Random Thoughts on Aging

I know you've all heard that old saying, "You're not getting older,
you're getting better". Well actually, we ARE getting older, although
I usually try to stay in denial about that. I'm not one of those
people who intends to just "grow old gracefully". In fact, I fully
intend to continue wearing mini-skirts as long as my legs still look
decent, and I'll probably still be rockin' out to ZZ Topp when I'm
ninety years old.

I'm totally convinced that the way you feel,and yes, even the way you
look is greatly affected by your attitude about aging and your
outlook on life in general.

I've found that not everything about aging is negative.There are
plenty of advantages as well. I think a lot of us are just now
figuring out who we are and what we want to do with the rest of our
lives. Wisdom comes with age, and hopefully a newfound sense of peace
and happiness.

Here are a just a few of the things I've learned as I've gotten older:

1. Life is way too short to spend even one minute on regrets. You
can't change the past, but you can go forward with a new resolve to
make your life the best that it can possibly be.

2. As we get older, women become more like men and men become more
like women. Hold on now, I mean that in a very positive way! (Except
for the excess facial hair we ladies have to deal with.) lol Anyway,
this is what I mean:

I think most women become less "hyper-emotional", more confidant,
more independent, and yes, even sexier as they get older. There's a
lot more to being sexy than having the "hardbody" of a twenty year
old. (At least that's what I keep telling myself!)

Men on the other hand, become more sensitive, caring, and just
generally nicer. They may even stop and ask for directions
occasionally.I've also noticed that a lot of guys even start acting
like full fledged adults by the time they reach forty or fifty. Oh,
and did I forget to mention that mature men are much sexier than 20
year olds? (See "hardbody" comment above.)

3. Anyone who claims they have "Empty Nest Syndrome" is just looking
for an excuse to have a pity party. It's very satisfying to know that
you have done your job and your children are now able to make it on
their own. Women especially should see this as an opportunity
to "spread their wings" and do something for themselves for a change.
Explore a new hobby, make new friends, or pursue a dream that you
gave up on many years ago. And did I mention the fact that "Mom and
Dad" now have more privacy and freedom than they have had since
before the babies came? Empty Nest Syndrome? Give me a break!

4. Money really CAN'T buy happiness.I've never considered myself to
be a very materialistic person, but "things" become less and less
important to me the older I get. In fact, I would have to say that
some of my happiest memories are when Ed and I were as poor as dirt.
We sacrificed a lot financially so I could stay at home with our kids
for twelve years, and I don't regret it to this day. If I hadn't done
that, we would probably be living in a bigger house, driving fancier
cars, and we would have a lot more money to spend than we do today.
But no amount of money will ever replace the the tender moments I
spent with my babies and the great fun we had together as I watched
them grow and thrive.

5. As we get older, we are bound to lose people who are very close to
us through death. Sometimes death is a welcome event. Remember that
song where John Mellencamp sings "sometimes life goes on long
after the thrill of living is gone"? I'm experiencing that now with
my dad. When we lose someone we love very much, it may seem like the
end of the world at the time, but life does go on and eventually
happiness does return. I'll admit however, that I still can't think
of my mom without getting tears in my eyes, and I suspect that may go
on for years.

6. On the lighter side, I've decided that having a midlife crisis
isn't nearly as bad as everyone makes it out to be. It may even
involve a new job that makes you happier, a sports car (or even a
Harley!), a new wardrobe, and perhaps even cosmetic surgery that
makes you appear years younger than your actual age!

7. Another thing I've learned (or maybe always knew), is that it
always pays to treat others the way you would like to be treated. If
you do that when you're young, you'll find that you have more friends
than you know what to do with when you get old. When you do something
out of love to help a person in need, the feeling they get from being
helped will never be as great as the feeling you get from helping
them.

8. I think that I have finally decided what I want to do when I grow
up. I want to be a female Lewis Grizzard. Don't laugh. I'm serious!
You guys are my "test audience". This blog has been a wonderful
outlet for my deep desire to write. I'd love to write a book about my
life experiences. Even if it never gets published, and even if no one
else ever reads it, at least I would have the satisfaction of writing
it.

9. And last but not least, I have discovered that when we hit the big
5-0 we get to join AARP! Personally, I'm looking forward to all of
those hotel/motel discounts and "senior trips". Heck, that
gives "Senior trip" a whole new meaning, doesn't it?

