Sing for Your Best Life

The best way to keep your mind active is to learn a new skill. When your mind is actively acquiring information, your brain builds new connections between neurons. The synapses become stronger as you practice a new activity.

Several years ago, I bought a ukulele and looked up some chords on YouTube. It wasn’t long before I could strum a few tunes. I started practicing with our family band and eventually played music with them at nursing homes.

I often had to consult my chord chart when we played new songs with chords I hadn’t yet learned. Later I began to sing with the group and, at that time, our band was large enough that I only sang one or two songs a month. Now that our band is smaller, we sing five or six songs each time.

Singing is good for body and soul alike. Singing releases endorphins, which lifts your spirits, but when you have lung problems as my brother and I both do, it increases lung capacity and vocal cord health.

Learning melodies and lyrics are, you guessed it, good for your brain. When you sing, you use multiple areas of your brain and improve your memory. The expression “Sleep on it” is actually good advice. During sleep, your new skills move from your short-term memory to long-term memory. In between your snores, your brain is busy downloading data to your brain’s more durable storage.

Singing in a group increases connection with family or friends. Group activities also increase levels of a hormone, oxytocin, associated with bonding. Being socially active is a recommended way to improve cognitive health.  

When you watch shows like American Idol or the Voice the judges often mention that a contestant sings “from the heart.” Well, singing from the heart is a good description because studies show that singing has the same effect on your heart as light physical activity. The researcher thinks that singing might eventually be incorporated into cardiac rehab.

Music has brought joy into my life. I try to squeeze out time several days a week to play my ukulele. When I listen to the radio or scroll on my phone watching music videos, I often hear a song I hadn’t thought of in years. Sometimes, I download the lyrics and chords only to realize I either can’t play the tune or sing the song. I’m not discouraged because sometimes I come back to it months later and it clicks. Or, I might be able to sing it, but not play it. When that happens, I might try karaoke. Sometimes, I might be able to play it but not be able to sing it. During our practice sessions, my brother can often find the correct key for my voice.

Due to health issues, we hadn’t played music at the retirement homes since November of last year. When we played this month, we heard, “We missed you,” and we missed them too. The reward for our family band was the joy on the residents’ faces.

How great is it to do something I enjoy while I exercise my heart and brain? Playing the ukulele and singing lifts my spirits and chases away the blues. Some of my efforts are an epic fail, but it certainly feels good when I learn to play or sing a song well. Either way, my dog always listens attentively and never rolls her eyes when I make a mistake. 

 Copyright ©May 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Chapters of Life

 When I think back on the different roles I’ve played throughout my lifetime, I realize that I’ve evolved and changed throughout the years. My life has as many chapters as a James Patterson novel. Some chapters were short and forgotten long ago, while others have woven a theme throughout my book of life.

Jim and I were so young when we married. I was 18 and he was 24. Times were different then than now. We grew up faster than the following generations. Vietnam took many who had just graduated high school, and some of my classmates were already slogging through the jungle getting shot at and becoming old before their time.

As my life evolved into being a wife and a mother-to-be, Jim went back to being a soldier. We had been married on Jim’s R&R, and his role changed to husband and father-to-be. He still had a year to serve when he returned to the world, and he went through another transition, but brought his demons with him.

Throughout the years of our married life, Jim suffered from PTSD, depression, occasional paranoia, and complete mental breakdowns. Alternately, he could be loving, creative, sensitive, and generous to a fault. The one trait that never changed was his love of, and loyalty to, family.

I became a caregiver during the final chapter of Jim’s life. Nothing is sadder or more heartbreaking than watching someone you love disappear into the clutches of dementia. We faced a new battle together as Jim’s personality, ability to communicate, and his sense of self diminished into a shadow of the person he once was. Yet, sometimes, he surprised those around him with a look in his eyes, or a slight smile as he held a secret he couldn’t share verbally, and returning a hug or a kiss.

We lost the battle to dementia twenty-five years ago, but Jim’s memory still lives, and the next chapter was learning to live alone. I had already lived five years alone while Jim was in the nursing home, but that was followed with another nine years living in the house Jim and I built.

I remarried in 2014 and Harold and I celebrated our 10^th wedding anniversary in August. As we aged, we both had our share of health issues. Harold’s health was worse than mine, and I found myself in a caregiving role without the benefit of being young. When Harold passed away, I found myself a widow for the second time.

