Jodi Stucker, Phi Beta Lambda advisor spoke at our Business and Professional Women's Meeting last night. I was impressed by the accomplishments of State Fair Community College students. Local PBL students competed at National Competition and two placed in the top ten. One young lady won first place in computer applications!
At the end of the presentation, Jodi showed a slide of a beautiful fountain in front of their hotel in Atlanta. Across the bottom of the slide was a quote: “If you think you can, or you think you can’t, you’re right.”—Henry Ford.
The “can do” attitude was instilled in me at an early age. My Mom and Dad had a hard time raising eight kids. My mom worked at a factory, and dad farmed, drove a school bus, and worked long hours as a builder. They never threw their hands in the air and said, “Lord, how are we going to feed all these hungry mouths?” No, they just thought they could and they did.
When our kids were small, I stayed home with them while Jim earned our living. For several years when we filed our income tax, we fell below the poverty level. Strangely, we didn’t really consider ourselves to be poor. We always paid our bills, and saved money when we had it to tide us through the times when we didn’t. We always knew we would make it. I’m not saying we never worried, but we never let setbacks destroy our lives.
In 1976, I began classes at State Fair Community College under a program called Manpower. I had to be persistent to quality for the program because I was not the primary breadwinner in our family. The second roadblock was the counselor’s insistence that with high unemployment, I should study nursing instead of secretarial. Let me tell you I was squeamish about nursing—shots, illness, all that blood… I knew nursing was not the program for me.
“You have to be top-notch to get a job in secretarial,” he said. “There just aren’t many jobs now. Nurses can always find work.” He totally didn’t understand why I wasn’t jumping at the opportunity to be a nurse.
“I will be top-notch,” I assured him. At State Fair, I doubled up on classes and managed to get a two-year degree in slightly more than a year. Even with high unemployment, I found a job before graduation. I was able to do it because I thought I could.
Later, the stakes became higher when Jim developed dementia. You can imagine that my squeamishness had not changed a lot over the years. Being a caregiver is much like being a nurse. You learn to deal with illness and occasionally blood. During the years of caregiving, I basically woke up each morning chanting the mantra: “I can make it through today.”
Money can't buy love or good health, but the lack of it can make life tougher. Either accept the challenge to make it through the tough times and still enjoy life, or decide you can’t and sink into despair. The choice is yours—can or can’t? Just remember, you will be right.
Friday, February 6, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
It’s a Small World
“It’s a small world” isn’t just a slogan for Disneyland and doesn’t just apply to children wearing Mickey Mouse ears. Other lands and cultures are not the mysterious settings for fairy tales and novels they once were. Now, we know people from those places, we may have toured them, or features on the Travel Channel makes us feel like we’ve been there.
Other than rare trips to Sedalia or Kansas City, we shopped locally when I was a child. We bought clothes at Nolting’s Department Store and groceries at Cooper’s. My dad was a builder and he bought building supplies at Fagen’s Lumber Yard. Our choices were limited. The world was huge and Stover was just a minuscule blip on the surface.
Now, we have access to online stores and can buy merchandise in a worldwide marketplace. Our choices are unlimited. My co-worker, Brenda, found a rare 50th anniversary National Rural Electric Cooperative Association hurricane lamp on E-bay. A few days later, she got a call from one of her neighbors who said, “I’ll just bring it by and refund your postage.” What are the odds that you buy an item off E-Bay and the seller is your neighbor?
The Internet makes our world smaller whether transactions are with a neighbor or someone in another country. Millions of us reconnect with old acquaintances or make new friends on the Internet every day.
How many people do you know that fell in love with a “soulmate” they met online? I watched an NCIS episode where Tony posed as a female to play a trick on McGee who thought he had finally met the perfect “woman”. It sort of reminds you of a Brad Paisley song, doesn’t it? A lot of people need Brad’s disclaimer, “I’m so much cooler online.”
Through Internet searches, I tracked down two of Jim’s old army buddies. When Jim developed dementia, he couldn’t give the information we needed to file a PTSD claim. I turned to the Internet to contact two of the men he served with in Vietnam. One man had a fairly common name, but I found a piece of paper in Jim’s wallet with an address. Of course, it was unlikely he would be in the same hometown twenty-six years later. The other army buddy had an unusual name, but I had no idea where he lived. After some Internet detective work, I discovered one friend had died from alcoholism and the other lived in Maine.
When I began this blog about a year ago, I didn’t expect many people would read it. Last week, my blog was viewed 222 times. Of course, that isn’t much considering I potentially have a worldwide audience, but it’s a lot for someone who grew up in Stover, population 757.
I often receive emails that say, “I just found your blog today.” One of those emails came from my former sister-in-law. Which makes me think…it’s a small, small world after all.
Other than rare trips to Sedalia or Kansas City, we shopped locally when I was a child. We bought clothes at Nolting’s Department Store and groceries at Cooper’s. My dad was a builder and he bought building supplies at Fagen’s Lumber Yard. Our choices were limited. The world was huge and Stover was just a minuscule blip on the surface.
Now, we have access to online stores and can buy merchandise in a worldwide marketplace. Our choices are unlimited. My co-worker, Brenda, found a rare 50th anniversary National Rural Electric Cooperative Association hurricane lamp on E-bay. A few days later, she got a call from one of her neighbors who said, “I’ll just bring it by and refund your postage.” What are the odds that you buy an item off E-Bay and the seller is your neighbor?
The Internet makes our world smaller whether transactions are with a neighbor or someone in another country. Millions of us reconnect with old acquaintances or make new friends on the Internet every day.
