Excerpt

Introduction

When we find a soul mate to spend the rest of our days with, problems in life become easier to cope with and the good times are even more enjoyable because we have someone to share them with. That special person becomes our primary support system.

But what happens when catastrophe strikes and you’re world falls apart? How much can we prepare? Sure, we can save money for downturns and missed work. We can buy that overpriced extended warranty to ease our minds. And we can spend quality time with our spouse and children in order to stay in the loop. But, where is the book telling us how to cope with our dying child?

When we first heard of the H1N1 it was something that happened to people in Mexico. By the time it made its way to the U.S., it was an underlying problem in a sea of hysteria. Being an avid watcher and reader of the media can have its down side. Drama sells. So in order to try keeping on the bright side of things, the news gets shut off, hoping a blind eye and ignorance will cure the problem.

Trying to find a balance between family, friends, work and the world is a daunting task. And then putting GOD into the mix seems to throw everything out of whack. Looking at the world we live in, with all the horrendous things happening, where is He?

He’s waiting.

CHAPTER 6

Lizzy rode in the ambulance with Tony, and I followed in my truck. On the trip to the hospital Tony was still having a hard time staying awake due to his blood oxygen level, but he said he remembered seeing my truck following. Once we arrived at OU medical center Tony, Lizzy and the paramedics waited for me to park the truck and catch up to them before they headed to his room.

On the way up the elevator the paramedic pushed the button for the PICU (Pediatric Intensive Care Unit). Feeling aggravated, I was thinking this guy doesn’t know where the hell he’s going. We don’t need the PICU! We just need a room to monitor Tony for a little while, maybe overnight. Surely that doesn’t require the PICU! That’s for the really sick kids, not our Tony! Right? It finally dawned on me that the regular rooms were probably on the same floor as the PICU. After breathing a sigh of relief, born of ignorance, we arrived on our floor. Walking down the hall I saw the path to the PICU. We won’t be going that way! We’ll just keep walking to the “just staying a little while” rooms. But wait, we’re turning down the PICU hallway!? NO!.NO!.NO! This can’t be right!

While holding my breath in disbelief, Tony was transferred from the gurney to the bed. The room seemed rather large with the south wall being all windows with a glass door looking to the nurses’ station. The west wall had a sink, a door leading to the bathroom and a computer for the nurses. The north wall had one window with a chair that pulled out into a sleeping chair barely big enough for one.

I was still thinking, though, we were in the wrong room of the hospital we’ll only be here a short time, so the single chair will be fine for our short stay. The east wall was where Tony was lying. To the right of him was a single pole to hang medications. To the left was the monitor that would reveal his soon-to-be stats. The nurses wasted no time getting Tony all hooked up to the monitor! While doing so we were rushed off to fill out a little required paperwork. The paperwork could have easily been brought to us and filled out in the room. But, I think they did this so the doctors and nurses could do their thing without us getting in the way.

When we came back from filling out the mandatory paperwork, which took about 15 minutes, Tony was all wired up! He had the wires monitoring his pulse, blood pressure and his oxygen level, which was at 75% thanks to the oxygen he was receiving from the tube hanging on the end of his nose. The doctor was not at all happy with 75%, so he said Tony was going to be put on what’s called a Bi-Pap machine to help get oxygen through his lungs to his bloodstream. Every time Tony would take a breath the machine would push oxygen into his lungs, and from Tony’s response, it was not at all comfortable. For the first 20 minutes he fought the machine, pulling it off every chance he got and crying, saying, “But, Dad, it hurts to breathe this deep!” As any parent knows, what hurts our children hurts us tenfold, and this was breaking our hearts.

Lizzy and I just patiently kept after it, no matter how much it hurt us, saying, “This is what we need to do to get better, Tony.” But in the back of my mind I’m thinking we don’t need this! All we need is just a little oxygen under his nose for a little while and we’ll be fine.

One of the hardest things to do that night was to let go of the reins and allow the doctors and nurses to do their jobs. For Tony’s entire life, since childbirth, Lizzy and I have supplied all of his needs! Now we’re just supposed to stand back and watch? Surely there’s something we can do! We did help out wherever we could, but Tony’s well being was no longer in our hands. It was in the hands of strangers wearing scrubs and lab coats, their badge proclaiming, “I belong here and I know what I’m doing.” I wasn’t convinced. Sure, their movements were direct and purposeful, and they talked like they had done this a million times, but this wasn’t just any kid here. This is part of me lying on the table before you. One of the four reasons I enjoy coming home every night. This is my son, my buddy. The one I like to hang out with, to play games with, to go riding four wheelers with, and sometimes to do nothing more than cruise around in the truck with the tunes turned up and chat about whatever comes to mind. This is my pal. Please, oh please be right in your decisions, because I don’t have a badge.

Most of the night, we struggled with the idea of hurting Tony in order to help him. When he was finally able to tolerate it enough, he fell asleep. Lizzy and I were able to close our eyes for short periods but never really getting any rest. We would hold our breath with every beep from a monitor and look at each other in disbelief of our circumstance. I would try to assure Lizzy that this was still just a temporary problem and we would probably be out of here in the next few hours. Earlier in the night when I told her this, we both believed it. Instead, my heart started to sink when telling her this again while the feeling of uncertainty started to intrude our room.

While Lizzy and I were chatting and wondering if we would get any real sleep that night, we looked out the window and saw the beautiful rays of the early Oklahoma sunrise. This was our last giggle for weeks. We looked at each other and said, “Well, guess not!”

To end our peacefulness with Tony sleeping and Lizzy and I sharing a little time, a man pushing a mobile x-ray machine entered the room. He said, “This will only take a second, you may leave now.”

Leave? I don’t think so! The thought of leaving Tony’s bedside made me feel sick. The man saw our determination and said, “Fine, but you need to put these vests on to protect yourselves from the x-ray.”

No problem! The x-ray did only take a short time and the sliding doors were glass but I just wasn’t in the position to be parted from my son.

For the next three hours Tony fell in and out of sleep and his blood oxygen level jumped and dived at the same tempo. It would drop to 70% then climb to 90%. This was all while still on the Bi-Pap machine pushing 100% oxygen. It was concerning me but I had no choice other than to allow my ignorance to blanket and comfort me, for sanities sake.

The nurses were like eagles, if not coming into our room, they were sitting at their desk facing the glass doors able to see Tony’s every move and would note his stats coming from the monitor. This was comforting, but we were starting to feel like we were a distressing exhibit in a zoo.

While hovering over Tony, two Lab Coats entered the room. Both Lizzy and I jumped up in anticipation of a hopeful diagnosis. They started the conversation with a timid smile that slowly and painfully dissolved into a look that almost put me to my knees and with good reason. They said that Tony needed to go on a ventilator to better his oxygen level and to give his lungs a break to heal. “We will be putting him to sleep while on this vent. It will be a tube going down his throat to the point where his lungs separate.”

The thought of Tony getting some much-needed, restful sleep drew a smile from me, which was quickly painted over with a much darker color when the Lab Coats continued their assault. “Tony has a collapsed lung and will need a chest tube to drain the built-up fluid and air pushing against his chest cavity.”

We were now feeling much weaker than before, but they still didn’t stop with their brutal attack. They also said there is a strong possibility Tony may need the ECMO (extracorporeal membrane oxygenation) machine. Puzzled and allowing a little anger to cover my sorrow, I hastily asked about the machine. “It’s a device used when one’s lungs are failing. We would put a catheter into the artery in his thigh. This would be attached to a hose that would draw the blood out of Tony’s body. His blood would run through the ECMO, and the ECMO would oxygenate the blood and then be put back into his body with another catheter entering in through the artery in his neck. Your son’s lungs are starting to fail, but the implication of the ECMO is only a possibility for now.”

They brought consent forms for us to sign and handed us three papers explaining ECMO.

All I could do was sit back down and hold onto Lizzy in hopes that our support system would stay strong between us. I was stripped of the comforting thought on our overnight stay. Our world was starting to crumble around us. To sidestep the pain, I quickly jumped up and said, “Babe, it’s time to call in the troops.”

We both whipped out our cell phones and started searching for the numbers of our loved ones, letting them know of the situation and pleading for their appearance and prayers.

Read more about A Line That Was Drawn and Hugh Estlinbaum HERE.

Copyright 2010 Hugh Estlinbaum. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Mike Montgomery once lived the American dream. Gainfully employed, beautiful home, and a wonderful loving wife. Growing up in a loving family whose faith was unbreakable was his source of strength. Mike’s faith would one day be shaken after losing the love of his life in an unexpected tragedy. Mike thought he would never love again until he meets Sheila Lawson. Everything about Sheila made him want to love again. Could he risk his heart again?

Sheila Lawson, a woman’€™s health advocate was strong and independent, yet something was missing in her life. Immersing herself in her work, she vowed off any relationships. Sheila would find her self-made decree shaken when she meets tall, dark, and handsome Mike Montgomery. There is an evil lurking in the shadows. Mike and Sheila will have to unite to overcome evil forces trying to keep them apart. Will their love be enough to see them through the testing of their faith?

Copyright 2010 Vanessa Richardson. All right reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1: Bad Boys are Leaders with No Direction

Almost any woman would say the same thing when asked what she looks for in a guy: “He has to be cute and smart, with a fantastic sense of humor.”

Does that sound familiar? Maybe you can plead guilty to saying those exact words. There’s nothing wrong with seeking these qualities in the opposite sex, but why do so many women settle for the exact opposite of what they say they’re looking for? Rather than laughing or being intellectually stimulated by their partners, multitudes of women are crying, worrying, and not growing whatsoever from their relationships.

What Women Say vs. What Women Do

It’s no secret that women are the more emotional of the two sexes. If something hurts a woman, she’ll make no reservations against crying it out, and she’ll jump at the opportunity to discuss it with others. These emotions can be a valuable tool for dealing with life, finding much- needed strength, and simply keeping one’s sanity. On that same note, a woman’s feelings can directly affect her love life, and she won’t even realize it.

When it comes to attraction, women use both the emotional and logical sides of their brains. The logical aspect is what convinces her that she wants a nice guy with all the works. It tells the woman that a suitable mate is one who is physically attractive, makes a decent living, cares about others, and is funny (among other desirable qualities).

In short, the logical side of her brain tells the woman she wants a man who she can bring home to Mom.

At the time, this all makes sense, until the emotional aspect of her psyche kicks in. This is the side of a woman’s thinking that excites her. The reasons why she is mentally stimulated make no sense, nor do they matter. Her eyes send a message of physical attraction to this side of her brain, and suddenly, her body is flooded with sexual stimulation.

The problem arises when the emotional and logical sides of a woman’s brain don’t mesh. Characteristics that a woman should seek in a mate her brain, and suddenly, her body is flooded with sexual stimulation.

The problem arises when the emotional and logical sides of a woman’s brain don’t mesh. Characteristics that a woman should seek in a mate don’t match up to what she actually goes after, and this is a recipe for disaster. She could have the foresight to abandon ship before developing a relationship, but more often than not, her feelings take over, and she finds herself on a downward spiral of relationship regret.

She is stuck.

But what is it about the emotional side of a woman’s brain that contributes to bad mating decisions? Will the logical side of the mind ever take precedence over the emotional side? Is there any way to retrain the brain into making better decisions about the opposite sex? Why do so many women say they want one thing from a man, only to go after completely different personalities?

Let’s examine these questions further.

Nice Guys versus Bad Boys

Nice guys finish last.

Believe it or not, this statement is true. The logical side of a woman’s brain tells her that she wants a nice guy, but the emotional side of her couldn’t disagree more. While most women don’t set out to be physically or verbally abused, they instinctually gravitate towards men who excite them, and nice guys aren’t exciting.

Compared to bad boys, nice guys wait to speak, insist on paying for everything, and are always accessible to the opposite sex. They treat women with respect, don’t pressure their dates into having sex, and never stray. In other words, their mothers taught them well, and their love lives are paying for it.

This may sound like nonsense to you, but think about how many nice guys you’ve turned away. What was it about them that didn’t appeal to you? If you’re like most women, you were turned off by the lack of a challenge, and it’s just human nature to want what one cannot have. Nice guys always pick up the phone, never have any other plans, and devote everything they can to making a woman happy.

Where’s the challenge in that?

Bad boys have an entirely different approach to women, and it seems to work wonders for them. Instead of appealing to a girl’s logic, bad boys tap into her emotions, and they reap the benefits of doing so. Of course most of these emotions involve sadness, anger, or anxiety, but they are stimulating nevertheless. A woman dating a bad boy is drawn to the challenge of never knowing what’s coming next.

She’s literally sent on an emotional rollercoaster ride.

