Realities of Aging

Some years ago on some gift-giving occasion, I requested that Mr. Fixit give me a ladder. I explained that I didn’t want a step ladder like his. I needed a ladder to hang curtains, to look for things on the high shelves, and to paint. Since I have this fear of heights, his ladder is too high and the treads are too narrow. I found the perfect one. It has three wide treads, a paint tray, and the legs spread wide to give me a feeling of stability. It also has a thing to hold on to giving me a little more confidence. Best of all, the ladder is mine, all mine. Of course, I let him use it when necessary, like trimming the Christmas tree. Nice of me, don’t you think? The ladder usually makes its home in my clothes closet. Okay, sometimes I leave it in the upstairs hall leaning against the bookshelves or stationed in the computer room/craft room/junk room.


A few days ago I wanted to hang some curtains, but when I looked for the ladder, it was nowhere to be found. I looked everywhere--the garage, the storage room, the storage room annex (the downstairs bathroom), the my closet where it usually resides. I even used a thinly veiled accusation against Mr. Fixit. “Have you seen my ladder?” He said, “No, but I’ll help you look.” Hmmm, was that a little too co-operative in an attempt to appear innocent? He spent a bit of time checking all the places I had already looked. He couldn't find it either. That's really no surprise; he can never find anything he's looking for. He's just not a good looker-for.

My only thought was, how can anyone lose a ladder? The last thing I remembered about the ladder was moving it from the upstairs hall to put it away. I couldn’t put it back in the closet, because my handbag collection has grown, and it is a small closet. But where I put the ladder was a complete blank.

I was afraid my ladder would become another cell phone charger. I hadn’t been able to find it for weeks. I remembered that I was going to put it away, but I couldn’t remember where I put it. (Incidentally, I found it a few days ago by happenstance in my laptop case.)

Yesterday when I was busy doing something having nothing to do with a ladder, it suddenly popped into my mind where I had stashed it. I leave the door to my closet open because sometimes Little Girl like to take a private snooze in there. There, behind the open door, was my ladder. I took care of the curtain and now the ladder is residing in its new home--behind the closet door. And I'm a little embarrassed that I even entertained the thought that Mr. Fixit had put my ladder away where it didn't belong. Of course, I didn't admit making that thinly veiled accusation. I wonder if he noticed that it was accusatory.

Aging means spending about 50 percent of my time looking for things I have put away.

Wandering

Mr. Fixit has been retired about 8 weeks. As we were having breakfast this morning, I asked him if he missed anything about working (aside from the extra money). He said he doesn’t miss anything about it. I asked if he missed the routine of going to work or knowing that he had something to do to fill his time. I asked if he was bored. He said he didn’t miss the routine and he said that he can always find something to do. He said, “And when I get bored, we take a drive.”

I miss the routine. I can’t seem to get anything done; my house is even messier than usual. The other day he was working on something and I was in the kitchen cooking. He said, “Are you busy?”

“I’m cooking.”

He said, “I just wanted to know if you wanted to ride to Lowe’s with me.”

“Go? Did you say ‘go’? Wait until I turn off the stove and comb my hair.” He didn’t really have to twist my arm.

That’s why I have unmade beds and unwashed dishes and no routine. I really need more routine in my life to have an orderly life. But it’s nice to be able to go whenever the notion strikes.

Rogersville - The Final Installment

The third house we moved to in Rogersville was a brand new house outside of town that needed the finishing touches. The yard was a quagmire. Dad put down boards to make paths for us to reach the car and to get to the end of the driveway to catch the school bus. Incidentally, the school bus picked us up before daylight. We were always the first kids to get to school. I don’t like getting before dawn now; I hated even more then.


It was winter when we moved there, but the mud never seemed to freeze. It stayed messy all winter. One redeeming value of the house for me was the large basement. There was one big room and three smaller rooms that could have been used as small bedrooms when the basement was completed. That winter I had asked for a red wagon as a Christmas present. I steered that wagon in a circle in the basement for what must have been 100 miles.

It was in this house that I discovered Mickey Spillane novels on a boring snow day. I was in the third grade.