How many people do you know that fell in love with a “soulmate” they met online? I watched an NCIS episode where Tony posed as a female to play a trick on McGee who thought he had finally met the perfect “woman”. It sort of reminds you of a Brad Paisley song, doesn’t it? A lot of people need Brad’s disclaimer, “I’m so much cooler online.”
Through Internet searches, I tracked down two of Jim’s old army buddies. When Jim developed dementia, he couldn’t give the information we needed to file a PTSD claim. I turned to the Internet to contact two of the men he served with in Vietnam. One man had a fairly common name, but I found a piece of paper in Jim’s wallet with an address. Of course, it was unlikely he would be in the same hometown twenty-six years later. The other army buddy had an unusual name, but I had no idea where he lived. After some Internet detective work, I discovered one friend had died from alcoholism and the other lived in Maine.
When I began this blog about a year ago, I didn’t expect many people would read it. Last week, my blog was viewed 222 times. Of course, that isn’t much considering I potentially have a worldwide audience, but it’s a lot for someone who grew up in Stover, population 757.
I often receive emails that say, “I just found your blog today.” One of those emails came from my former sister-in-law. Which makes me think…it’s a small, small world after all.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Will Work for Food
Several years ago during another economic downturn, Jim and I had just left Wal-Mart. We didn’t have a lot of money, so we had carefully selected enough groceries for the week. We stopped in a line of traffic waiting to pull onto Highway 50. A scruffy looking man carried a sign that said “Will Work for Food.” Several cars in front of us rolled down windows and handed the man money.
Jim said, “Roll down your window, Honey.”
Jim was a generous sort of man so I thought he was going to give the guy some money. We knew what hard times were firsthand. I began to rummage through my purse looking for a few dollars. Jim beckoned the man to come over, and the man leaned into my window.
Jim said, “Hey, I have a lot of work that needs to be done at my house. I can keep you busy for several days.” It was true that we could use help. Jim and I were building our house with sweat equity, and we had worked on it for months, and had many more to go.
I thought maybe Jim had lost his mind. No way did I want this man at my home with my family. Besides I watch a lot of TV and was pretty sure this guy looked like serial killer material.
The man got a strange look on his face and no longer seemed the humble job seeker of a few moments before. He looked to the right. He swept his gaze to the left. “I have to go,” he said. “Those people in the next car want to talk to me.”
I rolled my window up and slammed down the button to lock the door in case that Charles Manson looking character changed his mind. “Are you crazy?” I asked Jim. “I wouldn’t want that man to even know where we live, much less hang around for days!” I was huffy.
Jim just laughed. “Hell, there’s no way that guy wants to work. He only wants a handout.”
I always hated it when Jim was right. It would have suited my personality to hand the guy some money, but Jim was a man with quick judgment who could spot a scam artist a mile away.
We pulled onto the highway. “You still took a chance,” I said. “I would have been scared to death if that guy had climbed in the van with us.”
“Wasn’t going to happen,” Jim said. “You don’t look for a job standing out on the street holding a sign.”
I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the man back at the corner with his “Will Work for Food” sign held high as another car rolled to a stop and the window came down. Sometimes it’s easier to hand over money than to judge character. In hard economic times, scam artists work hard to take your money and steal donations that could go to people who really need it.
Jim said, “Roll down your window, Honey.”
Jim was a generous sort of man so I thought he was going to give the guy some money. We knew what hard times were firsthand. I began to rummage through my purse looking for a few dollars. Jim beckoned the man to come over, and the man leaned into my window.
Jim said, “Hey, I have a lot of work that needs to be done at my house. I can keep you busy for several days.” It was true that we could use help. Jim and I were building our house with sweat equity, and we had worked on it for months, and had many more to go.
I thought maybe Jim had lost his mind. No way did I want this man at my home with my family. Besides I watch a lot of TV and was pretty sure this guy looked like serial killer material.
The man got a strange look on his face and no longer seemed the humble job seeker of a few moments before. He looked to the right. He swept his gaze to the left. “I have to go,” he said. “Those people in the next car want to talk to me.”
I rolled my window up and slammed down the button to lock the door in case that Charles Manson looking character changed his mind. “Are you crazy?” I asked Jim. “I wouldn’t want that man to even know where we live, much less hang around for days!” I was huffy.
Jim just laughed. “Hell, there’s no way that guy wants to work. He only wants a handout.”
I always hated it when Jim was right. It would have suited my personality to hand the guy some money, but Jim was a man with quick judgment who could spot a scam artist a mile away.
We pulled onto the highway. “You still took a chance,” I said. “I would have been scared to death if that guy had climbed in the van with us.”
“Wasn’t going to happen,” Jim said. “You don’t look for a job standing out on the street holding a sign.”
I looked in the rearview mirror and saw the man back at the corner with his “Will Work for Food” sign held high as another car rolled to a stop and the window came down. Sometimes it’s easier to hand over money than to judge character. In hard economic times, scam artists work hard to take your money and steal donations that could go to people who really need it.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Airplane Crash Survivors
I’m not a frequent flyer, but I fly often. When I clicked on the headlines of the US Airways crash, it was one of the strangest sights I had ever seen. The jet rested on top of the water with survivors standing on the wings waiting for their turn to be rescued. I immediately Googled the crash to see what else I could learn. The miracle story just seemed to get better and better. Then I saw a YouTube of an Airbus Crash. Wow! That was quick.
I clicked on the video and watched a plane getting lower to the ground. I was disappointed as the plane went out of sight because I wanted to see the water landing. When I thought the video would end, the jet exploded and a plume of smoke and flames shot skyward. Wrong video.