Well, I din't mean to make this posting as long as War and Peace. I hope all of you guys were wearing your
bifocals. :-)

The Circle of Life

On a beautiful spring day in 2002, I found myself preparing to sell my

Parents’ old home place, since my mom had passed away and my 94 year-

old dad was in very poor health and confined to a nursing home. It was hard

to believe that it had only been a couple of years since my mom passed

away.


Mama had been ill with heart problems for some time, and had developed

congestive heart failure in the months prior to her death. After treatment at a

local hospital and a few months of rehabilitation, she suddenly seemed to be

regaining her strength and becoming more like her old self. So it was a

terrible shock when I received a phone call in the middle of the night

informing me that she had been hospitalized and might not live through the

night. Her death was the most traumatic and life changing event that I had

experienced during my 47 years.

After my mom passed away, my brothers and I continued to employ a live-in

sitter who had been taking care of Mom and Dad since my mother’s health

had declined. My dad had severe dementia, but we wanted to try to keep him

at home as long as possible.

My brother Neil and I had been against selling the house, especially since

my dad was still alive, but it had been sitting vacant for quite a while and

then one day some teenagers broke in and had a beer party, with candles

burning in the house. At that point we decided we had to do something.

My two brothers and I had been working extremely hard trying to get

everything cleaned out of the house and several outbuildings, and trying to

figure out how to disperse of all of the items. We actually had to clean out

TWO houses, because we were also selling what had formerly been my aunt

and uncle’s house, right next door to my parents. My brothers and I had

bought the house many years ago, after my aunt and uncle died. We had

decided to buy it and rent it out, because the property had been part of my

grandfather’s farm. Also my dad used a good part of my aunt and uncle’s

land to plant his garden every year, and we wanted him to be able to

continue that.

We finally got everything moved out of both houses and then we bought a

big “For Sale” sign and put it up next to the road. It sold more quickly than

we had ever anticipated, in just a few weeks.

For the last couple of years it had been very depressing to go to my parent’s

house, even when my dad was still living at home, but all of a sudden it

became a reality to me that I would never be able to go home again. Now

someone else would be calling this place home.

All I could think about was when I was a child, growing up in that house and

playing in the woods with my friends. I thought of my grandparents, my

aunts, uncles, and cousins who also lived on part of the land that had once

been my grandparent’s farm. Almost all of those people have passed away

now. The woods where I used to play had well-worn paths made by my

brothers and me, and the children who walked to and from the local

elementary school through those same woods. When I was a little girl Daddy

built a wooden bridge across the creek that ran through the woods so that we

could walk to school through the woods.

Now the paths have disappeared from lack of use, and the woods are

covered with poison ivy and poison oak. Just one more reason for the angst I

had been feeling as I cleaned out my parent’s house.

After we put up the “For Sale “ sign, there was only one thing I could think

of. I had to get over there as quickly as possible and dig up some of Mama’s

flowers so that they wouldn’t be lost to me forever. Mama loved her flowers,

as did I. She had a few flowers and bushes that came from her parent’s

house. I guess when her own parents died she had the same idea that I had. It

seemed like a way to keep my mom alive in my memory. So I planned to

make a day of it, and I got a shovel and made the trip to their house.



I dug up as many flowers as I could: jonquils, roses, hostas, spiderwort,

irises, daylilies, black-eyed Susans, and many others. She had so many

flowers, and they were so crowded together, that I figured no one would

even notice the ones I took. I was even careful to only take part of the hosta,

and not the entire plant, so the new owners could enjoy them, too. I got three

new plants from the small section that I took.. Since it was still early spring,

some of the flowers had yet to break the surface of the earth, but I knew

where to dig from memory.

I then proceeded to my aunt and uncle’s old house with the intention of

digging up one or two rose bushes. My aunt had the most beautiful rose

garden. But when I arrived I found the garden in a terrible condition,

apparently ravaged by recent droughts. Most of the roses were either dead or

in very bad condition. It takes a lot of neglect to kill a rose, I thought to

myself.

