AGEFULLY AGING

Inspirational reflections on this and that.

Recent Posts

  • HELEN HUDSON HERE: REFUSE TO LOSE

    One of the women runners competing at the Olympic Trials told a reporter last week, “I refuse to lose.”  And while she did not win that particular race, she did indeed earn a spot at the Olympics.  However, had she not made the trials at all, you knew from the determination in her face that she was a ‘winner.’ 

    Some people are just like that:  no matter what Life throws at them they’re ready.  No whining.  No complaining.  You don’t have to jump start them.  They keep themselves in play.  While others stand under the apple tree waiting for the fruit to drop, they’re out planting seeds.  While some bemoan their lives, they’re out making one.

    They’re all around us.  The pro football player I met at the computer store today told me he does 30-second intervals all day long to keep his core strong.  “It’s my off-season, lazy time,” he laughed, “but can’t let up.  When you get out on the field, you can’t show any fear.  Gotta stay strong.”

    A young, college boy sent me an email asking if he could come by to demonstrate some cutlery he is selling to help pay his tuition bills.  He doesn’t know it yet, but tomorrow he will sell me some paring knives and perhaps a sharpener.

    Last week, a woman with no arm challenged me to do the butterfly using only my legs.  I felt fortunate that it was an option I could try, not live with for the rest of my life.  She donates her time at the VA working with amputees.

    At the grocery store tonight, a sharply-dressed, 84 year-old woman was steadying her husband with one arm as she put items in her cart with the other.  I had seen her before,  so stopped to introduce myself.  “I’m Anna,” she smiled.  “and this is Walter.”  It was clear that he had already begun the childlike slide into Alzheimer’s.  “Last time you were alone,” I chided.  “But this time you have a handsome guy with you.”  She stopped, looked straight at him and smiled, “Yes.  Aren’t I lucky?” 

    I wish you could have seen the love in her face when she said that.  All of our days are numbered.  None of us will win the final race.  But while we’re counting down, we can refuse to lose.  

    Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” now on Kindle.

     

     

     

  • HELEN HUDSON HERE: TO FATHERS HERE AND GONE

    As my construction crew headed off yesterday for a well deserved weekend rest, I suddenly asked:  “Hey who here is a father?”  As the hands went up, so did the grins.  Turns out that one is even a grandfather.

     Suddenly, out came the pictures of daughters and sons; a curly-haired toddler in white crinoline, a boy in a baseball cap.  One even had a video of his granddaughter playing his old guitar like a stand up cello.  But it wasn’t the pictures, rather the look in these dad’s eyes as they fished out their wallets and phones from back pockets.  It was the big grin of the painter who didn’t even have pictures but instead told me about his three kids:  “first a girl, she’s 23 now, then a boy, 22.  My youngest is 19.  I’m kind of hoping someday she might come work for me.”

     Dad’s have so many hopes and dreams for their kids—maybe even more than Moms.  They’re not so busy cleaning up after them and changing diapers.  Instead, they take them on adventures, challenge their little bodies with physical games, and size them up as people in their own right.  Dads are more likely to say:  ‘He’s a bad sport.  He’d better get over that if he ever wants to make it in life.’  Moms are more likely to wipe his tears and give him a plate of cookies.   (Call me sexist, but I prefer ‘old-fashioned.’)

    My husband was a changed man from the moment our first was born.  From the wonder in his eyes as he held her for the first time, to the tender care he took of her every need.  She is 19 now, but he would sacrifice anything to support and protect her.  (Me?  Maybe not so much.)  When our 2nd came along, he often worried that he “could never love her as much.”  And yet?  He does. 

     And while both parents are important, I have observed over the years that much of a child’s character and self-esteem comes from their father.  Psychologists say that dads are even more important when it comes to girls.  Funny thing about that, though.  My dad died when I was a baby so I never even knew him.  However, I’ve often been told that I am much like him.  Now there’s a conundrum.  That means he’s ‘here’ even though he’s never been here.  So Happy Father’s Day, Dads, wherever you are.  You matter—even if we’ve never met you!!!

    Helen Hudson is the author of “Kissing Tomatoes,” now on Kindle.

  • HELEN HUDSON HERE: DOG OR GOD

    I have tried hard to encourage my kids to use good judgment.  As teenagers, they still wrestle the difference between doing the right thing or going with the crowd.  And while this inner battle  may peak in the teen years, I still see its’ vestiges amongst my senior friends. 

