Category Archives: Whimsies

One Man’s Junk is Another Man’s, Well, Probably Junk Too

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Yesterday morning, Bill – as he does every morning – asked me what my plans were for the day.

“Oh, I thought I’d take out the grass on the north side of the house and pour a cement sidewalk, and then I will install the drip system in my garden,” I replied. “If there’s still time, I think I’ll work on that cure for Parkinson’s.”

Bill thinks I’m hilarious. Or he would have, had I actually said those words. Instead, what I really said was that I planned on bringing up the boxes from the basement that contain all of the stuff I took out of the china cabinet a year ago. Yep, that china cabinet has stood empty for over a year.

You know why? Yeah, I’m lazy, but that’s only a fraction of the reason. The main reason that it has remained unfilled all of these months is because I can hardly bear to put all of those things back into my little cabinet. When I emptied it, it was filled to nearly overflowing. I have my 12-piece set of Royal Doulton china, including a tea pot and cake plate. But that’s the least of it. I have serving pieces and glass bowls and candlesticks and knick knacks, er, objet d’art. I have espresso cups and cocoa cups and coffee cups and liqueur glasses and wine glasses. I have candy dishes and nut servers and salad bowls.

Much of it came to me as wedding gifts. A lot of it was given to me by Bill’s mom, who – facing the same situation I am facing – no longer had a use for it but didn’t want to give it away.

Yesterday morning, when I was refreshed from a night’s sleep and had lots of dreams for the day, I decided I was going to be ruthless about what I was going to return to that cabinet. If I don’t use it, I told myself, it is going to Goodwill. I made it as far as the basement, where I peeked into a couple of the boxes, sighed heavily, and went upstairs to crochet.

Because, as I’ve said many times before, I don’t need any of those things any longer. Maybe the china, because at least I drag that out of the cabinet once or twice a year. But how on earth could I take the cocoa cups that Wilma got as a wedding gift and give them to Goodwill? She had the supreme advantage of having a kind-hearted daughter-in-law who couldn’t say no. My daughters-in-law are lovely, but they simply don’t want my stuff. Four-year-old Cole prefers paper plates over porcelain.

I came across an article recently from Forbes that confirmed what I already knew. Our kids don’t want our crap. They listed the top 10 things our kids don’t want, and I have them all. Photos and books and Persian rugs and silver plated tea services. They don’t want the Hummels that belonged to my mom.

When Bec packed up her house in Virginia – the house where she and Terry lived for 30 years or more – she was brutal. But at some point, she simply grew tired of trying to figure out what to move, what to take to Goodwill, and what to toss. She got to her cedar chest, opened it, saw her wedding gown, and closed her cedar chest. “I’m going to let my kids figure out what to do with the stuff in my cedar chest after I die,” she vowed silently to herself. Or maybe out loud. I wasn’t there.

I took that to heart, and for the past few years I have been saying to myself, “I’m leaving this mess for our kids to clean up.” But something occurred to me recently. Chances are I will move out of this house before I die. That leaves the responsibility with me. Dang.

I wonder if telling the kids that I was feeling a little bit poorly (as my grandmother would have said) would get them over here sooner. Maybe I could cough a little.

By the way, this is as far as I got with yesterday’s project…..

But as Scarlett O’Hara said, “I’ll think about it tomorrow. After all, tomorrow’s another day.”

Unfortunately, tomorrow is today.

Farm Goods

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The temperature in Denver was a comfortable high of 88 degrees yesterday, a delightful change from the 108 that some people were reporting earlier in the week. Bill and I were beginning to think we needed to take a trip to AZ to cool down.

Darn it. Now I sound like everyone else. I have never heard such complaining in my life. Likely most of the complaints came from our numerous newly-transferred-from-elsewhere residents. If you like milder temperatures, just why did you feel the need to move here from southern California? And while you’re at it, use your blinkers and get off my lawn.

I may not be good at a lot that is involved in growing old, but I’m perfecting the art of crabbiness.

At any rate, the cooler temperatures brought people out of their air conditioned homes and into garden centers and farmers’ markets. My favorite spot combines the two, offering both fresh mostly-locally-grown produce and a garden center.  It’s located about a 15 minute drive from my front door, in a not-great but not-awful part of town. You tell me: when I was driving home with my produce, I passed five police cars all parked with their lights flashing. While I tried not to be a Looky-Loo, I couldn’t help but notice that they were surrounding a beat-up car that resembled a 1975 Ford Escort. Something told me that the driver of the vehicle had not simply run a red light.

