JOHN KENNETH HENDERSON

JOHN KENNETH HENDERSON - BORN JUNE 13 1935 - DIED AUGUST 29 2016.

As brothers go, we were not that close. The four years that separated us seemed to place us in different worlds. Grades apart in school - different sets of friends . I was told by my parents that I seemed to resent his coming into the family and actually took a toy rubber hatchet to him as he lay in his crib. Of course, I would rather think that is part of the apocryphal family lore, always good for a laugh at gatherings.

We did not share friends. When he did tag along with me and my friends - which as I recall was something he loved to do - (Isn’t that something common among younger brothers?) we didn’t make him feel particularly comfortable. We were never cruel but we did not encourage him either. I find it interesting that we never spoke of those years. Our lives were parallel, not intertwined.

Except for the four years that Ken spent in the Air Force, he never left Baton Rouge. He worked at various things, among which were managing one of those large merchandise outlets, being a butcher and driving a route truck - which he seemed to like. He used to talk fondly of the people he met as he traveled around the countryside
.
He married Audrey Bourg and that proved to be the best thing he ever did. They always seemed to me to be terminally happy together. In later years they both suffered from multiple physical problems. He had by-pass heart surgery and back issues while Audrey was a long time diabetic. This resulted in her becoming a double amputee in her last years. In a freakish accident she fell from her power chair and within a short time died. From that point on Ken became depressed and disoriented. When we talked, he could not hide his sadness and sense of loss. I asked him to come and stay with me for a while to get a break from what seemed to me to be a bleak self imposed existence, but he would not.
Recently he began to exhibit signs of dementia. He fell and broke his arm and became unable to care for himself completely.

His passing leaves me as the lone survivor of our immediate family. Our points of contact were few and at times far between but were, nevertheless, essential. I will miss him sorely.

Epilogue :

The last time I visited the old country, it felt like I had never been there before. How can this be, I wondered. But that’s as it should be, isn’t it? Time changes everything - and time will be served. If we are wise, we will move on with time. This is the hard work of aging.

THE FALL

There was a time when I thought it funny, quaint and even interesting how old people talked about being old more than, say, how I talked about being young or middle aged. Hang out with some old people and before long being old and all that means becomes the subject of conversation.

But it’s not all talk. If you grow old, and I hope you do, it’s very likely that you will encounter one or more of the degenerative disorders that plague he aging: arthritis, joint failures, cataracts, Alzheimer’s, glaucoma, diabetes, stroke, Parkinson’s, coronary issues, shingles and the all time favorite - the many faces of cancer. If I have left out your preferred disease, please let me know and I will happily add it in a later update.

My point is that all that talk among old people is about something real and usually something shared. I mean, what do you expect? If you have lived long enough you have had to give up mountain climbing, surfboarding, motorcycle racing - to mention a few. What’s left? You become expert survivors. Then you fall.

I live in a house with three and a half sets of stairs. The half is one of those death traps you pull down to reach the attic. I am up and down these stairs many times a day and have done so for nearly 20 years - without incident - until about a week ago. I successfully descended the stairs leading to the garage with a huge bag of recycling and after all these years, I thought I had one more step before the step down to the garage level and I was woefully mistaken. I ended up on my back, quite surprised with recycling all about me and CA calling out, “Are you alright?”

Well, no, I wasn’t alright and I needed a bit of assistance to get to my feet. It wasn’t long until I became aware of pain in my back and neck. These were old wounds now reactivated. Luckily there are no broken bones or even visible bruises, just an acute sense of stupidity.

So here I am again, nursing pain, taking pain medication and scheduling PT and acupuncture treatments. It gets old. But it’s life, and it’s my life. And I’m thankful for it. Now, where did I put that Tylenol?

REMEMBERING THINGS I NO LONGER DO

REMEMBERING THINGS I NO LONGER DO (FOR A NUMBER OF REASONS - ANY OF WHICH WILL WORK)

BACKPACK IN THE MOUNTAINS
SLEEP ON THE GROUND
FLY SMALL AIRPLANES
STAY UP ALL NIGHT FOR THE FUN OF IT
WHITEWATER KAYAKING
CLIMB TREES - OR ANYTHING ELSE FOR THAT MATTER
RUN
USE A CHAINSAW WITH ONE HAND
USE A CHAINSAW WITH BOTH HANDS
DANCE THE NIGHT AWAY
MEASURE TRIPS ACROSS TEXAS BY THE SIX-PACK
LIVE IN TEXAS FOR THAT MATTER
TRY TO FIND OLD HIGH SCHOOL BUDDIES
TRY TO TIE A BOWLINE KNOT
WATCH A HOCKY GAME (WAIT A MINUTE - I NEVER DID THAT IN THE FIRST PLACE) WATCH A SOCER GAME (SEE ABOVE)
DRIVE A BUICK

WHY DON’T YOU ADD TO THE LIST - OR ARE YOU ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO CAN STILL DO EVERYTHING … …

WHEN WILL IT END?

It seems to keep on going. It has a life of it’s own. First there is a statement to which I completely agree and then just as I am getting all excited over the woderful points someone has mede the bite comes in. There’s a deadline in six minutes and if we can raise $20,000,000 in the next six minutes we can get matching contributions consisting of 20 cases of light beer at headquarters. WILL YOU MAKE A CONTRIBUTION OF $2.78 IN THE NEXT SIX MINUTES?

