tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53685511312960135082024-03-15T13:52:36.126-04:00GROWING OLD WITHOUT GRACELife is like a cactus - beautiful and pricklyGB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-1752124894357293702024-03-15T13:51:00.000-04:002024-03-15T13:52:02.073-04:00HAPPY 93rd BILLIE HITCHCOCK<p class="mobile-photo"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSreUu_ZmSLni9Qf-WWkbHoWzPG6UuTeBrlLGWTTbWRpbJtomAHSUmTQ4LiRKtcZoPA6oE_2zqaPfLJr470IeZP9aPo2lh94MR95niikP8kHHUY-2Knt2nr_QTkPNEhNNpezOp3_5TVC_QrjVlFzGjP5spyjJjzrEnqT8WNjTz8d8RFU3RhCtYlVu4gOpz"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjSreUu_ZmSLni9Qf-WWkbHoWzPG6UuTeBrlLGWTTbWRpbJtomAHSUmTQ4LiRKtcZoPA6oE_2zqaPfLJr470IeZP9aPo2lh94MR95niikP8kHHUY-2Knt2nr_QTkPNEhNNpezOp3_5TVC_QrjVlFzGjP5spyjJjzrEnqT8WNjTz8d8RFU3RhCtYlVu4gOpz=s320" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_7346649461173332658" /></a></p>HAPPY 93rd BILLIE HITCHCOCK THANKS FOR THE MEMORIESGB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-1953985091700750192023-12-28T14:18:00.001-05:002023-12-28T14:18:21.192-05:00THE CHRISTMAS CLOCK<div style="font-size: 22px;">I don't know exactly when it happened - when Christmas stopped being fun - but it was a very long time ago. It was about that time - that time when custom and hormones blended together to completely addle my brain into thinking that even at such a tender age I was ready to make life choices that were thought to last a lifetime. It was that time when young boys and young girls had come into their "season" and suddenly they were certain that no one else had ever felt this way. That's the time I'm talking about.</div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;">Fast forward several years and Christmas rolls around again and I said, "What do you want for Christmas?" "Oh, I don't know…Surprise me." This from a woman who had already purchased gifts months ago, wrapped them and stored them in top of the hall closet with the warning: STAY OUT! While I, on the other hand, had just become aware of this urgency that was presently turning my guts into jelly.</div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;">So without any help and very little money, I headed down to 3rd Street ( this was before malls when all the good stores were down town where the banks and "picture shows" were ). </div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;">I stopped to look at a clock in a jewelry store window. Now, I think that would be the ticket - I thought. My guts were in a turmoil. The clock was busy with delicate romantic figures and designs with two angels on top - it was all molded glass or ceramic material. The man who was helping me said it was made in Austria. Austria? I asked. He also added that since it was so late - Christmas Eve to be exact - he marked it down from #49.95 to $29.95. I had $35 and change. These were 1949 dollars. I said, "Wrap it up". He assured me that I had done well. That actually helped, as I recall.</div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;">She loved it. I should have learned something from all this but I did not. The angels broke off within the first year and I glued them back on. She loved that clock for decades. She loved filigree and romance. That clock had it all.</div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div><div style="font-size: 22px;"><br></div>GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-63827696966138363182023-12-17T15:55:00.001-05:002023-12-17T15:55:13.369-05:00HOLIDAY MEDITATION A common theme among my friends, most of whom are well into their AARP years, is what seems like an epidemic of dementia and Alzheimers. My own partner in life, Carol Ann, is deep into what seems a hopeless decline into oblivion. I don't know a better way to express it. Everyone I speak to brings up their own experience, someone of their own family or close circle of friends who has succumbed to the ravages of dementia. The disease is so powerful in its ability to defy reason and articulate hopelessness. <div><br></div><div>This will be the first Christmas in our twenty seven years together that we won't be able to honor the myth with a tree that for many years was cut down and dragged into the house by our own hands. Boxes of ornaments and holiday memorabilia would be dragged down from the attic and as each ornament was placed on the tree one of us would recite its epochal provenance.</div><div><br></div><div>I thought it would never end. But of course I knew it would. It's just that these latter years go by so quickly. Thank you for being there.</div><div><br></div><div>Be well. Stay safe and stay tuned.</div><div><br></div><div> All my love - - - Jerry</div><div><br></div><div style="text-align: center;">HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO YOU ALL</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br></div><div><div><br></div><div><br></div></div>GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-15555159381254656502023-12-07T18:29:00.000-05:002023-12-08T10:03:25.626-05:00YES, THE CUP MATTERSMy friend, Margret Bell posted somewhere, "I can't explain this with science but the cup you drink your coffee out of matters." So simple and direct but so obviously true.
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<br />Margret - you nailed it. It does matter.
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<br />For as long as I can remember I have preferred my coffee in a tall rather than wide cup. It's my experience that coffee stays hotter longer in the taller, cylindrical cup. The wider cup exposes more surface area from which heat can escape. Makes sense to me and I expect Einstein as well.
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<br />My cup measures 4 and 3/16ths tall and 3 and 1/8th wide with a slight flare on the rim. The handle has a little bump in the top curve that is just right for the thumb to rest on. The sides of the cup are straight. No bulges.
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<br />I like a China cup. The one I am using now is made in England. It's bone China. I'm not clear as to where the bones come into the plan but there it is written on the bottom of the cup. Many of the cups that I use are actually made in China. I can't tell the difference. This style of cup seams to be a standard mold pattern in the China cup industry.
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<br />I'm not particularly picky about any art work on the cup but I do seem to lean toward flowers. I do not favor cute aphorisms on my cups. I do a fair amount of thinking as I sip from my cups, but I like freestyle thinking not pre-programmed one-liners by some back office poet in waiting, And just to be clear, I don't care for those thick road house mugs that seem endemic to the roadside café. Their only virtue is indestructibility.
