Aunt Ruth, America’s favorite grammarian, has officially come out of her period of silence.
“I am not going to pursue joining the Big Ten football conference. I repeat,” she stated over the already stressed sound system, “the Big Ten will remain (Aunt) Ruthless for the 2024 season. I do realize,” she continued, “that the Big Ten remains in the awkward predicament of presiding over seventy-three ( 73) teams, the prime number thus making fair scheduling a nightmare. Not to worry, though. I have come up with a solution — just a simple twist of ARSE encryption algorithms using wedding ring and cow-field theory, and, (of course), a cello to provide some string theory.”
Instead of clearing the air, Miss Aunt Ruth’s statements only obfuscated things and made life smellier, akin to pouring a bottle of Chanel No. 5 on a sweaty pig. “That’s really gross,” she opined. “While we’re at it, I need to emphasize, emphatically and with extreme emphasis, I am not building a barbecue joint in Memphis.” The crowd murmured.
“Finally, just to clear the air, I have NOT signed up with the transfer portal to quarterback at Nebraska, North Carolina, or Notre Dame, but I’ve nailed a permanent gig with Gladys’s Gastroenterology. Thank you.”
This story occurred in western Nebraska in 1878. That was an adventurous time to be living. Lakota Sioux, Northern Cheyenne, and other Indian tribes sometimes encountered white pioneer settlers. Those encounters didn’t always end on a positive note, but sometimes they did, and friendships could grow.
Saving Arapahoe is an action-filled page-turner that will keep you in the chair until you’ve finished.
So, as it were, I found myself wandering the streets of this magnificent northwest city. Why? I was tired but no sleep would come to me. I had been writing a book and I came to a place where the two main threads collided with each other … and exploded to bits. You know, when the train that crossed the country (what’s that called … I’m drawing a blank … oh it’s the Trans-Continental Railway (or approximately that — I asked my cell phone).
Anyway, the insomnia (I couldn’t remember that word either, so I asked my wife and she told me) drove me out of the bedroom and onto the sidewalks so I could burn off some energy and clear my thoughts. Now, midnight in this Pacific northwest population-magnet is not a quiet time. In fact, there is no quiet time in this haven of fish markets and roasted coffee beans.
I heard noises of trucks and cars and construction equipment; sirens and whistles and car horns; marching band horns and drums and crowds yelling and people shouting, cheering, laughing, or jeering; My ears caught the cockle-doodle-doo of the good-morning rooster and the cluck, cluck, cluck of the truthful hens (i.e, they were not lying, they were laying)I heard the cry of a hawk, the bark of a blue heron, and the shrill, familiar screech of the Nebraska Sandhills Crane. I heard dogs and cats, pigs and bats, sheep, goats; I heard horses and donkeys and cows mooing or lowing or whatever they do. As they say, the ox and the ass were noisy too.
Then, like being struck by ten Yamaha tubas and a Steinway piano falling from the sky, it hit me. I heard absolutely no baby chicks. No, not a one.
Gennesaret Press announced Monday the upcoming release of Saving Arapahoe, the third book in the Johnny Stevens Pioneer Adventures series. The setting is western Nebraska in 1878. This 1st-person story is based on letters and stories from the author’s great-grand- father when he was a 12-year-old boy. The Indians and pioneers didn’t always see eye-to-eye, and that led to some harrowing experiences! Even so, great friendships are formed and alliances made. This is a great book for families to read together. Take a look. The book lists at $17.95 and should become available on Aug 15, 2023.
Teach me your ways, O LORD, that I may live according to your truth! Grant me purity of heart, so that I may honor you. With all my heart I will praise you, O LORD my God. I will give glory to your name forever, For your love for me is very great. You have rescued me from the depths of death. (from NLT)
Ahem! Become celebratory dictators. Enjoy frozen glasses having individual jam kerosene lemondade melting nicely on phony quicksand, raising stylish turmoil under very woeful xylophones yawning zealously.
