Journal of a Living Lady #255
Nancy White Kelly
It isn’t easy making a dollar these days. I speak from experience.
For over forty years I have been keenly interested in old coins. The hobby is called numismatics. To hold an old coin is a delight to me as most coins are both artistic and historical.
I enjoy rubbing my fingers over the raised ridges and pondering where the coin has been. Did the silver thaler circulate during the Revolutionary war? Was the deutschmark, with its swastika, minted by the infamous Nazi Third Reich in the late 1930’s?
My numismatic hobby eventually became a side-line business. Though education was my profession, I bought and sold copper, gold and silver coins as occasions arose.
A couple of years ago I invested a goodly amount of money and time in obtaining credentials in coin appraisal. The purpose was primarily to improve my personal numismatic education, but also to give me credibility for doing professional numismatic evaluations for banks or estate executors.
It is not unusual for the phone to ring with an inquiry. The most common question is, “How much is my old coin worth?”
Recently Buddy took a call on the Old Money Commerce line from an elderly lady. It is hard to disguise his Mississippian dialect, but he tried. In his most professional voice, he told the lady that the “COE” would return the call shortly. I don’t fix cars, weed eaters, or airplanes. He doesn’t answer numismatic questions. We know our limitations.
The lady volunteered her age to be 93. She was in the process of preparing to move near relatives when she had found her old coins.
From the woman’s description, I determined that she had several Washington quarters, a couple of Kennedy half dollars, a few Indian cents and a handful of miscellaneous coins with faint or unreadable dates. I mentally calculated that the coins she was describing might net her $25 tops though I never make a guestimate by phone. So much is dependent on condition. Trained eye balls are needed to accurately grade coins as there is a considerable difference of opinion even among experts.
Normally I would not have been interested in her meager cache. Yet, her gentle, worn voice reminded me of my beloved grandmother who died at the age of 99. She is in heaven now and I miss her.
Contrary to good business sense, I agreed to look at her little collection. The lady gave me precise directions to her home. Buddy slipped me $25 cash and told me to add it to whatever I would offer. That wasn’t out of character for him. Buddy is a softie for old ladies. He had a wonderful mother who modeled generosity in spite of her own poor circumstances. She died not long ago at the age of 98. Buddy and I both miss her.
I arrived on time in spite of missing a turn and driving ten miles too far. The woman was standing on the porch. She opened the front door and motioned for me to sit at the kitchen table. The pensive woman removed the coins from her apron and slowly unwrapped them. The dull, hapless coins were squarely wrapped in old paper napkins surrounded by withered rubber bands. She patted the small pile as if it were a pet.
There was no need to pull out a reference guide to look up current values. It was obvious that she had little more than $10 worth of coins. While I made meaningless notes, the old woman pointed to scores of medicine bottles on the kitchen counter.
“Times are hard,” she related. I nodded in agreement. Profit went out the window. Charity came in. I know first-hand about the high price of medicine. I put $50 in her shaky hand and asked her if she thought that this was a fair amount.
“Whatever you say,” she said, resigning herself to the parting of her sentimental hoard. She reached again into her pocket.
“You can’t have this one,” she said, showing me one of the new state quarters that had been electronically colorized.
“A friend gave it to me,” she said, as she clutched the treasure to her chest. “It was from his last visit.”
“Sure, you keep that one,” I said hesitantly, trying to feign some sign of disappointment.
On the way home, the gas indicator on the car dash reminded me that I needed gas. I paid the cashier the best part of a $50 bill.
The irony of the situation made me laugh. I left that morning with $100 and was returning with an old lady’s change and a near-empty billfold.
I will never be a great entrepreneur. But that is okay. I slept well that night.
Sometimes it is not all about money.
*************
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Thursday, August 04, 2005
Journal of a Living Lady #254
Nancy White Kelly
Bob, Sue, Alan…if you phoned last week, please accept my apologies for not returning your call. I have a wonderful husband, but he has a few minor flaws. One is his memory. Sometimes he forgets to tell me when someone calls though we have a white board for recording messages. When Buddy does recall that somebody phoned me, he usually relays only the first name. That is my dilemma today. I don’t know which Bob, Sue or Alan phoned. I must go down the check list.
