Memories of one more Christmas (1995)

Christmas Eve, and we were observing what has become a family tradition.  Everyone has gathered at my sister, Frances's house for food, fun, singing, and exchanging gifts.  Forty-five, I believe, was the total number of people crammed into that small house.

One bedroom held all of our winter coats, gloves, hats, and scarves.  All of the ladies purses were stashed in one closet, on the highest shelf, away from prying children's hands.  The other bedroom served as an expansion tank for periods of overflow, when a portion of that mass of humanity moved around, changing positions.  There were periods, when all the children, who had been exiled to the basement to play and roughhouse, would surge upstairs and all the adults would stand motionless, while they wiggled through toward some unknown destination.

All the food which Frances had prepared or others had brought, was laid out cafeteria style.  We would eat in stages, one small group at a time.  While one group was eating, the other sat or stood and talked.  The noise level has to be experienced to be appreciated or abhorred.  The range for voice communication was approximately two feet if you screamed at the top of your lungs, six inches if you spoke normally.  The scene made you think it was a reunion of secret tellers.  Everybody looked like they were whispering into someone else's ear.

It was an evening of unending miracles.  Somehow we were all fed without any serious injuries.  There were some mashed toes, a fork puncture or two, but thanks to skill and quick thinking, all bleeding was brought under control and no one passed out from loss of blood.

What a madhouse it turned into when it came time to pass out the gifts.  The term pass out is a very accurate usage of language in this instance.  The Christmas tree, which was positioned in one corner of the living room, was all but obscured by the heap of gifts.  Whoever was chosen to perform the task must, out of necessity, have a good arm.  The delivery of some of those packages would have made Terry Bradshaw green with envy.  He had never thrown a pass farther or with more accuracy, while guiding the projectile over, around and through obstructing heads and hands which were trying to intercept those packages in route to their intended destination.  There were invisible hand-offs and nimbly executed laterals but not one single run for yardage, unless it was in a pair of panty-hose.

It was December 24th, but the furnace was turned off and the front door was standing open.  No one could have remained conscious for longer than five minutes without that door being open.  All the oxygen would have been depleted long before that.  Everyone had their empty shopping bags at the ready.  As they received their gifts, they were placed in the shopping bags, and as each bag was filled, someone would shuttle them out the door and into a car trunk.  As soon as the gifts were passed out, those who couldn't take it any longer, would hug and kiss anyone within reach, thank them for their gift and say their good-bye’s on the move.  Slowly, the house had enough room for those remaining to find a corner to stand in.  Some truly fortunate souls actually found a place to SIT!

Despite the constant threat of a fire breaking out in all that crumpled up gift wrapping paper and empty boxes, the evening passed and the house escaped unscathed.  There were times when I imagined I could hear the floor joists moaning under the strain of all that weight and I thought I felt the house quiver a time or two, just momentarily.

Talk about miracles!  As hard as this is to believe, there is only one bathroom in that house.  Need I say anymore?

The evening of musical chairs ceased when someone managed to yell loud enough to get everyone's attention.  It was time to sing Christmas Carols.  We stood in corners, leaned on doorways, and walls.  The children were able to find a place to sit on the floor after all the wrapping paper and boxes had been picked up and stuffed into plastic garbage bags and placed out by the can rack in the side yard.  One after another, the talented members of the family would make their way over to the piano and play their own special selections while everybody sang.

I had waited for this all year.  Our family is so blessed by God, and sadly some of them can't see it.  They think that every family has five or six members who play the piano like these do, and everybody else has a beautiful singing voice.  Some members of the family have voices of solo quality, but the outstanding aspect of this family is the perfection in the blending of the voices.  It sounds like a natural harmony, with no one out of tune or off key.

There is a special kind of reverence noticeable in the voices as they melt into one beautiful choir.  After the traditional carols, we all join in on specially requested Gospel songs we have all learned over the years. 

I would like to think that every family is much like ours but I know that there are many who wish they had what this family has. It breaks my heart sometimes, to see how ungrateful some can be for the blessings that are all around them.  I give God all the thanks I can muster each year that passes by with this family not knowing some terrible tragedy.  How blessed we are!

Of heirlooms, antiques and a little creative effort

I’ve often suspected that most family groups are not even close to being like my own.  I’d bet that there are some families where every member is sane. 

No one in my family has a card certifying that they have been examined by psychiatrists at length and found to be certifiably SANE, so I have room to be suspicious as I continue relationships with them.

I also wonder if other families have certain individual “types;” you know,  those members with certain attributes that mark them as “collectors of family heirlooms” such as photographs, antiques, ceramic ware and glassware, etc..

