Journal of a Living Lady #392
Nancy White Kelly
My life has been an adventure. Easily bored and ready for new challenges, I amaze myself at the places I land and why. Recently I received a request from the Chamber of Commerce to be the resident numismatic scholar for a week-end antique road shop in Greenville. Someone from our local coin club had recommended me.
I was delighted to be invited. Meals, lodging and even a paycheck made this gig appear more like an all-expense paid mini-vacation for Buddy and me.
Buddy’s mockingly gruff pretense, often repeated to our friends, is that he must accompany me on these trips to protect me from robbers, dirty old men, and myself.
Reality is that he is gets anxious about being alone. Buddy is a people person who is not very good company to himself. Whatever the real reason, I need his help and it is a win-win situation for us both. I get a body-guard who loves me. For three days straight. He gets uninterrupted companionship with his wedded wife.
Silly me just assumed the antique show was in Greenville, South Carolina, which is only a half-day drive from our home. How surprised I was to see TN in the address of the brochure. Even though I am a native Tennessean, I had never heard of the town.
Greenville, TN was difficult to find on our old map which was relegated to our library shelf long ago. With GPS, it is seldom used. With internet research I discovered there were 30 towns in the United States named Greenville.
To my rescue came Buddy, once a private pilot, who still knows how to read hieroglyphics on maps. He found the tiny speck called G’ville. (Okay, I’m a private pilot too, but I like for my man to feel needed and superior.)
Greenville seemed an unlikely location for what was expected to be a major event, especially since last year’s antique road show drew 5,000 attendees. The show was located in the two-level, high school gymnasium. The bottom floor was lined with at least a hundred tables laden with every type of antique and craft imaginable.
The appraisal floor was up-stairs where people lined up in the early a.m. to purchase five-dollar tickets for an appraisal. They were directed to the appropriate appraiser. The funniest sight was a little lady in a power wheel chair pulling a piece of furniture on a rope.
From eight in the morning until near dark, scores of people waited their turn at the appraisal tables. In brief spells between customers, I made my way through the crowd to see what others had brought. Just as expected, there were items of obvious value; others could have easily come from the local dump. Among the items were pottery, guns, jewelry, a plow and a few rusty bird cages.
Many left the show disappointed. Some elated. Others just enjoyed the camaraderie and had the philosophy, “Nothing ventured. Nothing gained.”
The most interesting thing that came through my line was an authentic CSA buckle that the owner, a middle-aged man, had personally unearthed in his backyard while digging a garden. Since the buckle was not related to coins, I referred him to another appraiser I had met. The owner left smiling. I would have too. It was well worth $1000 for its provenance and condition.
We are home now. Buddy is happy. I am happy. Now, you readers be happy and slap all the bad news you hear today.
nancyk@windstream.net
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Journal of a Living Lady #391
Nancy White Kelly
Charlie, Tori, Micah and Noah are on an early spring break at Disneyworld. By default, and because nobody else volunteered, Buddy and I are the caretakers of their two dogs: Patch and Snickers. It is a full house considering we also have our cat, Sam, Patch, our rowdy dachshund, Red, the roster and his harem, as well as a leopard gecko named Lizzie. To be truthful, Buddy requires more attention that all the animals together. He requires three feedings a day and refuses to eat dog chow or meal worms. That complicates matters.
The gecko was meant to be a surprise gift for Micah, our five-year-old grandson, Micah is high-functioning autistic. This neurological disorder is characterized by many symptoms including obsessiveness. When Micah was a toddler, he was fascinated with little cars. We thought nothing of it until he became highly frustrated if the Hot Wheels were not in perfect alignment. He kept his wheeled treasures grouped by color and size. At first we thought this was cute, a hint of organization skills that we hoped would continue into adulthood.
Micah’s enthrallment with little cars changed to inhabitants of nature. His first interest was dinosaurs which he could name by species and identify as carnivorous or herbivore. Then lizards became his focus.
I bought Micah a picture book of lizards. One wasn’t enough. Eventually he acquired a dozen or more books and reptile magazines. He became an amusing, walking encyclopedia of lizard facts and trivia.
For his birthday, Charlie and Tori bought ecstatic Micah a young bearded dragon that ate tiny crickets. Little Spike grew and grew and grew. It seemed that overnight Spike was longer than Micah’s arm.
One lizard wasn’t enough. Micah did extra chores to earn the money to buy a couple of smaller, less exciting lizards. They ate and pooped, but not much else. When Micah complained to me that the new lizards, actually newts, were quiet and boring, I made a secret trip to the pet store and bought Lizzie. She was a thin and tiny, no longer than my pinkie finger. My plan was to keep her until she was large enough to withstand handling by Micah and younger brother, Noah.
Lizzie first need was a glass cage with a screened top and a special heat lamp. Since she was fragile and would not eat on her own, I hand-fed her. With no role model, it took Lizzie several weeks to figure out that her tongue was an instrument to capture surprised crickets that no longer stayed around to be her playmates.
By winter it was time for Granny to surprise Micah with a friendly, healthy Lizzie. Unfortunately, I had failed to tell Charlie and Tori about my good intentions. Neither was thrilled. Tori had grown quite tired of being Spike’s daily custodian and Charlie was weary of the never-ending need for crickets by the dozen. Spike was now longer than Charlie’s arm.
To my chagrin, Lizzie was rejected. Thus, she is a semi-permanent addition to the Kelly Sr. household, at least until we can find another child who is fascinated with leopard geckos. Who knows? Maybe she could take acting lessons and hawk cheap car insurance?
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Charlie, Tori, Micah and Noah are on an early spring break at Disneyworld. By default, and because nobody else volunteered, Buddy and I are the caretakers of their two dogs: Patch and Snickers. It is a full house considering we also have our cat, Sam, Patch, our rowdy dachshund, Red, the roster and his harem, as well as a leopard gecko named Lizzie. To be truthful, Buddy requires more attention that all the animals together. He requires three feedings a day and refuses to eat dog chow or meal worms. That complicates matters.
The gecko was meant to be a surprise gift for Micah, our five-year-old grandson, Micah is high-functioning autistic. This neurological disorder is characterized by many symptoms including obsessiveness. When Micah was a toddler, he was fascinated with little cars. We thought nothing of it until he became highly frustrated if the Hot Wheels were not in perfect alignment. He kept his wheeled treasures grouped by color and size. At first we thought this was cute, a hint of organization skills that we hoped would continue into adulthood.
Micah’s enthrallment with little cars changed to inhabitants of nature. His first interest was dinosaurs which he could name by species and identify as carnivorous or herbivore. Then lizards became his focus.
I bought Micah a picture book of lizards. One wasn’t enough. Eventually he acquired a dozen or more books and reptile magazines. He became an amusing, walking encyclopedia of lizard facts and trivia.
For his birthday, Charlie and Tori bought ecstatic Micah a young bearded dragon that ate tiny crickets. Little Spike grew and grew and grew. It seemed that overnight Spike was longer than Micah’s arm.
One lizard wasn’t enough. Micah did extra chores to earn the money to buy a couple of smaller, less exciting lizards. They ate and pooped, but not much else. When Micah complained to me that the new lizards, actually newts, were quiet and boring, I made a secret trip to the pet store and bought Lizzie. She was a thin and tiny, no longer than my pinkie finger. My plan was to keep her until she was large enough to withstand handling by Micah and younger brother, Noah.
Lizzie first need was a glass cage with a screened top and a special heat lamp. Since she was fragile and would not eat on her own, I hand-fed her. With no role model, it took Lizzie several weeks to figure out that her tongue was an instrument to capture surprised crickets that no longer stayed around to be her playmates.
By winter it was time for Granny to surprise Micah with a friendly, healthy Lizzie. Unfortunately, I had failed to tell Charlie and Tori about my good intentions. Neither was thrilled. Tori had grown quite tired of being Spike’s daily custodian and Charlie was weary of the never-ending need for crickets by the dozen. Spike was now longer than Charlie’s arm.
To my chagrin, Lizzie was rejected. Thus, she is a semi-permanent addition to the Kelly Sr. household, at least until we can find another child who is fascinated with leopard geckos. Who knows? Maybe she could take acting lessons and hawk cheap car insurance?
nancyk@windstream.net
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Journal of a Living Lady #390
Nancy White Kelly
Bobby, our adopted son, recently called to tell us the good news. His wife, Ginger, was home from Iraq. It was a joyous surprise. Bobby immediately jumped into his bright red truck and headed to the military base in South Georgia.
Ginger will tell you it is tough been separated from your spouse and children, living half-way around the world in a dangerous war-zone full of fanatics. Bobby will tell you it is hard being “Mr. Mom.”
As the new up-risings in the Middle East hit the headlines, I am especially grateful for our soldiers who protect the freedoms we enjoy and so often take for granted. I am proud to be related to a long line of men who served our country admirably: my grandfather in WWI, my father in WWII, my husband in Korea, and now a young nephew also headed for Korea.
Recently someone send me a story that reminded me of the sacrifices made on our behalf. I must share it. Settle back and take the time to let it soak in. And, yes, better grab some tissues.
“They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.
But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.
But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner.
Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust too. Maybe we were too much alike.
For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls --- he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes. I guess I didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get him new things once he settled in. But it became clear pretty soon that he wasn't going to.
I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like "sit" and "stay" and "come" and "heel," and he'd follow them - when he felt like it. He never really seemed to listen when I called his name --- sure, he'd look in my direction after the fourth or fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to doing whatever. When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.
This just wasn't going to work. He chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes.
I was a little too stern with him and he resented it, I could tell. The friction got so bad that I couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search mode for my cell phone amid all of my unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes in the guestroom. I mumbled, rather cynically, that the "damn dog probably hid it on me.
Finally I found the phone, but before I could punch up the shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from the shelter. I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen since bringing him home. But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like that? Come here and I'll give you a treat." Instead, he sort of glanced in my direction, maybe "glared" is more accurate, and then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down with his back to me.
I punched the shelter phone number, but hung up quickly when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that.
"Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice."
--- To Whoever Gets My Dog:
Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time. it’s like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong which is why I have to try to make it right.
So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you. First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hordes them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after it, so be careful - really don't do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.
Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones ---"sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals:"back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left. "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He does "down" when he feels like lying down --- I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business. I trained Reggie with small food treats. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.
Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in
the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.
He's up on his shots. Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car. I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.
Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people and me most especially.
Which means that this transition is going to be hard, his going to live with someone new. And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you: his name's not Reggie.
I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine. But if someone else is reading it, well ... well it means that his new owner should know his real name. It'll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.
His real name is "Tank" because that is what I drive.
Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the
news. I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with ... and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq , that they make one phone call to the shelter ... in the "event" ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then
he made good on his word.
Well, this letter is getting downright depressing, even though, frankly, I'm just
writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family ... but still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family.
And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust andcome to love you the same way he loved me. That unconditional love from a dogis what I take with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who would do terrible things ... and to keep those terrible people from coming over here. If I have to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He is my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.
All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at
the shelter. I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first time. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.
Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.”
Thank you,
Paul M.
I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure I had heard of Paul, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.
I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.
"Hey, Tank," I said quietly.
The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.
"C'mere boy."
He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.
"Tank," I whispered. His tail swished.
I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.
"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me."
Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So whatdaya say we play some ball?"
His ears perked again.
"Yeah. Ball? You like that? Ball?" Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.
----
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Bobby, our adopted son, recently called to tell us the good news. His wife, Ginger, was home from Iraq. It was a joyous surprise. Bobby immediately jumped into his bright red truck and headed to the military base in South Georgia.
Ginger will tell you it is tough been separated from your spouse and children, living half-way around the world in a dangerous war-zone full of fanatics. Bobby will tell you it is hard being “Mr. Mom.”
As the new up-risings in the Middle East hit the headlines, I am especially grateful for our soldiers who protect the freedoms we enjoy and so often take for granted. I am proud to be related to a long line of men who served our country admirably: my grandfather in WWI, my father in WWII, my husband in Korea, and now a young nephew also headed for Korea.
Recently someone send me a story that reminded me of the sacrifices made on our behalf. I must share it. Settle back and take the time to let it soak in. And, yes, better grab some tissues.
“They told me the big black Lab's name was Reggie, as I looked at him lying in his pen. The shelter was clean, no-kill, and the people really friendly. I'd only been in the area for six months, but everywhere I went in the small college town, people were welcoming and open. Everyone waves when you pass them on the street.
But something was still missing as I attempted to settle in to my new life here, and I thought a dog couldn't hurt. Give me someone to talk to. And I had just seen Reggie's advertisement on the local news. The shelter said they had received numerous calls right after, but they said the people who had come down to see him just didn't look like "Lab people," whatever that meant. They must've thought I did.
But at first, I thought the shelter had misjudged me in giving me Reggie and his things, which consisted of a dog pad, bag of toys almost all of which were brand new tennis balls, his dishes, and a sealed letter from his previous owner.
Reggie and I didn't really hit it off when we got home. We struggled for two weeks (which is how long the shelter told me to give him to adjust to his new home). Maybe it was the fact that I was trying to adjust too. Maybe we were too much alike.
For some reason, his stuff (except for the tennis balls --- he wouldn't go anywhere without two stuffed in his mouth) got tossed in with all of my other unpacked boxes. I guess I didn't really think he'd need all his old stuff, that I'd get him new things once he settled in. But it became clear pretty soon that he wasn't going to.
I tried the normal commands the shelter told me he knew, ones like "sit" and "stay" and "come" and "heel," and he'd follow them - when he felt like it. He never really seemed to listen when I called his name --- sure, he'd look in my direction after the fourth or fifth time I said it, but then he'd just go back to doing whatever. When I'd ask again, you could almost see him sigh and then grudgingly obey.
This just wasn't going to work. He chewed a couple shoes and some unpacked boxes.
I was a little too stern with him and he resented it, I could tell. The friction got so bad that I couldn't wait for the two weeks to be up, and when it was, I was in full-on search mode for my cell phone amid all of my unpacked stuff. I remembered leaving it on the stack of boxes in the guestroom. I mumbled, rather cynically, that the "damn dog probably hid it on me.
Finally I found the phone, but before I could punch up the shelter's number, I also found his pad and other toys from the shelter. I tossed the pad in Reggie's direction and he snuffed it and wagged, some of the most enthusiasm I'd seen since bringing him home. But then I called, "Hey, Reggie, you like that? Come here and I'll give you a treat." Instead, he sort of glanced in my direction, maybe "glared" is more accurate, and then gave a discontented sigh and flopped down with his back to me.
I punched the shelter phone number, but hung up quickly when I saw the sealed envelope. I had completely forgotten about that.
"Okay, Reggie," I said out loud, "let's see if your previous owner has any advice."