I suppose this is what participitory democracy has come to mean in the 21st century. Even if you send a gift of much more than $2.78, in the thankyou note you are still asked for the $2.78.

Of course, it’s psychology. If you can become “involved” at any level it will be easier to get you involved again at an even more involved level. There is a fix, of course. And I know it. I am willing to share it with you, my friends, for the low, low cost of $4.95. To order, send your credit card number and that strange 3 digit number on the back, along with your social security number and the location of your spare house key that is kept outside.

Don’t delay. Order today. It is a known fact that if you delay sending the $4.95, you’ll probably figure this out on your own but you won’t have received my famous thank you note that has become a collector’s item on Ebay.

I look forward to hearing from you soon. Otherwise, just hit the delete key.

I'LL HIE UNTO MY CAVE AND THINK

One of my favorite bloggers is Shari Eberts who writes <http://www.LivingWith HearingLoss.com>. In her last post, she talks about embarrassment due to hearing loss. And as usual she nails it.
I hardly ever think of it in terms of embarrassment, but it is. I realize that I quickly convert embarrassment into anger and frustration – for me the real bad boys of hearing loss.
I have found that no matter how often you remind someone, including those most intimate, it’s a continuing effort. It is never done. I think that’s the part that is most tiring for me. I want to stomp and yell – HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT I AM DEAF? That’s when I re-visit my childhood fantasies of becoming a hermit. And, we all know how unhealthy that is.
The problem is that hearing loss is totally invisible to others. That it is unseen does not diminish the disability. Therefore the one suffering the disability sees all too clearly while others simply don’t know what to do. There’s enough discomfort to go around.
To hie unto your private hermitage is not the answer. The only effective solution (until, that is, another better solution comes along) is to provide information that is factual and easy to understand for someone who is not as close to the problem as you are. insist upon any accommodation rightfully yours in any social, work or play situation. Insist gently, with real information ready at hand and with your best smile.

GOING HOME AGAIN? BE CAREFUL!

THOMAS WOLFE CLASSICALLY REMINDS US THAT WE CAN’T GO HOME AGAIN. He’s right, of course, specially in the sense that time changes everything. You can go to the place, but it, like you has changed. Nobody and nothing escapes the ravages of time.

Even though I was thoroughly aware of this, I brought up Google Earth this afternoon and looked up my old childhood neighborhood. I did this several years ago and was shocked to see how the devastation of a lifetime has changed what was - that same lifetime ago - an almost idyllic experience. Today’s “trip down Memory Lane” was much the same with one difference: Just about every house in my old immediate neighborhood was gone and there were trees randomly spaced and neatly groomed grass. It was a park-like setting with only the occasional piece of ancient sidewalk showing through to belie a former civilization.

Rather than shutting down the computer I wadded on through the craggy sloughs of lost youth and the old streets that show signs of giving up to the inevitably encroaching verge.

The oak tree was there. The one I retreated to for dreaming. I had a few boards in the crown. Hardly a real platform, but sufficient for me to hide and see without being seen. It seems twice the tree now than it was then. I wished for it to be alone in a remote field where it was likely never to be cut down. But it has existed for a hundred years or more on that corner. If the community was still “alive” it surely would have been removed in the name of progress and street widening. I remember listening to freight trains trying to gain purchase on the rails in the Standard Oil Refinery two blocks away and thinking how I’d like to be on it going to my future. I always wanted to be somewhere else. I probably climbed down and rode my bicycle somewhere else - free as a bird. It was a wonderful life.

In Street View, I drove down the street where I lived passed empty lots where everyone lived. I drove to the “T:” intersection of Weller Ave. and Scenic Highway, which then was the center of what was known as Dixie, the years really caught up with me. Nothing was left of the thriving center where my father’s barber shop lived along with a hotel, two saloons, a variety store, hardware store and drug store on the west side

On the South East corner was the kingdom of Mr, Charlie Hebert (A-Bear). A huge (as I remember it) sign toward above the corner saloon. A large letter A and a brown bear constituted his “logo”. Next door was a large grocery store and next to that was a hardware store and next to that was a dry goods store. they were all connected so that you could walk inside from one to the other. Excepting the saloon, of course. Decades before anyone conceived of a Mall, we had one in Dixie. Not a single brick or board remains.

Suddenly a wave of sadness washed over me. I realized that I had stirred up a little leftover grief for a memorable childhood. Then I wondered if my sadness was about the childhood past or that it probably could not exist today.

MUSIC TO MY EARS

I sometimes think that loosing the ability to hear music is the most devastating result of hearing loss.  I have tried many of the remedies that have been suggested by many people to no avail.  My profound asymmetrical loss qualifies for a cochlear implant which is in the approval phase now.  I am told this will help.  There comes a time when understanding is the primary focus for one's life.  In much the same way that I simply avoid musical venues and situations I find that I avoid situations where I am supposed to understand what others are saying.  This is not healthy.

Withdrawal is a debilitating action in and of itself.  I know that.  For me, music has become a distraction, an irritant rather than a balm.  Communication with another human being, however, is essential to wellbeing and happiness.  If life would present me with conversations with one person at a time who, incidentally, sounded like Walter Cronkite, I would score 100% in understanding.  Alas, life is not that accommodating and, by the way, is becoming noisier every day.  

Whatever the outcome of my quest for more effective hearing "hardware", the most significant challenge for me is not whether I can once again appreciate music but whether I can participate fully in a conversation with friends and attend gatherings as a participant who understands the words.  That would be music to my ears, indeed!