Anyway, the garden center/produce market was packed with shoppers. It seemed like most of them were buying garden plants. That might be because it’s still a bit early for a lot of the produce. Still, they had what I was looking for – pickling cucumbers. It’s about that time again folks. Homemade dill pickles…..

The bulk of our grandchildren love dill pickles. In fact the other night when Court and his family came for dinner, after dinner and the dessert of pineapple upside down cake, the kids went to the fridge and took out jars of pickles and green olives and commenced eating them. The smell of pineapples and whipped cream was still on their breath. Not for long, as you can imagine.

There’s nothing on earth tastier than a delicious homegrown tomato. Bill loves to describe the tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches on white bread that he used to eat as a boy. The problem is, while it’s true there’s nothing more delicious than a good tomato, conversely there’s nothing with less flavor than a rock-hard, barely red, conventionally-grown tomato. While it’s a bit early for tomatoes, the market offered options that looked quite good. Whether or not they are remains to be seen…..

I ended up with a watermelon, some tomatoes, a bunch of those yummy big onions, a lemon to cook with my salmon, and some apricots for Bill…..

In another month or so, the good sweet corn will begin landing in the grocery store bins, the cantalopes from the eastern plains with their sweet floral fragrance will call my name, and my own tomatoes will begin ripening.

And in a month from then, the smell of roasting green chilies will fill the air.

I don’t want to get too excited, because all of that means that summer will be coming to an end. But my mother always dejectedly told her children every July 4, “Well, summer’s half over.”

But I’m not going to think about that. I’m going to concentrate on this…..

This post linked to the GRAND Social

Saturday Smile: She Loves You Yes, Yes, Yes

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The Late Late Show’s host James Corden does a bit — called Carpool Karaoke — in which he drives around with a famous star — often a musician — during which they both sing karaoke-style to songs made famous both by the particular singer, or others. I am, of course, NEVER awake for The Late Late Show, but I was made aware of this particular episode via another blogger. It features Paul McCartney.

It’s fairly lengthy — 23 minutes, but worth every moment. Watching it made me extremely happy. I loved it. In fact, I cried through most of it. It’s not a bit sad, but it made me feel very nostalgic.

If you don’t feel you have 23 minutes to spare, fast forward until 15:30. It’s all good, but the ending is the best part. Watch the Baby Boomers!

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts

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You Could Fry An Egg
We had a nice spring,
It really was swell.
But now that it’s summer
It’s hotter than hell. — famous poet William A. McLain

That famous poet and I stopped at the grocery store yesterday to get a few items. It’s not that we have become one of those retired couples who now shop together, blocking the aisles as they try to decide which deodorant to buy. But we were shopping specifically for pharmaceuticals with which to assist him in breathing since the McLain Dust Bowl is in full force. As we left the store, the heat slapped us in the face like a red-headed stepchild. (No offense to either red-heads or stepchildren. That’s just a saying that Bill pulls out from somewhere once in a while, and it always makes me laugh, even as non-politically correct as it is. I suspect he heard it from his father.) Anyway, it felt positively like AZ. The meteorologist on the radio excitedly reported that the temperature had just topped 100 degrees in Denver. Yipee! Tomorrow may reach 103.

Comfort Food
Despite the heat, when I asked Bill what he wanted for dinner so that I could purchase it while we were at the grocery store, he gave it some thought. “Hot roast beef sandwich,” he said, despite the fact that it was 100 degrees outside. Considering that at that point it was 3 o’clock in the afternoon — far too late for me to braise a pot roast — I said, let’s find a place that serves hot roast beef sandwiches and eat out. Let them do the braising. New York Deli News. As it turns out, neither of us had the hot beef. He had his favorite — roast turkey dinner…..

, and I had cabbage rolls……

Yellow Bug Forever
Every once in a while, I get to thinking that maybe I should get a new car. Despite the fact that my Volkswagen Beetle is a 2003, it only has 92,000 miles. But it gets dreadful gas mileage and because it’s a turbo engine, it requires high-grade fuel. So it isn’t particularly cost-efficient. Still, I really only drive it around town. However, the other day, I mentioned to Kaiya that I sometimes think I should get a new car. “No way, Nana,” she said emphatically. “Your grandkids don’t want you to get a different car. We love your car.” She went on to tell me that whenever her 4-year-old brother Cole sees a yellow bug, he always says, “Look, there’s Nana!”

Kris and the yellow bug, taken last Christmas.

