66 and holding…

A couple of weeks ago, I turned 66. Honestly, I never thought I would see this age. My mother was in her early 40’s when she passed away and I always thought that the best part of life would happen before that age.

So, when it appeared that I was going to outlive her, I thought that aging should be graceful. Thoughts of elegant women in flowing clothing is how I pictured coming to this age. I figured that somehow I would reach this age and be elegant. HA! I reached this age like I have all the previous ones. Rushing headlong, like the proverbial bull in a china shop.

And now, that I am here, I confess that although I creak and crack a bit more, mentally, I still feel and think like I did at 16. Well, truthfully, some thoughts are different. I may have some of grumpy old lady tendencies lurking in the corners, but I am not ready for the rocking chair full time.

I suppose I should take inventory and make goals as to what I will miraculously do this year, but, the older I get the more honest and blatant I get. I dream of doing so much, but the reality is that I get tired. I grow weary and I hesitate. I could say this is part of aging, but, I have been this way for a good forty years! I do know that I am still trying to put my mark in this world. I strive to be everything our Lord created me to be. I know the bulk of my life is behind me as I know I do not have another 60 years left (what a frightening thought!). So, this year I wait to see what happens. Will I write more than the opening of that novel that lays dormant in my mind? Will I teach and minister to women? Will I actually clean out my junk room? It all remains a mystery. So, instead of flowing, graceful clothing, I will once more put on my raggy jeans, stained tee shirt and tennis shoes and live my life just like that bull in a china shop.

Thanks for stopping by, Cathi (DAF)

Oh, There You Are…

One of my all time favorite movies is Hook, starring Robin Williams as a grown up Peter Pan. In one scene one of the lost boys goes up to a grown up Peter and takes his hands and moves the cheeks to reveal a younger looking man. At that point, the lost boy says, “Oh there you are Peter”. The boys did not recognize the grown up Peter, but, hidden underneath the age is Peter Pan.

I thought of that quote last week as my hubby and I had lunch with some friends. I glanced over during a conversation and there in the middle of talking came this quote, although the name was different, the thought was the same. “Oh, there you are Debbie”

Beside me sat my first true grown-up friend. The friend I met after growing up. I didn’t know her since kindergarten or from high school. I met this women after being married and living away from all my established friends and family. She is a kindred spirit. The kind of friend you recognize immediately. You don’t often find these precious individuals and when you are blessed, as I have been (for me, only a couple of times) you cling to these friends and hold them near to your heart. They take up residence in your heart and when thinking of them you wonder how you ever lived without them.

Debbie and I met in Japan. We lived in the same housing area. We would walk back and forth from our homes. We laughed often. She drew me in with her contagious laughter and her expressive communication, mostly with her hands.

She and my oldest now live minutes from one another. With each visit to our daughter, hubby and I meet at least once a visit for lunch with our friends. Last week was no exception. We have found a place that has become our place. It is the usual spot to meet. We find a table and spend an hour or so catching up, laughing and continuing the conversation started forty-three years ago. It is wonderful.

During lunch last week, as I mentioned, I had a lost boy experience, I looked over at my friend, now older, a bit heavier(aren’t we all?), and a face of an older woman. I looked at my friend talking and my mind raced. Here was someone that I have great respect for, she has been an example to me of unconditional love, she gives love and support to her family in a way I admire. She gives when she has nothing left to give, I know that is a cliche, but for her it is true. She is a woman of faith and freely shares that too. She has bolstered me in several times of hardship. And, here she sat beside me, talking (yes, with her hands) and I saw the younger Debbie. The dark haired, energetic and bubbling Debbie. I smiled, yes, there you are Debbie. I see you. I recognize you. To others around us, we were four senior citizens, maybe talking louder than normal in our excitement. I am certain the young people thought it was nice that we four were still able to get out and about, To me it was a gathering of devoted friends. Age was erased, gray thinning hair was replaced by full heads of hair, clear eyes, young bodies and lives that were not worn down by experience.

