After suffering for three months with a torn muscle in my hip, I have finally resorted to using a painkiller and an anti-inflammatory. Even in minimal doses, my body responds positively. A couple of hours after taking a pill, I can walk without a limp and pain. It gets so good that I begin to believe that I might be curing the problem. Then the effect of the pill begins to wear off, and I am reminded about an upcoming appointment with the orthopedic surgeon.
The MRI I took last week showed a tear in one of the components surrounding the hip joint. I have to believe it will take some surgery to correct the problem. I have strained my memory to recall what caused this injury, and am beginning to conclude it happened during a specific exercise while doing physical therapy to build up my leg strength. Now, I conclude that all the benefit of eight weeks of PT has been erased by my desire to do things like tie my shoes, pick things up from the floor, and to walk distances again.
Looking back seventy-two years points me to the polio that I had as a teenager. The muscle that is currently giving me problems happens to be one that was affected by the polio virus. My right hip was severely paralyzed and required primary therapy and exercise to build up. I used crutches for a year before my leg was strong enough to let me walk without a gimp. Well, the gimp is back and the pain at times will shoot up though my hip into my shoulder and down to my knee. I have self diagnosed myself with Post Polio Syndrome. It happens to people who had polio as a teen and after forty years of using affected nerves and muscles. I look upon this as a positive thing because I didn’t recognize the problem until this year which is thirty-two years after many polio-people first experience the phenomenon.
I see this as a problem I successfully dealt with once before, and I can do it again, but it will take much more effort.
Every once in awhile a moment occurs that is special. One of my motivational teachers put me onto keeping a list called “Warm and Fuzzy Moments.” Moments come along that make us feel good. The moments are special. Sometimes it is an unexpected card from a friend, or a “thank you” for something you did for someone. By recording the moment one can occasionally review it and feel good all over again. This technique is especially helpful when I am stressed out and not feeling good about myself. I can remember all the times when I received something unexpectedly for a positive action I took unconsciously.
Recently, one such moment occurred while I was walking on the path near my house. I was totally zoned saying the rosary and listening to the songs of the birds. I felt a presence near me, but kept walking. Sometimes it is another walker or a runner who silently approaches from the rear. Many times I never hear or see the person until they are next to me. This morning it was a deer. Not a fawn, nor an adult mature deer, but a teenager. It sported the beautiful honey brown color of a springtime deer without the baby spots of a fawn, or the antlers of a buck. He/she stood just above my waist in height.
I was totally surprised and amazed that this beautiful animal should come so close to me and walk along my side for a few steps. She finally picked up the pace and trotted out ahead of me and off into the brush along the side of the trail. The encounter lasted only a few seconds, but it is etched into my mind as a “warm and fuzzy” moment. It is written on my list.
My deceased wife Barbara loved deer. Could this magnificent animal been sent by her to tell me that she is well? Did God chose to let this creature wander into my path to make my day? What ever the reason it happened, a freak of nature, a coincidence, a sign, it made my day.
I recommend to all goal achieving people on this earth to keep a log of their “warm and fuzzy” moments. The moments relived will pick you up, and help you through the times you are low and not feeling good about yourself.
It has taken me a few hours to process the assassination of Charlie Kirk. He was one of my favorite people. I first met him at a Tea Party meeting in 2008. He was just fresh out of high school. Our Tea Party leader asked him to speak to us about his experiences with liberal teachers at his high school. I was flabbergasted to hear how assinine many of his teachers were. Charlie was an excellent speaker, and well rehearsed although I suspected that he was speaking extemporaneously. He was that good. I followed his career and sent him money on occasion to help him establish Turning Point USA.
It saddened me to hear of his execution. No one in the world can replace him. I thought the same of Rush Limbaugh when he died, but Dan Bongino filled his space in the world. When Bongino quit his radio show to take a spot in the FBI, I asked myself the same question: Who will fill his place? Within two weeks, he had found Vince Coglinaise. After listening to Vince I was satisfied that he was just as capable as Bongino or Limbaugh. Nevertheless, I would much rather listen to the commentary of Rush Limbaugh.
During the time I spend in my workshop, I listen to Podcasts, and Charlie Kirk was always my favorite. He had a knack for finding people who were like-minded as he and who could keep a dialogue going for the half hour time they spent together. Charlie was one hundred percent conservative. He had an innate ability to debate with liberals and loved the challenge of doing so. Because I am hooked on watching YouTube videos I particularly enjoyed watching Charlie destroy competitors from well known colleges like Harvard, or Oxford. He mastered the art of debate and relished taking on anyone who thought they could out argue him. I miss him.
Wow! Too many projects with too little time to finish them. Does that sound familiar? Let me tell you something folks, it doesn’t change with age. As long as a person has his health, and mental faculties, he will continue to want to be a useful citizen of this earth.
Several years ago, during the election cycle pitting John McCain against Obama, a friend asked asked a question. As a conservative He was concerned because as a conservative, and the candidate aligned with his political philosophy was an older man named John McCain. He looked at me and asked, “how old are you Joe?
“Seventy,” I replied.
“Do you feel that you have the energy and mental capacity to be president?
“Yes,” was my answer.
The real question in my mind is whether nature will be good to me, and let me keep my health and energy as I age. I fully intend to stay healthy, and today, I am reasonably healthy, but will I stay that way for much longer? I don’t know, neither do you. Only the Lord knows what is ahead of us. All we can do is, “Remember yesterday, Dream tomorrow, Live today.”
