With Age Comes Resiliency.

The past few days I've been whining and complaining (to the dogs since there is no one else  here to listen) that I am aching from last Sunday's trick riding practice.  I probably overdid the riding in the heat but, the resulting pain has made me begin to wonder if I really am getting too old to do such a physical activity.

I guess everyone gets to that point at some time in their lives, some earlier and others.  But,  I could never see me conceding that point.  I sat at the computer thinking about this and was idly watching one of my Boston Terriers make her way through the living room, around the bar, through the kitchen, right turn at the utility room and then heard the sound of the doggie door swinging back and forth.

Now this doesn't sound all that noteworthy until you realize that she is 13 years old and totally blind.  Jazmine  lost one eye in a dog fight over a new Christmas toy several years ago and 2 years ago, she lost sight in the other eye due to cataracts. She is grayed out and her hair coat has patches of  missing hair .  She is by most standards, old and disabled.

I don't think Jazmine got that memo.  Weighing at around 10 pounds, she is by far the smallest dog here.  That fact has also escaped her.  As a young dog she was what we call 'scrappy'.  She would fight over food, toys or just for general purposes.  And the size of her opponent never fazed her.  Her personality was 'determined' on a good day and down right aggravating on most days.

Now, in her senior years and blind,  Jazmine is STILL 'scrappy' and 'determined' and Lord help me, but sometimes she aggravates me so badly I want to scream.  You see, Jazmine has not changed her mode of operation in anyway.  It does no good to yell, "Jazmine, get out from under my feet!"  She has no idea that she is under your feet and has no inclination to remedy that situation.  At feeding time, with 7 dog bowls on the floor, she eats her food with the ferocity of a lion then, using her nose, she locates the next nearest dog bowl and not caring if it is being used by the 180 pound Great Dane, she stumbles in, grabs the rim of the bowl with what teeth she has left and tries to drag it away from it's owner.  This invariably starts a dog fight.  EVERYDAY!

You see, Jazmine has always done that and even with her blindness and advancing old age, she doesn't even consider stopping that behavior.  It doesn't occur to her that she is 'too old' to do that.

And then there are her navigational skills.  She does not timidly move around, sniffing the ground but instead, walks confidently into walls and furniture.  You can hear the thump of her little head from other rooms.  But, she is totally unfazed.  She merely turns left or right and proceeds forward again.  Thump!  Right turn,   Thump, Left turn.  You get the pattern here?  Wouldn't you think she would just give up?

I watch her from my chair and I silently cheer her on.  She gives me  hope that with age, I have that same tenacity, that same resiliency.  Thump, turn, forward.  Thump....turn....forward

That Joyous Gift

Yep, it's been a long time since I have posted.  Writing about getting old seriously crimps the whole "I'm getting old" denial thing and any woman who is still trying to trick ride at 58 years old is in serious denial.

But today, something happened that I wanted to share.  Today I attended my first Kindergarten graduation.  No, I never attended kindergarten or pre-school as a child.  Things were different back when wheels were still square.   I was invited to attend this ceremony by a friend whose little boy was graduating.

I must admit, my expectations were not high, but it was an excuse to put on a sundress and venture off the ranch and into public.  But, sometimes you get a gift you aren't expecting. This was a joyous gift.

The auditorium was packed with nervous parents.  Every hand in the room had held a camera or cell phone. Music was softly playing as I took my seat with my friends on the front row.  Then the ceremony began.  Little people filed onto the stage, dressed to the nines and wearing their caps and tassels.  They formed 3 rows on the stage.  First order of business was The Pledge of Allegiance.  Even the most jaded and disillusioned patriot would have been moved at the bold and determined voices reciting our Pledge.  It only got better.  On cue from the music teacher, they sang.  Boy, did they sing.  Some with exuberance, some with timidity but each one was searching for their family in the audience.  Each one had a vested interest in being there.  My friend's son took the stage with one pant leg tucked down in his cowboy boot.  God I loved that!

After taking their seats, the procession began.  One by one they came to the stage.  The principal shook the hands of tiny little girls, swaggering boys, timid children, bold children. Each one stepped up to applause.  One little girl had obviously been coached by her Mother to pose onstage for pictures.  Even though the principal was urging her to move on, she determinedly held her ground until the camera flashes stopped.  (Shows who has the most authority huh?  Mom trumps Principal everytime.)