I loved the time together and look forward to the next visit. It has been a bit since I last wrote, and this I felt needed to come out of my thoughts. As it is December 22nd, I wish you all a very blessed and Merry Christmas. I had one of my best gifts during lunch last week, I spent an hour with my friend.

Thanks for stopping by. Cathi (DAF)


Almost forty-two years ago we left Japan for Maine. I remember standing in the living room of our government quarters in Bangor, ME with tears running down my face. I was homesick. Not homesick for my hometown, but, lonesome for the familiarity of living in Japan. I wanted to be able to walk down the street and turn down to where my friends lived. To knock on their door and see a familiar face and know I could laugh and cry and be myself. But, I was standing in my living room of my house in Bangor not knowing many people feeling sorry for myself and praying.

At that time I felt like the Lord showed me a scrapbook. As I remember it, I looked at the book and it was filled with people and places and adventures from Japan. I had stopped crying while this went on. As the scrapbook closed, I remember feeling like the Lord told me I could go to that scrapbook any time I wanted, but, I could not live there, it was time for a new adventure.

Maine was a wonderful place to live. It was filled with so many dear people and it’s own adventures and events. I loved living in Maine and when it was time to leave I left a part of my heart there. We were moving to San Diego and I really did not want to go to San Diego, although we felt like we were being sent there for a purpose. We left Maine and arrived in San Diego in late July. As we crossed the mountains from Yuma, AZ into San Diego, I felt a heaviness inside and I knew that we would be there until the Lord moved us.

We were there for almost 27 years. During that time we bought our first home, raised our babies into toddlers, little girls and adults. We had recitals, concerts, proms, first kisses, broken hearts, broken bones and life.

What brought all this to mind was memories that appear on facebook. The past few days the memories have recorded what was going on eleven years ago. As I slowed down tonight, it occurred to me that eleven years ago this week we left San Diego for a new adventure in South Carolina. I remembered as I turned the key in the lock of the front door as we left that it was closing the chapter of our life that I had reluctantly began so many years previous. I got into my car and cried going up the driveway. Memories flooded my mind, and they are still crisp as I write this. Seeing glimpses of my daughters growing up, hearing echoes of conversations. But, eleven years ago this week the big moving van backed down the driveway and in two days filled the truck with a lifetime of memories.

A week later we were in Charleston, SC in an empty house waiting for our things to fit into a new space. And fit, they did. The past eleven years have seen us move two more times, and now we are in our forever home as we call it. We have seen health concerns, cancer diagnosis, broken bones, torn tendons, Little Man born, Little Miss born and memories made.

As I think on my life, I remember the scrapbooks I have had. Those I have filled up with ticket stubs and old love letters, and post cards, and those that are carried in my heart. The ones filled with faces of friends we have loved and lost, friends who have become family, and family. Those heart scrapbooks hold the tears of joy and sadness. Celebrations, births, weddings, funerals. Each event tucked carefully into the recesses of my heart. I pull them out often. On nights like these I dwell on certain pages, people I would like to hug once more, people I would like to have lunch with or a cup of coffee with. Laughter echoes and smiles linger, tears roll down the cheek easily at these times. These volumes of my life that I cherish and hold dear.

Thanks for stopping by, Cathi (DAF)

Fear Mongering…

This afternoon, hubby and I had a conversation about fear.   I had mentioned that everywhere I looked and everything I read had an element of fear.   There is no one area of life that is not covered in fear.

Fear of health situations.   Fear of wearing masks for fear of catching disease, fear of not wearing masks for fear of catching a virus.

Fear to state your opinions because they do not line up with what others are saying.  Fear of not saying what’s on your mind for fear you are not living according to your beliefs.

Fear that the wrong person will win the election, fear that the right person will win.  Fear that our country is going to hell in a hand basket.   Fear that freedoms are being stripped away.  Fear that our way of life will disappear.   Fear that we can’t do anything about it.

Fear of kids going back to school.  Fear that they won’t go back to school.   Fear that if they go back to school awful things are going to affect their health.

Fear.   A four letter word.   Another ‘F’ word  that should not be used as much as it is.

