I watched a woman enter the coffee shop. She’s familiar to me as a semi-regular. Like me, in her late sixties, I think, she walks with direct, no-nonsense style. Her hair is short but neat, and her clothing matches that no-nonsense, low maintenance image. I wonder if that’s how she is — no nonsense, direct, practical. Or is this a facade? Does she walk like that because that’s how she wants to be, and not how she is?
Fun to imagine such a character like that. Reminds me of friends I’ve had. Intelligent and capable in one arena, they were disasters in other areas of their life. Yet others were methodical, practical, and organized in all facets of life.
Memory of a co-worker’s comment to me once springs up: “Your level of organization must drive your wife nuts.” They said that while I was organizing software packages.
No, my wife has never commented on it. But when I put something away, I can tell you exactly where it is. Which, as I think about it, is exactly like both Mom and Dad.
Yesterday, sunshine was uncorked on us. Washing through blue skies, our air temp crested 70 F and lived there for a while. Gorgeous day, right?
Today, it’s 51 F and sunny. But we’re only expecting 63 F. And…rain. Still, pretty springish winter day. ‘Bout average for Ashlandia on Saturda, March 1, 2025.
Yep, a new month has begun. Sixteen percent of 2025 has been experienced. Those expecting a calm after the 2024 elections are probably disappointed. Those working for the Federal government in any capacity are likely stunned. Those hoping for lower inflation are probably too overwhelmed for emotions.
One thing unchanged are the lies that come out of Trump’s mouth. ‘Another lie’: MSNBC’s Nicolle Wallace smacks down Trump and Vance’s latest claims. No matter the subject, he will reliably lie, twist history, and bloviate, a fool who thinks himself a genius. He’s demonstrated these ‘qualities’ throughout his lifetime. Since he first announced his run for POTUS, it has been recorded and documented. And it sill goes on because his cult followers and the GOTP gleefully slurp it up by the spoonful.
Let me turn away from that. Take a coffee break for a while.
The Neurons dragged today’s song out of 2015. It came from a morning compound of wondering and cogitating as I slept-walked through the morning observances related to cleaning, feeding, eating, drinking. Prepping goes with all that. The routines induced a reflective miasma about being younger. Only, I was not the direct object of these thoughts; I was focused on Mom and Dad. Dad is with his third wife. In his nineties, he has issues but she’s younger than him by a decade and tends him well. His situation is solid.
Mom, though, is 89. She lives with her 95 year-old-fiance. It’s an old, three-story house. She falls a lot. Injuries and worries ripple out of each fall. She blames her back for her falls. I blame pride. I blame her refusal to accept her limitations and adjust her activities to their new scope. I understand; I don’t give up my routines. They’re routines because they comfort or reassure, or we enjoy them. These routines address something in our psychological makeup which isn’t easily altered.
The song is by Lukas Graham. As I went through the thought exercise of looking back, gazing forward, and reflecting on now, “7 Years Old” played in my morning mental music stream. The song is about reflections of being different ages and the attitudes and memories of that age prevail. So it was quite apt for my morning mental meandering.
Coffee and a doughnut are trespassing on my taste buds. Don’t know how they got past my defenses. Hope your day rocks in needed good ways. Here we go, in three…two…one…
I often think about Mom & Dad at my age of 68 and what they were doing.
Mom, with a couple divorces behind her, was a late bloomer in some ways. She’d given birth to seven children. Five lived. Forfeiting graduating high school to leave her small town of Turin, Iowa and find employment and begin her own life, she eventually acquired her GED. That was long after I’d left home and begun my life. After gaining her GED, she went to college and became an LPN and RN. A twenty-year in that followed; she retired at my current age, devoting herself to being a grandmother.
Dad and Mom had divorced decades before. Dad was in the military, the U.S. Air Force. After retiring at 20 years, when he was thirty-nine years old, he worked in the grocery business as a produce manager and then bought his own restaurant. When he was around 48, twenty years younger than I am now, he moved west to Texas. He worked in different retail businesses while becoming a real estate agent. He always like running stores, though. Eventually, he was running the largest truck stop west of the Mississippi. Along the way, he met another woman; she became his third wife. They’ll be married 33 years on Valentine’s Day of 2025. Meanwhile, he kept managing that truck stop. Every time he told them he was thinking about retiring, they’d offer him more pay, bonuses, and vacation. He did eventually give it up when he was 80. So at my current age, he was fully in the thick of running it.