It did give me pause. Why did one jet crash and burn and the other land in water and float long enough for all passengers and crew to be rescued? What separates victims from survivors?
Why are so many people terrified of flying while others, like me, get no more excited than stepping on an elevator? It has nothing to do with bad experiences, but seems more to be something hard-wired in our brains.
I’ve had a few harrowing experience aboard aircraft, but it hasn’t interfered with my love of travel. When I was eighteen, I flew to Hawaii where Jim and I planned to marry while he was on R&R from Vietnam. My first flight was a non-stop out of Kansas City to San Francisco. After a breakfast of eggs benedict, the flight attendants (called stewardesses back then) picked up our trash and made sure everyone’s seats were in an upright position and seatbelts securely fastened. The plane began a sharp descent and we came in for a landing.
As the plane barreled down a runway seemingly in the middle of nowhere, police cars, taxis, fire trucks and ambulances followed us. As soon as the plane stopped, an announcement came over the speakers, “Exit from the nearest exit and get into the taxis.” We were herded into a building and stood beside our luggage as it was searched. Our emergency landing in Denver was a precaution because someone (“do any of you know someone who would have done such a thing?”) phoned-in a bomb threat specifying our flight and destination. In 1986, about two weeks after the Challenger explosion, I flew back to Hawaii. That time a TWA plane came so close to us that my sister swears she saw the shocked look on the pilot’s face.
It is not so much experiences as our personalities that determine how we feel about life’s challenges. Some of us are survivors and expect to continue moving forward with our lives. Others feel like victims and expect more catastrophes in their future.
Those of us who have loved ones with Alzheimer’s, or lost loved ones to the disease, know the only survivors are the caregivers. We are the pilots who land the plane on the water and wait patiently on the wings with knowledge in our hearts that we will endure, overcome, and continue forward with our lives.
My next scheduled flight is to the Alzheimer’s Association Public Policy Forum. During these hard economic times, we need to ask for continued fast-track research to find a cure for the 5.2 million Americans with Alzheimer’s. It is unthinkable that all my friends with dementia are on a plane that will crash and burn. We need to adopt a survivor mentality for those with Alzheimer’s, and not lose hope that science can bring them in for a safe and miraculous landing.
I clicked on the video and watched a plane getting lower to the ground. I was disappointed as the plane went out of sight because I wanted to see the water landing. When I thought the video would end, the jet exploded and a plume of smoke and flames shot skyward. Wrong video.
It did give me pause. Why did one jet crash and burn and the other land in water and float long enough for all passengers and crew to be rescued? What separates victims from survivors?
Why are so many people terrified of flying while others, like me, get no more excited than stepping on an elevator? It has nothing to do with bad experiences, but seems more to be something hard-wired in our brains.
I’ve had a few harrowing experience aboard aircraft, but it hasn’t interfered with my love of travel. When I was eighteen, I flew to Hawaii where Jim and I planned to marry while he was on R&R from Vietnam. My first flight was a non-stop out of Kansas City to San Francisco. After a breakfast of eggs benedict, the flight attendants (called stewardesses back then) picked up our trash and made sure everyone’s seats were in an upright position and seatbelts securely fastened. The plane began a sharp descent and we came in for a landing.
As the plane barreled down a runway seemingly in the middle of nowhere, police cars, taxis, fire trucks and ambulances followed us. As soon as the plane stopped, an announcement came over the speakers, “Exit from the nearest exit and get into the taxis.” We were herded into a building and stood beside our luggage as it was searched. Our emergency landing in Denver was a precaution because someone (“do any of you know someone who would have done such a thing?”) phoned-in a bomb threat specifying our flight and destination. In 1986, about two weeks after the Challenger explosion, I flew back to Hawaii. That time a TWA plane came so close to us that my sister swears she saw the shocked look on the pilot’s face.
It is not so much experiences as our personalities that determine how we feel about life’s challenges. Some of us are survivors and expect to continue moving forward with our lives. Others feel like victims and expect more catastrophes in their future.
Those of us who have loved ones with Alzheimer’s, or lost loved ones to the disease, know the only survivors are the caregivers. We are the pilots who land the plane on the water and wait patiently on the wings with knowledge in our hearts that we will endure, overcome, and continue forward with our lives.
My next scheduled flight is to the Alzheimer’s Association Public Policy Forum. During these hard economic times, we need to ask for continued fast-track research to find a cure for the 5.2 million Americans with Alzheimer’s. It is unthinkable that all my friends with dementia are on a plane that will crash and burn. We need to adopt a survivor mentality for those with Alzheimer’s, and not lose hope that science can bring them in for a safe and miraculous landing.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
I am an Ambassador!
Yesterday was an exasperating day at work—one of those days when Murphy’s Law was king and lord of my office. Phone interruptions broke my concentration and had begun to really annoy me. It seems everybody has a problem and dog-gone-it I had enough of my own!
When one more call came in, I forced my voice to a calmness I no longer felt. This call, instead of adding to my angst, lifted my spirits. Ashley Burden from the Mid-Missouri Chapter called to ask me if I would be an Alzheimer’s Association Ambassador for Pettis County.
“Sure,” I said. “What will I be doing? Do I need to know a foreign language?”
“No foreign language required. And you will pretty much be doing what you already do,” she said. “As ambassador, you will speak to civic organizations—you know, give the fifteen minute spiel on the services provided by the Chapter.”
