LIFE AT THE HOME

Nursing homes and convalescent centers, as we know them today, were almost unheard of when I was a youngster. Overall, people now live longer than they did back then. And with our modern life style, most families find themselves too busy to give proper home care to their older members.
A visit to a nursing home to see old friends or family members can give cause for some serious thought. It can be a stark reminder of just how short is our stay here on earth and of how flimsy the thread used by life’s weaver. Also may give us reason to wonder how we will react to all of the aches and pains and infirmities of age.
Some nursing home residents find it difficult to leave behind the freedom to come and go as they please. Others, who once took great pride in their work and other various achievements, find a life devoid of such activities almost unbearable.
Then there are a number who still count their blessings. They appreciate the fact they no longer must cope with the workaday world. Or the outdoors’ extreme heat and cold. They appreciate the comfort of knowing there will be food on the table at mealtime, and that doctors and nurses are readily available to look after them. And many enjoy the company of others their own age.


LIFE AT THE HOME

Twelve residents gather

In the spacious lobby

Of the Stone County Home

On a cold winter day.

Roy James is a talker,

He is seldom quiet,

Greets the home’s visitors

Each day at the front door.

Jim Knight is a walker,

He prances and paces

Spending much of his time

Circling the lobby floor.

Joyce Wilson says,"They serve

The noon meal quite early.

Line up right here when you

Hear them call out our name

“The food isn’t bad, but

As time goes by, it seems

Everything they serve here

Pretty much tastes the same.”

Tex Jones, an ex-cowboy,

Spent years in the saddle –

Long, hard days that left his

Body aching and sore

He says, “This new wheelchair

Has a real soft saddle.

I’m glad I don’t have to

Ride the range anymore.”

Gray-haired Fred Smith looks back

Across the dim past to

Long years working in a

Hot and noisy steel mill,

I sure don’t miss time clocks

Or factory whistles.

With that whole scene

I haveCertainly had my fill!”

Kate Johnson speaks fondly

Of raising her children

In youthful, but now dim,

Hazy days long gone by.

No matter how she tries,

She can’t quite recall the

Old recipe for her

Great sour cream raisin pie.

Floyd Brown joins the group,

but Is quiet, as always

His thoughts elsewhere,as if

Lost in some bygone day.

The one-time mechanic,

And son of a blacksmith,

Often yearns for his red

Fifty-eight Chevrolet.

Thomas Johnson recalls

Days sailing “the briney.”

Tomorrow he’ll ship out,

But only in daydreams.

He smells the salt air,

Sees the breeze fill the sails –

Feels his ship lurch forward –

At least, that’s how it seems.

Josh Kaiser leans forward,

And silently nods off,

With his handsome gray head

Almost down in his lap.

Mae Adams wheels off down

The North Hall to her room,

Says, “I think it’s time now

For my afternoon nap.”

Lester Williams leans back

In a soft recliner.

Thinks of summer and corn

Growing tall in his fields

His years of hard work and

Great pride in producing

Some of Dubuque County’s,

And the state’s record yields.

Clyde Wright shakes his head and

Says, “Life sure does change when

Old age comes and we can

No longer come and go

“But this place isn’t bad.

I’m treated real well here.

Somehow, it’s become the

Only real home I know.”

NOAH - LEARNING THE GAME

Evenings are often a fun time
For both my Daddy and me.
When evening chores are finished, we
Watch Pro-Wrestling on TV.

Daddy teaches me a few holds,
And tells of fun Grandpa had
Long years ago when he taught the
“Iron Claw” to Cousin Chad.

Daddy says, “We never can know
Just what the future will bring,
Maybe, someday, Son, you will be
Up there wrestling in that ring,

“Performing for huge crowds of fans,
Beneath all those big bright lights.
Maybe Mommy can sew you an
Outfit with a cape and tights.”

As we watch TV, I’m learning
New moves, and it is my hope
To one day perfect the deadly
“Powerdive” from the top rope,

Once I’ve perfected the “Sleeper,”
Opponents I’ll “put away”
Into such a deep sleep they won’t
Wake up until the next day.