A desparation is in the air—I guess it’s always been there to some extent—that I don’t remember seeing as a child. Maybe that’s just because children don’t think about stuff like that. There is the ever-increasing hum of a social consciousness that drives us in despair for the need to repair our bodies, and thus our lives, so that we can live forever and ever. If the Bible were true (and I believe it is), then the life on the “other side” is going to be more glorious than anything we can imagine. The streets will be paved with gold, cities of marble, and we’ll all be in white garments or something. That’s fine. The best part—and I’m serious here— will be bowing to the King, the Lord Jesus Christ, the Lamb of God. Worthy is the Lamb. He has covered all my sin with what he did (and what was done to him) on the Cross. And it’s available to you—for free. Taking care of our bodies is a commandment, more or less. That is, take care of what God has given you. Don’t over-indulge (or is indulgance the same as to over-indulge?). Anyway, we have become increasingly obsessive (or over-obsesive?) in our drive to get in shape (or get back in shape). If only we knew then what we know now. When you’re three years old, you can still put your foot in your mouth and bend your body in crazy ways. One thing I personnally need to work on is stretching … with arthritis, especially, it’s difficult to reach my toes. Putting on socks takes a heroic effort (yes, it’s ‘a heroic’ (hard h) and not ‘an heroic’ with a soft h. Think Liza Doolittle.) Anyway, two or three times a week we meet on Zoom (daughter lives in Alaska) and do a stretching workout for 30 minutes. It’s a good routine for me and it helps me mentally too, but what really encourages me is seeing my seven-year granddaughter and three-year old grandson stretch and curl themselves into magnificent pretzels. Their bodies bend in remarkable ways. So, wouldn’t the reasonable mind decide to continue working on stretching every day in order to never lose that ability? But almost nobody does, though a few trickle through, mananging to keep their flexibility. They grow up to become gymnasts or contortionists. Life gets in the way. It’s exhiliarating going through school, studying what possibly will become your profession and scoping out possibilites for someone who will become your lifelong mate. You’re on top of the world (regardlesss (almost) of GPA). As the upper classman (whom you have seen passed out, lying face down on the floor in the dorm hallway early on a Saturday morning because he couldn’t find his room key) attains respectable employment, you think, “Hey, I can do that too.” Then the market crashes and you’re stuck with a “you didn’t apply yoursef for the past three or four years, so here’s what you get, buddy.” But I’m off-topic. Back to it. We need to take care of what God has given us, but we aren’t called to obsess with it. Oh, certainly, we need (to at least try) to excel at what we’re doing. Our diligence and hard work will glorify the Lord. Over-obsessing, if there is such a thing, can deter the luster of that fire. Hard work can be difficult to discern from mania of some sort. Dear me. I’m not being clear. Of course, we all have moments where we’ve needed to come in and do the impossible—to do something that solves a major problem for somebody, either at work all
night to make some software perform correctly for a customer demo the next day, or to stay up all night with a sick child, applying cold washcloths every hour to keep the fever down. It’s not healthy to do this day after day, night after night… unless you’re called to it, of course. But what about this obsesion to be perfectly fit? I read recently of a forty-something man taking monthly infusions of blood from his seventeen-year old son, thinking that keeping his blood young—and having injections of fresh salmon oil in his skin, or something like that—will keep him from aging. Of course, he’s a fanatic in the gym. But what purpose does that serve? I understand the tendency . My mom told me once that she was afraid whenever I took an interest in something new because I always became obsessed with it (where “it” may have been practicing the tuba into the wee hours of the morning, or memorizing pi to 100 decimal places, or (which was not infrequent) was often “my new girlfriend from school”). A National Review article I recently read said that with the current knowledge in medical science, the average lifespan, at best, will end up being somewhere around 110-115 years. If the organic parts of ourselves can’t last any longer, maybe the robotic parts of ourselves can last longer. I spoke with a man at a cookout last night who was told forty-five years ago that his kidneys would fail in less than two years. But … he altered his diet—just a little, dropping out potatoes and some breads—and he was in good shape until last fall, when he was hit with Covid. Covid brought him so much vomiting and diarrhea that one of his kidneys failed from the dehydration. Anyway, we’re not really sure what my life expectancy is. There’s not a lot of data on people who have had Parkinson’s Disease for 25 years. I’m in my 24th year now and managing fine (well, ask my wife for an objective opinion. She’s probably more realistic than I). In the initial stages, the physical decline and cognitive decline seemed to go hand in hand. I found I was no longer able to solve the hard problems, to make the right decisions at times, and my perception of priorities and responsibilities was distorted. But it was the physical decline that really took hold … balance issues, dragging my legs, which eventually turned into shuffling feet, then lots of falling. Still, for a while I was feeling strong, and I continued running and walking. I preferred running over walking. My running distances decreased only slightly at first, and I was still running in the thirty to forty miles / week, even climbing to fifty-six miles over Christmas break just months after I was diagnosed. Within a couple of years, though, I was down to ten to fifteen miles/week and soon withered down to five or six miles. When I was twenty-six—pre-PD, and in fact pre-marriage—I ran a 5K in seventeen minutes. Yes, 17. Actually, that was the second half of a 10K race. The first half was 17 minutes 14 seconds, or a total of 34:14 for the 10K. I impressed even myself with that run. It helped that it was a small race (only 40 some runners) and I started ON the starting line, not way back in the pack. And the race producers were playing inspirational rock-and-roll for the duration of the race. Long live Rock.