“I know a lot of fifteen minute spiels,” I admitted. I learned the fifteen minute spiels years ago when I was Memory Walk Coordinator and I haven’t shut up since.
During the course of our conversation, Ashley also told me about a new program called LEARN to address early stage problems. This exciting program funded by a Missouri Grant will provide additional guidance for a family when their loved one is first diagnosed. Additional respite funds are available through this program. I know from personal experience how important respite is for the primary caregiver.
Then, we shifted gears to the March 23-25 Public Policy Forum. This year marks my ninth consecutive Forum! I’m still as excited about going as I was the first time. My sister is going with me this year and we plan to spend some quality time in our nation’s capitol. The Chapter wants to send a person in the early stages and his or her caregiver to Washington, DC. I promised Ashley that I would think about possible candidates from our area.
Ashley got another phone call and had to hang up. I looked at the pile of papers on my desk: month end/year end reports with issues. Numbers buzzed through my brain relentlessly working on this brain-teasing puzzle. A one page report that should have taken less than ten minutes to verify had turned into a full day quest for answers. Our conversation had been short—less than five minutes, but it brightened my day and reminded me that the most important things in my life were not on my desk. I had let work problems fill my mind with anxiety.
More important that comparing spreadsheets to printouts are Girl Scout cookies, basketball games, math club, and baby smiles. Important things are editing my book and submitting it to an agent. Now, an important thing is taking my Alzheimer’s volunteerism to the Ambassador level.
My Oxford American Dictionary shows one definition of ambassador as “an official messenger.” I have been a messenger for the Alzheimer’s Association since my first contact with them before we had a diagnosis for Jim. Soon, I will be “official” but that won’t make me stodgy. Being an Alzheimer’s Volunteer for me is not something I do just because I want to; it’s something I am compelled to do.
When one more call came in, I forced my voice to a calmness I no longer felt. This call, instead of adding to my angst, lifted my spirits. Ashley Burden from the Mid-Missouri Chapter called to ask me if I would be an Alzheimer’s Association Ambassador for Pettis County.
“Sure,” I said. “What will I be doing? Do I need to know a foreign language?”
“No foreign language required. And you will pretty much be doing what you already do,” she said. “As ambassador, you will speak to civic organizations—you know, give the fifteen minute spiel on the services provided by the Chapter.”
“I know a lot of fifteen minute spiels,” I admitted. I learned the fifteen minute spiels years ago when I was Memory Walk Coordinator and I haven’t shut up since.
During the course of our conversation, Ashley also told me about a new program called LEARN to address early stage problems. This exciting program funded by a Missouri Grant will provide additional guidance for a family when their loved one is first diagnosed. Additional respite funds are available through this program. I know from personal experience how important respite is for the primary caregiver.
Then, we shifted gears to the March 23-25 Public Policy Forum. This year marks my ninth consecutive Forum! I’m still as excited about going as I was the first time. My sister is going with me this year and we plan to spend some quality time in our nation’s capitol. The Chapter wants to send a person in the early stages and his or her caregiver to Washington, DC. I promised Ashley that I would think about possible candidates from our area.
Ashley got another phone call and had to hang up. I looked at the pile of papers on my desk: month end/year end reports with issues. Numbers buzzed through my brain relentlessly working on this brain-teasing puzzle. A one page report that should have taken less than ten minutes to verify had turned into a full day quest for answers. Our conversation had been short—less than five minutes, but it brightened my day and reminded me that the most important things in my life were not on my desk. I had let work problems fill my mind with anxiety.
More important that comparing spreadsheets to printouts are Girl Scout cookies, basketball games, math club, and baby smiles. Important things are editing my book and submitting it to an agent. Now, an important thing is taking my Alzheimer’s volunteerism to the Ambassador level.
My Oxford American Dictionary shows one definition of ambassador as “an official messenger.” I have been a messenger for the Alzheimer’s Association since my first contact with them before we had a diagnosis for Jim. Soon, I will be “official” but that won’t make me stodgy. Being an Alzheimer’s Volunteer for me is not something I do just because I want to; it’s something I am compelled to do.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Un-Deck the Halls
Well, here it is, the first Saturday in January and I haven’t taken down my Christmas decorations. The worse thing about putting it off, we have been blessed with sunshine and 70 degree weather today.
One thing I’ve learned after living my whole life in Missouri is how unpredictable the weather can be. I walked outside earlier to check my mail and wore a short sleeved tee-shirt. Two weeks ago, we had an artic blast that left our water frozen and I went outside wearing my insulated coveralls, a heavy coat, and a stocking cap pulled low on my forehead. I looked and felt like the little boy in Christmas Story who couldn’t bend his arms or legs once he donned his snowsuit.
Thawing frozen pipes used to be Jim’s job. Then, after dementia limited Jim’s abilities the responsibility shifted to my shoulders. Several years ago on a cold winter night his mom called me to tell me our water had frozen. We shared a well and it was behind her house next door. Jim sat in front of the TV watching Walker Texas Ranger and didn’t even look at me when I told him the news. I put on a pair of Jim’s coveralls and called my son, Eric, and brother-in-law. By the time I got decked out in my warm clothes, the two of them were assessing the situation.
“Your dad didn’t even care that the water was frozen,” I told my son. “He’s still at home watching TV.”
“I bet he would have cared if the electricity went out and he couldn’t watch Walker,” Eric said.
There is no such thing as typical weather in Missouri. You just take it as it comes and deal with it.