This evening I went to the store.   As I pulled out of my driveway I realized it was the first time in months and months that I actually was driving in the evening.  Also a first in a while was driving in the rain.   I had a momentary and fleeting feeling of fear.   What if it started to rain so hard I didn’t see a deer?  The what ifs were short lived and I had a pleasant drive to the store.

On the way home, I looked in the sky, it was still just twilight.  Part of the heavens were black and filled with stormy clouds, another part was bright blue with white thunderheads.  Streaming down through the clouds was a rainbow.  A bright one that filtered through the white clouds behind it.

I looked at the rainbow and smiled.  I actually said out loud, “You do great work, God.”  I went on to tell Him how much I loved His artistry.   And then I started to remember verses from the Bible and quotes I have often heard.  It was a wonderful drive home.

Genesis 9:13 in the New Living Translation says: ” I have placed my rainbow in the clouds. It is the sign of my covenant with you and with all the earth.  God promised never to destroy all life with a flood.  I think of this each time I see a rainbow. ” 

In 1933 FDR said in his inaugural address, “We have nothing to fear, but fear itself”.

2 Timothy 1:7 in the New King James Version says,  For God has not given us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of a sound mind.” 

John 14:27 in the New Living Translation says, I am leaving you with a gift—peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give is a gift the world cannot give. So don’t be troubled or afraid.

All of these echoed what hubby and I talked about today.   We can look at circumstances and situations and world events and live in fear or I can choose to look to God, and live in peace.    Today I have chosen to live in peace, knowing that nothing is going to change if I live in fear.   Fear will cripple me, harm me, cause me to withdraw and not see the beauty around me.  Fear will hold me prisoner and there I will not have the freedom to live, to be me.  So, while the world and our media blares fear in deafening tones, I will strive to quiet myself and see that even in storm clouds a rainbow can be seen.

Thanks for stopping by.   Cathi (DAF)






Wedding Cake Topper…

Growing up, my Mother’s bottom drawer of her dresser held a treasure trove of mementos for my sisters and I to explore.   Inside that drawer were photos, her wedding shoes (satin shoes), and her wedding cake topper.   She had these sugar bells that had once graced her wedding cake.   I loved those.  So, when I married, to honor her, I had bells at the top of my wedding cake.

I love my cake topper.  There are satin and sugar bells with some tulle at the top.   Glued to the main bell are two little hearts.   Perfect for me.   This cake topper has always held a place on my dresser as a reminder of that day.   Unfortunately, I never got anything to place this topper in and so it has been standing in the air, collecting dust  through these almost 46 years.

During this quarantine time, hubby and I have been redoing our master bedroom. It has been an extended project, taking much longer than either of us expected and truth be told, we wanted.   We moved everything out of our room, and since then, we have furniture and usual dresser top things strewn throughout our house.   We have taken up residence in our guest room and that looks like the most disrespectful guests have been there, with our normal bedroom things cramped into a smaller room.   Our master bedroom gets put back together this week and for that I am doing a major happy dance.

This morning as I was walking through our dining room, I glanced down at our dresser items placed in neat piles at one end of our dining room table.  Sitting there, in a place of prominence, is our cake topper.  It was like the first time I actually looked at it in a very long time.  wp-1595081206044.jpg

I almost did not share a picture of it, it looks so beaten up, but in order to make my point, you had to see this photo.

This poor cake topper has been everywhere with us.  It was not put into anything that would protect it.  It has been through each move with us.   Wrapped countless times and countless ways, shoved into boxes and shipped all over the world.  When it has reached its destination, it is unpacked, unwrapped and mindlessly placed back on top of my dresser.

45 and one half years ago today this cake topper was new and white and lovely as it sat upon our cake.  We had just said the words, “For better, for worse, for richer for poorer, to love, honor and obey, in sickness and in health, til death do us part.”   At the time those were just words to make it official.   We didn’t have a clue.  We, too, were new and white and lovely.

Since that time, we too, have been exposed to the elements.  We have been wrapped and unwrapped and moved around the world.   We have seen colds and flu and viruses, and cancer, broken bones, broken hearts, fears and doubts and everything in between.  We have experienced life.