They’re a surprising couple. From lower class working roots, they married many times. Each had productive careers. Between the two of them, each was parent to seven children but they also buried three children. Five of us siblings shared them as parents. I left Mom’s home when I was 14 to live with Dad and then left his house at 17, joining the military as Dad had done, so much of what I saw of their lives was through a long distance lens. Mom and Dad remain alive. Mom is 89 and Dad is 92. Both endure health issues but because of the era when they worked and the effort they put in, they have excellent health benefits.
Of course, the flip side of it all is, what will I be like at their ages?
Be nice if I was given a sabbatical from aging. Feels like I’ve been aging my whole life.
It was great for a while. Then…aging started getting old. Now worries come up with every fart, creak, and groan these days. What is that? Do I need to worry about it or can I forget it?
That whole worrying about things is different when you’re aging. When I was young, I’d fall off a building, land on my head, bounce up with a little cry. Mom would spit on my injury and I’d motor on. Maybe Mom’s spit was magic; I haven’t tried that recently as I live across the country from her. Seems like all the issues she’s had related to her aging, if her spit was magic, she would have used it on herself. Then again, maybe a mother’s spit only works on her children. Maybe her spit aged and lost its magic. Either way, a year off from aging would be a wonderful break for me.
The sixth day of February has boarded our minds in the year of 2025 CE, a Thursdaz. Crazy frog — our home’s expression for freezing fog, based on a mondetext — has stolen the sunlight, gifting us twilight colors of, gray, white, and black. No snow falling but ‘they’ are warning us that more is on the way. It’s 32 F and greater warmth isn’t anticipated. Snow might be on the way. Or rain.
The primary roads have been plowed here but get off them and yer on yer own. Sidewalks on not cleared, so people must walk on the streets. Everyone gives pedestrians on the roads wide passage but given the environment, I imagine people walking worry with every step about someone losing control of their vehicle.
Weather caused cancellation of my first two lymphedema massage therapy sessions. Another one is scheduled for tomorrow. Also have an appointment for Papi the ginger blade, aka butter butt, Meep, and butter booger, to see what’s going on about his fur shedding.
The Ban Man is at it. Trump bans with a petulant thump. “Ban transsexuals in women’s sports.” Thump. “If I can’t have fun and play sports, neither can they.” “Ban DEI. I’m a rich white guy, born into a wealthy white household. I don’t understand how that was an advantage over others.” Thump. “Ban it all, everything that isn’t me.” Thump.
Of course, the craziness of the first term is still flowering. ‘The U.S. will take over Gaza. Move the Palestinians out.’ What? Friggin’ nuts. Then his ‘team’ scrambles to make it sound sane, plausible, and supported by everyone, and then Trump realizes how nuts he sounded and tries to change what he said. Brother.
It was a busy morning. Friend called to ask advice about his ailing cat. Another called for help with his recalcitrant computer. And, caught up with Mom drama via texts with Mom and a sis. Mom fell again. She refuses assistance and she’s been at war with her live-in boyfriend for months. She’s 89 and he’s 94. I have never witnessed him be anything but polite and nice to her but she declares him mean. My siblings and I have a lifetime of Mom so her claims draw leeriness as a first response. It’s unfortunate but she’s been married multiple times and has had several boyfriends, and drama is her drug. She makes everything contentious with everyone. It’s a sigh-inducing relationship with her.
With that gray-tinged white world staring back at us, it’s no surprise that The Neurons pulled a Cream song, “White Room”, into the morning mental music stream. It’s a Cream favorite o’ mine. A poet, Pete Brown, was responsible for the lyrics, which strike many as enigmatic. I think iyhat pushes me to look inside myself.
My favorite part is this stanza, followed by the chorus.
I like the way the stanza is belted out, angry, defiant, challenging, before the softly resigned introspection presented by the chorus.
Then, too, there are three phenomenal rock performers demonstrating their craft with bass guitar, lead guitar, and drums. Awesome.