I Feel 100
This past Sunday, I was putting together a box to pack yet more books to transport to Goodwill. I was simply bending over, taping the box, when my 64-year-old back said, NOPE. I felt the twinge, but it didn’t seem like a big deal then. However, as the day went by, my lower back began to hurt worse and worse. And I have been suffering since then. It is now Thursday, and my back still hurts. I consider going to the doctor, but I don’t think there is really anything they can do. I’m going to give it a few more days, and if I’m no better, I will bite the bullet. I see physical therapy in my future. And I hear my sister Bec’s voice saying, “Strengthen your core, strengthen your core, strengthen your core.” Drat. I hate when she’s right.

Ciao.

Forget About Dick and Jane

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Dang, my grandkids are smart. Really, really smart, and they don’t get it from me.

A few years ago, Dagny (now 12, but then 9 or 10) was sitting in the back of my car because I was giving her a ride to or from someplace or other. As you all know, cars are the place where the most interesting things are learned. Seriously, I could learn more about Court’s life when he was a teenager in a 15 minute ride home from school than I could during an hour at dinner. I think it has something to do with the lack of eye contact. It was easier to tell me that he had detention while staring straight ahead than during dinner when he would need to see the look on my face.

At any rate, Dagny mentioned that in school that day, the teacher had posed this question to the class: What is a Buffalo Soldier?

“Nana, do you know I was the only person in my class who knew what a buffalo soldier is?” she said.

“Really?” I said weakly. “Why, that’s shocking.”

I, of course, had no clue what (or who) a buffalo soldier was. I started humming the Bob Marley tune to myself, hoping it would give me a clue. It didn’t, so I looked it up when I got home.

Three years ago, Bill and I were visiting our Vermont family. As part of the trip, we took an amazing whale watch tour. At the time, our grandson Joseph was a mere 6 years old. At one point, one of the tour guides – a docent of sorts – came by and asked if we had any questions. We initially said no, but then Joseph asked her if the whales we were seeing were baleen whales. Wait, what? Again, I tried to look educated, but this time I couldn’t even fall back on a Bob Marley song. I had no idea that a baleen is a filtering system that some whales have in their mouths, allowing them to efficiently access their food sources. Never fear, because Joseph knew the questions to ask.

I was never one to learn much from a textbook, I’m afraid. I could memorize, and so I could generally do pretty well on a test. If you asked me the question a few months later, however, the answer would evade me. I’m still that way.

Here’s how I best learn history: reading historical novels. I know that what you read in a historical novel – NOVEL being the operative word –must be taken with a grain of salt. Still, everything I remember about the reign of Henry the VIII is from reading the Philippa Gregory novels about his wives. Oh, and from Herman’s Hermits (a reference only understood by Baby Boomers).

As parents and grandparents, we worry about our kids and grandkids watching too much television or staring at some sort of screen. It’s true that too much technology can stifle imagination. Having said that, however, it seems to me that kids can learn a lot from Kids You Tube or certain games or television programs.

This past weekend, Kaiya, Mylee, and Cole had a sleepover at our house. Saturday morning, Mylee – who is 7 years old and just got out of second grade – said two things that positively astounded me. The first was something I overheard her saying as she and Cole were playing a game that involved a battle of some kind. Towards the end of the battle, I heard Mylee tell Cole, “And now, for the pièce de résistance….” and she proceeded to do something that won the battle. Seriously.

The second thing nearly made this grammarian nana’s heart burst with pride.

She was telling me a story; I truly can’t remember what the story was about, as Mylee tells lots and lots of stories during a day. But at a point in the story, she did air quotes as she said something. Suddenly, she stopped. This 7-year-old said, “I don’t know why I did air quotes. What I’m telling you is literally true.”

I teared up. My little precious granddaughter knows when air quotes are inappropriate. You see, there are few things in life that annoy me more than both the incorrect use of the word literal and the incorrect use of air quotes. She understood both.

When I was 7, I was just starting to learn to See Spot run. Run Spot run.

See? My grandkids are smart.

Familien Bibel

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Work continues on the taking-down-of-the-bookshelves in the McLain family bedroom. The shelves went up nearly 25 years ago, and they were quickly filled with paperback and hardback books, most of which I actually read at some point. Over the years, I collected books like a crazy person – first editions, books completing a series, favorite books, children’s books, mysteries, biographies, contemporary novels. For a while, I actually dusted the books. Well, if I’m being perfectly honest, for a while, I had cleaning people whose services included dusting the books and giving a rudimentary swipe to the top of the bookshelves on which sat very many photos. When I stopped paying a cleaning service, that task went by the wayside.