Today as I looked at my poor little cake topper, I realized that my initial thought to finally get rid of it was wrong. This ugly thing still needs a place of honor because it truly does reflect what our life together has been like.  Chipped, broken, a bit worn and some residue along the edges, but, if you look close enough, you still see the two hearts glued together in the very center of it.

Thanks for stopping by today,  Cathi (DAF)


Fear and the Written Word…

Yesterday I commented on a blog that if the writer had found my writing mojo, please send it back to me.  I said it half in jest, half in truth.   Some may say I have had writer’s block, but, I think in truth I have just not written much out of fear.

The beginning of the month saw me take a huge step in submitting a couple of pieces of work for consideration for an online magazine.  Years ago, I would submit pieces without a second’s thought.  It was part of who I was and what I did.   Somewhere along the way, I stopped.  It wasn’t out of discouragement, as I thought with each rejection at least someone had read my words.   That in itself was a plus for me.   I think it was a healthy attitude, and I still do think it’s a great response for rejection of submissions.

There are many reasons I can rattle off for ceasing to submit pieces,  life got in the way, I started something else, I didn’t think it was worth the time, I got lazy, I rethought my priorities.    All of these could neatly fit into the reason I stopped.

But, personally, and if I am honest, fear is the reason I stopped.  Fear of inadequacy of saying what my heart is feeling and fear that it won’t resonate.   I do this with my blog and with my book.

Each Sunday, I silently pray during church services for strength and courage to write.   I pray about it daily, but somehow it’s those quiet prayers during service that speak to me.   Each Sunday I feel the prompting to just do it.   I leave confident and raring to go.  I get home and look at my laptop and freeze.

I was proud of myself for being obedient  and stepping out and submitting my works.   Yesterday I was supposed to hear if they were accepted.   I anxiously checked my email several times, hoping, but not expecting to hear anything.   I did not.  Am I discouraged?  Should I be?   That answer comes quickly, NO.   I know I did what I felt I needed to.

But, in thinking of this, I realized that my lack of writing mojo is fear of my written word.  It defines me, as what is written comes from deep within me.   So, yes, I have a fear of the written word, it is a reflection of me.  I have many wonderful people who read my words and encourage me, more than I could mention here.  I could not write without their encouragement and love.   This is a personal threat to me.  I put the phrase on my blog, “Ramblings from a would be writer”.     I think that needs to change.   I need to reflect what I write with how I see myself.  I need to see that brick wall of fear and either scale it or blow it to pieces, but, most of all I need it to be gone and get on with it.   Right?   So, once more, thanks for going through this with me.  Do you have a brick wall of fear in front of you?  How are you going to make it disappear?   I’d like to hear your thoughts.  And yes, I will change that little sentence to read, “Ramblings from a writer.” I will also remember that words on a laptop can easily disappear thanks to that little backspace key… so much easier than white out from the old days!

Thanks for stopping by today.   Cathi (DAF)

Leaving a Trace…

When we moved into this upstate area five years ago, hubby and I noticed quickly the old farmhouses dotting the landscape.  One caught my eye almost immediately.  It looked like it had been a well loved home and I often mentioned that I wish I could hear the stories the walls could tell.

The house screamed that it had been filled with many family moments.   The porch looked like it was a lovely place to sit, rock and talk away the hours.   The back yard looked like a haven for children to run, play, scream and cause parents concern at their antics.   I often thought of how the inside looked, and could imagine family meals, holiday celebrations, birthday celebrations full of laughter and noise and chaos.   The exterior looked worn, and tired.

Each time driving past the house I would think the same thoughts.  That is, until the one morning I drove past the house and it was gone.    It wasn’t being torn down, it hadn’t caught fire, it was gone.  Not a stick of it remained.   There was no trace of a basement or foundation.  There was the driveway and the mailbox and nothing else.   At first, I thought I was looking in the wrong place, but no, I wasn’t.