Coffee and I introduced ourselves to one another again and I’m indulging in more caffeine-infused dark goodness. Hope your day offers some escape from the world’s woes and some satisfaction to your plans. Cheers
It’s Soonday, December 9, 2024. We’re enjoying a clear sky loaded with sunshine and an outdoor tempy of 28 F. Frost has shadowy places airbushed with white influences. A dense fog warning is percolating while 49 F is being dangled in front of us as a high. Should say that it’s my local system calling out 28; in other parts of Ashlandia, sunshine has cleared the forests and mountains and 42 is already being experienced. A friend’s weather setup, available via Wunderground, has his temperature at 31 F. Dress appropriately.
Moving slow this morning. That’s why I’m calling this soon day. Soon, I’ll get up and do things. Soon I’ll leave and get my hair cut. Soon. Night fraught with dreams and restlessness are keeping the go pedal from getting engaged, even though coffee and I have said our hellos. One dream featured me as a young man with young friends and relatives, traveling to another place. Along the way, I stopped to visit with others. There, I rested in sunshine and told people of other people’s businesses failing, along with places such as airports not being built. It ended with me trying to pull a nuisance weed, which then bloomed, leaped out of the ground and ran away, freaking us out. Then we laughed.
This cold weather and clear sky put me into a whirlpool of childhood memories. Once, while going outside to play football with friends when I was almost a teenager, I was accosted by mom. “Put a heavier coat on, for God’s sake,” she said. “It’s winter outside.”
Wise me replied, “It’s not winter yet, Mom, until the solstice, December 22.”
She answered, “It’s winter when it’s cold and the snow starts falling to me.”
We were living in Penn Hills, a Pittsburgh, PA, suburb. Snow had been falling since before Thanksgiving. Therefore, it was winter.
I used to talk to her about her winters in Iowa. She loved those days, she said, because they would stay in the house, where it was cozy and warm, and play games, listen to the radio, talk, cook, and clean. Winter remains her favorite season for those reasons.
Those memories crystallized into two songs for me last night. Both are called “Our House”. They’re very different. The first was dropped into the morning mental music stream (Trademark frozen) when a television show featured it ysterday evening. This is the “Our House” by Crosy, Stills, Nash, and Young. My wife sang along with it; that stirred The Neurons up, and triggered that memory whirlpool. But a rebel group of Neurons countered with “Our House” by Madness. Two very different songs. The CSNY offering says, “Our house is a very very fine house. With two cats in the yard. Life used to be so hard. Now everything is easy cause of you.” Madness sings, “Father wears his Sunday best, Mother’s tired, she needs a rest, the kids are playing up downstairs. Sister’s sighing in her sleep. Brother’s got a date to keep, he can’t hang around.” The CSNY version is about a young couple’s domestic tranquility. Madness offers a portrait of hustle, growth, and noise.
Let’s get positive (sung to Olivia Newton-John’s “Let’s Get Physical) and move forward. 2025 is almost here. Here’s the music to help you along. Cheers
Dad’s 92nd birthday is Wednesday. Mom’s birthday is tomorrow. I’ll be calling her tomorrow, so I called Dad today, as I’ll be pretty busy Wed. with planned surgery.
Dad and I had one of the best chats I recall having with him. We chatted about aging, financing, and Mom. Very satisfying.
Dad has always been a level guy, staying mellow, keeping things in the moment. He’s never gotten too worked up over any of life’s tumbles and twists. And he’s been through his share.
He’s in okay health. Had some stents put into his coronary arteries some years ago. Suffers some COPD. Went through some edema issues twice. Now he’s on a low sodium diet. A cane is employed to walk around. He sometimes needs a walker.
But we laughed a lot about these things which happen to us as we get older.
I had a medical appointment the other day. Met with a PA about my upcoming surgery. We had a good time with the young guy. My wife had helped host a birthday party for her Y exercise class instructor and brought home some goodies, so we were on a sugar high, cracking jokes at him. He, for his part, confessed that he wanted another cup of coffee and shared a story about how he’d once unwittingly consumed the ‘half caf’ that his parents brew.
Part of the directions to me for my appointment was to bring all my medications.
I ignored that directive. My PCP is with Asante; my surgeon is independent but working with me through Providence. Both use Mychart to track me and communicate. My medical prescriptions are in those records.