I’ll use “Bear Hugs” and “Backbreakers,”
The “Indian Death Lock,” for fun.
Once learned, the “Flying Head Scissors”
Should quickly get the job done.

But, right now, I just rely on
The holds I already know
And when I wrestle with Daddy,
He still lets me win, I know.

But I still keep trying a few
New “No Name Holds.” Take your pick.
Right now I am most effective
With my new “Flying Drop-Kick.

With that one great move, I can be
Very difficult to stop,
But first, I must learn to avoid
My Daddy’s “Cannonball Drop.”

WEATHER VANE

Leafing through a magazine recently, I ran onto a picture of an old barn. On top of the roof was an ancient weather vane, a sheet metal figure of a farmyard rooster, badly used by the years and covered with layers of flaky rust, but still looking kind of proud and cocky and master of all it surveyed. I recalled a poem I once wrote about an old rooster; in his prime, a real "cock of the walk," but at last brought down a peg or two by the years. And by his younger, abler competitors.
Writing about real live people is usually not too difficult. Coming up with stories and rhymes about the fields and streams and the hills and valleys and the plants and animals that live and make their homes there is often no great strain. And the changes of the four seasons can readily inspire a few lines. Old memories frequently churn up tales of days long gone by. But writing about an inanimate object – something like a rusty old weather vane – at times requires shaking loose a little imagination. And yet, the staunch old fellow was still standing there at his post after all those years, perhaps it is no more than right that someone should tell his story. What the heck? We'll give it a try:

THE WEATHER VANE

Atop the old red barn's
Steep, shingled roof
Stood a sentry brave,
So proud and aloof.

He was no great hero,
Saving the farm
And the large farmyard flock
From grave, certain harm,

Yet he was lord of all
That he surveyed.
From that high vantage point,
He had never strayed.

For sixty years he'd perched
Up there and so,
He'd seen both the good and
Bad times come and go.

With each change of the wind,
He moved around,
But this weather vane cock
Could crow not one sound.

Crafted by a blacksmith
So folks could know
From just which direction
Each day's winds did blow.

At times he looked lonely –
Sad, now and then –
The blacksmith should have made
A sheet metal hen

To share with him his roof
And lonely life,
To have and to hold, and
Be his loving wife.

He had no feather coat
To comb or preen,
But just stood proudly there
Where he could be seen.

When the rains washed him clean
Of barnyard dust,
He'd be neatly dressed in
His brown coat of rust.

But the world rolls around
And time goes by.
Nothing lasts forever,
Neither you nor I,

And our weather vane cock
Bid us all adieu
When his old pivot post
Just rusted right through.

Then a gusty breeze brought
A blur of brown,
Blew him from his high perch,
And tumbled him down.

We never dreamed he'd meet
Such a tragic end,
But still look up, and miss,
Our old metal friend.

HARVEST GOLD

The weather here in the Midwest is usually pretty much "seasonal," varying only enough from the norm to make for conversation. And this past summer was no exception. First we heard the complaint, "We didn't really have a spring. It finally went right from winter into summer." In quite a few places the crops got planted later than usual. Or at least later than the farmers would have preferred. Some areas had enough rain while others went dry. But that is usually the case. It's been a few years since I last heard that old tale about the rain showers that were really scattered and spotty. One old farmer had been shooting at crows in his cornfield when a rain came up and he took off for the house, leaving his old double barrel shotgun sitting in the fence corner. After the rain, one of the gun's barrels was half full of water. The inside of the other was bone dry.
Most of this year's crops seem to have made good progress despite the fact that we did not have the normal amount of heat. There were a few days with high temperatures and a lot of humidity, but most of the time temperatures were quite comfortable. Or "liveable" as some folks say. A lot of late summer days felt more like those we expect in early autumn.
We are blessed with some of the country's prettiest scenery here in the Driftless Area. And with four distinct, beautiful seasons to dress up the countryside and show it off to its best advantage. Of the four, it seems that summer is the favorite of most people. It is not uncommon for some folks to spend a good share of the other three seasons just anticipating and preparing for the hot weather time with its growing and ripening gardens and farm crops, also the swimming, boating, biking, ball playing, hiking, vacationing and all the other activities that go to make up a summer.
After the Fourth of July, pessimists begin to lament the fact that summer is half over and "on the downhill swing." We optimists prefer to try to hang on to whatever we have left of the great and gorgeous season, at least until school starts. And then we start looking forward to a bright and beautiful fall. Autumn is a glorious season and just the sugar coating required to make the bitter cold pill of winter a bit easier to swallow.