And the weather was perfect. And the paved road/trail was perfect. (After I got married, I never again beat 36:00 minutes. I guess priorities changed.) I ran a 5K with my younger daughter just two years ago, and I (well, “We,” since she stayed with me the entire time) finished in 49 something. Or was it 59 something. I don’t remember. I do remember the two emotions I felt that morning as a cold mist fell on us while we were crossing the Finish line. Number one, I was embarrassed at my time. Note that the first time I ran a 5K, with very little training, I ran it in twenty-one minutes. (I was 24 at the time.) I wouldn’t get used to this 49-minute stuff for quite a while yet. The second emotion I felt was an overwhelming gratitude for my daughter, who encouraged me and cheered me on, all the way from the start to the very finish. As an aside … my daughter is now a PA, a certified Physician’s Assistant, specializing in Geriatrics. She handles old folks quite well. I think there should continue to be efforts made to make life as comfortable, affordable, and LIVEABLE as possible. But life can’t—nor should it be made to—last forever. I don’t want it to last forever. Why? As I said earlier, life is going to be so much better on the “other side.” As Jesus demonstrated on the Cross, death won’t keep the resurrected body from leaving the tomb. Live however long you can, or how long you are able. God’s will will be accomplished regardless of your attempts to change his plans for your life. But when you get to heaven, and you discover that you could have been there years ago, it’ll be like realizing you’ve been eating at Little Caesar’s all your life when you could have been eating at Fearrington House every day. (Not to knock LC’s; I’m just trying to compare low-cost faire with gourmet. Don’t last forever. You don’t want to. Where you’re going will be that better place that we were trying to make on our old, dying earth. It will be a new day.
I’ve discovered over the past (nearly) twenty-four years of Parkinson’s Disease that I really don’t know what to expect next. Well, that’s not entirely true. I have learned in the past couple of years that old PD people get the same ailments that every other old person gets. (As an aside, on getting old and feeling old … I felt great (and I do mean great) until about when I hit 60 (two years ago). Ever since then, I’ve done more unraveling than Betsy Ross would if she were to fall and roll down the hill in the middle of a sewing project. Or something like that.
Back problems, arthritis problems, and more skin problems (just a bunch of basal and squamous cells, a couple or three Moh’s surgeries, and some blue light treatments) coming in at a rapid pace. I’ve gone from being able to run a 5K two years ago to being lucky if I can go half-a-mile today, some days less than that.
But God’s taking care of me. I’m getting plenty of exercise playing with the grandkids and the granddogs, my wife does a great job of keeping me stretching constantly and continually searching for ways to keep me going. I still cook … I want to fish and play tuba, but there’s just not enough time. I do have a lifetime fishing license though, which is cool (NC Wildlife issues it for us old folks on disability).
I don’t drive a lot. I can drive down to the (very nice) Apex senior center, where I’ve been taking Tai Chi, art lessons (drawing), and a writers’ club that meets weekly. I view myself as a good driver, but not everyone in the household agrees. It’s easier to get lost in eastern Cary than it used to be. This area (the whole RTP area) is still in a phenomenal growth pattern.
Still doing the clinical trial (it’s my third year into it) and it’s going very well. Having the dopamine delivered subcutaneously is helping immensely. My best is not any better, but I have very little Off time. It’s great. I wake up and I’m on.
I can tell there’s some cognitive decline. It’s not just forgetting things any more. It’s not understanding how to do things, or how to respond in certain situations. I can tell you what Hank Aaron hit in 1959 (he batted a .355 batting average that year). In ’57, he led the Braves to a World Series win over the Yankees, hitting 3 home runs to help the Braves. Just in case you needed to know that.
One thing I couldn’t imagine until it happened was hallucinations. It’s only happened to me once so far, but it lasted around one week and it was bizarrely scary and weird. I knew stuff wasn’t real but it sure seemed real. Strange people slipping into our house — somehow — and staying hidden so that when I wanted to reveal them to my wife, they would suddenly disappear. I saw writing on the walls and on the floor and on the ceiling … and I saw them on the airplane when we were flying to Alaska last January.
Okay, enough about that topic. Maybe I’ll talk more about it, someday. I’m happier if I don’t.
There’s so much in life to enjoy, and there’s so much that I do enjoy. I can still write pretty well, though I’m slow at it. I can’t read my hand-writing (nobody can). Hey , I taught my seven-year old granddaughter how to play chess, and she’s become a good player quickly. We try to play online, the two of us, and today she beat me two out of three. She’s up in Alaska where it is gorgeous right now. I still enjoy cooking. I’m working on learning how to make good gluten-free breads, pizza dough, and stuff that Michelle can eat and enjoy. I tell you, having Ciliac is tough. I’m hoping they can find a cure soon.