We didn’t stay long in that house long, thank heavens. The bootlegger landlord of the first house we lived in was sentenced to a stretch at Brushy Mountain prison. He asked Dad if we would move into the house he lived in which was next door to our first house while he was serving his time. The only thing he asked in return was that one bedroom be held for the exclusive use of his pretty young wife’s nasty little lapdog. (The landlord was not young. I'm trying to be politically correct without telling you that he was an old geezer with a pretty young wife.) I was crazy about dogs, but I didn’t like this one at all. It was not affectionate. Every time I tried to pet it, it would nip me. I had done nothing to this fuzzy miniature spawn of Satan to incur his enmity. I wonder where the wife went while Hubby was in the Big House. Wherever it was, I wished many times that she had taken that dust mop of a dog with her.

The education I received at Rogersville gave me a good foundation for the rest of my time in school, and I loved it. I also experienced my first crush there. His name was Anderson Bible, and he had a great shirt with a Dumbo appliqué on it. I thought his name was wonderful. Anderson Bible--now that’s a memorable name.

We stayed in that house until I had finished 4th grade when Dad was transferred to the Kingston Plant outside of Lenoir City, Tennessee. We lived in a little community called Eaton’s Crossroads.

House No. 4 - It's undergoing remodeling. When were lived there
a mimosa tree graced the front yard.

This small cemetery is the resting placed of Davy Crockett's
grandparents and Mr. Rogers who founded the town. I passed
it almost every day walking home from school.

(I got a lot of mileage out of that daytrip, didn’t I? Gro-o-o-an! Enough material for four posts.)

Advice

Some years ago a friend asked me for advice about a situation that was occurring in her family that was hurtful to her. She didn’t know how to handle it. Should she confront the family members who slighted her on many occasions or should she smile and not let anyone know how much she was hurt?


On one hand perhaps no one realized they were hurting her. She had done nothing to incur hard feelings from any family member. On the contrary, she went out of her way to offer her help and time. She couldn’t fathom why these small, but damaging, things kept happening. She felt if she confronted those people irreparable harm could be done to the family and the close relationship she thought she had, but her heart was breaking every time she was overlooked and slighted.

The other option was not letting anyone know that she felt unappreciated and hurt when others were shown more consideration and respect than she was. The problem with that was that after years of enduring little nicks to her heart she was beginning to feel less loving toward those who were careless with her feelings. She felt she had to harden her heart to keep from being hurt, but she said it was making her very unhappy.

I’ve often wondered if I gave her to right advice or if she even took it. We lost touch. I saw something online that brought the incident to mind. I hope whatever she decided was the right option for her situation.

Having become much older and a little wiser, I hope, I am very careful about giving advice unless I’m asked or I see a real danger ahead. Even when asked, I try to just see all sides of the situation and then to discuss the pros and cons of each alternative without making my own personal feelings known.

In this case, I suggested that she ignore as much as possible and keep smiling. That’s what I would do, but one of my biggest failings is my pride. I wouldn’t want anyone to know how much I was hurting.

***********************

Every time I go to the library, my nose begins to run, I get dizzy, and if I stay too long, I break out in a sweat. I then get a bad headache. I wonder if there is something there that causes these reactions. Could I be allergic to the library? I can’t bear even considering that possibility.

Yesterday and Today

Dad was transferred from Southeast Tennessee to Northeast Tennessee when I was in the second grade. It was shortly after the school year had begun. I think I was fairly happy there. There were some places we lived where I wasn’t so happy.

I went from a two-room school without indoor plumbing to a city school with all the mod cons. We had one teacher per class, indoor plumbing, music classes, a library, and playground equipment. I thought it was heavenly. When my new teacher heard from my mother the kind of school I had attended, she put me in the lowest reading group that first day. Back in those days, some mentally challenged children were mainstreamed. She put me in the reading group with the one kid who needed extra help. When she heard me read that day, she immediately moved me into the highest reading group. I wonder what she thought when she found out how deficient I was in math and coloring.

Front View of Rogersville Elementary School
When I attended, the front lawn had huge trees and big shrubs
lining a wide sidewalk leading to the front door. The only time
we were allowed on the lawn was in the spring during the May Day
Celebration and dance around the Maypole. The school is still in use, and
several new wings have been added. It's quite large now.

We lived in Rogersville until I completed 4th grade, but we moved several times around the town. When we were trying to find some of the houses last weekend, I couldn’t remember the name of the street where the first house was located. Suddenly, there it was--Charles Street. Before we turned around to turn on the street I even remembered the house number.

