One Bad Decision

 

I would venture to say that some of us are what we would call “getting up there in age”. I know I am, and I am reminded of that numerous times each day. Some days are better than others and some not, but I am grateful for all the mornings that find me still breathing with a beating heart.

Each one of us knows that the difference between life and death can be but a second, but in our minds that second always happens to someone else. A couple of weeks ago that second came very close to being me, and all it took was one bad decision.

As I age, it’s difficult for me to know and accept what I can and cannot do. My brain thinks like a young person, but my body…well, I’ll just say it’s not so young anymore and cannot do a lot of the things I used to take for granted. And that leads me to my bad decision.

Several years ago I had two pine trees close to my home cut down, fearful of a hurricane doing it for me and calling for action on my part.  Everything went smoothly and when I was asked if I wanted the stumps ground, I remembered the holes forming over the years from other pines we had removed and said “no”. Just cut them fairly close to the ground I said which turned out to be not too close. But that was okay. Then. Yet as I looked out my screened porch day after day, year after year, those very slowly rotting tree stumps became somewhat of a thorn in my side. They were rotting but contrary to what we believe and are told by pest control  people, termites can make a meal last forever. And so I watched from one day to the next, one week to the next, one month to the next, one year to the next until ten years had gone by and those stumps continued to be eyesores. My patience evaporated, and one afternoon a few weeks ago I decided to do something about the crumbling stubs sticking up out of the ground. Whenever my lawn guy came, I noticed he would bump the stumps with his mower, and some of the wood would crumble. On comes the light bulb, unfortunately.

I deduced that I could do the same thing with a sledge hammer, and after the lawn person had vamoosed, I went into my garage to locate the named tool. I located it in between some heavy objects and it took some doing to unlodge it. I should have paid attention and have let this mild obstruction divert my plans. But I was more determined than that. After yanking and pulling, I managed to loosen the hold on it, and grabbing it near the bottom for more leverage, I made my way back through the house and the back porch to position myself at one of the stumps in question. I found that just swinging it a little was no small feat. It was heavy for my feeble strength. But I did manage to get in a few swipes and broke off about half of the remaining wood, littering the surrounding area with chips. However, some parts of the stumps were like concrete and only went “boing” upon contact with the sledge hammer. But I wasn’t discouraged, maybe try it again in a week or so. Did I mention the temperature was in the nineties with humidity to match?

I grabbed the sledgehammer near the top of the handle and slowly made my way back inside and into the house and to the garage door. I was hot and tired. I opened the door, lifted the sledge hammer off the floor where I had rested it for a moment and swung it over the 4” step- down into the garage, a huge mistake. The heft of that over ten pound hammer and the three foot length of the handle acted like I was on the end of a “crack the whip”. Do you remember that little game?

Before my brain could catch up, the momentum created by that swing pulled me out into the garage faster than my feet were capable of going and the inevitable happened. I stumbled and fell into a multitude of hanging tools on the side wall that cascaded over me like a hail storm finally coming to a stop at the wet and dry vac parked about six feet away from the door. I was resting on one knee, still holding onto the handle of the sledgehammer for dear life! If only I had had one of those surveillance cameras. I would have loved to have seen the replay!

So, after the fall, a little stunned and feeling like a fool, I realized blood was running down my cheek. One of those thingies on the wall had aimed itself at my right eye, missing it by the proverbial hair, cutting the skin and giving me an extra laugh line. I took a moment to thank God that I could still see.

And then I raised myself up off the one knee and the sledgehammer that I continued to hang onto, and looking at all the debris, I felt pretty lucky indeed. Later, other than some bruising and a black eye, life seemed good again. Very good. And I promised whoever was in charge (and it looks like it may have been me) to never pick up a sledgehammer again!

Squirrels, You Gotta Love 'Em

As I write this, I can look out a window in front of my desk and see my hanging bird feeder. You might think that is wonderful, even enchanting, and I must admit, I have thoroughly enjoyed its position for several years. All kinds of birds visit, titmice, chickadees, cardinals, finches, sparrows and many others I have no name for. I’ve provided a hanging water bath and even a hummingbird feeder for when hummies come around. The little set-up is most enjoyable and many times distracts me from my writing or drawing to give my eyes a much-needed break.

