Journal of a Living Lady #348

Nancy White Kelly

Now that summer has officially arrived, Buddy and I are spending much more time outside. We have six hens and a rooster that provides us with plenty of eggs. A benevolent neighbor gave us four rows of his garden to plant as our own. We have the usual variety of vegetables: corn, peas, okra, squash, potatoes, and several varieties of tomatoes. If we can keep neighboring cows and hungry deer from sneaking in, we should have a bountiful harvest again this year.

Buddy does the planting. My work begins when he proudly delivers the vegetables to the kitchen counter. Last year I shelled, canned and froze food like no tomorrow. Considering I was raised in the city, preserving food continues to be more of a novelty than an absolute necessity. Cost-wise, I think we would come out even buying vegetables at peak time, but that isn’t the point, is it?

My mother was a wonderful cook. Unfortunately, as a young girl who played too much Hide-n-Seek, I learned many of life’s lessons from the kitchen the hard way. Experience. Buddy has been wonderfully patient during these forty-four years of marriage.

As an older lady now with infinite acquired wisdom, I feel compelled to pass along these helpful insights to all you home-makers of the current generation. Even if you don’t eat better, at least your house will smell better.

Let’s begin with…

EGGS - When something starts pecking its way out of the shell, the egg is probably past its prime.

POTATOES - Fresh potatoes do not have roots.

SPICES: Most spices do not die. They just fade away. However, spices will do fine on your shelf forever. Just don’t forget to put them in your will.
MEAT - If opening the refrigerator door causes stray animals from a three-mile radius to congregate outside your house, toss the meat.
CANNED GOODS - Any canned goods that have become the size or shape of a cantaloupe should be disposed of ... very carefully.

UNMARKED ITEMS IN THE FRIDGE: You know left-overs are well beyond prime when you're tempted to discard the container along with the food.

AND FINALLY… Most food cannot be kept longer than the average life span of a hamster. I would suggest keeping a hamster in your refrigerator to gauge this. And speaking of creatures, a new study shows that LICKING THE SWEAT OFF A FROG can cure depression. The down side is, the minute you stop licking, the frog gets depressed again.

nancyk@windstream.net

Journal of a Living Lady #347

Nancy White Kelly

Poor Buddy. He doesn’t get a lot of sympathy from me most times because he has a new ailment every day. I tell him he is like the boy who cried wolf. One day he is really going to be sick and I’m not going to know it. Over the years I have grown rather indifferent to his complaints. Recently I kept count of how many consecutive days that he told me he was tired. The tally was 32.

Buddy gets at least one if not two annual physicals. All his blood work is fine. Buddy isn’t sick. He is just getting older.

Yesterday he woke up complaining about a sore shoulder. Again I humored him. Poor baby. He then said his neck was aching too and sort of stiff. Again, poor baby. When Buddy asked if we could go out for breakfast, I reluctantly agreed even though I had a pile of “to do’s” on my list. At least it would get his mind off his shoulder and neck.

Buddy pitched the car keys to me with today’s good arm. I stopped at a restaurant about halfway to town hoping to get back in time for the usual eleven a.m. time of the Ye Old Coin Shop.
The busy waitress finally took our order. Buddy, in obvious discomfort, grew crankier as the minutes ticked by. I perked up our conversation in an attempt to keep his mind off his pain and the poor service. The chit-chat evolved into a warm discussion. He was unhappy that I wasn’t taking his hurting seriously enough.

Buddy is a hard person to read when it came to illness. I do care greatly about this husband of mine, but sometimes giving excessive sympathy makes the situation worse. Our personalities are totally opposite. I prefer to suffer in silence. In contrast, he likes to at least vocalize, if not dramatize, his every pain. I kid you not. Ask him about the toe he hurt in the Navy.

This day I questioned Buddy about radiating pain, headache, shortness of breath, and any other possible symptoms that could be the precursor of something serious. My conclusion was that he slept in a poor position resulting in a neck crick. I suggested a hot shower and offered a massage. If that didn’t help, I would call the doctor for an appointment. That seemed to appease him.

Finally home, Buddy opted for a heating pad. I gave him a pain pill. He slept for a couple of hours and by mid-afternoon he was moving around the house slowly. By nightfall, he was eating popcorn and watching television. There was no further mention of his shoulder and neck.

Apparently Buddy didn’t have spinal meningitis or some insidious, paralyzing disease. This morning he is outside cutting grass and dealing with moles and ant hills. I expect my tired husband to come into the house any moment now wanting breakfast. Life is back to normal.

Journal of a Living Lady #346
Nancy White Kelly

In the Baptist faith, we call our spiritual leaders pastors. In other denominations, an equivalent would be priest or rector. In the Jewish community, the chief leader is the rabbi, and in the Moslem world that would be the Imam.

I have great respect for those who choose or are chosen to give spiritual direction to a congregation of believers. Come June I will have had twelve pastors in my lifetime. An even dozen.

I worked on staff with some of my pastors. While none of them was perfect, all were sincere and each one has had a significant impact on my life. I have loved all my spiritual shepherds and believe that this devotion is mutual.

One pastor indulged my request to be baptized again. He did so with water from the Jordan River that was brought back in a small jar by a friend who had recently visited the Holy Land. Later, thanks to a reader who follows this column, Buddy and I had the opportunity to be fully immersed in the Jordan River near Jerusalem which is where John the Baptist baptized Jesus.

A third of my former pastors have passed on to their deserved reward. I still hear from a few. Occasionally one will ask me to consider working with them again. But, unless God writes it on the wall, I am not leaving the mountains until I make my own trip to Glory.

As a teen-age girl, I purposed to follow Christ and his teachings for the rest of my natural life and have never regretted that decision. My pastors played an important role. Each man was memorable. They embraced myriad personalities and styles, ranging from high-strung, hell, fire, and brimstone types to low-key, brotherly or fatherly surrogates who quietly delivered compelling messages of unconditional love.

I often wonder where I would be today without the impact of these pastors. I think I could be a criminal. Without the moral compass of the Bible, I would have no reason to constrain my thoughts or actions. And who could be more responsible for indelibly imprinting biblical principles than my former pastors?

Saying “good-byes” are hard, but a routine part of life. My current pastor is retiring soon after a long ministry and I will miss him. A new senior pastor, whom I knew in what seems like a life-time ago, will join the long line of those who came before. I knew this pastor-to-be mostly through his wife and daughters. Sharon taught music and I was Shannon and Melody’s school principal. We felt a great loss when the Pickerills moved away.

So often we pass through life without giving proper thanks to those who have touched us so. To Brother Rudy Patton and to all my other pastors, I thank you from the depths of my soul for helping me to be a better person than I might have been.

nancyk@windstream.net

Journal of a Living Lady #345

Nancy White Kelly

I wiped tears from a fallen warrior and stood in the gap, protecting the wounded one from further injury. To my surprise, recovery was immediate. The two who were engaged in brotherly combat were soon sharing their cookies with each other and their favorite stuffed animals, Lambie and Bear.

Yes, Buddy and I have been baby-sitting. Charlie and Tori took advantage of the Spring Break and headed to Minneapolis, leaving each set of grandparents to take turns filling their shoes. We performed admirably considering the oldest, Micah, age four, had strep throat. He was unusually quiet and preferred my lap to his toys. Two-year old Noah, a vocal live-wire, was a non-stop dynamo.