--- To Whoever Gets My Dog:
Well, I can't say that I'm happy you're reading this, a letter I told the shelter could only be opened by Reggie's new owner. I'm not even happy writing it. If you're reading this, it means I just got back from my last car ride with my Lab after dropping him off at the shelter. He knew something was different. I have packed up his pad and toys before and set them by the back door before a trip, but this time. it’s like he knew something was wrong. And something is wrong which is why I have to try to make it right.
So let me tell you about my Lab in the hopes that it will help you bond with him and he with you. First, he loves tennis balls. The more the merrier. Sometimes I think he's part squirrel, the way he hordes them. He usually always has two in his mouth, and he tries to get a third in there. Hasn't done it yet. Doesn't matter where you throw them, he'll bound after it, so be careful - really don't do it by any roads. I made that mistake once, and it almost cost him dearly.
Next, commands. Maybe the shelter staff already told you, but I'll go over them again: Reggie knows the obvious ones ---"sit," "stay," "come," "heel." He knows hand signals:"back" to turn around and go back when you put your hand straight up; and "over" if you put your hand out right or left. "Shake" for shaking water off, and "paw" for a high-five. He does "down" when he feels like lying down --- I bet you could work on that with him some more. He knows "ball" and "food" and "bone" and "treat" like nobody's business. I trained Reggie with small food treats. Nothing opens his ears like little pieces of hot dog.
Feeding schedule: twice a day, once about seven in the morning, and again at six in
the evening. Regular store-bought stuff; the shelter has the brand.
He's up on his shots. Call the clinic on 9th Street and update his info with yours; they'll make sure to send you reminders for when he's due. Be forewarned: Reggie hates the vet. Good luck getting him in the car. I don't know how he knows when it's time to go to the vet, but he knows.
Finally, give him some time. I've never been married, so it's only been Reggie and me for his whole life. He's gone everywhere with me, so please include him on your daily car rides if you can. He sits well in the backseat, and he doesn't bark or complain. He just loves to be around people and me most especially.
Which means that this transition is going to be hard, his going to live with someone new. And that's why I need to share one more bit of info with you: his name's not Reggie.
I don't know what made me do it, but when I dropped him off at the shelter, I told them his name was Reggie. He's a smart dog, he'll get used to it and will respond to it, of that I have no doubt. But I just couldn't bear to give them his real name. For me to do that, it seemed so final, that handing him over to the shelter was as good as me admitting that I'd never see him again. And if I end up coming back, getting him, and tearing up this letter, it means everything's fine. But if someone else is reading it, well ... well it means that his new owner should know his real name. It'll help you bond with him. Who knows, maybe you'll even notice a change in his demeanor if he's been giving you problems.
His real name is "Tank" because that is what I drive.
Again, if you're reading this and you're from the area, maybe my name has been on the
news. I told the shelter that they couldn't make "Reggie" available for adoption until they received word from my company commander. See, my parents are gone, I have no siblings, no one I could've left Tank with ... and it was my only real request of the Army upon my deployment to Iraq , that they make one phone call to the shelter ... in the "event" ... to tell them that Tank could be put up for adoption. Luckily, my colonel is a dog guy, too, and he knew where my platoon was headed. He said he'd do it personally. And if you're reading this, then
he made good on his word.
Well, this letter is getting downright depressing, even though, frankly, I'm just
writing it for my dog. I couldn't imagine if I was writing it for a wife and kids and family ... but still, Tank has been my family for the last six years, almost as long as the Army has been my family.
And now I hope and pray that you make him part of your family and that he will adjust andcome to love you the same way he loved me. That unconditional love from a dogis what I take with me to Iraq as an inspiration to do something selfless, to protect innocent people from those who would do terrible things ... and to keep those terrible people from coming over here. If I have to give up Tank in order to do it, I am glad to have done so. He is my example of service and of love. I hope I honored him by my service to my country and comrades.
All right, that's enough. I deploy this evening and have to drop this letter off at
the shelter. I don't think I'll say another good-bye to Tank, though. I cried too much the first time. Maybe I'll peek in on him and see if he finally got that third tennis ball in his mouth.
Good luck with Tank. Give him a good home and give him an extra kiss goodnight - every night - from me.”
Thank you,
Paul M.
I folded the letter and slipped it back in the envelope. Sure I had heard of Paul, everyone in town knew him, even new people like me. Local kid, killed in Iraq a few months ago and posthumously earning the Silver Star when he gave his life to save three buddies. Flags had been at half-mast all summer.
I leaned forward in my chair and rested my elbows on my knees, staring at the dog.
"Hey, Tank," I said quietly.
The dog's head whipped up, his ears cocked and his eyes bright.
"C'mere boy."
He was instantly on his feet, his nails clicking on the hardwood floor. He sat in front of me, his head tilted, searching for the name he hadn't heard in months.
"Tank," I whispered. His tail swished.
I kept whispering his name, over and over, and each time, his ears lowered, his eyes softened, and his posture relaxed as a wave of contentment just seemed to flood him. I stroked his ears, rubbed his shoulders, buried my face into his scruff and hugged him.
"It's me now, Tank, just you and me. Your old pal gave you to me."
Tank reached up and licked my cheek. "So whatdaya say we play some ball?"
His ears perked again.
"Yeah. Ball? You like that? Ball?" Tank tore from my hands and disappeared in the next room. And when he came back, he had three tennis balls in his mouth.
----
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, January 14, 2011
Journal of a Living Lady #388
Nancy White Kelly
My bucket list has one more item with a line drawn through: buying a small RV and traveling at leisure. We have just returned from our first trip in our RV. We didn’t camp exactly. Our goal was to attend a coin show in Tampa and try out the RV on the road. We ended up returning a couple of days earlier than planned due to the anticipated snow and arrived home just seven hours before it started. It was just as well. Nothing went as planned.
A couple of days before we left, Buddy told me to drive around locally and get a feel for the RV. No problem. After all I have a CDL license. I jumped into the camper and proceeded out the drive only to notice a long black line following me. Little did I know that the camper was still connected and powered to the electrical socket in the garage. I meekly backed-up, put the vehicle in park, jumped out and wadded up the electrical line and stuffed it into its compartment. Also unbeknown to me, Buddy had connected our cable TV line to the RV which now was missing the end plug.
Buddy still doesn’t know about the electrical cord. I dared not tell him. But, I had to let him in on the fiasco that happened the next hour.
We have become friends with an elderly widow in a near-by nursing home. I wanted to take her a treat before leaving and pulled into the drive-through of the pizza parlor to place an order. Then came the crunch. Oops!
An awning extended above the drive-through window which punctured the top of the RV. Thankfully, it was repairable with some fiberglass and paint and did no permanent harm. Obviously the awning had been hit before, but that brought little relief to my diminishing driving confidence. Buddy wasn’t happy to have yet another job to do before leaving, but he did manage to laugh.
After a long first day on the road we parked at an all-night service station off the freeway. We were so tired, all we wanted was to bed down. The next day we realized the consequences of not planning for a definite place to stay. The convention center was packed with visitors and there was no parking anywhere, even for cars. We spent a two hours roaming around the one-way streets of downtown Tampa and finally settled on the parking lot of a church. It was then we discovered that we had no electricity, therefore no lights, heat or television. It should not have been a problem since we had an on-board generator. Buddy had tested it at home, but this night it wouldn’t start. Probably had something to do with the high altitude setting or perhaps a bad spark plug.
The next night we stayed at another downtown church which had an electrical outlet. We would gladly leave a donation for the electricity used.
Early in the morning we were surprised by a homeless, middle-aged lady standing outside the door. Buddy invited her inside the RV for coffee. Surprisingly she was clean, sober, intelligent and even witty. While I attended to business at the coin show, Buddy took the lady to lunch and probably made her day with conversation. He has never met a stranger.
It wasn’t a difficult decision to head home early. The RV is parked in the drive surrounded by ice which is where it is likely to stay. We had our fling and the conclusion is that there is no place like home.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
My bucket list has one more item with a line drawn through: buying a small RV and traveling at leisure. We have just returned from our first trip in our RV. We didn’t camp exactly. Our goal was to attend a coin show in Tampa and try out the RV on the road. We ended up returning a couple of days earlier than planned due to the anticipated snow and arrived home just seven hours before it started. It was just as well. Nothing went as planned.
A couple of days before we left, Buddy told me to drive around locally and get a feel for the RV. No problem. After all I have a CDL license. I jumped into the camper and proceeded out the drive only to notice a long black line following me. Little did I know that the camper was still connected and powered to the electrical socket in the garage. I meekly backed-up, put the vehicle in park, jumped out and wadded up the electrical line and stuffed it into its compartment. Also unbeknown to me, Buddy had connected our cable TV line to the RV which now was missing the end plug.
Buddy still doesn’t know about the electrical cord. I dared not tell him. But, I had to let him in on the fiasco that happened the next hour.
We have become friends with an elderly widow in a near-by nursing home. I wanted to take her a treat before leaving and pulled into the drive-through of the pizza parlor to place an order. Then came the crunch. Oops!
An awning extended above the drive-through window which punctured the top of the RV. Thankfully, it was repairable with some fiberglass and paint and did no permanent harm. Obviously the awning had been hit before, but that brought little relief to my diminishing driving confidence. Buddy wasn’t happy to have yet another job to do before leaving, but he did manage to laugh.
After a long first day on the road we parked at an all-night service station off the freeway. We were so tired, all we wanted was to bed down. The next day we realized the consequences of not planning for a definite place to stay. The convention center was packed with visitors and there was no parking anywhere, even for cars. We spent a two hours roaming around the one-way streets of downtown Tampa and finally settled on the parking lot of a church. It was then we discovered that we had no electricity, therefore no lights, heat or television. It should not have been a problem since we had an on-board generator. Buddy had tested it at home, but this night it wouldn’t start. Probably had something to do with the high altitude setting or perhaps a bad spark plug.
The next night we stayed at another downtown church which had an electrical outlet. We would gladly leave a donation for the electricity used.
Early in the morning we were surprised by a homeless, middle-aged lady standing outside the door. Buddy invited her inside the RV for coffee. Surprisingly she was clean, sober, intelligent and even witty. While I attended to business at the coin show, Buddy took the lady to lunch and probably made her day with conversation. He has never met a stranger.
It wasn’t a difficult decision to head home early. The RV is parked in the drive surrounded by ice which is where it is likely to stay. We had our fling and the conclusion is that there is no place like home.
nancyk@windstream.net
Saturday, January 01, 2011
Journal of a Living Lady #387
Nancy White Kelly
As I write this column, Buddy and I are awaiting the dropping of the ball in Times Square in New York City. At midnight, the date will change to 1/1/11. It is the start of a new year full of people hoping the next twelve months will be better than the last.
As you read this column, Buddy and I will beginning a new adventure that started with the movie, “The Bucket List.” It is about two men, actors Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, who discover they have terminal cancer with little time left to live. That movie starting me thinking about things I’d like to do before I pass on and I began penning my own bucket list. It was appropriate in that in September I was warned that I may be entering my third battle with metastatic cancer. Though I have been stable the last couple of years, the CAT scan was suspicious of new growth. The pain in my joints was excruciating which led my doctors to believe the original breast cancer had spread to more bones and was beginning a drive to deprive me of quality living.
Thankfully the repeat test in December showed significant improvement and the pain was attributed to a new cancer drug which had an adverse effect of “severe joint pain.” At one point I was ready to find a chain saw to cut off my own shoulder. On a scale of 1-10, the pain was a 12. My routine morphine didn’t faze the unrelenting pain.
Now that we are past that scare, which I attribute to answered prayer, the Living Lady decided to follow through on one of the items on my bucket list. It certainly wasn’t at the top of the list, but something I had wanted for a long while…a small RV that would allow us to travel at our own pace. Justification of the cost was easy. With the coin shop, I needed to attend regional coin shows occasionally, so this purchase would be more than just a vacation vehicle.
Recently while returning from town, I passed just the type of recreational vehicle that desired. The 2002 RV was the right size and reasonably priced. We could easily re-sell it if needed. Bottom line: Buddy liked the RV too and we bought it that day.
My idea was to fill it up with gas and take off to our first destination, a coin show in Tampa. However, Buddy a retired airline mechanic, is trained to look for mechanical problems which he promptly did. He has spent many hours in the freezing weather checking every bolt. It seemed that each day brought a need for more money.
First, there was no spare tire. Buddy convinced me we couldn’t even think of taking a trip without a spare tire. The problem wasn’t so much the acquiring of a tire; it also had to have a rim. Little did I know that RV rims are of an unusual size and aren’t easy to find, especially a used one. That spare cost us $300. The oil filter and new oil was $65. RV insurance was another $200 plus and then there other costs like title change fees. Buddy’s needs list included a back-up camera, yet to be installed and a heavy-duty jack in case he had to actually use that spare time. Then there was a propane tank full of gas, a special water hose, and a host of other small items that added up to about $500. I held my tongue but my mind mentally complained, “We haven’t even pulled out of the drive-way yet.”
We should be on the road now after delivering Patch to Charlie for doggy-care, arranging for extra security for the coin shop, as well as recruiting a neighbor to feed our chickens and Sam, the cat.
Already I am remembering the TV movie starring Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez, titled the “Long, Long Trailer.” At Lucy’s insistence, the newly-weds bought a 40-foot drivable trailer home that cost $5300 in the 50’s. The idea was to save money for an eventual house. The added benefit was that the couple could travel around the USA allowing Nicky, played by Desi, to manage civil engineering projects.
Desi and Lucy end up having to buy a more powerful car to tow the trailer. The money spent starts to mount up. Their honeymoon trip to the Sierra Nevada Mountains quickly becomes a believable cascade of challenges and disasters.
For Buddy and me, this bucket list adventure is supposed to be fun. Thus far, it has been less than what I had hoped.
RVing may be a temporary fling for us and this may be a one and only trip. Stay tuned.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
As I write this column, Buddy and I are awaiting the dropping of the ball in Times Square in New York City. At midnight, the date will change to 1/1/11. It is the start of a new year full of people hoping the next twelve months will be better than the last.
As you read this column, Buddy and I will beginning a new adventure that started with the movie, “The Bucket List.” It is about two men, actors Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman, who discover they have terminal cancer with little time left to live. That movie starting me thinking about things I’d like to do before I pass on and I began penning my own bucket list. It was appropriate in that in September I was warned that I may be entering my third battle with metastatic cancer. Though I have been stable the last couple of years, the CAT scan was suspicious of new growth. The pain in my joints was excruciating which led my doctors to believe the original breast cancer had spread to more bones and was beginning a drive to deprive me of quality living.