Bob Davis? Bob Alwine? Not likely since I just saw them at church yesterday and neither mentioned it. Bob Zuegel? Haven’t seen or heard from him in several months. Besides, he would be more likely to want to speak to Buddy in that they worked together at Eastern Airlines years ago.
My brother, Bob White? No, Buddy says. He would remember that voice. Bob, my youngest brother, mumbles softly, as in a subdued whisper. That is a strange voice for a gentle giant who is over 6 feet tall and ports a full beard and long hair.
Bobby, our adopted son? Could be since he calls me several times a week. If so, the call probably wasn’t urgent. Just chit-chat.
Bob Cleveland? Not likely. Bob and I met because of this column. He and wife, Peg, came all the way from Birmingham to visit me one November when I was in the hospital and nigh unto death. They even came to Charlie’s wedding. Bob is a retired insurance executive and promising writer. We enjoy a friendly relationship, but have never phoned each other. My guess is that it wasn’t Bob Cleveland.
There are other Bobs I know, of course, and several named Robert. I can think of none who has unfinished business or an on-going conversation with me. Oh, well, I may never know which Bob called.
Then there was a Sue. My friend, Sue Kazmierczak lives in Michigan. We met on the Internet and she has been an overnight guest in our home. Surely Buddy would recognize her distinctly Northern accent.
Sue Heinish is Max’s wife. She could have called, but her husband generally does the phoning. Max and Buddy worked together at the airlines also. Sue and I share a love for flowers.
Sue Tate might have called. We attend church together and have a mutual interest in moral concerns on a national level. Yet, I have signed all current petitions and pleading letters to Congressmen and Senators. There is no immediate issue I am aware of that needs to be addressed. Besides, I am confident that this Sue would have called back.
My friend, Sue Bove? She is a semi-retired missionary with New Tribes Missions who spent several years in Indonesia. Sue and her husband, Mike, visit frequently. I think she knows Buddy well enough to know that she needs to speak with me regarding a vist. That is, if they expect clean sheets and meals.
And which Alan? Allan Driskell, our Sunday School teacher? No, Buddy says. Alan Black, my brother-in-law. No, Buddy says again. Nobody could mistake his distinctively slow, Southern drawl. Well, Alan Ladd is dead and why would he call me anyway?
If it were Haydn, Margit, Teen, or Febe, I would not be having this problem. I only know one of each.
So Bob, Sue, Alan. Again, please accept my apology for not returning your call. Come by the house if you really need to talk. I’ll leave the porch light on for you.
Nancy White Kelly
Bob, Sue, Alan…if you phoned last week, please accept my apologies for not returning your call. I have a wonderful husband, but he has a few minor flaws. One is his memory. Sometimes he forgets to tell me when someone calls though we have a white board for recording messages. When Buddy does recall that somebody phoned me, he usually relays only the first name. That is my dilemma today. I don’t know which Bob, Sue or Alan phoned. I must go down the check list.
Bob Davis? Bob Alwine? Not likely since I just saw them at church yesterday and neither mentioned it. Bob Zuegel? Haven’t seen or heard from him in several months. Besides, he would be more likely to want to speak to Buddy in that they worked together at Eastern Airlines years ago.
My brother, Bob White? No, Buddy says. He would remember that voice. Bob, my youngest brother, mumbles softly, as in a subdued whisper. That is a strange voice for a gentle giant who is over 6 feet tall and ports a full beard and long hair.
Bobby, our adopted son? Could be since he calls me several times a week. If so, the call probably wasn’t urgent. Just chit-chat.
Bob Cleveland? Not likely. Bob and I met because of this column. He and wife, Peg, came all the way from Birmingham to visit me one November when I was in the hospital and nigh unto death. They even came to Charlie’s wedding. Bob is a retired insurance executive and promising writer. We enjoy a friendly relationship, but have never phoned each other. My guess is that it wasn’t Bob Cleveland.
There are other Bobs I know, of course, and several named Robert. I can think of none who has unfinished business or an on-going conversation with me. Oh, well, I may never know which Bob called.
Then there was a Sue. My friend, Sue Kazmierczak lives in Michigan. We met on the Internet and she has been an overnight guest in our home. Surely Buddy would recognize her distinctly Northern accent.