There has always been a squirrel or two that have stumbled upon my little bird oasis, and though I can’t say I have been happy about it, I have been willing to share with them in return for the entertaining antics they provide. They can actually walk upside down across my porch ceiling to slide down the hanger to the feeder where they use the one-arm and one-foot monkey stance to eat their fill. And what seed they can’t pick out, they shake out.

A few years ago my daughter gifted me a “squirrel-proof” feeder which I couldn’t wait to try out. It was a cylinder-type with staggered seed holes protected by a sort of cage type structure. It was not a worthy adversary. A little shaking and the seed was quickly below the last hole. And when that was all that was left, squirrel teeth and squirrel claws cracked and opened up the plastic cylinder walls. Did you know squirrels are born with engineering degrees?

I trashed the pitifully deformed “squirrel-proof” feeder and went back to my original stand-by, resolved to live in harmony with bird and squirrel. Until recently.

One squirrel is amusing, two squirrels verge on being a nuisance, and three squirrels? Well, no way am I putting up with that. And who knows if they are the same three squirrels? I am beginning to know how they feel at the border crossing! Harry (yes, I even named one as though he were a pet) was bringing all his friends and relatives to the seemingly endless supply of squirrel food I was providing daily. And the birds were mostly doing without, sitting nearby, longingly staring as the gray-furred monsters devoured their food, leaving my feathered friends only seed litter on the porch floor, meager pickings. And so began my online search for the perfect squirrel-proof feeder.

I seriously considered going to Birds Unlimited, a local store near me that specializes in, you guessed it, bird supplies. I have been in their store many times, and unfortunately, I’ve found that I am a huge impulse buyer when the thing I’m searching for is physically in front of me. So….with that in mind, Amazon has become my retail shop of choice to eliminate these purchases of regret. I tend to look and look and research and look and research some more when I hone in on attractive items on Amazon. Slowing down my buying impulse usually results in a much better and satisfactory purchase, which is exactly what I wanted in a squirrel-proof bird feeder, a real squirrel-proof feeder if one existed.

Amazon had tons of designs, many of which I had seen and heard of before. Then I saw one that reminded me of a long-ago purchase, a red barn type feeder with adjustable pressure perches. I had bought this as a gift at Home Depot many years ago, a birthday present for a sister-in-law. I wondered if it had worked and if she still had it so a phone call became urgent.

Juanita, the sister-in-law, remembered the feeder but it had long since seen better days and been disposed of, but, yes, she did remember that it had worked fairly well. Hanging from a tree limb in her yard, squirrels did manage to hang onto the feeder and shake out a few seeds but never to the extent of others she had owned. In fact, she had bought more feeders similar to it.

So I took the plunge and pressed the order button. The bright red feeder with a black roof arrived quickly, and I had it hanging up and filled within minutes. Anything heavier than a bird would drop a closure over the feeding holes…as long as the heavier thing sat on the perch. This, I found to be the only noticeable problem. I was optimistic. It took a couple of days for the birds to trust this shiny new thing, but eventually they came back and seemed to enjoy it as much as the old one they were used to. The squirrels nosed around as well and soon found out the mechanics of the pressure perches. After much effort to jump onto the feeder, there was no reward. And seed did not shake out easily because of the way the feeder was made. But, do you think they gave up? No, they did not.

Their antics were hilarious. I could imagine what they were thinking as they scooted around, hung on by one claw, and literally attacked that feeder. The perseverance of a squirrel is beyond comprehension! After around three weeks of working through this puzzle, they did have a slight success. They found they could hang onto one side of the feeder and stretch their necks around to eat without touching the perch. But it was very precarious and, apparently, not that enjoyable. They didn’t eat much before the effort outweighed the reward. And I am happy to report that now after more than a month, I seldom see a seed-stealing squirrel. And in case you’re interested, here is the Amazon link. Happy bird watching.

 

The Study

 

I’ve just joined a research study for dementia involving statins. It all began with an ad on Facebook which piqued my interest because I’m old and have known several friends and relatives with the disease. Even my husband had a mild case of dementia before his death in 2012.