Thankfully the repeat test in December showed significant improvement and the pain was attributed to a new cancer drug which had an adverse effect of “severe joint pain.” At one point I was ready to find a chain saw to cut off my own shoulder. On a scale of 1-10, the pain was a 12. My routine morphine didn’t faze the unrelenting pain.
Now that we are past that scare, which I attribute to answered prayer, the Living Lady decided to follow through on one of the items on my bucket list. It certainly wasn’t at the top of the list, but something I had wanted for a long while…a small RV that would allow us to travel at our own pace. Justification of the cost was easy. With the coin shop, I needed to attend regional coin shows occasionally, so this purchase would be more than just a vacation vehicle.
Recently while returning from town, I passed just the type of recreational vehicle that desired. The 2002 RV was the right size and reasonably priced. We could easily re-sell it if needed. Bottom line: Buddy liked the RV too and we bought it that day.
My idea was to fill it up with gas and take off to our first destination, a coin show in Tampa. However, Buddy a retired airline mechanic, is trained to look for mechanical problems which he promptly did. He has spent many hours in the freezing weather checking every bolt. It seemed that each day brought a need for more money.
First, there was no spare tire. Buddy convinced me we couldn’t even think of taking a trip without a spare tire. The problem wasn’t so much the acquiring of a tire; it also had to have a rim. Little did I know that RV rims are of an unusual size and aren’t easy to find, especially a used one. That spare cost us $300. The oil filter and new oil was $65. RV insurance was another $200 plus and then there other costs like title change fees. Buddy’s needs list included a back-up camera, yet to be installed and a heavy-duty jack in case he had to actually use that spare time. Then there was a propane tank full of gas, a special water hose, and a host of other small items that added up to about $500. I held my tongue but my mind mentally complained, “We haven’t even pulled out of the drive-way yet.”
We should be on the road now after delivering Patch to Charlie for doggy-care, arranging for extra security for the coin shop, as well as recruiting a neighbor to feed our chickens and Sam, the cat.
Already I am remembering the TV movie starring Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez, titled the “Long, Long Trailer.” At Lucy’s insistence, the newly-weds bought a 40-foot drivable trailer home that cost $5300 in the 50’s. The idea was to save money for an eventual house. The added benefit was that the couple could travel around the USA allowing Nicky, played by Desi, to manage civil engineering projects.
Desi and Lucy end up having to buy a more powerful car to tow the trailer. The money spent starts to mount up. Their honeymoon trip to the Sierra Nevada Mountains quickly becomes a believable cascade of challenges and disasters.
For Buddy and me, this bucket list adventure is supposed to be fun. Thus far, it has been less than what I had hoped.
RVing may be a temporary fling for us and this may be a one and only trip. Stay tuned.
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, December 03, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #386
Nancy White Kelly
Thanksgiving Day has passed, but not the season of thanks. November has never been a good month in our family. My parents passed in November, years apart, ironically in the same hospital room.
Other life-changing events also occurred in the eleventh month of the year. In 1964, I spent all the 30 days of November and part of December in a Memphis hospital recovering from spleen surgery.
Thanksgiving, 2010, will go down as particularly memorable. We were again going to host all of our near-by family, which now includes Tori’s parents who live in Warner Robins. This blended family gathering has become a highly anticipated annual tradition although Ginger, Bobby’s wife, would be in Iraq.
The first hint that this was going to be an unusual Thanksgiving was the puzzling disappearance of the frozen holiday turkey. I searched the freezer twice. Big bird wasn’t there. I know the over-sized turkey was not a figment of my imagination.
My sister, Sunnie Anne, and Buddy can back up the fact that I did actually buy a turkey. Buddy was certain I was over-looking Tom, so he too searched the up-right freezer twice. Like a proud hunter returning from the field, Buddy proudly threw his big frozen blob on the kitchen counter. To his chagrin I casually noted that his solid rock was not the missing turkey, but a ham.
The incident of the disappearing turkey was mystifying but soon became a blip on the significance scale compared to what was coming.
On the Saturday preceding Thanksgiving, I received a late-night phone call from son, Charlie. The news wasn’t good. Tori’s father, just 54, was in the hospital with double-pneumonia and kidney failure. This was especially bad since he only had one kidney which was transplanted 20 years ago.
In addition to this shocking news, Charlie said that Tori’s only brother was also in a hospital in Macon with total kidney failure. He pierced his knee with a nail and waited too long to follow up. Sepsis set in. The prognosis for his this young father of four was not good either. Not only were his kidneys in danger, but there was a strong possibility he would lose a portion of his leg.
My heart was saddened, thinking of Sammy’s wife, Ellen, who now simultaneously had a critically ill husband and son in two separate hospitals. What could I do?
When life throws a curve, we so often rely on our faith as we should. I immediately typed up a note to distribute to several prayer warriors that I would see in church the next morning. An email notice went out to others whom I knew would rally in prayer.
Sammy was air-lifted to Emory and rushed to ICU. The doctors warned the family that he was possibly less than an hour from death.
Because this is a column and not a book, I will summarize: The next morning Sammy made a turn for the better. Each day he improved.
Thanksgiving Day came. On the table amongst the usual trimmings was a young turkey that a good friend prepared for us. The best gift of all was answered prayer. Sitting at our Thanksgiving table was a thankful family that included Sammy and the rest of clan. Buddy’s emotional blessing wasn’t routine. We had been bountifully blessed.
November didn’t end badly after all.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Thanksgiving Day has passed, but not the season of thanks. November has never been a good month in our family. My parents passed in November, years apart, ironically in the same hospital room.
Other life-changing events also occurred in the eleventh month of the year. In 1964, I spent all the 30 days of November and part of December in a Memphis hospital recovering from spleen surgery.
Thanksgiving, 2010, will go down as particularly memorable. We were again going to host all of our near-by family, which now includes Tori’s parents who live in Warner Robins. This blended family gathering has become a highly anticipated annual tradition although Ginger, Bobby’s wife, would be in Iraq.
The first hint that this was going to be an unusual Thanksgiving was the puzzling disappearance of the frozen holiday turkey. I searched the freezer twice. Big bird wasn’t there. I know the over-sized turkey was not a figment of my imagination.
My sister, Sunnie Anne, and Buddy can back up the fact that I did actually buy a turkey. Buddy was certain I was over-looking Tom, so he too searched the up-right freezer twice. Like a proud hunter returning from the field, Buddy proudly threw his big frozen blob on the kitchen counter. To his chagrin I casually noted that his solid rock was not the missing turkey, but a ham.
The incident of the disappearing turkey was mystifying but soon became a blip on the significance scale compared to what was coming.
On the Saturday preceding Thanksgiving, I received a late-night phone call from son, Charlie. The news wasn’t good. Tori’s father, just 54, was in the hospital with double-pneumonia and kidney failure. This was especially bad since he only had one kidney which was transplanted 20 years ago.
In addition to this shocking news, Charlie said that Tori’s only brother was also in a hospital in Macon with total kidney failure. He pierced his knee with a nail and waited too long to follow up. Sepsis set in. The prognosis for his this young father of four was not good either. Not only were his kidneys in danger, but there was a strong possibility he would lose a portion of his leg.
My heart was saddened, thinking of Sammy’s wife, Ellen, who now simultaneously had a critically ill husband and son in two separate hospitals. What could I do?
When life throws a curve, we so often rely on our faith as we should. I immediately typed up a note to distribute to several prayer warriors that I would see in church the next morning. An email notice went out to others whom I knew would rally in prayer.
Sammy was air-lifted to Emory and rushed to ICU. The doctors warned the family that he was possibly less than an hour from death.
Because this is a column and not a book, I will summarize: The next morning Sammy made a turn for the better. Each day he improved.
Thanksgiving Day came. On the table amongst the usual trimmings was a young turkey that a good friend prepared for us. The best gift of all was answered prayer. Sitting at our Thanksgiving table was a thankful family that included Sammy and the rest of clan. Buddy’s emotional blessing wasn’t routine. We had been bountifully blessed.
November didn’t end badly after all.
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, November 19, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #385
Nancy White Kelly
Thanksgiving…that traditional American Holiday where families all over the United States sit for dinner at the same time---Halftime. The rushing on the football field in no way compares to the sprint through store aisles the next morning.
Black Friday is a strange acronym for the biggest shopping day of the year. Who chose black of all colors? I can think of a more appropriate moniker? How about Blue Friday? That is the color of shopper’s feet after a day of foot-stomping by aggressive women waving discount coupons for the early-bird specials.
A few members of my family still participate in this annual tradition of rising at 5:00 a.m. on the day after Thanksgiving. My daughter-in-law and her mother still do. I opted out after the first year as a three-some. Not that I am not invited each year, but I see a slight glimmer of delight when I politely decline. Then a giant smile breaks out when I offer to baby-sit.
I won’t miss Santa Claus or the malls. The first problem is finding a parking place. The second is that you must tussle with otherwise saintly women for the door-buster bargains. Even if you get the very last toy of the year, you must stand in a long, serpentine line that redefines forever. Just when you get to the register, the clerk closes the line. A moral decision must be made? Do you break into the adjacent line or go the end and start over? Oh, what fun!
I prefer to shop all year. By the time Thanksgiving arrives, I have most everything bought that goes under the tree. Then the task begins that I dread most…wrapping. I am not artistic, not even a little bit. My packages never look like those in the catalogs. An eight-year-old could do better. This year a close friend who loves to wrap gifts has offered to help. Thank you, my Martha Stewart Hummingbird.
If your name isn’t Martha and your culinary talents are lacking, I have some words to cheer you up if you burn the turkey.
You won’t have to worry about Salmonella.
The smoke alarm was over-due for a test.
Carving the bird will provide a good cardiovascular workout.
When the game is finally over, the guys can take the bird to the yard and play football.
Until next year, Happy Goobally-gobbally Gook.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Thanksgiving…that traditional American Holiday where families all over the United States sit for dinner at the same time---Halftime. The rushing on the football field in no way compares to the sprint through store aisles the next morning.
Black Friday is a strange acronym for the biggest shopping day of the year. Who chose black of all colors? I can think of a more appropriate moniker? How about Blue Friday? That is the color of shopper’s feet after a day of foot-stomping by aggressive women waving discount coupons for the early-bird specials.
A few members of my family still participate in this annual tradition of rising at 5:00 a.m. on the day after Thanksgiving. My daughter-in-law and her mother still do. I opted out after the first year as a three-some. Not that I am not invited each year, but I see a slight glimmer of delight when I politely decline. Then a giant smile breaks out when I offer to baby-sit.
I won’t miss Santa Claus or the malls. The first problem is finding a parking place. The second is that you must tussle with otherwise saintly women for the door-buster bargains. Even if you get the very last toy of the year, you must stand in a long, serpentine line that redefines forever. Just when you get to the register, the clerk closes the line. A moral decision must be made? Do you break into the adjacent line or go the end and start over? Oh, what fun!
I prefer to shop all year. By the time Thanksgiving arrives, I have most everything bought that goes under the tree. Then the task begins that I dread most…wrapping. I am not artistic, not even a little bit. My packages never look like those in the catalogs. An eight-year-old could do better. This year a close friend who loves to wrap gifts has offered to help. Thank you, my Martha Stewart Hummingbird.
If your name isn’t Martha and your culinary talents are lacking, I have some words to cheer you up if you burn the turkey.
You won’t have to worry about Salmonella.
The smoke alarm was over-due for a test.
Carving the bird will provide a good cardiovascular workout.
When the game is finally over, the guys can take the bird to the yard and play football.
Until next year, Happy Goobally-gobbally Gook.
nancyk@windstream.net
Saturday, November 06, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #384
Nancy White Kelly
This is Thanksgiving month, a time to reflect on the blessing of family and friends. Most of us categorize friends: close, sort-of close, solid acquaintances from work, church and the neighborhood, old friends who no longer live near-by, very old friends from childhood, and new friends we haven’t known long enough to label. There are many sub-categories of friends, but you get the point.
My few closest friends are my confidants. We can banter freely without fear of betrayal. We don’t dress up for each other or need to call first before dropping by. They’ve seen my dust and dishes in the sink. I think nothing of their unmade bed. They would feel free to raid the refrigerator.
Within reason, I could borrow money from my closest friends or anything else of value. I could call on this special enclave day or night and they’d drop everything and come running.
It should be no surprise that they would expect the same responses from me and would get it. This sounds sappy, but you wouldn’t have to be a close friend to avail my help. Buddy was a Boy Scout. He can recite their pledge on cue and does so often. I like the part of being willing to help others at all times. I learned that in Sunday school, “Be ye kind one to another.”
But, be I am no goody-goody two-shoes. My foibles are many. I have personalized a well-known mantra: “Fool me once, friend, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” Only once has a close friend hurt me deeply. It would be trivial to most people, but trust is hard to regain. That wound took a long while to heal so I give my trust cautiously. The past is the past and I choose not to dwell on things forgiven.
I cannot fail to acknowledge my internet friendships. Some acquaintances have never met personally, but a few relationships have truly blossomed. The first time I saw Judy she was lying in a casket. She fought a long battle with breast cancer. During that war, she and I must have exchanged a jillion keystrokes. Judy’s grieved husband asked me to give the eulogy for his wife. I was honored to do so. Friendships know no boundaries.
Thanks to the Internet, hardly a day goes by that I haven’t benefitted from at least one quasi-helpful email.
Why buy expensive cookies from Neiman-Marcus? I now have the recipe.
I no longer touch the bottom of purses for fear it has spent time on the floor of a public restroom lurking with ghastly microbes.
When eating in a restaurant I now keep my eyes on my Southern wine at all times. The tea glass goes where I go. Otherwise, I might wake up in a bathtub full of ice with my kidneys removed.
No more cancer-causing deodorants for me. It is far better to smell like a water buffalo all day.
Please don’t offer your hand for me to shake when you get out of your car. One of my cyber friends just advised me that the number one pastime while driving alone is picking one’s nose.
I keep my toothbrush in the living room. Experts say that water splashes over 6 feet from the toilet.
While I concede to being friendly, I admit to being stubborn. I adamantly refuse to give up my Diet Coke. Why should I worry about having cancer since I already have it? If you don’t have the Big C, , it might interest you to know that one cyber friend told me the ingredients in Coke are strong enough to dissolve a T-bone steak in 3 days.
With tongue in cheek, I transmit this foreboding notice to the Living Lady’s discerning readers: If you do not send this column to 166,000 people in the next 70 minutes, a large bald eagle with diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 tomorrow afternoon. The fleas from 120 camels will infest your body causing you to grown hairy bumps that attract bed bugs. I know this will occur because one of my Internet friends said it actually happened to her second husband’s cousin whose best friend is a local beautician.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
This is Thanksgiving month, a time to reflect on the blessing of family and friends. Most of us categorize friends: close, sort-of close, solid acquaintances from work, church and the neighborhood, old friends who no longer live near-by, very old friends from childhood, and new friends we haven’t known long enough to label. There are many sub-categories of friends, but you get the point.