And then the gift happened.  That joyous gift.  As one young man accepted his diploma and turned to leave the stage, from somewhere in the back, a deep voice boomed out,  "Good Job!  I Love You Son."

That was IT.  It was instantaneous, that lump in my throat, that wetness in my eyes.  And I wasn't the only one.  Everyone around me felt it.

I knew the gift was an affirmation of love,  the family kind, the kind of love that encompasses all ages,  all genders, all paths of life.  I may be getting older, but I can still recognize love when I hear it, when I see it and I hope I am never too old to feel that joy.

Thank you to the friends that included me in their joy and to that father in the back who wasn't at all embarrassed to share his joy.  For in the end,  it is JOY that sustains us all.

Celebrating 100 Years Old?

Oh yeah,  here we go.....I recently read an article about the chances of living to be 100 years old.  Really?  I mean seriously...first of all,  Why???  One gentleman who has lived to be 103 was asked what he attributed his long life to and he replied,  "Just bad luck I guess."

I'm not trying to be a downer here but let's look at this realistically.  First of all, at age 100, most people have outlived all their friends and many loved ones.  They are living in a generation and a world that is so far from the lifestyle they grew up in and felt comfortable  in that they feel like it's a foreign world.

Then, let's talk about lifestyle and health.  My passion and pleasure in life comes from being active and being able to do those things that 'float my boat'.  At age 100, my boat will not be floating on life's ocean, it will be moored in the old folks marina.

A survey conducted by UnitedHealthcare looked at centenarians and baby boomers, asking the former about the 'secrets of aging success" and evaluating whether the latter are taking the necessary steps to celebrate a 100th birthday.  CELEBRATE???  Have you ever seen a happy 100 year old celebrating their  birthday?

And, the results of this survey were SOOOOOO shocking.  71% of centenarians say they get 8 hours of sleep or more each night.  DUH.  Of course they do,  what else is there for them to do.  Shock #2:  Only 38% of baby boomers get 8 hours or more.  Hmmmmm, could that have anything to do with making a living and raising a family?

More enlightenment:   8 out of 10 centenarians say they consume at least one balanced meal a day as compared to only 54% of baby boomers. (Nursing homes and extended care facilities are big on that 'balanced meal' thing.)  The baby boomer has to rely on Macadoos!   Based on this, I certainly won't make it to age 60 and that's not that far away.

But here is a genuinely enlightening fact:  With the ability to live longer, as of late 2011, the U.S. had an estimated 72,000 centenarians according to the Census Bureau.  By the year 2050, that number ----with the aging of the baby-boom generation---is expected to reach more than 600,000.  Did that sink in for you?  600,000 people who are 100 years old or older.

But perhaps the most enlightening fact from this survey is,  drum roll.....76% of baby boomers say they work at a job or hobby almost every day;  that compares with only  16% of centenarians!!!!   So, by 2050, we will have an additional 600,000 seniors without  jobs.   Well, I am speechless.  Get those old people off their tushes and get them a job!!!!!

Who comes up with these surveys?   How much does it cost to get these pearls of wisdom?

And finally, when asked to choose from a list of notable people (including President Obama)   for their preferred dinner guest, the overwhelming top choice was.........Betty White.  You go girl!!

As for me,  (not to open a can of worms but then again, open away).....when I reach that age that I can not be productive and have a 'quality' of life,  haul me off to the vet and send me over the Rainbow Bridge.  From what I hear, there will be a big crowd waiting for me and they will be happy to see me.   I have no 100 year old aspirations.

A Christmas Gift I Gave Myself

It's been a good day.  Today, I gave myself a Christmas gift.  The gift of anticipation of joy to come.  Selfish I know, getting yourself something for Christmas.  Five little stockings have brought a smile to my face, even if the names are a little crooked.

I had not been really looking forward to Christmas this year,  Steve will not be able to come home and while I have wonderful friends that will include me in their celebration, it just wasn't going to be the same without him.