It still remains a mystery to me as whatever happened to that house.  I figured it was moved, but it must have been a quick move since the house was a large farmhouse.  The house disappeared a couple years ago and I still think of it.  I am hoping it is in a wonderful new place with a fresh coat of paint and filled again with a loving family.

Today, as I headed into town, I noticed a farm truck  pulled off by where the house once stood.  I glanced over and noticed the area is now almost fully covered by farm.  The driveway looks like a foot path that is hardly used.  If I hadn’t known a house had been there, I would think it was just part of the farm land.

As I drove on, thinking how there was almost no trace of the house, the thought occurred to me, what kind of trace will be visible after I am no longer here.  Yes, I know that is sort of morbid, but I found it interesting and also challenging for me.   In order to leave a trace when I am gone means I must make a difference now.  I came to no real conclusions, but, something has been provoked in me to think of the trace I desire to leave.

That’s it for today…  thanks for stopping by, Cathi (DAF)

A Reminder…

After my last post, I truly thought about closing my blog.  I did some soul searching and left several groups that I was a part of, but didn’t participate in.   I looked at my friends list and did a serious look at them.   I basically did a mid year mind search and seriously looked at where I was, how I was feeling and what I was doing.   Sort of a personal spring cleaning. 

During a conversation with another blogger it occurred to me that although writing and blogging is cathartic, it does not always fully express the whole situation.  

As I wrote about growing up, I thought of my sisters, and their point of view.  Although the three of us grew up in the same house, with the same parent and the same circumstances, their view is different from mine. 

The book reports we were forced to do while in school?  Everyone reading the same book, answering the same questions?  I always thought that it would be so boring for that poor English teacher to read the same thing over and over.   Although the basic principle of the book is there, how it is interpreted is different in each individual.   

The same is true with social media.  We all read the written word.  We each draw our own conclusion of what we read.  But, is it accurate of what is written?  Not necessarily. We each read with a different tone in our mind and that depends on our mood at that time.   I could write, That child is a mess.    What do I mean by that?  That the child is in need of a bath?   That the child is in need of medical intervention?  That the child is in need of psychiatric help?  Or, that child is so much fun they make me laugh and smile?   

Yes, taking things in context  is very important and it would depend on what was written before and after the statement, but the point I am trying to make is that an opinion can be made very easily upon interpretation of the reader.  That interpretation may not be how the writer is thinking, but because writers are limited by their ability, the full emotion and history of a thought is not translated to the written word. 

This past week I have read several comments and thoughts and it truly has worn me out.  I am surprised and grieved at the amount of angst in the words.   Some of these words may have been written without the angst, and yet they have been interpreted far from how the writer was feeling. 

Words on a page are one dimensional. They are not three dimensional.  Because of that, we do not see the sides or the back of the words.  We just see them.  The same is true of how we see the writers.  We see them like we see the words, one dimensional.  No life.  We then make a judgement on the person as a whole, and to me, that is wrong.  I know I have been guilty of this.  I fail to see the person as a whole. We do not know what prompted the person to write.  We do not see the struggle they may have just gone through.  We do not know what is going on behind the screen, so to speak.  

I guess what I am saying is that we need to see people as a whole person.  The words they wrote may not have the tone to them that we are placing on them.  I challenged myself this week to read, think, and reread before I play judge and jury.  I write this for me, if it speaks positively to you, then I will feel like I have successfully written what I had intended.  I truly dread if it is misinterpreted as many saw my last post. 

People who write blogs do so because they feel a need to.  Often times it is a release of thoughts.  Sometimes it is for therapy and a single way to liberate the parade of feelings trapped inside.   For others, it is merely a stepping stone to hone skills to write a manuscript.  Personally, I fit all of the above, and the fact that I find I am more articulate while writing than I am in talking.  I once received a card from a friend that said, I am so much more interesting on my blog.   It was one of my favorite all time cards. 

I know this week has been an interesting one for so many reasons.  I realize emotions are hot and close to the surface, let’s take time to take a deep breath,  read and reread before posting a comment just to make a comment.  I know I am approaching my social media timidly and infrequently.  