HARVEST GOLD

Between life and growth of summer
And dead winter's icy pall
Stands the glory season, autumn,
Brightly colored, gaudy fall.

Goldenrod, profusely gilded,
A wild beauty to behold,
Combine rumbles through the cornfield
Spewing stream of molten gold.

Stand of birch trees on the hilltop,
All decked out in golden tone
Brighten up early October...
Almost shed light of their own.

River bluff aglow with maples,
Yellow, orange-gold and red,
Quaking aspen make a brightly-
Hued umbrella overhead

And the deep red ivy bravely
Hangs on to defy the frost
While dark green pines, draped in sadness
Mourn another summer lost.

Walnuts wait there for the taking
And the butternuts are free.
Watch the squirrel reap his harvest
'Neath the shagbark hickory tree.

Spear of geese starts heading southward,
Seeking out a warmer clime,
Autumn – brief gold splash of glory –
Harbinger of wintertime.

SUMMER VACATION

Our summer trip was great. I seldom use the term "vacation" anymore. Too many people who know me ask, "Vacation? From what?" Air travel was uneventful. Except for having to get off a plane and into an air terminal to wait out a violent thunderstorm. But flight attendants assured us, "It is much better to be down here than up there... ."
California is still California. And Los Angeles is still La-La Land. The dry, rugged country was designed to support only a scant population, at best. But it is now covered with and weighed down by far too many people, with the count still growing by leaps and bounds. There are too many buildings and automobiles, and more than enough smog. Highway signs that read, "$1,000 Fine for Littering," seem to go unnoticed and unread. But the flowers are beautiful. And they are everywhere, helping to make up for any other shortcomings the state may have.
Evidence of great wealth is also everywhere. And signs of abject poverty are almost everywhere. Often a whole city block of beautiful new buildings is balanced by one homeless, hopeless person shuffling by with all of his or her belongings in an old, stolen shopping cart.
Parks, schoolyards and gymnasiums teem with youngsters playing soccer, baseball and basketball – sports that, on The Coast, know no season. Grandsons Justin and Jake gave us reason to see a lot of grade school and high school level basketball and baseball practices and games.
We saw a great stage play, "Ragtime." That was son-in-law Jeff's generous treat, and daughter Pam took us to the Museum of Tolerance (perhaps the kids thought this old man's social consciousness and sensitivity needed an up-grade). We also saw a Dodgers-Giants game. We didn't see many celebrities this time, but I had a nice chat with Christopher Atkins who, as a youngster, starred opposite Brooke Shields in the movie "Blue Lagoon." In addition to various chores in front of the cameras and several entrepreneurial projects, Chris finds time to help coach his son Grant's Little League baseball team.
We found a few things out there that reminded us of the Midwest and home. One set of customized California auto license plates proclaimed: GO PACRZ. Another set spelled out the feeble, almost hopeless prayer: PLZ CUBS. And we cranked up the Internet and found an issue of the Telegraph Herald that contained my column titled "Weather Vane."

CALIFORNEE

The urge to roam burns deep and strong,
The need to travel, move along,
Need for variety, to change
Familiar sights for new and strange.
We turn our backs on home and nest,
Take old advice: Young man, head west!

Across the rolling prairie ground
Where wheatfields and cattle abound.
Over the Rockies' rugged rise,
We soar through wild and untamed skies.
At last, reaching the fabled Coast
Of which writers and poets boast.

Tall palm trees sway o'er golden sand,
There soft waves kiss the beaches grand.
Rich homes cling to the mountain's side
Till floods and earthquakes make them slide
Down nearer to the ocean's shore,
Thus making room for many more.

A land of leisure and the arts,
Of actors playing out their parts,
Gold, diamonds, furs, and fancy cars
Entrepreneurs and movie stars.
People, and more. People galore!
With each day bringing hundreds more.