This is a season I have always enjoyed.  I always loved the baking, cooking, decorating and gift selecting madness.  I threw myself into it with an abandon that often dismayed and even frightened my family and friends.  I heard the whispered conversations,  "Oh God, she's going to bake again.  We gotta get out of here."  "Yes honey, that tree is straight, Yes honey those stockings look right, Yes honey those lights look good."  My pleasure may have been their pain.  But...what the hell.  It's Christmas.

With my family mostly gone or scattered, the old traditions were getting harder and harder to maintain.  It seem that as I grew older, those traditions were even more important to hold on to.  And this year, I wondered if it was even going to happen.  Or was I just a silly old woman that was living in the past?

But then came the 5 little stockings.  And a new friend that helped make it happen.  A couple of weeks ago, my friend Ruby and I went on a morning ride through her neighborhood.  As we rode along the street, I saw 5 little kids playing outside a dilapidated trailer.  None of them had shoes on.  The tallest little girl called out to me,  "Can we pet your horse?"

I never say no to a child or an adult that want to pet a  horse.  I know all too well that many seldom or never have that opportunity.  So, I rode over, got off and let them come up to the horse.  They were wide-eyed and excited and I watched as they touched Dillinger with wonder in their eyes.  After a while, I remounted and waved goodbye.  The kids followed us a little ways down the street, still waving goodbye.

And that was when I knew I had found what I wanted for Christmas.  My Christmas gift.

I talked to Ruby about my plan.  Her Spanish is fluent while mine is mostly cuss words, intermixed with Japanese and Cajun.  Serious mumbo jumbo.

This morning we went back to the house and knocked on the door.  (Actually they are living in a 2 car garage) and Ruby, with her voice of an angel, gently explained to the lady that I had no family around for Christmas this year.  She told her that when I had stopped to let the children pet the horse,  "it was placed on my heart" to share Christmas with them.  I was worried that the woman would be offended but Ruby knew just what to say as the children crowded around timidly,  no shoes and it was cold this morning.   I heard one of them say,  "Caballo" (horse).  They remembered!  Ruby got the names and ages of the 5 children and 2 women living there and plans were made for me to return Christmas morning with 'little' gifts for everyone.

I am a woman with a mission now.  Gifts, cookies, toys,  you name it.  I have my Christmas back.

As I drove home, I was humming Christmas music.  I've been griping about that music ever since Halloween. "How can people stand that?"  I complained.  Now I know.

Thank you Ruby for helping me make this happen.

5 Little Stockings can make a season bright.

You Might Be Working Like a Dog IF.....

Brenda, This one is for you!

You Might Be Working Like a Dog If…..!

Jeff Foxworthy made a lot of money on the line,  “You Might Be a Redneck if…”  I don’t know about the redneck in me but I have discovered an answer to “You might be working like a dog if…

Upon returning home from the newspaper office Wednesday night after working 15 hours straight, I trudged up the front steps to the door and prepared my self to meet the onslaught of my four-legged ‘children’ who had been left at home all day alone.  Sounding something like the animal shelter at feeding time, they could have waked the dead with their choruses of “It’s about time you got here.”

I put my key in the lock and was only mildly surprised when it didn't open immediately.  In my dazed state I simply figured I was doing something wrong and blindly tired again and again to turn the key.  Even pulled it out and inserted it again.  Get the Picture?  (At 11pm I’m not the brightest bulb in the chandelier.)

But I do finally realize that this key isn't working and I stare at the key ring and then begin inserting other keys on the ring, one by one.  No luck.  This is when I begin to grasp the full extent of the situation.  For some reason, I am locked out of my house!

Not to worry I think, there has to be window open somewhere so I set down my briefcase, purse, camera and always present soft drink and begin circling the house like a prospective cat burglar as the ‘children’ follow me inside the house appearing at every window to check on my progress.  I am hoping that I don’t somehow alert my neighbors who might even call the police.  (While the police might be useful in helping me get in the house, I’m not ready to face the embarrassment of not being able to unlock the door.)  Of course, no windows are open.

It’s late and I am really tired so I decide I will simply go back to my office, sleep on the couch and face this dilemma in the light of day.  I vainly try to explain the situation to the (by now) howling creatures inside and bid them good night. 

On my way back to town, it occurs to me that there is one other possibility that would gain me entrance to the house and the bathtub I so desperately seek.   DUH!!! The back door has a “Doggie Door’!

