Seniors: On Picking the Best Utensil

What spoon will I choose?

I looked at the spoons in the tray as I hunted for the kind I wanted. Not wanting just any spoon to scoop my granola with, I was looking for the best to my liking (Oneida flatware). I spotted one of them, and set it to the side. I prefer a quality spoon with just the right curve and weight.

Satisfied, I pour my milk in the bowl and proceed to eat my breakfast. I am aware of this every time I am going to eat with a spoon. When I'm stirring sugar in my coffee or in my iced tea, I don't care which spoon to use. I am less picky because the spoon's function is different.

I think back to my Grandpa long ago when I was a youth. Grandpa liked just the right spoon, too. He preferred a thin-edged, well-worn silver spoon (silverware) with a deep scoop to it, over other types of spoons. He liked using a silver spoon when eating soup, oatmeal, pudding, or ice cream. I remember him saying that he didn't like metal spoons as well.

Does that sound silly? I remember thinking it was sort of silly. A spoon is a spoon, right? Nope. Now that I am older and more decided in my preferences, I am more like my grandfather and more particular in what it takes to satisfy me. I prefer the best tool rather than the adequate or better tool. I am less content with status quo or just okay. I like what I like and choose what I prefer when life affords it.

What does this say about life? about me? about choices I make? I have grown to appreciate certain things more than others. Most of us seniors are that way. We have grown with life. We have become more aware of what works and what doesn't work for us. We gravitate to what serves our purposes and in the best possible way. Our likes have become preferences that now are more pronounced than they used to be. You have learned what works best and you consistently apply certain tools to accomplish defined tasks.

You use what works best for you but you also notice what others are using. It pays to pay attention to what is available. A parent demonstrates to their child the way to proceed and accomplish an undertaking. A sloppy or poorly completed endeavor is an indicator of using the wrong materials, rushing through, or not fully focusing. We don't have time for wasting time. Really.

Make good choices as best as you can. Selecting the spoon I want demonstrates a nonverbal desire to be pleased and satisfied. In life, that is a good thing . . . unless someone else wants the same spoon at the same time -- but that's another story. Choose what works the best for you. I've been indecisive for most of my life, I'm done with that way of living.

I want my next twenty to thirty years to count. I don't want to waste time on what won't deliver the goods, this includes relationships and endeavors. I won't settle for less. Don't you settle for less.

Life is Not Hopeless

Whatever is in your life is not hopeless. 

God is working behind the scenes. 

God cares about you. He heals your sorrows. He lifts you up. 

This is his new day to you. Rejoice in it. Believe in the God of the impossible.

 Believe God will make a way through the desert. Believe in God always. 

Trust in him. Thank God for holding your hand and not letting go.

Thank God for holding your hand and not letting go.

He is your silent partner.

9-11 -- Fall-out, Fealty, and Future

September 11 is the anniversary of the day that changed America.

She has never been the same.

Fear has become her companion as we as a country have had to put safeguards in place to prevent another such tragedy. These were necessary given the threats to our nation's safety.

However, something was lost and something was compromised. America lost her sense of security, and narrowed her sense of purpose.

May she not despair.

America is the land of the free and the brave. May she rise again and live with honor. May her wounds be bound and then healed. May she speak for the marginalized and downtrodden. May those who defend her freedoms know they are supported in their efforts and through acts of bravery. 

May freedom ring both for love of country and in the hearts of her country's men and women. May her people rise together and honor God with their actions and hearts. 

Today, tomorrow, here and on foreign lands, may God bless America, her citizenry and patriots, her innocent and weary-worn, her children and her elderly. 

May God bless America, my home sweet home.

MY MOTHER'S HAIRBRUSH, PAINTING, & VIOLIN

Painting by my mother, Evelyn Brumbaugh

My mother lives in a care home these days because she must. Most of our visits have few activities, and I do most of the talking. What is meaningful, though, is being together. We have our routine. After greeting Mother with a hug, I gravitate to her nightstand. A purple brush is next to a black comb in its drawer.
     I grab the set and then begin to brush my mother’s hair. Mother has soft, curly, gray hair. I style her hair until it puffs out nicely and gently frames her face, just the way she used to wear it. A dab of lipstick on and she looks lovely. She smiles at me when I am done and thanks me. This is my favorite part of the visit.

My mother is an artist at heart. No longer does a painter’s brush move across the canvas, but I remember her at work on her beautiful paintings. Every dip of the paintbrush and dab of paint added to the scene set before her, whether a rose, an ocean view, a mountain cabin in the pines, or a pond with lilies surrounding it. They were beautiful.

Mother’s other love, her violin, now rests in quiet repose in its case between the piano and living room wall. An oval framed photograph from long ago of my mother’s violin teacher as a young woman wearing a chiffon gown, hangs on the wall. I knew that some day the orchestra concerts would come to an end, and I wouldn’t be ready. And that is exactly how it played out.
The first time Mother got sick was the day of an orchestra concert. From the hospital I called her director to let him know she wouldn’t be making the concert. That was the end of violin concerts for Mother and the last of playing her violin altogether. Violin playing had been a source of pleasure for her for eighty years, which had started with my grandma taking my mother in to Los Angeles an hour by tram for the violin lessons. Mother was six years old. I miss Mom playing her violin.

On quiet visits to my mom’s room, I play CDs of my mother’s orchestra concerts—and we both enjoy them. The William Tell Overture is my favorite selection with Phantom of the Opera as a close second. Mother loves them all.

I view my mother differently in her sunset years. All the wonderful parts of Mother’s life are remembered and appreciated. I see her more clearly than I used to. She gave so much or herself to her family. Now, during my visit to see her, she and I are content to sit side-by-side and enjoy the moment.