This is naturally appealing to most women, especially those who crave drama. Compared to bad boys, nice guys are nothing but dull characters. Women are drawn to a bad boy’s sexual aggressiveness, and they view his apathetic nature as a conquest of sorts. If he treats her badly, she wants him to love her all the more.

Read more about Why Good Girls Date Bad Boys and Derrick Watkins  HERE.

Copyright 2008 Derrick Watkins . All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

[From Page 75 . . . ]

As far as officials go, we will not find another Ronald Reagan, a man who spoke his heart as much as his mind, and who spoke the facts of patriotism and the truths of connectivity to our homes. This is how he acquired the name The Great Communicator. It was not because he was once an actor who could deliver his passion, it was because, speechwriters or not, on teleprompter or off, he could communicate right brain, heartfelt meaningful truths as they relate to our hearts and homes.

We won’t see another Reagan to boldly state these and touch both logic and profound germane personal truths; we’re going to have to become this ourselves as an aggregate of hundreds if not thousands of liberty nut purists, each operating as a great communicator.

[From Page 157 . . .On Corporate Social Responsibility as a patriotic platform before you publish your book . . .]

When you speak or give seminars to corporate America in a CSR medium, you are not departing from your book, you are enunciating an extension of it. As I said above, you are summoned as a thought leader who accomplishes your results through a paradigm shift, you are summoned to do custom work. This is where and how branding yourself can profoundly affect the content of your book before you publish it, and thereby make it more successful all around in the market that wasn’t there before. You simply make sure to lock in specific concepts you’ve mastered from the feedback of your branding and image into your manuscript before you publish.

Not only do you teach, but you learn.

One example is, of course, what I am driving at: the more patriotic approach to so-called CSR, shifting away from intrusive ideas of how to dictate to Business how to treat their customers and employees, or how to make the company more Green over to how the company will boldly define itself from now on in terms of loyalty to country, especially in terms of gratitude and Independence and why it is so very important in our way of life. CSR need not only be Green, it may also be Red, White and Blue as the company’s own idea of social responsibility.

One of the secrets to your approach is that you will not be resentfully intruding on their company, but be invited. The key is not to chase prospects, but to motivate them to come to you. Platforming will help you do this. Be sure to mention that you are available for such contracts.

There are so many issues relating to how we self-govern that this one could really take off as a major movement in the United States.

There are so very many Liberty issues in bringing Liberty back that it will explode.

Copyright 2008 John Longenecker. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt

Chapter 1
In Search of the Unique You

It’s a wonderful feeling to know you’re unique, that you have unique ideas, a unique look, a unique family, and a unique perspective on the world. It’s an amazing gift that we give when we add our unique twist to any situation. On a grand scale, it’s knowing that you make a difference, that who you are is important to your kids, family, friends, community, and the world at large.

Let’s start with the title of this book, It’s All About You. We gave the book this title because taking care of you is important, because you take care of everyone else. We struggled with this title because we know women often feel guilty focusing time and attention on themselves. We know this because we struggle with the feeling as well. We think when we take time for ourselves, we’re taking time away from our families. And no one wants to do that. In truth, when we take time to do something good for ourselves, everyone around us benefits. It all starts with you.

Think about what’s going on in the world today — famine, war, single moms living in poverty, and a divorce rate that is through the roof. All of those things tear at your soul. In order for you to make a difference, you have to feel good about your life. It might seem like a stretch that getting organized might help the famine in Africa, but getting organized with your finances might free up $20 to write a check, and getting your schedule organized might free up time to volunteer. Along the same line, when you organize your closet, you may find a warm coat to donate. It’s the little gestures in life that have a big impact. You must believe you make a difference.

Be the change you want to see in the world.

– Mahatma Gandhi

We are Mary and Heather, hosts of our own talk radio show, founders of MomsTown.com, and publishers of MomsTown Magazine. We are both wives and mothers. Mary stays busy with two girls, and Heather keeps on the move with three boys. Three years ago we met online and discovered we lived in the same zip code. Fate? We think so. At the time, each of us had a struggling home-based business and we were going into debt faster than we were making a profit. After a brief phone call, we decided to meet for coffee, and before we’d finished sipping the steamed milk off our lattes, we knew — the connection between us was unique. We were both moms who wanted to lead vibrant, purposeful lives. We wanted to be good moms and wives and to build fantastic careers. And we knew we weren’t alone. We had sisters and loads of girlfriends with the same craving — women who wanted to do exciting things and create possibilities. You will find in these pages the inspiration, motivation, and practical t
ips and resources to help you discover — or, in many cases, rediscover — the creative, indepen-dent, vibrant, and confident you.

We are in the fortunate position of communicating with lots of women every day. In fact, the theme that we have the power to create opportunity came from one of our radio listeners. She sent us an e-mail asking us, “How did you get the fantastic job of hosting MomsTown Radio?”

We responded, “We made it up.” At first the question struck us as funny, because apparently our listener thought MomsTown was some big conglomerate and we were hired by some suit and received a weekly paycheck. Truth is, Mary hired Heather and Heather hired Mary.

We created our own opportunity — and you can too.
Are we geniuses? Not really. (But don’t tell our kids!) We’re two women talking about the big issues that most women — and moms in particular — deal with every day. Like most women (and unlike most men), we’ve had to reinvent ourselves to be able to juggle marriage, motherhood, and moneymaking. In our past lives, Heather had a decade-long career as an on-air television reporter, and Mary was a Wall Street bond salesperson, a professional singer, and a licensed holistic health practitioner. Our own ideas and experiences were just a springboard for MomsTown.

Nobody is as smart as everybody.

– William Taylor and Polly LaBarre in Mavericks at Work

Bright women are out there at the other end of the Internet, women like you. These are the women we hear from every day who are transforming themselves as businesswomen, artists, students, entrepreneurs. They are getting their lives back into balance, creating fulfilling lives, and offering their suggestions for helping others. And that’s exactly what we were hoping might happen in our forum for women.

When we started MomsTown, our offices were in one of our guest rooms, and our husbands thought we were just dabbling in a hobby. Our computers were stationed on the bed and a phone cord stretched across the floor. We had to keep the window open (even when it was raining), because we were bootlegging the Internet connection from the downstairs home computer.

Now, thanks to a business that includes a radio show, website, and magazine, we’ve gone legit. You might even say we’ve arrived. We’d say we have a lot more possibility.

We decided to join forces, and we have ended up with more than double the creativity, energy, and success either of us had alone. Too often, women are afraid to ask for help, afraid to admit that they can’t do it all by themselves. We overcame that fear, and so can you. In many of the upcoming chapters you’ll find a recurring theme: decide what you want and be bold about asking for it. By believing in possibilities, you create opportunities.

For example, when we decided to merge our two businesses, we knew if we were going to crash and burn, we might as well do it together, Thelma & Louise style.

Three years later, we haven’t crashed. We haven’t burned. (Okay, maybe there was a time or two when we got a little scorched.) We’re still working to help moms carve out a little extra income, a little extra time, a little extra energy, a little extra joy. It’s rewarding work, and we’re having a great time doing it.

None of this exempts us from the Monday-through-Friday morning looniness that is getting children out the door for school. We still spend our first waking hours wrestling children out of their beds and into their school clothes, making PB&Js, and carpooling. After that it’s running errands, prepping dinner, and, oh yeah, working while the kids are busy at school learning and having fun. Then we pick them up, chauffeur them where they need to go, and never stop moving until our heads hit the pillows.

* * *

This book is full of the issues we busy moms face every day that either create or stand in the way of our potential. We’ve taken topics from our show and from e-mails we’ve received from women around the world. We’ve put in our two cents, and we’ve included interviews with experts we consider the best in their fields.

I’m a woman. I’m a mom. I want my own identity. I want to spend time with my friends. I want to feel in love. I’m worried about getting older. I could use more sleep. I would love to work out more. Perhaps I could take up a sport or a hobby, but when? I’m always short on time, short on energy, and I wonder every day what I will make for dinner. — Everymom

We’re all trying to keep up, and too often we feel as though we’re the only ones being left behind while everyone else is getting it all. Each of us is searching for the secret of how to achieve balance between work and home and how to find something that defines us.

Life is like a conveyor belt of chocolates.
Remember the I Love Lucy episode in which Lucy and Ethel were working in a chocolate factory? Apparently, even back in 1952, these two moms decided they needed to do more than just keep house. Their job was to pack chocolates in boxes, but the conveyor belt was moving so fast that they couldn’t keep up. The result is something everyone should see. We’ll never forget the image of them stuffing chocolates into their mouths, down their shirts, and in their apron pockets, all the while chocolates flying everywhere.

Moms often feel overwhelmed by the speed of their own conveyor belts. To avoid a meltdown, sometimes they have to slow the belt down, and sometimes they have to let a few chocolates get past them and fall to the ground. That’s okay. We stress out when we think that we have to grab every morsel in life. But the truth is that life will keep delivering the sweet stuff to us. There also will be bittersweets along the way, but this book gives you strategies to maximize the happy moments. We’re here to help you catch your breath and start living a life that’s rich to you.

Because I am a woman, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. If I fail, no one will say, “She doesn’t have what it takes.” They will say, “Women don’t have what it takes.”

– Clare Boothe Luce

Tips and Takes from MomsTown

Every day our inboxes are filled with e-mails from women around the world. They are active in our online community and anxious to share with one another. Women from all over America are quoted in this book. We will share with you their Tips and Takes. Regularly, we receive fresh and practical Tips about overcoming fears, making money from home, losing the last ten pounds, looking and feeling younger, getting organized, and making dinner.

We’ll also share with you their Takes on issues we all face — how to handle a lagging libido (it’s amazing how many of us would rather sleep than have sex), how to stand up to an educational system that seems to be sapping our kids of their creativity, and how to find more time in the day to do the things we love to do.

The outpouring from our community has been overwhelming. The women at MomsTown are working moms and stay-at-home moms. They are happily married moms and single moms, and moms in troubled marriages. They are articulate, funny, and ambitious. Each woman is unique and has her own Take on the twenty-first-century issues with which we’re dealing. Our community is open to all; the only thing we ask is that women check the Chick Factor at the log-in. Our community is about supporting one another, helping each other, and you’re invited. We believe that as you read the chapters of this book, you will say, “That’s me.” Or “That’s my girlfriend, or sister, or mom!”

The Town Sites

At that first coffee when we met and in the meetings that followed, it was clear that we wanted to create a community for women everywhere. We wanted women to have a place to pool knowledge and resources, to share stories and secrets. We knew that women wanted to connect virtually and meet locally. We are giving them the platform to do both. MomsTown is a welcoming place, where women can come for encouragement and practical advice — both giving and getting. In addition to our very active message board, we have hundreds of local MomsTown chapters, which we call Town Sites. There are Town Sites in every state, every province of Canada, in Europe and Australia, and the numbers continue to grow every day. The Town Sites are vital because they’re local and grassroots. They are women getting together over coffee, just the way we did three years ago, to share possibilities and to share dreams. This puts us on the frontlines of the campaign for reclaiming and reinventing women’s liv
es — and we’re delighted to be here.

One gal Down Under called in to our show. She lives in a town with a population of sixty (yes, ten more than fifty, which probably qualifies it as a village rather than a town). She said she just had to call to say how relieved she was that there were other women out there who felt the way she did about wanting to be a fabulous mother, but also wanting to be more than a mother and fabulous at other stuff too.

Is Money an Issue?

One topic that arises regularly in the MomsTown discussions is money. Money is a major issue in women’s lives. It affects how we live day in and day out. It affects our relationships and it affects our self-worth. Many of us moms started out in the working world; we held down a job and took home a paycheck, money we had earned. Whether it was big-n-fat or puny, it was our own. We were paid for work completed — a simple thing, really, but to us it was validating. Then we got married and became moms, and all of a sudden, we found ourselves in unfamiliar economic terrain — financial terra incognita.

Women’s battle for financial equality has barely been joined, much less won. Society still traditionally assigns to woman the role of money-handler rather than moneymaker, and our assigned specialty is far more likely to be home economics than financial economics.

– Paula Nelson

We found dividing our time between home and career exhausting. To spend more waking hours with our children, many of us segued into different jobs or careers, most likely with a smaller salary and a more flexible schedule. (Realistically, how many women do you know who happily took on more job responsibility, working longer hours, as a new parent?)

Or maybe we took a hiatus from the workforce entirely to become stay-at-home moms, at least at the start. Both of us did that, and we found that there’s nothing that can bruise an ego like going from being a got-my-own-money kind of woman to feeling obliged to ask your husband for dough. Financial terra incognita started looking a lot like the Land of Begging, and we didn’t like the scenery. With financial dependency on our husbands’ incomes, money became an awkward, unpleasant topic and a source of tension and contention at home.