The study is funded by NIH and came to me via UF Health in Jacksonville. Since I am a good distance away, I will participate virtually, no need for blood tests, since they are not concerned with lipids, and no need for physical appointments.

I began with a long phone call (40 minutes) at 10 A.M. and an email providing a lengthy consent form. Renae (from Jax) recorded my personal information such as health history, social security and medicare numbers, and puzzling to me two trusted people’s addresses and phone numbers. I provided those of my daughter and granddaughter. I thought about this and decided they were contacts in case I kicked the bucket before my 2nd test. And Renae remained on the phone while I read and signed the consent form. In it I found I could read about the study at preventabletrial.org. She promised to send me a printed copy of the form and told me I would soon receive the statin (or placebo) through the mail plus a check for $75, a surprise to me.

Then, she made a phone appointment for me at 3 P.M. on the same day for my baseline test which occurred right on time. The caller first made sure I was in a quiet space where I would not be disturbed, that I

 had no computer open or paper and pencil handy. For twenty minutes he asked me memory questions such as today’s date, my age, who is the president, vice-president, count backward from 20, subtract 7 starting with 100, word opposites, etc. etc… And then the difficult one for me, remembering a list of words. Of course, there was no pass/fail, but I already know I am no good at that. I found it all very interesting.

At the end, he, too, informed me that my statin (or placebo) would be mailed and to start taking it right away. And in one year I would receive another phone call to take the same test, which apparently is how they will be able to tell if statins have an impact on dementia. The study is for 75-80 year olds with no history of heart disease or dementia. Of course, I can opt out of the study at any time for any reason.

I’ve never been in a research study before so this is all new to me, and I’m sharing this little bit of information, not to endorse it, but because I thought how a virtual study is done might be interesting to others. I feel good about being a part of something that could help others in the future especially those with dementia and their caregivers. And I should say that I asked my primary care doctor’s opinion before I joined the study. She was wholly in favor of it.

Roots

No matter how long I live in Florida, I continue to feel like a Delawarean. Since I hate cold weather and cannot imagine moving back to Delaware, this remains a mystery to me. One of the first things I do every morning is click on the Rehoboth Beach Cam on my laptop to see what’s happening at my favorite childhood summer getaway. This week snow has covered the sandy beach and boardwalk, but I see sun-worshippers on blankets under colorful umbrellas. There are kids and dogs kicking up sand and transistor radios blasting out rock ‘n roll music. I can feel the incoming wave lifting me off my feet as I ride the surface and swallow a trickle of salt water. The sun is hot and the water is cool, and I pay rapt attention to the next wave coming in. The sunbathers are forgotten. It is just me and the ocean.

I was reminded of my roots last Saturday when I attended an unexpected memorial service for a friend. It was held in a beautiful chapel surrounded by tall trees, mostly naked in our Florida winter but still lovely. The pews were full and the service began with one of my favorite hymns, also a favorite of the honoree. Although most everyone was in somber colors, the atmosphere was soon lightened by happy and sometimes hilarious memories of the son, daughter, granddaughter, and wife. Ken would have been proud!

Afterward, we walked a ways to another building to share food and memories, and I ended up sitting at a table with another friend who was originally from the Carolinas. We got to talking about West Virginia, the birthplace of my husband, and then I thought of the last song I had heard my friend sing, my friend who had passed away, Take Me Home, Country Roads by John Denver. He accompanied himself beautifully on the ukulele, so talented in music, art and everything he put his hand to.

Of course, Art and I had to start singing (quietly) and after the words poured out, Art mentioned how he had noticed that one could tell where someone was from by the way they pronounced “mountain”. He said mountain people always spoke with a very soft ‘t” or no audible “t” at all. I had to say the word several times in my head and realized it sounded “normal” to me both ways. So, did I pick that up from JIm, my husband? I honestly don’t know. Mountain is a spoken word that I never thought peculiar to any particular place until now.

And that made me wonder if, unconsciously, I have become a Floridian. Has my Delaware accent disappeared? And what else has changed. One thing I know has not changed, I still hate okra and grits! But just maybe, I can now call myself a Floridian.