I write about this subject because, though I don’t collect anything specific and relevant to my family as a group, I have been taking many pictures at family gatherings.  Maureen has taken twice as many as myself and thus, over the years, our digital image files have grown to a level whereby we couldn’t manage them without the help of specific software; something like Picasa or better.  I haven’t been looking for any of said software due to the fact that I’m quite happy with the FREE version of Picasa Google allowed me to download and use for some time now.

In my family, there are several members I’d classify as “collectors of family heirlooms.”  I don’t know why this is… but they are all females.  That fact may not be indicative of anything meaningful; it’s simply something that I’ve noticed and pondered about.

For years now, I’ve been trying to produce various Cds known as “Memory Disks” for my siblings.  They were nice to have but had limitations.  Once I was exposed to software like “Pinnacle Studio 12” being used to produce a video and photo presentation at a nephew’s 50th Birthday Party recently, I began to kid myself that I too could create something of that caliber and quality. I realized that if I were going to be successful, the first thing I needed was more family pictures, preferably the oldest photos of our family’s ancestors and of our oldest surviving members younger days. I knew they existed because at some time in the past, we had set around a large table on certain holidays with a large pile of old photos in the center that we were all going through.  Someone would find one that they just had to pass around for others to see because it was so special and then some would be found of someone that person didn’t know, so of course they would hold it up before everyone and ask, “Who is this?”  I know there was a time or two when no one present had a clue as to the person in a certain picture was. 

It turns out that most of our family heirloom type photos are in the possession of a few sisters or WAS in their possession until they had passed away.  I’ve lost two of my older sisters and today, I am the oldest sibling in our family.  For some time now, I’ve been literally “begging” anyone in my family to allow me to borrow their collections of photos so that I might scan them into my computer’s memory.  Once there, I could back them up and put them away for safe keeping.  Then, once I had them scanned, I could proceed toward my dream of creating special DVD disks of everything I had collected that could be presented to everyone desiring one.  These disks could be placed in their DVD players at home and shared with guests or family that hadn’t seen them before.
Last Sunday, the family gathered at my brother Bobby’s home for his version of Thanksgiving. He would be repeating the event on the actual day of national observance for Thanksgiving Day only then, he had certain others present. That way, those of us in our family that normally have a Thanksgiving meal in our own homes on Thanksgiving Day would still be able to continue on with this new tradition.  That’s what it was too; a new tradition.  It became one after those two older sisters had passed.  From that time on, no one had the experience or the desire to become the new gatherer of the CLANS.  It was a huge responsibility, one I personally couldn’t fathom taking on either.

Maureen had decided that she would make an afghan for the remaining siblings.  There was five currently living.  I was the sixth of that surviving group.  We had been nine in number for far more years than any of us expected.  Each and every year we came together, we realized how blessed we were to have everyone healthy and present, it was noted and commented about by more than a few.  Maureen managed to fulfill her intentions.  She created a total of six of her best works.  They were beautiful, each one an origin design.  After all…she was the owner of  Afghans by Maureen; her own Cottage Industry.

Long observed family traditions are almost always next to impossible to organize each year, but somehow, sister Becky and sister Frances had managed miracles on Thanksgiving and Christmas to accomplish the events that everyone enjoyed and shared for so long. I did all I could in an attempt to prepare the younger family members for the day when those older miracle workers would not be with us and  were unable to bring us all together once again.  I told them, “You must create and maintain your own family traditions.
This generation cannot continue this way forever.”  I hated being so right.  It came much sooner than any of us expected.

I took advantage of our most recent gathering at brother Bobby’s home, caught my brother-in-law as he was making his rounds of greetings and hugs with everyone and brought up the subject of what it might take to get him to allow me access to our second oldest sister’s picture collection now that she was gone on. I was concerned that he might not want to continue keeping them safe and undamaged.  I supposed that he was not the type that cared about such things.  What would happen to them should, God forbid, something happened to him?  Who would inherit the guardianship of such a family treasure? Had that thought even crossed his mind?

Becky; his wife and my sister, died in Oct of 2006, a little over three years ago.  Had he moved on?  We thought that he might have.  I know, back when she died, if anyone asked about those pictures she had accumulated, he hummed and hawed around, seeming very reluctant to let them out of his sight. He would say…”I don’t think Becky would appreciate that.”   So, that Sunday afternoon I asked him if I could make an appointment to come to his home, look through those pictures and select those I wished to scan for the record and return immediately when I was finished.  He thought about it and said, “Next Wednesday would be alright.  “That’s the only day of the week I don’t bowl.”   I asked him “What time should we be there?”  He said “Around ten o’clock, I’ll be up moving around by then.”  So, the day and time were set.
Would something change before then?  I hoped not.