A scripture that has both encouraged me and challenged me this week is Proverbs 15:1, NLT  A gentle answer deflects anger, but harsh words make tempers flare”     Unfortunately this is not the first time that I have been challenged by this verse, hopefully it will be one of the last times it will present one.  

Cathi (DAF)




ALL Lives Matter…

It is early in the morning hours on June 3rd.   Yesterday all social media was flooded by black.   I really had no idea of it, I may be sheltered, or I may just hadn’t seen anything about it.   In any case, I did not participate.   Why?   Because, to me every life on this planet matters.  

I was blessed to be born in a country where all men are created equal.  This country was founded on those principals.   Do we follow them?  No.   SHOULD we follow them?  Yes.  The Declaration of Independence says, ” We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. ”   This is for all people.  This country was born of struggle and the pursuit of freedom.  

Yesterday, after seeing post after post after post of people pontificating, I wrote three words that are the title to this post.   I knew as I wrote them that I could be crossing that imaginary line that has somehow become very blatant in this country.  But, to me, what I said mattered.  How I felt mattered.  I had read things being said about our country during this time.  I read about our leadership being rallied against, both domestically and abroad.  I finally decided enough was enough.  I posted my choice for the upcoming election and told everyone that they were free to unfriend me because of that choice.   I did this for a few reasons, but, mainly because I needed to take a stand and draw a line for me. 

I caught flak for the statement I made on someone’s black post.  I was told my comprehension skills were lacking.  I couldn’t possibly understand.   That I was living in white privilege.  That in this case, I was wrong.   To the people who know me, you know that I love people.  I do not see color when looking at anyone.  Most of the time I cannot even tell you what color of eyes people have.  I notice people’s demeanor, their smile, their attitude.  Those are what I notice in people. That is just me.  

Do I agree with what has gone on in my country the past week?  Absolutely not.  It was a horrendous crime that needs to be punished.  Do I agree with protest?  Yes.  Do I agree with violence and looting and aggressive behavior?  That, to me, is the same as the original crime, it needs to be punished. 

Now, to the young woman who chastised me online for saying three words…  All lives matter, let me please defend myself, after having time to think this through.   Yes, I am white.   Very white since I have Irish and Scottish blood running through my veins, I don’t ever tan, but that is besides the point.   I grew up in a not so wealthy family,  some may say poor,  no, we didn’t have a lot of money.  My sisters and I had just enough clothes to be presentable.  We lived in a house that should have been condemned years before it actually was.  My mother died when I was 11.  My father, wasn’t always conscious of how to raise three girls, but, he did the best he was able.     So,  young woman, no, I did not have white privilege growing up.  

Continuing, young woman, I did not go to college, not for not wanting it, but, it was not encouraged and I was too intimidated to try.  Fortunately, I met the love of my life and we married young and moved away from your mother’s hometown.   We moved because he was in the Navy.  So, I did not have the ease of being able to be with family like you have the ability.  

We moved to the south, young lady,  a big change from northwestern Pennsylvania.  I attempted to find a job since young Navy families do not get paid well.  I had been trained working at the hospital, the one you were probably born in.  A wonderful facility that was well known in the area.  I was good at my job and proud of the work I did.  When I moved south I could not find a job.  I believe it is called discrimination.   A term you thought I wasn’t familiar with.  I saw many, many applications unceremoniously placed into the ’round file cabinet’,   the trash.    When I finally did get a job I was referred to by my boss and the management as ‘that damn yankee mick’.  I did not hear my name spoken the entire time I worked at that job.   Oh, by the way, they also fired me because I called in sick with a doctor’s excuse.   But, no, I don’t understand discrimination. 

Next, young woman, we lived overseas.  It truly was a wonderful time in my life, one that I will cherish.  We were there because my husband, took an oath to defend and serve this country, because all lives matter and freedom of speech and freedom to think for one’s self is paramount in our lives.  We lived in houses without hot running water, we had to literally heat the water each time we used it in our first place.  We had neighbors who spoke english, but because we were Americans and we were in Japan, they refused to speak to us.  But, I understood, as I understand where you are coming from.    We lived with rats that would chew the plaster in our walls at night, we lived with roaches that truly were atomic mutants that would fill our homes.  I used to brush the roaches away from my baby as she slept because there was no killing them, there were so many. 