In spite of the fact Buddy and I have raised a dozen children, birth, adopted, and foster, we felt a little inept. We quickly learned that in those ensuing years since parenting youngsters ourselves, a slow leak has occurred in our energy supply.

That first day of our baby-sitting stint we had a couple of hours of welcomed sunshine. The boys and I took a trek into the near-by woods. They walked the fallen logs and I watched for snakes.
Then the weather turned horrendously windy and cold. From then on, we were housebound. The television went on the blink leaving the boys with no cartoons or news for Buddy and me.

Thankfully an ancient repertoire of kiddie songs, poems and stories returned to my sluggish memory. Micah, Noah and I played hide-and-seek, built domino towers, fished cards with a little suction cup on a pole and blew hundreds of soapy bubbles into the bathroom sink. Buddy was good for short spurts of entertainment, but primarily worked on the Charlie’s lawn-mower. He is far more comfortable with mechanics than little children.

It became quite clear why Charlie and Tori consider seven o’clock p.m. their favorite time on the clock. It is the beginning of the boys’ bedtime ritual. Baths. Stories. Songs and finally prayers, theirs’ and then mine: “Dear God, now I lay these children down to sleep. Please keep them in bed without a peep. Amen.”

I was overly optimistic when I packed for this baby-sitting gig. I brought along my laptop computer and some books to study in preparation for teaching Sunday school. What was I thinking? By the time the magic hour arrived in the early evening, I was more tired than the children. Who could concentrate when every adult-level brain cell had shut down from inactivity? I foolishly procrastinated with a silent promise. Tomorrow I’ll study, but a tomorrow, with time to spare, never came.

We survived our days with the grandchildren without any major incident. Unfortunately Buddy and I are now sick ourselves. Our grown kids got a needed break and we will recover. It's hard to not want to be part of this stage of our grandsons' lives. Before we blink they will be teenagers.

nancyk@windstream.net

Journal of a Living Lady #344

Nancy White Kelly

Our son Charlie thinks his parents are ancient. He never really says so, but I can tell by little statements he makes now and then. He just turned 29. We did have him late in life, but decrepit we are not.

Funny how your prospective changes as you edge closer to the other end of life’s spectrum. Elderly is always ten years away. While Buddy is a dozen year older, I hardly consider myself a senior citizen. Yet, I must admit that the signs all point to the advent of my golden years.

It was with amusement that I discovered an official name for my presenting condition. The acronym is A.AA.D.D. which stands for: Age-Activated Attention Deficit Disorder. My symptoms usually start in the morning and are most prevalent if Buddy is away for some early event which is usually breakfast with his buddies.

I go to the kitchen to put the coffee kettle on and notice that my pot of petunias needs watering. While heading toward them with the water left in the kettle from the day before, I see that the cat bowl is empty. I put the kettle on the dining table to fill the cat bowl. It is then that I notice the unopened mail from yesterday. I stop to flip through the bills, tossing the excess envelopes and junk papers into the trash can which is full. I pull out the plastic liner, tie it up and start to the corner of the kitchen where the box of new trash bags resides. The phone rings and I place the garbage bag in the center of the kitchen floor.

After a brief conversation, I try to remember what I was doing. Oh, yes, the tea kettle. I find it on the dining table wondering why it was there instead of on the stove top. On the way to fill the kettle with fresh water, I see that the petunias are still wilted. On the way to attend to the flowers, I observe the still empty cat bowl. I place the kettle on the dining table and rattle the bag of cat feed. The cat races into the kitchen and lays at my feet in a position that says, “Scratch me, please.”

I put the bag down and rub his belly. When I return to an up-right position, I ask myself what I was doing. Oh, yes. The coffee kettle. There it is again in the center of the dining table. On the way to the sink to fill the kettle, I kick the bag of trash in the kitchen floor. That is no place for the trash, so I place the kettle on the table and take the bag outside to the dumpster. On the way, I notice that the yard flowers need watering. I connect the nozzle and drag the coiling green hose closer.

Good grief! I am still in my pajamas. My Mama taught me better.
I lay the hose amongst the flowers to continue that task as I head inside to find some clothes for the day. Passing through the kitchen I see the kettle on the table. I stop to retrieve it and observe that there is still no trash bag in the garbage can. Heading to the kitchen corner to get a new one, my eyes catch sight of the empty cat bowl again. This time I determine to stay on task.
After dressing, I fill the kettle with fresh water and put it on the gas stove eye. In the meanwhile, I head to the computer to check my email. A half hour later I catch a whiff of the melting plastic handle of the then dry kettle.

In spite of my slow start, I make my coffee and take my usual place in the den recliner and pick up the newspaper. Now, where are my reading glasses? Not a single pair is in sight, much less in reaching distance. I sit for a moment to reflect on the effort it would take to arise from the recliner and perform a search.

Inertia sets in. My eyelids get heavy and a brief morning nap ensues. When I awaken, I make my way to the kitchen sink to wash my coffee cup.

Oops. No water comes from the spout. How could that be? Of course. The well is empty from the water hose which I left unattended.
Bottom line: At the end of the day, there is still no food in the cat bowl, no liner in the trash can and the paper is still folded.
Maybe Charlie’s silent assessment of my senioritis is right. It does seem I am spending a lot of time these days thinking about the hereafter. What am I here after?

Don’t be too smug. Senility is sneaky and reveals itself in other subtle ways. Try this. Say "silk" five times. Now spell "silk." What do cows drink? If you said “milk,” then join the senile crowd.

Journal of a Living Lady #342

Nancy White Kelly

Buddy and I recently took a week-end trip to the Chattanooga area to attend a Coin Show. Sometimes we go as vendors and rent a table on the bourse. Other times we go to buy additional stock for our coin shop.

One restaurant that we frequent is well- known for its down-home food and atmosphere. On this trip Buddy and the waitress struck up an immediate rapport. Though her first name wasn’t really Sue, Buddy, in his usual comedic style, addressed her by this made-up moniker.

Sue had lightness in her voice like a young girl, but the creases around her eyes and the stars on her apron indicated she had been a worker in this restaurant chain for a good while. In-between stories of years long gone, Buddy forgot that he was supposed to be ordering breakfast. Finally the entertained waitress pretended to write Old Timers Special on the ticket and disappeared with a grin.
When Sue returned with a huge order quite to the liking of Buddy, she mentioned that she was a registered nurse prior to becoming a waitress. Her explanation was that she changed jobs because of “short-term memory problems.” I found the occupational transition a bit odd, but Buddy nodded enthusiastically, acknowledging that that fully related to her difficulty in remembering. Sue’s problem, however, was far more serious than advancing old-age.

Sue’s unwinding story, told between trips to our table with condiments and coffee refills, was moving. She related that a couple of years ago, while driving to the home of her sister, she noticed that her left foot felt “asleep.” Sue shook the foot vigorously and continued driving thinking that she must have positioned it at an odd angle on the floorboard. Moments later, Sue felt a tingling sensation creep up her leg. Minutes later her hip felt numb.

Sue steered the car into the parking area of a combination service station and convenience store. Being a nurse, she knew something was badly wrong. By the time she reached the counter, her speech was slurring.

The store workers were rude and told her to move along. “We don’t want drunks on our premises,” the cashier said.

Sue tried to explain, but the cashier motioned her away. In disbelief, Sue struggled back to her car and drove to the sister’s house.

Sue managed to open the car door one more time, but this time fell to the ground. She was having a stroke.

