Tag Archives: lifestyle

Mother Nature and Normal

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 Back To Normal

We were lucky not to be hard hit by hurricane Ian. That is not the case for much of Florida and many west coast areas will never be the same. We were without power for one day due to heavy rains and wind. But any down tree branches were easily hauled to the street by us.

It is with great angst that I post the picture of clean-up in our neighborhood.

The pictures for Sanibel Island and Fort Worth are devastating. The death toll for Florida was high, seventy-seven. A few of those deaths were in our area. One, a man in his seventies, attempted to empty water from his pool (to avoid flooding into his home) slipped down an embankment into a pond and drowned.

A sixty-eight-year-old woman tourist went to the beach to view Ian and while standing on A1A was swept away by a swell; into the ocean, and dragged out to sea. That’s how powerful the surge was.

Newly restored Flager Beach Pier was swept sideways and under water. New Smyrna beach and Port Orange had extreme flooding, loss of power and business in their area are just now starting to open.

My heart breaks for those who did not fare well.

Today the weather is perfect. No humidity, temperatures below normal and sunny. I wonder what Mother Nature is thinking.

(The pictures below were in today’s newspaper and show the damage south of us in Daytona Beach and Port Orange.)

                                                                                      . . . just saying

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What’s In Your Future?

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Photo by Maksym Tymchyk on Pexels.com

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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Poetry and Tidying Up

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Summer in Florida is like winter in the north, Floridians stay indoors. It’s a time to get organized and tidy up. So, I went through my writing stuff, and discovered some poetry. This one was inspired by social media in November of 2012.

Sharing

By Claudiajustsaying

We publicly post our words

Text, twitter and talk.

Likes keep us playing the game

Comments share a thought.

Then, tease each other about being friends

“Tell me a secret and I’ll tell you mine.”

Social media is a push pull effect . . .

But, what is a friend?

. . . just saying

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Day Eight Back In Florida

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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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The Day Wasn’t Over

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Sun Set Grand Tetons Park 9PM

I would love to tell you we returned to the $400+ dollar night Inn and got a good night’s rest. . . but, the day wasn’t over yet.

Bill and I were helping Bob out of the car, when his face went, “lights out.” I grabbed his chin and looked directly into his eyes. “Talk to me! What’s happening?” Then, he fell to his knees. I think we all screamed.

Fortunately, a nurse and her strong husband had just left their cabin and knew how to support Bob without injuring his fractured shoulder more and moved him to a chair in our cabin. Betsy called 911.

Hotel staff arrived in a flash and determined acute pain caused his near collapse. We got him into bed, double dosed the pain medication, and gave him something for nausea.

My beginning to catch a breath was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was another staff member with paperwork to sign. A kid, probably my grandson’s age.

Understandably the hotel needed to document the incidents. I reassured him it was a simple trip and fall. We weren’t going to solicit a lawyer.

Like Danny on Blue Blood’s, he handed me paper and pen. “In your own words. If you wouldn’t mind.” He expressed his appreciation once the forms where completed and asked . . . emphatically, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

Well there was. My concern was getting Bob, weak and under the influence, to the bathroom. How many times does an 73 man void during the night? I’d lost count.

“Do you have a urinal?”

“No,” he said, embarrassed.

On the counter behind him was my wide mouth water bottle. I glanced its way, his eyes followed mine.

“Problem solved,” I said.

Shortly after, Betsy brought me dinner. A pork sandwich with homemade cold slaw she’d packed. Remember if the park opened food might be hard to find. Oh yes and a large bottle of wine.

It was around 10PM and the sun had finally set.

. . . just saying

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Day One of Vacation

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A chartreuse pillow similar in shape and size to a to a large dog bone sat on a purple couch in the hotel lobby. The clerk was all smiles telling us we were early. So, we sat on the purple sofa and waited, mesmerized by a carpet cleaner. The bubbling steamer was pushed back and forth by a housekeeper determined to suck up its remains. The noise and disinfectant smell quickly drove us outside into the Florida heat and sun, which was worse. So, back inside. . . we stood, as the lobby was now crowded. An audience of turning heads as though attending a tennis match watched silently, and I wondered if they would applaud.