As I dug up the flowers that day, a million thoughts raced through my mind,

most of them incredibly sad. Never again would I walk through those

woods. Never again would I be able to stop by my grandparents’ house, or

the house of one my aunts, just to have some company, some interesting

conversation, and maybe some good food or a cup of tea. No more happy

family get-togethers on holidays or birthdays at my parent’s house. No more

parents. No more childhood home. So is this what life was all about? Losing

the people you love and trying somehow to go on without them? I can’t

remember when I have ever cried as many tears as I did that day. The entire

front of my shirt was soaking wet from wiping my eyes and nose. I would

have given anything for box of tissues that day. I prayed that my friend,

(who had been house sitting my parents’ house until the new owners were

ready to occupy it) wouldn’t come home and find me in such a state of

dishevelment; with make-up running all over my face, a snotty nose, and

covered in dirt.

When I realized that my aunt’s rose garden was a lost cause, I looked around

to see if there was anything else I could possibly dig up. It was getting late

and I knew I still had to hurry home and get everything planted in my own

yard before dark. Suddenly I looked up and saw a big Mimosa tree. I

remember when I was a little girl; thinking that one day when I grew up and

got married I wanted to have a Mimosa tree in my yard. Too bad there was

no way to move something that big. Then I looked around at the yard, which

hadn’t been mowed in a long time, and I noticed that there were Mimosa

seedlings everywhere! So I took 3 of them and then I wrapped everything in

damp newspapers and prepared to drive home.



I worked to the point of exhaustion trying to get everything planted before

dark, planting things in a very hap hazardous way, just to get them into the

dirt. When I got tired of digging, I threw them into pots filled with potting

soil. I figured if any of the plants didn’t make it, at least I had done my best.

I didn’t think I had the strength to dig up the two roses that my mom had

loved, an ancient miniature, cluster-type rose that had belonged to my dad’s

sister and had been in the family for many decades, and Mama’s favorite

rose, the Tropicana rose that I had given to her on Mother’s Day many

years ago, when my own children were still young. So I called my friend and

he said he would dig them up for me and bring them to my house.

Somehow as I worked furiously to get those flowers into the ground, a

healing process began within my soul. Even the smell of the wet earth

seemed to have a healing effect on me. I encountered many earthworms as I

dug, and the thought came to me that the earthworm and I were working as

partners: I would plant the flowers, and the earthworm would aerate and

enrich the soil for me. Funny the thoughts that run through your mind when

you get out into nature in the kind of emotional state that I was in that day.

By the time darkness fell, I was in a much better state of mind. I knew that I

had done all that I was physically capable of doing to try to preserve the

memories of my mom and her love for flowers, and somehow I was trying to

hold on to the sweet memories of my childhood, too. I knew that my dad

would be very happy to know that some of Mama’s flowers were being

preserved in my yard, hopefully for future generations to enjoy.

Although I did feel better that evening, it wasn’t until the next spring that I

truly felt peace and joy in my soul as I watched the flowers come up again

that next year. Unfortunately my little Mimosa seedlings didn’t make it. I

forgot to warn my son Eli about them and he accidentally ran them over with

the riding lawn mower. But I couldn’t worry myself about that. After all, I

had done the best I could. It was around Easter time when I saw the flowers

returning once again, and I was reminded of Christ’s resurrection from the

dead, which gives us blessed assurance of eternal life and the opportunity to

be reunited with those loved ones who have gone on before us.


We all suffer loss from time to time, but such is the nature of this life, and

Springtime always comes around again. Or as my mother and her mother

before her used to say, “Time changes everything”.

Another Typical Shopping Trip

I guess you could say I’m every man’s dream for one reason and one reason only…….because I HATE TO SHOP! The one thing I REALLY hate shopping for is clothing, mainly because nothing ever fits. It isn’t unusual for me to spend three hours trying to find just one or two articles of clothing that actually fit and look halfway decent on me. The other problem is that most of the clothes they’re making these days are just plain ugly, at least in my not so humble opinion.

I buy most of my clothes in the Petite Women’s department. What the fashion buyers need to understand is that “petite” simply means that you are 5’3” and under. It does NOT mean that you are necessarily skinny and it does NOT mean that you are a teenager. In fact, short, 80-year-old women buy their clothing in the Petite department.

So my question is this: Why can’t you buy a pair of jeans, a pair of shorts, or even a skirt these days that isn’t a “hip hugger”? Now I will admit that a few (and only a few) young women and teenagers look okay in those “low rise” get-ups. But I’ve also seen young ladies with less than perfect figures wearing them. In other words, with fat hanging out in every direction, and of course they also have to wear a very short top to make sure that ALL of the fat can hang out.

