What’s In Your Future?

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A Tiny House

I’ve heard (can’t remember where or by whom), that the trouble with aging is we think more about the past, worry about the present, and think little of the future. At my age, seventy-four, even in the best of health, the next ten to twenty years will be entirely different than the past twenty. It’s a different time in my life and I can be grumpy and mad, or think about the future.

Recently my horoscope said, “You have to go to where the light is.”

I live in Florida. There is plenty of light and wear sunglasses to take out the garbage.

The advice, by Holiday Mathis, who writes the syndicated daily horoscope column for hundreds of newspapers, is the author of several books, and a multi-platinum songwriter (her songs have been recorded by Miley Cyrus, Emma Roberts and others), made sense.

References to moving into the light, implies embracing spirituality.

Perhaps I should attend church more.

Moving into the light suggest death or afterlife.

I’m not ready to die, but. . . maybe I need to avoid route 95 and look 20, instead of 10 times, before backing out of a parking space.

Although. . . It could mean; avoid negativity and surround myself with bright cheery people, places and things.

If I close my eyes and dream about the future, what do I see? A tiny house with lots of windows and a river view. The above picture doesn’t truly capture the picture in my head. I’m thinking more like this.

. . . just saying

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Doing Nothing

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Searching For a Four-Leaf Clover

“Do you like doing nothing?” The question, posed by fellow blogger Kim is intriguing and 67 people commented.

Kim said, if you’d like to do more of nothing; start small, plan unstructured vacations, and choose soft fascination, aka go for a walk. She quotes three University of Michigan psychologists to support the point that nature heals.

Most comments favored doing nothing, I disagree.

Once I start doing nothing, I’m stuck and can’t return to doing something. However, my nothing was not their nothing and many comments addressed the definition of nothing.

The doing nothing discussion was really about the self-imposed lack of unstructured vacations or leisure time.

I can remember only one unstructured vacation for our family of ten.

What I do remember is being sent outside to play after breakfast with strict orders to be home for lunch. Playing cards under our Weeping Willow tree and walking to the pool by ourselves in the afternoon. If I really had nothing to do I’d search for a four-leaf clover.

 

. . . just saying

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Where Are You Going?

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My brain is fried.

I simply cannot think, not that there is anything wrong with that.

Bob and I have “Binge Watched” Virgin River.

Now that we are finished, I’m in withdrawal and miss Doc and Mel every day. We haven’t a clue if or when season five will be release, and I worry about Preacher when I go to sleep, and pray Jack isn’t alcoholic.

Meanwhile, I introduced Bob to Frankie and Grace. It’s in its thirteenth season so there will be lots of binging, and no worries about Jane Fonda; she knows the best plastic surgeon around.

Today I thought this is ridiculous, and grabbed a book that wasn’t a book club selection.

Sacred Contracts Awakening Your Divine Potential by Caroline Myss is a heavy read. Forget fretting about why we are here. The spiritual path to wellness and a happy life is purpose and Myss has a processes to get us there.

My head was spinning from the Acknowledgements and Appreciation sections, but I pushed through my lack of comprehension to read page one where things started to make sense.

Myss, referenced Howard Thurman, a late theologian, mystic and Harvard professor who had two questions he said to ask ourselves.

“The first is ‘Where am I going?’ and the second is “Who will go with me?”

Now, that’s what I’m thinking about.

Travel!

So, where am I going?

Well . . . I’ve visited the White House at Christmas before, but want to go again.

Who will go with me?

I’m unsure.

This is a link to my December 2012 visit, A White House Christmas

. . . just saying

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Today is Thursday

How did it get to be Thursday?

It was just Sunday!

It’s hard to believe five days have passed since I watched Jane Pauley on Sunday Morning and planned to blog about what is happening with Libraries when. . .  there was a knock on our door.

As Amazon promised our new television was delivered. Yes, we fell victim to their Tech Sale and Janine’s power of persuasion. Although I never wanted a TV smarter than me, the price was right.

We luckily were able to slide the very large box inside.

Still committed to writing every day, I was on the way to my office when the phone rang. My brother wanted an update on Bob’s recovery. Victor was pleased to hear Bob was doing well; that he had resumed his morning chore of emptying the dishwasher, but not that he won’t be able to move his arm until an x-ray says so.

