriguing site] we'd find ourselves turning off Route 66 and going on an "adventure" to see what we could see. Oh we eventually made it to the Grand Canyon, the Painted Desert, and The Petrified Forest ... but as I recall, we also saw a two-headed calf, a chicken that played piano and a pig that could do math problems, the oldest Indian in America, some really nifty stuffed critters at a roadside stop-over, several ghost towns, and panned for real gold with a real prospector. And this was all in one trip!! So tell me, my Boomer friends: Are road trips a part of your personal history? Are there any that you'd like to share here? ... If not, please feel free to share mine!!
Tags: nostalgia .. memories .. just for fun
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