The truth I discovered was that losing my spouse was harder this time. I suppose there is a complicated psychological reason, or reasons, for this difference in my ability to bounce back from the grief. The only thing I am sure of is that I don’t want to go through this again. I don’t think I can go through it again.

I’m adjusting to the new normal. I have begun to participate in activities I enjoy. I want to spend more time with family and friends.

I embrace my responsibilities to the land and home that are in my care. It’s true that you never know how strong you are until you have to be.

I’m working on resolving some of my own health issues, and want to make the most of the next chapter of my life. Some days everything goes smoothly, and other days, I have to place a bookmark and start fresh the next day.

 Copyright ©May 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Homecoming – April 5

 

Some days stick in our memories and when the date rolls around, we either celebrate or somberly remember the anniversary. The days are always poignant if you shared the memory with someone who is no longer with you.

Jim and I were married while he was on R&R in Hawaii where we had only a few short days together. We said our vows in the Ft. DeRussy Chapel on December 20^th and in the predawn hours of Christmas Day, Jim walked me to the gate to board a plane to take me home. After our goodbyes, he headed to his flight to return to the uncertainty of war.

  The days dragged by, and I worried that something would go wrong. Finally, April rolled around, and I breathed a little easier knowing that he would be coming home within the week.

 

From Indelible, unfinished memoir:

Jim’s parents and I arrived at the Kansas City airport hours ahead of time. It was April 5, 1970, and Jim was on his way home from Vietnam. He was supposed to come home on the fourth, but after an anxious day waiting for a call that didn’t come, his parents and I had spent a restless night worried that something had happened to him on his last day in Nam.

The next morning he called from Seattle. He explained that the airport was under attack the day before and they wouldn’t let the planes leave. “We kept saying, just go!” After eleven months of expecting to be blown to bits at any moment, he thought the odds were better to just get the hell out of there.

We stood outside waiting for the passengers to disembark. I was wearing a long psychedelic patterned polyester blouse over a short royal blue pleated skirt. The blouse covered the baby bump.

A crowd of people awaited the plane and the arrival of loved ones. From our excitement, they knew we were there to meet a returning soldier. Airport personnel let me go out in front of everyone and across the do-not-cross line. Jim stepped off the plane and pushed his way past the other passengers to grab me up in his arms. He was home at last!

He kissed me and I tasted the bitter tang of alcohol. Unlike most women who have morning sickness, I had afternoon sickness and it was about time for it to hit me. “What on earth have you been drinking?”

“Vodka,” he said sheepishly. “I thought vodka wasn’t supposed to smell.”

“Well, I can taste it,” I said. Then I kissed him again, vodka taste or not.

 

Each year as April 5 rolls around, I always think of Jim’s homecoming. This year, we celebrated a homecoming of a different kind. Our family gathered at my Mom’s house so that she could meet all three of her great-great grandchildren. We were able to get a five-generation photo.

Jim loved family get-togethers, and I know in my heart that he was there celebrating with us.  

 

Copyright ©April 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Is Gray a Color?

 On a windy day, I posted a picture of the wind blowing my hair around and labeled it “A Bad Hair Day.” It wasn’t long before a comment popped up that said, “Is gray a color?”

After thinking about that comment, I came to the conclusion that gray is much more than a color. Gray is a badge of courage that honors life’s worries, sorrows, disappointments, and heartaches. Gray hair and wrinkles represent the trauma of death, loss of love, and a big loss of self. After being widowed twice, I’ve earned my gray.

When a woman wears her hair its natural color and doesn’t spend hours of her life arranging every hair in place, she is saying she is comfortable with who she is. She isn’t trying to impress anyone.

If a woman wants to dye her hair, Botox her face, have a pedi mani, or anything else to make herself more beautiful, I say, “Good for her.” Her goals and mine are not the same. She can be a sister of my heart, and I’m proud of her for taking pride in her appearance.

I can clean up once in awhile, but I’m realistic. After living seven decades, what you see is what you get. Through years of marriage, or togetherness, couples see each other at their worst and at their best.

I spent fifteen years of my life as a caregiver, and I’ll admit that I’m worn to the nubbins. Lately, I’ve been treading water, and I’m a long way from the shore. Sometimes, I think I’m going to drown, but I put on my big girl panties and keep on moving forward.