I could think of little else other than that fateful day.  Next thing I knew…it had arrived.  We headed out for his home around nine, thinking we’d stop for some breakfast at a little family restaurant on Monmouth street in our old home town of Newporty, Kentucky.  Maureen’s cell phone rang while we were eating. It   was her sister, informing us that Howard had called, wondering where we were.  Maureen called Howard at home.  He said he was expecting us and wondered if we were coming.  Maureen told him we would be there in five minutes.  Believe it or not, we got lost on the way there.  So much had changed and besides that, my memory was not what it once was.  That fact says a lot.  It had been many years since I had roamed around my old haunts.  I forgot street names and city layout.  But, we finally DID arrive there.

No one was more shocked than Maureen and I.  Howard had brought all those pictures up from the basement and had them waiting near the front door.  He warned us that it might take a truck to carry all of  it and he was right.  Good thing we have a RAV4.  It is classified as a truck in the title.  We chatted while Maureen began to carry the containers out to the car and load them up.  Howard and I took the biggest and heaviest plastic tub out for her since she said she couldn’t handle it.  We stayed for a while after the pictures were safely loaded.  One can tell when someone they are visiting is anxious and would rather be going somewhere else if we weren’t there.  So we excused ourselves, thanked him profusely over and over for his generosity and cooperation.  Howard confessed that he had made plans for the day and had to get ready to leave.  He was going to “The Boats” to do some gambling.  I hoped that he won something.

We spent the rest of that day and most of the next two days going through all those pictures.  I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed the experience.  I was thrilled to see all those faces I knew from so long ago. We had our Thanksgiving meal Thursday, sharing it with our daughter, Kellie.  After it, Kellie volunteered o help with the scanning of the pictures we had already selected.  She was fast and accurate.  I knew all that experience with computers and software would come in handy one day.  I know we went through several thousands of images just to get the five hundred or so we selected as the chosen few.  I’m glad I had some measure of control and a practical mindset.  If it were not so, we may have ended up with way too much for one DVD disk. 

I burned the first two copies of the prototype and tested it on our DVD player to see if it would work and how it looked. It looked and sounded great.  Oh! Didn’t I mention that it has background music of my choosing on it too?  Then, just to be safe, we called brother Bobby and asked him if we could run over to his home and try it out on his home theater set-up.  If it works there, it should work anywhere. It was amazing.  Bobby seemed entranced by what we saw.  That was a good sign.

I just love it when a plan comes together.  If all goes right, we will have DVDs for everyone on Christmas Eve night at our traditional gift exchange and handmade creations from the hands of my loving bride for a special few. 

When Vultures are flying through my house

I was wondering…is there anyone else out there that has some “cute” little behavior belonging to them and their better half, one that only some very close relatives know about and possibly witnessed being played out?

MLB and I have one that’s been with us for almost 38 years.

Once in a while, one of us will go to the kitchen and make a sandwich, bring it back and place it on the small table that sits between our individual chairs in the TV room.  Suddenly, we think of something we forgot to go with said sandwich and hurry down to the kitchen again to get it. When we return with it, sit down and reach for our delicious looking sandwich, we notice that someone has taken a very large bite out of it.

We usually ask “What happened to my sandwich?”

The other one, who may be still chewing on the stolen bite and speaking with food in their mouth, will explain…”As soon as you left the room this huge Vulture swooped in through the window, took a big bite and flew right back out again.”  That always gets a big smile from both of us.

It had been a while since either of us had any opportunity to steal something from the other like that.  Then, Easter came around.  You know, stores usually have plenty of Easter candy left over that they need to get rid of before it gets stale.  This Easter was no different and considering the fact that Maureen is now working for a chain type grocery, she had opportunity to take advantage of their after Easter sale.  She came home with two boxes of Papa’s chocolate covered marshmallow, one each of light and dark chocolate coatings.

Me having diabetes, I’m not supposed to eat such things…BUT, being human, a very weak human that loves that kind of candy, when Maureen came up here with two of those eggs last evening and laid them on the table and went into our bedroom for something, I remembered out cute little behavior.  I said loud enough for her to hear…”I hate to tell you this but a huge Vulture just flew in the window and I think he has his eye on your candy.” 

She shouted back…”Well that Big Vulture will leave my candy alone if he knows what’s good for him.”