Hence: the McLain Dust Bowl.

Most of the books are now off the shelves, and all of the photos have been removed from their frames and inserted into an envelope. My plan is to someday remove all of the photos from the envelope and put names and dates on the back. Unfortunately, you know what they say about best-laid plans. But at least all of the photos are confined to an 8-1/2 by 11 envelope. As for the books, we have taken somewhere in the neighborhood of six or seven boxes of books to Goodwill. And speaking of the neighborhood, some of the books have gone down the street where a nice Southmoor Park resident provides a home for a little neighborhood lending library box. That library now contains a nice collection of Bill Bryson books, thanks to yours truly.

It’s been kind of a surprise to find out which items from that bookshelf have been the hardest with which to part. I have all of the Mitford books from the original At Home in Mitford to In the Company of Others. While I now own all of the existing books as e-books (thanks to Bill’s Christmas gift last year), it still broke my heart to give up those beloved books. I decided instead of taking them to Goodwill, I would take them to the library.

I kept some of the kids’ books I own, especially the ones that the grands seem to particularly like. Court’s favorite book was one called The Bed Book, by (randomly) Sylvia Plath. I read the book to Kaiya and Mylee a number of years ago, excitedly telling them it was their father’s very favorite book. Their opinion? Meh. Not so much. Still, do you think I can give up that book? Nope.

The only photos I’ve been able to toss are duplicates. Oh, and I threw away a photo of my first husband dancing with a woman I don’t recognize. That seemed appropriate.

I own three bibles; well, four  if you count the bible on my Kindle. The first is a Catholic Study Bible, with a binding that creaks when I open it because it is so little-used. Sigh. The second is an enormous bible that Bec and Terry gave me when I graduated from high school. It’s the bible in which I documented my marriage to my first husband and the birth of Court, and his subsequent baptism. Family documentation stopped at that point, as Catholic bibles don’t exactly have a spot for divorces and second husbands. The bible is so old that in the list of the succession of popes, the last one listed was Paul VI. Still, it isn’t like the actual bible verses change.

The third bible is the one that stumps me. Somehow – in that way that things happen – I ended up with Grammie’s bible. It’s entirely in German…..

…..as are her family documentation notes…..

I can make out a few things. I know she documents the birth of all of her children and most of her grandchildren. And I know that she notes the death of her husband, my grandfather. Though I really can’t read it, I tear up every time I look at it…..

So, what stumps me is what, exactly, do I do with it. It’s almost certain that none of her great grandkids  have any interest in that bible. Court met my grandmother exactly once when he was about six months old. But could I simply pick up that bible and toss it into a garbage can? Nein, no, nope.

So the bible makes the cut, and will likely move with me to my next house, wherever and whenever that might be. At some point, Court – or someone – will throw it, er, address the issue.

Point the Way

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The gospels tell us about the birth of Jesus, and St. Luke tells us that 40 days after his birth, Mary and Joseph presented him at the temple, as required by law. The story then goes dark until he was about 12 years old, at which time Luke explains that during a festival attended by Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, he wandered away from his parents and was later found by a terrified Mary as he was preaching to some elders. Did you not know this is where you would find me? he asks his mother. I’m pretty sure her reply was something along the lines of if we knew where to find you, that is the first place we would have looked and I wouldn’t have been freaking out for the last three hours young man!

The story again goes dark until Jesus is 30-something, and the real story begins.

I, of course, being the inquisitive sort, would simply love to know what happened during the periods of time about which the gospels are silent. What kind of life did Jesus have with his parents? Did he hang out with neighborhood kids and play whatever passed for baseball in Israel circa 0013? Did he keep his room tidy? Did he like his mother’s cooking? What was his favorite food?

Yesterday, the Catholic Church celebrated the Feast of St. John the Baptist. As you will recall, John was the cousin of Jesus, being the offspring of Mary’s Aunt Elizabeth. Though, as I noted above, the gospels are silent, I would assume that Jesus and John were BFFs. My son Court was my only child, and as such, he was BFFs with his cousin Benjamin Joseph. More than friends, actually; more like brothers, for all intents and purposes. When our entire extended family got together, those two boys were off on their own. It was almost like they had a secret language. From the time they were little, they were each other’s confidants. To this day, I’m certain BJ knows things about Court that I will never (and probably don’t want to) know……

In my imagination, that’s how I envision the relationship between Jesus and his cousin John. Both were only children, or at least arguably so. Jesus had what can only be described as a heavy burden that he carried. Even if he didn’t understand fully what his future looked like, he had to feel different from his friends. There’s no way you can convince me that Jesus and John didn’t sit under an olive tree where Jesus told John that he was afraid of what would happen when he was a grown up. John likely said, I’ll be there for you Cuz!