I’ll admit that I still like the looks of bell bottom jeans, however. Plus, they’re great when you want to wear boots, which I wear frequently, especially since I got back into motorcycle riding. I saw a couple of pairs of bell bottoms today that I just had to try on, even though the tag said “low rise”. I figured what the heck? Both jeans were exactly the same size; however I couldn’t even get the first pair zipped. The second pair was a pair of stretch jeans which fit perfectly, except it looked as if the top six inches of the jeans were missing. I took a good look at myself in the mirror (always a mistake). Yep, it appeared that I had developed the “hanging fat” syndrome. Or was it the “Michelin” syndrome? Then I figured, “These pants are so comfortable……maybe I could just wear a really long shirt and no one will be the wiser”. So I put on the shirt I had worn to the store and sure enough, you would hardly know. But the problem is, I knew. So I talked myself out of buying one of the most comfortable pairs of jeans I’ve ever tried on. Oh well. If they had only given me six more inches of material….

You know those short 80-year-old women I was talking about? Well, two of them, with obvious Northern accents, came in together and they were shopping for pants with matching tops. One lady picked out an outfit that the other lady really liked, too. She tried to talk her into buying the same outfit, but she was adamant about not buying it because she didn’t want to be a “copycat”. The other lady kept saying, “This is ridiculous! If you like it, buy it! We’ll never wear it at the same time. I promise I won’t wear it when we play Bingo”. I thought they were going to get into a fist fight before it was over. I promise I am NOT making this up!

So guess how my shopping trip ended up? I found some “normal” shorts in the Misses department, and some cute tops in the Junior department. I’ll admit that it hasn’t been many years ago that I actually bought some shirts in the Girl’s (Children’s) department. Can someone please tell me the purpose of having a Women’s Petite department? We short women need to know!

And now, on to the shopping trip that is every woman’s nightmare....the dreaded Swimsuit Department … especially when they have those signs that say “This dressing room is being monitored by female attendants”. Are those one-way mirrors? Eek, get me outta here!

A Legend In Her Own Time

A Legend in Her Own Time

The most unforgettable person I have ever met is Dr. Leila Daughtry-Denmark, a 108 year-old retired pediatrician who lives in Alpharetta. Perhaps you have heard of her. She has been the recipient of many awards and has been featured on television shows such as Good Morning America, and she is the author of the book Every Child Deserves a Chance. She was even featured in People Magazine in honor of her 100^th birthday.

Not only was Dr. Denmark my own doctor as a child, but she helped me through the raising of my own two sons as well. She is definitely out of the “mainstream” of modern medicine, and many of her methods and statements are considered controversial.

All I know is, Dr. Denmark helped me to raise two very healthy kids and she was always there when I needed her, any time of the day or night. Back when I had my first child in 1974, she was the only one (other than my husband and my own mother) who supported my decision to breastfeed my baby. Breastfeeding was definitely not the norm back in 1974, and was considered “strange” and just plain unacceptable by many.

When my friends learned that I wasn’t giving my child solid foods by 4 weeks of age, they were horrified and insisted that I would starve my child if I didn’t start feeding him soon. But of course, Dr. Denmark and I knew better. I just sat back and watched as my friends complained of having to change formulas several times to find one that their baby could tolerate, not to mention food allergies, colic, etc. And then there were the complaints about the cost of formula, getting up in the middle of the night to warm bottles, and of course the endless sterilization of those bottles. If they only knew.

Dr. Denmark also supported me in my decision to stay at home with my children until the youngest was in school. She used to talk about moms who would say, “I have to work because I just bought a new house”. Her reply was, “In twenty years, your house will be worn out and your baby will be gone”. No one could ever accuse Dr. Denmark of keeping her opinion to herself.

Before moving her office to a 120 year-old farmhouse in Alpharetta, she practiced out of her home in Sandy Springs. There was an abortion clinic nearby and she told me that when she drove by there and saw all of the cars in the parking lot, she would say to herself, “Can there really be that many women killing their babies today?” This was more than she could fathom. She often told me that every man in the world except Adam was born of and raised by a woman, and that motherhood is the hardest and most important job in the world.

Dr. Denmark confided in me that she had never even heard of a woman doctor before she went to medical school back in the 1920’s. She also told me that her decision to become a pediatrician was based on the fact that you either have to work for big people or little people, and she’d rather work for little people. I would definitely say that she made the right choice.