For some reason, I thought that once the holidays were over, I could relax for a while. Ha! The next few months seem to be busier than ever. Today, I need to un-deck the halls and have two meetings—one tomorrow and one on Thursday—that I need to work on. So, I’ve just been flitting back and forth between reports, emails, laundry, taking down decorations, and thinking that I would really like to go out on the deck, put my feet up and watch the birds.
It’s foolish to waste a spring day in the dead of winter, and I do need to take the Christmas lights off the deck railing. After all, by next Saturday the lights may be covered with a coat of ice and subzero wind chills might make me want to burrow into a blanket and watch an NCIS marathon.
My granddaughter will be here soon and if I don’t get the halls un-decked, she will no doubt tell me, “Grandma Linda, Christmas is OVER.” I have the Christmas tree put away, but still have a few hours work ahead of me. I can’t decide if the chirping birds outside my window are urging me to hurry up and finish, or just put it off until another day.
One thing I’ve learned after living my whole life in Missouri is how unpredictable the weather can be. I walked outside earlier to check my mail and wore a short sleeved tee-shirt. Two weeks ago, we had an artic blast that left our water frozen and I went outside wearing my insulated coveralls, a heavy coat, and a stocking cap pulled low on my forehead. I looked and felt like the little boy in Christmas Story who couldn’t bend his arms or legs once he donned his snowsuit.
Thawing frozen pipes used to be Jim’s job. Then, after dementia limited Jim’s abilities the responsibility shifted to my shoulders. Several years ago on a cold winter night his mom called me to tell me our water had frozen. We shared a well and it was behind her house next door. Jim sat in front of the TV watching Walker Texas Ranger and didn’t even look at me when I told him the news. I put on a pair of Jim’s coveralls and called my son, Eric, and brother-in-law. By the time I got decked out in my warm clothes, the two of them were assessing the situation.
“Your dad didn’t even care that the water was frozen,” I told my son. “He’s still at home watching TV.”
“I bet he would have cared if the electricity went out and he couldn’t watch Walker,” Eric said.
There is no such thing as typical weather in Missouri. You just take it as it comes and deal with it.
For some reason, I thought that once the holidays were over, I could relax for a while. Ha! The next few months seem to be busier than ever. Today, I need to un-deck the halls and have two meetings—one tomorrow and one on Thursday—that I need to work on. So, I’ve just been flitting back and forth between reports, emails, laundry, taking down decorations, and thinking that I would really like to go out on the deck, put my feet up and watch the birds.
It’s foolish to waste a spring day in the dead of winter, and I do need to take the Christmas lights off the deck railing. After all, by next Saturday the lights may be covered with a coat of ice and subzero wind chills might make me want to burrow into a blanket and watch an NCIS marathon.
My granddaughter will be here soon and if I don’t get the halls un-decked, she will no doubt tell me, “Grandma Linda, Christmas is OVER.” I have the Christmas tree put away, but still have a few hours work ahead of me. I can’t decide if the chirping birds outside my window are urging me to hurry up and finish, or just put it off until another day.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
The Twelve Pounds of Christmas
After eating my way through the holidays, I think the popular Christmas song is misnamed and should be changed to the “Twelve Pounds of Christmas.” I always did find that song annoying and after “five golden rings” I was ready for it to end. If you think of it as food, five should be enough. Five holiday meals should be enough—let me count—yes, that’s how many I had.
Whew, sure glad I didn’t have six. If I gained two pounds at each meal and had six, I couldn’t stay within the twelve pounds and have any cookies, peanut clusters, caramel popcorn, fudge, fruitcake, solid milk chocolate bar, or any other holiday goodies to die for. With the damage to my cholesterol and triglycerides, “to die for” might not be a good expression to use.
I was going to go to the gym yesterday to minimize the damage, but they were among the businesses that closed the day after Christmas. If I reversed my habits and went to the gym three times a day and ate three times a week I would drop the twelve pounds of Christmas in a hurry.
I can’t even use the weather as an excuse to curl up on the couch and watch the snow fall. After a few days of bone chilling weather and frozen water pipes, we warmed up to 63 degrees. Yesterday my weather alert warned of flash floods, this morning the shrill alert was a TORNADO WARNING. A huge storm moved through the adjoining county to the southwest of us…not a good place to be when they normally move northeast.
Usually at least during a storm I run up and down the stairs with the question running through my mind—to the basement? Up the stairs? This is not the exercise I had in mind for two days after Christmas—the Stairmaster of Tornado Alley. That sounds like a combination of exercise and a video game.
Do I take my decorations down, or let them go to Oz? I wonder if a Christmas tree has ever had lightning come in on it. I’m enjoying my tree, but I hear the rumble of thunder through the sound of the pouring down rain. Christmas has come and gone, but as long as I leave up the tree and decorations, it looks like Christmas in my house. I may need to shut the blinds because it looks like a spring thunderstorm outside.
The good news is most of the food is gone. Well, I do have a cheese ball in the fridge. It should be good for a couple of pounds. Twelve pounds should not be insurmountable. I would need to lose a pound a month. I probably lost 100 pounds in 2008. Let me explain before you call Jenny Craig and give them my name for a new spokesperson. I lost the same five pounds over and over. I think my scales are stuck in a five pound section.
Jim used to think my agony over five or ten pounds was silly. He said I was the weight I was supposed to be and I was battling nature by trying to lose weight. “Everyone is different,” he said. “The difference between eating what you want and what your diet allows is about five pounds. Is it worth it?”
My doctor thinks it is, but I’m not really sold. Five pounds? Bah Humbug! Twelve pounds…break out the Melba toast.