Remember, Ginger Rogers did everything Fred Astaire did, but backwards and in high heels.

– Bob Thaves

We discovered that many other women were having the same experience. Maybe you got defensive about spending money on yourself, money you had not “earned.” Or maybe you didn’t spend it at all. If you ever felt guilty about “splurging” on yourself, we’re playing your song.

What happened here? With our very understandable choice to work less outside the house in order to be available to our children, the balance of economic power between us and our spouses and between us and the outside world tilted. It’s a problem the world over. Some husbands dole out money according to what they think you ought to need. Or perhaps you’re still working a full-time job outside the home and you share your paycheck but he’s not sharing the load. Either way, finances are a sticky issue in households, and we’re about to shed new light on the age-old money fight.

We call the money issues that come with marriage and motherhood the Money Shadow.

That Money Shadow is the dark cloud that money can cast over a marriage. Lurking in that shadow are some biggies. We’ll help you to nail ‘em down and bring these taboo topics out of the closet. We’re excited to share with our readers how Man Math and Lady Luck (the different ways men and women think and feel about money) play a prominent role in a woman’s financial life. It’s the kind of revelation that makes women breathe a huge sigh of relief: suddenly it all makes sense. We’ll give you three money strategies that will change the way you think and talk (which is great for us, since we so often talk without thinking) about money, and your relationships around money. These revelations have helped us and our community of women to put more cash in the bank and to defuse a volatile issue at home.

Why do we want to share our secrets with women the world over? Because we’re all in this together. An inherent truth is that we need each other. Women need girlfriends, mothers, sisters, cousins, and aunts. It’s been our experience that women need each other so much, they’ll even reach out online trying to find someone who understands their wants, needs, hopes, and dreams.

What about Sex?

I know nothing about sex because I was always married.

– Zsa Zsa Gabor

Another truth is that motherhood often sends both energy and libido into a major free fall. We’ve got Tips to help readers deal with both. We’re not afraid to admit there are times we’d rather sleep than have sex, but if we did that every night, we’d be well rested but single. When we were at a meeting talking about how to get an energy boost, Heather mentioned Red Bull. Someone said, “That stuff isn’t good for you.” Heather joked, “I know. I only drink it at night! It keeps my husband happy.” Hmm, that’s a great slogan: Red Bull: Saving the Sex Lives of Married Couples. But sex should be more than something that keeps your husband happy: it should make you happy too. You can make your own recipe from the best strategies we’ve come up with ourselves, and the gems that other women have contributed. Trust us — there are some real red-hot mamas out there.

What about Food?

We share emotional stories about how moms in the same boat have figured out some quick, easy ways to boost the health factor of the foods their families eat and have triumphed over the fatty stuff — without fad diet pills and plans. Don’t take us wrong: this is not a diet book; we don’t even include a diet chapter. It is a wake-up call that gets us all to start thinking about how we’re feeding ourselves and our families.

We can’t talk about bodies without talking about food. Food is another big issue for us moms who inherit a chef’s hat (or a BlackBerry full of takeout phone numbers) once we have kids. Suddenly you go from nights out dining on foie gras (okay, maybe not foie gras, but at least grown-up food), to digging into bowl after bowl of mac ‘n cheese made with fluorescent orange powder. Suddenly it’s normal for us to eat snacks that come out of little plastic baggies. All this, um, stuff can take a toll on our bodies and our moods, but often these quick fixes are all we have time to give our kids and ourselves.

Body image is also something we all struggle with. Mention trying on bathing suits in any gathering of women, and you’ve got an instant support group. Girlfriends laugh with us in the best of times and hold us up through the worst of times. All too frequently, though, we let friendships wither because we are too busy with our day-to-day insanity. Friends need — and deserve — our attention, but we tend to give friendships a lower priority than our family. This is a mistake: when things fall apart, friends are what keep you going. It is important to explore the issues of friendship among women — how to reach out to make a friend if you feel isolated, how to sustain a friendship, and what to do with those high-maintenance pals who always need help but are never there when you need them.

Quickies

Here’s the reality: we know, no matter what it is you’re doing right now or what you have on your to-do list, you don’t have much time. So, throughout this book you’ll find Quickies. Quickies are those moments when we skip the foreplay and the flowery talk and we just get it done. Quickies make you feel great, and they relieve stress in little time and with little effort.

A Quickie is manageable. It’s a small chunk of time that we can all find in a day. Even if that means getting up fifteen minutes earlier than normal or staying up fifteen minutes later. Or maybe you can do a Quickie in those fifteen minutes between appointments, those fifteen minutes between dropping one son at swimming and picking the other up at soccer. Wherever you are, you can have a Quickie: at home, in the car, at the office.

We are living proof that anyone can live a better life with a few tiny tweaks. We’re not saying, “Look at us, we do it all.” In fact, it’s exactly the opposite. You’ll discover in this book that no one can do it all and that’s okay! But that doesn’t mean you can’t have it all. To listen to people who tell us we can’t have something is to cut our dreams off at the knees. If we believe we can’t have something, we won’t have it. It’s as simple as that. We at MomsTown refuse to listen to the kind of chatter that whittles away at our aspirations, and we hope you will too.

We need more moms dreaming about a better world if we want to live in a better world.

Sure, there are realities that we must face. That’s why we’re turning to each other to get help with the obstacles that hold us back. We know this to be true: when moms unite, we are a force to be reckoned with.

Without leaps of imagination, or dreaming, we lose the excitement of possibilities. Dreaming, after all, is a form of planning.

– Gloria Steinem

And that means having enough blue-sky time to figure out what that means. To you — not to your kids, not to your husband. So you see, it really is All About You — a person you have chosen to be. The ultimate act of your life will be choosing what is right for you. You are the only person who can decide those issues, and isn’t that exciting? Let’s get started.

I dwell in Possibility.

– Emily Dickinson

Copyright 2008 Mary Goulet and Heather Reider. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Most individuals believe they know and understand the term “soul mate”, but if asked to define it they can simply answer with fuzzy meanings that do not convey the true meaning.  The definition of a SOUL MATE: one who bonds with another, instantly familiar with them, as if they are created as one; two minds working in tandem as a single unit, nurturing and loving. Soul mates connect at a soul level.  They feel what the other is experiencing simultaneously.  Both are constantly searching for their equal.

Soul mates have “agreements” established in a previous karmic past to share their evolutionary growth.  Having had experiences with that individual in a previous lifetime causes something to spark when they reunite.  An open, care-free attitude and creativity are present where risk-taking helps in the acceptance of the individual.  Both people in the relationship experience spontaneity, fresh ideas and change.  The relationship is assumed to remain in good standing, in existence forever.  Wisdom in life situations is not found in books or magazines but something attained only through living and having experiences.  The inner travel of the soul is a gift we can give ourselves.  “When we get in touch with our own essence, feel our soul and understand a sense of what gives us true happiness, then the discovery of old worn-out patterns is realized.  Releasing old patterns allows new and healthier ones to emerge.

The admission to self, “I want my other half, my true soul mate” is sent out into the universe.  Your true soul mate reads the signal as a gut-wrenching cry for him or her and answers the “call” home.

Being in touch with one’s higher self and connecting to one’s scared self are the real benefits of palmistry.  The lines on a human palm are the indicators of the major influences and movements one faces in life.  The human hand is considered the mirror of the soul.  The hand is also the servant of the human brain. Palmistry searches for the truth that enables knowing the true nature of another.

Copyright 2008 Myrna Lou Goldbaum. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

DEMENTIA DIARY

A Caregiver’s Journal

By

Robert Tell

(Excerpts — Copyright ©2008)

I WANT YOU TO HAVE THESE LENGTHY FREE EXCERPTS OF MY BOOK: “DEMENTIA DIARY”

Of course I’d love for you to buy a copy and I hope you’ll consider doing that after you’ve read a chapter or two for free.

But if you wish you may keep the entire downloaded copy of the excerpts and even share it with others. No obligation—No charge!

This is my way of introducing you to a book that I hope will brighten your days, as it has for so many other caregivers.

PRAISE FOR DEMENTIA DIARY

“As the distraught family member of an Alzheimer’s sufferer I found this book to be OUTSTANDING—entertaining—informative…a Neil Simon laugh and cry scenario. Other books miss the emotional reality that engulfs both the afflicted and the caregiver. Dementia Diary fills this gap with dignity and warmth.  Every reader will benefit greatly, as did I.”

—Tom Cranshaw, CEO, Tri-County Mental

Health Services, Kansas City, MO

“This sensitive and well written semi-autobiography is unusual for its male perspective and a must read for all who are going through the challenging years of caring for an elderly parent. It educates the reader about many significant issues such as geriatricare management, driving and preneed funeral planning–to mention just a few.”

—Dr. Seth B. Goldsmith, Author of Choosing A Nursing Home (1991 Book of the Year, Library Journal)  and Former CEO of the Miami Jewish Home and Hospital for the Aged

CONTENTS

Included here in these excerpts:

PREFACE

WHO IS MINNIE SWEET?

SOME ARE CALLED

DYING TO SHOP

SHOPPING TO DIE

DRIVING AWAY THE BLUES

The rest of the book:

HCFA HELPER

MOVED TO TEARS

PLAYING TO A PACKED HOUSE

SQUEEZING 10 LBS OF POTATOES INTO A 5 LB       SACK

TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES

ALTERNATIVE LONG DISTANCE SERVICE

BOOMERANG BUBBE

SHOULD A CAREGIVER BE A CARGIVER?

A HAPPY HOLLOWGRAM

RESISTED LIVING

NORTHWARD HO

“HOME” SWEET HOME

LONGEVITY

LATE STAGE DEMENTIA

PERPETUAL EMOTION

PREFACE

This is neither a guidebook nor compendium of advice about how to cope with caring for an aging parent or spouse with dementia. There are literally hundreds of such tomes available. My hope, instead, is that this book will become a kind of “portable support group” for caregivers.

Dementia Diary is first and foremost a memoir about what it’s like to be the only child, a son, and the caregiver of a widowed and cognitively impaired mother who lives alone half a continent away.

Those who know my family will recognize that the name I’ve given my mother in this book, Minnie Sweet, is not her real name. Why did I change her name? I have two reasons.

First, even though the narrative is largely autobiographical, some facts have been fictionalized for effect. Second, and more important, writing this memoir has been one of the most emotionally difficult projects I have ever undertaken.

In order for me to attempt it with even a semblance of objectivity, I required an artifact. Using fabricated names was that artifact—it was a distancing technique that enabled me to approach this powerful topic with safety, compassion and humor. So all of the names in this memoir are fictitious, including my parent’s and mine. This worked for me and I hope it works for you.

It is also possible that someone with one of the names I used may read this book. If so, please understand the happenstance involved, and accept my apologies. Any resemblance to any real persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

I also intend for the institutions that served my mother to remain anonymous. She was fortunate to have found her way to some wonderful facilities and programs that, I believe, extended her years and the quality of her life. However, for consistency with the “semi-fictional” nature of this memoir, these institutions are best left unidentified, and any resemblance to actual facilities and programs is purely coincidental.

A word about Mom’s long, slow descent into the opaque fog of multi-infarct dementia: This is a different syndrome than the well-known dementia called Alzheimer’s disease, and it can be caused by frequent “silent” mini-strokes.

Here is the way a physician described the condition to me: the “victim” of such events may not be, indeed usually is not, aware that anything out of the ordinary has occurred. Neither are his or her significant others.

Perhaps there is momentary weakness, headache, or dizziness, but nothing major. Over time, however, enough damage is done to the brain that symptoms begin to appear. While some of these manifestations are unique to this syndrome, all dementias have certain behavioral commonalities that will be recognized in these pages.

I address this book to readers who are actively involved in care giving for loved ones with dementia, to those who have had this responsibility in the past, and to those who expect to face it in the future. Perhaps you will find a nugget here and there with which to identify, and from which to draw some comfort and support.

I also address this book to professionals charged with the care of persons with dementia. Perhaps it will provide a bit of insight into the perspective of a family member attempting to understand and deal with a loved one’s loss of identity, memory, and cognition.

The inspiration for this diary was a talk that I was invited to give to a conference of caregivers sponsored by an adult day care program for people with dementia. The agenda included speeches by a psychiatrist and a geriatrician, followed by a panel of four caregivers reporting on their own experiences.

The purpose was to educate, inform and support an audience of caregivers who were struggling, largely in isolation, with all sorts of issues, and to provide an opportunity for them to share experiences and to ask questions.

At first, I didn’t want to make this presentation. I thought it would be an improper invasion of my mother’s privacy to talk about her in a public forum. Besides, it was an emotionally powerful subject and, even though I had done a lot of public speaking, I wasn’t sure I could handle this one in a calm and professional manner.