Dr. Denmark never made appointments. You simply went to her office, which was connected to her home by a carport, and signed your child’s name on the sign-in sheet which was located on an antique marble-topped table. Then you waited your turn, which could be a very long time, but it was always worth it. She would spend a long time with you and your child, giving all sorts of very valuable advice during the examination.

Sometimes if your child was very ill, or very contagious, she would tell you to come in through the back door and then you could be seen sooner and the other children wouldn’t have to be exposed to germs unnecessarily. When the weather was nice, you could sit out on the patio with other young mothers and discuss your mutual interests. Most of the conversation centered on child-rearing and how wonderful Dr. Denmark was.

People were always asking Dr. Denmark when she planned to retire. Her standard answer was, “When you see my name in the obituary column, you’ll know that I’ve retired.” I’m sure that she fully intended to keep that promise, but she recently had to retire due to failing eyesight caused by macular degeneration. Although retired, she has left a wonderful legacy with several generations of mothers and their children.

Some of my best memories both as a child and as a mother were those visits to Dr. Denmark. Even if I wasn’t feeling well, I looked forward to seeing her because I always knew that she would do something to make me feel better. Then when I became a mother, she encouraged me and helped me to be the best mom I could be.

I will forever carry with me the image of Dr. Denmark popping her head into the reception room to call the next child. She never looked to see who was next on the list. The moms always kept track of that. She would simply say, “Alright, who’s the next little angel?” As far as I’m concerned, Dr. Denmark was, and still is, the angel that guided so many of us mothers through the awesome responsibility of raising our children.

Civil War Stories

The Civil War, otherwise known as The War Between the States, or even The War of Northern Agression to us southerners, has produced a lot of interesting stories passed down through the generations. My now deceased cousin, who was a dedicated member of the DAR and UDC, gave me a folder full of documented facts and stories about our ancestors who fought in the Civil War. Some of the stories I had heard before, from my mother. If anyone is interested, here's a few of my favorites: My great grandaddy, William Jasper Thomas owned a farm that is now the site of Lockheed-Martin and Dobbins Air Force Base. When he went off to war, he left his wife, Martha Ann Elizabeth, at home with several small children. Apparently she was a very strong woman and managed quite well. One day she could hear the Yankees marching down Atlanta Rd., so she grabbed up her babies and put them on a horse and rode to her father's house. His name was William Marion Johnston and he had a farm on the Chattahoochee River, where he operated a ferry. I am told that the Johnston homestead still stands occupied today, although my mom tried to find it and never could, since things have changed so much. The road passing the homeplace is Johnson Ferry Rd. Somehow the "T" got dropped from the spelling somewhere along the way. Sometime after that, Martha Ann Elizabeth was again threatened by the Yankees, as they came foraging for food on her farm. The story is told that as one of the Yankees went underneath her house in pursuit of one of her chickens, she poured boiling water on his backside. I have a feeling he never got to eat that chicken. When the war was over her husband had to walk home, and the only way he survived was by eating dried corn from the cornfields, which he would parch before he ate it. He was never in good health after that, and family tradition blamed it on the corn. After he died, my great grandmother appointed my grandfather (Eli Thomas, who I named my son for),the overseer of the farm. He was only 16 years old at the time. She paid each of her sons $100 a year to help run the farm, and they made extra money by collecting herbs to sell to the local doctors. They also made caskets and took goods for other people to such distant places as Savannah and Pensacola. By the time Grandaddy was 26, he had saved enough money to buy a 300 acre farm and he built a house on the property for $200. That's when he married my grandmother who was 17 at the time. (In 1896) I don't know as much about my dad's side of the family, but I do remember one story about a relative who had fought in the war and hadn't been heard from for a while. When the war ended and he didn't come home, everyone assumed he was dead. Then about 3 months after the war was over, his mother and his siblings were sitting on the front porch and saw a man walking on the road toward the house. The mother said, "He walks just like your brother". And lo and behold, it was him! It seems that he had been a prisoner of war and had walked all the way home from up north somewhere. I'm sure there must have been some major celebrating that day! I always wondered why he couldn't have sent a letter or SOMETHING to let people know he was alive. Maybe he didn't even have money for a stamp...who knows? But at least there was a very happy ending to the story.