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<br />I'm always on the lookout for another cup. Mostly, I have found them at TJ-Max. Carol Ann and I would look at each other some cold gray November morning and think, "What are we thinking? Why sit here waiting for a blizzard when we could go see if the stock has rolled over at TJ-Max.GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-42600876605903482812023-11-03T14:06:00.002-04:002023-11-03T14:22:10.728-04:00WE ALL FALL DOWN<p><span style="font-family: HelveticaNeue;">There isn't much you need to do to be old - just show up. I understand that there are many impediments to aging, such as disease, accident or being the star in the ultimate reality show: the hideously popular Mass Shooting. Many people think that in spite of eating your greens and regular exercise the smart money is on pure luck. At least that's what my doctor tells me and she's not smiling.</span></p><div style="font-family: HelveticaNeue;">Previously, I have mentioned my several falls, all of which, as I think about it, were completely unexpected - even shocking. In other words, likely to happen again with potentially dire outcomes. About a year and a half ago I smashed the radius on my right arm while doing nothing more dangerous than turning around in the kitchen. More recently I knocked the hide off my head and a few other places in a majorly bloody episode while on a neighborhood walk. For no apparent reason I am careening toward the pavement and I'm like: WTF! Something is going on and that something needs to be addressed.</div><div style="font-family: HelveticaNeue;"><div><br /></div><div>Children learn and sing . . . </div><div><br /></div><div>Walk around the circle</div><div>Walk around the circle</div><div>Walking walking</div><div>We all fall down</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="lyric-wrapper shortened" data-lyrics="<p>Walk around the circle.<br /> Walk around the circle.<br /> Walking, walking.<br /> We all fall down.</p> <p><em>Gallop!</em><br /> Gallop around the circle.<br /> Gallop around the circle.<br /> Galloping, galloping.<br /> We all fall down.</p> <p><em>Shhh! Let's tiptoe!</em><br /> Tiptoe around the circle.<br /> Tiptoe around the circle.<br /> Tiptoe, tiptoe.<br /> We all fall down.</p> <p><em>I'm so sleepy!</em><br /> Sleepy, sleepy, sleepy.<br /> I'm so sleepy.</p> <p><em>Wake up, everybody!</em><br /> <em>Come on, we're going to hop!</em><br /> Hop around the circle.<br /> Hop around the circle.<br /> Hopping, hopping.<br /> We all fall down.</p> <p><em>Let's twirl!</em><br /> Twirl around the circle.<br /> Twirl around the circle.<br /> Twirling, twirling.<br /> We all fall down.</p> <p><em>Let's hop and twirl!</em><br /> Hop around the circle.<br /> Twirl around the circle.<br /> Hopping, twirling.<br /> We all fall down.</p> " style="box-sizing: border-box; margin-bottom: 14px; max-height: 380px; overflow: hidden; transition: max-height 0.5s;"><span class="lyricHeight" face=""Nunito Sans", "Open Sans", sans-serif" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: block;"><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-feature-settings: "liga", "dlig"; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;">Remember those years when falling was fun - you just tucked your head and rolled up and kept running and falling all over again.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-feature-settings: "liga", "dlig"; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;">At what point - can you remember - at what point did it begin to frighten you? Don't worry if you don't yet worry about falling. I'm in my tenth decade and I only just began to be concerned. You have time. (Wink Wink)</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-feature-settings: "liga", "dlig"; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;">Of course, I'm cultivating a working relationship with the neighborhood neurologist. Here's what he said: Get a walker, He gave me a prescription for one. I'm thinking, Won't that make me look old and feeble? For the time being I put that thought aside. Which leads me to the next topic -</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-feature-settings: "liga", "dlig"; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;">NOVEMBER IS BIRTHDAY MONTH </p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-feature-settings: "liga", "dlig"; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;">I know this because I have a birthday this month. Many of my favorite friends are November babies. My father, John Murdock Henderson was 125 on the first. Happy birthday, Dad.</p><p style="-webkit-hyphens: auto; box-sizing: border-box; color: #404040; font-feature-settings: "liga", "dlig"; overflow-wrap: break-word; word-break: break-word;">HAPPY BIRTHDAY EVERYONE - AND WALK CAREFULLY</p><div><br /></div><p></p></span></div></div></div>GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-73647502478068151492023-08-11T13:23:00.001-04:002023-08-11T13:28:28.674-04:00THE OTHER SIDE OF WORLD NEWSDid you read about this woman over in Silsbe, Texas who was out in her yard doing yard work when, out of the clear blue, a snake falls on her and wraps itself around her right arm. Did you hear what I said? This snake fell from the sky and wrapped itself around her right arm! Just imagine - she is dancing around like a chicken wirh its head chopped off. She's desperately trying to disengage from this serpent. If only Eve had made such an effort we'd very likely have a whole other ball game.
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<br />But wait! I'm not done. While this demon from the sky was tightening its grip on her arm and striking at her glasses this woman is not standing still. She is making moves that would have impressed the judges on Dancing With The Stars. Just then this huge hawk dives on the flailing reptile wrapped arm and began clawing and pecking at the snake obviously trying to retrieve his lunch that was, just as obviously dropped from on high. Viciously tearing at the four foot long snake with it's curved beak and deadly talons, the hawk, showing little concern over whose flesh it was ripping and tearing, finally freed the snake from the woman's arm and flew off to his pick-nick site in the woods.
