A large, unwanted illness visited my mother, this past month. It came into her life  without knocking, ate her food, slept in her bed, and tried to take her breath away.

The Illness is still visiting, despite the hard work of surgeons, nurses, doctors, and drugs. And despite the prayers of those who love mom. It is a considerable list of powerful people.

She actually died once and walked off into the light with The Illness, but then changed her mind, let go It’s hand, and came back. She is now struggling to free her hand of The Beast and find her way to life. She is 84 years old so she must know the way.

More than once, these last weeks, I pondered the decision she made, and what decisions might soon be made for her: when is it time to go, who is to say, and what is to be done?

I wish for the days before The Illness’ visit, the days when life was boring, normal, unexciting moments. I want to close my eyes and not think of a thing mortal. I want to nap, watch TV, root for the Panthers, eat pizza, balance my check book, and wait for the mail.

But life changes. Now the days are spent in waiting rooms, talking with doctors, making decisions, hoping for the best, and dreading the ring of the phone, all the while wondering when–and if–someone will eventually do the same for me.

A young friend asked me  how I was doing. How was I holding up?

Could he understand my answer from his point in life? I miss the ignorance of youth…

Where I will go after my death is uncertain but mom will go to heaven, even if it does not exist. Who dares tell me any different?

It is best to think about heaven for as long as possible, too, at least until the truth is revealed.

Time for nap. A short nap.

I hope I wake up.

Bah, humbug.

Perfect words for the holiday season, from an old man’s point of view.

Too much money, too much hugging, and too much forced happiness, too many cookies, all jammed into two or three weeks of the year.

Please, sir, might I have some more? (No apology to Dickens but a wish for Happy Holidays wherever he is reposing.)

I calculated how many of these seasons I might have left. It wasn’t a lot but that’s not so bad: Christmas is one of the biggest abominations ever set loose on civilization, right behind religion, which engendered the stupid holiday. The fewer to suffer through, the better.

There’s no point in repeating what is wrong with the holidays, everyone knows, but let’s look at the one good thing, and see if the good thing outweighs the bad. It might be an easy calculation.

The only good aspect of these holidays is people try to be good. The thought of gifts (rewards?) or someone watching over them (naughty list?) appears to inspire people to act in these holiday weeks the way they should act all year. There are acts of kindness and generosity so profound they bump political shenanigans from news outlets, and instead of hearing the false promises of politicians who want our money, we hear of the poor person giving his own money to help others less fortunate: an act truer to the Holiday Spirit than any Black Friday sale price or 0% car sale.

In these holiday weeks humanity gets a glimpse of what we could be if we weren’t so stupid and selfish. It’s a hint of our potential.

But to be happy about this revealed possibility, or not to be happy for its fade in the following weeks, that is the question. (Sorry, Shakespeare. Happy New Year.)

Huh. Shame on me for dissing the season. I DO prefer the glimpse, the hint, and I wish I had more. Maybe we’ll get our act together and make selfishness the rarity and selflessness the norm.

My guess about that? Bah humbug.

Red, the dog, went to his maker while nestled in my arms on soft blankets in the local veterinarian’s exam room. The end was quick, dignified, and paid for ahead of time.

This happened months ago and life has not stopped for any of us who shared Red’s life.

The dog is missed and as time keeps passing, so does Red’s memory.

We put him down because he could not stand anymore. The once powerful dog who took us for walks and tested every leash ever invented, now often fell and lay where he fell, until someone got home from work. Often the spot where he fell became his bathroom, and when we got home his soft whimpers led us to his mess.

He walked less and less his last few years, panting and struggling behind us, his mind still trying to get him to the front, to be the leader of the pack.

He was blind, too, and uninterested in chasing his lifelong nemesis, the Mail Carrier, simply nodding slightly as the red, white, and blue truck pulled away.

Time can pass in huge chunks but there are moments when the loss of Red overwhelms us.

When we eat pizza and have no sad, brown eyes, begging for the crust.

When we work in the yard and squirrels frolic with impunity. (Red never caught one, he just made them uncomfortable. )

When there is a noise late at night not met with the deep, woof of his bark.

Red was the best dog, ever, and he was a rescue dog, an animal someone else did not want.

He was our partner for 12 years and we did the right thing for him in the vet’s office.

But we sure do miss him…

It’s August in North Carolina and I just mowed the lawn.

For the uninformed or alien, a lawn is a naturally green accessory normally surrounding  a house purchased by a young couple starting a life together. (Note to fact-checkers: Las Vegas lawns are “green” but not by nature.)