But the program sponsors prevailed. All of the other panel participants were women, they told me. They said that the program needed a man who was willing to share his experience as a caregiver, as well as his feelings. Men don’t easily do this kind of thing, they said, so “please,” they pleaded, and finally wore down my resistance. They pointed out that lots of men are caregivers and that these listeners would appreciate hearing a presentation by a man about this sensitive subject.

In retrospect, they were right. The male caregivers in the audience, and there were many, directed most of their questions to me, and quite a few approached me afterwards to thank me. They suggested that a book describing my experience as a male caregiver is urgently needed in the marketplace. Existing books, they said, do not address their feelings and unique responsibilities as sons and husbands.

I also asked many of the women present if such a book would find a readership among female caregivers. Interestingly, they thought it would—that women, too, would benefit from reading a man’s point of view on the care giving experience.

I learned a lot that evening. The presentations and audience questions taught me that the kinds of bittersweet anecdotes described in Dementia Diary are the common lot of all who deal with the reality of dementia in a loved one.

This is a disease that knows no boundaries. It is blind to the categories in which we usually place our fellow human beings. It can occur at the age of 55 or 85. It can happen to Blacks, Whites, Hispanics, Asians, Jews, Christians, Muslims, males and females, rich and poor. It has not spared ex-presidents.

Tears are shed by husbands and wives, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters—in fact anyone responsible for the care of a loved one with dementia. I hope that this book will help all such wonderworkers to understand that they are not alone. My mother would want it that way.

In the pages that follow, her story has been deliberately paced to mimic the unhurried rhythm of her gradual slide into cognitive disability, barely perceptible on a day-to-day basis, but dramatic and frightening when viewed through my own retrospectoscope over the long term.

Some chapters, especially the early ones in the book, may not reveal Mom’s (Minnie Sweet’s) growing deficits to the reader. Some of the anecdotes may seem like the normal foibles of an aging woman rather than a person with a serious dementia. That’s what I thought too.

It’s only when we get to the later stages (or later chapters) that we can see, with hindsight and in the light of her full-blown memory impairment, that the signs and symptoms were there from the beginning.

Keep in mind, also, that the young Minnie Sweet would have been mortified by many of the attitudes and behaviors of the elderly Minnie Sweet. We would have had to explain to her, just as we ourselves had to learn, that the latter was part of the disease process, and not her true personality and character.

Finally, it is my wish that the reader will see beyond the sadness, tragedy and, yes, comedy sometimes associated with the evening hours of life, and will recognize that dementia, while terrible, does not diminish the essential humanity of the afflicted individual.

ROBERT TELL, Farmington Hills, Michigan

WHO IS MINNIE SWEET?

My name is Jerry Sweet and it is my sweet pleasure to be sharing this story with you. That’s right, Jerry Sweet—Sid and Minnie’s only child. I’ll be your tour guide for this entire tale.

I assume, if you are reading this, that you are a caregiver or, if not, that you know someone who is. Either way, I think you will be able to relate these vignettes to your own experience and observations.

Throughout this narrative, I have tried to document the shifts in Minnie’s slipping cognition. My purpose has been to demonstrate, with anecdotes and description, the various stages in her disease as it developed from its subtle beginnings to the present time.

Most of these pages track Minnie’s life after the age of seventy-seven when Sidney died and her cognitive deficits were exposed. However, for you to truly appreciate the extent of the damage to this previously vital and energetic woman, you need to meet her in her younger years.

So let me introduce you to Minnie Sweet in happier days before her dementia came calling.

Minnie’s history was actually rather typical. In the early 20th century, millions of immigrants from Eastern Europe could tell a similar tale. She was born in 1913, in Vilna, Lithuania, one of the three children that beat the odds and survived. Besides Minnie, there was her older sister Beverly, and a brother, Henry. Four other siblings died before reaching their first birthdays.

In spite of primitive pre-natal care, non-existent well-baby care, poverty, malnutrition, and the daily violence that permeated her world, Minnie decided to live. It was an early example of a biological hardiness that was to serve her well in the years ahead.

When Minnie was two years old, economic decline and anti-Semitic harassment in Eastern Europe were growing more serious day by day. Minnie’s parents (and my grandparents), Morris and Rebecca Goldberg, decided to escape these dangers and come to America.

They arrived at Ellis Island in 1915, terrified about the possibility of being sent back by the United States authorities. Minnie had rickets, a nutritional disease prevalent at the time among the children of the immigrant poor.

A deficiency of vitamin D and/or calcium was the cause, but it was easily corrected if caught in time. However, it affected bone growth and it was not uncommon for would-be Americans to be shipped back for this, or for even less serious health issues.

Luck was with the Goldberg’s that day. They passed through the inspection easily, breathed a big sigh of relief, and settled in the Brownsville-East New York section of Brooklyn.

Other relatives also immigrated to that location, and it was fast becoming a cultural center for thousands of Jewish refugees that shared the Goldberg’s history, concerns, beliefs and ethnic background.

Life was economically poor, but socially rich. Morris worked in the needle trades and Rebecca stayed home to have one more child, a girl named Charlotte, and to maintain a home for her family. Surrounded by siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, and other family and friends, Minnie thrived. She became a real American girl. Soon the flapper years were happening, and the Great Depression was still in the future.

Attending college, or even completing high school, was a stretch for most new Americans, especially girls, back then (although Minnie did feel much pride when, decades later, she earned a GED high school equivalency diploma). Rather, it was expected that young people would work to help support the family.

And Minnie did. She became a cosmetologist and manicurist, and went to work for Mme. Sweet’s Beauty Salon. It wasn’t long before the boss’s son, Sidney Sweet, noticed her—much to his mother’s dismay. Notwithstanding her objection to Sidney’s fraternizing with the help, a romance blossomed that culminated in a marriage in 1933.

In spite of the Depression, Minnie and Sidney pursued the American dream and became a happy, optimistic couple. They were embraced lovingly by one and all—except by Mme. Sweet, who did everything she could to undermine the relationship. She eventually accepted the inevitable, but not before enabling a lifelong bitterness in her daughter-in-law, who never quite forgave her.

In those days, the sport of boxing was a pathway out of poverty for many immigrant young men, and fighters such as Jack Dempsey and Barney Ross were their role models. Dreaming of money and fame, Sidney Sweet decided to try his hand at prize fighting, but he soon had second thoughts when his nose was broken in the ring.

In 1937, I came along and that changed everything. As a new dad, Sidney now needed to make a steady living. So he took his squashed nose out of the ring and joined the electrician’s union. Minnie became a full time mom lavishing love and attention on her only child.

In 1946, Sidney traded his blue-collar shirts for an entrepreneur’s portfolio. He gave up being a master electrician in order to open a small factory for the manufacture of leather novelties.

When I was nine years old, Minnie felt free to begin her new career as the well-organized and capable foreman of the family’s budding manufacturing business—and she was terrific. She was the chief operating officer of the business, the human resources department, the bookkeeper, and the detail person, while Sidney concentrated on product development, sales, and production policy. They were a great team.

So Minnie and Sidney settled into a life surrounded by warm and stable family relationships and friendships, and they began to experience some of the economic success of post-war America. They moved their home multiple times in the 1940’s, 1950’s and 1960’s, each time into a “better” Brooklyn neighborhood. America was being good to these refugees from European poverty and hate, and their patriotic feelings were very strong.

As the economy of the late 1960’s overheated, it ultimately reached the working and lower middle classes. It seemed to the Sweets that everyone they knew had great investments and a winter home in Florida, and they wanted onto this bandwagon.

Minnie and Sidney began “snow birding” to Southeastern Florida in the late 1960’s to see if they might like it. It didn’t take long for them to become property owners and permanent residents in this fast developing region.

Now Minnie really came into her own. She began to apply her considerable organizational skills to various non-profit leadership activities in New York and in Florida. She discovered a love and a talent for communal affairs and accepted one assignment after another.

Matron of the Eastern Star; founder and president of at least three Hadassah chapters; member of the town’s library board and its Director of Volunteers; leadership roles in B’nai Brith Women and Jewish War Veterans—and these are just for starters. It was these organizations that supplied the deep and lasting friendships that blessed Minnie and Sidney for the several decades of their lives in Florida.

Of course, the idyll I’ve been describing had to end. Even as Minnie multi-tasked and spread her social wings across Southeastern Florida, something was changing in her brain and personality. That something was mistakenly assumed by those closest to her to be excessive stubbornness and selfishness. We were right in what we observed, but wrong about the cause.

In 1990, Sidney died and Minnie’s descent down the “slippery slope” of multi-infarct dementia accelerated. Today, in 2005, she has not yet reached the base of this slope, but she is certainly nearing the end of her journey.

At first, when she was beginning her slide, none of her loved ones, including me (especially me), understood that her sometimes difficult and abrasive behavior was part of a progressive disease process.

Today, her illness is obvious. Looking back, milestones in her decline can be identified. The various chapters of this book are intended to give life to the circumstances surrounding these turning points.

At each of her transitions, whenever Minnie reached a new low in functioning, I thought that she could not decline further and still remain “alive.”  Each time, it was like a mini-death. Each time, I grieved anew.

Often, just when I had finally made my peace with her new level, she would rally and seem to regain ground that she had lost. When this occurred, I usually allowed myself to be duped into believing that she was not as bad as I had feared. Each time, though, something soon happened to highlight Minnie’s new deficits.

Whenever I thought that she could not possibly lose additional cognition and continue to function as a viable human being, it turned out that she had not yet reached bottom. It seems that there is no conclusion to the deterioration process, other than the grave.

As I write this, Minnie is getting ready to experience her ninety-second birthday. No one close to her ever expected her to live so long. That she did so is both a blessing and a curse. For her more than for me.

Dramatic changes took place in her in the years since Sidney died, changes that became more noticeable and more frequent over time. She gradually became mild and amiable, non-confrontational, and unlike the agitated Minnie that emerged from mourning her husband’s death.

Observing these changes in the early stages of her dementia, I was forced to marvel: is this the mother who made me crazy all those years when her emotions were out of control?  Or is this gentle and loving paragon of a happy old age the true, underlying person?

Did the psychotropic drugs she took mask her authentic nature or, conversely, did these medications permit the real, kind, and thoughtful Minnie to shine through at last?  To what extent is personality only chemistry?  Who is the real Minnie Sweet?

In 1997, Minnie moved up north to be near family. Thankfully, she is still among us. Of course, no one knows know how much time she has left and, as she said long ago, she has “longevity.” Every day that goes by, however, sees further diminution in her capabilities.

When she first came to live near me, I visited several times a week for an hour or so and, whenever possible, took her out of the institutional environment. Later, when I could no longer take her on outings, she could still reminisce, share memories, look at family photos, sit outside in nice weather, and maintain a reasonable conversation.

Even the telephone was a useful medium for staying in touch. Today, our phone conversations are no more, and my visits have become less frequent and shorter. She is thrilled when she sees me and, remarkably, still knows who I am.

Occasionally, she will respond to my questions with one-word answers. More frequently, she says nothing. If I stop talking, we sit in silence. Soon, with me holding her hand, she falls asleep in her wheelchair.

Yet, until recently, Minnie kept radiating love and happiness. She sometimes still does, although less often these days. Does her life have quality?  Who can say?

Before she came up north, I would have argued that no one in her current condition could enjoy life. I would have said that I’d never want to live in such circumstances. Today, I’m not so sure.

Every moment of every day is new to Minnie Sweet. She still smiles a lot. Her dentures are frequently missing or lost and, like an infant, she shows a lot of gums—but she’s quick to smile…and she still blows kisses to everyone.

Quality of life?  What is that?  Whatever it is, for most of her time here, I think Minnie had it.

SOME ARE CALLED

One Sunday morning in December 1990, I was enjoying the quiet isolation of my business office while trying to clean up the loose ends of a hectic workweek. No one was around and I was sailing along, making great progress.

I was feeling particularly happy. Business was booming. Several new contracts had been faxed in late Friday afternoon, accounts receivable were up to date, major projects were moving well toward completion, and I was beginning to think about heading home.

“Ring.” It was the phone. It didn’t actually ring but, instead, made that bone jarring electronic sound that has replaced the mechanical bell of older telephones (When did that triumph of 21st Century technology occur?). There is no word yet invented in the English language to adequately describe that sound. So…

“Ring,” will have to do.

It took me several moments to react. After all, who could be calling a business office on a Sunday morning? It must be a wrong number, I thought. I didn’t expect my wife, Nadine, to call. She knew that I preferred to work undisturbed on weekend office visits. I debated not answering it, but the so-called ring was persistent and, finally, as much from curiosity as anything else, I gave in.

“Hello?”