Another thing I’ve noticed about reaching a certain age is it is practically impossible to hurt my feelings. I may care about your opinion, but most likely, I don’t.

I look for moments of joy: playing my ukulele, spending time with my family who loves me warts and all. Sometimes, serendipity leads me to explore something new.

After a dental appointment, I needed to go by the bank, but traffic kept me from turning left. I decided to go with the flow and made a right hand turn so that I could turn around in the mall parking lot. Considering my attention span, I thought while I was at the mall…

Thirty minutes later, I walked out of Gene’s Boots and Hats with both items mentioned in the store’s name. A new Stetson and a pair of Ariat boots stowed in my truck, I completed the trip to the bank.

The boot purchase showcases my optimistic side. I am confident that the arthritis infusions will clear up the pain in my Achilles heels. The hat, well, I just wanted one since I’m not sure where my original Resistol hat is.

I’m also optimistic that our family band will be able to play music again. We are on a break due to health problems. With age comes wisdom, gray hair, wrinkles, and a team of specialists to keep us in pretty good shape for the shape we’re in.

Music and singing are magical when it comes to traversing the winding road of life. Whenever I pick up my ukulele, I find peace and happiness whether I’m playing for an audience or for my dog.

Life is too short and too uncertain to worry more about outward appearance than spiritual serenity. Gray is the color that provides a backdrop for the colorful rainbow of promise.

 

Copyright ©April 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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A Pot of Gold

 

My sister and I took a trip to Ireland in 2005. Going to Ireland had been on my bucket list for years, so when we saw the trip advertised, we signed up for it and put down our deposits. We bought the trip insurance because Jim was in the nursing home, and his health and wellbeing would take priority over a vacation. Our trip was scheduled for September, and sadly, Jim passed away in April.

On St. Patrick’s Day in 2014, I posted some of our photos to Facebook, and when they came up in my “memories,” I reposted them. I think the one that got the most attention was the one of me kissing the Blarney Stone.

Of course, kissing the Blarney Stone was part of my bucket list too. To be perfectly honest, I had no idea how scary that entire experience would be. After we walked along the top edge of Blarney Castle, we stood in line to kiss the stone. A man held onto each person as he dipped him or her backwards over a sheer drop to the ground. My sister, grossed out at the thought of all the other lips on the stone, “air kissed” it. Not me, if I was going to put my life in the hands of an old man that dipped people backwards all day long, I wasn’t about to miss the opportunity of a lifetime, and I kissed the stone.

 Ireland, and St. Patrick’s Day, are blessed with a lot of symbolism: Ireland’s patron saint—St. Patrick, shamrocks, mischievous leprechauns, corned beef and cabbage, Irish music, the color green, and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. We speak of the luck of the Irish as if it is a magical beacon, although Ireland and the Irish have suffered greatly throughout the centuries.

How many of us chase rainbows (dreams) believing that if our dreams come true, we’ll find that pot of gold (wealth or happiness) at the end. What many don’t realize is that the chase is often the best part and the pot of gold can be disappointing.

Jim searched for that pot of gold by buying lottery tickets. He always wanted to win the jackpot. After he became more forgetful, I’d find tickets lying around that he’d bought, but never checked. Occasionally, we would take a stack in to have them run through a machine. Jim never got that pot of gold, but the tickets were a small price to chase his dream of instant wealth.

I never had any desire to win the lottery because I figured it would just mess up my life. I was more than satisfied as long as I had enough money to pay the bills, buy groceries, and have some spending money left.

Jim and I never found gold, but our life had its share of rain and rainbows. We had hard times and good times. Although we never had monetary wealth, we were abundantly blessed with love and family. 

On St. Patrick’s Day, my hope is that you enjoy chasing your dreams, and that you find a pot of “gold” filled with health, wealth, and happiness.

Originally published 2023

Copyright © March 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Write a Note

 

Jim and his uncle used to play music together on a daily basis. One time, our four-year-old son said, “Dad would you sing that song “I’ve gotta write a note?”

Jim looked confused and said, “I don’t think I know that song.”

That didn’t make sense to Eric because he had heard his dad sing the song. He prompted, “Oh, darlin’ if I’m losing you, I’ve gotta write a note.”