Sorry about the U-turn in the middle of the road but I’m now a woman on a mission as I roar back down my driveway and again am greeted by elated barking and whining.  (Isn’t it nice when SOMEONE is happy to see you?)

Around to the back door where I stand back and mentally compare the size of the doggie door to the imagined size of my body.  “Imagined” being the operative word here.  “Surely,”  I tell myself, “I can fit through there.  The Boston Terriers go through it quite easily.  ” (Do you have a clue to where this is going yet?)  I actually glance around to see if anyone could witness this humiliation.  (Yeah right, it’s now 11:30 pm and pitch dark out here.)  I drop to my hands and knees and begin head first.  Not a great idea I soon discover, because just as soon as my head appears inside the house,  it is met by six eager and expectant faces,  all completely committed to helping me with my problem or at the very least, simply joining this ‘game’. 

It doesn't take me long to realize that this approach isn't going to work and I have to retreat to the outside and try again,  this time leading the attack with my left hand, (to fend off the dogs) followed by my head, left and then right shoulder.  My right arm is now pinned to my side and totally useless.  My left arm is valiantly trying to defend my head and shoulders from being stomped and tromped by 24 sets of toenails attached to the 6, now frantic, dogs.  It was just my take on things but I didn't think it was going well.

I resort to Cajun expletives and dire threats to no avail.  Then I remember,  “Hey, I’m a dog trainer!  Do something!”  I call out to Lacy  “Get your toy, Lacy, go get your toy!” (I’m figuring I can chuck the toy into the living room and relieve myself of at least three dogs while they retrieve and fight over it.)  She cocks her head and looks at me as if to say,  “Are you SURE you really want to play fetch now?”  But she bounds away with several others in her wake and soon returns with the rubber hot dog toy and drops it a few inches from my nose, backing off to be ready to spring into motion when I throw it.  That little maneuver proved to be her undoing.  The rubber hot dog is a favorite possession of my normally mild mannered Angel and she was outraged that Lacy had ‘stolen’ it.  Angel bounded over my head, leaving skid marks on the side of my face and the fight was on.  And if you have ever been around Boston Terriers, you know they really can get serious about a fight.  Jazmine and Chester join the fracas and Odie takes up coaching from the sideline. 

I remind myself stoically,  “You wanted something to distract them”

I now turn my attention to Alex,  the 180 pound Great Dane whose contribution to the situation was to firmly place one giant paw in the small of my back and freeze in position like some giant bird dog on point. 

I muster a threat to him in Cajun that (roughly translated in English) explains that if he doesn’t remove his foot, I will tear his leg off and beat him with the bloody stump.  It was a threat often uttered at me as a child and it had basically the same effect on Alex as it did on me.  Either he doesn’t speak Cajun or simply wasn’t intimidated by a woman weighing half his poundage trapped in a doggie door.  At this point I seriously considered simply lying there until morning but when something cold and wet begins exploring my ear,  I decide I must ‘press on’.

I grit my teeth and address the problem of squeezing the largest part of my anatomy through the portal.  It takes a great deal of wriggling and heavy breathing,  (Remember, one hand is still pinned to my side.)

At this point, you would think I would be making serious vows to take drastic measures to reduce the size of my largest part, but no, I just repeatedly bemoan the fact that I didn’t buy a larger doggie door.  (Women can rationalize anything.)

One final heave and I collapse on the floor.  Freedom at last!  Skinned, scraped and weary, I go to the front door and bring in my belongings from the steps.  At that point, I am slapped in the face with the realization that:  The key I was using to get in the house was my OFFICE KEY!

You might be working like a dog if….!

Laughter can come sneaking in.

My Wish For Your Christmas Holiday

Today, as I left Wal-Mart and drove down a side road, grumbling about the upcoming Christmas season and my long list of worries, I saw something that penetrated my ‘pity party’ focus.  Coming toward me was a man, on crutches.  He was pulling along behind him, a rather large, two wheel cart piled high with what was obviously his possessions.  They were wrapped in black plastic bags and he was sporting a plastic bag as his jacket.  He would put the crutch forward, and then pull himself up to it, dragging the cart behind him.

I stared hard as I drove by him but he never looked my way.  Amazingly, I found myself making a U-turn at the next intersection.  As I pulled back up to him in my noisy pickup, he was taking a break against a retaining wall.  Not really knowing what I was going to say, I got out and walked up to him. 