My few closest friends are my confidants. We can banter freely without fear of betrayal. We don’t dress up for each other or need to call first before dropping by. They’ve seen my dust and dishes in the sink. I think nothing of their unmade bed. They would feel free to raid the refrigerator.
Within reason, I could borrow money from my closest friends or anything else of value. I could call on this special enclave day or night and they’d drop everything and come running.
It should be no surprise that they would expect the same responses from me and would get it. This sounds sappy, but you wouldn’t have to be a close friend to avail my help. Buddy was a Boy Scout. He can recite their pledge on cue and does so often. I like the part of being willing to help others at all times. I learned that in Sunday school, “Be ye kind one to another.”
But, be I am no goody-goody two-shoes. My foibles are many. I have personalized a well-known mantra: “Fool me once, friend, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me.” Only once has a close friend hurt me deeply. It would be trivial to most people, but trust is hard to regain. That wound took a long while to heal so I give my trust cautiously. The past is the past and I choose not to dwell on things forgiven.
I cannot fail to acknowledge my internet friendships. Some acquaintances have never met personally, but a few relationships have truly blossomed. The first time I saw Judy she was lying in a casket. She fought a long battle with breast cancer. During that war, she and I must have exchanged a jillion keystrokes. Judy’s grieved husband asked me to give the eulogy for his wife. I was honored to do so. Friendships know no boundaries.
Thanks to the Internet, hardly a day goes by that I haven’t benefitted from at least one quasi-helpful email.
Why buy expensive cookies from Neiman-Marcus? I now have the recipe.
I no longer touch the bottom of purses for fear it has spent time on the floor of a public restroom lurking with ghastly microbes.
When eating in a restaurant I now keep my eyes on my Southern wine at all times. The tea glass goes where I go. Otherwise, I might wake up in a bathtub full of ice with my kidneys removed.
No more cancer-causing deodorants for me. It is far better to smell like a water buffalo all day.
Please don’t offer your hand for me to shake when you get out of your car. One of my cyber friends just advised me that the number one pastime while driving alone is picking one’s nose.
I keep my toothbrush in the living room. Experts say that water splashes over 6 feet from the toilet.
While I concede to being friendly, I admit to being stubborn. I adamantly refuse to give up my Diet Coke. Why should I worry about having cancer since I already have it? If you don’t have the Big C, , it might interest you to know that one cyber friend told me the ingredients in Coke are strong enough to dissolve a T-bone steak in 3 days.
With tongue in cheek, I transmit this foreboding notice to the Living Lady’s discerning readers: If you do not send this column to 166,000 people in the next 70 minutes, a large bald eagle with diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 tomorrow afternoon. The fleas from 120 camels will infest your body causing you to grown hairy bumps that attract bed bugs. I know this will occur because one of my Internet friends said it actually happened to her second husband’s cousin whose best friend is a local beautician.
nancyk@windstream.net
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #382
Nancy White Kelly
There has been so much emphasis in the news this month regarding Alzheimer’s. Jokes abound, but it is a serious disease. Now that I am in the last half of my sixties, slips of memory bother me.
I know a face, but the name disappears. I lie awake at night, sometimes for hours, trying to resurrect a name that I should know well. Details of events, even recent ones, somehow slip into a mysterious black hole in my brain. Am I headed down that Alzheimer’s road?
Leading authorities say that Alzheimer’s begins twenty years before becoming obvious. The same can be said of certain types of cancer. There are slow growing-cancers and those that are so aggressive it takes your breath. A friend recently succumbed to cancer in less than three weeks after diagnosis. He and I were working together on forming a local coin club. Bill seemed to be in vibrant health. In our last phone conversation, I asked what I could do for him. He humbly replied, “Pray for me.” I did, but sometimes our will is not that of the Heavenly Father. None of us are going to make it out of this world alive.
Personality-wise and somewhat in looks, I am very much like my paternal aunt who died of serious dementia a few years ago. She forgot who Buddy was and barely recognized me on my last visit though she was like a second mother while I was a child.
Like many folks of her generation, she smoked most of her life. Her only brother, my father, died at the age of 62. He was a heavy smoker too. Thankfully none of the children are smokers, but we can’t help but wonder about the second-hand smoke we were subjected to long before the effects were known.
Most likely I am just growing older and experiencing normal diminishment of brain cells that transmit thoughts and revives memories. I feel much younger than the calendar says and can still be the life of the party as long as I am home by 8:00. Instead of Alzheimer’s, maybe I have what Buddy refers to as “All-timers.”
While on a road trip last year, an elderly couple stopped at a roadside restaurant for lunch. After finishing their meal, they left the restaurant and resumed their trip. When leaving, the poor woman unknowingly left her glasses on the table. She didn't miss them until they had been driving for about forty minutes.
Adding to the aggravation, they had to travel quite a distance before they could find a place to turn so they could return to the restaurant to retrieve her glasses.
All the way back, the husband became the classic grouchy man. He fussed, complained, and scolded his wife relentlessly during the long return drive.
The more he chided her, the more agitated he became. He would not let up for a single minute.
To the woman’s relief, they finally arrived at the restaurant. As the chagrinned wife got out of the car and hurried inside to retrieve her glasses, the old geezer yelled to her, "While you're in there, you might as well get my hat and the credit card."
I do hope my mind lasts as long as my body. I dare not allow my mind to wander anymore. It should not be out on its own. Truthfully, Buddy might not remember to look for me.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
There has been so much emphasis in the news this month regarding Alzheimer’s. Jokes abound, but it is a serious disease. Now that I am in the last half of my sixties, slips of memory bother me.
I know a face, but the name disappears. I lie awake at night, sometimes for hours, trying to resurrect a name that I should know well. Details of events, even recent ones, somehow slip into a mysterious black hole in my brain. Am I headed down that Alzheimer’s road?
Leading authorities say that Alzheimer’s begins twenty years before becoming obvious. The same can be said of certain types of cancer. There are slow growing-cancers and those that are so aggressive it takes your breath. A friend recently succumbed to cancer in less than three weeks after diagnosis. He and I were working together on forming a local coin club. Bill seemed to be in vibrant health. In our last phone conversation, I asked what I could do for him. He humbly replied, “Pray for me.” I did, but sometimes our will is not that of the Heavenly Father. None of us are going to make it out of this world alive.
Personality-wise and somewhat in looks, I am very much like my paternal aunt who died of serious dementia a few years ago. She forgot who Buddy was and barely recognized me on my last visit though she was like a second mother while I was a child.
Like many folks of her generation, she smoked most of her life. Her only brother, my father, died at the age of 62. He was a heavy smoker too. Thankfully none of the children are smokers, but we can’t help but wonder about the second-hand smoke we were subjected to long before the effects were known.
Most likely I am just growing older and experiencing normal diminishment of brain cells that transmit thoughts and revives memories. I feel much younger than the calendar says and can still be the life of the party as long as I am home by 8:00. Instead of Alzheimer’s, maybe I have what Buddy refers to as “All-timers.”
While on a road trip last year, an elderly couple stopped at a roadside restaurant for lunch. After finishing their meal, they left the restaurant and resumed their trip. When leaving, the poor woman unknowingly left her glasses on the table. She didn't miss them until they had been driving for about forty minutes.
Adding to the aggravation, they had to travel quite a distance before they could find a place to turn so they could return to the restaurant to retrieve her glasses.
All the way back, the husband became the classic grouchy man. He fussed, complained, and scolded his wife relentlessly during the long return drive.
The more he chided her, the more agitated he became. He would not let up for a single minute.
To the woman’s relief, they finally arrived at the restaurant. As the chagrinned wife got out of the car and hurried inside to retrieve her glasses, the old geezer yelled to her, "While you're in there, you might as well get my hat and the credit card."
I do hope my mind lasts as long as my body. I dare not allow my mind to wander anymore. It should not be out on its own. Truthfully, Buddy might not remember to look for me.
nancyk@windstream.net
Saturday, October 09, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #381
Nancy White Kelly
My Mama taught me that proper people don’t discuss their finances in public. I’m not feeling very proper today.
After rocking from Buddy’s very recent root canal to the tune of $1000, we were completely blown off our feet at what happened yesterday.
We have a darling miniature, ten-month-old dachshund with unusual pie-bald coloring. Except for his size, he could be mistaken for a Jersey cow. Patch is such a joy, full of life and kisses.
On Tuesday afternoon Patch came through the doggie door yelping non-stop doggy opera. Buddy held him while I tried to look for the problem. He had about a two inch cut on his side. He wasn’t bleeding badly, but I bundled him up in a beach towel to hold him more comfortably. He was obviously in pain and that pathetic crying drove us to quick action.
Because we were noted as a “walk-in”, our wait to be seen by the closest veterinarian seemed unusually long. We didn’t complain. Patch did. Everybody in the building knew that he was present and not happy.
When our turn came to see the veterinarian, a technician appeared. We were told he would need stitches and should stay over-night for observation. The tech checked off a long list of blood tests which we declined, including the CBC. This wasn’t major surgery, just a clean cut that needed repair.
The vet called that night and reported that the stitching went fine with no complications. We could pick up our “beagle” the next morning.
On the way to the office the following day, I asked Buddy what was his estimate of the bill. He guessed $200, most of which he jokingly said would probably go to the loan principle for that fairly new, post-modern building. I assured Buddy he was wrong. The charges shouldn’t amount to more than $100. After-all, we were only talking about a straight cut and a few stitches.
Buddy doesn’t hear well and stood quietly aside while I took care of business at the counter.
“Are you ready?” the receptionist asked. I should have known that this was a preliminary warning statement.
“Six-hundred and sixty-five dollars and thirty cents,” she said. I repeated what I thought she must have said, “Sixty-five dollars and thirty cents?”
“No, $665.30,” the lady replied nonchalantly as the invoice hummed through the printer. I turned to Buddy in shock and repeated the amount. His response was appropriate.
“What?” he asked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
When it became clear that we weren’t leaving with Patch until we paid the bill, I wrote out the check. Buddy suggested we leave the dog, but, of course, we couldn’t and wouldn’t do that. Patch wasn’t to blame for this legal robbery. Buddy suggested out loud that wearing a mask was certainly appropriate for the vet.
Patch was as excited to see us as we were to be leaving the scene of what we now refer to as our “665- Aggravated Larceny.” Maybe we watch too many crime shows.
Buddy and I have examined the itemized bill several times. There were eighteen charges, most of which were ridiculously exaggerated and highly over-billed.
For example, “wound debridement: $38.05” and “Wound cleaning, $29.29.” As if that wasn’t redundant enough, there was a related charge of “wound flushing, $14.77.” Four shots were given, each costing about $30 each. There was even a charge for IV fluids with surgery.” Certainly we couldn’t have dehydration during that ten-minute sewing job and a line needed to be available for immediate access in case something went terribly wrong.
The absurd bill continued with charges for “surgical pack autoclave/ postoperative nursing” and “anesthesia monitoring.” Lots of things can happen in ten minutes. What I would have given to have been a fly on the wall.
Back home in familiar surroundings, Patch was his old self by the end of the day.
Us? We are trying not to laugh at the irony of the last line printed on the bill: “Your invoice was discounted as much as possible to reduce financial burden.”
Sorry, Mama. Proper or not, some stories just must be told.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
My Mama taught me that proper people don’t discuss their finances in public. I’m not feeling very proper today.
After rocking from Buddy’s very recent root canal to the tune of $1000, we were completely blown off our feet at what happened yesterday.
We have a darling miniature, ten-month-old dachshund with unusual pie-bald coloring. Except for his size, he could be mistaken for a Jersey cow. Patch is such a joy, full of life and kisses.
On Tuesday afternoon Patch came through the doggie door yelping non-stop doggy opera. Buddy held him while I tried to look for the problem. He had about a two inch cut on his side. He wasn’t bleeding badly, but I bundled him up in a beach towel to hold him more comfortably. He was obviously in pain and that pathetic crying drove us to quick action.
Because we were noted as a “walk-in”, our wait to be seen by the closest veterinarian seemed unusually long. We didn’t complain. Patch did. Everybody in the building knew that he was present and not happy.
When our turn came to see the veterinarian, a technician appeared. We were told he would need stitches and should stay over-night for observation. The tech checked off a long list of blood tests which we declined, including the CBC. This wasn’t major surgery, just a clean cut that needed repair.
The vet called that night and reported that the stitching went fine with no complications. We could pick up our “beagle” the next morning.
On the way to the office the following day, I asked Buddy what was his estimate of the bill. He guessed $200, most of which he jokingly said would probably go to the loan principle for that fairly new, post-modern building. I assured Buddy he was wrong. The charges shouldn’t amount to more than $100. After-all, we were only talking about a straight cut and a few stitches.
Buddy doesn’t hear well and stood quietly aside while I took care of business at the counter.
“Are you ready?” the receptionist asked. I should have known that this was a preliminary warning statement.
“Six-hundred and sixty-five dollars and thirty cents,” she said. I repeated what I thought she must have said, “Sixty-five dollars and thirty cents?”
“No, $665.30,” the lady replied nonchalantly as the invoice hummed through the printer. I turned to Buddy in shock and repeated the amount. His response was appropriate.
“What?” he asked. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
When it became clear that we weren’t leaving with Patch until we paid the bill, I wrote out the check. Buddy suggested we leave the dog, but, of course, we couldn’t and wouldn’t do that. Patch wasn’t to blame for this legal robbery. Buddy suggested out loud that wearing a mask was certainly appropriate for the vet.
Patch was as excited to see us as we were to be leaving the scene of what we now refer to as our “665- Aggravated Larceny.” Maybe we watch too many crime shows.
Buddy and I have examined the itemized bill several times. There were eighteen charges, most of which were ridiculously exaggerated and highly over-billed.
For example, “wound debridement: $38.05” and “Wound cleaning, $29.29.” As if that wasn’t redundant enough, there was a related charge of “wound flushing, $14.77.” Four shots were given, each costing about $30 each. There was even a charge for IV fluids with surgery.” Certainly we couldn’t have dehydration during that ten-minute sewing job and a line needed to be available for immediate access in case something went terribly wrong.
The absurd bill continued with charges for “surgical pack autoclave/ postoperative nursing” and “anesthesia monitoring.” Lots of things can happen in ten minutes. What I would have given to have been a fly on the wall.
Back home in familiar surroundings, Patch was his old self by the end of the day.
Us? We are trying not to laugh at the irony of the last line printed on the bill: “Your invoice was discounted as much as possible to reduce financial burden.”