“OK! I’ll try to hold him off but he’s bigger than usual and seems determine to have a piece of your candy.  You had better hurry!  I can’t hold him off much longer.  (There is a loud scream)  best as I could conjure up with one of those eggs in my mouth…Then I yell…”He’s pecking me in the eyes and scratching my cheeks with his huge, filthy talons that I just know he had been holding down a piece of carcass with only a short time ago.  I simply can’t hold him off.  I’m bleeding profusely.”  With that…I got quiet as possible.

Maureen didn’t even come in to see what had happened.  She turned to the right as she came out of the bedroom, returned to where she had stashed those eggs and got herself two more before coming back into this room.

My head hung in shame but I was smiling all the while and I believe there was some thin, chocolate spittle oozing out of the corners of my mouth when I did look up and smile.

I was glad to see that she was smiling too.

How about you…………
Are you smiling? 
I’ll bet you are.

Along the corridors of my soul

This morning, as I walked along the dimly lit corridors of my soul in search of something to share with others, I discovered this small room, way down at the end. I hadn’t been in there for many years.

I felt along the edges of the doorframe for a light switch. There wasn’t one to be found. What I did find sitting on the floor close to the door was an old kerosene lantern and a box of stick matches. Both of those items were antiques. They were clues as to the contents of that room. I picked them up and back out into the main corridor. The main corridor was dimly lit but compared to the inside of that little room a single candle would have been a brilliant light.

The little lever on the side of the lantern squeaked in protest as I forced the glass chimney to raise enough for access to the top of the wick. I slid open the matchbox, drew out a long stick match and drug it down the abrasive side strip. The match sparked and sprang to life, wafting that familiar sulfur odor under my nose. I breathed it in deeply, waiting for the scent to give birth to old memories. I wasn’t disappointed; they came to my mind’s eye in a flood.

I recalled how long it had taken me to grow a thumbnail of sufficient length and strength that would allow me to strike a match the way I had seen so many old western movie stars do it. It wasn’t as easy as they made it appear. How many times had I broken the matchstick because I used too much pressure on my thumb?  How many times had I received a painful flash burn because the match ignited so quickly and I wasn’t fast enough at getting my thumb out of the way in time? Finally I resorted to the tried and true method of dragging the match head along the outside of my denim covered thigh.

With all that remembering I had to blow out the first match and strike another, then I reached in and under the glass and lit the wick. It ignited slowly. I supposed that the wick had dried out a lot. I was fortunate that there was still some fuel left in the lantern. The flame grew and smoked badly. The wick actually needed trimming but I hadn’t thought to bring along any scissors. Dummy me!
The flame was burning more wick than kerosene so I adjusted the wick a bit higher and the flame brightened somewhat.

Stepping inside that dark room and holding the lantern up high I could begin to see the contents of the room. What a mess! There was a heavy layer of dust and cobwebs everywhere. I spied a rusty, old bow-saw laying on top of a chopping block. Suddenly I knew what was stored here. These were my memories from way back in 1953. Peppertown Ridge Road, Dearborn County Indiana, just outside of Harrison.

Suddenly I was overcome with feelings that I hadn’t experienced in so long, they felt alien to me. Want, need, hunger, no; starvation! It was much more intense than simple hunger. Hopelessness, depression and FEAR. Then I became aware of this growing weakness in my body. My knees wanted to buckle and stop supporting me but something inside kept them from giving in. Where was this strength coming from? It shouldn’t exist. I knew; it was my survival instinct taking over the circumstances. A hard life would not defeat me that easily. I was made of better stuff than that. BUT fear won out and drove me back out into the corridor.

“No wonder it has been so long since I’ve been in there,” I thought to myself as I could feel my strength returning. I stepped back inside long enough to retrieve the lantern, blew it out and set it back on the floor just inside the door.

Back in my writing room, I tried not to think about those days. If it’s true what they say and anything that doesn’t kill us has a way of making us stronger, then I should be Superman now. But I know; Superman didn’t cry or fear anything. I was weeping and fear had come and sat down on my lap.

It didn’t help when I thought about Mom and Dad and how those circumstances must have affected them back then. No wonder Mom died at the age of forty-three years. She had been consumed by worry and concern for her five children. The amazing thing was; she never allowed any of us to see it.

I watched Dad take his last breath and leave us. He expelled his last lung full as if it was a great relief. A life-long struggle has a way of doing that to the strongest of men. I don’t know what sense organ was functioning that allowed me to understand, but I knew it was time to let him go.  If he thought that we couldn’t have gone on without him, he was the kind of man who would have fought death with every ounce of strength he had. We owed him that final liberty. He had earned it. I took that great ham of a hand of his in mine and said “Go on Dad; Mom’s waiting for you.”  I think I saw a faint smile on his lips as he stepped out into eternity. There was a great “Swoosh” as his absence created a vacuum in my spirit.