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<br />The good news is that the woman's injuries were serious but not deadly. She will be some time recuperating. The less than good news is she will never trust anything that moves in the grass, along with a few other things. I'm guessing she will also add an overhead inspection to her outdoor activities from now on. It couldn't hurt, what with global warming and all.GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-76600593562299210262023-08-01T17:52:00.001-04:002023-08-02T10:28:01.225-04:00LOOKING FOR COMMUNITY It is widely known - <i>just kidding </i>- that I have been trying to figure out how to meet people and make friends in my new home here in Texas. You know other than at the doctor's office. Those people are OK, friendly enough and reasonably well educated. Often someone will actually remember your name. That's a nice perk. It feels good.<div><br /></div><div>Old friends - most of whom live a million miles away - offer welcomed advise such as, go to church. OK, I'm rolling on the floor laughing my ass off over that one. I have an advanced degree in church - too much baggage. I know that there are several top tier brands to choose from but it seems rather dishonest since I pretty much reject the primary directive of religion that there is a god who loves me and will intervene on my behalf when called upon. Yeah but, I am told, they all have a robust social component and fairly decent grub. Not much booze, however. I know the Catholics share their booze but he guy in the dress won't let go of the cup. I'm gussing that the staff gather afterwards for their own sharing session and finish off the jug. I mean, I'm just guessing here. No question, though, a full bar would definitely elevate the quality of the service.</div><div><br /></div><div>Another suggestion is that I find somewhere to volunteer. That has a ring of authenticity about it. And it touches the need to serve. So I checked a couple of places and was informed that there was no current need. Here, fill this form out and should a need pop up we'll call. I have a secret confession to make. I don't want to volunteer. I really wish that was not there. But . . . there it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was talking to a sort of step-niece of mine Sunday and she told me about a web site called "meetup.com". As the word suggests it's a place where likeminded people meet up. You can pick from a list of groups covering all kinds of interests. There are also virtual groups that use Zoom and other mechanisms to talk and actually see each other. This sounded like a winner. So I joined two: a book club and a discussion group. The book club is reading what seems to be of the fantasy genre, so I'll pass. I had already checked out the local library and in September they will offer a book club. i'm hopeful. The library is really great.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other group I joined is a philosophy and conversation group. That really rang a bell for me. The first meeting is next Monday and the questioin is "is it really possible to be an entirely self made person?" What gives me hope is that this group meets in a brew pub. I've already put it into my GPS.</div><div><br /></div><div>In case you're wondering, I am lightyears away from being self made. But wait a minute - who else can be blamed for what I am?</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-36811259995327823632023-07-16T12:19:00.001-04:002023-07-16T12:45:54.581-04:00Balancing ActIt has finally happened. It probably dosen't mean much but it feels like it does. For years I have been using hiking poles to steady my step on uneven terrain. Just this week I ordered an actual adjustable walking stick - the kind that people use who could not get about without it - that kind of cane.
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<br>Seven years ago I had cochlear implant surgery. In the immediate recovery period, I had some serious vertigo episodes. It's much better now but there remains an ongoing balance issue that will not, I expect, go away. When I fell in my kitchen while simply turning around, I broke my arm - my right arm. I had to train my left arm and hand to do some things it was never expected to do. The message was clear. I need ongoing, no nonsense help. Denial simply won't work anymore.
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<br>The hiking sticks project the message that this guy is out for some exercise. The Evening Blue, collapsible, adjustable cane with a fitted hand grip projects the message that this guy has a disability, be ready to assist or at least be kind.
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<br>It's going to take some time. It won't happen overnight. It's not like I have an injured leg or ankle. It's for balance. It's tripping insurance. I've already found out there is a rhythm to using a walking stick. I like rhythm. I'll check and see if I can chew gum at the same time.GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0973PR37C+3751.812676 -65.9293304-25.294341154118193 153.4456696 90 74.6956696tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-88583546185364399612022-03-09T10:23:00.001-05:002022-04-08T11:19:11.353-04:00ON THE BEACH - AGAINI recently re-read Nevil Shute's 1957 novel "On The Beach". I believe there was a movie made around the turn of the century. Cormac McCarthy's "The Road" is another profound trteatment of the aftermath of a nuclear storm. There is a movie of this book as well. Please read these books before our next meeting and bring a one page summation of each. Be prepared to discus your summaries. It probably would be a good thing to read the daily news from Ukraine as well, just to better connect the dots. Thank you.
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<br />It doesn't even help that you know that only two atomic bombs have been deployed and that was seventy seven years ago in those unsuspecting Japanese cities, Nagasaki and Hiroshima. Almost evey one agrees that those horrific moments saved American lives, but Jesus, at what cost? Nobody wins a war. Furthermore, those bombs would be mere firecrackers in today's nuclear arsenal.
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<br />Here's a reality check: Nine countries have nuclear weapons. the United States, Russia,
<br />France, China, the United Kingdom, Pakistan, India, Israel and North Korea. It is estimated that there is a stockpile of 13,000 nuclear weapons.
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<br />Today, ignorance, arrogance and the unfathomable thirst for power own the means of planetary distruction. I am afraid. Even if I had in my hand the BUTTON, the push of which would plant an atomic missile in the rose garden of every enemy of democratic freedoms - I am afraid. Whoever uses that third device signs his or her own death warrant. Do I need to remind you that even though you are nowhere near the blast sooner or later that radiation laced atmosphere will seep beneath your door.
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<br />I know - I know. The rich, the powerful, the connected: they will have their hid-ey-holes. But there are not enough Cheyanne Mountains for even a fraction of us worthy citizens of a doomed Planet Earth. Imagine, if you will, that morning in the distant future when it was deemed safe to venture out - to create from scratch a new world order consisting of the descendants of that bunch who had keys to Cheyenne Mountain. If you're waiting for the punch line - well, that was it. Albert Einstein said "I do not know with what weapons World War 3 will be fought but World War 4 will be fought with sticks and stones".
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<br />Doom's Day. Armageddon. This is the stuff movies are made of. It can't be real. World leaders, sometimes called politicians, surely won't let such a thing happen. . . . . .
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<br />To be continued (I hope)GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-28105544965565070462022-02-25T11:44:00.001-05:002022-02-25T11:44:16.924-05:00GRIEVING - ONGOINGRecently I was driving down Route 1 in Yarmouth and passed one of our favorite coffee shops - windows covered and dark. Not one car in the parking lot. A wave of sadness at our loss washed over me. It was such a delightful hide-a-way filled with a collection of funky furnishings and good strong dark coffee accompanied by a peaceful quietness - along with the occasional sweet, of course.
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<br>It was a favorite - easy to find by simple directions for friends passing through so we could meet and share a cup or two. We can not afford to loose these wonderful institutions - victims of COVID 19, beyond the magic of vaccines.
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<br>Too many papered over windows and empty parking lots. It's fair to wonder if we are approaching a tipping point for or against recovery of culture and ordinary human activities - at least those we are used to.
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<br>So much has been lost, perhaps never to be the same. In the midst of the pandemic, we sold our home that we hardly ever planned to leave until we grew too old to handle the work. Now it's gone and I wonder if the sadness over that loss will ever go away. I never wanted to have to deal with these emotions so far down the line. Grief is common to us all but it can erode sanity and balance if not acknowledged and processed.