I told him that I have room in the back of the truck for his cart so could I give him a ride somewhere? 

He replied, “Naw, I’m not really going anywhere and I’ve got all day to get there.” 

I was kinda taken aback by that.  I thought about offering him money but somehow got the impression that he wouldn't take any.  So I said, “Well, it’s a beautiful day.  How about if we just enjoy the sunshine a minute?” 

He said,  “Sure thing.”

I leaned back against the wall, feeling the warmth of the concrete blocks sinking into my bones.  For the next 45 minutes, he and I talked about the weather, the snow on Mt. Lemmon and whether the skiing would be good this year.  (Turns out neither one of us knows anything at all about skiing but we both offered our opinions)  I found myself laughing with this man.  Laughing was something I hadn’t done in quite a while. I wanted to ask him about his story, how he came to be leaning on that wall but I didn’t.  Sometimes when you tell a story too many times, it becomes too painful.  

Finally, I asked him if I could buy him a cup of coffee. 

“I’d love one,” he said, “but I don’t see any coffee shops around here.”

I knew there was a McDonalds in Wal-Mart so I offered to go get the coffee.  When I asked him how he takes it, he told me,  “Extra cream and sugar.”

The poor man didn’t have any way of knowing that I don’t drink coffee so therefore had no idea how much is ‘extra’. 

Anyway, when I returned, I had 6 creamers and 6 sugars. He carefully poured 1 of each in his cup and I watched as he pocketed the remaining ones.  He looked at me and nodded.  I simply said,  “Wise man.”

He sipped his coffee and I drank my Coke while traffic whizzed by us.  After a while, he said.  “Thanks for the coffee,  I should be getting along.”  As he struggled to balance on the crutch and adjust the rigging for the cart, I tried not to notice.  I turned to go to my truck and said,  “It was nice talking to you.  Thanks for your time.”

He replied,  “Yeah, no problem,  I’ve got a lot of that.”

What I should have thanked him for was for shaking me out of my self-absorption but even more, for making me remember how to laugh again.  Everyone needs that; Everyone has had loss, at various levels. Laughter can come sneaking in during the most unusual opportunities.

My wish for your Christmas holiday is that you find laughter in the most unusual opportunity.  And may you pass that blessing along.

Jaye

Pro Sports 'Cowboy Style"

Did you hear that?  That sound was me stepping up on my soapbox.  Here we go!

I admit, I LOVE professional sports.  I confess to being a truly obnoxious football fan.  Having said that, I have often fantazied about how professional athletes would fare if we made all the sports 'cowboy style'.

1.  Everyone would have to pay an entry fee just to compete.  No salaries.  No money at all unless you win.  If you don't win, you get home anyway you can.
2.  Each athlete is responsible to get to the game at his own expense.  No team bus meeting him at the airport as he gets off the team plane.
3.  Each athlete pays all his own expenses:  housing, meals and equipment. 
4.  Each athlete is responsible for his own training.  No team coach, no team doctor, no training camps, no rehab room.
5.  No matter what the sport, the athlete will be outmatched as his opponent will outweigh him nearly 5 to one.  He will rely on the commaradie of his fellow competitors for help and support.
6.  Each athlete' competition will be at the mercy of a 'draw' system. 
7.  No athlete will have an agent, he will be responsible for his own entries, sponsorships and any deals he can make.

Get the idea?  This is the situation that each and every rodeo contestant competes under. 

How would these overpaid hotshot athletes take on real competition?  How many of them would continue to play their sport?  How many of them have the 'heart' to compete on the type of field that a rodeo cowboy and cowgirl competes?

I would love to see what this would do to professional sports.  It would separate the men from the boys.  It would intensify the competitive spirit and the will to win. 

The upside also would be that we could take all those millions of dollars that are paid to these athletes and instead use it to support our teachers, military, police, firefighter and other public servants. 

And when our children pick a sports figure as a hero, we could feel good about that knowing that he or she is a real competitor. 

I know this will never happen.  But, when you are old, fantasizing is an amusing pastime that requires little physical activity. 

The next time you are watching a professional sport, imagine 'Cowboy Style'.