I haven’t done much with my web presence the past dozen years or so. I’ve figured out that I’m not very good at web site setup stuff, and I really DON’T enjoy doing it. In a sense, it’s just an extension of my main hobby, which is writing. I’m not making a profit, but neither am I losing too much.
I haven’t advertised the Johnny Stevens Pioneer Adventures series too much because I was waiting to get the third book done, but it took me seven years to get that book written. It’s just days away from going public (well, maybe a month and a half).
I have two large crates of stories, letters, and family historry from my great-grandfather (my mom’s grandfather), who grew up in Iowa and moved to Nebraska when he was a child (well, he went with his family, not by himself). Anyway, they had a situation involving a large tribe of Northern Cheyenne Indians, and that’s what the new book is about. It’s real history. I have a couple of fictional plot lines going orthoganally to the main story line just to make it more fun for the kids, but it’s a neat story. My great-great grandfather was a bit of a hero. He was in the Nebraska state legislature once upon a time.
Okay, that’s enough for now. Just wanted to say Hey to y’all. Cheers!
Apex, North Carolina, is a modest town—or at least it proudly thinks it is. There are some good people in Apex. But, like any growing burb, Apex has its rough sorts, its tough sorts, its gruff, grammar-challenged sorts. Like any other citizen consumed with worry for our withering way with words, I do my duty. I am a Grammar Cop. My name is Friday, Joel Friday. It started off as an easy day, so easy in fact that it occurred to me I might finish my work early. I started off with two “Hopefully” cases. (“Hopefully” modifies a verb, often incorrectly.) “Hopefully the oranges won’t rot.” Are the oranges hopeful, or are YOU hopeful. “I am hopeful the oranges won’t rot” is certainly different than, “Hopefully, the oranges won’t rot.” “Hopefully, the airplane won’t crash” was the other infraction. How could an airplane act in a hopeful manner? Sigh. Now, there are indeed instances where hopefully is correct, e.g., “Hopefully, the concert crowd waited for the rain delay to clear.” The other case I had this morning was the ubiquitous nauseous versus nauseated. The standard grammar rule used to be this: If you are feeling discomfort, perhaps you are nauseated. One who is nauseous is one who is causing some other being to be nauseated. A classic response to someone who claims, “I am really nauseous,” is to answer with, “I couldn’t agree more.” “Jack, I’m nauseous this morning.” “Larry, I don’t think you are. You’re fine this morning. Now, yesterday was a different matter. You wore your old gym clothes in the office and I thought you were quite nauseous, mostly nauseous, and, in fact, totally nauseous. I was nauseated all evening.” A “Nausea infraction” involves only a warning, whereas a “Hopefully violation” is considered a misdemeanor. While my partner, Bill, was checking out a rumor from an informant about a possible “its versus it’s” violation, I overheard a blatant use of lie/lay/lain. I cringed; I choked; I coughed; and then I confronted the lingual lunatics. “You there,” I shouted, “lying on othe sidewalk,” as I spied two teenagers on a blanket; they were looking up at the early morning smog. “What are you doing here?” “We’re just laying on the sidewalk looking at the sky,” they responded, clearly annoyed at me. “You’re lying.” “No, I’m telling the truth.” “You aren’t laying anything … I see no eggs, I see no flatware or silverware that you may lay on a table. I don’t think you’re lying—that is, you are trying to tell the truth—but you certainly are lying on the sidewalk.” “Could I lie on a street bench?” “Certainly.” “Could I lie on a train?” “Sure, if you had a sleeping berth and/or you weren’t telling the truth.” “So I lied yesterday?” “No, you lay yesterday.” “I lay yesterday?” “Well, if you said a falsehood, then you lied yesterday.” “Do I lie something down?”
“You lay something down. In fact, yesterday you laid down a floor mat, or you laid down the law for a roommate. You have laid in the past; and you will be laying someday in the future.” “So … today I lie in my bed; yesterday I lay in my bed; I have … then what?” she asked. “You have lain in bed, and you have been lying in bed.” I lay on the bench next to them. “So, again, are you telling the truth, or are you lying?” “I am lying, I am telling the truth,” I chuckled. “Friday, Friday, come in Friday,” squelched my Radio Communications Device, “We have a desert/ dessert conflict on Park Avenue, an intense discussion on wake, woke, waken, and awaken—I’d avoid that one, if I were you—and an argument on how to use myriad correctly. Any help would be … um … helpful. I ran to the car. People saw me run to the car. While I was running to the car, I suddenly reached it. Indeed, I had run to the car. Happy was I. I like being a Grammar Cop. Most people appreciate being told the folly of their ways. And it helps me trying to be generous, aiming to instruct and lift up, not condemn or tear down. Grammar is fun and I want people to experience that . Hooray for Grammar! Cheers for Grammar! Accolades for Grammar! Now, get back to your writing!