Upstairs, I loved the room and fantasized about living in a Tiny House before we headed out to dinner. The restaurant was with-in walking distance, but we decided not to walk hearing thunder, once downstairs.

So, my husband took the elevator to get his car keys, but returned saying the room key didn’t work. He held out the key to examine and discovered he was using a hotel business card to open the room door.

The sky opened-up with what is called “Big Rain” in Florida, as we drove to the restaurant and although wet, we eventually we had dinner.

Day one of the vacation from hell.

. . . just saying

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Happy Fourth of July

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Bob and I have returned from a “vacation” in Yellowstone and the Grand Tetons. It is a long story that I am working on. In the mean time I hope you enjoy my poem, written some time ago. Its a favorite of mine.

The Itsy Bitsy Bug

Red White and Blue

Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic?
His red, white, and blue symbolic,
A political view
Understand freedom . . . be equal too

Like a school age kindergartner
Raise his hand to hold the flag
Chosen, glad with honor
Knows to say a prayer

Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic?
Puff his chest, recite the pledge
Listen to a voice within
Battle for the helpless, or let the bullies win!

Stand side by side with those who care
Silently and stare
Misty eyed while taps is played for those who dare
Think America is beautiful

Can an itsy bitsy bug be patriotic?

. . . just saying

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What Did You Do Today?

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thumbnail

Nothing

Nothing! I did absolutely nothing. Well, nothing of consequence. That’s retirement.

I didn’t sleep in, although according to my husband, I got up late, 7:30 am.

Late, because he rises at 4am and that makes me three plus hours tardy.

Then my morning routine; coffee and the newspaper and watching CBS Morning. (I’m in love with Tony Dokoupil, Nate Burleson, and Gale King.) Followed by breakfast and exercise; by the time I showered and flossed it’s was 10:30 and my husband was sitting down to lunch.

Usually writing is next on my agenda; however, since my brain was stolen in the middle of the night, my attention was drawn to Easter decorating and the task of disposing of unwanted items.

You know what I’m talking about. Those plastic bins, packed, labeled and stored in your garage or attic. Ceramic eggs and bunnies you’re emotionally attached and refuse to send to a landfill.

It was exhausting and it isn’t time for bed.

. . . just saying

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Good Grief; there are 34 days left in the year!

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th

It Is. . .What It Is

“Today is Saturday, November 27, the 331st day of 2021. There are 34 days left in the year.” Like other newspapers, our local paper reports this information, and includes significant events from previous years, i.e.; Macy’s first Thanksgiving Day parade took place in 1924 and the release of the Beatles album “Magical Mystery Tour” in 1967.

Only 34 days left in the year! Good grief! Thirty-four days to achieve the goals I committed to 331 days ago.

Oh well, . . . it is what it is.

This expression, one of resignation, is included increasingly in conversations.

Why?

We never catch a break from mayhem.

So, I’ve been watching Lifetime Christmas Romance movies late at night and was thrilled not to see any uniformed police officers during the televised Thanksgiving Parade.

I’m thinking of sending a personal thank you note to Tom Selleck, you know the Police Commissioner of NYPD.

I know. . . I know, he’s not really the police commissioner in New York City. But you may agree, he should be.

. . . just saying

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What’s New?

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Very Cool

Shipping Container House

Are you tired of the same conversation or afraid to have any conversation about vaccines, politics or the wacko world we live in?

Me too! Here’s something of interest. The article appeared in The Daytona Beach News Journal about this art collector, turned house designer.

“Stepping foot into Rob DePiazza’s house is like winding back the clock to the height of the 1960s’ pop art revolution. 

All Andy Warhol- and Keith Haring-style prints, bold patterns, primary colors and mid-century mod design, the structure DePiazza has designed looks and feels like a museum exhibit dedicated to all of those cultural influences.

Oh, and then there’s the fact that it’s all housed in nine shipping containers — proudly rusted out, mind you, as far as DePiazza is concerned. The display certainly stands out in this sedate residential neighborhood populated mostly by modest old Florida stuccos or split-level ranches off U.S. 1 in St. Augustine.”

. . . just saying

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