Sue Heinish is Max’s wife. She could have called, but her husband generally does the phoning. Max and Buddy worked together at the airlines also. Sue and I share a love for flowers.
Sue Tate might have called. We attend church together and have a mutual interest in moral concerns on a national level. Yet, I have signed all current petitions and pleading letters to Congressmen and Senators. There is no immediate issue I am aware of that needs to be addressed. Besides, I am confident that this Sue would have called back.
My friend, Sue Bove? She is a semi-retired missionary with New Tribes Missions who spent several years in Indonesia. Sue and her husband, Mike, visit frequently. I think she knows Buddy well enough to know that she needs to speak with me regarding a vist. That is, if they expect clean sheets and meals.
And which Alan? Allan Driskell, our Sunday School teacher? No, Buddy says. Alan Black, my brother-in-law. No, Buddy says again. Nobody could mistake his distinctively slow, Southern drawl. Well, Alan Ladd is dead and why would he call me anyway?
If it were Haydn, Margit, Teen, or Febe, I would not be having this problem. I only know one of each.
So Bob, Sue, Alan. Again, please accept my apology for not returning your call. Come by the house if you really need to talk. I’ll leave the porch light on for you.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Journal of a Living Lady #253
Nancy White Kelly
Sharon and I not only shared the diagnosis of breast cancer, but a love of writing and life in general. Ironically, we both enjoyed the works of William Penn. You probably don’t remember him, but you may recognize this famous quote: “I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good therefore that I can do, or any kindness or abilities that I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now. Let me not defer it or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”
Sharon, who proudly hailed from North Carolina, is now deceased. She died sooner than we both had imagined. Sharon once told me that she would not give cancer the starring role in her life. I never forgot that. Sharon died being Sharon, not Sharon the cancer victim, but Sharon, the dynamic, caring, witty woman she was. She succeeded in keeping her identity in spite of the cancer that overwhelmed her body. I hope to do the same.
This Living Lady wants to be remembered as a unique individual who strived to make a difference in this world. It is my belief that if you aren’t a good example for others, you probably are a terrible warning. I certainly won’t go down in history for notable wealth or fame, but hopefully no one will be able to truthfully say I did any harm.
Last week I stopped by the cemetery where Buddy and I have plots. Several friends are buried near our own coffin-sized parcels of earth. Other friends, still living, have plots nearby and even adjoining. None of us are in a hurry to pitch our tents. Yet, we laugh among ourselves. With vivid imagination, we have on occasion described the great underground festivity we will someday have, complete with old-fashioned party lines and deviled worms.
Of course, none of us believe a word of it. All of us are sincere believers in the real afterlife. It promises to be more glorious than anything we can envision. With the exception of those cremated or entombed in mausoleums, our dead soulless physical bodies will someday descend to the last frontier six feet below. From dust we began and to dust we return. But our soul, that indestructible part of you and me, will continue for eternity.
Some people say it is not the destination that matters, but the journey. I beg to differ. For eternal matters, it is not the journey, but the destination.
In case you think I lost my sense of humor, I have not. There is a season for everything…reflection, sadness, joy, and even laughter.
Not so long ago, Rowland Lawrence LaPrise passed peacefully in his sleep at the age of 83. You remember Larry LaPrise don’t you? He wrote the infamous song, “Hokey Pokey.”
Getting Larry LaPrise into the coffin turned out to be a stressful event for the LaPrise family. You know what that was all about. They put his left foot in and then the trouble started.
Nancy White Kelly
Sharon and I not only shared the diagnosis of breast cancer, but a love of writing and life in general. Ironically, we both enjoyed the works of William Penn. You probably don’t remember him, but you may recognize this famous quote: “I expect to pass through this world but once. Any good therefore that I can do, or any kindness or abilities that I can show to any fellow creature, let me do it now. Let me not defer it or neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”
Sharon, who proudly hailed from North Carolina, is now deceased. She died sooner than we both had imagined. Sharon once told me that she would not give cancer the starring role in her life. I never forgot that. Sharon died being Sharon, not Sharon the cancer victim, but Sharon, the dynamic, caring, witty woman she was. She succeeded in keeping her identity in spite of the cancer that overwhelmed her body. I hope to do the same.