“Jerry?” It was Nadine’s voice.

I decided to be flippant. “You were expecting, maybe, Woody Allen?” I quipped, to let her know that I didn’t mind the interruption. “What’s up?”

The first sign of trouble was the silence at the other end. It was only a moment, but it was long enough to send me a signal. Whatever it was, Nadine was either reluctant to say, or else she did not know quite how to proceed.

“Jerry, I’m sorry to bother you. I know how much you…”

“It’s Okay, Nadine. I’m almost done for today. I was just wrapping up. I’ll be home in half an hour.”

“Oh,” and then silence for another interminable moment. Then, “Listen. It can wait. Just come home.”

All my antennae were up now. “Nadine,” I said. “I’ve got a minute. You called for a reason. So now I’m curious. What’s happening?”

“Really, Jerry, it can wait. If I knew you were getting ready to leave, I wouldn’t have called.”

Now I was getting alarmed or annoyed. I wasn’t really sure which. Probably both. There was something in Nadine’s voice that scared me.

“What’s with all the mystery?” I asked. “Don’t make me crazy. You called me, so what is it that couldn’t wait before; and, now, all of a sudden, it can?”

“Your Aunt Charlotte called.”

This was my mother Minnie’s younger sister, my favorite Aunt, and the closest thing I had to a sibling. She called frequently, but not usually on Sunday mornings.

I didn’t know the details yet, but I was beginning to guess where this conversation was going. Hoping that I was jumping to false conclusions, I asked,

“Charlotte? What did she want? Is everything Okay in Florida?”

“She just called and asked me to contact you and ask you to come home.”

This was getting stranger and stranger. I was starting to understand how a district attorney must feel when cross-examining a hostile witness.

My poor wife was clearly in distress. I was not yet completely conscious of the fact that what she had to say would hurt me, but my instincts were figuring it out fast.

“Nadine, come clean,” I begged. “Why did she ask you to do this?”

“She asked me not to tell you on the phone. She just said to get you to come home as soon as possible.”

Bingo! Minnie had been ailing recently with chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, congestive heart failure, anxiety attacks and depression, high blood pressure, and spinal arthritis.

So now I thought I knew why Nadine was calling. We had often discussed the relative issues associated with the loss of either of my parents in terms of who might go first. Minnie always seemed to be the more fragile of the two, so I was quite sure of the answer when I asked quietly, holding my breath.

“It’s my mother, isn’t it?”

“No.”

Oh, oh. That didn’t leave a lot of alternatives. Still, I asked, hoping for another negative, “My father?”

“Yes.”

Pause.

“Dead?” Please God, have her say “No.”

“Yes.”

The room began to spin. I said nothing. I couldn’t speak. I just sat there holding the receiver. From somewhere deep inside a tremor started and worked its way outward gathering momentum as it migrated. Soon it was forcing its way up through my chest and out through my throat. A huge sob broke forth surprising me with its power.

“Are you alright?” Nadine asked, her voice barely a whisper.

“No,” I replied. I wanted to say more but choked on my words. I just sat there and tried to fight the sobs, but it was impossible. They consumed me. Nadine sat patiently on the other end, saying nothing, waiting for my lead. Finally, when the spasm ended, I asked,

“How?”

She filled me in on what Charlotte had told her.

“Sears?” I repeated.

“Sears,” she said again.

“Returning a rug?” I repeated. I had heard her, but it was a comic twist to a personal tragedy, and very hard to absorb.

“Returning a rug,” she repeated, and both of us started to laugh. In between the tears, we laughed until it hurt. Feeling guilty about the levity, but unable to ignore the irony in the situation, I laughed until I cried. Then, emotionally spent, I said,

“How’s Minnie taking it? Did Charlotte say?”

“Not good. She’s at Charlotte’s apartment. Charlotte says she was crying hysterically, but she’s sleeping now.”

Another deep breath. It was hard for me to talk. “Call the airlines,” I managed to croak out.

“It’s done. We have a 9:05 am flight tomorrow. I’ve called the kids too. They’re all planning to go.”

I shook my head to try to clear it. “It’s all happening so fast. I can’t believe he’s dead.”

No response from Nadine for a moment. Then, “So, are you coming home now?”

I nodded, although there was no one that could see me. “I’ll be home in twenty minutes,” I said.

“Will you be okay?” she asked.

“I think so. Listen, did you really believe you could get me home without telling me the truth?”

“It seems pretty silly now,” Nadine replied. “Charlotte was insistent that I shouldn’t say anything on the phone, that I had to get you home one way or another first. It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Nice try!” I said. “See ya soon.”

DYING TO SHOP

When Minnie and Sidney Sweet retired to Florida around 1970, he was in his mid 60’s and she in her late 50’s. They were young retirees. Sid sold his small manufacturing business, and the building housing it, for just enough money to promise a comfortable, if not opulent, lifestyle.

So they took the plunge. They left their only son. They left their daughter-in-law, and their three grandchildren. They left siblings, cousins and lifelong friends, and they bought a condo in a Florida retirement village.

You know the kind. Two bedrooms. Two bathrooms. A living room leading to a Florida room (porch, to you) that looked out at the seventh hole. A small kitchen (who cooks? It’s cheaper to eat out with the Early Bird)—and insufficient closet space.

The community boasted a full time resort atmosphere complete with clubhouse, swimming pools, tennis courts, golf course, transit system, and security gate. And, of course, shuffleboard. The ubiquitous shuffleboard. The Sweets never looked back!

The stock market decline of the 1970’s took the glow off the carefree nature of their relocation. It was a disappointment for Sidney, and one that attacked his self-image as a provider and protector of his family.

Even though he had no personal control over what was happening to the economy, nothing could convince him that their troubles weren’t his fault. For Minnie, it was a shock to her sense of security. Her verbal expressions of these feelings did little to help Sidney overcome his guilt feelings.

Still, the Sweets had enough money left, when combined with Social Security and Medicare, to maintain a modest but adequate existence. So they survived. Actually, they thrived. In spite of the economy, they soared. The years flew by. They joined every charitable organization they could find. So did all the other newcomers.

The Sweets were warm and affable people. They provided a happy home for me as a youngster and, after I married, a loving embrace for the new family that I was creating.

It was not surprising that they made many new friends in Florida. People liked and respected them. Sidney’s sense of humor and his integrity were widely admired, and he was a role model that many aspired to imitate. This was especially true for his son.

Minnie’s enthusiastic and outgoing nature attracted people to her like bears to honey. They played golf, went to meetings, played golf, enjoyed social events, played golf, had doctor appointments (of which there were many), played golf and, of course, they shopped.

Shopping, for most of us, is about meeting our basic needs and desires for food, clothing, gadgets and luxury items. For some people, however, it has other satisfactions and it fills other needs.

It may be a social event with emotional overtones—or a way to fill time in an otherwise boring life—or even, for some, an addiction that brings cheer to an otherwise dreary disposition. This can be as true for snowbirds and retirees of the Sunbelt as it is for the rest of the population—maybe even truer.

Consider a typical day in the life of the Sweets. In the morning they’d shop for, say, a toaster oven. They’d buy one, take it home and plug it in. They’d then enjoy a nice lunch with slices of toast made in their new purchase.

But there’d be a problem. The bread might be browning less evenly than expected. Maybe it would even be getting a little too dark and crisp along the edges. They wanted a perfect piece of toast, something that the new oven seemed incapable of producing.

Too bad! They’d have to bring the toaster back. They’d return it to the store for a refund and then, of course, would proceed to buy something else that would probably have to be returned the next day. And so it went. Day after day after day.

And the Sweets were joined in these daily shopping adventures by thousands of their contemporaries. One wonders how the retailers managed to stay in business.

If this description seems amusing, consider the other side of the story. Shopping can provide a brief escape from the preoccupation with death and disease that is the constant companion of the seniors that populate these retirement communities.

Their adult children “up north” may still believe in the illusion of their own immortality, but our shoppers know better. And yet, these older Americans somehow manage to mix a laugh or two with the bad things that happen daily to their neighbors, friends, and to themselves. It’s how they cope with their reality.

A case in point: While there isn’t anything happy in the tragedy about to be described, there is a bit of the ironic. Something that may elicit a smile or two even as it evokes the tears. Here’s what happened.

One day in 1990, Minnie and Sidney Sweet decided to go to a nearby Sears & Roebuck store. It was early and the store just opened. They entered the store and, as they walked toward the escalators, Sidney died. That’s right, he died. On the spot.

One minute he was walking alongside Minnie and the next he was laying face down where he had pitched forward onto the floor. With no sound, no cry of pain, nothing. His complexion was grey, and he was gone.

Later, a doctor was to say it was a massive heart event, that Sidney had felt no discomfort and never knew what happened. The doctor said it was a good way to die, easy on the deceased, but hard on his loved ones. It was indeed very hard on his son (and I should know), but it was hardest on Minnie.

Imagine her horror. She had spent all of her married life almost totally dependent on her husband. She didn’t drive (more about that at another time), was rarely separated from him, and drew her emotional strength and most of her identity from him. It was not an uncommon role for women of her generation.

Also, her dementia had started. Not that anyone close to her, or she herself, recognized that her exaggerated personality quirks and her growing memory lapses were due to illness. They were just “Minnie,” and what could you do?

Perhaps Sidney knew something was amiss. Perhaps not. But without him to “cover” for her behavioral idiosyncrasies, she would become more and more exposed.

In any event, Minnie never really expected to have to face life without Sidney. Oh, she knew that they were getting into the dangerous years, and they had even talked about it. But that was an abstraction, not something that could really happen. Until that morning at Sears, when it did.

And what a way to have to face it. Alone among strangers, in a department store, sudden death. A catastrophe. She screamed and cried and couldn’t be consoled. She was seventy-seven.

Why, you ask, were they in a Sears store that morning?  You guessed it. They were returning a small rug they had purchased the day before for the floor of their bathroom. It didn’t look as nice as they had anticipated.

Twelve years after the event, at eighty-nine, Minnie would smile when asked whether Sid died before or after they returned the rug, and whether they were able to get their refund. She would chuckle at the thought, but could not recall the answer.

A year later, at ninety, she would struggle to remember who Sidney was—and she would ask the visitor to tell her how her husband died.

SHOPPING TO DIE

There is a product that is very popular among shoppers in South Florida. It is free from the pattern of “buy today and return tomorrow” that was described in the previous chapter. This product is known euphemistically as “Pre-Need.”

It is sold by funeral directors, of which there are very many. Retirement communities breed undertakers and cemeteries in the same way that young family suburbs grow childcare centers and elementary schools.

Morticians have discovered an undeniable truth about merchandising their wares. It is very difficult to return a cemetery plot or coffin, especially after it has been used. This gives the death business an advantage that has to be the envy of merchants selling more mundane wares.

So what, exactly, is Pre-Need? The idea, which is attractive to many retirees, is that they can make decisions concerning their deaths while still alive and vigorous.

Purchasers of Pre-Need packages hope that all will go smoothly when they die, and that they will be sparing their loved ones the turmoil and trauma of having to make all sorts of tough choices under time and emotional pressures.

By arranging all of these things, and paying for them in advance, the theory goes, the temptation to buy the most expensive casket and services (because nothing is too good for “Dad”) can be avoided.

The cynical view is that Pre-Need is a clever scheme that greedy funeral parlor owners have invented to lock in their customers, and to obtain up-front capital on which to earn interest. They sell the “product,” usually on an installment contract basis, with high, if not usurious, interest rates.

The buyer thus loses the investment interest that would have been earned by the dollars spent on the Pre-Need contract. It is the mortician that now earns the investment interest—and, to make the deal even sweeter, the buyer gets to pay credit interest to the mortician for the privilege of deferring final payment.

Not bad (for the funeral parlor, that is)!

In addition, the mortician is assured that the mortuary’s investment for cemetery land is quickly returned to the business, along with a nice margin of profit, long before it’s actually needed for the purpose for which its sold. No wonder so many entrepreneurs are dying to get into this business.

The truth is that Pre-Need can be a win-win in many situations. If the funeral parlor and cemetery deliver what is promised in the contract; if they don’t use the moments after death to impose the old “bait and switch” technique on guilt ridden survivors in an effort to sell higher priced product than chosen by the deceased; and if the terms of a fair and honorable agreement reached with the deceased long before the moment of need are observed, then the Pre-Need agreement may actually provide a bona fide value to the purchaser and to his or her loved ones; and a reasonable and fair business profit to the seller as well.

It is the ultimate layaway plan!

What does all this have to do with Minnie and Sidney Sweet? I’ll tell you, although I’m sure that you have made the connection. Yep! The Sweets had purchased Pre-Need contracts from the Menorah Maven Funeral Home and Twilight Gardens (MMFHTG).

