At this stage in my life, it is necessary to take several medications a twice a day. Also, at this stage in my life, my memory isn’t as sharp as it was once. For some reason, I can’t remember to take the morning meds; I never forget the bedtime ones. Two of the prescriptions have some unpleasant side effects. If I take them on schedule my body adapts and the side effects disappear; however, if I miss one dose, the side effects re-appear and continue for a few days. Needless to say, I hate this! I asked Mr. Fixit if he would remind me to take the meds on schedule.
This morning before he left for work, he came upstairs and reminded me. When I came downstairs, this is what I found.
His spelling may leave a bit to be desired, but his heart is in the right place. What a sweet man!
Author Tony Hillerman died Sunday. I have been reading his Navajo series since the mid 1970’s. Lt. Joe Leaphorn and Officer Jim Chee would entertain me every couple of years with a new mystery and Navajo lore. I feel as if I have lost old friends.
This section of the Chattooga River forms the border between Oconee County, S.C., and the State of Georgia. In non-drought times, this is a launching area for whitewater rafting and kayaking. In the foreground of the photo is a depth gauge showing the severity of our drought.
The gauge is out of the water. In normal times, the vegetation in the foreground is completely under water. It looks as if you can walk across the river without getting your ankles wet.
Yesterday Mr. Fixit and I decided to take a day-trip to see the autumn foliage. The weather was outstanding. The leaves are just beginning to turn here in Upstate South Carolina so we thought the color would be at its peak in the North Georgia mountains and the foothills of the Smokies. I also wanted to return to Tallulah Gorge in Georgia to see the numerous waterfalls.
The leaves are not anywhere near the peak color. I was a little disappointed, but the falls at the Gorge more than made up for the lack of colorful foliage. We hiked several trails (Mr. Fixit hiked more than I did) and saw several falls. There was one trail that I would never attempt even if I were wearing the correct footwear. It involves climbing 630 steps and walking a suspension bridge. The museum was very interesting.
I wish our pictures of the falls had turned out better. The shadows were just too dark to see the complete cascades. They were beautiful.
After we left Tallulah Falls, I suggested that we drive northward to the Cherokee Reservation in Tennessee. When I was a little girl we lived the Eastern Tennessee. We went several times; every time relatives visited everyone wanted to go to the Smokies. The place has changed so much; some changes for the better, some for the worse. The last time I went several years ago, pre-casino, the majority of the workers in the souvenir stands were Cherokee; yesterday, we saw virtually none. Every shop was manned by whites. There were no artisans to be seen as there had been in the past; however, it’s possible that the artisans were at the museum. We didn’t go there. I suspect that the members of the reservation are now employed by Harrah’s Casino.
One of the better changes was that there were no captive bears or dancing chickens, or piano playing ducks. It always broke my heart to see those poor bears in small cages or performing tricks on stage.
The highlight of the trip was Goats on the Roof, a souvenir shop between Tallulah Falls and Clayton, Georgia. The shop sells the usual souvenirs, jams and jellies, home-made candies, ice cream, relishes, etc. They also sell Amish furniture.
It would be a run-of-the-mill shop except for one thing. Grass has been planted on the roofs of the two buildings comprising the store. Several goats and rabbits live on the roof. There are ramps and bridges connecting the two buildings and there are mechanisms for raising purchased food to the animals. They seemed to be very happy with lots of room to move.
It was a very nice day for us. This is the way I had envisioned Mr. Fixit’s retirement. He works so much that we seldom have time for even day-trips.
(As usual, click to enlarge photos for more detail.)
Noah and Owen play baseball at a park comprised of five baseball fields, a couple of soccer fields, tennis courts, a small playground, and a walking track. There are always people there. When the children play baseball and soccer, the place is packed.
Saturday they had a game at 9:00 am. They have an hour and a half time limit. After the game, snacks are passed out, the coaches pass out the game balls, and have a general team meeting. That usually takes about 15 minutes. Mr. Fixit and I left as soon as we congratulated the boys so we could get to our other grandson’s game about 45 minutes away. It must have been a few minutes after 11:00 am when we left.
