Late

 

There are lots of pronouns being thrown about identifying people. ‘They’, ‘Them’, ‘He’, She’, ‘Sir’, ‘Miss’, ‘Doc’, ‘Squire’, ‘Princess’, ‘King’… to name a few.

Recently I heard the pronoun of ‘Late’ before a name to define the person is deceased.

Using the term ‘Late’ usually means the recently passing of a person described. Don’t have any understanding of how long someone can be late before the term is dropped.

We may be late for class or fashionably late for dinner or have a late train arrival or a late period, not all get here on time. A ‘Late’ person won’t be coming back at all.

We don’t refer to the ‘Late’ George Washington or the ‘Late’ Abraham Lincoln, for we all know after one hundred years, they are dead. Jack Kennedy is still referred to as President (former) that was many years ago. Martin Luther King is still referred to as Reverend or Doctor but neither are called ‘Late’.

So, if you invite me to visit and I’m not there on the arranged time, I maybe late. Or I may be ‘Late’.

Leave a message on my phone and see if I call back.

Three Days Coming, Three Days Here, Three Days Going

 

So, whether the winter doldrums or a bad cough over a beer at O’Toole’s or just hot and cold days; I got the sniffles.

Before you start searching the web for possible solutions or old family remedies, I’m using my ‘3 Day Rule’. I believe I’m on the downside of the bell curve, but it is just annoying to continuously snuffle and sniffle and blow only to refill with the river of mucus.

No headaches. Minor sore throat. Some tummy rumble from all the pills and potions trying to defeat common cold.

The good side is I’ve lost my appetite so everything I see at the Tummy Temple has no appeal. Chicken noodle soup and ginger ale and crackers are the recipe for wellness. Even alcohol doesn’t seem to wash away the boogers. This too will pass.

A nice warm day on the porch in the sun will bake out the rest of this stuffy head.

Until then, excuse this whining. I’m getting enough rest (sleep?) but waking up every hour sweating or shivering with cement dreams of old buildings is just another reason of not playing ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’.

Meanwhile, the rumors and gossip of ‘covid’ or ‘flu’ or ‘respiratory syncytial’ or ‘Ping-Pong disease’ or just ole man rotting away, I’ll suffer few a few more days of coughing, blowing, sniffling with nothing worse than a running nose.

Just want to tell all the avid readers, this hasn’t met the obit pages yet. Tomorrow the sun will shine and the radio will announce the latest disaster and death toll and political blunder that ponders how this country continues on cruise control? If no one comes by tonight and knocks on the door or the sirens stop here, I’ll get to my routine, saddle up my pony, mail my bills in the big blue box and hopefully return home whizzing and puffing to enjoy the antics of the spring time and maybe even do a load of clothing. Oh, and wash the dishes. Maybe my memory is slipping?

Happy Trails

 

 

 

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“Goodbye”, “See you later alligator”, “farewell. “Adieu”, “hooray”, “check you”, “au revoir”, “ciao”, “auf Wiedersehen”, “adios”, “sayonara”, “vale”, “so long”, “see you”, “catch you later”, “cheers”, “cheerio”, “ta-ta”, “later”, “toddle-pip”, “Hasta la vista”

A goodbye means that someone’s departing: you say goodbye to your parents when you go off to college, and you also say goodbye to guests when they leave after a visit. The original goodbye, dating from the 1570s, was godbwye, which was a contraction of the farewell phrase “God be with ye!”

Recently had a drink with a few friends from high school days and wonder…?

Will this be the last time I see any of them?

No one feels this will be the last ‘good-bye’, but you never know.

A couple of work associates died over the weekend and I removed them from my social media list (for they will not respond anymore). When was the last time I spoke to them? When was the last time we talked? Did we ever say, “Good-bye”

Most people you visit regularly, you expect to see again soon. Bidding “Good-bye” at the door is only a temporary message, until you read the obituary.

At a certain age, there are more obituaries than “Until then”. Reality.

You expect to see your children and your grandchildren again next weekend, but your friends are fading away.

Maybe the next time you part, give that extra hug and wish ‘Happy Trails’. See you on the next side?

Make sure you make the credits.

 

cure

 

Got that boo-boo that mommy’s kiss won’ fix, you go to the doctor. There people who walk around in white lab coats and pastel pajamas who poke and prod with all the tools of modern medical knowledge and after comparing notes come up with a diagnosis of your physical discomfort and offer you a variety of potions and pills that might make you feel better.

Behind the scenes are squeaky clean warehouses with hundreds of people precisely measuring and documenting the results of their pill or lotion or shot tested on animals and then humans. A paper will be written and published in medical journals for other scientist and researchers can compare notes of similar attempts.

We, the guinea pigs, are then offered a pharmacy full of concoctions with some sort of alien name with tiny type explaining the side effects and the possibility of feeling better (if taken properly). The best part is every year, the medical profession will find a new ailment to be funded by our governmental humanity empathy with hopes of finding a cure.

The cure is the ultimate goal. Take this pill and your pains will go away and never come back.

I grew up in the age where immunization was required before attending public education, not so much to cure the possible plague upon us, but to not spread it to others in the classroom. Since the entire culture were following the instructions of the all-mighty witch doctors who proclaim “Take this pill or die!” we became immune to whatever disease was torturing us and moved onto the next health disaster.

From the moment that we take the first breath, there is always a threat to our frail body until it stops working. Luckily, we have all these dedicated people who are curious enough to slosh through the data and numbers and possibilities to find the magic potion called ‘the cure’. And we, the ill and ailing, hang onto the hope that miraculously a ‘cure’ will appear and life will go on forever.