That’s all I have for you today. Hope I didn’t leave you hanging. It’s just the wrong time of year for this kind of memories. Up with joy and happiness. Down with fear and sorrow and regret.    

The gloaming time of life

Last evening, our daughter Kellie and her roommate Sue came over for a visit. My sister-in-law, Gail, being forewarned of their visit got busy preparing Chicken fillets, one of their favorite dishes. There was a side dish of packaged noodles and some creamed peas to boot. Simple but filling stuff.

We all ate with great gusto and then took Jenny (our dog) out back for a period of play.  Jenny loves those two young women. Going back inside when Jenny got tired and thirsty from chasing the ball the girls were tossing around, we settled in the living room for some relaxing conversation. The girls shared a little song they had composed while driving back home from church on Sunday. It was cute but I won’t reveal the subject matter.  We three older adults agreed that they need to get another hobby to occupy some of their idle time.

It’s funny how I was the only one to notice the changing light outside. Every window and door was open, anyone could have noticed; but no one else did. During a lull in the activities and conversations, I pointed out how this time of day was my favorite.  I explained why but hardly anyone understood what I was saying. Were they blind?  Could it be that my old eyes were perceiving something that didn’t exist for everyone?  I call it the “gloaming.”  That’s a word that some old, Irish Poet must have come up with.  It’s a magical time.  A time when Leprechauns come out of hiding and dare one to try and catch them. There’s a pot of gold waiting as a ransom for those who are successful.

I seem to recall that it wasn’t until I had achieved the ripe, old age of fifty-five years that I myself was able to appreciate the gloaming time of day. I was parked on a hilltop in my golfcart that day.  Working on a golf course as a Player’s Assistant had it rewards.  This one aspect of it was very unexpected.  The sun had dropped below the horizon but its influence was still very powerful. The light took on a golden hue. I thought to myself at the time that it must be the result of fall’s natural tendency to bring about changes in the color of the trees leaves that was responsible for the sparkling gold radiance that was all around me. The leaves had soaked up the sun’s rays all day and only now were they releasing the stored up energy. 

From that day till this, I have been especially alert, looking for and expecting to enjoy the phenomenon at every opportunity. But this was the Spring of the year. There were no golden leaves on the trees.  It’s so strange how that golden hue in the air has the power to amplify all the other colors.  The grass outside was greener. I didn’t think that was possible.  Even the color of the cars parked along the street out front was more vivid than usual. It had been raining for most of the day. The air was as clean as it would ever be.  Every leaf on every tree and every blade of grass could be seen in a higher definition.  I found myself wishing that my old eyes could always see this sharply.

It is said that it is the darkest just before the dawn of a new day.  Could it also be said that it is lighter just before the night sets in? 

It was about that time that my mind made its own segue into another realm of thought. Seems that everyone was commenting on the golden years of life. One diarist would write about it, another would read their words and expound further upon the subject and I was taking it all in and contemplating their meaning.

Oh! What we MIGHT be able to accomplish if we older folk had the energy of youth. Combine that energy with the knowledge and wisdom we have accumulated over the passing years and the potential would be awesome.

In the back of my mind I can hear Frank Sinatra crooning one of his hit songs. “MY WAY.”  The words ring so true for myself.  See if you too can find something familiar in them.

And now, the end is near;
And so I face the final curtain.
My friend, I'll say it clear,
I'll state my case, of which I'm certain.

I've lived a life that's full.
I've traveled each and ev'ry highway;
But more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Regrets, I've had a few;
But then again, too few to mention.
I did what I had to do
And saw it through without exemption.

I planned each charted course;
Each careful step along the byway,
But more, much more than this,
I did it my way.

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew.
But through it all, when there was doubt,
I ate it up and spit it out.
I faced it all and I stood tall;
And did it my way.

I've loved, I've laughed and cried.
I've had my fill; my share of losing.
And now, as tears subside,
I find it all so amusing.

To think I did all that;
And may I say - not in a shy way,
"No, oh no not me,
I did it my way".

For what is a man, what has he got?
If not himself, then he has naught.
To say the things he truly feels;
And not the words of one who kneels.
The record shows I took the blows -
And did it my way!

REGRETS – I’ve had a few.  I wish I could continue on with the following line and nod in agreement, but alas! I fear that my own regrets are many and yet I care not to mention them to another. 

Certainly I did it my way, but that doesn’t mean that it couldn’t have been done better.  Life presents choices to us all and we must pick one and go with it. It’s only after it all played out that we can see clearly whether the choice we made was the right one. Which one of us can say that we always made the right choice?