     One, in her 80’s still dyes her hair because she’s afraid, ‘no one will recognize me if I let it go natural.’  Problem is, the dye has caused her severe scalp, skin, and now eye problems, which she continues to endure in order to keep up appearances.  Another still wears heels despite severe arthritis that has deformed her toes.  A 70-something guy I chat with says he’ll, “never discuss politics or religion,” because he’s afraid to let people know where he stands in case they don’t agree with him.  So, we muse about the weather or his aches and pains.  Another, in his 90’s says it takes him, “an extra half hour to get ready every morning, just to put on my pants and get my arm in my shirt.”  When I ask if it wouldn’t be easier to buy his clothes one size larger, he looks horrified.  “What would people think?” he scoffs. 

     Indeed.  What would people think if you actually did the right thing for you?  How horrified would they be if you made the happier choice for your own health?  How bruised would their egos be if you said, ‘No’ to that second drink you really don’t want?  What’s so wrong about talking politics and religion?  Aren’t you more likely to get in lively discussions and discover yourself and others more deeply? 

     It’s easy to look at your kids and say to yourself, ‘Why on earth are they so worried about pleasing that young crowd?’  It’s quite another to see those very same qualities in people decades older.  And for what?  An even more debilitating old age?  I figure if you want unconditional love and acceptance in this life, get a dog.  If you’re looking for it in the next, find God.  Frankly, I think a dog is God’s way of showing us we don’t have to be ‘all that’ to be accepted.  We just have to be us.

    Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” now on Kindle. 

  • HELEN HUDSON HERE: MAKE MY DAY

     Here’s what makes my blood boil:  callous jerks running roughshod over old folks with an air of insouciance that unhinges me .  Whether it’s shoving past them in lines, defrauding them by phone, neglecting their care or outright ignoring their presence, their constant victimization makes me furious.  I defy one, single reader to go one, single day without witnessing this crime.  And it is, a crime.

    A few hours ago, a frail, old man was backing out of the “Handicapped” space next to my car.  He moved slowly and looked behind carefully as he reversed.  However, when he was three-quarters of the way out, some girl flew around the corner in a large pickup, SAW him and actually SPED UP to pass him.  He slammed on his brakes.  After she passed, I looked through the window at his face.  It was grim and shaken.  I waved.  He looked up nervously.  I smiled and motioned him to roll down his window.  He did but only one inch.  “Not your fault,” I said.  “She was a jerk.  You were in the right of way.”  He gave me a tight-lipped, half-smile.      

     I kicked a cab in New York City once.  I was helping my 90 year-old grandmother across 5th avenue when a taxi ran a red light.  He came so fast that I had to pull her out of his path.  As he passed, within mere inches of us, I kicked his bumper as hard as I could.  THAT made him slam on his brakes.  He jumped out of his taxi yelling in a foreign language.  I was too mad to be intimidated.  “You almost hit my grandmother, you maniac,” I yelled.  “You could have killed her!”  As I continued to maneuver her safely across the street, cars all around him began honking.  He just stood there, yelling, as all of 5th avenue angrily swarmed around him.

    Frankly, I don’t know to this day if I actually made a dent in that cab because I never looked.  However, I hope I made one in the driver.  Part of me wonders that if that girl today in the pickup had been closer, would I have kicked her bumper too?  Maybe I’ve turned into the Clint Eastwood of the elder set.  Maybe I’ll start carrying a cane at each hip.  If someone gets unruly with one of my elderly, I’ll whack ‘em.  First I’ll look ‘em right in the eye, though, and say, “Make my day.” 

    Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” now on Amazon/Kindle.

  • HELEN HUDSON HERE: MAKE MY DAY

     Here’s what makes my blood boil:  callous jerks running roughshod over old folks with an air of insouciance that unhinges me .  Whether it’s shoving past them in lines, defrauding them by phone, neglecting their care or outright ignoring their presence, their constant victimization makes me furious.  I defy one, single reader to go one, single day without witnessing this crime.  And it is, a crime.

    A few hours ago, a frail, old man was backing out of the “Handicapped” space next to my car.  He moved slowly and looked behind carefully as he reversed.  However, when he was three-quarters of the way out, some girl flew around the corner in a large pickup, SAW him and actually SPED UP to pass him.  He slammed on his brakes.  After she passed, I looked through the window at his face.  It was grim and shaken.  I waved.  He looked up nervously.  I smiled and motioned him to roll down his window.  He did but only one inch.  “Not your fault,” I said.  “She was a jerk.  You were in the right of way.”  He gave me a tight-lipped, half-smile.      

