Today in the paper I happened to take some time reading the obituaries. Some might think this a macabre pastime and if I hadn't been looking for the name of a neighbor I would not have scanned this list of the recently deceased. However, little did I know of the entertainment value of the local obituaries. With names omitted, I submit these gems to you, my readers:
"(name) was a damn good lawyer. Just ask him. (Oops, too late.)...He survived (until now) liver cancer and transplant...He could nap on command...He was never far from a Vienna finger or an Oreo (or a moon pie)...Sticking around to pick up the crumbs are his daughter....and her husband (who he actually came to love)...Taking off before him, his wife of 46 years...."
"(name) grew up in a Democratic home and married a Republican..."
"(name) was religious about donating to charities especially in his community."
"(name) collected/loved stuff...had a green thumb....single-handedly kept Goop, Gorilla Glue, duct tape manuafacturers and the "fart card" division of the greeting card industry in business."
The local paper writes, "Paid obituaries are written and provided by the families and loved ones of the deceased and the content reflects the thoughts and values of the bereaved."
I find these more amusing than the comics and probably will become somewhat of a stalker of the dead.
And that's what I think about it.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Saturday, June 16, 2012
A Dad by any other Name
Tonight we celebrated Father's Day with the family. After dinner and gifts, my husband Jim rose to "tell a short story."
He related a time at Ohio State when his parents unexpectedly showed up on campus. In the evening of their visit the three of them, along with 200 others, attended an annual dinner for Baker Hall, the dorm where Jim lived. During the program two residents of the hall came up behind Jim and escorted him to the stage. Unbeknownst to him he was being inducted into the Baker Hall Honor Society and would now be known as Sir James Thomas. His parents had been alerted that this honor was to be bestowed and drove to campus for the ceremony.
A few years later, Jim was in the army. Receiving his third stripe he now had the new designation of Sergeant. Another title by which to be known.
A few years later, he was awarded the Juris Doctorate degree which came with the title Esquire.
Lots of titles; lots of awards.
But at dinner last night, Jim stood in front of the family to state that on April 7, 1972, he received the title that he most cherishes and is most proud of when two little girls after marrying their mother begin to call him Dad.
Nothing has been more fulfilling.
There wasn't a dry eye.
And that's what I think about it.
He related a time at Ohio State when his parents unexpectedly showed up on campus. In the evening of their visit the three of them, along with 200 others, attended an annual dinner for Baker Hall, the dorm where Jim lived. During the program two residents of the hall came up behind Jim and escorted him to the stage. Unbeknownst to him he was being inducted into the Baker Hall Honor Society and would now be known as Sir James Thomas. His parents had been alerted that this honor was to be bestowed and drove to campus for the ceremony.
A few years later, Jim was in the army. Receiving his third stripe he now had the new designation of Sergeant. Another title by which to be known.
A few years later, he was awarded the Juris Doctorate degree which came with the title Esquire.
Lots of titles; lots of awards.
But at dinner last night, Jim stood in front of the family to state that on April 7, 1972, he received the title that he most cherishes and is most proud of when two little girls after marrying their mother begin to call him Dad.
Nothing has been more fulfilling.
There wasn't a dry eye.
And that's what I think about it.
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Bunny Buffet
The bunnies are back. Skinny little things, these wild furries romp through the back yard chasing one another but lose focus easily. They run like being chased and then stop abruptly to nibble a leaf of clover forgetting the former game of catch-me-if-you-can.
Sitting inside looking outside one afternoon, I noticed one of them in the middle of the yard, seemingly pulling up grass. When she had a mouthful she hopped over to the jumble of leaves and other vegetation of sunflowers, clematis, morning glories, rose bushes and wild daisies. Large tufts of grass stuck out from both sides of her mouth. She deposited the grass and went back to the yard, returning with another mouthful, five or six times. It didn't take long to guess that she was making a nest and that she would probably soon have a litter of bunnies (it crossed my mind to wonder how much I could make selling the little darlings but I was ahead of myself since they were yet in utero).
But I did have the wherewithal to have my husband purchase a big bag of carrots for the little mother-to-be. I broke one in half and put it out on the step by the flowers (see photo). After three days, the carrot had been moved, but not eaten. What's this?, I asked myself. What bunny doesn't eat carrots?
Wanting her to keep her strength up, I now have Julienned the carrots into what I hope are bite-sized morsels and placed them where she has only to pluck them from the ground (see photo).
I'll keep you posted.
And that's what I think about it.
Sitting inside looking outside one afternoon, I noticed one of them in the middle of the yard, seemingly pulling up grass. When she had a mouthful she hopped over to the jumble of leaves and other vegetation of sunflowers, clematis, morning glories, rose bushes and wild daisies. Large tufts of grass stuck out from both sides of her mouth. She deposited the grass and went back to the yard, returning with another mouthful, five or six times. It didn't take long to guess that she was making a nest and that she would probably soon have a litter of bunnies (it crossed my mind to wonder how much I could make selling the little darlings but I was ahead of myself since they were yet in utero).
But I did have the wherewithal to have my husband purchase a big bag of carrots for the little mother-to-be. I broke one in half and put it out on the step by the flowers (see photo). After three days, the carrot had been moved, but not eaten. What's this?, I asked myself. What bunny doesn't eat carrots?
Wanting her to keep her strength up, I now have Julienned the carrots into what I hope are bite-sized morsels and placed them where she has only to pluck them from the ground (see photo).
I'll keep you posted.
And that's what I think about it.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
Mom's Empty World
Today my daughter was looking at the photo I have of myself as my phone identifier. She said, "Mom, that's a good picture of you." I said, "I know." She said, "I guess as one gets to a certain age, good manners that require a humble 'thank you' go out the window."
That set me thinking about the cultural barriers that fall as one ages.
For example: My mother, with advanced Alzheimer Disease, lived in a nursing home. She had always been fairly prim and proper. She had not spoken for a couple of years. I almost could not remember how her voice sounded. My sister made daily visits to her while I made the trip every other month or so.
On one trip, I took current pictures of my grandchildren, thinking that the photos might elicit a spark of recognition from her. I held one photo of the four grand daughters in front of her, trying to position it in her glazed-over line of sight. I put the photo in her hand, pointed to each child as I named them. Mom gazed at it, kind of looking, kind of not. Finally she said, yes said, in a most audible voice, "Cute little sh...ts, aren't they?"
After a two year period of silence these were the first and last words out of her mouth.
My sister and I were shocked, looked at each other, and doubled over with laughter.
When we came up for air, gasping in stunned hilarity, we saw that my mother had once again returned to her hidden, internal world.
And that's what I think about it.
That set me thinking about the cultural barriers that fall as one ages.
For example: My mother, with advanced Alzheimer Disease, lived in a nursing home. She had always been fairly prim and proper. She had not spoken for a couple of years. I almost could not remember how her voice sounded. My sister made daily visits to her while I made the trip every other month or so.
On one trip, I took current pictures of my grandchildren, thinking that the photos might elicit a spark of recognition from her. I held one photo of the four grand daughters in front of her, trying to position it in her glazed-over line of sight. I put the photo in her hand, pointed to each child as I named them. Mom gazed at it, kind of looking, kind of not. Finally she said, yes said, in a most audible voice, "Cute little sh...ts, aren't they?"
After a two year period of silence these were the first and last words out of her mouth.
My sister and I were shocked, looked at each other, and doubled over with laughter.
When we came up for air, gasping in stunned hilarity, we saw that my mother had once again returned to her hidden, internal world.
And that's what I think about it.
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