If we older folk are not careful, a bad case of the “IF ONLY’s” could overpower us and steal away what little joy we are able to find in our waning life.

What would any life be without that risk?  SAFE! Perhaps.  But empty also. Sterilized by the fear of loving someone so much and risking losing them.

I know about that kind of fear.  It overcomes me at times as I wander about the house in the wee hours of the morning.  I pass by the wife’s bedroom door and I cannot hear her snoring. I pause and listen intently, hoping to hear her faintly breathing.  If I cannot, I MUST go in and lean over the bed and listen again until I CAN hear her breathing.   Failing that, I feel that I MUST touch her and cause her to stir but not awaken.  I reach out and then freeze in mid-reach.  What if I touch her and her body is cold?  OH GOD! What would I do?  It’s only after I force myself to touch her and feel that reassuring warmth that the paralyzing fear subsides.

I tell myself that I would not want to awaken her fully to the point of having her ask, “Are you okay?  What’s wrong?”  You see; she believes she is the only one who finds it necessary to creep into a bedroom and bend over someone she loves to make sure they are still breathing. She has done that for most of her life she tells me. She did it with her mother and she does it today with me and Gail or Jenny and Lucy, the dog and the cat.

I believe, if she had her way, she would sleep in this gigantic bed and everyone she loves would be in it with her, where she could wake at any time of the night and listen or feel for signs of life and then fall asleep once more, reassured that all is right in her world.

Maureen is the one who has taught me what it means to love another that deeply. She is also the one who taught me what her kind of compassionate concern is like. She has this habit of going around the house at the weirdest times, asking each individual if they are all right.  After she gets the desired response from each one, she explains; “It’s my job.”  I’ve often wondered who gave her that work assignment?  It’s a tough job but somebody has to do it.

As Ellen, a friend of mine wrote one day long ago:

“If I’m allowed to wish for others I would wish that everyone’s life ends up full of great holes.  Holes that are the result of losing someone we were able to love with the kind of depth that caused their absence to leave that kind of hole in our life. Those holes are not empty holes.  They are reservoirs of treasures that we can draw from when the need arises. They are deep wells, covered with lids of grief.  Lift the lid and draw from any one of them, a refreshing drink of cherished memories.  Drink deeply and draw strength from shared love. Like dust, floating on the surface of a freshly drawn bucket of water, sorrow may be found, but tilt the bucket and blow the breath of thankfulness across its surface and underneath is revealed the purity of life’s pleasures.”

What beautiful words.  I will be forever grateful that she shared them with us.

Type 2 Diabetes and how to recognize its onset

Ronni Bennett of Time Goes By.net said “Very few people actually know what it feels like to reach an advanced age, become old  or simply grow old. That’s not a verbatim quote, I’ve “tweaked it,” embellished it somewhat or put it in my own words but she was the one whom tried to express it as best she could.  Her comment was much better than anything I’ve come up with yet.

The moment I heard her say whatever it was she said exactly, a thought came to mind that I had used her words to my doctor at one time, immediately after he had diagnosed me with Type 2 Diabetes.  The doctor asked me “ Clarence…didn’t you feel just awful?”   I replied “Yes! But I thought it was just part of growing old.”

He couldn’t figure out where I had gotten that belief from and went to considerable lengths to assure me that such was not the case. 

Honestly…I wish I didn’t have that frame of mind then because who can say how much permanent damage I allowed the onset of diabetes to do to my body because I shrugged it all off as what one feels like when they get old.

I’m going to list the symptoms I found on-line that were provided by the Mayo Clinic just so some of you out there can see if you have any of them right now and keep them in mind should you notice any of them in the future.




Type 2 diabetes symptoms may develop very slowly. In fact, you can have type 2 diabetes for years and not even know it. Look for:

• Increased thirst and frequent urination. As excess sugar builds up in your bloodstream, fluid is pulled from the tissues. This may leave you thirsty. As a result, you may drink — and urinate — more than usual.
• Increased hunger. Without enough insulin to move sugar into your cells, your muscles and organs become depleted for energy. This triggers intense hunger.
• Weight loss. Despite eating more than usual to relieve hunger, you may lose weight. Without the ability to use glucose, the body uses alternative fuels stored in muscle and fat. Calories are lost as excess glucose is released in the urine.
• Fatigue. If your cells are deprived of sugar, you may become tired and irritable.
• Blurred vision. If your blood sugar is too high, fluid may be pulled from the lenses of your eyes. This may affect your ability to focus clearly.
• Slow-healing sores or frequent infections. Type 2 diabetes affects your ability to heal and resist infections.
• Areas of darkened skin. Some people with type 2 diabetes have patches of dark, velvety skin in the folds and creases of their bodies — usually in the armpits and neck. This condition, called acanthosis nigricans, may be a sign of insulin resistance.