Now I’m was at least an hour behind of schedule, so instead of my office, I headed to the kitchen and dinner preparation; cutting up onions and peppers, dicing and marinating the chicken and making a spinach quiche. Things took longer than anticipated because I did a wash and set the table in between while seriously thinking . . I’d write, later.

But everyone arrived early, and before I blinked; Marcela was cooking rice and beans, Marie was sautéing the peppers and onions, Janine was mixing drinks and helping Dominic set up the new television.

Bob? He hid in the guest TV room.

I won’t bore you with how Monday and Tuesday got away; but you need to know I have a legitimate excuse for Wednesday because I baked zucchini bread.

Now, what’s of interest regarding libraries? Well, those library cards with the metal clips and card catalogs are obsolete. Wall murals, tech centers, game rooms and coffee lounges are in.

. . . just saying

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Murphy Brown

Ask Me if I Care

The answer? Yes, I do!

Recently I listened to Hoda Kotb’s 2017 interview with Candace Bergan in which she claimed repeatedly; “I don’t care!” Although the quote is five years old, I paused to think hard about why I still do. Evidently her appearance on NBC was to promote the romantic movie, Home Again, starring Reese Witherspoon.

It was entertaining.

However, let me be clear, Candace was not talking about politics, environmental issues, poverty or medical insurance. Candace was talking about that stage in a woman’s life when she stops censuring what she says to family and friends, applying mascara and changing clothes numerous times before she goes out the door.

In her memoir, A Fine Romance, she happily acknowledged and embraced her weight gain and in a magazine article said, “Let me just come right out and say it: I am fat.”

She sounded as though this acceptance of self happens automatically, like your wisdom teeth coming in between the ages of 18 and 21.

Well, I have news for Murphy Brown, some women never get wisdom teeth and many, have to have them pulled.  

. . . just saying

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Flash Fiction

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Short Cut to Love

Tanya Templeton’s slender fingers grip the dirty door handle to the Last Chance Corral. She yanks the door open. It slams behind her.

Heads turn to watch her long blonde hair sway as she wiggles across the room and sits at the bar. Her piercing blue eyes study other patrons whose elbows rest on the hard surface.  

“The usual?” Kurt, the bartender, asks grabbing a glass.

“Yea, a double. Who’s the dude?”

“You mean, the guy hound dogging you?”

Tanya smiles, shoots a look the man’s way, and runs her tongue around her lips like she’s ready to lick a lollipop.

 “Don’t get carried away, it’s early you know,” says Kurt.

“Not early enough?” Tanya laments. “What’s vibrating? Oh, my cell. . .”  She tosses her streaked hair, and checks the phone screen.

“It’s not love calling,” she says, then squeezes the phone back into her pant pocket.

When she slides the bar stool in closer, the metal scrapes the floor with an alarming sound.

“What’s his name wants to buy you drinks.” The bartender points his chin in the right direction. “Or are you running a tap?”

“Does he have a name?”

Instead of listen to Kurt’s reply, she slaps a ten-dollar bill on the bar like a husband slamming a pink slip down on the kitchen table, and sashays across the room, thumbs inside her belt loops.

“I’m Tanya, you must be . . .?”

“Damn woman, looking at you I can’t remember much, especially my name.”

“Well, you don’t mind being called Dean, do you? I once had a boyfriend named Dean, lived in the panhandle. . . Apalachicola. . . ever been there? You gotta love oysters to live there.”

She studies the creases in his worn jeans.

“Dean suits me fine. I’ve passed through Apalachicola many times hauling lumber. These days’ runs keep me traveling the interstate.” He smiles with his eyes. “I’ve been dreaming about oysters.”

Tanya toys with his body using her mind and quips, “Glad you have a sense of humor. You’ll need one.”

 After the small talk and learning nothing about themselves or each other, they saunter out together looking for the short cut to love.

The End

. . . just saying

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Morning Mushrooms

Morning Mushrooms

Most of the country is experiencing record heat. In Florida it’s compounded by humidity. This time of year, I stay indoors. However, last night’s downpour provided some relief and this morning I sat outside, read the newspaper and drank a cup of hot coffee.

That’s when I discovered mushrooms growing in my Geranium plant. The plant is frequently dry and the leaves turn brown, consequently I have been watering it more.

I don’t plan on eating these bright yellow mushroom, but I need help, please.