Jim smiled and said, “The line is ‘Oh, darlin’ if I’m losing you, I’ve gotta right to know.”

Song lyrics are often misunderstood and before the days of Google, many of us never knew the correct lyrics. In “Bad Moon Arising” some people swore that “there’s a bad moon on the rise” was “there’s a bathroom on the right.” Does that really fit the rest of the song? Yet, I swear that the live version I had, Credence played into the misconception by plainly saying, “there’s a bathroom on the right.” Pinky swear!

Sometimes our brain interprets what we hear in a way that makes sense to us, but may not be the words spoken. When a person has dementia, tone of voice and facial expressions mean more than the words we speak. As the disease progresses, our loved one tries to interpret our actions rather than our words.

Dementia affects each person differently. The care partner will notice that not everyone sees the stark changes in their loved one that they do. I believe that for an entire year after Jim forgot his social security number, his birth date, and right from left, that some of his family thought I had the problem instead of him.

At first, Jim could carry on polite conversation and talk on the phone without giving away his confusion. He could play his guitar and sing several of his songs. As time passed by, his repertoire dwindled to a few songs. The man who had the talent to sing a song after hearing it one time, no longer existed. For about five years into dementia, Jim could still play “Buckaroo” flawlessly after a few false starts.

Jim had aphasia and he rarely spoke. He had always been a prolific reader, but once following the storyline became impossible, he stopped. He watched “To Hell and Back” so many times that we had to replace the tape—twice. Jim watched “Walker Texas Ranger” and recorded it. Well, sometimes he recorded the commercials and not the show.

When Jim was in long-term care, I worked with the aides and nurses who cared for him while I was at my day job. They knew they could call me anytime day or night. I entrusted Jim’s care to others, but I was the one who knew the nuances of his character, could interpret his body language, and his facial expressions.

As Jim’s advocate, I kept the line of communications open with his caregivers. Occasionally, I even had to write a note and pin it to his bulletin board to make sure the day shift saw it. They had a right to know how to provide person centered care.

 

Copyright © March 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Almost Snowmageddon

 

Recently, meteorologists predicted a snowstorm, and I went to the store and stocked up on milk, bread, eggs, dog food, and other emergency supplies. This week’s prediction hit while I still had most of the supplies on hand from the last snowstorm. I had to go to the Post Office, and on the way home stopped by Dollar General to pick up the bare essentials: milk and cosmic brownies.

OK, I seriously knew that I could bake blueberry muffins, but they fall short on the chocolate crave meter. I just couldn’t face a major storm event without chocolate.

Early Monday morning, I cancelled my Tuesday a.m. appointment with my rheumatologist, because I didn’t want to go dashing through foot-deep snow. “You need a four-wheel drive,” a friend told me.

“Have one in the garage,” I said. That doesn’t mean I want to slide off into a ditch going to an appointment I can reschedule. 

Monday was a holiday so I wasn’t able to do the banking that I had on my to-do list. Mentally, I red-lettered Tuesday as a snow day, and we all know that snow days are for sleeping late and being lazy. The banks will still be there Wednesday. This is becoming my theme—nap today, work tomorrow.

Tuesday, my designated snow day, I was surprised to see that the snow barely covered the ground. In fact, I could see the grass sticking up through it in the yard. Of course, the day wasn’t over yet, and I received an email notice that cars parked in the snow lanes in town would be towed. Although the routes are clearly marked, I’m sure that made some people angry.

The day was exceptionally cold, even for February in Missouri. I wore my polar expedition outfit complete with my N-Ferno balaclava. I have to be desperate to wear the balaclava since it fogs my glasses and makes my hair look like I stuck my finger in an electrical outlet.

Awe, the wonders of snow and cold weather. When I was working, I had my choice of hills. The one on the west side was steep, but I could get a good run and it by going down one bank and up the other side. That option was not ideal if the neighbor kids had been sledding down the hill. To the east was a more gradual slope, but it was hard to get any momentum to make it all the way.

When Jim was in the early stages of dementia and could still drive, sometimes I had him take me to work when the roads were snow covered, or worse—icy.

Now, that I’m retired snow doesn’t bother me. My calendar is clear for the rest of the month. As long as I have books to read and chocolate to eat, I’m in the zone. It will be a good day to play my ukulele since I want to learn a couple of new-for-me songs.