I’ll tell you, I like Mychart. I go in there whenever I want to check on my history or look at what’s upcoming. It’s a significant improvement on filing a billion pieces of paperwork like we used to do in the military.
Number two with not taking my meds with me, I’d filled out a paper questionnaire at my first appointment. That’s what folks call a ‘hard copy’. I was required to list my medications on it.
I figured my meds were pretty covered. If their systems were having trouble tracking them, we have much larger problems, Hal.
Of course, my med list contains two items: Flomax and Amlodipine. Many men over fifty are on Flomax for prostate gland issues. That includes me. People experiencing hypertension are often prescribed Amlodipine, and I fall in that Venn diagram.
I know of patients who have a complex array of prescriptions. Like Mom. Even after helping her sort her medicines, pain killers, and aids several times, I don’t know how many she has. I’d guess over twenty. They help with her pain, breathing, sleeping, bowel movements, lungs, heart, digestion, blood circulation, side effects of the drugs, and side effects of the side effects of the drugs. She’s in network but it’s a couple networks.
If you’re seriously developing us bots and AI, I think a smart app to help track drugs for people and the healthcare industry needs a hand.
I suspect this medication business is going to get increasingly complex. We’ll need whatever help we can to manage it. I know Mom would certainly appreciate a bot that tracks her pills and tells her when to take what. Given the potential for mixing drugs that don’t get along, I’d like that for her, too.
One thing about my appointment the other day that I noticed was that my PA never brought up my information on the terminal in the examining room, and he barely glanced at the stuff I’d filled out. Nope, instead, he had a small fan of paperwork that he consulted.
The change from paper to computer is underway but it’s gonna be a long haul.
I found myself thinking about my parents as I dressed this morning. One is from Iowa and resides in Pennsylvania. The other is from Pennsylvania and lives in Texas. They divorced way back in the mid 1960s. Were friends or friendly off and on. Now Mom is bitter and angry about Dad; Dad is reflective about Mom.
I left their homes when I was 17. I’ve visited both as they moved around, remarried, and raised other families. As they’ve aged, Dad tells me he’d like to be closer to me. Mom tells me she’d like to hear from me more often because she worries about me.
But a large elephant marches through their desires. I’ve been married 49 years. Mom visited me once, when I bought her an airline ticket and forced it to happen. Dad visited me once in my first year of marriage, dropping by with my father-in-law for thirty minutes while they happened to be in the area. It just didn’t seem like they were deeply invested in being part of my life.
I don’t feel abandoned by them. Dad admits he wasn’t a good father and wasn’t there. Mom insists she was there as much as she could be. I do see their sides but I’m indifferent to Dad’s efforts for us to be closer or to Mom’s request for me to alleviate worries. I could employ simple sophistry and claim, they made me who I am, but really, I head little from them across my decades of living. Sure, they always sent birthday and holiday cards, but mostly there were months of silence. Yes, I know they each raised other children and went on through a few more marriages.
I get all of that. My feelings about them slice along a spectrum. I love them as they love me, from a distance. I know they made sacrifices on my behalf to ensure I had food and shelter security and a place to call home. But at an early age, as I watched their fights and listened to their arguments, I made a decision to be independent of them. Sure, there are days when I surf the spectrum of our relationships when I want to help them out of guilt or empathy. They become less as I move through my life, age, and deal with my own issues.
My parents both have been supportive in many ways. They tell me they’re proud of me. My wife points out that it all would’ve probably been different if she and I had children.
But we didn’t, and this is where my parents and I stand, like many other parents and their offspring, at a complex crossroads which we never leave.
‘Five minutes’ has changed for my wife and I as we age. It used to be that we’d say, “I’ll be ready in five minutes,” and five minutes later, it was so.
No longer. First, time is faster for us now that we’re older. Happens to most people as they age. What used to take place in five minutes now consumes fifteen minutes. It’s freakin’ amazing. I’ve seen it happen with my mother. She used to say, “I’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes.” That fifteen minutes is now a lot longer.
We face it, too, that, like Mom, we no longer move with young eagerness. We move slower and more carefully. A more leisurely path is followed to dress and prepare to go out. Because we’re at the point in life where we don’t feel a need to hurry, and our bodies agree, slow down, take your time. So, if we tell you that we’ll be ready in about five minutes, have a seat.
Michael Seidel, writer 