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<br>Can you keep a secret? I'm already eroded. The flakes of rust have eaten to my core and it's using up more than its fair share of my emotional resources and I'm fucking tired of it. Perhaps that's a good thing. Maybe something good can come out of this wave of twisted energy after all. Maybe it's never too late for another damned growth experience. You know about growth, don't you? Letting go of the old and reaching for the new. My mistake was in thinking that I had already been there - done that . . . enough already!
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<br>What I have learned, and I'm sure you have as well, is that it's never too late for learning a little bit about life and loss. Several years ago we had Carol Ann's mother with us. She suffered from a type of blood cancer and needed regular transfusions which at the beginning was once, then a couple of times a month, then weekly then twice a week. The transfusion itself virtually wiped her out for the entire day. Then there was increased energy for a few days then the need for a fresh transfusion arose. Until one day she announced her intention to stop the transfusions, knowing full well it meant she would soon die. She said goodby to the nurses and staff at the infusion center. There were long hugs and tears. I had to remember to breathe.
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<br>I was privileged to hold her hand when she let go and took her last breath. I miss her. We watched a lot of baseball together. My Red Sox - her Yankees. Every moment in her presence was a growth experience.
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<br>Never fear grief. Use it. Let it deepen your appreciation for everything. For the record, I'm not there yet. I'm not all that sure there is a "there". I'm still working on it. I think it's the effort that counts.GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-15878793327393919892022-02-05T11:52:00.001-05:002023-08-12T14:30:46.383-04:00THE TOUCH OF YOUR THOUGHTSWho among us does not know the joy <br />that spark of surprise when someone
<br />says, I was thinking of you <br />I think of you all the time
<br />how bereft I would be without you.
<br />Anticipating the sound of your voice <br />the warmth of your embrace
<br />who knows but that thoughts have substance
<br />and wishes can come true
<br />and we are rich beyond our fondest dreams.GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-5318548890508505782022-01-09T12:49:00.000-05:002022-01-09T12:49:05.160-05:00TECHNOLOGICAL WONDERS<p> I ordered two sets of snow-ice cleats from Amazon for safety's sake. CA has already fallen twice on the ice this season, and the season is young!</p><p>When they came I realized they were sort of overkill. Just right for scaling the Matterhorn but a tad much for these gentle trails around our cottage. </p><p>So I went to Amazon's web site and clicked on "Returns" and immediately got this email that said, "Hey Jerry - no problemo! Take the stuff you want to return to any Whole Foods (and I am less than ten minutes from one) and show this "QR code" to any associate and they will bag it and send it for free. I mean, you gotta love that - right? </p><p>So I take my return to our local Whole Foods and belly up to the Customer Service desk and tell this young guy that I have a return. He scans the QR code on my phone - his machine spits out a label - he puts my stuff and the label in a plastic bag and tosses it in a bin. I say, "That's it?" He says, "That's it." He couldn't care less what the item is or why I am returning it. I mean come on - you really gotta love that.</p><p>But wait! I'm not done yet. Before I get out of the store I get this email telling me that my return has been processed and my account has been credited! I want to run back and give that kid a big hug. God I love technology! Suddenly I am aware that I need to pee.</p><p>_____________________</p><p>Earlier this past year we had a freak one car accident and totaled our car - an eight year old Ford CMax. Sad, sad, sad. Now we needed a car but didn't want to spend new car dollars. Our dealer came up with a very nice 2020 model for a price we could deal with and before the dust settled we were driving what seemed to us a new (used) Ford Escape. For several reasons we never got the full orientation to the car and what we did get was brief like: push this button and turn this knob and that was about it.</p><p>You've heard of OJT - On The Job Training? That's us. I'm driving down I-95 and drifted over to the right side margin and, "Woah there Cowboy! Some unseen hand shoved me back into the driving lane. Further on this guy passes me and pulls in a little too soon and my car - without any effort from me - slows down and beeps at me before resuming my preset speed. It's called Adaptive Speed Control. Now, that's as close to self driving I ever want to get, Elon Musk notwithstanding. But - and here's the thing - I love it.</p><p>I have said many times how I love being an old guy. But the other side of that nickel is that actuarially speaking I'm not going to get a chance to experience technological wonders that are coming by the droves. That's life, of course. Just imagine. </p><p>I was a child without a telephone or television. I have lived to see wonderful things and promises of things unimaginable. I would love to have been able "to go where no man has gone before". But for the time being, I'll keep Adaptive Speed Control up and running.</p>GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-24619958646964355312021-11-19T10:01:00.001-05:002021-11-19T10:24:41.020-05:00SOME THOUGHTS ON TURNING 90<div dir="auto" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="-webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space; word-wrap: break-word;">First - for all you wise crackers out there - it's not just a number. All the sugar coating you can apply can't hide the raw facts of all that's left behind - the family that is long gone - the friends - the activities: the sweat, the muscle soreness after a day climbing or skiing or cutting grass - yes I even miss that. I miss the gathering of friends who are all moved away, doing their own end of life thing or simply moving on following their own life map.<div><br /></div><div>Everything I say reeks of grief. There are ninety years behind me and, well, my future is right in my face. I just hope my collision avoidance program is working. I don't want to go slamming into my headstone in the dark. Then, truthfully, we don't have much control over that - do we?</div><div><br /></div><div>Here at The Woods at Canco, the facility where we now live, we are issued a little button on a lanyard that goes around your neck. You get in any kind of trouble, fall or get lost of whatever, all you need to do is to press the button and you are in voice contact with someone who can find you and summon help. Pretty slick. Many residents don't wear them but many do. If either I or Carol Ann go walking alone we take one, The best advise is to wear one all the time. When we were issued the little buttons I just looked at it and thought, "OK Buster - you are now a certified member ot the 'I've fallen and can't get up' generation". </div><div><br /></div><div>I miss my life. Three great children. All of them in their sixties and all in Texas. I was married to two great women and am into my 24th year partnership with a simply amazing woman and together we try to make sense of the issues, pressures and realities of aging. Some days are better than others.