Cousin John became John the Baptist, and he definitely was there for Jesus. He prepared the Way of the Lord. I am not the Savior, John said over and over again. I am not even worthy enough to fasten his sandals. My cousin Jesus is the Savior. Thus is the life of a prophet.

When we think of prophets, we think of people who can predict the future. But in biblical terms, prophets didn’t actually predict the future. Neither Isaiah nor Jeremiah nor Elijah nor John the Baptist forecasted the weather or suggested in what commodities the Jewish people should invest.  Their jobs were to point to God. Plain and simple. God loves you. God will send you a savior. Trust in God and trust in his son.

So guess what I think this means (having gone out last night and gotten my degree in theology)? I think this means that we are all prophets. Or at least we have the ability to be prophets if we choose, and are courageous enough.

Isaiah said The Lord called me from birth, from my mother’s womb he gave me my name. He made of me a sharp-edged sword and concealed me in the shadow of his arm. He made me a polished arrow, in his quiver he hid me. You are my servant, he said to me, through whom I show my glory.(Isaiah, 49: 1-3)

Just like Isaiah, God knew each of us even in our mothers’ wombs. He knew our names. He gave us strength. He simply asks that we tell others – through words and actions – about his glory.

And that we take care of one another — like BJ and Court and like Jesus and John.

Saturday Smiles: Slime and Splits

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Court texted me the other day and told me the kids were jonesing for a sleepover at Nana and Papa’s. So yesterday afternoon, the three of them arrived with their rolling backpacks for a mini-vaca.

There were Pop-Its which provide all sorts of fun. Mylee used them to spell out her name. Once the photo was taken, she stomped them all at one time…..

They managed to convince me that slime was on the docket…..

Can you say red food coloring?

Finally, the evening concluded with banana splits…..

I wonder why they like coming to our house.

My grandkids always make me smile!

Have a great weekend.

Thursday Thoughts

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Shingles: They’re Not Just On Roofs Anymore
The other evening, we had our friends John and Carol over for dinner. John came down with a case of shingles three or four weeks ago, and has been suffering greatly. Our dinner was one of the first times he had been out of their house for anything other than doctors’ appointments. We had a nice time with them, but it hurt my heart to see him in such pain. The next day, I called my doctor’s office to see about getting the new shingles vaccine. They told me their office was on back order, and suggested Walgreen’s. Bill and I hightailed it to our neighborhood Walgreen’s, where we both got the first of what will eventually be two shingles vaccines……

Bill is awaiting his shingles vaccine, part I. While he puts up with Parkinson’s disease with nary a complaint, shots are not his friend.

The shot hurt — as shots do — but shingles is worse. This vaccine is purported to be 90 percent effective, much better than the old vaccine. Over 50? Run, don’t walk, to get your shot!

My Dust Bowl
Last Sunday, I spent much of the day watching the Ken Burns episodes — two of them — about the Dust Bowl. Fascinating stuff. But I have been involved in my own dust bowl. For nearly the 25 years we have lived in this house, we have had book shelves in our bedroom. Bill installed them to house some of my literally hundreds of hardback and paperback books. Hardback and paperback books that I no longer read since I read exclusively on the Kindle on the iPad. And since we are preparing to have new carpeting installed, now seemed like a good time to remove them, thereby enlarging our bedroom significantly. The thing is, my housekeeping skills are more Erma Bombeck than Martha Stewart, so the shelves (and books) are extremely dusty. I have powered through, a little at a time, but I feel like my lungs are filled with dust. Perhaps I’m imagining this since I watched those Ken Burns episodes, but I think I might be coming down with dust pneumonia!…..

A little at a time., but I’m getting close!

Picture Not Perfect
And the biggest problem I’m running into is the photos. OMG! The pictures. The pictures. One whole shelf was full of photo albums ranging from college days to the time when we all stopped printing photos and inserting them into albums. What do I do with those photos? I have pictures of Court as a baby, Court as a pre-teen, Court as a teenager, Court in college, Bill and I at every stage of our life. I have photos of Mom and Dad ranging from the 1960s until their respective deaths. I seem unable to throw them away. So instead, I’m taking them out of frames (if they are framed), and putting them all in an envelope. When I die, Allen, David, Heather, and Court will all get together and perhaps they will take a gander at the photos. And one of them will say to the other, “Who in the hell is that woman with Mom (or Kris)?” Because they won’t know my college friends. Heck, I can’t remember most of their names. But see above. I am unable to throw them away. I love each and every picture of each and every grandchild I have. And, by the way, I seem to have more of our oldest — Addie — than anyone else. Go figure.