Sorry, Mama. Proper or not, some stories just must be told.
nancyk@windstream.net
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #380
Nancy White Kelly
Don’t know why mortality has been on my mind lately. Maybe it is because of all the funerals I have attended lately. Just a couple of weeks ago, on the same newspaper obituary page, were the pictures of three long-time friends.
One day recently a casual friend called and asked if she could come by and visit. “Of course,” I said though I was a bit puzzled. Neither Buddy nor I were sick. She mentioned that we were the second of two visits she was making that afternoon. The other was to mutual friends who have battled life-threatening illness for a long, long time.
We had a nice visit. The sweet lady brought Buddy and me a funny book, nuts, and fruit. We chatted for over an hour. Still in the back of my mind I was wondering what was behind this Sunday afternoon drop-by.
Only as we hugged and said good-bye did I get my answer. This day was the anniversary of her husband’s death. She was doing something besides having a pity party. She was bringing encouragement, even laughter, to others. What an inspiration she was to me and something I plan to remember if Buddy should pass first.
Actually widowhood is a frightening subject to me. Buddy is twelve years older than I. Although my health history scuttles the statistics, chances are that I will out-live him. That scares me to death.
The longer I live the more I realize that our culture is primarily a society of couples. A once-married, single woman sticks out. I look around in church and see numerous friends who not so long ago had a man by their side. Now they look incomplete, even lonely. I admire their courage to keep going in spite of their loss, but don’t long for that courage myself. I don’t want to be unmarried to Buddy, ever. There is something about Buddy’s warm body and over-wrapped arm at night that gives me security. What peace to know that if I were lost in the woods, there is one person who would swim a river to find me.
What would I do without him? I don’t know how to start the well pump when lightning strikes. How do you light the furnace when the season changes?
Who would fill the gas tank when I don’t notice the warning light? Who would prod me to go light on the salt and sugar?
Marriages are made in heaven - but then...so are thunder and lightning. There have been a few misunderstandings in our 46 years of marriage. As we grow older, there has been some amusing miscommunication.
Last week I was invited to a wedding shower for a soon- to- be bride.
As I was trading my lounging clothes for fancier duds, Buddy inquired as to where I was going. I replied, “To Hiawassee.”
He came to the bathroom door.
“Why, “he asked.
“For a shower,” I replied while powdering my nose. I frowned at him. He had seen the invitation on the table.
Buddy’s wrinkled forehead told me he didn’t hear me correctly. I repeated slowly, “I am going to Hiawassee for a shower.”
He still looked confused. Finally he asked, “Why not take a shower right here?”
“I am going to a wedding shower, honey, Remember?”
He moaned as the words registered. I laughed. He laughed. We both laughed again and we are still laughing.
Life would be bleak without my Buddy.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Don’t know why mortality has been on my mind lately. Maybe it is because of all the funerals I have attended lately. Just a couple of weeks ago, on the same newspaper obituary page, were the pictures of three long-time friends.
One day recently a casual friend called and asked if she could come by and visit. “Of course,” I said though I was a bit puzzled. Neither Buddy nor I were sick. She mentioned that we were the second of two visits she was making that afternoon. The other was to mutual friends who have battled life-threatening illness for a long, long time.
We had a nice visit. The sweet lady brought Buddy and me a funny book, nuts, and fruit. We chatted for over an hour. Still in the back of my mind I was wondering what was behind this Sunday afternoon drop-by.
Only as we hugged and said good-bye did I get my answer. This day was the anniversary of her husband’s death. She was doing something besides having a pity party. She was bringing encouragement, even laughter, to others. What an inspiration she was to me and something I plan to remember if Buddy should pass first.
Actually widowhood is a frightening subject to me. Buddy is twelve years older than I. Although my health history scuttles the statistics, chances are that I will out-live him. That scares me to death.
The longer I live the more I realize that our culture is primarily a society of couples. A once-married, single woman sticks out. I look around in church and see numerous friends who not so long ago had a man by their side. Now they look incomplete, even lonely. I admire their courage to keep going in spite of their loss, but don’t long for that courage myself. I don’t want to be unmarried to Buddy, ever. There is something about Buddy’s warm body and over-wrapped arm at night that gives me security. What peace to know that if I were lost in the woods, there is one person who would swim a river to find me.
What would I do without him? I don’t know how to start the well pump when lightning strikes. How do you light the furnace when the season changes?
Who would fill the gas tank when I don’t notice the warning light? Who would prod me to go light on the salt and sugar?
Marriages are made in heaven - but then...so are thunder and lightning. There have been a few misunderstandings in our 46 years of marriage. As we grow older, there has been some amusing miscommunication.
Last week I was invited to a wedding shower for a soon- to- be bride.
As I was trading my lounging clothes for fancier duds, Buddy inquired as to where I was going. I replied, “To Hiawassee.”
He came to the bathroom door.
“Why, “he asked.
“For a shower,” I replied while powdering my nose. I frowned at him. He had seen the invitation on the table.
Buddy’s wrinkled forehead told me he didn’t hear me correctly. I repeated slowly, “I am going to Hiawassee for a shower.”
He still looked confused. Finally he asked, “Why not take a shower right here?”
“I am going to a wedding shower, honey, Remember?”
He moaned as the words registered. I laughed. He laughed. We both laughed again and we are still laughing.
Life would be bleak without my Buddy.
nancyk@windstream.net
Wednesday, September 08, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #379
Nancy White Kelly
This week didn’t start off too well. Due to my cryptic shorthand on the wall calendar, I was two hours late for the funeral of a friend who died with breast cancer. She fought a good fight. Linda was the epitome of bravery when on a death march. She is at peace now and perfectly healed.
This column, first called Journal of a Dying Lady, began when I too was facing the big C for the second time. When originally diagnosed, our son Charlie was 5. I asked…well, begged, the Lord to let me live to see him finish high school. I got my request. Weeks before he graduated, the cancer returned with a vengeance. The doctors gave me 18 months to live if I took chemotherapy and nine months without it. In spite of the cancer news, I was the happiest mama in Town’s county the night Charlie got his diploma.
It hasn’t been easy. ”Slash, cut, burn” is a negative euphemism for the difficult journey with aggressive cancer. On this second round, the cancer metastasized to my lungs and spine. I eventually was enrolled in hospice which was a wonderful help to Buddy and me. One morning, when the nurse decided on her own to take my car keys, I decided I didn’t want to be in hospice any longer. I checked out and never looked back.
God gave me another miraculous span of time, years actually, whereby my cancer has been stable. I have lived to see Charlie finish college, get married, and have two wonderful grandsons. Our last foster child, whom we later adopted, eventually grew up and became a responsible adult in spite of a turbulent adolescence.
Recently, while having my routine oncology check-up, I told my doctor that I didn’t have a good feeling about the up-coming scans. He moved the scheduled scan date up knowing that we cancer patients often have intuitive vibes.
Two hours ago I got the call. The results weren’t what we had hoped. For the first time in this long span of almost normal living, there appears now to be a new lesion in the lung. It may or may not be malignant, but the scenario is eerily similar to my last episode.
My oncologist has been amazed all along at my longevity. He says he doesn’t see miracles very often and beams proudly while pointing upward. We both recognize divine intervention.
So where to from here? Because of the size and location of the growth, it can’t be biopsied just yet. In a few weeks I will have another scan to see if that spot has enlarged enough to be sampled.
It is hard to predict the course ahead. My doctor previously said that we have used up all the chemo options. Maybe some new drug is in the pipe line for breast cancer. Perhaps this is a different type of cancer that will respond to other untried chemotherapies. The best scenario of all is that this is a false alarm.
There will be many questions to ask and hopefully miles to go before I join my friend, Linda. One thing is for sure. I won’t be late to my own funeral.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
This week didn’t start off too well. Due to my cryptic shorthand on the wall calendar, I was two hours late for the funeral of a friend who died with breast cancer. She fought a good fight. Linda was the epitome of bravery when on a death march. She is at peace now and perfectly healed.
This column, first called Journal of a Dying Lady, began when I too was facing the big C for the second time. When originally diagnosed, our son Charlie was 5. I asked…well, begged, the Lord to let me live to see him finish high school. I got my request. Weeks before he graduated, the cancer returned with a vengeance. The doctors gave me 18 months to live if I took chemotherapy and nine months without it. In spite of the cancer news, I was the happiest mama in Town’s county the night Charlie got his diploma.
It hasn’t been easy. ”Slash, cut, burn” is a negative euphemism for the difficult journey with aggressive cancer. On this second round, the cancer metastasized to my lungs and spine. I eventually was enrolled in hospice which was a wonderful help to Buddy and me. One morning, when the nurse decided on her own to take my car keys, I decided I didn’t want to be in hospice any longer. I checked out and never looked back.
God gave me another miraculous span of time, years actually, whereby my cancer has been stable. I have lived to see Charlie finish college, get married, and have two wonderful grandsons. Our last foster child, whom we later adopted, eventually grew up and became a responsible adult in spite of a turbulent adolescence.
Recently, while having my routine oncology check-up, I told my doctor that I didn’t have a good feeling about the up-coming scans. He moved the scheduled scan date up knowing that we cancer patients often have intuitive vibes.
Two hours ago I got the call. The results weren’t what we had hoped. For the first time in this long span of almost normal living, there appears now to be a new lesion in the lung. It may or may not be malignant, but the scenario is eerily similar to my last episode.
My oncologist has been amazed all along at my longevity. He says he doesn’t see miracles very often and beams proudly while pointing upward. We both recognize divine intervention.
So where to from here? Because of the size and location of the growth, it can’t be biopsied just yet. In a few weeks I will have another scan to see if that spot has enlarged enough to be sampled.
It is hard to predict the course ahead. My doctor previously said that we have used up all the chemo options. Maybe some new drug is in the pipe line for breast cancer. Perhaps this is a different type of cancer that will respond to other untried chemotherapies. The best scenario of all is that this is a false alarm.
There will be many questions to ask and hopefully miles to go before I join my friend, Linda. One thing is for sure. I won’t be late to my own funeral.
nancyk@windstream.net
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #378
Nancy White Kelly
“Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows but Jesus,” goes the old spiritual. Jump ahead a century and half. The words are still relevant regardless of race. Everywhere we turn we see difficulty.
Right now I can name ten friends who are struggling with either cancer or stroke. I have close relatives who have recently lost their livelihood. They wish they had a mule and forty acres. Personally I would pass on the gift of a four-legged mule since I am married to a lovable two-legged one. Land would be a welcomed gift, but with real estate in the dumps, it can’t be counted on as a fluid asset.
There is so much sadness in this world that you’d think no hope exists. I can vouch for the physical, emotional and financial discomfort that accompanies metastatic cancer. I have aggressively battled this disease off and on for twenty-five years. Throw in kidney failure and dialysis and I ought to qualify for the 9-lives trophy. A friend calls me “Mrs. Kitty” for good reason. How many people have been in hospice twice?
Buddy and I have attended church regularly since we were young children. It isn’t a mere habit, but our source of strength to keep functioning in today’s demoralizing environment. Last week was different.
I teach an adult Bible study class on Sunday mornings. This week a young man headed to the Peace Corp filled in for me so I could participate in an unusual program to be presented during the worship service. Few people knew about it ahead of time.
Spurred by something similar seen on the Internet, members of an appropriately named “Praise Committee” decided to do our own version of “Cardboard Testimonies.”
Against the solo choral backdrop of “Amazing Grace,” thirty-one people slowly walked one by one to the center of the church stage holding a ragged piece of old cardboard. While they stood there silently, the congregation focused on the individualized and succinct statement written in bold lettering.
Each sign simply stated what difficulty that person had experienced. After a few seconds, the individual turned the cardboard over which revealed the positive outcome. Those short testimonies were awesome. Many related to a close encounters with mortality due to illness or accidents. Others told of depression, fire, and deaths of children. One has a spouse serving time. Two of the participants were in wheel chairs.
Each cardboard testimony told a short story of desperation; all gave praise to God for His help in coping and over-coming. Most of the participants were familiar church members, but probably only a few congregants knew the difficult circumstances their pew mates had endured. Only God knew all those stories.
The cardboard testimonies were a great reminder that in the midst of all our troubles, hope exists. We don’t hear that good news often enough.
Hope springs from the eternal.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
“Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen. Nobody knows but Jesus,” goes the old spiritual. Jump ahead a century and half. The words are still relevant regardless of race. Everywhere we turn we see difficulty.
Right now I can name ten friends who are struggling with either cancer or stroke. I have close relatives who have recently lost their livelihood. They wish they had a mule and forty acres. Personally I would pass on the gift of a four-legged mule since I am married to a lovable two-legged one. Land would be a welcomed gift, but with real estate in the dumps, it can’t be counted on as a fluid asset.
There is so much sadness in this world that you’d think no hope exists. I can vouch for the physical, emotional and financial discomfort that accompanies metastatic cancer. I have aggressively battled this disease off and on for twenty-five years. Throw in kidney failure and dialysis and I ought to qualify for the 9-lives trophy. A friend calls me “Mrs. Kitty” for good reason. How many people have been in hospice twice?
Buddy and I have attended church regularly since we were young children. It isn’t a mere habit, but our source of strength to keep functioning in today’s demoralizing environment. Last week was different.
I teach an adult Bible study class on Sunday mornings. This week a young man headed to the Peace Corp filled in for me so I could participate in an unusual program to be presented during the worship service. Few people knew about it ahead of time.
Spurred by something similar seen on the Internet, members of an appropriately named “Praise Committee” decided to do our own version of “Cardboard Testimonies.”
Against the solo choral backdrop of “Amazing Grace,” thirty-one people slowly walked one by one to the center of the church stage holding a ragged piece of old cardboard. While they stood there silently, the congregation focused on the individualized and succinct statement written in bold lettering.
Each sign simply stated what difficulty that person had experienced. After a few seconds, the individual turned the cardboard over which revealed the positive outcome. Those short testimonies were awesome. Many related to a close encounters with mortality due to illness or accidents. Others told of depression, fire, and deaths of children. One has a spouse serving time. Two of the participants were in wheel chairs.
Each cardboard testimony told a short story of desperation; all gave praise to God for His help in coping and over-coming. Most of the participants were familiar church members, but probably only a few congregants knew the difficult circumstances their pew mates had endured. Only God knew all those stories.
The cardboard testimonies were a great reminder that in the midst of all our troubles, hope exists. We don’t hear that good news often enough.
Hope springs from the eternal.
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, August 13, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady # 377
Nancy White Kelly
We’ve all heard the quote, “The hurrier I go, the behinder I get.” That’s me. Funny how so many of our friends and family members think that because Buddy and I are technically “retired,” we sit on the porch and rock away our days. Far from it.