After several days in the hospital’s intensive care unit and a lengthy rehabilitation period, Sue regained use of her body. Her mind, she says, “is pretty slow now.”

Sue’s sister didn’t forget the terrible treatment of her sibling at the convenience store. She confronted the cashier and manager and asked if they remembered the stammering lady who asked for help. They smirked and the manager referred to Sue as the “drunk lady.” Sue’s sister explained that this so-called drunk lady wasn’t intoxicated, but was having a stroke. She calmly informed the store manager that everybody would know about their lack of compassion and assistance.

The newspaper was told the story. Afterwards, television and radio stations relayed the incident. Local customers were enraged and called for a boycott of the establishment. Eventually gas and store traffic became a trickle. The owners were forced out of business.

Maybe this wasn’t a happy ending, but a deserved one. The media is powerful and, in this case, championed the telling of Sue’s story.
Buddy finished his breakfast and slipped a sizeable tip into her smock pocket.

The Ye Old Coin Shop probably took a loss on this trip, but I am proud of my compassionate husband. He may have a short-term memory, but he has a long-term heart.
----------
nancyk@windstream.net

Journal of a Living Lady #341

Nancy White Kelly

If you see a fly on the wall, please don't reach for the swatter. It just might be me and I don't have that many lives left.

When folks allow me the privilege, I do enjoy taking a back seat and quietly watching and listening. One conclusion I have drawn is that everybody has an opinion. Here is mine.

It seems that the hobby of coin collecting is predominantly a man's world. You won't find many lady numismatists. The majority of the clients of Ye Old Coin Shop are senior-age men. I suppose the reason is because at the height of the coin collecting era, men tightly controlled the household finances while the wives raised the children and secretly stashed left-over grocery money in the sugar bowl.

Female pilots are still a novelty too though that is rapidly changing. Getting a pilot’s license isn’t rocket science. Know your clouds, read a few maps, study the FAA manual and practice for a while with a teacher. Graduating from Boy’s High seems to add points. Have you ever noticed what the front part of an airliner is called? The cockpit.

Collecting old coins for pleasure or profit isn’t football or rugby. Still it is considered a predominantly male hobby. It amuses me when customers assume that Buddy is the coin man and that I just bring his coffee.

My Buddy is a significant representative of the male gender, especially to me. If it were not for his physical labor and manly support, there would not be a coin shop. He, too, is a pilot and a much better one than I am. Just don't ask him the key date for the Walking Liberty half dollar or the closing price of gold today. Don't ask me either to wire your house or fix your dripping pipe. Common cents is more than copper Lincolns.

Just this week a friend whimsically remarked that things might have been different had there been three wise women instead of three wise men. For starters, they would have stopped and asked directions. They would have been on time. The wise women would probably have helped deliver the baby and, most certainly, would have brought more practical gifts.

The Living Lady is not a feminist. Far from it. Yet, I enjoy being a girl in a man’s world. Remember that Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but she did it backwards… and in high heels.

nancyk@windstream.net

Journal of a Living Lady #340

Nancy White Kelly

Buddy came close to being in the dog house recently. He lost my new trime. I had it all of about thirty minutes. Admittedly it was tiny, about the size of my little finger nail. But I’ve never had a trime before and was looking forward to putting it in my collection.
Let me explain what a trime is for those of you who aren’t into numismatics, the fancy term for coin collecting. “Tri” implies three, of course. And the “ime,” that is shortened from dime.

A trime is a rare American coin with a distinctive large C and the Roman numeral III displayed on the reverse side. It was minted between 1851 and 1873 and played a major role in determining the kind of money carried in purses today.

In 1851, the cost of postage for a letter was 5 cents if delivered within 500 miles. That seems like a bargain to me, but a nickel wasn’t easy to come by in those days. For economic stimulus reasons, the US lowered the postage stamp to 3 cents. This caused a problem.

The common money in use at this time of steam-driven transportation was gold. Granted, there were copper cents and half cents circulating, but that was primarily in the major eastern cities. Coppers were immensely unpopular.

In the mid-1800’s, the average worker’s daily wage was paid with a $1 gold piece. According to experts, that compares to wages of a tad more than $100 today. Sounds good, but imagine trying to buy a loaf of bread if the smallest coin you had was worth $100 and it was nearly impossible to make change for the difference.

A serious monetary crisis developed during that era of history related to the gold standard. The need for silver coinage was established and laws enacted. Then came the introduction of the silver trime, the smallest American legal tender ever made. When 1853 ended, there were plenty of these shiny trimes to satisfy demand for change. That satisfaction didn’t last long. A diversity of coinage was on the horizon.

While the trime’s monetary value today isn’t as great as its abbreviated history, I was delighted to have one as a conversation piece.

The trime may have ended the one of many monetary crises of the
1800’s, but for a moment in 2009, it started a silent flame of angry thoughts. How could Buddy be so irresponsible as to lose a coin between the shop and the house? After all, it is less than fifty feet from the coin shop’s door to our den.

This incident began last week when a young customer came into the coin shop with the trime in hand. He also had three other small coins of foreign origin. As with most customers, the man wanted to know if he had anything of great value.

It wasn’t too difficult to identify what he had. All four of the coins could have fit inside a single, large thimble. Considering that the coins were not in good condition, I offered him a fair price which he eagerly accepted.

After he left, Buddy came into the shop to see the new acquisitions as he had been viewing the transaction on the security camera. Because of the accumulation of grime, he could not read much of the writing and kindly offered to clean them up some.

I agreed though this is generally a numismatic “no-no.” Cleaning collectible, old coins devalues them greatly and can be easily discerned by a knowledgeable collector or dealer. In this case, however, a gentle washing would do no harm. They had obviously traveled many miles and were dirty from the journey.

It was near closing time for the Ye Old Coin Shop. I quickly placed the four tiny coins in a small folder and handed them to Buddy. Off he went to start the cleaning project. A few minutes later I could smell the familiar vinegary fumes.

“How many coins did you give me?” he asked.

“Four,” I replied, wondering why he asked.

Buddy moaned at my answer. All he had in the pan was three. Sure enough, the one coin that was missing was the trime. Apparently he had dropped it somewhere amidst grass and rocks. He combed the drive-way and the grass until it was too dark to continue. The next morning he was up at day-break with the metal detector. Alas, the trime could not be found.

My angry thoughts never became hurtful words, but I half-teasingly threatened to banish Buddy to the dog house. Rocky, our German shepherd, is not into sharing his food and probably would not cotton to having his master share his sleeping quarters.

Maybe the trime will show up again. Maybe not. But I quickly concluded that it wasn’t worth hassling my main, best man.

Back in the 1970’s, I lost my gold, solitaire engagement ring while washing dishes. Buddy took the drain apart, but we never recovered it.

That loss registers much higher on the Richter scale of marriage than the lost trime. Though disappointed, Buddy never chastised me for my carelessness. I have always appreciated his forgiveness because he worked long and hard for the money to buy that ring. I only had that trime for a few minutes.

A silver trime is only a trime. A husband who puts up with me for nearly forty-four years is a diamond.

nancyk@windstream.net

Journal of a Living Lady #339
Nancy White Kelly

Martin Luther King’s birthday is my benchmark that January is half over. My friend Pat was born on MLK’s birthday. I never forget the date of her birthday though she has absolutely no genetic relationship to his family. Pat, who taught kindergarten when I was principal, wasn’t a racist at all. She loved all children, red, yellow, black or white. She never marched in Selma, Atlanta, or anywhere else on King’s behalf. That was not her style. Her only connection to Martin Luther King was that she was born the same day that he was in the old South. Because of that, Pat gets the day off work as a bonus. There is even a parade downtown.