Yes, young woman, you may see me as not comprehending, being privileged, living a lofty life,   but, you are not correct.  I see you and your families beautiful photos on your mother’s page.  You are lovely, as is your family.   When I say all lives matter, they do.  No one escapes this world without some pain and suffering.  Prejudice is not only for the color of skin.   Prejudice is for the little girl whose clothes are different from the rest of her classmates.  Prejudice is for the child who is smarter than anyone else, or slower than anyone else.  You are young.  I had strong beliefs when I was your age, but the sand paper of life and experience has worn off the sharp edges and what remains in me is the firm belief that all lives matter.  My husband gave 21 years of his life to serve this country so that you can have those beliefs.  He did it willingly and without expecting anything in return.   He served so that you can tell a total stranger, someone you do not know that she doesn’t comprehend, and she is privileged.    I hope this has given you a glimpse into a life that does and has mattered, maybe not to you, but to those who know me.   Cathi (DAF)


What happened to a sense of humor?

Sometimes I have a need to vent.  I know we all do.   Today is one of those days.   I am going to write things just to get it out.  I don’t feel like a heavy discussion, I don’t feel like wading through personal beliefs, I just want to vent and since this is my blog, I think I am going to do it.

Yesterday hubby and I did errands, and it felt so great to do them.  I mentioned it on Facebook, trying to make light of the fact that although we did normal things we still had to be in masks.  I was trying to make light of it, but, the conversation went quickly to the use of masks.  Nothing major, just comments.

Later last night I read about how serious this virus is to seniors.  I also read where people are no longer taking this as seriously as they should. I am tired of being serious.  I truly am.   Personally, I think this virus, has destroyed not only humans who have contracted it, I think this virus has destroyed personal freedoms and people’s sense of humor.  Very little is funny these days.  It is almost like since we cannot gather, we cannot hug, we cannot touch anyone, we cannot laugh.  This is a travesty.

Again, I am venting.   I don’t want to hear statistics.  I am in the old group.  I am in the group that this virus does horrible things to.  I am in that group that does not survive this well.  News flash:  Old people don’t survive much well.   We’re old.   We hit a number and bam!  WE are old.  Funny thing, I don’t feel old.  Yes, my hands don’t work well.  I over do a day of cleaning or working around the house and my back hurts, my knees hurt, I don’t sleep well.  But, I accomplished something.

We are susceptible to many things that we don’t survive. Pneumonia, stroke, flu, cancer, getting hit by a semi because we didn’t hear it and we didn’t watch crossing a street.  It happens.

Yes, at a certain age we become cautious.    We are not as steady as we once were.  We are not as reckless as we once were (some may say that’s wisdom).   But, we have things to laugh about.  Growing up people who wore masks into stores were about to rob them.  Now we wear them to buy eggs.  Does anyone see the humor in this?  We are supposed to be six feet apart.  I am getting my hair cut next week,  I love the girl who cuts my hair.  I love her family, and the last time I saw her her arms were not six feet long.  I cannot wait to see her again.

It is not normal for people to be socially distant.  We were not made that way.  It’s like stranger danger has gone crazy.  Don’t touch, don’t bump into people, don’t smile.  Of course with a mask on no one can tell if you are smiling.  Add sunglasses and a ball cap and no one can tell who or what you are since no one has had a hair cut in months.

Yes, I am venting.  This weekend is Memorial Day weekend.  The beginning of summer unofficially.  In reality, a day to remember those who have given their lives for their country.  Given their lives for our freedom.  Given their lives so we can live and be free and yes, even laugh.

Our state is opening up.  I am thrilled.   I just cannot wait until the day that laughter comes back into play.  The day when people don’t take everything so seriously.   We need to remember that none of us is going to get out of here alive.   Yes, that sounds glib.  Maybe it is.  All I know is I still have errands to do today, so I will go grab my mask and head out.

Thanks for listening.  Cathi (DAF)