We cram so much into a day that we have to schedule our headaches. I make promises to myself that I plan to keep when all the conditions are perfect which they never are.
I have been writing the Journal of a Living Lady for about 11 years. Writer’s block is becoming more frequent as I age, so I slowed down the pace a bit. Now I try to get this column to the publisher every two weeks. There were a few unhappy murmurs from good friends, but they understand. I have too much on my plate, but can’t bring myself to unload any of it yet. Everything and everybody is important to me.
Out of nearly 400 essays, it surprises me that someone will remember one written years ago. A column frequently mentioned has to do with Valentine’s Day. Let me share it again for those of you who have never read it. Yes, it is deadline time. If it wasn't for the last minute, nothing would get done.
Generally, at our age, we just blurt out what we want for a special occasion. Hinting is for young folks who can still hear well.
I told Buddy no roses for Valentines this year. For that price I could get something more touching like a therapeutic massage. With a son then in college, luxuries were low on our priority list. Since Buddy would insist on buying roses and take me to dinner anyway, I suggested a romantic substitute. Instead of eating out, I would treat him to his favorite meatloaf dinner with candlelight and banana pudding.
What Buddy requested for Valentine’s Day surprised me. He has always wanted and I have always refused a pet pig. Not that we didn’t have a baby pig once. We kept him in the back of our three acres in Stockbridge. Porky was an entertaining pet. He looked forward to Buddy’s coming home from work each day and squealed and did a jig when he heard the old truck turn the corner.
Alas, as all pigs do, Porky grew and grew and grew. Finally we had a 400 pound pet that was eating more than our family, which included a host of needy kids who were living with us at the time. Our family could never have eaten Porky anyway, so he went to a co-worker who left singing, “This little piggy went to market.” That mean man had Porky slaughtered the next day and his family ate him all year. So much for the pig phase. At least I thought so.
But this last Valentine Day, Buddy wanted a pig. Not just a pet pig, but one to be kept in the house. Now I am an amiable person, but a pig in the house? That was really testing the limits of my congeniality.
Buddy is not your usual husband. He is kind, helpful, and loves me to a fault. Actually he is very hard to say no to. Knowing that my days are considered numbered due to active cancer, I decided to let him have his pet pig as a parting present. I kept it a secret and didn’t tell him that I was seriously trying to find a piglet. I just rolled my eyes anytime the subject came up.
A friend helped me locate a genuine pig farmer not too far from the house. I called the pig breeder who confirmed he had pigs of all sizes. I told him I wanted a baby for my husband and would be at his farm before Valentine to pick him up.
My sister was in town, so on Friday we shopped for the best, most expensive high protein pig pellets we could find. Next we got some good quality kitty litter and a huge paint roller box to serve as “Gussy’s” litter box. I never believed for a minute a pig could be trained to use a kitty box, but the research said she would.
My energy level is very low, especially in the afternoon, so by the time we got Gussy’s collar and other toys, I was ready to let Buddy in on the surprise. I sent him to unload the trunk full of pellets.
When Buddy came back into the house, there was a smile on his face from ear to ear. He searched every room looking for the piglet. He was disappointed that I hadn’t already gotten him. I explained that the pig farmer was supposed to be home the next afternoon and he could go with me to pick his piglet out. Buddy and our son, Charlie, had already changed Gussy’s name to “Bacon.”
The man I had spoken to wasn’t home and his elderly father insisted there weren’t any baby pigs. I insisted that he must be mistaken since his son had told me so. The elderly man reluctantly told us to drive up to the pig pens and look for ourselves.
Buddy and I walked in muck past our ankles from one pig pen to another. There were hundreds of hogs, each pen as full as the next.
We spotted a sow that must have weighed 1000 pounds. As for a piglet, the smallest pig that we saw weighed more than me and, until recently, I shopped in the plus department.
The hog smell was not something you would find in a fine perfume shop. You could have collected that stench, put it in a gas bomb, and destroyed a large, unsuspecting nation. It took less than twenty minutes for Buddy to decide he didn’t want a pig after all.
We thanked the old gentleman and headed home for quick showers. Neither of us said a word as we rolled down the windows and breathed the wonderfully fresh mountain air.
It wasn’t a total loss. I am not one to waste food. The pellets mixed up well with the meat loaf.
Oink. Oink.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
We’ve all heard the quote, “The hurrier I go, the behinder I get.” That’s me. Funny how so many of our friends and family members think that because Buddy and I are technically “retired,” we sit on the porch and rock away our days. Far from it.
We cram so much into a day that we have to schedule our headaches. I make promises to myself that I plan to keep when all the conditions are perfect which they never are.
I have been writing the Journal of a Living Lady for about 11 years. Writer’s block is becoming more frequent as I age, so I slowed down the pace a bit. Now I try to get this column to the publisher every two weeks. There were a few unhappy murmurs from good friends, but they understand. I have too much on my plate, but can’t bring myself to unload any of it yet. Everything and everybody is important to me.
Out of nearly 400 essays, it surprises me that someone will remember one written years ago. A column frequently mentioned has to do with Valentine’s Day. Let me share it again for those of you who have never read it. Yes, it is deadline time. If it wasn't for the last minute, nothing would get done.
Generally, at our age, we just blurt out what we want for a special occasion. Hinting is for young folks who can still hear well.
I told Buddy no roses for Valentines this year. For that price I could get something more touching like a therapeutic massage. With a son then in college, luxuries were low on our priority list. Since Buddy would insist on buying roses and take me to dinner anyway, I suggested a romantic substitute. Instead of eating out, I would treat him to his favorite meatloaf dinner with candlelight and banana pudding.
What Buddy requested for Valentine’s Day surprised me. He has always wanted and I have always refused a pet pig. Not that we didn’t have a baby pig once. We kept him in the back of our three acres in Stockbridge. Porky was an entertaining pet. He looked forward to Buddy’s coming home from work each day and squealed and did a jig when he heard the old truck turn the corner.
Alas, as all pigs do, Porky grew and grew and grew. Finally we had a 400 pound pet that was eating more than our family, which included a host of needy kids who were living with us at the time. Our family could never have eaten Porky anyway, so he went to a co-worker who left singing, “This little piggy went to market.” That mean man had Porky slaughtered the next day and his family ate him all year. So much for the pig phase. At least I thought so.
But this last Valentine Day, Buddy wanted a pig. Not just a pet pig, but one to be kept in the house. Now I am an amiable person, but a pig in the house? That was really testing the limits of my congeniality.
Buddy is not your usual husband. He is kind, helpful, and loves me to a fault. Actually he is very hard to say no to. Knowing that my days are considered numbered due to active cancer, I decided to let him have his pet pig as a parting present. I kept it a secret and didn’t tell him that I was seriously trying to find a piglet. I just rolled my eyes anytime the subject came up.
A friend helped me locate a genuine pig farmer not too far from the house. I called the pig breeder who confirmed he had pigs of all sizes. I told him I wanted a baby for my husband and would be at his farm before Valentine to pick him up.
My sister was in town, so on Friday we shopped for the best, most expensive high protein pig pellets we could find. Next we got some good quality kitty litter and a huge paint roller box to serve as “Gussy’s” litter box. I never believed for a minute a pig could be trained to use a kitty box, but the research said she would.
My energy level is very low, especially in the afternoon, so by the time we got Gussy’s collar and other toys, I was ready to let Buddy in on the surprise. I sent him to unload the trunk full of pellets.
When Buddy came back into the house, there was a smile on his face from ear to ear. He searched every room looking for the piglet. He was disappointed that I hadn’t already gotten him. I explained that the pig farmer was supposed to be home the next afternoon and he could go with me to pick his piglet out. Buddy and our son, Charlie, had already changed Gussy’s name to “Bacon.”
The man I had spoken to wasn’t home and his elderly father insisted there weren’t any baby pigs. I insisted that he must be mistaken since his son had told me so. The elderly man reluctantly told us to drive up to the pig pens and look for ourselves.
Buddy and I walked in muck past our ankles from one pig pen to another. There were hundreds of hogs, each pen as full as the next.
We spotted a sow that must have weighed 1000 pounds. As for a piglet, the smallest pig that we saw weighed more than me and, until recently, I shopped in the plus department.
The hog smell was not something you would find in a fine perfume shop. You could have collected that stench, put it in a gas bomb, and destroyed a large, unsuspecting nation. It took less than twenty minutes for Buddy to decide he didn’t want a pig after all.
We thanked the old gentleman and headed home for quick showers. Neither of us said a word as we rolled down the windows and breathed the wonderfully fresh mountain air.
It wasn’t a total loss. I am not one to waste food. The pellets mixed up well with the meat loaf.
Oink. Oink.
nancyk@windstream.net
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #376
Nancy White Kelly
She is ninety-years-old. There is not a shared drop of blood between us. As I finish up the dishes, she and Buddy are in deep conversation about everything from the depression era to modern politics.
I met Allie (name changed) about four years ago. I was in the coin shop when a dilapidated van puttered into the drive. An elderly lady slowly got out of the driver side and made her way to the passenger side. I watched, almost in horror, as she assisted a big, tall man get out of the vehicle. He was more than twice her size and probably even older. The blue of his diaper showed above his belt line.
They were there to sell a few tiny gold coins. During the conversation that ensued, I found out that they lived high on a mountain in North Carolina. The couple, married for sixty-two years, were so obviously in love and even more obviously poor.
This unlikely pair were cutting their own wood to stay warm on those cold days and practically living in one room with a small heater. They had no local kin folks. Allie has a niece in Texas, a step-son in Florida and a distant relative up north who is also up in age. I kept their phone number and told them to call if they ever had a need.
Allie did call me a couple times just to talk. She didn’t complain, just commented on the tough reality of the times. A few months later her husband entered a nursing home and she was alone, unable to drive and dependent on neighbors to get groceries or to visit occasionally with her ailing husband.
That was when I started checking on Allie regularly. After a couple of weeks of not answering my calls, I finally tracked her to the same nursing home where her husband had recently died. She had something akin to a stroke and the state had taken total control of her property.
I have since talked to the case worker and think they are doing what is considered best in her interest. Even though Allie’s husband was a retired full colonel, having worked himself up from the ranks, they entered the twilight years with more bills than money.
The first time I visited Allie after her stroke, she vaguely remembered me. Gradually her mind returned to be as sharp as before. Eventually I was able to take Allie, and her squeaky walker, for short trips to eat at a restaurant. She had no money and was embarrassed at her inability to even pay the tip.
My Sunday school class bought her a few clothes and she was thrilled. Every time I visit Allie I take a few dime store goodies and some fruit. You would think it was Christmas.
Today we had Allie for an afternoon of whatevers. Buddy fixed that noisy walker and attached tennis balls to the rear wheels. Smells of spaghetti, her favorite food, filled the house as we chatted, read and laughed.
When we were ready to return Allie to the nursing facility for the night, she wasn’t ready. Being in the real world, in a normal home, was a surreal experience for her. She didn’t want it to end.
Later, when I checked her into the care facility and got her settled in her tight, two-person room, tears ran down her cheek. We hugged. I told her I loved her and her voice trembled in a mumbled reply as we parted. After the grandchildren come next week, I promised I would be back.
There are so many like Allie in this world. While we can’t pay attention to all, most all of us can take interest in at least one.
I am learning that some of the best conversations are with those under six or over eighty.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
She is ninety-years-old. There is not a shared drop of blood between us. As I finish up the dishes, she and Buddy are in deep conversation about everything from the depression era to modern politics.
I met Allie (name changed) about four years ago. I was in the coin shop when a dilapidated van puttered into the drive. An elderly lady slowly got out of the driver side and made her way to the passenger side. I watched, almost in horror, as she assisted a big, tall man get out of the vehicle. He was more than twice her size and probably even older. The blue of his diaper showed above his belt line.
They were there to sell a few tiny gold coins. During the conversation that ensued, I found out that they lived high on a mountain in North Carolina. The couple, married for sixty-two years, were so obviously in love and even more obviously poor.
This unlikely pair were cutting their own wood to stay warm on those cold days and practically living in one room with a small heater. They had no local kin folks. Allie has a niece in Texas, a step-son in Florida and a distant relative up north who is also up in age. I kept their phone number and told them to call if they ever had a need.
Allie did call me a couple times just to talk. She didn’t complain, just commented on the tough reality of the times. A few months later her husband entered a nursing home and she was alone, unable to drive and dependent on neighbors to get groceries or to visit occasionally with her ailing husband.
That was when I started checking on Allie regularly. After a couple of weeks of not answering my calls, I finally tracked her to the same nursing home where her husband had recently died. She had something akin to a stroke and the state had taken total control of her property.
I have since talked to the case worker and think they are doing what is considered best in her interest. Even though Allie’s husband was a retired full colonel, having worked himself up from the ranks, they entered the twilight years with more bills than money.
The first time I visited Allie after her stroke, she vaguely remembered me. Gradually her mind returned to be as sharp as before. Eventually I was able to take Allie, and her squeaky walker, for short trips to eat at a restaurant. She had no money and was embarrassed at her inability to even pay the tip.
My Sunday school class bought her a few clothes and she was thrilled. Every time I visit Allie I take a few dime store goodies and some fruit. You would think it was Christmas.
Today we had Allie for an afternoon of whatevers. Buddy fixed that noisy walker and attached tennis balls to the rear wheels. Smells of spaghetti, her favorite food, filled the house as we chatted, read and laughed.
When we were ready to return Allie to the nursing facility for the night, she wasn’t ready. Being in the real world, in a normal home, was a surreal experience for her. She didn’t want it to end.
Later, when I checked her into the care facility and got her settled in her tight, two-person room, tears ran down her cheek. We hugged. I told her I loved her and her voice trembled in a mumbled reply as we parted. After the grandchildren come next week, I promised I would be back.
There are so many like Allie in this world. While we can’t pay attention to all, most all of us can take interest in at least one.
I am learning that some of the best conversations are with those under six or over eighty.
nancyk@windstream.net
Thursday, July 08, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #375
Nancy White Kelly
Being the second of five siblings, my life has always involved children. My parent’s last two babies came so much later in my life that I became their surrogate mother and am, to this day, second mother to a sister in her forties and a brother in his fifties. I find it hard to imagine now that I changed thousands of cloth diapers for that last brother who is now 6 foot 4 and weighs well over 300 pounds. The irony is that the sum total weight of all five grown children now would approach at least 15 times the weight of our mother who was less than 100 pounds soaking wet.
Babies grow up. After college, I became a teacher and later spend the last part of my career as a school principal. In the meanwhile, Buddy and I helped raise 12 foster children and adopted the last one, Bobby, when he was 10. He now has two children himself. Charlie, our birth son, who arrived after 15 years of earnest prayer, also has two children: Micah, age 5 and Noah, age 3.