What is the cure for fat? What is the cure for mental health? What is the cure for cancer? What is the cure for love? What is the cure for anger? What is the cure for old age?

Eternal hope and a promise of wellness keeps bankrolling the search for intelligent life on this planet (and beyond) like our faith that after they drop the box into a hole, there will be a cure.

Who knew?

 

This is a class from 70 years ago. Just the average six-year old’s being educated for the future. There were dozens of classrooms down the hall with similar kids of different ages and every year they would shift until after a ½ dozen years we moved to another school building. After a few more years, puberty hit and we moved into high school.

Not all of this class followed my path until the grand graduation walking across the Mosque stage in my crimson robe and mortar board cap and tassel. After a baker’s dozen or so years, I was handed a piece of paper that declared me educated enough (and old enough) to become gainfully employed or ready to defend this country from those we ducked in the hallways avoiding the communist threat and possible nuclear annihilation.

Back in those days, every kid went to school. Truancy was not accepted by the community, so there were schools planted in every neighborhood (along with the churches) and we either took a yellow bus or walked to the assigned desk. A single female teacher would take the roll, direct us to the daily lesson plan, answer questions for those who raised their hands and was total authority over a group of squirming kids. Unruly kids were shamed in front of the class or sent to the principal’s office for discipline. Directed to line up in alphabetical order to the lunch break or do recess. When the final bell rang, we scattered outside. Don’t remember kids dropping out of school or getting expelled. At that point in time, no one ever contemplated someone with a gun coming into the classroom and using us as targets.

Looking at these faces and what lay before them?

Don’t remember their names. A few have been found on social media but most have drifted into their own lives.

How many graduated from public education? How many went onto higher academics to get more paper to mount on the wall? How many joined an established job title and followed the road of accepted conformity? How many started families? How many got married? How many bought cars? How many smoked? How many bought houses with a picket fence for that is the path of the middle class? How many went into politics? How many started their own business? How many got divorced? How many died overseas? How many became rich? How many became addicted? How many went to jail? How many volunteered to save feral cats or abandoned dogs to become pillars of the community? How many transitioned? How many reached their retirement?

Ike was president. Elvis was driving a truck. The Beatles hadn’t been heard of. Religion, food preference, politics, sexual preference were never discussed because an elder made those decisions. Wearing the proper clothing and having the stylish haircut made one popular. That become more important when puberty hit.

No one could even imagine a computer or a telephone in your pocket. That was as amazing as men bouncing on another planet and leaving their trash. As foreign as something in a comic book would be where everyone could fly and giant villages were constructed to entice families to come and overindulge eating and drinking and yelling while cars drove in circles faster than the speed limit or cartoon characters directed you to thrill rides or displays of ocean creatures out of their water to perform tricks as entertainment. Some would want to relive western fables of riding and roping or reenactments of famous historical battles. If cars weren’t fast enough and the airport is too slow there are air shows displaying the country’s military might. Consumerism vacations.

Equal voting rights are as distant as Woodstock and afros. The history your teacher asks you to regurgitate as knowledge, is as flexible as experimental science. When in doubt, refer to your religion for the unknown answers. Hate had to be taught to us.

These are faces living in the best place at the best time. We did not have those threatening bombs drop on us; we lived in a land of plenty of new appliances and gadgets. We could travel to parts unknown comfortably refueled by gas stations on every corner. Our adventures increased our status. Our security was protected by redlines drawn by politicians that our parents accepted. We had a lot to learn to be educated.

While there was a school nurse, we could not attend the class without mandatory vaccinations. We still got measles and small pox and whopping cough and the common cold we sneezed on each other. Our doctors and dentist recommended certain parts of our bodies like wisdom teeth, appendix and tonsils should be cut out for better health. We lined up to take a sugar cube to avoid the polio plague as the government instructed. If a family member couldn’t be reached, the school was responsible for the child in their care.

At the same time, we learned how to drink sugar colas and French fries and greasy burgers to avoid green healthy veggies. Exercise was automictically expected except the television screen froze our bodies for hours. Optometrist helped read the blackboard.

The legacy of these boomer faces is now being written in obituaries. Some may make the history books or have a street or building named after them, but for the most part, after the body is disposed of only tale tales from remaining family members will tell the world of someone else who took up space on this planet by birth and death dates.

Watch Your Step

You have any of those ‘to-do’ projects that just don’t seem to ever get done?

Me too.

This one couldn’t wait any longer.

Get on the past emails and find ‘Mr. Handyman’. I tell them my problem and send them the photos and set up a time for a man with a saw and a hammer can come by and solve the problem of water/time/wood.

Since I’m uneasy about people in my private space, I confirmed the appointment time, then went and hid in my shed. I gathered up my beer and closed the blinds and waited.

These steps were constructed 15 years ago replacing wooden deck boards supported on cinder blocks and a plastic 3-step stool with no hand rails.

At 9AM sharp I received a text message with a photo of the guy in his red uniform shirt who was going to do the work. He measured, cut, nailed and cleaned up by 4PM. 

 

Everything appears and feels sturdy enough so when I walk out, I won’t have to watch my step. Perhaps they will last another 15 years (which may be more than me).

No, I did not get a ramp installed. I’m not ready for that yet.

It is still good advice around my yard due to roots and vines and scurrying creatures. It is probably still good advice if you work on a farm.

Might also be good advice before you make some dubious decision?

Now check off a ‘to-do’ to ‘to-done’ and wait for the bill.