Still Here

 I am not sure why everyone suddenly cares about my health since retiring six months ago.  Seemed like the concerned were coming out of the woodwork.  A daily litany of questions about how I was feeling . . . did anything hurt . . . was I okay?  The only missing question was whether or not I had had a bowel movement.  Daily, if you must know.  The constant querying about my health, though well-intended, was wearing me out.  A daily grind.  The wife, my children, friends, and those wonderful people at Medicare.  They all wanted to know . . . how is my health? 

I can handle my wife’s constant questioning.  It is a part of her commitment as my spouse.  It was in the vows made to one another . . . “in sickness and health.”  She needs to know which category I’m in and adjust accordingly.  The children . . . well, I’m certain it is written somewhere in the Children’s Handbook under the chapter “Aging Parents”.  Children are supposed to care if they want to stay in the will.  Friends . . . they are just nosy.  But Medicare . . . for them it is all business with any eye on the bottom line of profit or loss.  They only want to nip any health problem in the bud before it becomes a money pit.  Their concern for my health warms my heart.

 

I activated my Medicare at the start of the year as the door at the university ceremoniously hit my butt on the way out at retirement.  Shortly after Medicare started calling about my free annual wellness check-up.  Their persistence was admirable as they called several times a week for nearly six months.  That tenacity finally paid off and I returned their call.  The guy on the other end was insistent that I schedule my check-up right then and now.  He reminded me that it was free.  So is a toothache.  He even called my healthcare provider to personally set up my appointment.  He even made sure that they would remind me of my destiny with wellness.

 

That is how I came to be sitting in my doctor’s office this past week for my free annual wellness check-up.  I like and appreciate my doctor.  She is a good doctor and person with great bedside manners.  She gets to the point.  She is honest.  Her concern for my health, I do not mind . . . she ranks right up there with the wife.

 

Prior to the appointment my mind did what it does best . . . it wandered.  Boy, did it wander.  With the present president in the office in the realm of being ancient and his numerous “wellness” check-ups in his first year . . . the “intelligence” evaluations he received . . . and his definite, daily incompetency displayed for the whole world to witness . . . I will admit I had some anxiety.  After all, I’m getting to worthy of the title “old fart” and the concern about my health that comes with it from others.  I worried that I would not pass the test and would be seen in the light of our bumbling and incompetent president.  No sane person wants to be seen as a chip off the ol’ presidential block.  Certainly, I did not.

 

With the wellness check-up there is a “cognitive assessment”.  It does not come close to the one the president received and that he “aced” with is self-proclaimed “superior intelligence”.  The Medicare version is simpler.  It is not the Montreal Cognitive Assessment (MoCA).  To assess my cognitive ability, I was told three words that I was to remember and recite later.  The words were “banana, sunshine, and chair”.  Then I was given a piece of paper and told to draw a clock putting the hands on 10:30. Morning or afternoon, I asked. I thought that was a cognitively astute question . . . the nurse rolled her eyes, telling me to “just draw it.”  After a few random questions I was asked to recite the three words from the start of the test.  That was it.

 

The nurse who administered the test passed me despite some questionable answers on my part.  She proclaimed my clock art was perfect even though the doctor said I had the wrong time.  The nurse had said 10:30, the doctor said, “11:10.”  I heard 10:30 and that is what I drew.  She scored it “perfect”.  The doctor said, “close enough.”  On reciting the memorized words, I said, “banana, sunrise, and chair.”  The nurse corrected me while telling me it was “sunshine” and not “sunrise”.  She said it was “close enough.”

 

“Close enough.”  Cognitively I am “close enough”.  I imagine that I fall on the skinnier side of the bell curve, somewhere on the functional side.  Probably not in the category of “superior intelligence”, but solidly in the functional realm.  Though passing grade, I was disappointed that I did not get to name any animals . . . I spent a whole week studying animal shapes by eating a box of animal crackers.