This Living Lady wants to be remembered as a unique individual who strived to make a difference in this world. It is my belief that if you aren’t a good example for others, you probably are a terrible warning. I certainly won’t go down in history for notable wealth or fame, but hopefully no one will be able to truthfully say I did any harm.
Last week I stopped by the cemetery where Buddy and I have plots. Several friends are buried near our own coffin-sized parcels of earth. Other friends, still living, have plots nearby and even adjoining. None of us are in a hurry to pitch our tents. Yet, we laugh among ourselves. With vivid imagination, we have on occasion described the great underground festivity we will someday have, complete with old-fashioned party lines and deviled worms.
Of course, none of us believe a word of it. All of us are sincere believers in the real afterlife. It promises to be more glorious than anything we can envision. With the exception of those cremated or entombed in mausoleums, our dead soulless physical bodies will someday descend to the last frontier six feet below. From dust we began and to dust we return. But our soul, that indestructible part of you and me, will continue for eternity.
Some people say it is not the destination that matters, but the journey. I beg to differ. For eternal matters, it is not the journey, but the destination.
In case you think I lost my sense of humor, I have not. There is a season for everything…reflection, sadness, joy, and even laughter.
Not so long ago, Rowland Lawrence LaPrise passed peacefully in his sleep at the age of 83. You remember Larry LaPrise don’t you? He wrote the infamous song, “Hokey Pokey.”
Getting Larry LaPrise into the coffin turned out to be a stressful event for the LaPrise family. You know what that was all about. They put his left foot in and then the trouble started.
Saturday, July 16, 2005
Journal of a Living Lady #252
Nancy White Kelly
Readers: This is a special edition of my column, an extra one. Last week I left you hanging about our ill grandson. Unbeknown at the time, Charlie wrote about the emotional experience in his own journal. I feel compelled to share it. If you wish to respond to him, his email address is ckmail1@yahoo.com.
Wow. What a time it has been. For those that don’t know, here is a quick summary.
Micah, at five-months old, looks to be a very normal baby, albeit his head is a little on the large size. His head was in the 25 percentile when he was born and around the 75 percentile later. At his last check-up, Micah’s head was in the 95 percentile. Anything below 100% is “normal.” There are babies with heads well over the 100% percentile.
Micah was also born with a small murmur (that the doctor no longer hears and was/is supposed to heal on its own). Micah also had a small cyst that can be somewhat common with premature babies. It is not extremely abnormal for a baby to have a head in the 95% percentile. Doctors do become concerned when the baby’s head, not large at birth, becomes bigger. This does not HAVE to mean there is trouble, but it can.
There is a condition known as hydrocephalus. It basically means fluid on the brain. One of several causes is a cyst on the brain. Needless to say, since we found this out, we have been very, very concerned. The doctor ordered a CT scan for today.
The last couple days have been rough ones... days that included petitioning God on Micah’s behalf. It was a very reconnecting time for God and me. It is a shame that it takes a crisis, isn’t it? I definitely asked for God to heal Micah. To let him be OK.
I really felt that God laid the story of Esther on my heart. I spent some time with God and that story. I know you probably know the Old Testament story, so I won’t repeat it. I really related to Esther. I felt like I was petitioning God in the same way.
God gave me a peace about the situation. It is tough to ask God to heal your son, but then to say with all the sincerity you can muster, “Not my will, but yours be done.”
I tried to imagine what things would be like if we got a bad report. It involves a life-long battle: a plastic tube is inserted for the rest of your life, having to be lengthened as you grow; dealing with clogging and infection; and possibly being delayed mentally and physically.
I tried to think of ways that God would still use Micah. And how, down the road, we could look back and see that God used Micah for good in spite of his problems. That is a difficult reality to imagine. Yet, I felt a peace about it just the same. But still, if it was OK for Esther to plea, then it was OK for me.
So today, having been wearied by the previous days, we went down to Gainesville to have Micah’s CT scan. Poor little fella didn’t even know where he was going. We got to the hospital about 6:30 this morning. There was a little confusion about whether he was supposed to have a CT scan or an MRI. The staff confirmed that it was a CT scan.