Kitchen Plates
And because I’ve been promising, here is my display of the plates I purchased while at The Mercantile in Pawhuska, OK, a couple of weeks ago. It’s hard to tell from the photo because I couldn’t take a long shot due to a light hanging in the way. But I will tell you that I am extremely pleased with the result. That wall — which has been bare for two years — finally looks complete…..

Happy Anniversary to Us
Bill and I celebrated our 26th wedding anniversary yesterday. I sent a text message to all of my bridesmaids apologizing once again for my dress choice for them. I believe they have all forgiven me…..

And here we are, 26 years later…..

Ciao.

 

 

 

Run Forest Run

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Exercise is good for you. You should spend 30 minutes doing some kind of aerobic exercise at least five times a week. You should do core exercises or lift weights a couple times a week. Exercise can help prevent heart disease, lower your blood pressure, prevent broken bones, and keep your cholesterol under control.

Blah blah blobbity blah blah.

I know all those things are true, but I hate to exercise. I always have. I do now. I always will.

Much of my life, I have been able to set aside my dislike of exercise and have faithfully grunted myself into good health. I have run, walked, or biked. I have jumped around doing step aerobics. I have danced my butt off doing Jazzercise.  I belonged to Curves. For over a year, I faithfully walked on a Nordic Track in my basement every morning before work. Never once – not for one minute – did I enjoy what I was doing. I enjoy sitting in my recliner reading the latest C.J. Box mystery. I like plopping in front of the television and watching Chief Inspector Morse listen to opera while solving a complicated mystery. I do not like putting on my stretch pants and doing anything that makes me break out in a sweat, especially since yoga isn’t in my future and stretch pants aren’t my friend.

But I do it. Or at least I do it most of the time.

Walking is my current exercise of choice. I walk pretty faithfully every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I have added a twist to my walking regime – Nordic walking. In addition to making me look like an incredible fool, the walking poles are supposed to work the entire body more effectively because you apply pressure on the poles with each step. I can’t confirm or deny their effectiveness. But I can certainly confirm that I look quite silly…..

The other day the skies were threatening rain. I was trying to talk myself into getting out for my walk early so that I could beat the rain. Suddenly I remembered that I belong to 24 Hour Fitness, thanks to Silver Sneakers. I know it sounds funny to point out that I had forgotten that I had a membership in a health club, but there you have it. It had been quite some time – several years, in fact – since I entered the doors of that club. Part of the reason is that we spend nearly half the year in AZ, where there are no 24 Hour Fitness Clubs. Being the best thing about growing older, Silver Sneakers actually pays for my membership at two clubs – 24 Hour Fitness here in Denver and LA Fitness in AZ.

So I walked confidently through the door and typed in my telephone number. I then dutifully rested my finger on the fingerprint identifier. See receptionist, it told me. I did, and she looked me up on her computer. I was no longer there.

She gave me a liar-liar-pants-on-fire look. “Has it been a while since you’ve been here?” the young woman asked me. I told her the truth, that it had been several years. I learned that even Silver Sneakers has its limits, and I had been purged. Never fear, however, as I was quickly reinstated, and on my merry way to a treadmill. Thanks again, Silver Sneakers.

Bill likes exercise about as much as I, which is to say not at all. The difference between he and I, however, is that – see above – I enjoy reading or watching PBS mysteries. He, on the other hand, doesn’t sit down from the time he finishes breakfast until dinnertime. He’s always working around the house or in the yard or on some sort of project. Still, he is never eager to go out and pursue an aerobic activity. Unfortunately, aerobic exercise is what his movement disorder doctor recommends.

I bought him a pair of walking poles, and if I am really, really persuasive, I can get him to walk with me, using his poles. He also has taken to riding his bike a bit. Oddly, bicycle riding has proven to be effective exercise for people with Parkinson’s.

I read recently that while exercise is critical to maintaining health, once you reach my age, exercise is not very effective at assisting in weight loss. Apparently you can’t out-exercise the food you put in your mouth.

All I can say, is exercise better be good for something, because I don’t do it for the fun of it. Seriously, do you?