 

The cognitive assessment was only a part of my wellness check-up.  There was a two-page questionnaire about my health that I had to complete.  It asked me things about my sleep (yes, I do—6-8 hours a night), eating habits (three daily squares), sex (male), exercise (I suppose), feelings (yup), and general overall sense of being (I am still here).  There was a review of my medical history (Yep, still breathing with the ol’ heart pumping).  Checked on “functional ability and safety” which amounted to how well I performed my daily tasks and whether I had recently fallen.  I passed as I can still perform those daily tasks along with those assigned to me on the wife’s “honey do” list.  Hadn’t fallen except once while playing basketball with the grandchildren—tripped over my own feet.  Otherwise, I was functional and safe.  Then there was the “other” category of my wellness—height, weight, and blood pressure.  I had some height, though they did not say how much.  I figure 5”10” . . . at least that is what I was the last time someone checked, but with old age you do lose height . . . which seems to deposit itself around the waist.  The weight was there but they did not say what it was.  Apparently, it was of no concern despite the obvious “Dunlop” in my southern extremities.  I passed.

 

The final step was the “preventive plan”.  Doc was straight forward with her assessment.  Keep doing what you are doing was the plan.  You are still alive. You are still functioning physically, cognitively . . . or at least close enough.  Get a shingles shot.  No red flags.  Return in a year. I imagine that somewhere in the great Medicare-land a bell rang as another client got their “clean bill of wellness”.  They can cross me off their list.  I am good for another year.  Money pit avoided.  I passed.  I won’t be hearing from them for at least another six months before they start reminding me about my “free annual wellness check-up”. 

 

I am still here.  That’s what I told my doctor when she greeted me at the start of my wellness check-up . . . I’m still here.  After 68 years, I am still here . . . physically, mentally, and spiritually.  I may not run like a brand-new model, but I run.  I get what needs to be done and get it done.  I keep plugging away and will until the motor quits running.  That is all I can do and I am well aware of that.  In the meantime, I want everyone to relax and quit asking me about my health.  I am “close enough”.  Functional.  I’m retired . . . not on my deathbed.

 

I am still here.    

Oops! Jumped the Fireworks!

The fireworks came and it wasn’t even the Fourth of July.  The town exploded shortly after it was announced that there would be no fireworks allowed in the community for the celebration of our nation’s 250^th birthday.  That original news was received with great joy by many.  Those veterans with PTSD rejoiced.  There would be no explosions to trigger traumatic memories of combat experience.  Those with small children and babies who are sensitive to loud noises ruining their bedtimes . . . same with the old folks wanting to go to bed early—they rejoiced.  Those with pets, especially dogs, who hear loud noises six to eight times louder than humans and are scared into panic.  They rejoiced, knowing there would be peace and calm.  For a moment there was great joy . . . but only for a moment.

Then the fireworks began.

 

Social media blew up attacking and ridiculing the town, the council, and mayor.  Like a scorned lover they beat a path to town hall like the villagers storming Frankenstein’s castle.  The only things missing were the pitchforks and flaming torches.  Wisely they left those in their pickups.  For seven days the campaign was waged.  The battle was referred to as “lively discussion”.  Of course, that description depended on which side of the discussion you were on.  Needless to say, it escalated to the point that it blurred the lines of civility and mayhem.

 

Mayhem won.

 

Seven days after the town announced its fireworks ban the mayor rescinded the ban.  Fireworks were back in business.  The mob patted itself on the back.  The noisiest wheel had gotten greased.  A different joy filled the air pushing the brief exhilaration of the previous declaration to the side of the road.  The veterans mourned.  The parents and elderly sighed.  Pet owners were sad.  Fourth of July without fireworks was lost. The noise and chaos had won.

 

I count myself among those who grieve over losing a noiseless celebration of the Fourth of July.  I’ll be drugging one of my pups to relieve her fear and anxiety.  We will sit in the basement with the television loudly blaring in hope that between the mindbenders and competing noise she will feel safe and calm.  It is sad that we will become prisoners in our own home to satisfy the need of a few wanting to blow up something.  But, hey!  That is the American way.

 

In the original declaration of banning fireworks, the town council cited fire concerns.  That is a legitimate concern.  Montana has been in a drought for over a year.  We have entered the “fire season”.  With the lack of snow in the winter and sparse rain in the spring things are drier than usual.  The risk of fire is real.  Check out the fires in Colorado, Utah, and California.  As I write this there is a 6,000-acre fire just down the road south of us in between the communities of Bridger and Fromberg.  The council’s decision was reasonable.  The risk was too great.  The council thought better of it.  A resolution was made.  Debate ensued among the council.  The question was raised and the vote was taken.  The resolution passed.