All with big dreams, and working hard
More than a few with no green card.
And no one seems to know or care
About the homeless, always there.
Their treasures, saved since lifetime's start,
Hoarded in an old grocery cart.

Place of imperfect beauty, this,
A land where we find peace and bliss
Too often punctuated by
Gross violence and mourners' cry.
We have, with no more urge to roam,
One great option...we return home!

.

SEDENTARY OBSERVER

I relax, calm and contented,
In my soft recliner chair.
Through my picture window I see
Nature's wonders everywhere-

Rabbits, birds, and squirrels are some
Of the moving things I see.
They, as well as most of the plants,
Seem active, compared to me.

I sit, watching hyper-looking
Leaves on tall cottonwood trees,
As they jiggle, dance, and wriggle
In the teasing summer breeze.

They won't seem nearly that jolly
When autumn demands they fall.
I'll still be here, just reclining,
While scarcely moving at all.

PRINCESS DI

This article was written in September 1997. This week marks the 10th anniversary of Princess Di's death.

The late Diana, Princess of Wales, was perhaps the best thing that ever happened to Great Britain's royal family. At least in recent centuries.
At a time when the news media and public relations people could scarcely find anything of interest to write or say about the Queen or her family, along came this young, beautiful, willowy blond with the luminous, soulful eyes almost as big as saucers.
The result was somewhat like having a beautiful young bareback rider or trapeze or tight-wire artist join a faded, jaded, and aging circus. Immediately camera shutters began clicking and typewriters started clacking. And a new Cinderella story was born. Everyone sat up and took notice. Soon there was a giant, extravagant wedding that caught and held the attention of millions of people all over the world. Then, in due time, there was a new male heir to the British throne.
Diana made a few mistakes along the way. Apparently the largest being the trading of her future and her happiness (and eventually her life) for a royal title and a diamond tiara and a wedding ring. She apparently loved being called "Your Royal Highness" and all of the other perks that went with the position, but could never learn to accept and live with the miserable lack of privacy that went with it.
Although I was never really a Di fan, I can't help but feel saddened by her untimely death. Just three years ago this September a small group of us stood in the rain outside the iron gates of her Kensington Palace, and jokingly wondered whether or not the Princess would step outside and greet us, or at least wave. But then we rationalized that she was most likely too busy, what with marital problems and all. Tour guides all spoke kindly of the Princess, and often. They proudly pointed out the stores where she purchased her clothing and the shops where she bought her underwear. They informed us that when Her Royal Highness chose to go shopping, the store would be closed to the public, so that she would not be disturbed.
Despite a few critics, Di was widely admired and loved here in "The Colonies." We grew up with and still like Cinderella stories. We empathized with her in her conflict with the royal family. After all, didn't the signers of our own Declaration of Independence thumb their noses at one of the family members, King George III, and didn't our brave soldiers and minutemen put him in his place and send his troops and representatives packing?
The Princess is gone. May she enjoy her heavenly crown much more than she did her royal tiara here on earth.

PRINCESS DI

You brightened our dim and dull lives
With your beauty and your charm,
Helped ease others' heavy loads with
Kind word, willing hand and arm.
If you had some faults and failings
You were much the same as I.
Many folks here sure will miss you,
Princess Di.

Your life could not have been easy,
With many an up and down,
And your blond head never seemed quite
Made to fit that jeweled crown.
As you lived a life bedeviled
By photographer and spy
We all kind of stood behind you,
Princess Di.

You gave birth to two strong young sons,
Fit heirs to the royal throne.
We're told you did a great job as
A single parent, alone.
To us, motherhood is sacred,
Much like flag and apple pie.
Most Yanks here loved and admired you,
Princess Di.

Tabloids dogged each move that you made,
Never leaving you alone.
Some saw you a shameless hussy
With a heart as cold as stone.
We were not impressed the least bit
By such furor or such fuss.
We thought of you, not as a Brit,
But more just like one of us.
Now your tragic death has left us
With tears in many an eye,
As our thoughts and prayers go with you,
Princess Di.

May the angels guide and guard you,
Princess Di.