Though Pat and I have seldom seen each other since our family moved to the mountains in the early 90’s, I think of her often. We became good friends. However, she never took the liberty of calling me Nancy. It was always Dr. Kelly, which is what the school staff called me.

Pat’s sense of humor is notorious. She knew how to short-sheet a bed at retreats. Once I paid her back by putting clear plastic wrap under the toilet seat lid. Probably Pat is still up to her pranks which included moving a large, black plastic rat to unusual places. If the event was formal or sacred, the better.

Pat could take a joke too. One April I gave her an urgent note to phone Ellie Font immediately. The number, of course, was to the Atlanta zoo.

Pat took a special interest in Bobby, the foster child we adopted at the age of ten. Charlie, our biological son, got plenty of attention as he was bright, played the piano extremely well for a child, and had an adult-sized vocabulary long before starting school. Bobby, who is the same age as Charlie, came to us at the age of five unable to count to five.

To Pat, he was the “under-child” and she made it her goal to make him feel special. One year she planned a surprise birthday party just for him even though she had a son of her own who was one year older.

Pat also found ways to make me feel special too. Just recently I discarded the pink and white, hand-crocheted afghan that she made me. I loved that afghan and toted it everywhere when I traveled. But, like a worn, beloved baby blanket, it had seen its best days and needed to be relegated to the past.

Time has passed swiftly. Pat is now a great-grandmother. Bobby, now grown, has two children of his own. Both have generous, tender hearts.

Bobby gave us a six-month -old German shepherd puppy for Christmas. Rocky is a nice dog. We have been busy making the house and yard safe, not only for Rocky, but for our twenty cockatiels as well as for Sam the cat.

Buddy bought a huge dog house that previously belonged to a pet goat. I found a large chain-linked pen to use temporally while we wait for warmer weather to fence the backyard. The Kelly den now has a huge crate which is Rocky’s sleeping quarters at night. One plus is that Rocky, comes from a long line of genuine police dogs. He will provide additional security for the Ye Old Coin Shop next door to our home.

I gave Rocky his final set of distemper shots, but he still had some veterinarian needs. I called the vet we have previously used, but his office charge, plus the heart-worm test and rabies shot was too high for our budget these days.

A church friend told us that there was a new lady vet in a Blairsville. She couldn’t remember the name. It just happened that I found a business card in a restaurant that week with a lady doctor’s name on it: Melissa G., D.M.D.

Eureka!

The next morning I called the phone number on the plain little card. A receptionist answered.

“This is Nancy Kelly. I was wondering what you would charge to check our young German shepherd for heart worms and give him a rabies shot.”

There was a long pause before she replied rather whimsically.

“Maybe we could check his teeth for you.”

I responded in puzzlement. “His teeth?” Dollars signs flashed in my head.

“Yes,” she replied. “Dr. Geesling isn’t a veterinarian. She is a dentist.”

It was one of those spontaneous laughs that lingers on and on. We both finally caught our breaths. Tears ran down my cheeks. A good belly-laugh can be a great eye wash.

Happy Birthday, Pat. Wish you could have been here.


nancyk@windstream.net

Journal of a Living Lady #338

Nancy White Kelly

The year of 2008 was a Leap Year. Buddy and I would like to have leaped past it as it didn’t turn out to be such a good one. Not that we aren’t grateful for obvious blessings.

We are thankful that both our sons have decent, steady jobs. Our daughter-in-law made it home from a tour in Iraq with all her limbs attached. Our four grandchildren are healthy and happy.

Economically, it was a hard year. Like many others, we became thriftier by necessity. The hike in Social Security would have been nicer if our health insurance premiums didn’t jump larger than the increase. That twenty percent rise in electrical rates was astronomical and hard to absorb. Then we all know about last year’s $4 a gallon gas prices.

Almost daily, near-desperate customers drop by our Ye Old Coin shop at Byers Creek and Southern in Young Harris. Both young and old spread out gold and silver coins, tokens and old paper money on the glass counter. Sometimes they bring bigger items too, but we explain that we are a coin shop, not a pawn shop. We recommend Southland Pawn in Hiawassee for shotguns and jewelry. The owner, Jerry Franks, has a great reputation for being fair and honest.

More than once we have provided food to our customers instead of the meager cash some collections would bring. Old doesn’t always mean valuable. Dealers must also consider rarity and condition.
Deal or no deal, Buddy and I are happy to be givers rather than the givees. Recently some friends who have a small herd of cattle unexpectedly gave us half of a cow. It wasn’t barley and fishes, but that beef has fed several families in at least three states.

The year 2008 went out with a whimper…literally. The Living Lady wasn’t about to let the New Year ring in without a crowning adventure. With a cancer port removal, a triple hernia repair, knee replacement surgery, and a heart attack all in the last quarter of 2008, you would think that I had sufficiently paid my medical dues for at least the eighth year of the new millennium.

But, alas, fluky accidents lurk when you least expect them. While several friends were anxiously anticipating a possum dropping from the sky, Buddy and I smugly lay in bed, quietly reading and relishing the fact we wouldn’t be encountering any revelers on the highways.

As I carefully cut out a couple of articles from an old hardback to share with my up-coming Sunday school class. Buddy flipped channels with the remote. That is his unspoken signal that he is ready to sleep. Tired from a long day too, I placed the straight-edge razor blade inside the book to hold my place for another session.
I sat up on my side of the bed looking for an uncluttered spot to place the book. Unbeknownst to me, that stealthy razor blade slid from inside the book into the bedroom carpet, lodging itself in a blade-up position. I sunk my foot and full weight into the vertical edge of the sharp steel. Dark blood saturated the rug.

Buddy darted toward me, instinctively grabbing two white socks from his dresser drawer to apply pressure. My crutches, which were used while recuperating from the knee surgery, leaned against the wall.
In one swell sweep, Buddy grabbed those crutches, my purse, our coats, and the house and car keys. Almost as an after-thought, he laid it all down briefly to replace his pajama pants.

Once inside the car, my attentive husband assumed a different personality. I assured Buddy that I was not having a baby and it was not necessary to drive 80 miles an hour with the flashers blinking. He pretended to not hear me.

For now, he was Walter Mitty, the ambulance driver, on a life and death mission. Two hours and a few stitches later, Buddy and I were back home in our supposedly safe bed.

Froggie may have went a’courtin’, but the Living Lady went a’ limping into 2009. To paraphrase Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Year, “I shan't think about Leap Year today. I'll think about it tomorrow…in 2012.”

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #337
Nancy White Kelly

It is almost Christmas. There aren’t enough hours in the day to get everything done. It is this way every year. I start early by buying gifts in July and tucking them away in the bedroom closet. One summer I found a stash of missed Christmas presents that transformed themselves into birthday or “no occasion” gifts instead.

Today Buddy and I attended the first Christmas performance that included Charlie and Tori’s sons. Grandson Micah is going on four. Noah is not yet two.

Micah sang Jingle Bells and vigorously rang the batch of silver bells attached to his wrist. He was unaware or didn’t care that he was supposed to keep time with the music. Nobody else seemed to care either as video cameras and digital flashes recorded the rehearsed, yet spontaneous antics for future amusement.