Jason, Alisa, and the boys stayed to hang out with friends when they heard someone yelling, “I’ve been shot.” It was about 11:30. A dad was walking with his children off the ball field. He was hit in the butt and was knocked off his feet. No one heard the shot. In the meantime, other games were being played.
Jason took Alisa and the boys and put them in the car and then went back to the field to see if anyone needed any help. He said that everyone was down on the ground, parents covering their children with their bodies. Some of the children were down on the field at the positions they had been playing.
Thankfully the man wasn’t seriously injured. I suppose it was a good thing that an adult was hit. If it had been a child, the bullet would have hit any where from head high to chest high, depending on the child’s height. The results could have been fatal.
According to news reports, the sheriff’s department doesn’t seem to be taking this incident very seriously. They indicated that Saturday was the first day of deer season and they believe there was no malicious intent. The sheriff’s department and the news media seem to be pooh-poohing the whole thing. The headline was “Man Shot in Buttocks”, not “Shot fired at Little League Field”.
Needless to say, parents are upset that the authorities and the media seem to be taking this shooting so lightly. This grandparent isn’t too happy either. My son, his wife, and my grandchildren were too close for comfort. It seems that the good ole boys take their deer hunting more seriously than the safety of children.
My letter to the editor concerning elder language:
“I wonder if the ‘young’ members of your editorial board will change their perspectives as they age.
Perhaps it would be better to show your ‘kindness’ by being respectful and polite to elders by addressing them by their names and titles (Ms. Smith or Mr. Jones). As a matter of fact, I found it demeaning and patronizing to be addressed by ‘endearments’ by complete strangers when I was younger.
It may be enlightening to you if you ask a few elders how they feel about this subject. You may be surprised. You can find relevant comments at www.timegoesby.com, October 10, 2008, post.”
Explanation: The writer of the editorial referred to the "younger" members of their editorial board.
Their reply (which was received minutes after I sent the above email):
"Not as young as you might think. I'm closing in on 60. I was always raised to preface with Mr. or Mrs. or even Miss and do so today, but can't resist a few Alabama endearments. Old habits are hard to break. But I am sorry you were offended."
I wasn't offended by the editorial; it made me feel. . .(I can't find the exact word to use to describe how it made me feel) disappointed (for lack of a better term) that a whole segment of our society is regarded with such thoughtlessness.
Today’s post at www.timegoesby.com dealt with the subject of the use of demeaning language to elders (referring to elders as “hon”, “sweetheart”, or “dearie). Our local paper featured an editorial yesterday citing the same study referred in the TGB post. The editorial concluded:
“And we’ll admit people can indeed be thoughtless, if we can also acknowledge that sometimes, others see discrimination where none really exists.
Personally, we find it offensive that these days, it seems we can’t even attempt to be kind to one another without an ulterior motive being suspected.
That’s demeaning to all concerned.”
In answer, I suggested that it might be better to show what they referred to as “kindness” by being respectful and polite by using the elders' names and titles (Ms. Jones or Mr. Smith). I also suggested they ask a few elders their reaction to being called “hon” by complete strangers.
Again, I am showing my “codgerousness”, but it IS demeaning to be addressed by saleswomen and nurses (the worst offenders in my opinion) as “hon”.
Our small town is trying the cope with the high cost of gasoline. In our area, supplies of gas are scarce. There are lines at the stations that have a supply, and there is only "regular" available.
Usually when the water department sends out its meter readers, they arrive in a pickup truck. The last time they were here the two guys were in a golf cart. I assume that it is electric since it is so quiet. Last week when they were digging yet another hole in our neighborhood street, the men manning the backhoe arrived on the golf cart. Mr. Fixit and I saw two carts at a work site a few days ago. I don’t know if the carts have been purchased, rented, or borrowed, but they certainly must be cheaper and cleaner to operate than the usual pickup trucks.
Speaking of pickup trucks and fiscal responsibility, a few years ago I read in the town newsletter that the City had purchased from some government agency two surplus pickup trucks for $1.00 each. Those trucks are still being used. They are old and ugly, but they get the job done.
I don’t know who made the decision to use the golf carts; it could have been the town manager, the mayor, or the head of the water department, I suppose, but I suggest that we send that individual to Washington to clean up the financial debacle this country is facing.