They were very proud of their new real estate, and felt the Pre-Need process to be an unselfish gift to their surviving family members. In fact, they seemed to enjoy taking me along on visits to the cemetery plots whenever the opportunity allowed.

Somehow, I did not find this activity to be as fun-filled as a trip to the beach but, since Dad was so excited about it, I shrugged and played along. Sidney loved to point out the aesthetics of the place.

There were no large, vertical stone markers. All graves had tasteful flat marble plaques engraved with the names of the deceased, dates of birth and death, and a few loving words. Nothing else. Rich or poor, man or woman, none had visible symbols to display worldly success or failure.

The only other option was a mausoleum-like structure that, for a price premium, would store one’s remains above ground in a kind of huge, bureau-like, concrete facility.

Minnie liked that idea, but Sidney did not. He said it would be like lying between the sock drawer and the underwear. Sidney prevailed.

And so, shortly after the incident at Sears, the Sweet clan and its remaining friends gathered at MMFHTG to pay their last respects to Sidney. Minnie was still in shock and denial.

Part of her was her old well-organized self. She threw herself into coordinating the funeral arrangements with the same efficiency and energy she used to organize the three new Hadassah chapters that she subsequently served as President. This part of her persona locked her fear and anxiety up in a safe and walled compartment somewhere inside her heart and soul. She functioned, but as in a dream.

Another part of her knew, though, that this was different, that the funeral was about Sidney, and that this event was the prelude to a new life of loneliness and confusion that awaited her.

The changes that Minnie was experiencing must have frightened and worried her. For the past few years, her highs had become much too high, her lows were severe and self-destructive, and she surely felt a loss of control.

She began to malign life-long friends and family members for hurts both real and imagined. Even siblings were not excluded from her wrath. Neither was her only son. Minor affronts became major issues.

“Ma,” I asked following an incident in which she was especially rude to her sister, “Why did you treat Charlotte so badly?  She’s been so supportive of us during this mourning period, so sensitive and kind.”

“What do you mean ‘us’?” Minnie answered with fire in her eyes.

“I mean you and me, Mom. I’m talking about our loss.”

“In the first place, I can treat anyone any way I like. I’VE lost my husband and I’m entitled to grieve.”

“Yes, but grieving doesn’t give us license to be unpleasant to people, especially those who love us and wish us well.”

“Again with the ‘us.’  I’m the one who lost my husband, so everyone can just get off my back.”

“I understand that you lost your husband, Ma, but I had a loss too. I lost my Dad.”

She looked stunned at this realization. “Yes,” she allowed. “I guess you did. But it’s not the same thing. I loved Sidney. What will I do without him?”

“I loved him too, Ma. I miss him terribly already…”

“Okay, okay, but you’ll get over it. I won’t.”

Minnie expressed her bitterness and resentment freely and loudly to anyone who would listen, and to many who tried not to. Her world was shrinking, and she was becoming more and more isolated. Those she offended saw only a difficult personality getting worse.

No one suspected the demon growing inside of her, the illness that had begun to twist her memories, her judgment, and her emotions.

Only Sidney, who was also bewildered by the behavior of his Minnie, had been able to contain her, to do damage control and to keep the peace. He‘d been shielding her. Now he was gone.

At the funeral home, Sidney lay in a partly open casket with a split lid. For a brief period prior to the service, in a departure from an ethnic tradition of closed casket funerals, his head and shoulders were visible. To my surprise, Minnie specifically requested this arrangement.

This is where I came in. Entering the visitation room prior to the service, I had a strong approach-avoidance reaction. I wanted to remember Dad as he was when he was alive and smacking golf balls into the distance at the local driving range. I did not really want to see his corpse. Yet, I couldn’t turn away.

The last time I saw him alive was six months earlier at my home in the north. It was a remarkable visit, during which we talked about life and death, and about things in his past that he never opened up about before.

He cried and hugged, both of which were quite untypical behavior for him, and we shared a moment of closeness and a bond that surpassed anything previously felt between us.

At last, I thought, he is softening about his childhood. I had high hopes of finally learning the mysteries of his past that were heretofore forbidden to me. Now, that opportunity was forever gone, and his secrets were gone with him.

I approached his casket cautiously. His olive complexion, darkened further by years in the Florida sun, seemed somehow unnatural when contrasted against the clean white fabric of the casket interior. There was tightness in my abdomen as I studied him.

I held my breath and took a long, slow, painful, final look at my favorite father, my hero and my role model; and, so help me, he winked at me.

No one saw it but me. I know you think I imagined it, but I don’t care. Maybe I just knew that that’s what he would have done if he were capable of it. It doesn’t matter. As far as I was concerned, he did it. He winked at me.

As I retreated from his casket-side, my mother, Minnie, and a “Suit” accosted me at the exit from the visitation room. I don’t know how else to describe the short, very thin and pale man standing beside her. All I saw was a dark and shiny polyester suit.

The man introduced himself as the manager of the funeral home and insisted that Mom and I join him immediately in his office. I didn’t know what he wanted and, frankly, at the moment I did not particularly care.

“Not right now,” I resisted. “We’re in mourning. What’s this about?”

“It really can’t wait,” he persisted, “and I’m afraid that we can’t continue the funeral until we sit down and talk.”

Something about his words and tone told me that this was about money. He could not have chosen a more sensitive time to engage in such an insensitive demand. It was hard to contain the anger I was feeling, but I had no choice.

Mom and I followed him meekly into his office, while the funeral was placed on hold. I hoped the interruption would be short and that nobody “outside” would notice. When we were seated at a small table in his office, the Suit began to speak.

He wasn’t rude. In fact he was unctuous. He got right to the point. “Your mother owes us $2200.” He said. “I’m sorry, but we must have a check right now in order for our services to continue.”

“They have a Pre-Need agreement with you,” I said. “My understanding is that everything has been paid for.”

Mom looked sheepish. The Suit cleared his throat. “Yes, they do have Pre-Need with us. That’s why the balance is so low.”

“Why is there a balance at all?” I asked, still confused by the shakedown I was getting.

“Let me show you,” he replied, putting a stack of pink and yellow papers, invoices, and contracts on the table in front of us.

It seems that Dad had been paying out the agreement on a time contract and, when he died, there was still a balance of about $500. To that amount another $1000 had to be added for the very best coffin the funeral parlor had in its inventory. Mom had upgraded to that model today.

Then there was the extra limousine service, and on and on and on, numerous services over and above the Pre-Need arrangements, and all ordered by Minnie during the past 24 hours. The new total came to $2200. Was I prepared to write a check?

“Can’t this wait until after the funeral?” I asked, hoping to have a chance to talk to my mother privately, and hoping she would write the check. She could afford it. But she was sitting silently, staring at the floor.

“I think this is in very bad taste,” I said. “If we owe you some money, you’ll be paid. What’s the hurry now? Let’s get the funeral going.”

“You don’t understand,” said the Suit. “This is a business, and we often get stuck with bad debts. Our policy now is to collect everything that’s owed in advance. I’m sorry, but no money, no more funeral today.

“You can’t just stop it now,” I snapped. “My father is out there lying in one of your Cadillac caskets.”

“We can and we will,” came the reply. “Your father can be refrigerated until the bill is paid and then we can proceed.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Refrigerated! “You would really send all those mourners home at this point,” I said, more as a statement then a question.

“I’m sorry. Without a check for $2200 I’d have no other choice.”

Minnie looked up at me. There was a bewildered look in her eyes. She said nothing, but she did not have to. It was clear what I had to do.

“Whom do I make it out to?” I asked, taking out my pen.

DRIVING AWAY THE BLUES

Sidney never let Minnie drive. Oh, when they were younger, Minnie got her license and, occasionally, did get behind the wheel. For decades, however, Sidney just obstructed any effort to get her to drive. Every once in awhile, she would launch a mild protest.

“He won’t let me drive,” she would say meekly.

“What do you mean ‘let you’?” I’d ask. “You’re a grown woman. If you want to drive, take the keys and do it. I bet Dad won’t stop you if you really insist.”

“No,” she’d say quietly, “He won’t let me.”

And that was that. Actually, she had little incentive to force the issue. For one thing, with nary a protest or complaint, Sidney drove Minnie everywhere she had to go. For another, he usually wanted to accompany her to 95% of the places where she wanted to go. So what was the big deal?

This drove Nadine and me nuts. We understood that Mom was of an immigrant generation that encouraged wives to become totally dependent on their husbands. Women had been liberated, however. Hadn’t she noticed? Why didn’t she demand equality with respect to driving, we asked each other? Didn’t she care about her rights, we wondered?

Apparently not. It seemed that the issue was more of a problem in our minds than in Minnie or Sid’s, and so we backed off. That is, while Sidney was alive and in the driver’s seat, so to speak.

When Sid died, Nadine and I smelled an opportunity. Mom had lost her full time chauffer. She was going to become locationally challenged unless she moved quickly to do one of two things, or perhaps both.

One possibility was for her to utilize a local van service for seniors, a commercial taxi company, or one of the private chauffer services offered by some of the retired men in the community. The second idea involved Minnie’s return to the world of car and driver. Nadine and I were aggressively pushing the latter. We would live to regret this.

It did not take much to get Minnie to acquiesce to our encouragement. She began driving Sid’s Bonneville within weeks of his death. I call it Sid’s Bonneville because that’s what it was. He loved that car. When he wanted to buy it, he lobbied Minnie ceaselessly for months in order to gain her agreement about the expenditure.

Money had become relatively tight. “I’d like to get one more car before I die,” he’d say.

“You’re not dying so fast,” she’d reply. “There’s nothing wrong with the Buick.”

“This will be my last new car,” he’d come back, playing on her sympathy.

“Stop it,” she’d snort. “You’re breaking my heart, old man. You have at least three new cars left in you.”

Well, he wore her down. Little did either really expect his words to become so prophetic. Within two years, he was dead, and Minnie was trying to pilot a car around Retiree Realm that was at least two sizes too big.

She wasn’t the worst or most dangerous driver out there on the road. Countless other cognitively or physically impaired people terrorized their neighborhoods with their OPC’s. Nevertheless, she was certainly holding her own.

By the way, an OPC, I’m told by my children’s’ generation, is an “Old Person’s Car,” usually a dated, extra large, GM, Ford, or Chrysler product.

Here’s what happened. A few days after the funeral, Minnie needed groceries and faced her moment of truth. Call a cab or drive? It was a “no-brainer.” Off she went and within a month we knew why Sidney had kept her solidly planted in the passenger seat.

First, it was the fender bender phantom.

“Ma,” I asked when I’d came for a visit, “what happened to the tail light?”

“What do you mean?”

“Come look.”

“Oh yeah, it’s smashed. I forgot.”

“How did it happen?”

“It was parked in the Publix parking lot. I noticed the damage when I got back with my groceries.”

“What about the dent in the right passenger side fender?”

“These parking lots are trouble. That was when I parked near the Eckerd’s drug store.”

“Did you see who did it?”

Silence. Then a guilty look. Then, “No. The drivers down here are awful.”

There was no point in quizzing her about the loose and hanging chrome strip, the deep scratch in the driver side door, or a half dozen other minor injuries. It was always the fender bender phantom. She saw no evil, heard no evil, and smelled no evil.

Then there was the tale of the “nice policeman.”

Ring, ring. “Hello,” I said.

“It’s me honey. I want to tell you about the sweet officer that stopped me yesterday.” Minnie laughed as she announced this as though it was the funniest thing since Milton Berle. Did I really want to know what came next? No, not really but…

“What about the sweet officer?” I asked fearing the worst.

“Well, ha, ha ha, he was so nice. He stopped me and told me I was going the wrong way on a one way street.”

“What!” I yelled, blood pressure rising, “That’s very dangerous, Ma. Did he give you a ticket?”

“No, of course not, silly. He knows me. This isn’t the first time it’s happened.”

Again, “What!” I tried, and failed, to sound calm. “You’re telling me it’s happened before?”

“Only a couple of times. Why are you so excited?”

“Ma, it’s very dangerous. You could have had a head-on. What did the policeman do?”

“I told you. He’s my friend. He did what he always does.”

“Which is?”

“He had me turn the car around and he told me to be more careful. He smiled, too. He’s such a nice young policeman.”

“He turned you around, smiled and sent you on your way? No warnings? No punishments?”

“What are you going on about? Nobody’s hurt. I thought it was funny. I just wanted you to know.”

“Goodbye, Ma.”

“’Bye.”

So much for women’s lib. Seems we had created a monster and had to face the tricky task of somehow reversing course. How? That’s another story.

FINAL COMMENT

You’ve reached the end of these excerpts. If you found the beginning journey worthwhile, please consider buying a copy of the complete book. Also, tell your friends, relatives and anyone else that you think might benefit.