Little Noah, dressed in a Santa suit, was pulled around the church auditorium in a red wagon caravan. Our grandboys were adorable, but what would you expect a proud grandmother to write?

Micah was born prematurely and his parents insist he has slight developmental problems. I don’t notice anything amiss. Being a former professional educator, you’d think I would spot anything significantly troublesome. Charlie says I don’t notice Micah’s language lag because I don’t see him daily. All I see is a quiet, deep thinking little boy who puts together complicated puzzles better than I could. No, Micah isn’t a big talker, but he communicates effectively when he wants to do so.

I was never a big talker either. My mother often told me that, as a baby, I would sit in the floor and entertain myself for hours. I can still do that. Not sit in the floor, mind you, but I can certainly entertain myself without human assistance. There are just not enough hours in the day or sustained energy to accomplish everything on my want to do list after my have to do chores are completed.

Buddy is a morning person and insists I come to bed at night earlier than I would like. It isn’t that he is so concerned about my lack of slumber. He just needs a warm body so he can sleep himself. If he weren’t so persistent about lights out, I would be a perpetual nibbling, nocturnal, computer-using, book-reading junkie.


But, back to our youngest grandson, Noah. I promise he is developing his grandfather’s sense of humor. This was the toddler’s conversation with his mother just yesterday.


TORI: Noah!
NOAH: What?
TORI: Don’t say “what.” Say “Mam.”
NOAH: “DAMN.”
Gotta love him!

******

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #336

Nancy White Kelly

November has never been my favorite month. It seems that major negative events have always occurred during the eleventh month of the year. Both my parents died in November in Memphis in the same hospital room only a few years apart.

Last month I probably came as close to dying as ever in my life. I am called the Living Lady for good reason. My life has been filled with many close calls including a stint in hospice. It is with thanksgiving that I am happy to report that I am well on the road to recovery again. Our now three- year- old grandson, Micah, says it best: “Granny better now.”

December is always a pleasant month, partly because we don’t play up the materialistic aspect. We do have gifts and a tree, but it is family time and we enjoy just being together laughing and reminiscing.

Having been born on a snowy Christmas Eve during World War II, my birthday always barges into Christmas affairs. Nobody complains about it. After all, only God determines who is born and when.
This year I am a bit nostalgic. In sixty-four years society in America has changed dramatically. Being a member of the era of the greatest generation, I fondly remember peculiar things like S & H green stamps and the struggle with rubber girdles. I felt pride in fictional heroes like the Lone Ranger and high-achievers like Helen Keller. In my pre-teen years I felt vulnerable to potential lurking villains while listening intently to radio dramas. “The Shadow Knows,” with its musical crescendos, was one of my favorites.
Our family couldn’t wait to get one of those new black and white televisions. We thought nothing of waiting five minutes or more for it to warm up. I was by mesmerized by Howdy Doody and Clarabelle. We kids were Mama and Daddy’s remote control, changing channels at night for their favorite shows like “I Love Lucy” or “Dragnet.”

If the old Brownie snapshots were in color then, they would have shown my rosy cheeks and purple lips. That was because my favorite snack was Kool-Aid with sugar. The neighborhood girls played hopscotch on sidewalks and boys raced in the streets with metal skates that had cleats attached to shoe soles.

After supper, we played cork ball until dark. On rainy days, my oldest brother and I jumped the rafters in the garage while playing wood tag. For my younger brothers, those weren’t the days of wine and roses, but swinging vines and bloody noses.

I loved the fifties. Elvis. Poodle skirts. Black and white Oxford shoes. The sixties were college years, especially memorable because of the racial turbulence. The seventies brought the Beatles, the escalating drug culture, and a stream of foster children into our home. Two of those are deceased now, one from severe diabetic complications and the other from a drug over-dose. The eighties were happy years. Our son Charlie was born after fifteen years of marriage and we adopted Bobby, the last one of our foster children. The nineties were good years. We moved to the mountains and started new friendships that still thrive.

Here we are almost a decade into the 21st century. Last week a friend I had not seen for twenty years dropped by for a surprise visit. We took up where we left off, hardly missing a beat. That is the way it is with good friends. Even though time gaps occur in a relationship, we are joined by shared experiences and good memories.
I can name many friends, most whom I taught somewhere at some place, who finished their earthly course this decade: Gary, Ed, Ted, Guy, Dick, Ramie, Hadyn, Jim, Al, Tom, and Bob to name a few. Life is short. The Bible says it plainly in James 4:14: “Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away.”

Sixty-four years. How many more times will God call off the death angels in response to the prayer of friends and relatives? Only He knows. I am glad I don’t know my expiration date, but believe that it is a good idea to live as though it could be today.
For some it will be.


nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #335

Nancy White Kelly

Emails tell me you want an up-date on the story of Murphy’s Law and the Living Lady. To briefly recap: I voted early on October 2nd. My foot caught some bad carpet that sent me to the Emergency Room.
Fast forward: orthopedic referral, MRI, total knee replacement on November 4th. The night after surgery came a scary life and death episode. Several drugs were administered in an effort to stop my adrenaline-pumped limbs from flailing for nearly an hour. After several days in ICU, I came home to nursing care and physical therapy.

Today was my first day out of the house following this recent hospital stay. My cardiologist compared his old cardiograms with the new ones. The evidence seems to say that I went to the very brink of a massive heart attack only to back away to a lesser one. If you prayed for me during that time, thank you.

Most likely I will be having a heart catheterization in the near future to better pinpoint the damage. I am hesitant to agree to that procedure. A couple of years ago I experienced total kidney failure following one. Maybe it was the contrast dye from the cath and/or a bone-building drug taken along chemotherapy for my metastatic breast cancer that caused the need for dialysis. All I know is that I don’t want a repeat. Being obligated to blood cleansing three times a week for the rest of my life is not my idea of quality living. My hat is off to those of you who must do it.
My condition reversed and I felt like I had a new lease on life. For those of you who prayed for me during that tenuous time also, thank you again.

I am now recuperating from the knee surgery. It wasn’t and isn’t fun, but I think the corner has been turned. I am looking forward to getting back to a normal life and teaching my new Sunday school class once again. I have a renewed interest in sharing preparation for life hereafter. All of us are just one heart-beat away from eternity.

My recent journey brought me in contact with interesting people. While in ICU, I became well acquainted with the nurses. All of the staff was unusually caring and personable. One particular nurse whom I shall call Iona spent several shifts with me. When I was awake, we talked endlessly about a multitude of subjects. The one thing that bothered me was Iona’s smell. Her clothes were rank with cigarette smoke. I would know that smell anywhere because both my parents were chain-smokers in an era when it was glamorous. They are both deceased now and I am convinced tobacco use was partly responsible.

One restless night Iona’s smock caught my attention. The broadcloth top had a multitude of colorful cats printed on it. Being a cat owner myself, I asked if she had one also.

Iona proudly proclaimed that cats were the love of her life. She bred and showed them and had rooms full of prize ribbons. Iona shared that cats were also the passion of her now deceased mother. Iona tearfully related that her cats were all that kept her going through that dark time following her mama’s death.

All this was inspiring until she revealed that she had 22 cats and that ALL of them shared the same bed at night…with Iona. My eyes popped wide open in the semi-darkness of the hospital room.
Here I was in ICU with a contamination poster on the door. That meant everybody coming into the room had to wear special yellow gowns. This was to prevent the possibility of spreading MRSA which is a staph infection that I once contracted from a previous hospital stay.