Though the grand boys are close in age and look-alikes, they are as different as chalk and cheese. Noah, the youngest, is an energetic walking-talking dynamo. One thing I know for sure. I am not smarter than a three-year old. Noah already displays a family passion for humor and words. Last week he told his brother he had “good news and bad news.”
Little Micah came into the world a bit premature. It has been a long journey to get to a diagnosis of mildly autistic. The first clue that there might be a problem was that Micah never crawled. He got around with a military elbow pull. We weren’t overly concerned. He walked a few months later and that was all that mattered to us. Another clue we missed was that he was meticulously orderly, especially with his little cars. When Micah first showed interest those little four-wheel vehicles, family and friends bestowed him with hundreds in every shape and color. The miniature cars could not be parked just any ole way. They had to be lined up perfectly according to size, type, or color. If not, we were blasted with his version of the sky is falling. At first we all thought it was a cute quirk. Not so now. Obsession was another symptom of his autism.
Thankfully, Micah’s I.Q. measures in the mid-normal range. Yet, his speech development has been slow. His potty-training was prolonged, but finally mastered. He is a quiet, self-absorbed child who can entertain himself for hours.
From those early months, Charlie and Tori have diligently pursued intensive speech and occupational therapy. This early intervention may be the one thing that has and will continue to keep him main-streamed. Though unlikely to greet you with high-fives, most people would not even notice that Micah is autistic.
Surprisingly, he has taken up a new, intense interest which I will share another time. Who knows? Micah may become the next expert in poikilothermic, ectothermic tetrapods. I have just ordered some books so Granny can keep up.
Obviously autism has taken a toll on the family finances, especially on a school teacher’s salary. Now Charlie is feeling led to the ministry and, if all goes as planned, he and the family will be moving to Kentucky in a few months so he can attend seminary. Only The Lord knows how they will manage the expense, but that is what faith is all about. When the Lord calls, he provides.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Being the second of five siblings, my life has always involved children. My parent’s last two babies came so much later in my life that I became their surrogate mother and am, to this day, second mother to a sister in her forties and a brother in his fifties. I find it hard to imagine now that I changed thousands of cloth diapers for that last brother who is now 6 foot 4 and weighs well over 300 pounds. The irony is that the sum total weight of all five grown children now would approach at least 15 times the weight of our mother who was less than 100 pounds soaking wet.
Babies grow up. After college, I became a teacher and later spend the last part of my career as a school principal. In the meanwhile, Buddy and I helped raise 12 foster children and adopted the last one, Bobby, when he was 10. He now has two children himself. Charlie, our birth son, who arrived after 15 years of earnest prayer, also has two children: Micah, age 5 and Noah, age 3.
Though the grand boys are close in age and look-alikes, they are as different as chalk and cheese. Noah, the youngest, is an energetic walking-talking dynamo. One thing I know for sure. I am not smarter than a three-year old. Noah already displays a family passion for humor and words. Last week he told his brother he had “good news and bad news.”
Little Micah came into the world a bit premature. It has been a long journey to get to a diagnosis of mildly autistic. The first clue that there might be a problem was that Micah never crawled. He got around with a military elbow pull. We weren’t overly concerned. He walked a few months later and that was all that mattered to us. Another clue we missed was that he was meticulously orderly, especially with his little cars. When Micah first showed interest those little four-wheel vehicles, family and friends bestowed him with hundreds in every shape and color. The miniature cars could not be parked just any ole way. They had to be lined up perfectly according to size, type, or color. If not, we were blasted with his version of the sky is falling. At first we all thought it was a cute quirk. Not so now. Obsession was another symptom of his autism.
Thankfully, Micah’s I.Q. measures in the mid-normal range. Yet, his speech development has been slow. His potty-training was prolonged, but finally mastered. He is a quiet, self-absorbed child who can entertain himself for hours.
From those early months, Charlie and Tori have diligently pursued intensive speech and occupational therapy. This early intervention may be the one thing that has and will continue to keep him main-streamed. Though unlikely to greet you with high-fives, most people would not even notice that Micah is autistic.
Surprisingly, he has taken up a new, intense interest which I will share another time. Who knows? Micah may become the next expert in poikilothermic, ectothermic tetrapods. I have just ordered some books so Granny can keep up.
Obviously autism has taken a toll on the family finances, especially on a school teacher’s salary. Now Charlie is feeling led to the ministry and, if all goes as planned, he and the family will be moving to Kentucky in a few months so he can attend seminary. Only The Lord knows how they will manage the expense, but that is what faith is all about. When the Lord calls, he provides.
nancyk@windstream.net
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #374
Nancy White Kelly
Some weeks are normal and other anything but. Recently Buddy and I took a rare visit to our respective hometowns in Tennessee and Mississippi. We had nice visits with our siblings and extended family. We are all obviously aging and in that inevitable transition from children to senior adults.
While visiting my brother Charles’ farm, Buddy got his first opportunity to try out the miniature video camera I gave him for his birthday. I told him that at age 78 the best was yet to come and to capture it for posterity. His most prized clip so far features Charles’ jackass enjoying a carrot dangling from Buddy’s lips. And to think I used to romantically kiss those same ancient puckers.
On the way home, we passed a serious wreck on the interstate near Chattanooga. It is doubtful that the driver lived as the over-turned jeep poured ominous black smoke which could be seen for miles. We doubled-checked our seatbelts.
Coming down Cohutta mountain, we were stopped around a blind curve by a host of state troopers. Thankfully we had made sure we had our registration and insurance papers in tact before we left. From the looks of the line of other cars parked to the side, many others had not.
We were delighted to find Sam, our Siamese cat, alive. He eagerly greeted us in the drive-way. When we left, he had been gone for two days, neither normal nor unusual either. He has a harem somewhere, but doesn’t understand he is forever fixed. Fortunately the church lady who was house and dog sitting our dachshund Patch kept hearing meows. She did some sleuthing and found him locked under the house. Obviously he snuck in behind Buddy when he inched his way in the dirt basement to check the water heater before our trip. Other than being tired, hungry, and thirsty, Sam was okay, just mad.
Immediately after we fell in bed on Sunday evening, Charlie called and needed a favor. Could we babysit Tuesday so Tori could go with him to the Braves game as he was tapped to drive the church bus? As she would be returning the next day from a week long mission trip, he and she would like some time together. No problem. We don’t need much of an excuse to visit with Micah and Noah.
I spent Monday catching up with laundry, bills, and grocery shopping. Buddy cut the ever-growing grass. After bedtime, I got the munches and decided on a bowl of cereal. Big mistake!
Even before the alarm sounded, I awakened with a severe headache. Nothing helped. I walked the floor. With no relief, I ran water from the sink hose forcefully on my throbbing brain. Then it got worse. My intestines grumbled for attention. Minutes later I was violently barfing, almost wishing to die or at least black out until the misery passed.
There wasn’t much Buddy could do to help, but he tried. He shook me every ten minutes to see if I was still alive after such violent vomiting. He offered me a variety of belly-soothers: water, tomato soup, and even a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. All I wanted was to be still and quiet.
I hated disappointing Charlie and Tori. They don’t ask for help often, but there was no way I could delightfully entertain a three and five year old in my state of being. I looked more like a wild-haired monster than their Granny.
I chalked up the illness to a nasty ole stomach virus. For a whole day I was most miserable. It was also lost day for my customers of the Ye Old Coin Shop, many who had patiently awaited my return from our mini-vacation. Buddy told them that they would have to wait a little longer.
What I soon found out was that this wasn’t a virus at all. According to the press reports, there was a recall being made of sugar pop cereal from a major company with the same initial as my last name. Seems a certain packaging held the innocent-looking, but villainous food.
As soon as my eyes could focus well enough, I checked the UPC symbol. The code matched. I had consumed the product that was being recalled.
What is the value of a lost day of your life? What is a day of “wish I were dead” misery worth? What about the ancillary losses to my husband, son, daughter-in-law, and grandsons? Some friends have half-teasingly asked if I planned to sue.
According to my research, it wouldn’t be worth the time to pursue the matter. I did contact the company. Their response was for me to send them full contact information and the recalled product codes. Then they would gladly send me a coupon for a replacement box of cereal.
Thanks, but no thanks.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Some weeks are normal and other anything but. Recently Buddy and I took a rare visit to our respective hometowns in Tennessee and Mississippi. We had nice visits with our siblings and extended family. We are all obviously aging and in that inevitable transition from children to senior adults.
While visiting my brother Charles’ farm, Buddy got his first opportunity to try out the miniature video camera I gave him for his birthday. I told him that at age 78 the best was yet to come and to capture it for posterity. His most prized clip so far features Charles’ jackass enjoying a carrot dangling from Buddy’s lips. And to think I used to romantically kiss those same ancient puckers.
On the way home, we passed a serious wreck on the interstate near Chattanooga. It is doubtful that the driver lived as the over-turned jeep poured ominous black smoke which could be seen for miles. We doubled-checked our seatbelts.
Coming down Cohutta mountain, we were stopped around a blind curve by a host of state troopers. Thankfully we had made sure we had our registration and insurance papers in tact before we left. From the looks of the line of other cars parked to the side, many others had not.
We were delighted to find Sam, our Siamese cat, alive. He eagerly greeted us in the drive-way. When we left, he had been gone for two days, neither normal nor unusual either. He has a harem somewhere, but doesn’t understand he is forever fixed. Fortunately the church lady who was house and dog sitting our dachshund Patch kept hearing meows. She did some sleuthing and found him locked under the house. Obviously he snuck in behind Buddy when he inched his way in the dirt basement to check the water heater before our trip. Other than being tired, hungry, and thirsty, Sam was okay, just mad.
Immediately after we fell in bed on Sunday evening, Charlie called and needed a favor. Could we babysit Tuesday so Tori could go with him to the Braves game as he was tapped to drive the church bus? As she would be returning the next day from a week long mission trip, he and she would like some time together. No problem. We don’t need much of an excuse to visit with Micah and Noah.
I spent Monday catching up with laundry, bills, and grocery shopping. Buddy cut the ever-growing grass. After bedtime, I got the munches and decided on a bowl of cereal. Big mistake!
Even before the alarm sounded, I awakened with a severe headache. Nothing helped. I walked the floor. With no relief, I ran water from the sink hose forcefully on my throbbing brain. Then it got worse. My intestines grumbled for attention. Minutes later I was violently barfing, almost wishing to die or at least black out until the misery passed.
There wasn’t much Buddy could do to help, but he tried. He shook me every ten minutes to see if I was still alive after such violent vomiting. He offered me a variety of belly-soothers: water, tomato soup, and even a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. All I wanted was to be still and quiet.
I hated disappointing Charlie and Tori. They don’t ask for help often, but there was no way I could delightfully entertain a three and five year old in my state of being. I looked more like a wild-haired monster than their Granny.
I chalked up the illness to a nasty ole stomach virus. For a whole day I was most miserable. It was also lost day for my customers of the Ye Old Coin Shop, many who had patiently awaited my return from our mini-vacation. Buddy told them that they would have to wait a little longer.
What I soon found out was that this wasn’t a virus at all. According to the press reports, there was a recall being made of sugar pop cereal from a major company with the same initial as my last name. Seems a certain packaging held the innocent-looking, but villainous food.
As soon as my eyes could focus well enough, I checked the UPC symbol. The code matched. I had consumed the product that was being recalled.
What is the value of a lost day of your life? What is a day of “wish I were dead” misery worth? What about the ancillary losses to my husband, son, daughter-in-law, and grandsons? Some friends have half-teasingly asked if I planned to sue.
According to my research, it wouldn’t be worth the time to pursue the matter. I did contact the company. Their response was for me to send them full contact information and the recalled product codes. Then they would gladly send me a coupon for a replacement box of cereal.
Thanks, but no thanks.
nancyk@windstream.net
Saturday, June 05, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #373
Nancy White Kelly
The Living Lady has three speeds: on, off, and don't press your luck. Buddy says I am easy to get along with most of the time and he ought to know. It does take a lot to push my buttons so when I get steamed, it warrants a column.
Buddy and I are animal lovers. Our repertoire of animals and fowl over forty-five years of marriage has run the gamut. We once had a pet raccoon that had a connoisseur taste for our neighbor’s chickens. Bye-bye, Coonie.
Four years ago, twin goats were birthed in our bathtub. Some foreigners adopted them with a promise they weren’t for sacrifice.
We’ve had finches to Macaws. Last winter we had 100 cockatiels, an unintended teaching experiment on color mutation and exponententiality.
Back in the 60’s, Buddy and I obtained an organ-grinder monkey on a crazy whim. That capuchin didn’t like my main man one bit. Whenever Buddy approached the monkey’s pen to look closer, the cagy little beast would leap forward and swiftly run two long, slinky fingers up Buddy’s nose. My “for sale” ad simply said, “husband allergic.”
Animals have come and gone from the Kelly home for various reasons. Our menagerie has dwindled. We now have a Siamese cat named Sam and an orphaned cockatiel named Chipper.
The bird and Buddy do a duet whistle of the first few bars of the Marine hymn each morning. I salute the flag. Buddy was in the Navy, but what does that matter?
Our pet Chihuahua, Oppie, died a couple of years ago of old age. Soon after, I got another chi who escaped our opened doggie door. She ran across the road in front of a car. Our neighbor mercifully disposed of her battered body. It took a while to recover from the guilt of my being so negligent.
Eventually I placed a few computer-generated brochures around the community seeking another lapdog. I had forgotten about those notices until I received a call a few days ago. A lady asked if I were still looking for a pup. A friendly conversation ensued. She said her son who lived in another town was going back to school and had a 3-month-old dachshund that he couldn’t keep. The mother said he was looking for a good home for the dog. I excitedly envisioned having a new canine addition to our family. The caller didn’t think he wanted any money for the puppy which was a nice plus. She asked if her son could call me.
“Of course.”
Within a few hours the son relayed the same story. He did say he’d like fifty dollars to cover her shots which was reasonable. I agreed to that amount. He said he’d be in Blairsville on Sunday. We agreed to meet after church.
I spent the week fixing up a tiny spare room. Next came the purchase of a crate, bed, food, leash, collar and a few doggy toys. On Saturday night I called the young man to agree on a definite time and place to meet. To my surprise, the fellow wasn’t happy to hear from me. He spoke rather abruptly and said it was “first come, first served.”
My heart sank as I explained that I thought it was a done deal. He said his mother had promised him to the vet. That was puzzling since she was the one who first contacted me. The boy-man was obviously conflicted and eventually softened. He would meet me at the pizza place on the square just after I finished teaching my Sunday school class.