 

For a few of the seven days there had been the possibility of rain.  Calling what was actually received would be generous.  In totality there was only .12 inches of moisture.  A little over a tenth of an inch.    It was what some folks would call a “nine-inch rain” . . . nine inches between every drop.  It wasn’t exactly the deluge of Noah’s epic flood, but it represented a flood in the minds of the local pyromaniacs.  God was telling them, “to go forth and blow things up to your hearts’ content.”  Truly, a tenth of moisture was good enough for shooting off fireworks they argued . . . and argued . . . and argued.

 

Worn by the tenacity of the assault, the mayor—not the town council—removed the ban.

 

Though fire risk and lack of moisture were the reasons behind the ban, the real focus was more theoretical and political.  Those in favor of fireworks felt their freedom and constitutional rights were being attacked and taken away.  It was their “right” to light fireworks and blow up the town.  I checked my copy of the Constitution—both state and federal, and I could not find where it talked about the freedom to shoot off fireworks.  It was claimed that this was the first step toward tyranny—a fireworks ban! I wonder where in the hell they have been since the incumbent president has run amuck over our country, its constitution, and citizen’s freedom for the past 18 months.  I guess that is another day and debate.  None the less, they turned the argument political.

 

Those who were for fireworks were America’s defenders.  True patriots.  Those against the fireworks were libtards, communists, socialists, and anti-America.  Unpatriotic.  They pointed fingers and declared a conspiracy to overthrow the president and government.  Besides it is the Semiquincentennial of the United States of America—the 250^th birthday!  That is enough cause to blow up the town.  It was a patriotic duty and damn all those communistic and socialistic libtards!  If they don’t like it, they can leave America . . . or at least town for the Fourth.  The mayor passively aggressively noted that “right” in declaring the ban removed in a letter to the community.

 

Rain and politics are debatable.  Yet the crux of the problem was actually simple . . . the rules.  In their benevolent desire to appease what many would rather have—a Fourth of July void of fireworks, they got the cart before the horse.  The decision did not follow protocol.  Those in the community who live and die by the letter of the law when it is in their favor discovered that.    As caring as the original resolution was, it was for naught.  There were those who gleefully pointed it out to the mayor and town council.

 

And they were right.  Procedure was not followed.  Notice of the resolution was not made public (it was a spur of the moment thing).  Public hearings on the resolution were not had.  It was not on the agenda for the public to witness.  Technically the resolution and vote were not legal.  Technically it was null and voided out the gate.  The restoration of fireworks was decreed and quickly made.  The town, the council, and mayor did not need the mess this whole fiasco created.

 

Though I was madder than a wet hen upon learning the fireworks were restored, I did calm down by the end of the day.  I’m disappointed in the mayor’s decision, but I also understand the ramifications if the decision had not been made.  I’m sadden because I believe that more townspeople lean towards a firework ban for the Fourth of July celebration than the willful noise assault of exploding fireworks.  I feel for my dogs who must be drugged for their sanity and safety.  I pray for the veterans with PTSD that they are safe and not thrown back into the horrific trauma of the conflicts they experienced.  I wish the parents of children and babies the best of luck in getting their kids to sleep.  And those elderly . . . I guess they are on their own.  We lost.

 

To the victors go the spoils.  Freedom and individual rights have been served.  The communistic socialist assault on our nation and its liberty has been repelled.  The libtards have been put in their place. Freedom rings.  Fireworks have been redeemed to their sacred place.  Life is back to normal.  God will watch over us all . . . God will keep us safe.  After all, we are God’s chosen people . . . chosen nation.  We are the United States of America.  God’s favorites.  The president said so.  Damn the rest.  They are on their own.  Let the fireworks begin . . .

 

. . . I hope it rains.

 

Fruit or Vegetable?