     I kicked a cab in New York City once.  I was helping my 90 year-old grandmother across 5th avenue when a taxi ran a red light.  He came so fast that I had to pull her out of his path.  As he passed, within mere inches of us, I kicked his bumper as hard as I could.  THAT made him slam on his brakes.  He jumped out of his taxi yelling in a foreign language.  I was too mad to be intimidated.  “You almost hit my grandmother, you maniac,” I yelled.  “You could have killed her!”  As I continued to maneuver her safely across the street, cars all around him began honking.  He just stood there, yelling, as all of 5th avenue angrily swarmed around him.

    Frankly, I don’t know to this day if I actually made a dent in that cab because I never looked.  However, I hope I made one in the driver.  Part of me wonders that if that girl today in the pickup had been closer, would I have kicked her bumper too?  Maybe I’ve turned into the Clint Eastwood of the elder set.  Maybe I’ll start carrying a cane at each hip.  If someone gets unruly with one of my elderly, I’ll whack ‘em.  First I’ll look ‘em right in the eye, though, and say, “Make my day.” 

    Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” now on Amazon/Kindle.

  • HELEN HUDSON HERE: CAN YOU HELP ME?

    “Dear, could you help me?”  squeaked a wavery voice.  She was so short that I could hardly see her head above the basket which was piled high with Saltine crackers, canned vegetables, cleaning mops and charcoal briquettes.  Finally, I saw her; a very, very, old, wrinkled lady with sparse, white, curly hair that looked as if it had been drawn on her head instead of actually growing there.

    “I can’t find the Gain fabric softener,” she pleaded.  She didn’t know what it looked like because she had never used it before.  Actually, she said she didn’t use softener but, “had a coupon.”  Suddenly, I understood the strange juxtaposition of things in her cart, which I now observed also included panty hose, a large bottle of hair conditioner, both dog AND cat food, and a squirt gun.

     I looked.  No sight of the Gain.  Just then a young man drew near with his cart.  “Could you help me, Dear?” she asked him, probably sensing that I was useless.  He took one glance at the dozens of similar, colored bottles in view and said, “Just a minute.”  Seconds later the grocery clerk arrived.  With a big grin he pointed to the Gain.  Problem was, there were four, different varieties.  I suggested the lavender.  She turned up her nose.  The clerk said he thought the orange one was neat.  “And have my clothes smell like oranges?” she scolded.   This was gonna take awhile.

    When I checked out, she was still patrolling the aisles in search of coupon items.  There was now a large, plastic pitcher on the pile.  I wondered what she would do with all of those things when she got home.  I also wondered if she knew herself.  As I left, I heard her ask a young woman at the next register, “Excuse me dear, could you help me?” 

    There is something beautiful about that question.  Funny thing is, it seems to me that only the very young and the very old ever ask for help.  The rest of us in between figure we can do it ourselves—even when we can’t.

    On that note, here is a question for you, dear readers, now in 23 countries:  Would you send me a topic of specific interest to you and challenge me to share it here?  I will take your idea, like a coupon, search the aisles of my imagination and see what ‘we’ can find.   

  • DON’T PUSSYFOOT: PAY YOUR TAXES

    Tax day is no longer the exciting prospect that it once was in 1975 when I excitedly marched into H&R Block (in January no less) with my very first year’s pay stubs totaling well under five figures.  As I handed the guy my large envelope jammed with disorganized receipts, I was thrilled to be joining the ‘real’ world of income-earning adults.  Now, I put off the deed until the day before they’re due.

     It’s amazing what I’ll do just to avoid a little pain.  For the last four weeks I have endured a faulty crown on a tooth that STILL hurts a month after being drilled.  There is a gap between my gum and the new crown that aches when I breathe or eat.  The top of it juts out just like that rock the Titanic hit and is sharp enough to draw blood.  When the dentist said he, ” didn’t see anything wrong,” I made him take off his glasses AND his rubber gloves.  “Now stick your finger in there and FEEL IT!” I commanded.  (I’ll just let you imagine his response.)  After a dainty, three-second probe, he declared, “It just needs some smoothing around the edges,” and sent me on my merry way.    

     Five days later it still bothers me.  So what am I doing about it?  Suffering in silence—(except for telling you, of course).  I’m not only reluctant to tell him that it STILL isn’t right, I also don’t want to hear the shrill sound of his drill chiseling through my ear canal, sending shock waves through the dendrites of my central nervous system. You know, this is just plum stupid.  A quick, phone call  would probably put me out of my misery. 