The worth of said accessory is a relative value calculated in different ways by those who enjoy it, and those who care for it. Additionally, the younger the home purchasers the closer the value between the Enjoyer and the Carer. At a young age the cutting, trimming, watering, fertilizing, and weed-eating chores are labors of love for a beloved part of the household.

Knowing the name of this post, you may have already deduced the result of the aforementioned value judgement when a number of years have passed: The Enjoyee feels the same but The Carer…well…does not.

The Carer is usually male, and usually wears out with age. The passing years skew the value of the lawn–in the eyes of the aged Carer–and results in a negative number.

But this is not about the value of the lawn, it is about its longevity: it is unreasonable and  unfair.

For example, all Carers know if we do not get water to the lawn (except in Vegas) the lawn will die. Much like us.

All Carers also know a healthy, vibrant lawn is the result of weeding, nurturing, fertilizing and trimming. Much like us.

But if we stop caring for a lawn, does it continue to grow? Yes, it does. Do we?

And as The Carer rests with an ice-cold beer and ponders the trimmed, green carpet that is The Lawn, how unfair is it that The Carer cannot do the same for himself? Is there a way to trim, cut, weed, water, or pray that will result in The Carer looking the same every week? For years and years?

Every local mirror says no.

This was going to be a list of whiny questions us old people ask when the harsh light of existence puts us in its spotlight, but it isn’t as much fun to spout unanswerable questions, now, as it was in the early days when the questions, themselves, intimated answers the life ahead would surely reveal.

For now, a freshly mowed lawn and cold beer on a hot day are better than answers.

If only the lawn would show a little gray…or go bald…

The sun came up late, the sun set early. All because we adjusted things called clocks.
No one I know understands Daylight Savings Time. No one I know understands why we “Spring Ahead” and then “Fall Back”.
Do you?
Yeah, we’ll hear some malarkey about something or other related to who knows what, but who started it?
A thorough reading of the Wikipedia site says it was proposed by a New Zealander in 1895, and then “invented” by an Englishman in 1905 who noticed on one of his morning bike rides (Harley?) that his compatriots slept through most of the morning.
Germany adopted it in 1916 and the US in 1918. Wonder if it had anything to do with the cause of the First, Great War?
We kind of “abandoned” it until the energy crisis of the 1970’s. Taking advantage of daylight lowered energy consumption during the summer so we’ve held on to the practice ever since.
Know what we just learned?
Something first learned in the 1990’s: you can find the answer to anything on the internet, and you can find it fast.
Next time: where I found my lost youth.

There are many clears signs that The End of civilization is near: wars, diseases, too many anti-Christs to count.
But a better indicator is right in front of you, right under your nose: the driver in front of you.
If you think of the highway as the road to heaven, most drivers that cross my path are temptations sent to end my journey.
Imagine, if you will, a 35 mph zone with all of us–sane–drivers doing 38. Imagine, if you will, (are you getting the reference, by the way, or is it too old?) the lead car decides the squirrel on the sidewalk is going to cross the road. The prescient, Prius-driving, pink-wearing tree-hugger (unfair, but hopefully humorous. Look up: “alliteration”) decides to press the brakes in a manner meant to stop his car on a dime, or an acorn.
If those of us following avoid him and each other it is truly a miracle.
Now, imagine (no reference, it is now assumed you are quite young) the driver in front of you slows to 25 MPH and veers to the right. Can you guess what happens next?
Yes. The blinker goes on for a LEFT hand turn and the driver pats himself on the back for being a good, careful operator.
To one and all: driving is a social contract. It is the one, true, area where different races, colors, creeds, and nationalities SHARE something without bombs and AK-47s. We drive in Peace.
But we need to assume certain things for the contract to work. We need to know what the other driving is doing or we all end up crash test dummies for real.
Actually, we do NOT need to assume anything: there are laws.
But some are either ignorant of the law or of the opinion it only applies to them on the second Tuesday of the week.
The Blinker, for example, is used so seldom car makers should save money and not even install them, anymore. Headlights? If two are good, imagine how well you’ll see with 4 or 6 or 8. No need to worry about the retinal burns you give on-coming traffic: I can see clearly, now. (Anyone get THAT reference?)
Ask any agnostic and he’ll tell you he will believe in God when He comes to the Interstate and directs the cops to pull over the weaving Corvette doing 110 mph. That would be a miracle.
We are beginning to fail as drivers and it means we will fail as civilized human beings. Every driver for himself is what the Libertarians would argue. Stay to the right, for the conservatives. Passing is only for the left, a liberal might say.
When the roads get as bad as politics, you know the End is near.
In the meantime, if you see an angry, old guy giving you the finger from the car behind you, just once, think you might be doing something wrong and don’t just wave back.