What type are they?

Should I remove them?

Why are they growing here?

. . . just saying

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Florida Sunsets and Friends

Florida Sunsets and Friends

Today was quiet and yet I’m exhausted. Our grand kids came for Sunday dinner. We have enjoyed the weekly ritual since they moved here in January. Janine prepared a new pasta dish, Rigatoni with zucchini sauce. I didn’t have to do everything just some things and still I’m dog tired and ready for bed, but thankful; I have their support and friends.

People I can phone in the middle of the night and say, “I have a flat tire. Can you pick me up?”

They’d answer, “Where are you?” Then say, “I’ll be there in . . .”

Many of these people I’ve known for sixty years. Others for twenty-five or thirty. Some for only a few.

I’m lucky!

    . . . just saying

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Day Eight Back In Florida

At Denver Airport in the morning, there was no transport person!

There was however, one wheel chair inside the door, which I grabbed away from an elderly woman; took outside, put Bob in and brought him indoors; where I could see him while checking in.

Thank God for Betsy and Bill. They waited curbside looking after Bob and our luggage while I’d been inside. We had a tearful goodbye.

Now the attendant assigned to us appeared. However, he had another person in tow. Before I could blink, he took off for security pushing two wheel chairs. I scurried behind.

I had instructed my husband, to lie about his age going through security and say he is 75 years old, this way he wouldn’t have to take off his shoes or stand up.

Praise the Lord, we didn’t wait in line. The second transport, a woman, was late for her flight and checked her Apple watch repeatedly, as I piled her carry on belongings into bins.

Then Homeland Security was about to wand Bob, and I panicked.

“Don’t do that!” I yelled as I raced to Bob’s side. “His arm is broken!” .

“STEP BACK LADY,” he bellowed with his hand on his gun.

 Bob remembered to lie. But said he was 74, not 75 yrs old. He is 73. Men!

The ordeal had me shaken, but not for long because. . . now. . . “transport guy” was racing toward a waiting train. I realized he was getting on and followed, running, but I couldn’t keep up. So, before the doors closed, jumped in any car. . . and started to spill my guts to a stranger I was now face to face with.

I couldn’t even remember the terminal our flight would leave from, although the tickets were in my hand. I was dizzy, although it may have been my vertigo.

When I caught my breath, I saw “transport guy” in the next car. He waved.

I’ll skip the flight and transport ordeal on the arrival side and simply say we were picked up by our daughter, Janine and grandson, Dominic.

We drove directly to the emergency room of our local hospital and waited six hours before Bob had an emergency room bed. Sometime later, he was given morphine for pain. The next day, day nine, Bob was admitted for surgery. The surgery, delayed due to an allergic reaction, was on day twelve, June 26th, our 51st Wedding Anniversary.

Every step along the way had sidesteps and challenges. He now has a nine-inch rod in his arm and three weeks post operation is doing well.

As Betsy, Bill, Bob and I lamented, this was one hell of a Yellowstone trip.   

. . . just saying

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Day Seven

The next morning, Tuesday, of our trip (no pun intended), would have been day seven of our vacation. However, no one was calling this a vacation. Somehow Bob had sleep and I finally fell asleep only to be awaken at 5:30 by an alarm clock. I guess the previous guest wanted to see the sunrise, and yes; the water bottle urinal had come in handy during the night.

Betsy and Bill brought coffee and explained they had attempted to check out and told; NO ONE EVER GETS A REFUND.She had asked to speak with the general manager and told, he wasn’t in.

It felt like salt was poured into our wound.

Meanwhile, Daniel came by, and asked how we were doing. On the verge of tears, I explained the no refund policy, and said, “I know it’s not the hotel’s fault Bob fell, but it feels mean., really mean.”

His eyes expressed sincere regret.

Shortly after I received a cell call from the general manager informing me, we would receive a refund.

Daniel returned and assisted Bob into the car. No one wanted a repeat of last night.

And so, the 571-mile trek back to Fort Collins had begun. We may have stopped at McDonald’s for fish sandwiches, I can’t remember. We stopped, but. . . Bob didn’t get out of the car. He was unable keep down any fluid, There was no voiding.

On the way I phoned Southwest. “I have a medical emergency and will need assistance,” I said.

They switched our return flight to the next day, and assured me a wheelchair would be waiting.   

. . . just saying

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