Yet, here was in Intensive Care with a primary nurse who admittedly slept with a herd of cats who was taking care of every inch of my body inside and out. I would have laughed at the irony of the situation, and may have reported it, except that I really liked her. What was done was done. Who knows? My heart goes out to her cats. Maybe I gave them staph.

While waiting for the cardiologist today, I read through my hospital records. The jargon used by the medical profession is amusing. An introductory paragraph said that I was a “pleasant” lady. Buddy, my daily and life-time care-giver since 1965, might disagree. He knows what most people don’t. I can be grouchy at times.

While continuing the reading of my medical records, I noted one place that said I had “denied” use of alcohol and tobacco. It sounded as if I really did indulge in those vices, but wasn’t being truthful. Jack Daniels and I have never even met, much less been on a first-name basis. I rode a camel once but never smoked one.
Another pithy sentence described me as “mildly obese.” Hmmm. I guess “fat” is too factual and terse. One line made me laugh out loud. One of the attending physicians wrote that “Mrs. Kelly has a sharp mind, times 3.” Okay, so maybe I am not a goofus.

Thanks for the emails, cards and other expressions of kindness. Warm hearts have given Buddy and me full stomachs and much to be thankful for this Thanksgiving season. God bless you all.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #334

Nancy White Kelly

The Living Lady is currently a resident of the Intensive Care Unit of a near-by hospital. This is my fourth day tubally attached to oxygen, pouches of blood, various antibiotics, and an ugly yellow bag. What began as routine replacement surgery for a badly damaged knee turned into a medical nightmare.

The orthopedic surgery went great. I awakened about three hours later in a regular room surrounded by family and friends. A routine pain pump was attached to my arm to administer pain medication at steady intervals. I had some pain, but nothing unbearable. Buddy went on home later after a long day that had started at 4:00 a.m.

A few hours later, I began to violently vomit. My limbs railed and thrashed. I had no control whatsoever of my muscles or bodily functions. Even with the new knee attached to a heavy, therapeutic, rowing machine, I kicked it around as easily as a piece of foam.

My muddled mind was still functioning, but only short phrases could be uttered, mostly “Help me, help me, please.”

The room gradually filled with staff. They cautiously backed up to the wall watching wide-eyed, and each asking the other if they have ever seen anything such as this. No one had. The on-duty doctor was phoned for instructions. In the meanwhile, an anesthesiologist who was attending a lady-in-waiting was unexpectedly called down for a code. It was three a.m.

In the midst of my unending thrashing, the number of spectators grew. The anesthesiologist asked me rapid-fire questions. I could only muster syllabic answers in a raucous voice. This was not me.

My body thrust forward as if doing unending sit-ups. My trembling hands rattled the bed railings. The crook of my inside elbows helplessly looped the trapeze bar above the bed only to jerk away again and again.

I knew what was going on, but was powerless to stop the frenzy. The doctors administered one drug after another to no avail. I felt like I was on the brink of dying.

In time, my exhausted body gave out. I awakened in ICU. The doctors informed me that I had apparently suffered a heart attack from the strenuous physical battle.
The current medical consensus is that I had a drug reaction from the medication in the pain pump that reacted to yet another drug. Several drugs had been administered before, during and following the surgery that day. You can be sure almost all those drugs are on my forever “no-no” list.

In the meanwhile, my new knee has patiently awaited physical therapy which was delayed. It is difficult now to lift my stapled leg even one inch off the bed without intense pain. The therapist assures me this is not a big problem and that we will make good progress in the days ahead.

Again, the Living Lady lives to write another day. Someday you will read my obituary, but not this time.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #333

Nancy White Kelly

My last column was a cliff-hanger. The final chapter is yet to be written.

The second attempt to get images of my damaged knee in an open MRI unit was successful. Actually the experience was anti-climatic.
The technician understood of my claustrophobia. Buddy gave me one of his nerve pills and gained permission to sit beside me as I entered the spacious, circular tube that looked like a giant, white donut. Buddy held my hand and I drifted off to sleep. In less than an hour I was breathing outside air again and on my way home. If only that could be the end of this saga.

The Living Lady is not a conspiracy theorist. Far from it. I am keenly aware that there are terrorists and sinister organizations. I just don’t agree that there is harm behind every tree. If I were of a paranoiac mind-set, I could argue that three weeks ago two communistic rocks and some tattered socialistic carpet conspired to deny me the privilege of voting.

In reality, the rocks were apparently placed by a well-meaning individual. It was a vain attempt to anchor loose, rag-tag carpet in front of the election site. Unfortunately, foot traffic from the steady stream of early voters caused the carpet to gradually dislodge. The loopy rug captured my ankle and sent me sprawling to the ground and my new glasses flying into the air.

For sure, it wasn’t a pretty sight. I lay perfectly still in the mangled carpet for several minutes. Eventually I gained composure and enough courage to attempt standing.

A passing car inched by. Seeing that I was vertical, the driver gave a friendly wave and proceeded on his way. I staggered into the election office. The kind officials were sympathetic and offered to call an ambulance. I declined knowing that Buddy would take me to the emergency room if needed.

The stories from voters and election officers were forth-coming. I was told that that the “powers that be” were aware that the worn carpet was an accident waiting to happen. Yes, a bid for replacement carpet was already in the works, but unfortunately the red-tape had not been unrolled.

Nothing stops the mail or the Living Lady, not rain, snow, or even the hypothetical conspiracy of rocks and stealthy carpet-baggers. Not to be dissuaded, I cast my ballot for President. For more reasons than one, my candidate had better win.If you notice the freshly laid carpet in front of the old jail, feel free to send me a thank you note.

Thanks to my brother’s attempt to educate, I have seen the gruesome “You-Tube” internet video. Ironically, I will be on an operating table having my leg nearly sawed in half on Election Day, November 4th.

Buddy, honey, hold my hand tightly. Oh, one more thing. I need another nerve pill.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #332

Nancy White Kelly

Like most married couples, Buddy and I have little private jokes between us. One is the “It’s your fault,” banter that we teasingly fling at each other when something goes wrong.

Buddy and I have been together for forty-three years. We do most everything together. That includes voting. The one time we made an exception, it caused me considerable agony.

I was busy with the Ye Old Coin Shop. Buddy had some errands to run and mentioned that he might stop by the voting office and cast his ballot early. No problem. I would do the same later.

The day that I decided to do just that, vote early, I tripped over some dislodged carpet that sent me sprawling. Where was my Buddy when I needed him to pick me up, brush me off, and give me one of his semi-sarcastic scoldings that only a loving husband can give...and live afterwards? Hurt or not, I was determined to exercise my right and privilege to vote which I did.

I was still in pain two hours later. Buddy insisted on droving me to the emergency room. After x-rays and the typical, “See your doctor in the morning,” orders, we returned home with crutches and prescriptions.

Buddy propped up my swollen leg and bandaged my scrapes. The following Monday I saw my regular doctor who suggested drawing fluid off the knee to give some relief. He related that this procedure was one of his favorite things to do. In my mind I figured he must be hard pressed for entertainment.

After numbing the skin, the doctor slowly inserted a long needle into the center of my right knee. It was no fun and I gritted my teeth. His first try was not successful and his nurse assured me that was unusual. Without further comment, the frowning doctor proceeded to numb the skin and insert another long needle at a different point of the knee. The needed could not find its targeted joint. The repeated probing was testing my usually high threshold for pain. The doc said that my knee appeared to be abnormal. Abnormal is the story of my life, but surely not my knee.