Tori and I fed Micah and then placed him on a pillow on the long, narrow tray of the scanner. Like the good baby he is, Micah fell right asleep (with his pacifier and clutching his favorite blue doggy blanket). He never woke up during the whole scan.
We couldn’t get the results right away. The radiologist would have to dictate what he saw and send the report to our pediatrician. It could be today or it could be tomorrow before we got the results. That was the equivalent of eternity.
Tori and I went on with our day. We ate breakfast, went to a church staff meeting and then went home. A while later, Tori decided to call the doctor’s office to see if the results were in. They were.
The doctor said the CT scan showed nothing. There was no fluid. The report did not even mention a cyst.
After Tori hung up, we said a very genuine prayer of thanks to God. I tell you it was all Him. I got a little choked up and headed to the backyard to be by myself. For the first time in who knows how long, I cried. My face streaked with tears of joy. I think it was from the overwhelming feeling – not as much of Micah being OK – but of the awesome feeling of experiencing God’s hand of mercy and deliverance.
And still…if some medical complication ever develops, or whenever the next bad thing happens, I feel confident in the sovereignty of my Lord. God on the hilltop is God in the valley. And today, he has delivered Micah…..whose name indeed means, …. “Who is like the Lord?”
PS 107:19 Then they cried to the LORD in their trouble,
and he saved them from their distress.
PS 107:20 He sent forth his word and healed them;
he rescued them from the grave.
PS 107:21 Let them give thanks to the LORD for his unfailing love
and his wonderful deeds for men
nancyk@alltel.net – Mother of Charlie, grandmother of Micah
Journal of a Living Lady #251
Nancy White Kelly
Our son, Charlie, and wife, Tori have just celebrated their third wedding anniversary. They are to leave tomorrow for a much needed and deserved vacation in Colorado. Both worked two jobs, completed their Masters Degrees, and had their first baby this year. Amazingly, they still have their sanity. It makes me tired just thinking about the pace they have been keeping. The only negative to their trip is that we have their dog. Snickers is supposed to be a Chihuahua. Believe me, it is our unprofessional opinion that Snickers lied on her birth certificate. She looks more like a miniature Doberman with her long legs and standing ears. We have a Chihuahua ourselves. Snickers and Oppie don’t even look like kissing cousins.
Snickers got off to our bad side several months ago when, as a puppy, she baptized our carpets and left us other undesired gifts. However, she is much better now and we tolerate her. Snickers is used to sleeping in bed with Charlie and Tori. Naturally, she thinks our bed is her bed at night. Neither Buddy nor I care for animals in our bed, but what we won’t do for our kids. Last night Snickers had her head in-between mine and Buddy’s. Buddy asked me if that meant three cups of coffee in the morning instead of the usual two.
We also have Charlie and Tori’s cat. They gave Coco to us just before baby Micah was born. We gladly took the former stray cat because we didn’t want any jealous animal harming our new grandson. The intent was to find her a good home. She has one. Right here in the Kelly household.
I was told last week that when an animal brings you their prey, they are showing much affection for you. I wish Coco didn’t love us so much. I shutter to walk down the hall way at night. So far I have been greeted with frogs, lizards, and birds. Once Coco left the gourmet insides of some yet to be identified creature.
Most of the critters that I find in the hall way are still alive, though severely traumatized. Coco enjoys toying with her prey before they become her dinner. Despite her displeasure, I mercifully rescue them from their definite dormant fate. I turn them loose to live once again in the outdoors. However, I am certain Coco has brought me the same stupid frog twice.
I am afraid the best laid plans of mice and men so often go astray. We just got a phone call that the baby is sick with a high fever. The trip to Colorado is off. So, while we baby-sit the dog, we fret over Micah’s latest medical emergency. He is in the hospital with an I.V. in his head. The doctors have ruled out spinal meningitis, Praise the Lord. And, to think, we were perturbed over a six pound dog crowding our bed.
Nancy White Kelly
Our son, Charlie, and wife, Tori have just celebrated their third wedding anniversary. They are to leave tomorrow for a much needed and deserved vacation in Colorado. Both worked two jobs, completed their Masters Degrees, and had their first baby this year. Amazingly, they still have their sanity. It makes me tired just thinking about the pace they have been keeping. The only negative to their trip is that we have their dog. Snickers is supposed to be a Chihuahua. Believe me, it is our unprofessional opinion that Snickers lied on her birth certificate. She looks more like a miniature Doberman with her long legs and standing ears. We have a Chihuahua ourselves. Snickers and Oppie don’t even look like kissing cousins.