Whew, sure glad I didn’t have six. If I gained two pounds at each meal and had six, I couldn’t stay within the twelve pounds and have any cookies, peanut clusters, caramel popcorn, fudge, fruitcake, solid milk chocolate bar, or any other holiday goodies to die for. With the damage to my cholesterol and triglycerides, “to die for” might not be a good expression to use.
I was going to go to the gym yesterday to minimize the damage, but they were among the businesses that closed the day after Christmas. If I reversed my habits and went to the gym three times a day and ate three times a week I would drop the twelve pounds of Christmas in a hurry.
I can’t even use the weather as an excuse to curl up on the couch and watch the snow fall. After a few days of bone chilling weather and frozen water pipes, we warmed up to 63 degrees. Yesterday my weather alert warned of flash floods, this morning the shrill alert was a TORNADO WARNING. A huge storm moved through the adjoining county to the southwest of us…not a good place to be when they normally move northeast.
Usually at least during a storm I run up and down the stairs with the question running through my mind—to the basement? Up the stairs? This is not the exercise I had in mind for two days after Christmas—the Stairmaster of Tornado Alley. That sounds like a combination of exercise and a video game.
Do I take my decorations down, or let them go to Oz? I wonder if a Christmas tree has ever had lightning come in on it. I’m enjoying my tree, but I hear the rumble of thunder through the sound of the pouring down rain. Christmas has come and gone, but as long as I leave up the tree and decorations, it looks like Christmas in my house. I may need to shut the blinds because it looks like a spring thunderstorm outside.
The good news is most of the food is gone. Well, I do have a cheese ball in the fridge. It should be good for a couple of pounds. Twelve pounds should not be insurmountable. I would need to lose a pound a month. I probably lost 100 pounds in 2008. Let me explain before you call Jenny Craig and give them my name for a new spokesperson. I lost the same five pounds over and over. I think my scales are stuck in a five pound section.
Jim used to think my agony over five or ten pounds was silly. He said I was the weight I was supposed to be and I was battling nature by trying to lose weight. “Everyone is different,” he said. “The difference between eating what you want and what your diet allows is about five pounds. Is it worth it?”
My doctor thinks it is, but I’m not really sold. Five pounds? Bah Humbug! Twelve pounds…break out the Melba toast.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Secret Santa of Sedalia
Sedalia has gotten a holiday boost from our own personal hometown Secret Santa. This lady has spread good cheer throughout our community and has distributed $6000 of her own money to those in need. She has gone door to door, waltzed into Hardees and McDonald’s, the Salvation Army store, and caught people exiting their cars. Everyone’s first reaction is disbelief. When did we become so skeptical that we don’t believe in Santa Claus?
Like a true Secret Santa, her identity remains unknown. The Sedalia Democrat reporters follow in her wake to interview recipients. Out-of-work people, down-on- their-luck people, and worried-about-how-to-pay-for Christmas/taxes/heat/prescriptions—fill in the blank—people get tears in their eyes as they describe what they will do with their $50 or $100 the lady in red gave them.
We all want to make a difference in the world and here is one lady who found an anonymous way. She borrowed her idea from the millionaire Secret Santa in Kansas City. Larry Stewart's identity became known shortly before he died in 2007 after he had given away more than $1.3 million. Another Santa donned a red hat and continued the tradition in Kansas City, but this is our town’s first Secret Santa.
Somehow, I don’t think this lady is a millionaire. She might be, but I think she is just a caring, generous person who raided her bank account to spread Christmas cheer in a world where so many face hard economic times. Her gift comes from the heart without an ulterior motive of self-promotion. She cares, she loves, and she gives.
Most pictures in the paper are taken from an angle that hides her face. You see the flowing Santa “beard” and her face is obscured by the red-and-white Santa hat pulled low. One lone picture showed enough of her face that people who knew her well might have recognized her, but the photographers didn’t make that mistake again.
She is adamant that she remain anonymous. She doesn’t want public glory, only the private knowledge that she has made a difference in her own community.
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa” but he doesn’t live at the North Pole, she lives in Sedalia. “Merry Christmas” isn’t just a trite phrase to her, it’s a personal mission.
I tip my Santa hat to you, Ms. Secret Santa. Thank you for reminding us that the greatest blessing of Christmas comes from spreading good cheer and giving generously to those who have less than we do.
Like a true Secret Santa, her identity remains unknown. The Sedalia Democrat reporters follow in her wake to interview recipients. Out-of-work people, down-on- their-luck people, and worried-about-how-to-pay-for Christmas/taxes/heat/prescriptions—fill in the blank—people get tears in their eyes as they describe what they will do with their $50 or $100 the lady in red gave them.
We all want to make a difference in the world and here is one lady who found an anonymous way. She borrowed her idea from the millionaire Secret Santa in Kansas City. Larry Stewart's identity became known shortly before he died in 2007 after he had given away more than $1.3 million. Another Santa donned a red hat and continued the tradition in Kansas City, but this is our town’s first Secret Santa.
Somehow, I don’t think this lady is a millionaire. She might be, but I think she is just a caring, generous person who raided her bank account to spread Christmas cheer in a world where so many face hard economic times. Her gift comes from the heart without an ulterior motive of self-promotion. She cares, she loves, and she gives.
Most pictures in the paper are taken from an angle that hides her face. You see the flowing Santa “beard” and her face is obscured by the red-and-white Santa hat pulled low. One lone picture showed enough of her face that people who knew her well might have recognized her, but the photographers didn’t make that mistake again.
She is adamant that she remain anonymous. She doesn’t want public glory, only the private knowledge that she has made a difference in her own community.