Since my purpose in writing this book was to help other caregivers to cope with their situations, I’d appreciate receiving any email comments you’d care to make. You may use the blog on my website or you may write me at:

Thank you for reading Dementia Diary.

Copyright 2008 Robert Tell. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Dog Tales

Happiness is a warm puppy.
Charles M. Schulz

A few days ago, my ten-month-old puppy, Zelda (who, yes, like F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife, must, on a regular basis, be locked up) decided to take an unauthorized tour of the neighborhood. She escaped from me as I was attempting to put her outside on her chain. I had just gotten home from work and was still dressed in my work clothes, complete with pantyhose and red high heels. As she dashed down the driveway and across the street, I followed her as quickly as possible, a demented Dorothy in ruby slippers trying to retrieve a very poorly behaved Toto.
Zelda was not trying to run over the rainbow, but rather indulge in a neighborhood-wide game of “Chase.” Looking over her shoulder she would let me get almost close enough to touch her, and then she would bound out of reach. It was a great entertainment for my neighbors, who, for some reason or another, were reluctant to join in the game. Well, it could be the fact Zelda often appears with a muzzle on (a vain attempt to discourage constant barking and grass-eating) or perhaps the huge “Beware of Dog” sign on my house, meant to discourage unwanted visitors when I am not home.
My neighbors stood behind their fences, laughing and pointing as Zelda, a golden retriever mix with a huge tail held up like a flag, raced back and forth, with me hobbling after her in my workday finery and red shoes. Finally, I was able to corner her against a fence and drag her disobedient furry butt home. She immediately drank an entire bowl of water, and collapsed on the floor, with an expression on her face that clearly said, “Now that was fun.”
She had the same look on her face when it was discovered she had chewed my daughter’s entire wardrobe of underwear, an act that clearly warned the dangers of leaving unattended laundry baskets on the floor. It’s an expression Zelda sports anytime one discovers her chewing on things she shouldn’t, such as vacuum cleaner cords and watchbands. To add to the aggravation, she usually has her own dog toy right next to the illegal object, as if to say, “Oops, I chewed the wrong thing.”
Having this puppy in the house brings back memories of all the dog mischief I have been subjected to my entire life. Now some families are not dog families and cannot comprehend why we are willing to subject ourselves to this. To those families all I can say is you haven’t lived until you come home to find your house has been gleefully redecorated with the fragrant contents of your kitchen garbage can. Or the family is reduced to sitting on folding chairs to watch television because the couch belongs to the dog.
However, if you are a dog family, you understand the joy and companionship far outweigh the chewed-up camera straps and stained carpeting. And the stories of the dogs that spend their lives with you become the stuff of family legend.
The dog I grew up with was a good-natured basset hound named The Red Baron. A show dog with a championship bloodline, I occasionally would show him in the Junior Showmanship section of American Kennel Club dog shows. Unlike the professional dogs who arrived in crates with fancy grooming tables, Red would ride in the car like one of the kids, his paws resting on the back of the front seat and his nose constantly knocking off my father’s hat. This was also the lazy, slow-moving dog who, at the mere mention of bedtime, would be off like a shot, flying up the stairs as fast as his short little legs would carry him. If you weren’t able to catch up with him, he would jump in your bed first, settle in the exact middle with his head on the pillow, forcing you to sleep, blanketless, on the edge.
Later, as a single young woman living alone, I felt the need for a dog not only for companionship but protection. This was naturally what I was looking for when I fell for a miniature daschund in a pet store. I named him Max, after the song “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer.” I can’t explain why I felt the need to name my dog after a musical serial killer; however, I think he took it very seriously. Max was the only schizophrenic dog I have ever had, and all I can say is, thank goodness he only weighed five pounds.
At certain times, Max would station himself under a chair and attack anything that passed by, including my feet. Attempts to clip his nails induced a mania that required three people to control. And once, while romping in the yard at my parent’s house, he bit down on a stick so hard, the ends snapped off, leaving the middle of the stick firmly lodged against the roof of his mouth. It took the entire family to hold him down, open his mouth, and yank out the stick. He promptly rewarded my father by sinking his teeth into his hand. Biting the hand that fed him was Max’s hobby.
Gypsy was the dog who served as the “first child” when I was married. A devoted and well- trained German shepherd, she was popular in our circle of friends. But friends are in short supply when your dog goes out in the yard and meets a skunk. No one wants to come over and help you douse her with tomato juice, orange juice, baby powder, and vinegar. Kids run away screaming, slamming their bedroom doors and yelling “She’s not sleeping in here tonight!” So much for all her years of loyalty.
Now we have Zelda. Born in a junkyard and bottle-fed by a kindly family who rescued her from a malnourished mother, Zelda still feels the need to be cuddled and held. The problem is, she is almost fifty pounds, with a tail that would be more appropriate for a horse. Days and nights are spent keeping her body off the furniture, her paws off guests, her head out of the fish bowl, and her tail away from anything not nailed down. Her extreme distractibility means she often takes a drink of water, forgets to swallow it, and proceeds to dribble it all over the first person she encounters.
I’ve been trying hard to come up with a solution that keeps Zelda occupied and doesn’t involve house demolition. Finally, yesterday, I turned down a road I don’t usually take, and passed a huge facility called Canine Academy. There, behind sturdy, tall fencing was an elaborate dog obstacle course, complete with things to jump over, squeeze under, crawl through, and run around. The perfect place for Zelda and her Olympic-style dog tricks. I made a mental note to call the school right away and get information on how she can join in.
Just as soon as I catch her.

Noreen Braman

Monty

Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing was not boring—it was peace.

Milan Kundera

We are a “cat” family, Monty. I think you always knew that, and dedicated your life to proving to us there was the possibility of canine superiority.
Do you remember when we met? You were the self-assured pup sitting patiently in the corner of the cage as your brothers and sisters yipped their misery. You were the terrier-mix fluff ball in the group with intelligent eyes. Something in them met mine—I think it was kindness I saw—and when I left the store, I had you in my arms.
We had two little girls at home, and two grown cats. I thought it important the girls grow up with a dog. You see, my personal commitment to you was altruistic—for them—and rather superficial. You would fit in, but you would be the girls’ pet.
Well. The tears that ran freely when it occurred to me you might not survive your recent paralysis came from a deep well of affection our years together have honed. My blatant sobs and aching heart as we buried you beneath the juniper were testament to the attachment we shared for each other over twelve years. There is an empty place in my day for you, Monty. The lump in my throat when I think of our times together has not gone away. I know time will change that. It always does. Today, though, I want to tell you what you came to mean to me—what you taught me.
You were a terrier mix—black fluff with golden markings and penetrating black eyes. We did not consider docking your tail or clipping your ears. You were a warm and cuddly shaggy dog in the winter, and a smartly clipped schnauzer-looking piece of elegance in the summer and fall. Yes, we had you clipped. We, who cut our own daughters’ hair to save at the beauty shop, paid tightly budgeted dollars to have your easily matted shag cut. Though you stepped out smartly with each new clip, secretly, you and I both preferred the comfort of your familiar and friendly shaggy-dog hair. That is how you were laid to rest. Familiar and friendly, I am happy that is our last memory together.
Do you remember how little you were? You could walk underneath the cats and nip at their bellies. Their nose-in-the-air attempt to ignore you was wasted. Your enthusiasm to be the friendly newcomer vaulted you to eminence with your persistent determination to be part of the family.
You were a quick study. You were trained within days, eager to please at every turn. Your feelings could be bruised with a look. I feel guilty, Monty, that we used that sensitive nature of yours to fit you into our lifestyle. And, fit in, you did. You were not built like a runner, but you were an apt and capable one. Do you remember the girls racing ahead on a country road while we held you? You loved the game, and caught them and passed them—barking your victory—each and every time. And, as I think of you now, I envision a little black ball, ears flying, chasing her girls in a high mountain meadow.
Wherever you are now, I hope you are running out your joy in an amiable meadow, chasing along with the wind lifting your ears.
Your girls learned so much from you. You were always an eager and affable companion to them. You taught them responsibility for another creature, rewarding their efforts with face-licking enthusiasm. When they were older, they would take you on your favorite “bye-bye” trips. Sometimes it was just a trip to the store; other times, they included you in their personal camping and hiking trips. Thank you for enriching the souls of our daughters, Monty.
I think of the countless times you would sit outside with me, on the ground, and lean into me for support. Physical closeness was bliss to you. You would sit for hours while I read or gardened or did what I do. You would follow so closely that I was constantly stumbling over you. I wonder what you thought about those countless, sweet times. Surely you had more interesting things to do than to stand guard, leaning into me for hours on end. And, your quiet loyalty touched me in a special way.
Do you remember? Of course you do. Your memories etched the responses for the rhythm of your days. Your life was not over-burdened by the human dilemma. It was simple and focused. And we were the beneficiaries of your perspective.
Your blind eyes. We speculate you must have bumped into something or stumbled the night your legs quit working. A disk high in your spine was completely displaced.
You could not stand, and were too weary to do more than lay your head on my hand as we took you to the vet. When I called the next morning and was told there was no hope, I said we would be in to see you. I called your girls, away at college now, to tell them the sad news. I am glad they were spared this painful goodbye. For you, though, I would have wished you could have been wrapped in their love one last time.
We raced over to see you, unable to present the cheery front we wanted. It was cruel to have to make such a decision for you. Pumped full of medicines, and unable to stand, you talked your joy at seeing us. You told us how bad it had been, how happy you were we were taking you out of that place. We had a wonderful conversation. You knew we loved you, you knew we were there, you knew we thought you were a “good girl”—your most prized words. Your cry when we left ripped through us both.
So, Monty, we laid you under the junipers, your collar high in the trees. You looked so much like our sleeping little dog it was hard to believe you were past sleeping. You earned a place in our hearts with your persistence, enthusiasm, and love. You will always be a member of our family—part and parcel of our precious memories. You were our friend.
We are a “cat” family. Now, we are also a “dog” family.
There will not be another dog for awhile. We could never have another terrier-mix. That is our weakness, Monty, and our understanding there could never be another like you. But, our tribute to you is we want another dog in our lives—someday.
Rest well, Monty.

Betti Bernardi

Through the Eyes of Love

An animal’s eyes have the power to speak a great language.

Martin Buber

Last Saturday, after a meeting with two of my friends, we had an experience that transcends words. It still lingers in my heart, with great gratitude for having had it at all. To tell the story does not seem out of the ordinary, except it was extraordinary—as love always is.
After our meeting, we went to a restaurant, and as we got out of the car, a woman on a bike rode by. She asked if we had any change. I only had a $20 bill, which was for dinner, so I said “No.”
She rode off, and one of my friends commented on her cute dog, in her bike carrier. I called out to the bicyclist, she stopped, and we went to see the dog. We noticed immediately there was a depth of quality in the woman’s presence. She was like a friend, someone we had known for a long time.
She shared that her dog was fifteen years old, and had cancer. She told us the dog had been stolen twice, and she prayed so hard for its return. God answered her prayers.
She talked about being homeless, but did not seem unhappy about it. I think she said she lived in her car. I looked into the dog’s eyes and, truly, they became the eyes of Christ.
Really they did. They were large and full of light. I stared into them and said, in my heart, “Oh my God—you are so beautiful!”
Before the thought was finished, the dog leaped from the basket, right into my arms, and licked my face.
After a few minutes, the dog began to shake a little. So the woman got off her bike, opened up a bag, and pulled out pajamas for the dog. She took him, sat on the ground, and lovingly put on his pajamas.
The love between her and the dog was heart-warming. She gently put him back into the basket, and we continued to talk.
We could have stayed forever in that moment, as time stopped, and we were just in the deliciousness of it all. It felt like a holy encounter for all of us.
I searched my purse again, found $5, and handed it to our mystery lady. My friend also found $5 she did not realize she had.
As the woman rode away, she turned to me and said “Happy Birthday. You will live to be very old.” None of us had told her it was any of our birthdays. We stood there stunned!
My friends and I all felt this woman was very special, and we were blessed by her presence. I have never before in my life felt face-to-face with God, in the eyes of a dog. I truly was overwhelmed by the beauty in this dog’s eyes.
And it was my 70th birthday!
The encounter was a special gift, as I love animals!

Marie Rhodes

Read more about Dogs: Heart-Warming, Soul-Stirring Stories of Our Canine Companions and John Cali HERE.