The first house we lived in was owned by a notorious bootlegger. He lived in the house next door. It was four small rooms, but my one criteria (should that be “criterium”?) was met. It had a tree in the backyard with a limb suitable for a swing.

The best thing that happened while we lived there was the lady across the street bought a television. I was instantly enthralled. I would come home from school and go to her house and watch the Indian head test pattern until Mother called in home for supper. I don’t think I saw more than a few minutes of a real program there.

Apparently Dad was also enthralled with this new medium. Even though we had neither the proverbial pot or the window, somehow he purchased, on-time, of course, a 17 inch Dumont television set. After a short time, we were able to get three stations--Channel 6 from Knoxville, Channel 11 from Johnson City, and Channel 13 from Asheville, North Carolina. (It’s funny the things I remember.) Every time the channel was changed, someone had to go outside to turn the antenna. That was before there were rotors for turning antennas. Or maybe we just couldn’t afford one.

My dad had little education but he was extremely smart and clever--something he and Mr. Fixit have in common. He rigged a system with clothesline rope to turn the antenna from inside the house. The ropes came into the house through a window.

House No. 1
The front of the house has been reconfigured and some of the
trees and shrubs are gone.



This is the TV lady's house across the street from House
No. 1. Aside from having a television, she also had a cow
that grazed in the large front yard that she treated as a pet.

 We lived in that first little house until a larger house became available. It was owned by another bootlegger. I think it became available when the owner was sent to Brushy Mountain Prison for practicing his chosen profession.

The house was very nice. There was my tree. It wasn’t big enough for a swing, but it was perfect for climbing. I spent many hours that summer reading in that tree. There was a swing on the front porch. There was a formal flower garden, a stream running through the backyard that fed a small concrete pool, a barn filled with straw, and an orchard with cherry trees on the hill behind the house.

There were definite signs that nefarious deeds had taken place there. My brother found a secret compartment in the floor of his bedroom and a handgun hidden in the barn’s hayloft. Did I mention the bullet holes in the Venetian blinds?

While living there, Granddad gave Gary and I some chicks and baby ducks for Easter. The ducklings almost drowned in the little pool, but the chicks swam quite well. I don’t remember what happened to the chicks, but we kept the ducks. They became pets who followed us around like puppies. They would wait for Dad every afternoon to come home from work. One day as he started in the gate, the ducks became very agitated and were quacking like crazy. They had never done this before. Dad proceeded through the gate and was confronted by a copperhead snake (which he dispatched with the garden hoe). He said that The Boys, as the ducks were known, had saved his life.

The one dark spot in my life while living there was potato picking. My parents always had vegetable gardens if it were possible. This house had a B-I-G garden area. We had corn, potatoes, beans, peas, squash, carrots, lettuce, etc. When the time came to harvest the potatoes, Dad dug them up, and I suppose because I was the closest to the ground it was my job to pick up the potatoes and put them in a bucket. My back ached, my hands and feet got dirty, and the weather was still warm enough that I worked up a sweat. I hate sweat! I will never forget how icky I felt after picking up potatoes. I swore to myself that I would never pick up another potato in my life.

We searched for House No. 2, but we couldn't find it. I remember exactly the area it was in, and I remember how the house looked. The topography seems to have changed greatly from what I remember.
I remember the house being on a straight stretch, but the only road we found that it could have been was curvy. I was a bit disappointed.

Rogersville - Part 1

Our day trip to Rogersville, Tennessee, yesterday was wonderful. The scenery was absolutely gorgeous even though most of the leaves have fallen, there was a little color. As we drove from Asheville, NC, to Johnson City, TN, the mountains were just jaw dropping. I didn’t remember how high the mountains actually are. I think this drive was one of the most beautiful ones I have ever seen. I took a few pictures from the moving car, but none of them let you see the majesty of those mountains. I wish the pictures I took of cows grazing on almost vertical pastures were better. It looked as if the poor cows took one false step they would have fallen “out” of their grazing areas.


My fear of heights only kicked in a few times. All the roads (except, of course, city streets and country roads) were multiple lanes so I wasn’t forced to look into the abyss.

There are many working farms in that rugged, hilly area. They appeared to have lots of acreage. The farms have a different look than the ones here.