</div><div><br /></div><div>The missing confidant. Over the years I have been blessed with priceless best friends. I have now outlived some or time has separated us. Longevity is a bitter sweet pill. You wash it down with a draught of gratitude for long life and then you spend a little time grieving over the loss that comes naturally to those who live long. </div><div><br /></div><div>Communicating with best friends is essential and becomes more important with age. I have found that writing letters in longhand is an effective way to have an intimate relationship with a best friend. Electronic communication has been a gift to those of us who have taken to the medium. Then there is the telephone. Long conversations with best friends who can manage an extended conversation, and that is becoming a rarity, can be a true balm - a real gift to those who are managing a long distance relationship. I have several friends from one end of the country to the other with whom I enjoy long phone chats. It's incredible how these conversations lift my spirit. Yes, I know about Zoom. </div><div><br /></div><div>I don'r intend to say everything there is to say about being 90. I will say this:<b> it's not easy</b>.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-63387068552791238412021-06-18T08:22:00.000-04:002021-06-18T08:22:04.578-04:00WHAT DAY IS IT AND DOES IT MATTER?<div style="caret-color: rgb(28, 30, 33); color: #1c1e21; font-family: system-ui, -apple-system, BlinkMacSystemFont, ".SFNSText-Regular", sans-serif; font-size: 24px;"><div class="" dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><div class="ecm0bbzt hv4rvrfc e5nlhep0 dati1w0a" data-ad-comet-preview="message" data-ad-preview="message" id="jsc_c_1j" style="font-family: inherit; padding: 4px 16px;"><div class="j83agx80 cbu4d94t ew0dbk1b irj2b8pg" style="display: flex; flex-direction: column; font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: -5px; margin-top: -5px;"><div class="qzhwtbm6 knvmm38d" style="font-family: inherit; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-top: 5px;"><span class="d2edcug0 hpfvmrgz qv66sw1b c1et5uql oi732d6d ik7dh3pa ht8s03o8 a8c37x1j keod5gw0 nxhoafnm aigsh9s9 d9wwppkn fe6kdd0r mau55g9w c8b282yb iv3no6db jq4qci2q a3bd9o3v knj5qynh oo9gr5id hzawbc8m" dir="auto" style="-webkit-font-smoothing: antialiased; color: var(--primary-text); display: block; font-family: inherit; font-size: 0.9375rem; line-height: 1.3333; max-width: 100%; min-width: 0px; word-break: break-word; word-wrap: break-word;"><div class="kvgmc6g5 cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />Yesterday I was sitting in my favorite chair contemplating my next move when, for some unknown reason, I looked at my watch which said it was Wednesday. I looked over at CA and said, is it really Wednesday? She said, I’m reading, I don’t know what day it is, but I think it’s Wednesday. I said, I though it was Tuesday. I’ve been working on the plan for the rest of my life which begins on Tuesday. Now I’ve got to recalculate the whole damned thing.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">This is so frustrating. At my age, there are not that many Tuesdays left to loose. Try as hard as I can, I can’t remember a thing about Tuesday. CA looks up and says, well all I know is that we went to see the doctor yesterday and that was supposed to be on the 15th and the 15th was Tuesday and today is the 16th, which would be Wednesday. So there you go. </div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">I was so sure.</div></div><div class="o9v6fnle cxmmr5t8 oygrvhab hcukyx3x c1et5uql ii04i59q" style="font-family: inherit; margin: 0.5em 0px 0px; white-space: pre-wrap; word-wrap: break-word;"><div dir="auto" style="font-family: inherit;">So maybe it was Monday that I misplaced. I can recall few Mondays that I really could have done without. There was nothing on our calendar for Monday, It was probably Monday. Tuesday - Monday: it doesn't matter. I still have to recalculate my life plan. Should take about 20 minutes.</div></div></span></div></div></div></div></div>GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-35604619767619671942020-05-16T09:49:00.000-04:002020-05-16T10:01:18.990-04:00PANDEMIC POTPOURRIDuring these days of social isolation I find that I think of friends more often. I'm also thinking more of friends with whom I have not communicated in nearly a lifetime. That part, however, may be a function of my age more than this present pandemic - as in the older one gets the older the memories get that bounce around in the mid-night mind.<br />
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It occurs to me that as I age I begin to live more and more in the mind and less and less in the physical activities that have been a huge part of my life in the past. So it comes up for me to realize that if I find that I am bored (and I am finding this more and more these days) the antidote just might be activity. Any activity. Don't think too long about what to do, just do something. It's the motion that counts.<br />
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One of my favorite activities is cooking, which leads, of course to eating. But it's the cooking that excites me most - the actual pots and pans projects around the stove. If you're reading between the lines, you are realizing that though cooking is such fun and at some level necessary, it can be devastating to one's waistline. I'm not a great cook but a willing one. I've learned that there is a kind of poetry to cooking - a little of this and a little of that, and don't fret the rhyming.<br />
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We're trying to downsize and prepare this house for the market. It has yet to be discovered just how big an impact this pandemic will have on the real estate business. A large part of downsizing and decluttering is getting rid of stuff. Did you know that there are, I think, four or five Goodwill stores open in the state and one of them is about 20 minutes north of our house. Taking things there is more like re-purposing rather just throwing things away as in taking them to the dump, so to speak. <br />
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We drove into the parking lot and there was a long line of people waiting, at six foot intervals, to be let inside the building and a line of cars waiting their turn beneath the donation porte cochère. It seemed that the whole town was there. Watching the cars in front of us unload was fun. One woman seemed to be getting rid of a lifetime's worth of Christmas decorations. <br />
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Everyone wore masks and many wore gloves. Quite a few employees also had face shields. The whole experience was imbued with calm and orderliness. It was encouraging. It's highly likely that we'll take anther load there today. It's like going shopping in reverse. These days you take entertainment where you find it.<br />
<br />GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-35700000302785138192019-11-01T14:58:00.001-04:002019-11-01T14:58:50.934-04:00TODAY IS THE 121ST BIRTHDAY OF MY FATHER<p>Today is the 121st birthday of my father, John Murdock Henderson. He has been gone for nearly half that time. He died in the “dark ages” of prostate cancer research. Subsequently I was diagnosed with prostate cancer and a series of radiation treatments were prescribed. We check the PSA every six months. The number gets smaller and smaller. To say it’s a cure is a bit gutsy but it’ll do for the time being. </p>
<p>My mother named me Gerald. When she took me to register for the first grade Jeanie Watson, the principle who also taught my mother asked her, “Ruby, what’s your son’s name?” My mother said it was Gerald. I spoke up and loudly said, “No Mama, my name is Jerry!” - the only name I had ever been called. It was spelled with a “J” to match a favorite uncle’s name. Big Jerry - little jerry. I asked my father why he didn’t give me his name which I loved and still do to this day. I mean, John Murdock! What’s not to like? I know - I may be just a tad biased. It seemed that my mother had read a story in which the protagonist was named Gerald. She liked it. What could a kid do?</p>
<p>My father had six sisters and five brothers. His mother was a McQueen, a woman of Scottish descent. She had an uncle John Gunter who lived to 104 with a Yankee mini-ball in his chest. I don’t know what that’s got to do with anything except that it would have been nice if my father had inherited uncle John Gunter’s longevity gene.</p>