If you notice one or two of the above symptoms, please don't do what I did and chalk it up to the natural aging process.  Yes! A good many things may slowly change about yourself but most of those ARE due to advancing age.  Let's face it, growing older has negative consequences for most of us.  You are one of the lucky ones if you haven't noticed things changing for you.  Make a list of things you notice and talk them over with your doctor as soon as you can.  Don't allow him to tell you it's nothing. "You're imagining all of it" is not an acceptable answer from a medical professional. This is not one of those cases of being damned if you do and damned if you don't.  It's just too easy to check your blood sugar. But...if you don't mention things you've noticed to your doctor, damned could be exactly what you will become. If I'm scaring you...GOOD! More people need to be very afraid and alert but let's not get carried away and become Whackos and Wingnuts about every little ache and pain. That's where hypochondriacs come from and we certainly don't need any more of those clogging up ERs and doctor waiting rooms.

For years after I passed the age of 40,  I noticed that my fingertips got to humming a lot when I drove my car and I drove my car a lot. That's the problem with Type 2, adult onset, diabetes, it diabolically slow and persistent.  I told myself that it was simply the blood draining away from my hands because they were almost above my heart's position in my chest. I worked on old cars a lot because that's all I could afford then. Laying on the ground and reaching up over my head to loosen some bolts or hold up a part with one hand while replacing the bolts with the other was often very painful. No wonder I thought nothing of it when in later years finger and hand numbness became a common problem under a variety of circumstances.

In my late 50's I had periods when I'd get so light headed that the only thing I could do that made it go away was to go lay down for an hour or so.  Once it disappeared, I was good to go. I also noticed that those spells usually came upon me shortly after I had eaten a good meal.

I drank approximately ten twelve ounce cans of Classic Coke for a decade or more. One can of Coke contains 140 calories due to its sugar content or at least, corn syrup content, I'm not sure which is which.  All I know is, I was putting around 1400 calories into my body solely from my favorite beverage.  Here's something I wondered about as an after thought: Why don't I weigh 300 lbs?  For many years I hovered around 200 lbs and told myself I was feeling pretty good for my age.  Perhaps I was but the bottom didn't just drop out one day. I did a lot of walking on my regular job and I was also an avid hunter.  I'd work all week and then go out on the weekends and walk for miles over hill and dale, through fields of briars and brambles, hunting wild rabbits. The same could be said for hunting squirrels. Both game types required plenty of walking up and down hills or along steep hill sides. I considered myself to be in great shape all that time.

After I turned fifty, I suddenly had a problem with gallstones that required emergency surgery. After that I had a bout of Ecoli that put me in the hospital for almost a week and even after I recovered from that, I was still weak as a kitten.  My digestive system never did return to normal.  I was bothered with ulcers, acid indigestion, acid reflux...you name it. If it was related to my intestinal tract, it was a problem.  I was told they had to give me some new, very powerful antibiotics with the ruptured gallbladder and the Ecoli.  That killed all the good bacteria along with the bad.  Try as I may, my attempts to replenish the enzymes and bacteria in my digestive tract was a pitiful failure.  It was all downhill after that. My immune system was shot. How else was I supposed to feel except bad?

I never really expected to live past the age of 40 years for most of my life and then, I made it past 40 years, then fifty years and then 60 years.  Feeling bad most of the time was life for me. I stopped smoking. I still didn't feel great.  I really missed feeling great.  We lost our "Baby Brother" at the age of 41; he had Type 1 Diabetes from a very young age and it took him pretty quick and then one of my older sisters and shortly after that, our oldest sister.  One died of breast cancer and the other died after suffering with Type 2 diabetes for years. My Father had diabetes and heart complications due to that disease and lived to be 82 years old. Diabetes was in my family all along.

Is it in your family?  NO!  Are you sure?
How long has it been since you've had your blood glucose levels checked?
Better safe than sorry!

If you have someone in your family with diabetes and they are taking insulin and checks their blood sugar every day, I'm sure they'd check yours the next time you visit.  You don't need to go to your doctor's office to have it done.  A modern glucose meter and a test strip that costs about one dollar each can put your mind at ease.  That's not much of an investment for some peace of mind for a period of time.

I hate having to check my blood sugar all the time and I hate it even worse having to stick needles in my belly twice a day to inject insulin but it's better than having a foot or leg amputated or going blind or any of the other problems caused by too much sugar in one's blood.