Rogersville is still a small town. I would guess that the population is less than 5,000. I didn’t see a population sign. I saw some things I recognized, but it has changed greatly. It’s seems to be a mirror image of every other small town with its McDonald’s, Wal-Mart, Pizza Hut, Auto Zone, and Burger King. Franchise businesses and chain stores, I suppose, have been a boon to the economies of small towns, but those businesses have also caused the loss of the charm and individuality of small towns. All look the same now.

Rogersville is the second oldest town in Tennessee. It was founded by Joseph Rogers and his wife, Mary, and the grandparents of Davy Crockett. It was settled in 1775. It boasts the oldest courthouse, the first newspaper, and the first post office in the state. I remember some of that from being in school there.

One thing I noticed was the lack of diversity of the population. We were only there for a short time, but we didn’t see any black people. I saw no Near Easterners, no Middle Easterners, no Far Easterners, no Mexicans, or other Latinos. The only accents I heard were Mr. Fixit’s and the southern accents of the locals.

Even with their shoddy service at McDonald’s and the lack of diversity in their citizenry, if I had to choose another place to live, Northeastern Tennessee would be at or near the top of my list.

More to come.

Travel with the Fixits (Or, Are We Having Fun Yet?)

Last night after Owen’s last baseball game (It was the championship game. They won. He hit a homerun. At the banquet Owen was chosen as the Most Valuable Player of the tournament.), we decided to take a little trip to Rogersville, Tennessee, where I had spent a few years as a child. It was a last minute idea with little or no preparation.


We left fairly early because it is a 200 mile trip. We stopped to have breakfast at Bo Jangles. Every morning, several older gentlemen have breakfast together to socialize, solve the problems of the world, and tell stories of the good ole days.

When I went into the restaurant, I left my purse in the trunk because it was so heavy. I was carrying my camera, a TomTom, my telephone, and my plastic bag with my user’s manuals for my camera, my telephone, and blue tooth headset. Well, you never know when you’ll need your instruction books. I also have a small flashlight, a pocket knife, cosmetics, sunglasses, etc., etc., etc. The purse weighs about 10 pounds.

I have a wallet to which I can attach a shoulder strap, so I often leave my purse in the car and just carry the wallet. I had laid the wallet on the table while we ate.

One the gentlemen passed by our table and noticed the wallet. He said to me, “I can’t believe you can only carry that little purse. My wife’s purse is big and so heavy she can hardly lift it.”

I then had to admit that my big, heavy purse was in the trunk of the car. I was a bit embarrassed. He thought it was funny.

Mr. Fixit recently purchased a new TomTom. He said that the battery in the old one wouldn’t hold a charge so he needed a new one. He gave me the old one which I now carry with me. (It seems to hold charge just fine for me.) I had programmed mine last night to show us the way to Rogersville. As we began our trip, I took it out of my purse. Mr. Fixit said he was going to program his new one. We compared information indicated on each unit. They both chose the same route, and the mileage was the same on both. However, there was a 30 minute difference in the travel times. He decided that we should leave them both on to see if we could determine how this discrepancy occurred.

I had an uncomfortable thought. “Do you see anything disturbing about us using two TomToms at the same time, programmed to go to the same place?” I asked. “What does that say about us? Can you say ‘Anal Retentive’?”

As Christmas nears, the Scrooge part of me has already begun to manifest itself. It began before Halloween when lots of stores put out Christmas items and decorated their businesses with Christmas decorations

As we were driving through Greenville, SC, this morning at the beginning of our trip, there was Santa in all his glory riding a motorcycle at 8:00 am. I wanted to yell out the car window and tell him to get his red velvet clad butt back to his enchanted cottage/toy factory at the Pole until the day after Thanksgiving. Bah, Humbug!

By virture of the fact that we had TWO TomToms, we reached our destination after getting off course only a few times. We drove around Rogersville looking for the school I attended and some of the houses we lived in. We stopped at McDonald’s for a quick lunch. Quick being the operative words. We ordered--no special order items--just a Big Mac combo and a Fish Filet combo. We had to wait about 10 minutes for our order. People behind us came and went, and there we stood waiting. There was no apology, no nothing! Mr. Fixit was so pissed. He’s an impatient person.