<p>He taught me to fly fish, hunt and drive. He believed I mastered the first two but he never believed I could drive a car. He was mostly concerned with my failure to leave enough room on the right side. When I was driving his body was in a constant cringe - trying to move the car away from the edge. He never said a word to me about sex. I dearly loved him.</p>
<p>Once somewhere in Kansas he was constantly complaining so much that I slammed on the break and got out of the car told him to go on. I vowed I would never get into a car with him again. I’ll walk, I cried. I began walking - in 1940’s Kansas! There was nothing in Kansas. Well, obviously mother prevailed and we drove on to Colorado and enjoyed a nice family vacation.</p>
<p>As a young man he was a telegraph operator on the Union Pacific Rail Road in Kansas. He met a man who taught him to cut hair and subsequently he spent the rest of his life as a barber with a thriving business in Baton Rouge. He was an honorable man. Honest and loyal to his beliefs and friends. He was an actual Christian. More importantly than all the above he was a committed family man, a loving father and husband. Whatever I tried he supported and encouraged me. I had permission and freedom as a child then that would be virtually impossible today. I was lucky and probably blessed.</p>
<p>John Murdock Henderson is seldom far from my thoughts.</p>GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-18868677945033274692019-08-31T10:37:00.000-04:002019-08-31T10:37:34.266-04:00A YEAR AGO MY BROTHER DIEDA year ago Ken, my brother, died. He was preceded by his wife, Audrey, who died shortly after falling from her high-lift wheel chair, having forgotten to fasten her seat belt. Ken busied himself in his church but loneliness soon overtook him. He slipped into dementia and soon died. It seems that their lives were so intertwined that for him, at least, there was little life apart from Audrey.<br />
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Ken came along about four years after me. I can remember him lying in his crib. I had a small rubber hatchet and I tried to chop him with it before mother intervened. I'm sure there are many more happier episodes to remember but that's the one that sticks. I never learned how to be a nurturing older brother. It wasn't a conscious decision. Our lives from the beginning seemed to run in different directions. We loved each other. That was clear, but we were never close. Four years.<br />
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Through the years we visited, mostly around holidays. Audrey was a hugely successful cook and brought her South Louisiana Cajun specialties to the Thanksgiving table often. When distance prevented more frequent visits we talked on the phone. After our parents died there was little to share but we talked a few times throughout the year. My life took me away and he remained in place.<br />
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I wish I could remember where I read it that as long as your name is remembered you are still alive. Sounds like magical thinking to me but I wish that talking about Ken would bring him back. Then all those names of all those loved ones, many gone before they should have, come to mind and my eyes cloud with tears. Ken - I miss you.<br />
<br />GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-91540289208710763622019-07-16T12:01:00.001-04:002019-07-16T12:01:53.266-04:00TO SEE OURSELVES . . .A current popular pithy piece of high minded wisdom goes like this: What other people think of me is none of my business. Of course, you say, that's obvious. Really? Well, sort of.
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<br>Most of us grew up with something like school yard rules of behavior, ethics, protocols and politics. Before any important undertaking it was wise to check out what the "troops" thought about it. By important undertaking I mean something like - Hey I wonder if Sadie would go to the movies with me. Peer feedback was critical. I can remember getting ready for school and making sure my dungarees were rolled up just the right amount, showing just the right amount of sock and my swoop daddy pompadour - (Yes wiseass, I had one.) - was just right and pasted down with a dollop of WILDROOT CREAM-OIL CHARLIE.
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<br>What I'm saying is this: It's next to impossible not to be concerned about what others think of you. We all know how futile it is to worry about what someone else thinks but we do it. We want to be loved, even admired. We want to be an early pick for someone's team. I'm not sure that those feelings don't follow us from the school yard to the social institutions of adulthood.
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<br>Over the years various of my friends and family have gifted me with rather uniquely generous gifts for birthdays, Christmases and Father's Days which give me pause to reflect on what they think of me and how fortunate I am to have them in my life. Still I am always mildly surprised to hear that someone had been thinking of me. It feels good.
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<br>Thoughtful generosity is not usually a physical gift. More often it's something else. Evidences of connection - remembrances - inclusion - acts of love. It's what makes life on this planet worthwhile.GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-91900829347267765022019-06-05T09:48:00.002-04:002023-07-16T13:38:32.448-04:00IT'S CLEANLINESS THAT'S GODLY I've always been a sucker for a compulsive life style. I know, I know - if you only know me a little you know that the most liberal description of my life style would not even come close to the word, "compulsive" or any of its synonyms like neat, orderly, organized and alas, even dust free!<br />
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When I was in graduate school this guy came to the campus selling a filing system that was guaranteed to produce success in anything one would try to do. Rule No. 1: Young aspirants to professional success should never buy anything that guarantees success. I bought it. It was nothing but a cascading labeling system that someone else thought up and wanted me to adopt. Of course it didn't work for me or for most of the other people who purchased it. The guy who sold us on this system probably went directly to the airport and flew to Bermuda for a month.</div>
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I admire neat people. Now and then I clean my large old oak teacher's desk, stupidly thinking this will make me a neat person. I end up with acres of clean polished surface with nothing but a computer, keyboard and a note pad. When I look at all that clear space all I can think of is all the "neat" stuff I can stack there. Then the dust arrives and the spiderwebs descend. Oh well, I think, c'est la vie. Well . . . c'est la <i class="">my</i> vie, for sure.</div>
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GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-89784193386788595882019-04-10T16:23:00.001-04:002019-04-10T16:23:09.671-04:00BEING PRESENT WITH HEARING LOSSIsolation is the dark angel of hearing loss. Yet there are times when I welcome her as the lesser of two evils. Silence versus noise. Pease versus the struggle for understanding. But it goes deeper than that. I've only been treating my hearing loss since 1997. I have, for as long as I can remember, always felt on the fringes of group conversations. There is, of course, no way to check this out but I might have always had a hearing disconnect of some kind. And this could have been more behavioral or developmental than organic. The part that I remember is the feeling that I was being "talked over" as though I were between two people who knew what the subject was and I didn't. My contributions often seemed to be irrelevant or at best, slightly off point. It may not mean a thing but my favorite place as a child was in the crown of an oak tree or in my secret loft. Liking to be alone may be the innocent truth of it, but there it is for consideration. Perhaps I am looking for things that are not there.