I've already lost most of the sense of feel in my fingers and in my feet.  Do you think that's nothing?  Let me tell you...it's bad enough to make you wish you had told someone about all the little things that are going on in your life that seem unusual for the normal YOU.

Watch your diet!  Man! Is that a millstone around your neck.  Too much trouble?  Eat what you want and counteract it with insulin.  That's what my oldest sister thought too. What's really bad is ... I catch myself thinking similar thoughts now and then.

Another thing, I now weigh 250 plus or minus, depending on the time of year. I am hungry all the time.  I gain weight if I only smell a cake or something else taboo for a diabetic. The doctor tells me it's the insulin making me hungry and easy to gain weight no matter what I eat. Is this a "Catch 22?"  I've often wondered what it would be like to be caught up in one of those nightmares. I don't like it.  Neither will you if you develop adult onset, Type 2 Diabetes.

Try typing all that I just typed without feeling in your hands.  It's a miracle I tell you.

If you talk trash and do sneaky stuff when the ref isn't looking, you should expect to receive some retaliation very soon.

If you are someone without a TV or seldom watch news, than perhaps you haven't seen the video all the news sources have been clogging up the news channels with of one Elizabeth Lambert, who plays or before this, did play for the New Mexico Women Soccer Team. Since that, she has been suspended indefinitely for her actions.

Ms. Lambert apologized for her behavior but I could tell...her heart wasn't in it and I for one don't blame her alone for the events that took place during the match. If you don't know or believe that women athletes can be just as aggressive, just as competitive and just as vengeful as any man under the same set of circumstances, you may need to investigate as I did and then to think it over again. 

Women are known for their ability to talk and when it comes to talking "trash" during athletic competition I believe they do excel at it.  Once more I must call out the news media for being biased in this particular matter.  Yes! It looks bad for Ms. Lambert when they show the tidbits of video they gleaned from whomever was taking video of the match between New Mexico and BYU. I will also call to your attention the footage shown along with the excessive ponytail pulling where a little, blond BYU player confronted Ms. Lambert after the match ended and tried to throw some more gasoline onto the smoldering embers of Ms. Lambert's fury by pointing out that Ms. Lambert's team LOST in spite of her efforts. She was lucky she didn't get a shot to the lips for that remark.  I think I may have applied strokes to her face if she did that to me.

Go to YouTube and watch the video for yourself.  Witness the behind the back grasping of the short hairs in the crotch area of Ms. Lambert's person.  Notice how high the dark haired woman in front of her lifted the handful of purchase she had obtained before Ms. Lambert took her to the ground.

There was also an episode the news person likes to use when proving their point that this young woman is aggressive and violent to a fault, where she punched another player in the back.  Did the fact that the person she punched in the back had just applied an elbow to Ms. Lambert's breast escape their notice?  It didn't escape mine.  See for yourself while you are at YouTube.

There was one or two other interactions between herself and various opposing players and I must admit, it put her in a bad light but that's because the editing efforts were so exhaustive.

It was a close match...one to nothing in favor of BYU.  I cannot say at what point in the game BYU scored their one goal but I will venture a guess and say that once they had gained the lead, they used well practiced methods to try to keep New Mexico from tying the score. I would be glad to sit through the whole match if I could find a resource for viewing it.  Still, a viewer would be at the mercy of the organization doing the video taping. How many cameras did they use?  What angles for vantage points did they cover?  Look! If the ref didn't see everything that went on under his field of view, is it possible for those video taping the event to catch every act that occurred on the field?  It may have been possible but we don't know the number of cameras being used.  Cameras at such events try to follow the action, as does the referee in charge.  I'm not even familiar enough with the sport of Soccer to state how many referees are used to officiate during a soccer match.  Surely, there is more than one.

Considering the pressure of competition and knowing how verbal taunts can affect participants that are very aggressive and competitive, who can say how they would react under the same set of circumstances.  These are not professional athletes; they are college students that may not have enough experience to have achieved a high level of self control while playing the game. Just consider what takes place in a hockey match among pros. Fans and viewers at home have come to expect violence during a match.  It's very, very common. Blood has stained the ice during many matches...and those guys carry big sticks and don't skate around particularly quiet while doing it.  Just listen to the swishing, swooshing and collisions with the boards and other bodies.  Glass gets broken and so do bones, teeth and faces.  I know...that's hockey and not Soccer but it's still a highly contested sport.

If Ms. Lambert is thrown out of the sport permanently, I feel that someone should look closely at the available video and make sure that there aren't some others that need to go with her when she goes.  Somehow, I don't feel that she was the lone culprit, just the one that got caught on tape the most.