On our way home on I26 between Johnson City and Asheville, NC, my phone rang. I answered--it was Jason. He said, “Where are you?” I told him where we were, and, of course, he made a remark about us doing retired people things. He then asked me a question about making cheese and garlic grits that they were taking to a shrimp and oyster roast tonight. I offered a suggestion to his culinary problem while tooling around mountainous terrain about 150 miles from home. Yes, sometimes technology is good.

We took the same route home as we did on the way there because it is such beautiful country. It took us from Rogersville to Kingsport, TN on to Johnson City, TN Asheville, NC and home through Greenville, SC. We were making good time as we arrived in Asheville. Let me say that both Mr. Fixit and I have driven in some of the worst places east of the Mississippi there are to drive. I’ve driven in Manhattan, Boston, Providence, RI, Washington, DC, Nashville, TN, Memphis, TN, New Jersey, and Atlanta, but Asheville always causes us and Ms. TomTom problems. We always go off course there.

Today was no exception, Ms. TomTom was too slow so we missed an exit. She recalibrated and planned a route to get us back on track. It took us through the Hookerville section of Asheville. We were on a surface street and there at an abandoned gas station were three ladies of ill repute plying their trade right in front of God, me, and everyone else on the street. I had never seen anything like this in person. I was shocked! Of course, we were stuck in traffic and had to sit there for longer than we should have. One of the ladies took her client over to a stack of tires and sat down on it with him and ministered to his needs in broad daylight. Oh, it wasn’t the--how do I put this?--complete action one might expect, but it was still too gross for words. E-e-w-w-w! Ms. TomTom came through for us and we got the heck out of Dodge!

After leaving Hookerville, we had an uneventful ride home. There’s more to tell about the trip, but it will have to wait until tomorrow. Riding over 400 miles in one day isn’t has easy as it used to be.

Recommendation

If you are interested in nostalgia and enjoy good writing, may I suggest www.hughdogg6.blogspot.com.
Hugh and I attended the same high school in a small Kentucky town. I graduated in 1963, and Hugh graduated in 1964. He has been writing for while and distributing his work via email to a large group. It's nice that he will now be reach a larger audience, because he writes well and I enjoy his stories of growing up in a small southern town in the '50's and '60's.

Take a look; I hope you like it as much as I do.

Looking for Foliage Part II

These are pictures of Lake Tugalo which straddles the state line between Toccoa, Georgia, and Westminster, South Carolina. The water is somewhat low now, but a few years ago during our long drought, you could have walked across the lake bed. The second picture is the trees along the lake shore. Blogger wouldn't let me publish all the pictures in the same post; therefore, Part II.

Looking for Foliage

Yesterday Mr. Fixit and I took a short trip to see if there is any fall color left. We went to Tallulah Gorge in Georgia since it's only about 50 miles from home. We saw very little of the usually vibrant color, but it was still worth the trip.

View directly across from the overlook of the Gorge

Looking down into the Gorge. I couldn't stand close enough to
the edge to see all the way to the bottom

The tree was directly in front of the car at the overlook at the top
of the Gorge. It was the brightest color we saw all day.

On My High Horse Again (I'm Still Testy)

This morning there was an article at Yahoo! News concerning telephone companies petitioning regulators to stop mass-printing white pages phone books. The article was written by Michael Felberbaum, AP Business Writer. Included in the article was this quote:


“Anybody who doesn’t have access to some kind of online way to look things up now is probably too old to be able to read the print in the white pages anyway.”

The quote was attributed to Robert Thompson, a pop culture professor at Syracuse University. It was indicated that the line was supposed to be a "joke."

I know that exposing ugly stereotyping of those of us who are elders, senior citizens, or old people (take your pick of descriptive terms) is usually the province of Crabby at TGB, but this one really hit a nerve with me.

First of all, it’s a stupid thing to say because most of us know that there are more and more doddering old darlings, such as I, using computers. Is this pop-culture professor so out of step that he doesn’t know this? Maybe it’s time for the professor to pull his head out to take a look at the real world and see what is really going on in so-called “pop culture.”

Secondly, why was he even quoted anyway? Was Mr. Felberbaum looking for the snarkiest quote available to add a little controversy to his article. If so, shame on you, Mr. Felberbaum! It was completely unnecessary to your article.

One More

I added this one because I think it's a beautiful scene.

