Old Horse, New Trick

Horses are the best thing to step foot off of the Ark and the oldies are most definitely the goodies. The old men and ladies of the equine world with their patented personalities and particular crankiness make my day.

One oldster at my farm, Dream, will pin her ears, pinch her nostrils and threaten to kick all while sidling up to you in hopes of having a treat held out toward her anger stiffened lips. You would think she absolutely abhorred being patted by her facial expressions and body language, but she moves in closer if you stroke her neck. Typical woman, some might say.

Tucket, our resident curmudgeon, lumbers around like an elephant. Food rules his world. Beware if he spies your approach bearing grain or hay; he may run you over in his eagerness to begin the meal. Some days he is a perfect gentleman as you lead him out to his paddock, others he gallumphs off, his handler flying in his wake like the tail on a kite. Don't try to figure him out, even he doesn't know what's up.

My old paint, Cue, who is now a lesson horse in a friend's school program, is unbelievably 20 years old. I still think of him as a teenager, which is not entirely inappropriate as his manners can be rather juvenile. He is a wonderful guy, but still spooks in fear at plastic bag and fallen log monsters. When nervous, he dances, prances and takes off like a 2 year old with a bee on his butt. He is what he is.

Offering peace and comfort to these amazing creatures in their elder years should be a natural part of ownership. I wish I could take all the old ones and park them at my farm. Watching their geriatric grouchiness can be habit forming.

Aim Carefully, Cupid

(This has been submitted to a local publication)

Valentine’s Day is a celebration of romantic love, but this year I am hijacking it for my Mom. More specifically, I intend to persuade Cupid to send off some well-aimed arrows.

Bernice has just turned 84. Married to Frank for 61 years, he left her embrace four years ago at age 88. The bright glow of her amazing soul has dimmed, yet she abides each day with curmudgeonly grace and humor.

Mom resides in a nursing facility that is one of the best, but flatly refuses to call it home. Seven years later, I can’t say as I blame her. Walking through the door sucks the life right out of me. It’s the bald truth, distasteful as it sounds.

Overextended, jaded staff aplenty, with a few amazing exceptions bobbing to the top of the tub. I remain thankful that my large family resides locally to watchdog her treatment, having moved out of state many years ago.

After my Dad’s death, I vowed that I would telephone Mom daily. I have kept that promise although it is increasingly difficult to contact her. No, Bernice has not become a busy socialite, but is forgetting basic tasks. Using the phone, TV and tape player have become major challenges.

Emergency open-heart surgery left Bernice with a pronounced weakness in her legs that has deteriorated over the years leaving her wheelchair bound. Complete dependency is a difficult role for my feisty, independent mother. She now requires an alarm on her chairs and bed to alert staff of her persistent efforts to walk, often forgetting she cannot.

Elder care is a challenge for all. After twenty years of working with kids, I have extreme empathy for caregivers while holding a stern resolve that one should only enter the fray if they can be kind as well as efficient. Burnout is a fact that more people need to recognize and address.

Here is my heartfelt advice: Only work with the elderly if it brings you joy. The crotchety, unhappy people in the homes need boundless love and understanding, not curt handling. If it is no more than a source of income, you will be looking at them through a lens colored with impatience rather than one magnified by respect.

Therefore, on this day of love I am enlisting the help of Cupid to send out darts of empathy and caring to those whose sight has dimmed. My fervent hope is that an arrow or two lands on the posteriors of people working with Bernice.

Sorry, no can do (and other random thoughts)

The rest of the world may be eating vanilla pudding, but I don't want to. Tapioca suits me just fine and the lumps are part of the charm. Poke and stir you might, they refuse to be squashed into submission.

The concept of Political Correctness gives me heartburn. Bravo to those who can walk the straight and narrow path of properness and diplomacy. I prefer to wade and slip alongside in the muddy gutter of reality. It sounds a mess, but not so much, really. Once the stuff dries you just brush it off and move along.

My imperfect familial background has left me with a twisted soul and a warped mind. Even so, I am happy in my skewed self and have as little interest in altering the natural course of my aging body as I do in homogenizing my thoughts and memories to make them more palatable for public consumption.

Life's a crapshoot. People are flawed. Families all have their own individual recipes of screwed-upedness. There are gender differences. Biases exist. Prejudice is alive and well. We can't bury all of the imperfections of our youth. Just because something isn't acceptable now doesn't mean it never happened. We are not all good. Get over it.

Writing for Dollars has been an eye opener. I have discovered that I abhor selling myself. Nagging, unless it involves my kid and cleaning, is not my strength. The time I have available to tap out prose is limited, so I cherish the fruits of my labor. I expect the rest of the world to follow suit.

In the self-imposed madness of my life, hanging with the Yayas keeps the mortar in my bricks. All four of us brash, loud, opinionated and mildly crazed, we eat, drink, bicker and chortle our way through life's common travails. Spending time laughing like a hyena is proper medicine; don't let anyone tell you otherwise.

So, for 2008 and in line with the chest beating mantra of my children's generation, I'm gonna do what I WANT. Write what I feel in my own way. Stop editing my actual thoughts to fit a mythical audience. Keep expectations on the down low. Say what I think and know why I feel that way. Go with the flow.

I may end up crying me a river, but I will be floating down it in a boat of my own design.