Copyright 2008 John Cali. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt
Twenty-five
Picnic Sundays
If I had a nickel for every picnic memory, I could pad my
pocketbook. Sundays we’d be gathering with my sister Maudie,
Ray and their folks. As our family grew all comers were on the
invite. Ever’one brought a Dutch oven chicken, a casserole, a
salad, and a dessert. We all had our favorites to bring and our
favorites to eat. If Maudie forgot her spud salad she’d hear
about it all the day. We’d nestle bottles of sodee pop in the creek.
Gracious how a sodee could mend a parched throat. Most times,
as long as the ice was lasting, someone brought along the ice
cream. The little ones would take turns at the crank until it
became too hard. Then they’d give it over to a growed up for the
final work of it. There was nothing like the taste of homemade
ice cream to top off a piece of pie or cake or a picnic.
The gatherings began in Carey, moved to Mackay, and finally
up East Fork of the Little Wood River. As the family had more
access to cars and roads improved, the get togethers moved up to
Sunbeam where the hot springs mixed with the cool waters of the
Salmon River. They found favorite spots up Trail Creek, over
Galena, up to Stanley, and Red Fish Lake. A Sunday in summer
was the only excuse needed to gather the Ivie clan for a picnic.
Some of the menfolk would scurry up a game of horseshoes
although most were content to sit around swapping lies. A few of
the fellows would take themselves off some paces to share a beer
or a tipple of bourbon and an off color joke. Alcohol was not
PEPPER IN HER POCKET
183
tolerated at the picnic proper. The gals covered the tables with a
collection of cloths and displayed their contributions. Casseroles
and salads marched down the center of the tables where the folks
would sit to eat while the desserts typically tempted from their
very own table. The womenfolk arranged and chatted and
reviewed the gossip of pregnancies, gall bladders, wayward
children, and who had been seen with whom. Youngsters chased
and yelled, played hide and seek, waded and caught minnows,
fetched firewood, pitched pup tents for the naps that rarely
happened, and dreamed of water fights later in the day.
Scoldings were few and far between. Kids were bound to get wet
and dirty, and mothers came prepared with changes of clothing.
Everyone settled in come time to eat. Chicken was the
mainstay, but the other choices, my stars! You could piece here,
eat there, and never sample the same dish twice. Salads were a
favorite. In winter, folks just didn’t buy such as lettuce and
tomatoes, even if they were available. They were far too dear in
price. The closest anyone came to salad in wintry weather was a
withered hunk of cabbage tossed up as slaw. So when the pretty
fresh salads made their summer appearances at picnics, they
vanished with all manner of dressings before the blink of an eye.
After dinner clean up found Mary Ann caught in the act of
collecting the used plastic picnic ware. She was astounded at the
waste of tossing perfectly good plastic spoons and forks and cups
at end of day. She would bag them along with gently used plates,
take them home, wash them, and fetch them to the next reunion.
Waste not, want not.
The fun and frolic began with the spitting of olive seeds at
table. Although some of the adults did not approve, they usually
turned a blind eye at a picnic. Mirth and mayhem escalated
when, after dinner, huge wedges of watermelon were passed
around. Every kid was eager to spit a few seeds to see how far
they might go and where they might land.
The climax of an Ivie picnic was the water fight. There were
three levels of participation. The instigators took front and
center. Katie and Mary, eldest daughter of Irma and Frank, were
RAEANN PROOST
184
the captains with Rod, son of Mae and Henry, as their first
lieutenant. Followers included all the kids. The innocent
bystanders had more than an inkling of the sport to come.
There were three rules. Get everyone wet as possible. Steer
clear of the dessert table. Avoid getting the oldsters. The first and
second rules were the only ones heeded. No one liked a soggy
brownie.
Everyone knew to keep Mary Ann dry. That lasted for a pair
of seconds. After her first dousing, she would sputter and steam.
She sat almost regally on her campstool, all a drip. Soon
chortling, she commissioned any child willing to do her bidding
to bring her a cup of water so she was prepared for the next
assault. One year she surprised her attacker when she drew a
water pistol from her pocket and fired. Water guns had been
outlawed, but after Mary Ann’s unexpected foray, the rules
changed forever.
Bone weary, soaked, happy at end of day, the families
departed for home. Children sported a few cuts and bruises,
trophies of the time. They were ready for baths and beds. Henry
came home from a Sunday picnic and declared himself saddle
sore from riding with his brother in law, Frank, all day. Frank’s
stories of cowboying on the range plum tuckered everyone out.
Before day’s end, the next picnic destination was
determined. The Ivie and Knight and Brasse and Bell and
Erlandson and Spellman and LaMunyan picnics held special
moments and memories. Moments did not last, but the
memories did. In the midst of an Idaho summer’s beauty and
bounty, it was difficult to remember that fall was just around the
corner with winter nipping at its heels.
PEPPER IN HER POCKET
185
Mary Ann’s Ideeho Fried Dutch Oven Chicken
2 cups fat for frying
1 chicken, cut up
1 cup buttermilk
¾ cup flour
1 tablespoon salt
1 tablespoon sage
1 tablespoon pepper
Soak chicken pieces in buttermilk for about 30 minutes.
In a Dutch oven or cast iron fry pan, heat the oil until it sizzles a
drop of water.
In a paper bag, combine flour, salt, sage, and pepper. Drop two
or three pieces of chicken into the bag and shake to coat. Place
pieces on a plate for a minute or two to allow them to dry. Fry
meatier pieces first, and do not crowd them. Add smaller pieces
and brown for about 15 minutes. Reduce heat, cover and cook 30
to 35 minutes. Uncover and cook about 10 more minutes to crisp.
When taken to a picnic in a Dutch oven, the chicken was fully
cooked (the original 30 to 35 minutes.) The oven was set by the
fire to heat through, turned, then uncovered for the last 10
minutes to crisp.
RAEANN PROOST
Katie’s Sausage, Cabbage, and Noodles
½ pound sausage
½ cup butter
1 head of cabbage, thinly sliced
noodles
1 tablespoon salt
1 teaspoon pepper
Brown sausage in a Dutch oven or large pot. Remove sausage
and set aside. Add enough butter to the oil to make about ½
cup. Drop cabbage into the heated oil and butter and cook
slowly, 30 to 40 minutes. Cook noodles in another pot and drain.
Combine cabbage, noodles, and sausage and season with salt and
pepper.
Serves 6 to 8.
Noodles
2 cups flour
3 eggs
2 tablespoons water
1 teaspoon salt
Combine flour, eggs, water, and salt. Dough will be stiff. Turn out
on a floured board and knead. Roll out into a large, thin sheet.
Generously sprinkle with flour and roll up as if making a jelly
roll. Slice across the roll to make noodles.

Shake out, shake off excess flour, and lay out to dry, at least an
hour. Noodles may be dropped into simmering water or broth a
few at time and cooked 15 to 20 minutes.
Maudie’s Spud Salad
6 slices bacon
1/3 cup vinegar
2 tablespoons water
1 egg, beaten
1 teaspoon sugar
1 teaspoon salt
½ teaspoon pepper
6 cups potatoes, peeled, cooked, and diced
½ cup scallions, chopped
Fry bacon, cool, crumble. Set aside. To warm bacon drippings,
add vinegar, water, egg, sugar, salt, and pepper. Heat and stir
until thick. Toss potatoes with the warm dressing, crumbled
bacon, and scallions.
Serve warm or cold.
Serves 8-10.

Read more about PEPPER IN HER POCKET, THE STOVE AND STORIES OF A COUNTRY GRANDMOTHER and RaeAnn Proost HERE.

Copyright 2008 RaeAnn Proost. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Excerpt:

Table of Contents
PREFACE ………………………………………………………………………………. xiii
INTRODUCTION ……………………………………………………………………….1
COMPASSION……………………………………………………………………………3
Who Is Our Neighbor?……………………………………………………………….5
A Change of Heart …………………………………………………………………….8
Do We Forget the Pain?……………………………………………………………11
Two Gifts ……………………………………………………………………………….14
COURAGE ……………………………………………………………………………….17
The Cost of Dreams …………………………………………………………………19
Mighty Inspirers………………………………………………………………………22
Lost Civilization ……………………………………………………………………..25
New Beginnings………………………………………………………………………27
ENTHUSIASM………………………………………………………………………….31
The Best Medicine…………………………………………………………………..33
The Wellspring of Life …………………………………………………………….36
Childish Things……………………………………………………………………….38
Happy Talk …………………………………………………………………………….40
EXCELLENCE………………………………………………………………………….43
Staying Within the Lines ………………………………………………………….45
Too Much of a Good Thing ………………………………………………………47
All My Heroes Wore White Hats ………………………………………………49
Eliminate Hopscotch?………………………………………………………………52
FAITH………………………………………………………………………………………55
Someone to Thank …………………………………………………………………..57
The “What If” Game ………………………………………………………………..59
Things I Don’t Expect Under the Tree………………………………………..62
Too Good to Be True………………………………………………………………. 65
GOODNESS…………………………………………………………………………….. 69
People Helping People…………………………………………………………….. 71
Cheering for the Underdog ………………………………………………………. 73
In Search of Innocence ……………………………………………………………. 76
Sound the Trumpet for Good……………………………………………………. 79
INTEGRITY …………………………………………………………………………….. 81
False Faces…………………………………………………………………………….. 83
Genuine Illusion …………………………………………………………………….. 86
Reading Pictures…………………………………………………………………….. 88
Life Has No Reverse Gear……………………………………………………….. 91
LOYALTY……………………………………………………………………………….. 95
Bringing Families Together……………………………………………………… 97
Where Do You Call Home?……………………………………………………. 100
Family Ties………………………………………………………………………….. 102
Treasures of the Heart……………………………………………………………. 104
PATRIOTISM…………………………………………………………………………. 107
A Way Out of the Maze…………………………………………………………. 109
Bridges, Not Walls ……………………………………………………………….. 112
Freedom Means Responsibility ………………………………………………. 114
Is History Temporary?…………………………………………………………… 117
RESPECT ………………………………………………………………………………. 121
Pushing Chains …………………………………………………………………….. 123
Invisible Bruises …………………………………………………………………… 125
Within the Human Family ……………………………………………………… 127
Making a Difference……………………………………………………………… 130
RESPONSIBILITY………………………………………………………………….. 133
One Weak Link…………………………………………………………………….. 135
Learning From the Cowbird …………………………………………………… 138
Shades of Gray
xi
Defining Normal ……………………………………………………………………140
Disposable Society?……………………………………………………………….143
SELF-DISCIPLINE ………………………………………………………………….145
Powerful Peer Pressure …………………………………………………………..147
Wasting Time………………………………………………………………………..150
Choosing Habits…………………………………………………………………….153
The Future Comes Soon Enough……………………………………………..155
EPILOGUE ……………………………………………………………………………..159
CLOSING THOUGHTS…………………………………………………………..163

Freedom Means Responsibility

Is freedom as certain as taxes? Is it ours because it’s just ours? No strings attached? Carl Sandburg said, “Freedom is baffling: Men having it often know not they have it till it is gone and they no longer have it.”

Mr. Sandburg’s thinking mirrors the adage, “You don’t miss your water till the well runs dry.” Has our liberty become simply a right we take for granted? Like the air we breathe?

We’ve become aware of the dangers of losing our favored environment unless we do our part in its conservation. What can we do to prevent our freedoms from threats of extinction as our clean air has received? Is it up to us to guard our liberty as many today practice basic protection of our environment?

George Bernard Shaw said, “Liberty means responsibility.” If we agree with Mr. Shaw, it’s necessary to explore the definition of responsibility. Doesn’t responsibility mean that ultimately “the buck stops here”? That I must live with the consequences if I make wrong decisions, not blaming them on other people or a higher authority?

That responsibility even includes protecting our basic possession of liberty. I hope the days are gone when some of our citizens talk about the great advantages of having liberty, only to pass along all the decision making and problem solving and defending to others.

Annually we celebrate the beginning of this country. Her gift of freedom. Fireworks streak the sky around Miss Liberty’s upraised arm in the New York harbor.

From coast to coast each July in our great country, people celebrate. Celebrate America’s past and look to her future. What a time in history to have faith in the future! With our vast capabilities in science, technology, and industry, combined with the love and concern we’re capable of, we could start clearing cobwebs of poverty, conflict, and ignorance in our world. We have the means to reach for such a goal and we have the freedom to move toward it.

In the plaza of the Rockefeller Center in New York City, the personal credo of John D. Rockefeller, Jr. is inscribed on a plaque. One of his statements there reads: “I believe that every right implies a responsibility; every opportunity, an obligation; every possession, a duty.”

This is indeed a great time to have faith in a bright future for America. Today our liberty is intact. Combining our rights, our opportunities, and our possessions with our compassion, we could go far in making this country one of comfort and brotherhood.

Can we remove our mental blinders and use our liberty to help bring about a brighter future for our children and grandchildren? A brighter one than present conditions sometime promise?

Do we want to?

Do we believe we can?