As far as I’m concerned, let it snow, but someone needs to have a serious talk with Punxsutawney Phil before next Groundhog Day.

 Copyright © February2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Healing after Loss

On one of my recent trips to the post office, I found a package from my friend Cindy. She had sent a copy of the book Healing after Loss, a collection of daily meditations to help a person work through grief.

On my way home, I stopped by the cemetery, opened the book, and read the first few meditations. Each one begins with an inspirational quote, provides understanding of grief, and encouragement to let healing begin. At the bottom of each page, the author has added her own words of wisdom.

Each morning while I enjoy my first cup of coffee, I open the book and read that day’s meditation. Then, I take a moment and watch my sleeping dog. When I call her, she jumps up beside me and lets me savor her warmth and devotion.

In the book, I came across the term, “hour of lead,” and wondered exactly what it meant. I’m not sure why I had never heard the phrase, or more likely, didn’t have Google to explain what it meant. Emily Dickinson painted a word picture when she spoke of the hour of lead. I may not have heard the term, but I’ve felt the emotion. This phrase from the poem “After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes” refers to the emotional numbness and paralysis after a tragic event.

Loss can bring inertia to the grieving. The body may want to move forward, but the heart and mind need ample time to cope with their brokenness. Imagine a person with leaden feet trying to run in waist-deep water while carrying the weight of grief on his or her shoulders.

Triggers for grief can assault our emotions at the most inconvenient times. At a show in Branson, I dissolved into sobs when the performers sang, “Angels among Us.” That night was the first time I’d heard the song since a dear friend’s funeral.

Jim sang and played his guitar, and several songs remind me of him, especially the songs he sang specifically for me. When I hear Elvis Presley’s “Tender Feelings” I can close my eyes and feel Jim’s presence a heartbeat away.

Another Elvis song Jim sang was “Young and Beautiful.” The song ends with the line  “…you’ll be forever young and beautiful to me.” I once asked Jim if he could imagine me with gray hair. Without hesitation, he said, “No. You would dye your hair.”

Jim died from an Alzheimer’s type of dementia at 59, so he’s the one who will be forever young to me, and he left me with beautiful memories. He always said he knew me better than I knew myself, and although I don’t dye my hair now, who knows, I may dye it someday. After all, he really did know me better than I knew myself.

One thing I’ve discovered about a healing heart is that in time, special songs that remind you of someone you lost can fill your heart with gratitude for their love. You may even smile at the happy memories and push aside the sadness. Our memories and love keep the ones we’ve lost alive.

Healing is not the same as forgetting, and the claws of grief can rake your emotions raw without warning—anytime, anywhere. Love lost for any reason leaves a scar on your soul. The scars of grief fade in time, but they are with you for life.

Copyright ©February 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Stop Time

 

In all the years I’ve lived in this house, I was under the impression that the timer on the electric range was broken. Last week, I set the clock that had been flashing for months, or maybe years. The next time I put something in the oven I set the timer. It worked just fine, but every time I shut the timer off, the dial says, “Stop Time.” Well, that made me wonder what it would be like if a person could really stop time.

I think most of us would want to stop time before a loved one was diagnosed with a devastating diagnosis. But would we stop time after it was too late?

At an Alzheimer’s Forum, we heard about a drug that was supposed to stop the progression of Alzheimer’s. My friend Ralph turned to me and said, “I wouldn’t want my wife to stay like she is now.” She was in the late stages of Alzheimer’s in a nursing home. It broke his heart to see his wife dependent upon others to provide the most basic care.

  When Jim was in the early stages of dementia, one of the physicians thought that Jim could have possibly had a stroke. Our thoughts were that if his forgetfulness was from a stroke, he might not get worse.

At that time, if I could have stopped time, I would have done it. Some of his symptoms were troublesome, but life would have been almost normal. Sure, he would have needed some additional attention, but it would have been manageable. After false hopes and wishful thinking, we realized that Jim wasn’t going to stay the same, but was gradually getting worse all the time.

When families enter loved ones into experimental drug programs, it is usually with the idea that it might help someone else. Jim was in a study drug program, but due to side effects, we stopped the drug. The neurologist told me that the disease was progressing, and that no matter what new drug might come available, it wasn’t going to reverse the damage to Jim’s brain.