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa” but he doesn’t live at the North Pole, she lives in Sedalia. “Merry Christmas” isn’t just a trite phrase to her, it’s a personal mission.
I tip my Santa hat to you, Ms. Secret Santa. Thank you for reminding us that the greatest blessing of Christmas comes from spreading good cheer and giving generously to those who have less than we do.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Small Town Book Signing
Book signings aren’t for the timid or those lacking in self confidence. You may sit with pen in hand ready to sign the book you crafted with love and watch people walk by who refuse to make eye contact. You may sell one book, twenty books, or no books at all.
My sister asked me to have a book signing at her craft booth the day of the Stover Christmas Parade. It sounded intriguing to me to have a book signing in my old hometown.
I grew up south of Stover and rode the school bus for about an hour each way to go to school in town. When the bus bumped over the Rock Island railroad tracks, I read the “city” limit sign proclaiming the population to be 757. I think dogs and cats might have been included in that total. One of the advantages and disadvantages of a small town is that you know everyone.
Seeing a stranger was an oddity and noteworthy, especially since Stover had no tourism. On a hot summer day in 1968, I met a young man with the broadest shoulders I had ever seen. Jim’s uncle introduced us in front of the Dew Drop In Cafe. Jim still wasn’t a total stranger since his Uncle Orvie knew my mom and her brothers and they played music together.
After Jim and I married, we moved away from the area, and other than visiting my folks, I never spent much time in Stover. On my rare visits, I sometimes saw people I once knew well, but I no longer recognized most of them. People change and, gosh, how “they” have aged!
The week before the signing, the local newspaper ran an article about me complete with picture. Funny, how I looked like my mother in that picture. I was hopeful that a few people would read the article and show up for the signing. I took my book, Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love, and A Cup of Comfort for Families with Alzheimer’s. At most book signings I only have non-fiction Alzheimer’s books, but this time I took Well Versed and Echoes of the Ozarks which include some of my fiction stories. I saw people I hadn’t seen in years, sold a lot of books, and really enjoyed the book signing.
Last week, I was the guest on a local radio talk show with Jack Miller. We talked about Alzheimer’s and about the two Alzheimer’s books. More than five million people in the U.S. have Alzheimer’s, so odds are you know someone with the disease. Either book will help you understand how the disease affects the entire family.
This Friday, I have a book signing at Sedalia Book and Toy. I will be signing my book and my story in the Cup of Comfort book. Sedalia Book and Toy manager, Sandy Diamond, sent out invitations to people we thought might be interested in coming. I e-invited others and have a list to still invite. I’ve lived in Sedalia for thirty-five years so this is my second hometown book signing this month.
If you are in Sedalia December 19 between 2 and 4, please stop by Sedalia Book and Toy and browse through their great books. If you want to learn more about Alzheimer’s and become a better friend, family member, or caregiver for someone with dementia, stop by my table. Whether you buy a book or simply pick up free Alzheimer’s brochures, don’t be afraid to make eye contact.
My sister asked me to have a book signing at her craft booth the day of the Stover Christmas Parade. It sounded intriguing to me to have a book signing in my old hometown.
I grew up south of Stover and rode the school bus for about an hour each way to go to school in town. When the bus bumped over the Rock Island railroad tracks, I read the “city” limit sign proclaiming the population to be 757. I think dogs and cats might have been included in that total. One of the advantages and disadvantages of a small town is that you know everyone.
Seeing a stranger was an oddity and noteworthy, especially since Stover had no tourism. On a hot summer day in 1968, I met a young man with the broadest shoulders I had ever seen. Jim’s uncle introduced us in front of the Dew Drop In Cafe. Jim still wasn’t a total stranger since his Uncle Orvie knew my mom and her brothers and they played music together.
After Jim and I married, we moved away from the area, and other than visiting my folks, I never spent much time in Stover. On my rare visits, I sometimes saw people I once knew well, but I no longer recognized most of them. People change and, gosh, how “they” have aged!
The week before the signing, the local newspaper ran an article about me complete with picture. Funny, how I looked like my mother in that picture. I was hopeful that a few people would read the article and show up for the signing. I took my book, Alzheimer’s Anthology of Unconditional Love, and A Cup of Comfort for Families with Alzheimer’s. At most book signings I only have non-fiction Alzheimer’s books, but this time I took Well Versed and Echoes of the Ozarks which include some of my fiction stories. I saw people I hadn’t seen in years, sold a lot of books, and really enjoyed the book signing.
Last week, I was the guest on a local radio talk show with Jack Miller. We talked about Alzheimer’s and about the two Alzheimer’s books. More than five million people in the U.S. have Alzheimer’s, so odds are you know someone with the disease. Either book will help you understand how the disease affects the entire family.
This Friday, I have a book signing at Sedalia Book and Toy. I will be signing my book and my story in the Cup of Comfort book. Sedalia Book and Toy manager, Sandy Diamond, sent out invitations to people we thought might be interested in coming. I e-invited others and have a list to still invite. I’ve lived in Sedalia for thirty-five years so this is my second hometown book signing this month.
If you are in Sedalia December 19 between 2 and 4, please stop by Sedalia Book and Toy and browse through their great books. If you want to learn more about Alzheimer’s and become a better friend, family member, or caregiver for someone with dementia, stop by my table. Whether you buy a book or simply pick up free Alzheimer’s brochures, don’t be afraid to make eye contact.
Sunday, December 7, 2008
Ten Thousand Cicadas and a Drummer Boy
Health wise, last year was my luckiest ever. I missed all the sickness and didn’t have so much as a cold. We all know what a difference a year can make.