    You’d think I’d have wised-up over the last 35 years, but I’m dumber than I was when I first took the SAT’s and thought ‘grovel’ was something you dug with.  There’s a zillion things in life I CAN’T control:  world war, nuclear fallout, drivers who put on their left turn signals then veer right, and my own teenagers.  But what kind of idiot can’t control their own mouth?  (Don’t say it.)  

    Just now, some salesman had the misfortune to enter our yard unannounced.  Our dog barked loud enough to scare our visitor backwards through a thorn bush AND set my teeth on edge.  No pussy-footing around with her.  If something’s wrong she lets you know it.  Frankly, I’d trade her instinct for my intellect in a heartbeat.

     

     

  • TABLE FOR ONE

    3 weeks ago, I posted, “You Just Never Know,” about two, old friends at our local Starbucks.  At the time, Joe was worried that his pal Bob, “had Alzheimer’s.”  I hadn’t been back since then, so dropped by this morning to say, “Hi.”  Bob was sitting alone outside on the bench.  Joe was nowhere in sight. 

    “Hey!  Where’s your sidekick?” I teased. “He won’t be coming,” Bob said sadly.  “He has dementia, that Alzheimer’s thing.  His wife won’t let him come.  She said that they have to run tests to see if he can drive, for insurance reasons.”  When Joe’s family noticed that his memory was slipping, they took him to the doctor.  “They put him on some kind of medication  to slow down the memory loss,”  Bob tells me. Then he exhales heavily and stares out at the parking lot.  I have never seen such a big man look so small and bereft.

     “Can’t his wife bring him?” I ask, “The last thing someone with memory loss needs is taking them away from familiar people and places.  And you guys go all the way back to the 4th grade!”  Bob just shook his head.  “Joe called to tell me all this himself,” he said sadly, “and I could hear in his voice that he was just all choked up about it.”  We both were silent again.  “Well, guess I’ll just have to get a replacement,” he said trying to be light-hearted, yet without a trace of enthusiasm in his voice.  “Maybe you can be my replacement?”  But we both knew it wasn’t a real question.  How do you replace a 65-year friendship?

    I hope that his wife will bring him.  There’s an empty seat at Bob’s table now and no matter who sits there, they’ll never fill it like Joe did.  Bob didn’t chat up a single customer today and the whole place was sadder for it; even me.

    Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” an Alzheimer’s memoir.

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  • THUMBS UP!!!

    When I first started driving, Granny cautioned me NOT to pick up hitchhikers.  “You just never know,” she warned.  I disobeyed her, but only once.  That day, I was feeling pretty independent behind the wheel of my stick-shift, Chevy Nova, clunker when I saw a guy with his thumb out on the highway. 

    No dummy me:  I checked him out top to bottom first, before I stopped.  He was clean, handsome in a rough sort of way and looked very fit.  Seemed harmless.  So, I pulled over.  He gave me a big, wide grin, and said, “Hey, Thanks for stopping.  I’m just going about two miles straight down.  I sure appreciate this.  It’s hot out here.”  Had manners, too. 

    As he squeezed himself into the front seat I realized that he was MUCH bigger up close.  He was also staring at me, hard.  So, I did what I normally do when I’m nervous:  made conversation.  “Your boots are really cool,” I enthused.  “Thanks,” he smiled.  “Where’d you get them?” I continued.  “Um.  I made ’em actually,” he said.  “No way!” I blathered.  “Yeah.  It took me a long time to do this part,” he indicated, raising his jeans to show even more detailing higher up.  “I worked on ’em while I was in prison.  Actually, I just got out a few hours ago.” 

    The oxygen suddenly went from the car.  ‘No wonder he’s so strong,’ I thought to myself, ‘It’s all those sit-ups in his cell.’  Fortunately, his stop was just ahead.   “Well, here you are,” I said in a breezy,  extra-loud voice, pulling over about five times faster to let him out than I had to pick him up.

    That incident crossed my mind today when I picked up another hitchhiker; an elderly redhead.  She was standing umbrella-less in the pouring rain.  “Where are you going?” I yelled through the downpour.  But she didn’t pause to answer because she was already arranging her five foot self into my front seat.  As she snapped on the seat belt she turned to me and said, “Do you have any idea where Verizon is?” 

    During our ride, I learned that she was 85, had a daughter,  moved here recently from New York and loved to read.   “I was just too impatient to wait for the bus today,” she confided as I pulled up to Verizon, “so thanks for picking me up!”   You’re welcome, Alma.  Anytime.

    Helen Hudson is the author of, “Kissing Tomatoes,” now available on Amazon.

    http://www.amazon.com/Kissing-Tomatoes-ebook/dp/B007CMNJKW

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