I know in my heart that if I had ever stopped time, I would not be the person that I am today. I am who I am because of my life experiences. I’m sure I took several missteps along the pathway of life, but somehow I wound up being exactly where I am supposed to be.

My life has been particularly challenging lately, but I’m no stranger to adversity. I have faith that better times are coming. I certainly wouldn’t want to stop time before the good days begin.    

 

Copyright ©January 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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Things that Go Bump in the Night

Early morning New Year’s Day, I heard what sounded like something falling. The noise startled me, but more concerning was a sound that could only be described as a jet engine taking off. I wandered through the house trying to locate the source, and thought it might be the attic fan. I turned the switch to the “off” position and went to bed.

At two a.m., I heard the sound again. Since my arthritis had been acting up, I limped through the house, but couldn’t pinpoint the origin of the noise.

I finally took the chairlift to the basement and discovered the furnace was vibrating. I went upstairs, and turned the thermostat down and went to bed. About five, the heat kicked on and I called the afterhours number for the heating and cooling company we have always used.

My sisters, sister-in-law, and Mom were on their way to visit, and I had full confidence that the heat would be back on by the time they arrived.

The technician arrived and after he had me sign an agreement to pay holiday rate, he went to turned up the thermostat to hear the noise. The HVAC technician attempted to tighten the part that failed, but as soon as he turned the system on…same noise. The verdict was it needed parts to fix the problem and they could not be ordered until the next day, of course. He suggested I use space heaters to keep the house warm.

When they saw what a hard time I had walking, my sisters and sister-in-law went to town to buy space heaters for me. Mom and I sat in front of the baseboard heater in the sunroom and visited until they returned.

I put some extra blankets on the bed and spent a comfortable night. The next day, I found out the parts were scheduled to come in Monday. With an epic ice/snowstorm predicted for Sunday, I offered to pay the $100 to have the parts sent over night. Problem solved, right?

Wrong. The parts didn’t come in Friday, but instead were “delayed” in Ft. Worth. The parts manager called in a favor and had a substitute part brought in from Kansas City, but although it was the correct size, the fan turned in the wrong direction. Back to square one.

My thoughts were that if the part didn’t come in Friday, it would surely be here Saturday. The parts guy gave me the tracking number but when I checked the progress, the package was “delayed.”

I know how hard it is to talk to a real person at UPS, but I made a valiant attempt anyway, and after a long wait on hold, I talked to someone. I explained the situation to him—furnace out, big house, space heaters, storm coming, and single digit temps. He gave me a case number and transferred me to a supervisor.

While I was on hold for another twenty minutes “expected delivery” popped up on the screen and it said Monday. When the supervisor came on the line, she said, “Sorry for the inconvenience, but your package was put on the wrong truck. It will arrive on Monday.”

Looking at the details, I could see the package had been delayed 15 hours before it was rerouted to the airport in Illinois. “Our planes do not fly on the weekends,” she said.

“So I paid extra to have it sent overnight and because of that, it can’t possibly get here until Monday? If you can put it on a truck to Illinois, why can’t you put it on a truck to Missouri?”

“So sorry for the inconvenience,” she said.

I could feel my temper rising, “It’s more than an inconvenience. There’s an epic storm coming Sunday, and they may not be able to get here to put the part in Monday. My dog and I will be trapped in a house without a furnace in freezing weather. Whose fault is it that it was put on the wrong truck?” It was a rhetorical question because we both knew the answer.

After a moment of silence, she said, “I can’t promise, but I’ll try to get it on a truck to you by tomorrow.”

Well, there is the “I can’t promise” part, so I’m not holding my breath.

Although my situation is not good, my heart goes out to caregivers who have to worry about their loved ones. Bad situations are only worse when you are responsible for the care and comfort of another person. With ice and heavy snow in the forecast, power outages may mean I’m not the only one without heat.

On the bright side, our generator was recently tested and working well. I’ve been able to wear the heavy sweatshirts and sweaters that I had always saved for a day outdoors. I most likely will spend my weekend layered and huddled in front of a space heater.

I’ve heard several people say, “God doesn’t give you anymore than you can handle,” but I’m not sure if that’s in the Bible, or just wishful thinking.

Copyright ©January 2025 by L. S. Fisher

http://earlyonset.blogspot.com

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