So what if our current conservative candidate is old? He will select a younger Vice Presidential partner, who will rise to the occasion if it is necessary. It is also a fact that young men die too. Many of them live a higher risk life style than older men, so their chances of meeting with injury or accidental demise is probably greater. Remember Christopher Reeves, “Super Man,” broke his neck while enjoying his passion, i.e. riding a horse. More recently, Heath Ledger died of too many medicines at one time. To quote Forest Gump, ” Shit Happens.”
Life is filled with stories about people who die when they shouldn’t.
Instead of worrying about a candidate’s age, and his prospects for surviving life, we should concentrate on which political philosophy we want our kids, and grandkids to grow up with. We should be discussing our life values and the reasons that we believe in them.
My parents were staunch Democrats. They made one “X” under “D” on their ballot. They believed in President Franklin Delano Roosevelt as the saviour of the working class. Mom and Dad, lived through the depression, they blamed President Hoover for everything that went wrong with the economy. Yet, when I think about how they taught me to live, they were as conservative as the day is long. They never spoke of conservatism, but they lived it. They wouldn’t have understood what “Green” meant, but they lived more “Green” than any modern citizen does today. Their bottom line philosophies:
“If you don’t have the money, don’t buy it.”
“When you have land, you will always be able to feed yourself.”
Mom wasn’t talking about acres or hundreds of acres, she was talking about a back yard. She made our tiny yard into a farm. She raised vegetables, chickens, flowers, and some grass too.
“Never waste.” Mom knew how to mend socks, shirts, and pants. She knew the value of re-cycling hand-me-downs, and somehow we managed to survive without knowing we were poor.
“Welfare is for people who are worse off than we are.” My Dad would have hung himself before he accepted money from the government. He came to this country with the clothes on his back, got a job, learned English, took abuse from his co-workers, and managed to feed and educate three kids.
If you believe in big government, and the philosophy that Big Brother should take care of you, that’s okay. You should vote for the Liberal.
I happen to believe that the government is way too big, and the National Debt is out of control. If you want to tax me to pay off the debt, okay. If you want to tax me to pay for more social programs, go fly a kite.
I’m voting conservative even if the candidate is 101 years old. He’d be the much wiser choice.
I just turned eighty-seven, and I voted for an old man, who in my eyes is a teenager compared to me. I still feel mentally capable of doing the job, but I am a little slower than I used to be.
My grandfather knew how to live. Granted, he was a hermit, but he knew how to manage on a very small pension. My recollection of him dates back to when I was ten, he was seventy-two. He was living on a small farm in southwest Michigan. His house was small and without plumbing. It did have electricity and hand pumped water in the kitchen. Gramp’s pension came from working in a coal mine when he was younger. The pension wasn’t very much, perhaps thirty dollars a month. Somehow he managed to live on that amount. He smoked Camels, and drank an occassional bottle of beer. I never knew him to work. My earliest recollection of him does not include work at a job. He was sixty-two when I was born, so he was near retirement then. When he did retire, there was no social security, only his meager pension from the mine.
Gramps lived on a farm, but I never saw him plant anything. My mother always planted the garden. She also raised the chickens, pigs, cow, and a horse. Gramps just supervised.
Grampa Jim got the Hungarian language newspaper in the mail every week. His job was to read every issue of the paper from cover to cover. Most of the news in his paper was old, but it didn’t matter, it was all new to him, and he read the paper faithfully. He was a great socializer. Once or twice a week his friend John picked him up in a model T, around three o’clock in the afternoon. Together they drove the quarter mile to the corner store. This store was special. They sold gasoline, kerosene, groceries, and had a beer hall too. Come to think of it, it wasn’t much different from today’s gas stations. Only the beer hall and kerosene is different. Gramp’s buddy parked at the pump and self served himself a gallon or two of 15 cent gas. Then went to pay and to have beer. The two of them sat in the beer hall talking over events. Nine times out of ten, Gramp’s beer outlasted his buddy’s. Gramps had more than a half bottle of beer remaining when his buddy went dry. John had a wife so he beat it back home before she missed him. That left Gramps alone with his beer. He wasn’t alone for long, because more customers came to the store, they checked to see if anyone was sitting in the beer hall. Soon, gramps had another party to chat with. He had company non-stop throughout the time he sat in the beer hall. Every one knew him, and loved to talk to him. Meanwhile his beer got flatter and flatter and flatter. Eventually, the bottle was empty.
On many days, gramps didn’t get home until after nine o’clock. By that time we were all in bed, and the house was dark except for the kitchen. Mom was still up doing chores while she waited for him.
When summer ended we returned to the city to start school. Gramps was free again living his simple life. He did have to cook for himself after Mom left. I don’t think he ever washed a dish, only rinsed them off. While we were visiting Mom insisted he change clothes and she washed for him. His wardrobe consisted of what he was wearing and he wore until even he couldn’t stand it anymore.
Gramps loved the solitary life, but was always happy to see us come for a visit. He was equally glad to see us go home. When he got older, Mom convinced him to come into the city for the winter. He did, but by March he disappeared back to the farm where everyone in the township knew him, yet he could be alone when he wanted to, and he wore the same clothes for as long as he wanted, and eat greasy foods off of dirty dishes. He enjoyed the sights, sounds, and scents of his farm and nature.