The determined doctor asked for one more chance to get the needle into my knee joint. I was temporarily buoyed by his confidence. Trying to be brave and compliant, I agreed. The third time was not the charm and there would be no fourth hole. The doctor didn’t need to ask. I had had enough. He suggested that I see an orthopedic doctor as soon as possible.

Surprisingly an appointment was available the next day. When Buddy and I arrived, we were disappointed to find forty patients, one P.A., and standing room only in a small waiting area full of hurting people. Each of us had a story to tell. We became well-acquainted while waiting our turn to enter three examining rooms only to find ourselves waiting another hour or so.

Four magazines later, the P.A. entered with his laptop. He displayed the hospital x-ray of my abnormal knee. Yep! There was a problem there. I needed an MRI.

It wasn’t until I was properly registered at the hospital the next day that I was made aware that this machine was a “closed” MRI.
Oh, no. Not that tube! The one that looks like a coffin for a basketball player. Unfortunately, it was.

Being extremely claustrophobic, I told the technician that I’d try, but was skeptical that I could stay long enough to get his needed pictures. I became more convinced that this would be a futile attempt as he immobilized me with straps that reminded me of an execution. Within minutes the sliding tray holding my reluctant body slowly inched inside the chamber. It didn’t stop until my chin was under the edge of the tunnel. Good grief! This was only an MRI of my knee.

Adrenaline surged from my toes to my skull. My insides felt like there was an emerging Hulk about to break through my skin.
I broke out in loud song in an effort to break this over-whelming siege of panic. This slide into terror was only an initial test. The technician brought me out only to tell me he was about to begin the real deal. He should have kept me there while he had the chance. There was no amount of money that could have kept me in that chamber of horrors for thirty more minutes.

The technician informed me I was the first person that day to disengage. He emphasized “that day.” There were consequences to my refusal. My previously scheduled follow-up visit with the orthopedic doctor had to be re-scheduled, assuming I could arrange a time slot with an “open” MRI machine. I got the last appointment of a traveling unit that would be in town on its once-weekly schedule.

Now I am awaiting the opportunity to test my ability to stay put. According to the orthopedic P.A.’s “crystal ball,” most likely there is knee surgery ahead. I can handle surgery. Just don’t trap me where I can’t get up or out.

It is Buddy’s fault. The next time there is an election, Buddy and I are going together.


nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady#331
Nancy White Kelly

Some families have reunions the old-fashioned way. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins come together at a particular place at a certain date and time. My family did this a few years ago when an organization called Making Memories granted a personal wish of having the extended White family come together before my funeral instead of after it.

This was when my cancer prognosis was grim and most everyone thought I was in my last few weeks. That reunion, held at Brasstown Bald, was wonderful. I saw relatives I had not seen in years and may never see again…at least not in this world. Two attendees, a young sister-in-law and an aunt have since both died with cancer. At the time of my family reunion, neither of them even knew they had the disease.

Buddy has a cousin who originally had an idea for a family reunion four years ago. Sandra even bought new mattresses and a day-bed in anticipation of a full-blown gathering. Circumstances prevented the reunion. Sandra’s mother and dad became seriously ill. Her mother died. Sandra consequently became care-taker of her very sick father in addition to her husband who was also very ill.

Sandra is not one to give up on an idea. Instead of a big family gathering, she began what we now call a mail reunion. Almost weekly we get photographs and sometimes hilarious stories from childhood adventures.

Sandra’s husband and father passed away recently. The funerals were within weeks of each other. In spite of the sadness, she has continued the reunion. Buddy and I received an up-date from Sandra this past week demonstrating a remarkable sense of humor.

She wrote, “I am not in intensive care. I am not in the psychiatric ward. I am not in jail. Nothing has been repossessed all day. No bounty hunter is looking for me and no one has shot at me for two weeks.” (She lives in rural Alabama where hunters are sometimes careless.)

This cousin concluded with her observation of seasons. “At the present time it is hurricane season and football season. And, as if that were not enough, hunting season is on the way. If we can just make it to the 31st day of January, we will be out of all these pesky seasons.”

Sandra failed to mention the election season with all its grandiose promises. If America can survive until November 4th, we will have elected a new president as well as many other state and national politicians. Then perhaps those seemingly endless mail and television advertisements, as well as unsolicited campaign phone calls, will cease for a season. Perhaps we can get back to normal life.

Oops, I forgot. The holiday season is coming so we best get ready to stuff the turkey, string the Christmas lights and fill another calendar with yet another round of seasons.

Wise King Solomon nailed it right: “To everything there is a season…a time to live and a time to die…a time to laugh and a time to cry.”

I am dying to live for another season, but am desirous of adding life to my earthly years, not years to my life.
If Shakespeare were still with us, he would probably write, “Away with this gloom and doom. Away, away I say.”

The Living Lady says, “Let’s hear it for a smiling season.” It is the second best thing to do with your lips.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #330


Nancy White Kelly


This is my seventh plus year of writing this column. It was never intended to be an open-ended journal of my personal life. Somehow it has evolved into that. I have never been much of a chit-chatter. Even as a young mother, the subject of a dozen ways to fold a diaper didn’t appeal to me. Therefore, I avoided the Tupperware and Mary Kay parties.


There are still many details about my life that only God and I share. I like it that way. God is a good listener and doesn’t gossip. Frankly, it even amazes me that I write my thoughts so freely in this column. You readers are the reason. You egg me on.


As a result of my unexpected notoriety this past decade as a newspaper columnist and spasmodic national news personality, hardly a day goes by that I don’t get email. Some are new friends who need encouragement in their battle with cancer. Others are just curious. They inquire about the status of the movie or wonder how about my own progress is in the cancer war. Recent emails included inquiries about the coin shop, the Kelly menagerie of animals and, of course, dear Buddy. Everybody loves Buddy.

Rather than string readers along until a column touches a particular topic of interest, I will respond today to all of the above.


The movie! Oh, yes. You remember. Back earlier in the year a prominent and successful California producer contacted me about making a movie of my life. I was paid for the rights to the Journal of a Living Lady. From that point on, I have had no say so in what happens. That is the way the system works.


The wheels turn slowly in Hollywood as Mr. Couturié has reminded me. I have tried to not to be a pest. The last email from him explained that those who are interested in fronting the money feel that it should be a documentary instead of a movie. The conclusion was that it should be balanced with at least one other who has survived unfathomable odds and who demonstrated wit and faith in adversity. The kicker was that the group thought that this person needed to be an African-American. Mr. Couturié is looking for such an individual and that is where our last conversation ended. Let me know when you see a limousine on the way to Young Harris.

As for my cancer battle, we are in a wait and see stage. I am stable and extremely grateful for that label. As most of you are aware, I have been through two major cancer bouts, one in 1985 and another in 1998. The prognosis was poor and I spent months in hospice. Two years ago my kidneys shut down and I was on dialysis. Thankfully, that episode of my life is past history and, for now, my life is reasonably normal.


My tenure as temporary administrator of the MACA has happily concluded. The school is in good hands. Buddy and I are now able to concentrate more on our fledgling Ye Old Coin Shop which is within spittin’ distance of our home. Buddy installed a video camera which allows me to go back and forth without losing sight of him or arriving customers.