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<br>When real time profound deafness was added to this history there were the makings of some serious, perhaps unconscious ground-in expectations when experiencing group discussions. I have found that confirming a statement is often the solution as in - "Are you saying the price was wrong or the purchase itself?". What I heard was not definitive, but asking such a question could get to the point easily. It can make conversation kind of clunky but it also can clear up a lot of misunderstanding and keep one in the center of things. It's more to the point that just asking, "What?".
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<br>I often wonder what it was like when I could hear it all. I think I remember when I could understand conversations in the "other" room or across the room. I think I can remember the sweet passages of Beethoven's sixth. But can I be sure? It's been so long. Those are childhood memories. Memories of other times.
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<br>The thing is, hearing loss is a constant struggle. It's a major feature of one's life and there is something to learn from it every day and it's not often about the past, but about now.GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-81133546177356118512019-04-06T11:10:00.000-04:002019-04-06T11:18:22.000-04:00WE NEED A NOSTALGIA VACCINATION <div dir="auto" style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class=""><meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" class=""><div style="word-wrap: break-word; -webkit-nbsp-mode: space; line-break: after-white-space;" class="">There's a huge effort going on at our house lately; the effort to get rid of the trash and treasures of decades of collecting. This is all in preparation for the big migration south - eventually.<div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">I have been delaying dealing with my bookshelves so I decided to tackle them, one section at a time. Let me say here at the outset, I could empty this room of all the books, magazines and notebooks in twenty minutes with one of those trash chutes hooked to a window and a dumpster at the end. That being said, the truth is that regardless of my good intentions, I seem to be possessed by some magnetic force that compels me to open every one of those dusty old books to see if perhaps an errant $100 bill was stuck in there to mark a significant passage. I mean, I haven't touched that section in over fifteen years. Dust? You don't know dust. I know dust. AaaaaaChooo!</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">After all the books were in a pile I noticed in the dark far corner of the lowest shelf, mostly hidden by my treadmill (that's another whole discussion) was the corner of a box of some sort. With some tugging I managed to free it and drag it out. Old negatives and photographs. Apparently hundreds of them. Fifty years worth, if my memory serves me well. Actually the long term stuff is usually spot on. It's the short term, "Where did I put that coffee cup?" stuff that's a problem.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">I couldn't help myself. That magnet thing I mentioned kicked in with a nuclear force and the next two hours were spent moaning, "Oh my god" over and over, which, if you listen carefully seems to rhyme with Armageddon. So the original (and most important) task was sidetracked while I wallowed in the muck and mire of terminal nostalgia.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">Meanwhile CA, my partner in life, walked in and I said, "Come here and sit down and look at this!" Bless her heart, she did just that. We laughed and, yes, shed a tear as we looked in wonderment at those beautiful <i class="">young</i> people. What she should have done was to dump a bucket of ice water on my head to shock me back into the present tense. By the time this project is over, that will be likely to have happened several times.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class="">So, the first slug of books are all bagged and will be on their way the library, Goodwill or to you, if your resistance is lower than usual. Just give me a call. However, I can't promise a dust free transaction.</div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div><div class=""><br class=""></div></div></div>GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-6655445486952266512019-03-30T08:25:00.001-04:002019-03-30T08:25:26.848-04:00REMEMBER FOUNTAIN PENS?I can't explain it. Decades ago - yea even a lifetime ago I used to write letters and notes with an actual fountain pen. Then I stopped. The ballpoint pen never did work for me. I couldn't read it after it got cold, whereas I could read what I wrote with a fountain pen. And, oddly, I could revisit my scribbling done with a lead pencil. I figured it was the friction that did it. The tactile connection. There was a sensual sensation between the writing instrument and the paper that made for a more contemplative experience. Whatever: it made for a result that was more legible.
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<br>Meanwhile, I taught myself to type. It was a long and frustrating experience. Then way back in the early 80s I entered the computer age. Spellchecking. Instant correction. No more erasable bond. White out and overtyping became a thing of the past. I could just write and write and let some digital editor correct my work. It was liberating.
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<br>Yet, I missed my fountain pen. I bought one five or six years ago in a weak moment in the dead of winter and the thing didn't work all that well so I laid it by. About a month ago I dug it out and decided to see if I could resurrect it. So I flushed out the pen until it seemed to be working and loaded it with ink. Behold! The thing performed perfectly. Subsequently I have discovered that flushing out a fountain pen is standard procedure. I didn't know that.
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<br>I decided to see if I could find a source for fountain pens and associated paraphernalia. I quickly discovered this marvelous fountain pen store down in Virginia that is the most amazing place. It's online only and they only do pens, ink and paper and other accessories to the writing life. Their inventory is huge. The difference between writing instruments now and back when I used one in the fifties is staggering.
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<br>You guessed it: I now own a couple more fountain pens. It's fun - that is, for me. My penmanship is pretty much what is has always been - messy. But, and this is the test, I can read it cold and the few letters and notes I have sent out have seemingly been read successfully. I don' know how long this will last but I am having fun. I have some nice quality writing paper and envelopes. And good ink.