Snickers got off to our bad side several months ago when, as a puppy, she baptized our carpets and left us other undesired gifts. However, she is much better now and we tolerate her. Snickers is used to sleeping in bed with Charlie and Tori. Naturally, she thinks our bed is her bed at night. Neither Buddy nor I care for animals in our bed, but what we won’t do for our kids. Last night Snickers had her head in-between mine and Buddy’s. Buddy asked me if that meant three cups of coffee in the morning instead of the usual two.
We also have Charlie and Tori’s cat. They gave Coco to us just before baby Micah was born. We gladly took the former stray cat because we didn’t want any jealous animal harming our new grandson. The intent was to find her a good home. She has one. Right here in the Kelly household.
I was told last week that when an animal brings you their prey, they are showing much affection for you. I wish Coco didn’t love us so much. I shutter to walk down the hall way at night. So far I have been greeted with frogs, lizards, and birds. Once Coco left the gourmet insides of some yet to be identified creature.
Most of the critters that I find in the hall way are still alive, though severely traumatized. Coco enjoys toying with her prey before they become her dinner. Despite her displeasure, I mercifully rescue them from their definite dormant fate. I turn them loose to live once again in the outdoors. However, I am certain Coco has brought me the same stupid frog twice.
I am afraid the best laid plans of mice and men so often go astray. We just got a phone call that the baby is sick with a high fever. The trip to Colorado is off. So, while we baby-sit the dog, we fret over Micah’s latest medical emergency. He is in the hospital with an I.V. in his head. The doctors have ruled out spinal meningitis, Praise the Lord. And, to think, we were perturbed over a six pound dog crowding our bed.
Journal of a Living Lady #250
Nancy White Kelly
All optimists can say amen to William Ward’s renowned quote: “A cloudy day is no match for a sunny disposition.” It is all in attitude.
With acknowledgement to Paul Harvey, this is the rest of the story about my surgery for blepharoptosis. A month has passed. My attitude about plastic surgery has changed from an immediate, “I wish I hadn’t” to an eventual, “I am glad I did.”
I detest the ugly advertising billboards that curtail the panoramic view of the nearby mountains. Yet, I can read them now without the slightest effort to raise my eyebrows. The clouds above me have seemingly doubled in height. They appear as voluptuous curtains surrounding the vault of heaven. The Beatles sang in the 60’s, “I can see clearly now.” So can I. The only question to ask is, “What took me so long?”
For a couple of weeks after my droopy eyelids were surgically eliminated, my face looked as if Rocky Balboa and I had gone at least three rounds. Large bruises around my puffy eyes went from maroon-red to an ugly dark purple. Prickly stitches protruded from the far corner of each eye like unruly weeds.
Ten days after my surgery, still house-bound, I looked for my Buddy, the best husband and male nurse anywhere. I had a honey-do request, but could see from the den window that he was busy. Buddy was far out in the pasture rubbing Fly-Off on the horses.
Donning sun glasses and a wide-brimmed hat, I ventured to the post office myself. The disguise didn’t help. Heads turned several times.
I can read minds. Most of the curious lookers assumed that I was the victim of spousal abuse. A few thought that surely I deserved it.
All I wanted was my stamps and a hasty exit. Unfortunately the man in front of me was attempting to mail packages to Tahiti. The quick glances in my direction were bothersome. While impatiently tapping my foot, I thought of a few things I would like to have had printed on my over-sized tee-shirt: “Keep staring. I’ll show you my tongue piercing and dentures.”
Because the removal of my droopy eyelids was so successful, I have seriously considered Lasik surgery for the first time. It could put an end to my near-sightedness and astigmatism. Friends warn me that Lasik would not eliminate my need for reading glasses. I already have several pair of the drugstore type scattered around the house. Reading spectacles are a nuisance, but I could live with the hassle for reading.
Yet, there is that issue of green stuff. I accepted financial reality long ago. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Never will there be a federal Santa Claus coming down the chimney with a voucher for laser eye surgery. Regulation 20/20 says that Medicare doesn’t consider shedding glasses a medical necessity.
