no drab and no nonsense
Tuesday, the day may look Longfellowish to you, but when and if you get to this age and stage of life, you also may find that Every Day Is A Beautiful Day. Nevertheless, here's what Longfellow wrote,
The day is cold, and dark, and dreary |
and, indeed, for reason or reasons, maybe including climate change, "The Rainy Day" seems to define our Spring 2023 here on the Florida Gulf Coast. But it's fine with me way up here in 7H where the outlook changes constantly and flexibility is my byword.
This may seem more introspection than a blogpost this morning, or maybe more journal, no, a diary entry. Not "for the ages" but simply contemplating my own navel. I'm no planner, and though I try to be responsible in life, I especially try to remain flexible to change. All my growing up years, my mother liked to say that I was born thirty years old, but growing up was different for me than for other boys I knew. First piano practice after school, then work in the yard doing whatever mama needed doing. It's not a whine, it's just recalling - - from age nine years old in 1945 until I went away to college in 1953, Saturdays work all day in the fish market as a learning and paying job, instead of Saturday Matinee at the Ritz Theatre and afternoon playing in the neighborhood. I was fine with it, still am, though I perceive that it developed "all work and no play is a dull boy" into the most boring person under the sun, but a workaholic. No regrets, but if I were doing life over, I might change some of that, especially including my workaholic years as a Navy officer. Actually it went all my years as a parish priest too, until fairly recently, when I've begun slacking off toward retirement.
What do I do best and enjoy most these years in my extreme old age? Well, nap. Yes, a nap some mornings, and/or an afternoon nap, a perfect day is all day here in 7H and taking two naps, a morning nap and an afternoon nap, nomesane? The only rule is no napping after four o'clock in the afternoon, otherwise I may sleep through bedtime and be up for the day at eleven p.m. instead of four a.m.
Health. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, whatever that means. I have zero pain, anywhere. Each day, walk sufficient to stay in a mobile state instead of melting into my chair. And mentally: the brain doesn't yet seem to have taken a hit, though there's the common search for a word or for someone's name, which can be embarrassing; and there's the coming back here into the living room from the bedroom hoping to reignite the memory of why I went to the bedroom in the first place - - sometimes takes more than one round trip, but WTH, it's exercise, eh? Usually it turns out to have been for my glasses, or my hearing aids, or my wallet. And as for the rest of the physical side: All these G_d Blest pills, a bunch every morning and a double bunch every evening. Linda keeps them organized, both hers and mine, if she goes first, I've taken my last pill because I years ago forgot and no longer have any idea what pills I take or what any one of them is for except the FuroForty.
FuroForty, the furosemide tablet to drain off water. I take it, as today, when stepping on the scale shows weight gain from yesterday, or, as today, my right leg, ankle and foot are more than two sizes bigger than the left leg, ankle and foot. CHF, the congestive heart failure, diagnosed in October 2010, is progressive. Help slow it by more exercise and by cutting way down on salt: instead of salt, I use No Salt, a salt substitute that's potassium. So, you should pardon the expression but the pee pills drain the potassium along with the water, and I rely on the No Salt to replace loss of essential potassium. Only thing is, I read somewhere a decade or so ago that using No Salt interferes with one of my meds. So, dubyateeeffoh, nomesane? Just keep moving. Nothing to see here, move along. Reminds me that some years ago a younger priest stopped coming to our monthly clergy breakfasts, saying that it was mostly old retired priests and all they talked about was their digestion problems.
Holy Week, last Sunday was Palm Sunday, which kicks off Holy Week, the parish priest nightmare. One of many good better best things about being retired is that I just help as scheduled. At this age, I ain't nobody's Assistant, but I do try to help out the one who's now doing what I did for so many years. I jest heps best I knows how.
And I try to keep my mouth shut for the most part about things I once took dead serious but have since realized are sheer nonsense.
Anyway, whatever.
RSF&PTL
T