I have always considered myself to be somewhat intelligent.  Then I encountered grandchildren who bask in the joy of outsmarting their grandfather.  Leading the parade is the only grandson who just completed an illustrious year of fourth grade education.  It seems that he knows the difference between fruits and vegetables.  One evening at the dinner table he put his ol’ Papa to shame when it came to pickles.  The question was whether a pickle was a fruit or a vegetable.  With no hesitation and the confidence of a person holding all the cards, I declared that a pickle was a vegetable. 

Wrong!

 

I don’t know what was worse . . . his victory dance around the table high fiving the family while wildly gyrating or me having to admit that I was wrong.  There is nothing worse than being shown up by a fourth grader . . . after all, I am the one with a bachelor’s degree and two master’s degrees.  I have 68 years of life experience.  I’m smart, even intelligent.  Yet, there I sat with pickle juice all over my face.

 

I survived.  I will admit that it took some time to heal from the trauma of being shown up by a ten-year-old.  The grandson’s victory was months ago and I’m still licking my wounded ego.  I will admit that I have put him back in the will and restored his picture with the rest of the grandchildren.  I’m mature enough to accept the intellectual gaps in my knowledge . . . after all, I’m 68—an age that spawns awe from grandchildren.  They are amazed that I am still alive.

 

Fruit or vegetable?  That is the question.  A pickle is made from a cucumber.  I have always assumed that a cucumber was a vegetable.  They are in salads.  They are on vegetable trays.  My parents referred to them as a vegetable.  My whole married life my wife has kept them in the “vegetable” drawer of the refrigerator.  That alone should be proof enough that a pickle—made from a cucumber—is a vegetable.  Wives are never wrong.

Tell that to a fourth grader.

 

A pickle is a fruit.  I must have been sleeping in class or absent the day that information was shared.  I do not remember hearing it in any of the science classes I took.  If I had heard it, it must have flown over my head and out the window.  According to the experts in the field of botany “a fruit is the mature, ripened ovary of a flowering plant that encloses and protects one of more seeds.”  In other words, if it has seeds it’s a fruit.  Botanists should know since they have dedicated their lives to the study of plants.  They are the experts.  Cucumbers have seeds.  Since pickles are made from cucumbers it has seeds.  SEEDS!  That makes it fruit no matter what anyone else says and that includes ill-informed mothers and wives.

 

A pickle is a fruit.  So are zucchini and squash. Pumpkins too.  If its got a seed it is a fruit joining the illustrious company of watermelons, oranges, and apples.  All those years I thought I was eating vegetables; I was really eating fruit.  Those pickles and tomatoes on my hamburger—fruit.  Who puts fruit on a hamburger?  Is this some tree-hugging California thing?  Not only did my fourth-grade grandson humiliate me, but he also revealed a betrayal I was never aware of.  I feel lied to all these years.  I look back on all those years of stubbornly arguing and refusing to eat zucchini and squash with my parents because they were vegetables.  All they had to say was that they were fruit. Kids love fruit.  End of argument.  But they did not know.  Had they known life would have been easier and simpler.  Kids could have spent more time playing with their friends instead of sitting at the table until they are their “vegetables”.

 

I conclude that in my humiliation I learned something I apparently did not know.  I’m old and mature enough to take my loss and move on.  I can even graciously accept that a fourth grader—my own grandson—got the best of me.  I now know that fruit has seeds and vegetables do not.  Now I know.  It won’t happen again . . . well, maybe.

 

 Shortly after suffering the humiliation of wrongly answering a grandchild’s question, I did what any self-respecting adult or elder would do—I looked it up on the Internet.  Everyone knows that the Internet is never wrong.  There it was in black-and-white . . . fruit has seeds.  But I also discovered an anomaly when it comes to the “fruit-vegetable” debate.  I discovered corn.  Is it fruit or a vegetable?  Also, dried and unground it is popcorn.  It is a miracle food.  It is the three-in-one bargain that kills two birds with one stone. With corn you can eat your fruit and vegetables all in one bite.

 

Tadum!  The key to restoring my intellectual superiority over a fourth grader . . . over my grandson.  I will bet that he doesn’t know that corn is the trifecta of plants.  I am practicing my victory dance in anticipation of my stifling win of regaining my dominance.  Everyone knows that grandparents, especially grandfathers, know everything.  And, if we don’t, we make it up.  Bet you didn’t know that.  Now you do.  See how smart I am.