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<br>Suddenly I discover that I have email addresses for dozens of friends while missing quite a few actual mailing addresses. Don't worry, I don't expect everyone who gets one of my "original" hand written epistles to respond in kind. This is something I enjoy. Whether you do or not is none of my business.
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<br>Sometimes I use green ink.GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-625403325799047202019-03-24T16:34:00.001-04:002019-03-24T17:21:37.454-04:00SPEAK TO MEOur three way phone call the other evening was a good idea. It was like a visit - almost. However, as usual - I always come away from three way calls and multi person conversations feeling like I missed something. This is the reason I usually depend so heavily on the written word.
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Without fail, every time we leave from a visit with friends I always ask CA for a brief summary of the visit. It never fails that I missed something essential. I have all this nice equipment hanging on my head but all that technology does not re-create normal speech. It creates a facsimile - not the same but similar. I do not hear what every body else hears. That's why music no longer works for me.
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This is also why it is so important to face me when talking to me. The visual queues really make a huge difference. The environment is also important. Noisy places are sometimes impossible for me. I have lost the ability to filter out unwanted sound and focus on what someone is saying as most normally hearing people can do. That's a disability. I don't like that term, but it wasn't until I accepted the fact that I was indeed disabled that I felt truly empowered to speak up and ask for what I need to enable me to hear and understand.
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Of course, it doesn't always work. At times all the best intentions just don't get it done and I must retreat and re-group. In difficult situations the effort to understand and participate is tiring and frustrating. Escape is sometimes the only healthy thing to do.
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Meanwhile, I, and millions of other Americans hobble along on our aural crutches: hearing aids, cochlear implants, other assistive listening devices. On level ground I can get along at a fairly good clip. On irregular terrain, however, I might need a little help from my friends.GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-3081736921620101342019-02-09T13:50:00.000-05:002019-07-20T11:28:37.140-04:00LETTING SLEEPING DOGS LIE<span style="font-size: large;">If you're one of those short sighted uncaring people who are tired of reading about old guys talking about being an old guy, then you can unplug now and save yourself a ton of grief. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">OK, if you are still here I was wondering what is it about being an old guy (I know I should be saying 'person' but that seems so clunky. I know there are old women - </span><span style="font-size: large;">don't worry about it.</span><span style="font-size: large;">) that sooner or later you think, "Wouldn't it be great to go looking for an old childhood pal you have not seen or heard from for fifty or sixty years"?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There is a clue built into the very thought of searching for an old pal and it is this: how often do old pals look you up? Get it?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, I went looking for this guy who I was good friends with back in the fifties. Are you with me now? That's several wars ago. I actually found him on FaceBook in the search field and so I contacted him. He was surprised and said he thought I was dead. But he sounded excited to re-connect. So I sent him a catchup email and he acknowledged it promptly saying he was glad to hear that I was still alive and would soon send a note catching me up to his life for he past sixty years. Nothing. Not a peep. It's been months.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">At first I was disappointed but then I came to my senses - which is not always the case, in my case. I thought: Well, it seems that he ended up at an ivy type school so he must have been brainy and probably had so much in his life to report that he was still writing his catchup note to me. The sad truth is that h</span><span style="font-size: large;">e's probably suffering from dementia. It's pretty common among my contemporaries. Probably doesn't even realize we exchanged emails. Sad. I'll send him a get well card.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have this other high school friend who sends out notices of the <i>passing (read death)</i> of members of our HS class. He and I reconnected through our shared experiences dealing with prostate cancer and the treatment thereof. It seems that there is a greeting, growing in popularity among older men - "How's your prostate"? It's a clubby sort of thing. If you are not an old guy with an enlarged or cancerous prostate this won't mean much to you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Here's the thing - why try to resurrect relationships that died of natural causes a lifetime ago when there are dozens of people <i>in my own generation</i> who are practically within walking distance?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The answer, of course, is curiosity. Raw, unadorned curiosity. Nothing wrong with it but consider the excessive time and energy it would take to fill in all the gaps between then and now when within arm's length are many who can share life as it is now with all the liver spots, stiff joints, wrinkles, flabby bellies and scary diagnoses. I mean - how good can it get?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5368551131296013508.post-84061582730987355132019-01-20T11:43:00.001-05:002019-01-20T11:43:43.904-05:00I'M GONNA LIVE UNTIL I DIEEvery year at this time my bank sends out a form letter - I have long ago stopped expecting" any kind of personal communication from a bank - notifying me of the status of a very small IRA account I have had for a number of years. <br />
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By law, as you know, when you reach the age of 70 and ½ years you must begin taking what is called a minimum distribution from your IRA. The wording of this announcement is catchy, "Based on the IRS life expectancy table and your plan balance as of 12/31/18 your minimum distribution is $ - - - - "<br />
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Having a quick mind, as I am sure you all know, I did a little calculating dividing the amount of the IRA by the projected distribution and .came up with a number that was what the IRS figures is how long I will live. Well, you know the IRS, they are precise.<br />
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Not to put too fine a point on it, but I'll be 88 this year - the year of the IRS calculation about my life expectancy. And according to the IRS I am scheduled to live 12.7 more years. The last guy I knew who boasted that he was going to live until 100 died when he was in his late 80s. If you've been paying attention, you know that's about where I am. <br />
Well . . . . The bank is careful not to say something like, "Hey Jerry - you got 12.7 more years to go! Ye Ha!" But if you read between the lines, well, the handwriting is on the wall and that's enough about the wall.<br />
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Some years ago there was a popular song sung by Frank Sinatra, Sarah Vaughan and Frankie Laine and probably a few others and the last verse went like this:<br />
<div class="UH8R2" jsname="U8S5sf" style="margin-top: 13px;">
<span jsname="YS01Ge">Gonna dance, gonna fly,</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge">I'll take a chance riding high,</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge">Before my number's up,</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge">I'm gonna fill my cup,</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge">I'm gonna live, live, live, until I die!</span><br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge"><br /></span>
. . . and so shall we all.<br />
<span jsname="YS01Ge"><br /></span>
<span jsname="YS01Ge"><br /></span></div>
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<br />GB Hendersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02100655810902991749noreply@blogger.com0