My relief was short-lived. A few minutes later he called back and said the dog was promised to the vet. I choked up, angrier than any mad hatter or wet hen. I tried to control my quaking voice. Nothing I said changed the matter.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. My mind flooded with sad memories. There was a time many years ago when Buddy and I were expecting a baby boy and had already set up the nursery. The pregnancy terminated unexpectedly and I was devastated for months.
After I hung up the phone, Buddy came through the den and noticed my flowing tears. He was furious. Not that he cared so much about getting a puppy, but that I was so saddened. He insisted I find another dog “immediately.” I said I would in time. My heart wasn’t in it then.
A few days later I told this story to a lady I met at a flea market. She said she had just seen an ad for a 3- month-old dachshund puppy in a local newspaper. Thirty minutes later I had that ad in hand and called. Yes, the breeder had an adoptable puppy returned because of the buyer’s hospitalization.
Buddy and I were at the seller’s country home as fast as we could put the address on the GPS. The waiting dachshund puppy, with his long body and floppy ears, was irresistible. He was white with large, copper spots. The attachment was instant and mutual. Within twenty minutes we were on the way home to Young Harris with our peppy puppy.
Trying to come up with an appropriate name for him hasn’t been easy. Solo and Scooter are prevalent names for that breed in our family. Somehow they didn’t fit our new pup. We tried Zeke, Zack, Ziggy, Doxie, Hershey, Oogle, Gizmo, and a host of other names before arriving on one that fits. His name is Patch.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
The Living Lady has three speeds: on, off, and don't press your luck. Buddy says I am easy to get along with most of the time and he ought to know. It does take a lot to push my buttons so when I get steamed, it warrants a column.
Buddy and I are animal lovers. Our repertoire of animals and fowl over forty-five years of marriage has run the gamut. We once had a pet raccoon that had a connoisseur taste for our neighbor’s chickens. Bye-bye, Coonie.
Four years ago, twin goats were birthed in our bathtub. Some foreigners adopted them with a promise they weren’t for sacrifice.
We’ve had finches to Macaws. Last winter we had 100 cockatiels, an unintended teaching experiment on color mutation and exponententiality.
Back in the 60’s, Buddy and I obtained an organ-grinder monkey on a crazy whim. That capuchin didn’t like my main man one bit. Whenever Buddy approached the monkey’s pen to look closer, the cagy little beast would leap forward and swiftly run two long, slinky fingers up Buddy’s nose. My “for sale” ad simply said, “husband allergic.”
Animals have come and gone from the Kelly home for various reasons. Our menagerie has dwindled. We now have a Siamese cat named Sam and an orphaned cockatiel named Chipper.
The bird and Buddy do a duet whistle of the first few bars of the Marine hymn each morning. I salute the flag. Buddy was in the Navy, but what does that matter?
Our pet Chihuahua, Oppie, died a couple of years ago of old age. Soon after, I got another chi who escaped our opened doggie door. She ran across the road in front of a car. Our neighbor mercifully disposed of her battered body. It took a while to recover from the guilt of my being so negligent.
Eventually I placed a few computer-generated brochures around the community seeking another lapdog. I had forgotten about those notices until I received a call a few days ago. A lady asked if I were still looking for a pup. A friendly conversation ensued. She said her son who lived in another town was going back to school and had a 3-month-old dachshund that he couldn’t keep. The mother said he was looking for a good home for the dog. I excitedly envisioned having a new canine addition to our family. The caller didn’t think he wanted any money for the puppy which was a nice plus. She asked if her son could call me.
“Of course.”
Within a few hours the son relayed the same story. He did say he’d like fifty dollars to cover her shots which was reasonable. I agreed to that amount. He said he’d be in Blairsville on Sunday. We agreed to meet after church.
I spent the week fixing up a tiny spare room. Next came the purchase of a crate, bed, food, leash, collar and a few doggy toys. On Saturday night I called the young man to agree on a definite time and place to meet. To my surprise, the fellow wasn’t happy to hear from me. He spoke rather abruptly and said it was “first come, first served.”
My heart sank as I explained that I thought it was a done deal. He said his mother had promised him to the vet. That was puzzling since she was the one who first contacted me. The boy-man was obviously conflicted and eventually softened. He would meet me at the pizza place on the square just after I finished teaching my Sunday school class.
My relief was short-lived. A few minutes later he called back and said the dog was promised to the vet. I choked up, angrier than any mad hatter or wet hen. I tried to control my quaking voice. Nothing I said changed the matter.
It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. My mind flooded with sad memories. There was a time many years ago when Buddy and I were expecting a baby boy and had already set up the nursery. The pregnancy terminated unexpectedly and I was devastated for months.
After I hung up the phone, Buddy came through the den and noticed my flowing tears. He was furious. Not that he cared so much about getting a puppy, but that I was so saddened. He insisted I find another dog “immediately.” I said I would in time. My heart wasn’t in it then.
A few days later I told this story to a lady I met at a flea market. She said she had just seen an ad for a 3- month-old dachshund puppy in a local newspaper. Thirty minutes later I had that ad in hand and called. Yes, the breeder had an adoptable puppy returned because of the buyer’s hospitalization.
Buddy and I were at the seller’s country home as fast as we could put the address on the GPS. The waiting dachshund puppy, with his long body and floppy ears, was irresistible. He was white with large, copper spots. The attachment was instant and mutual. Within twenty minutes we were on the way home to Young Harris with our peppy puppy.
Trying to come up with an appropriate name for him hasn’t been easy. Solo and Scooter are prevalent names for that breed in our family. Somehow they didn’t fit our new pup. We tried Zeke, Zack, Ziggy, Doxie, Hershey, Oogle, Gizmo, and a host of other names before arriving on one that fits. His name is Patch.
nancyk@windstream.net
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #372
Nancy White Kelly
Some of my favorite friends are the insulting kind. You know…those people who teasingly throw out sarcastic, linguistic jabs at lightening fast speed. These pundits know their victims well and are selective about who is on the receiving end of these verbal acts. Only members of the Mutual Admiration Society participate. It would be an act of social war to send the same message to someone whose heart is housed in a body wrapped in sensitive skin.
A reader wrote me this note just after my book, Journal of a Living Lady, was published: "Thanks for sending me a copy of your book; I'll waste no time reading it." That reader and I have known each other for more than thirty years and we have a history of comedic slams.
Perverse or reverse humor has been around a long time. You might be surprised at the people who have engaged in such verbal warfare. These are a couple of my choice quotes:
"I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play; bring a friend.... if you have one."
- George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill
"Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second... if there is one." - Winston Churchill, in response.
***
"He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary."
- William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway).
'Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?' - Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)
***
Unfortunately, not all wit is well-intentioned. Remember the exchange between
Churchill & Lady Astor. She said, "If you were my husband I'd give you poison."
He replied, "If you were my wife, I'd drink it."
And finally. A member of Parliament discoursed to Disraeli: "Sir, you will either die on the gallows or of some unspeakable disease."
"That depends, Sir," said Disraeli, "whether I embrace your policies or your mistress."
I have always heard that quick wit is a sign of lofty intelligence. Even though I carry an ancient Mensa membership card as a reminder of smarter days, I still don’t qualify for the elite group who can instantly return a swicket.
But to my good friend who is always late, I offer a defense on her behalf. She has good reason for perpetual tardiness. Her ancestors arrived on the Juneflower.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Some of my favorite friends are the insulting kind. You know…those people who teasingly throw out sarcastic, linguistic jabs at lightening fast speed. These pundits know their victims well and are selective about who is on the receiving end of these verbal acts. Only members of the Mutual Admiration Society participate. It would be an act of social war to send the same message to someone whose heart is housed in a body wrapped in sensitive skin.
A reader wrote me this note just after my book, Journal of a Living Lady, was published: "Thanks for sending me a copy of your book; I'll waste no time reading it." That reader and I have known each other for more than thirty years and we have a history of comedic slams.
Perverse or reverse humor has been around a long time. You might be surprised at the people who have engaged in such verbal warfare. These are a couple of my choice quotes:
"I am enclosing two tickets to the first night of my new play; bring a friend.... if you have one."
- George Bernard Shaw to Winston Churchill
"Cannot possibly attend first night, will attend second... if there is one." - Winston Churchill, in response.
***
"He has never been known to use a word that might send a reader to the dictionary."
- William Faulkner (about Ernest Hemingway).
'Poor Faulkner. Does he really think big emotions come from big words?' - Ernest Hemingway (about William Faulkner)
***
Unfortunately, not all wit is well-intentioned. Remember the exchange between
Churchill & Lady Astor. She said, "If you were my husband I'd give you poison."
He replied, "If you were my wife, I'd drink it."
And finally. A member of Parliament discoursed to Disraeli: "Sir, you will either die on the gallows or of some unspeakable disease."
"That depends, Sir," said Disraeli, "whether I embrace your policies or your mistress."
I have always heard that quick wit is a sign of lofty intelligence. Even though I carry an ancient Mensa membership card as a reminder of smarter days, I still don’t qualify for the elite group who can instantly return a swicket.
But to my good friend who is always late, I offer a defense on her behalf. She has good reason for perpetual tardiness. Her ancestors arrived on the Juneflower.
nancyk@windstream.net
Friday, May 07, 2010
Journal of a Living Lady #371
Nancy White Kelly
Notoriety is a funny thing. One day you are a nobody and gradually everybody, at least locally, seems to know you.
After writing a newspaper column for over 12 years, being on Oprah, surviving two major and public bouts of cancer, writing a book, traveling the world, you might expect a few fans. But not the paparazzi. Not in the quaint mountain town of Young Harris, Georgia.
Recently Buddy and I were preparing for a morning visit to town. We needed a belt for the vacuum cleaner. It was a good excuse to stop for pancakes at a cozy restaurant across the street from our church.
There was coolness in the house so I donned a light jacket and glanced outside for a more accurate check on the weather.
To my amazement there was a small crowd of folks at the far corner of our property. Parked cars lined the street near the edge of the pasture.
“Come see this” I called to Buddy. “Twenty-five people or more are gathered outside. They have cameras and binoculars.”
Buddy sprinted across the den. His eyes widened in disbelief.
“What are they doing?” he whispered.
“I don’t know, but they sure seem interested in us.”
No longer whispering, Buddy asked with a hint of distain, “Have you applied for a reality show?”
“No, have you?” I asked with obvious sarcasm.
Being slightly famous is fun for some. Not so much for me. I don’t care to be followed by nosey reporters. Never will I be a candidate for that dancing program which aims to make buffoons of aging actresses, astronauts, and computer programmers. Five extra minutes of fame can be detrimental to one’s legacy.
Nevertheless, I went to the bathroom, fluffed my hair and re-applied my make-up. This time I was careful that my lipstick was straight. Never know when a candid picture may show up on the cover of People magazine.
Buddy and I quietly got into the car. Our three acres has total road frontage. Buddy suggested we travel the back section which butted the main frontage road just behind the group. If all went as planned, the celebrity hounds wouldn’t notice us at all.
Buddy slowly made his way up the gravely incline and inched toward the stop sign. So far we had not drawn attention. As we drew closer to the conspicuously quiet group, we could see faces.
There they were, men and women outfitted in comfortable outdoor attire, staring intently through large binoculars.
Buddy and I were proud of our near escape. While the crowd was looking high and low, we were about to turn the opposite direction.
I was the first to spot an identification badge. I spontaneously laughed so hard I held my belly.
“Turn left, honey. Not right. Left”
Puzzled at my hysterical out-burst and strange request, Buddy dutifully turned left in front of the group of mostly middle-aged stalkers.
Buddy lowered his side window as he slowly passed by.
“Howdy, folks. It’s a nice day,” he said pleasantly to the man closest to the road. Then Buddy moaned as the words on the badge sunk in.
Written in bold block letters was an I.D.: “BIRD WATCHER.”
Buddy and I meekly gave little waves as we continued down the road.
What lesson was learned that memorable day? Some people are living legends in their own minds.
nancyk@windstream.net
Nancy White Kelly
Notoriety is a funny thing. One day you are a nobody and gradually everybody, at least locally, seems to know you.
After writing a newspaper column for over 12 years, being on Oprah, surviving two major and public bouts of cancer, writing a book, traveling the world, you might expect a few fans. But not the paparazzi. Not in the quaint mountain town of Young Harris, Georgia.
Recently Buddy and I were preparing for a morning visit to town. We needed a belt for the vacuum cleaner. It was a good excuse to stop for pancakes at a cozy restaurant across the street from our church.
There was coolness in the house so I donned a light jacket and glanced outside for a more accurate check on the weather.
To my amazement there was a small crowd of folks at the far corner of our property. Parked cars lined the street near the edge of the pasture.
“Come see this” I called to Buddy. “Twenty-five people or more are gathered outside. They have cameras and binoculars.”
Buddy sprinted across the den. His eyes widened in disbelief.
“What are they doing?” he whispered.
“I don’t know, but they sure seem interested in us.”
No longer whispering, Buddy asked with a hint of distain, “Have you applied for a reality show?”
“No, have you?” I asked with obvious sarcasm.
Being slightly famous is fun for some. Not so much for me. I don’t care to be followed by nosey reporters. Never will I be a candidate for that dancing program which aims to make buffoons of aging actresses, astronauts, and computer programmers. Five extra minutes of fame can be detrimental to one’s legacy.
Nevertheless, I went to the bathroom, fluffed my hair and re-applied my make-up. This time I was careful that my lipstick was straight. Never know when a candid picture may show up on the cover of People magazine.
Buddy and I quietly got into the car. Our three acres has total road frontage. Buddy suggested we travel the back section which butted the main frontage road just behind the group. If all went as planned, the celebrity hounds wouldn’t notice us at all.
Buddy slowly made his way up the gravely incline and inched toward the stop sign. So far we had not drawn attention. As we drew closer to the conspicuously quiet group, we could see faces.
There they were, men and women outfitted in comfortable outdoor attire, staring intently through large binoculars.
Buddy and I were proud of our near escape. While the crowd was looking high and low, we were about to turn the opposite direction.
I was the first to spot an identification badge. I spontaneously laughed so hard I held my belly.
“Turn left, honey. Not right. Left”
Puzzled at my hysterical out-burst and strange request, Buddy dutifully turned left in front of the group of mostly middle-aged stalkers.
Buddy lowered his side window as he slowly passed by.
“Howdy, folks. It’s a nice day,” he said pleasantly to the man closest to the road. Then Buddy moaned as the words on the badge sunk in.
Written in bold block letters was an I.D.: “BIRD WATCHER.”
Buddy and I meekly gave little waves as we continued down the road.
What lesson was learned that memorable day? Some people are living legends in their own minds.
nancyk@windstream.net
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