A Lot of Hot Air

Saturday afternoon Mr. Fixit and I were in Anderson on some made-up excuse to get out of the house when I spotted a hot-air balloon chase truck. I then remembered reading in the newpaper that this was the weekend for a balloon festival. We drove by the park as the afternoon ascension was taking place. Even though there weren't as many balloons as there were when Anderson hosted a large festival a few years ago, it was still wonderful to see.



This is not a very good pic but I like the dark clouds against the
blue sky with the balloons flying high.



The orange and purple balloon with the tiger paw prints on
the right is celebrating Clemson University. We have orange
and purple everywhere with paw prints on everything from roads
to buildings.

The Clemson balloon aloft

I couldn't get all the balloons aloft in one pic, but I counted 16 as we were
leaving.

(Click on photo to enlarge)

Adventures in Dentistry

This morning I had an appointment at the dentist's office to have my teeth cleaned. I had never seen the hygienist before. Apparently, the person I usually see is no longer there.


While going to the dentist is not one of my favorite things to do, I'm not one to get nervous or scared of a little discomfort. Today may have changed my attitude. She was very rough, and it hurt! I once had a “deep” cleaning done by a periodontist that was nothing compared to this. I don't want to see her again, but I don't know how to tell them without hurting her feelings.

However, maybe I don't care if I hurt her feelings. She also made me angry. I know, I know. I'm being petty, but it offends me when people I've never met before call me “Sweetie,” “Dearie,” or “Honey.” If she couldn't remember my name, she could have just omitted calling me anything. After all, I was the only person in the room. She also talked to me the whole time she was doing her thing. Did she expect a reply when I had a mouthful of dental instruments? She also spoke to me as if I were a two-year-old. I may be 65 but I haven't reverted to my second childhood yet.

My mouth is sore, and I am a little TESTY! But I do have 6 months to get over it.

A Great Baseball Moment for an 8-year-old!

This is a day that will live in my memory and the memories of our grandson, Owen, and our son, Jason, for the rest of our lives.


Today was the final game in the Fall Ball Season. Owen’s game began at 9:00 am. It was sunny and cold enough to freeze your nose. I was not in the best of moods. I went to sleep about 6:00 am and had to get up again at 7:30 am in order to get to the park by 9:00. I almost stayed home, but I’m so glad I went. I wouldn’t have missed this for the world.

I’m not sure of the correct baseball lingo, but this is what happened.

Owen was playing third base when the batter hit a fly ball. Owen caught the ball for Out No. 1. He then turned and tagged the runner who had been on second base and was running to third--Out No. 2. He still had the ball in his hand. He started running to the pitcher’s mound. I thought he was going to yell “Time!” when he reached the mound. (In coaches pitch games, this is standard procedure.) Instead of stopping on the mound he kept running toward first. I thought, “Where the heck is he going?” It soon became apparent. The runner who had been on first had started for second base. He was trying to get back to first to tag up again when Owen noticed the runner was off base. Thank Heaven, the umpire saw exactly what was happening. Owen ran from third base to first base and tagged the runner. The umpire signaled Out 3. Owen made a triple play with no assist!!!

The crowd went nuts! Heck, I went nuts! I thought Jason was going to bust his buttons he was so proud. BTW, they won the game by virtue of the mercy rule when the score is one-sided. The coach came over to the spectators and said, “Remember this one, because you probably will never see it again.” Owen was awarded the game ball on which his unassisted triple play was noted.

I wish everyone could have seen the pure joy on that child’s face the rest of the game. What a way to end the season!

It Happened on Halloween

Yesterday as we were heading home on I75 near Atlanta, there was a sleek, shiny black hearse on the side of the highway being tended to by one of those roving roadside assistance truck drivers.


Several thoughts popped into my head. I fervently hoped that the hearse was empty except for the driver. Then I wondered where the funeral procession was. Had this inconvenience happened before or after the ceremony? What is proper etiquette when the hearse breaks down before the rites begin? Do you continue on to the cemetery and wait there for the deceased to show up or do you go home and wait for further instructions? Did the driver simply run out of gas? Hmmm, I think if I were driving a hearse that would be the second thing I would check before hitting traffic on I75 in Atlanta. (Atlanta has the nuttiest drivers east of the Mississppi in my opinion. I would rather drive in Manhattan than Atlanta.)

I always heard people say of the chronically late, “She’ll be late to hear own funeral.” In this case, it could have actually happened.