The best news is that I am back in the saddle again with the one passion that has been constant for most of my life. I started teaching Bible when I was twelve years old; except for a couple of respites, this has been a continuous activity for close to fifty years. Because of other responsibilities, I have been a student myself in the last several months. My batteries were re-charged with the good, old-timey teaching of Allan Driskell.


Early one morning a few weeks ago, I told Buddy that I would like to teach again and that I would like to teach in the unused, old church sanctuary. My style of teaching involves lots of visual aids and is more lecture style than small-group oriented.


That same day the Associate Minister of our church called and asked if he could come to our home and talk with Buddy and me. Following the customary small talk, his question to me was, “Would you consider teaching Bible in the old sanctuary?” Buddy and I look locked eyes and knowingly smiled. Neither of us believes in luck, so the answer was easy. With Buddy eagerly agreeing to co-partner, I accepted the assignment to teach from Genesis to Revelation.


Last week the new Sanctuary Class began with Don and Lynda Gardner assisting as facilitators. We had no idea who, if anybody, would show up. Former classes had been successful, but they were short-term and taught on a week night. Twenty-seven people showed up for the first class and, by the time you read this, another session will have concluded. The group is unusually eclectic. We have a young man in his teens and a great-grandmother who reads this column. There are singles and couples, new-comers to the community as well as old-timers.


The first lessons focused on the inspiration and origin of the Bible. I love teaching those who know little about the Bible and those who think they have heard it all. The truth of the matter is that the mysteries of the Bible are inexhaustible and there is always something more to learn. The class is open, so feel free to join us at 9:00 on Sunday mornings at McConnell Memorial Church in Hiawassee.


And, finally, about the animals. Currently we have a six-month-old, soon to be spayed, Chihuahua named Zero. Buddy’s shadow is a cat named Sam that we got from the Humane Society. Buddy helped me convert our gazebo into an outdoor aviary and I claim the twelve beautiful cockatiels. This aviary has become my personal sanctuary. There is just something about birds that give me a lift in spirit and I spend time with them daily while I study and meditate.


So now you have caught up with what I refer to as the Journal of the Living Lady non- metropolitan soap opera. It ain’t over until the … lady sings.


nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #329
Nancy White Kelly

Some kids are late bloomers. Bobby is one of them. He came to our home as the last foster child of the twelve we helped raise. Bobby was six months younger than Charlie, the miracle son who was born fifteen years after we married.

At that tender age of five, Bobby was way behind Charlie and all other boys his age. He could not count to five or speak plainly. Sadly, he had never been to a zoo or attended a single day of preschool. The academic difference between Bobby and Charlie was obvious. Charlie’s early precociousness and Bobby’s developmental delays created a chasm that was a constant challenge to bridge.

Having a different last name caused Bobby embarrassment at school. He desperately wanted to be a Kelly. When he was ten we officially adopted him. Bobby Ray Whitaker became Robert Lee Kelly.

Buddy retired. We moved to the mountains just as the boys were beginning high school. Interestingly, Bobby decided he wanted to be called Robert by his peers.

Charlie excelled in school; Bobby had no use for it. Then puberty came calling. Our sweet Bobby turned into a troubled and troubling teen-ager. His hair and clothing were outward signs of rebellion. School attendance was as spasmodic as he could arrange. Tobacco, weed, traffic tickets, and egging a neighbor’s house kept us on a first name basis with the sheriff’s department. Though he dropped out of high school, I stayed on his case until he earned a diploma through correspondence. Charlie went on to succeed in high school, college and beyond.

James Dobson once wrote that when a boy hits the teen years, parents should put him in a barrel. When he is 16, they should nail the cover shut. Jest or not, we can relate. It seems that the happiest day of our lives was when Bobby turned 18. He wanted to be on his own and we were more than glad to give him that opportunity. At least we would no longer be legally liable for his actions.

Because of his out-going personality and mechanical ability, Bobby seemed to get a job easily, but he never kept one for long. The excuses were endless. Buddy and I vacillated between enabling him and tough love. He lived at home again a couple of times, but it was difficult. We had our rules and he had his strong will.

Though nowhere near ready for responsible parenting, Bobby and his very young teen-age wife had a baby to support…stereotypical kids having kids.
The years have dwindled by now with many ups and downs. Though disappointed, we never lost hope that someday Bobby would grow up and be a productive member of society. We also prayed that he would return to his church up-bringing.


Last year maturity finally tapped him on the shoulder. Bobby set positive goals including financial stability and training in law enforcement. With his wife serving in Iraq and practically single-handedly parenting two children, his life has not been easy. But this time he persisted. Week after week he called home with a report of his written test scores, all passing. He ran the mile in good time and passed the physical agility tests. He excelled on the gun range. It all looked promising. Buddy and I held our breath.

As I write this, I am happy to report that Buddy and I have just returned from Bobby’s graduation in Forsyth. He looked nice in his freshly-ironed uniform and his badge, awarded the next day, shines as brightly as his countenance. He now as a new goal: a degree in criminal justice.
As I said, some children are late bloomers. Buddy and I are glad to have lived long enough to see this flower-child blossom into the responsible young man that he has become. And, the best news is that last week Bobby and his children were in church.

nancyk@alltel.net

Journal of a Living Lady #328

Nancy White Kelly

The blur lasted twenty-four hours. On Tuesday I was visiting a new surgeon to discuss an old problem. The next morning I was on the operating table.

Back in the eighties, I supposedly had a single hernia. Those were the days prior to routine MRI’s and CAT scans. Yet, under the bright lights, the surgeon found three. Those hernias were repaired with a mesh screen similar to the one on our porch door. Through all these years that screen has kept my intestines inside and the flies out. After two weeks in the hospital and a month of recuperation time, that episode of my life saga became a slight blip in my medical records.

However, over the last several months, it became increasingly obvious I was either expecting a baby or had swallowed an ever-expanding soccer ball. My mind searched for reasonable answers. The lost and found section of the paper listed several lost doggies but no errant balls.

My obstetrician wouldn’t even take my call. I couldn’t get through to his answering service either. In his defense, he had a satisfactory alibi. He died twenty years ago.

Obviously, my current oncologist preferred that I choose my surgeon from his affiliated group. I considered it. All my cancer records were in Gainesville. Yet, setting up surgery would require at least one preliminary appointment with an unknown surgeon. Then there would be pre-op trips over the mountain for lab work followed by another journey on the day of surgery. There would be at least one other trip for the post-op follow-up. I am not a mathematician, but even I could figure that the cost of gas was rivaling the cost of the operation. Economics was my incentive to check out other options.

I met Dr. W. Moody once in an informal setting when he was settling his family into the local area. I made a mental note of his politeness and professionalism. Faced with my immediate need of a surgeon, I checked his credentials and spoke with a friend who had been Dr. Moody’s patient a few weeks before. Everything I heard was positive.

My appointment with the Blairsville surgeon went well. What put him at the top of my short list was that he was a humble man of faith. I go the other direction when I meet a physician with a narcissistic “God-complex.” I desire a doctor with excellent skills acquired by hard work. But I also want a doctor who consults with the Great Physician.

Dr. Moody met all my qualifications. He earned an opportunity to either slam dunk that bulging ball or deliver an infamous infant.

Surprise! There was no soccer ball, no baby, nor even three hernias. Instead, Dr. Moody found FIVE hernias. They are now securely contained within a prison made of medical mesh with no hope of a curtain call.

nancyk@alltel.net