Money is an object of consideration in our household. As with most Social Security recipients, the sugar bowl gets pretty empty by the end of each month. Buddy will eat oatmeal only so often.
If my blatant poor mouthing and lack of total visual acuity is causing tears of pity to flow, grab a tissue and a pen. Send your 401K to the Kelly Total Vision Fund, 6156 Southern Rd., Young Harris, GA. Though it isn’t tax deductible, you can sleep well tonight knowing that you have helped replug the fountain of youth and given even clearer sight to one matronly lady. On second thought, save your cash. You would just be throwing good money after bad. If I live long enough, I will surely have cataracts that will obscure my vision again.
The living lady is truly content, happy and grateful. And, I actually have a sister named Sunnie.
Be it hereby known that Nancy White Kelly is blessed beyond measure even if wearing glasses on a cloudy day.
nancyk@alltel.net
Nancy White Kelly
All optimists can say amen to William Ward’s renowned quote: “A cloudy day is no match for a sunny disposition.” It is all in attitude.
With acknowledgement to Paul Harvey, this is the rest of the story about my surgery for blepharoptosis. A month has passed. My attitude about plastic surgery has changed from an immediate, “I wish I hadn’t” to an eventual, “I am glad I did.”
I detest the ugly advertising billboards that curtail the panoramic view of the nearby mountains. Yet, I can read them now without the slightest effort to raise my eyebrows. The clouds above me have seemingly doubled in height. They appear as voluptuous curtains surrounding the vault of heaven. The Beatles sang in the 60’s, “I can see clearly now.” So can I. The only question to ask is, “What took me so long?”
For a couple of weeks after my droopy eyelids were surgically eliminated, my face looked as if Rocky Balboa and I had gone at least three rounds. Large bruises around my puffy eyes went from maroon-red to an ugly dark purple. Prickly stitches protruded from the far corner of each eye like unruly weeds.
Ten days after my surgery, still house-bound, I looked for my Buddy, the best husband and male nurse anywhere. I had a honey-do request, but could see from the den window that he was busy. Buddy was far out in the pasture rubbing Fly-Off on the horses.
Donning sun glasses and a wide-brimmed hat, I ventured to the post office myself. The disguise didn’t help. Heads turned several times.
I can read minds. Most of the curious lookers assumed that I was the victim of spousal abuse. A few thought that surely I deserved it.
All I wanted was my stamps and a hasty exit. Unfortunately the man in front of me was attempting to mail packages to Tahiti. The quick glances in my direction were bothersome. While impatiently tapping my foot, I thought of a few things I would like to have had printed on my over-sized tee-shirt: “Keep staring. I’ll show you my tongue piercing and dentures.”
Because the removal of my droopy eyelids was so successful, I have seriously considered Lasik surgery for the first time. It could put an end to my near-sightedness and astigmatism. Friends warn me that Lasik would not eliminate my need for reading glasses. I already have several pair of the drugstore type scattered around the house. Reading spectacles are a nuisance, but I could live with the hassle for reading.
Yet, there is that issue of green stuff. I accepted financial reality long ago. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Never will there be a federal Santa Claus coming down the chimney with a voucher for laser eye surgery. Regulation 20/20 says that Medicare doesn’t consider shedding glasses a medical necessity.
Money is an object of consideration in our household. As with most Social Security recipients, the sugar bowl gets pretty empty by the end of each month. Buddy will eat oatmeal only so often.
If my blatant poor mouthing and lack of total visual acuity is causing tears of pity to flow, grab a tissue and a pen. Send your 401K to the Kelly Total Vision Fund, 6156 Southern Rd., Young Harris, GA. Though it isn’t tax deductible, you can sleep well tonight knowing that you have helped replug the fountain of youth and given even clearer sight to one matronly lady. On second thought, save your cash. You would just be throwing good money after bad. If I live long enough, I will surely have cataracts that will obscure my vision again.
The living lady is truly content, happy and grateful. And, I actually have a sister named Sunnie.
Be it hereby known that Nancy White Kelly is blessed beyond measure even if wearing glasses on a cloudy day.
nancyk@alltel.net
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