Last week, I came down with a cold. I can handle a measly little cold by taking one day really easy. So, I spent last Sunday self medicating, fully confident that Monday would be full steam ahead.
I felt better Monday morning so I went to work at 7:00 a.m. as usual. About 10:00, my ear stopped up. I called the doctor and he penciled me into a 12:00 cancellation.
“You have an ear infection,” he said. He wrote a prescription for an antibiotic and sent me on my way. By now the whole left side of my face throbbed.
At Wal-Mart, I dropped off the prescription at the appropriate window and went to buy some chicken soup and green tea. While I shopped, I remembered the problems Jim had with his ears and how he couldn’t tell us how it hurt. Jim had aphasia and rarely spoke so it took observation to determine when he wasn’t feeling well. One time, his balance was off, and a nurse at the nursing home decided to take him across the lot to our family doctor’s office to have his ears irrigated.
“Does he speak at all?” the doctor asked the nurse as Jim silently sat on the examining table. The doctor visited Jim regularly in the nursing home and hadn’t heard Jim say anything in years.
“Not much,” the nurse said.
The doctor poked an Otoscope in Jim’s ear to take a look.
“Jesus Christ!” Jim yelled and jumped off the examining table scowling at the doctor.
“I thought you said he didn’t talk,” the doctor said.
“I said, ‘Not much’,” she replied.
I pushed my thoughts of Jim aside and got in line behind a woman with coupons and questions dealing with a novice checker. Ten minutes later, I paid for my few items and headed back to the pharmacy to check on my prescription. After I stood in another line, I picked up my medicine and headed home.
By now my ear sounded like it had ten thousand cicadas in it. Occasionally it would “thump” like the little drummer boy had given it a whack. After all these years, I began to think of an ear drum as a real drum.
After a short winter’s nap, I woke up and the pressure wasn’t as bad, but I felt liquid in my ear. I used a Kleenex to wipe out my ear and bright red blood covered it. I called my doctor at home. He explained how the pressure had ruptured my ear drum, but he was confident that it would heal. “I never knew of anyone to bleed to death from their ear,” he said.
Oh, crap. I hadn’t even thought of that! Didn’t the cowboys in TV westerns often bleed from their ears right before they died?
The doctor was correct, and I didn’t bleed to death and the ear eventually stopped hurting. I’ve become accustomed to the humming and the drummer boy has laid down his sticks. I can’t hear well out of the ear yet and my sound perception is askew. When I turn on the water, it sounds like it is running somewhere off to my right. My hearing has always been excellent and I thought God was compensating me for my poor eyesight. According to Google, my ear drum will probably heal on its own, but I have a few options if it doesn’t before I need to break out the hearing aides.
For now, it’s always summer in my ear, and it’s a good year for cicadas.
Last week, I came down with a cold. I can handle a measly little cold by taking one day really easy. So, I spent last Sunday self medicating, fully confident that Monday would be full steam ahead.
I felt better Monday morning so I went to work at 7:00 a.m. as usual. About 10:00, my ear stopped up. I called the doctor and he penciled me into a 12:00 cancellation.
“You have an ear infection,” he said. He wrote a prescription for an antibiotic and sent me on my way. By now the whole left side of my face throbbed.
At Wal-Mart, I dropped off the prescription at the appropriate window and went to buy some chicken soup and green tea. While I shopped, I remembered the problems Jim had with his ears and how he couldn’t tell us how it hurt. Jim had aphasia and rarely spoke so it took observation to determine when he wasn’t feeling well. One time, his balance was off, and a nurse at the nursing home decided to take him across the lot to our family doctor’s office to have his ears irrigated.
“Does he speak at all?” the doctor asked the nurse as Jim silently sat on the examining table. The doctor visited Jim regularly in the nursing home and hadn’t heard Jim say anything in years.
“Not much,” the nurse said.
The doctor poked an Otoscope in Jim’s ear to take a look.
“Jesus Christ!” Jim yelled and jumped off the examining table scowling at the doctor.
“I thought you said he didn’t talk,” the doctor said.
“I said, ‘Not much’,” she replied.
I pushed my thoughts of Jim aside and got in line behind a woman with coupons and questions dealing with a novice checker. Ten minutes later, I paid for my few items and headed back to the pharmacy to check on my prescription. After I stood in another line, I picked up my medicine and headed home.
By now my ear sounded like it had ten thousand cicadas in it. Occasionally it would “thump” like the little drummer boy had given it a whack. After all these years, I began to think of an ear drum as a real drum.
After a short winter’s nap, I woke up and the pressure wasn’t as bad, but I felt liquid in my ear. I used a Kleenex to wipe out my ear and bright red blood covered it. I called my doctor at home. He explained how the pressure had ruptured my ear drum, but he was confident that it would heal. “I never knew of anyone to bleed to death from their ear,” he said.
Oh, crap. I hadn’t even thought of that! Didn’t the cowboys in TV westerns often bleed from their ears right before they died?
The doctor was correct, and I didn’t bleed to death and the ear eventually stopped hurting. I’ve become accustomed to the humming and the drummer boy has laid down his sticks. I can’t hear well out of the ear yet and my sound perception is askew. When I turn on the water, it sounds like it is running somewhere off to my right. My hearing has always been excellent and I thought God was compensating me for my poor eyesight. According to Google, my ear drum will probably heal on its own, but I have a few options if it doesn’t before I need to break out the hearing aides.
For now, it’s always summer in my ear, and it’s a good year for cicadas.
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