WHO WAS THAT MAN?
                                                      T. Wieland Allen

     I just returned from my 6:00 a.m. trip to Walmart to do my bi-weekly grocery shopping.  Fortunately it wasn't raining because the bigwigs at Walmart had implemented the caution of only allowing a certain number of oldies, speaking of seniors, in the door to shop because of the pandemic scare.  We "oldies" have our own allotted time to shop at Walmart, fortunately.  However, I never knew there were so many of us in our town.  Since I arrived there at 6:05, there was a reasonably short line standing outside to enter, considering that we had to stand on the consecutive yellow lines which marked the six feet distance we had to keep from the person in front of us and behind us.  I suddenly did not feel like a senior but instead I felt like a kindergartner filing into the school who had been assigned distance markers to keep Billy from harassing Sarah or vice versa.  In this day and age it's more likely to be Sarah harassing Billy.  
   We were obedient to the Walmart worker who stood halfway between the line and the door.  For some reason, I had to resist the urge to tattle to the Walmart line monitor about the man standing two people behind me who was refusing to stand on the yellow lines and instead insisted on standing between the yellow lines.  I normally am not a judgmental person, but I have noticed that the more rules and regulations we are asked to follow during this worldwide pandemic the more tempted I am to be a little bit rebellious to the guidelines. 
   There is a voice in the mind of most of us humans that when we are told not to do something, we instinctively want to do it just to see what is so important about it to warrant a warning.  I always relate it to my grand nephew who was visiting us one time when he was 5 years old and my husband took him to the street in front of our house, picked the boy up in his arms, stood on the curb of the busy street with him and told the young boy not to go into the street under any circumstances because it was a busy street and the youngster might get killed by a fast car.  My husband put the young boy down in the yard to play with the other kids while he went into the house to get something.  No longer was my husband's back turned than the kid walked right out into the middle of the busy street and looked up and down the street to see what he was going to miss that his uncle didn't want him to enjoy.  No car hit him, but I could see on the kid's face what I always thought God must have seen on Adam's face when God cautioned Adam, for his own good, not to do something.  There was a look on our young relative's face of, "I knew Uncle Steve was lying.  There must be something great out here that he doesn't want me to have."  You know that voice in your head that tells you nothing is going to happen if you don't obey the rules.  It has caused humanity problems, destruction and even death since the beginning of the earth.  There were those people in line with us at Walmart who insisted on standing between the lines instead of on them.
    Back to my story about my trip to Walmart to pick up some groceries.  I was glad to see that 99% of the seniors who were shopping along with me had masks on their faces and many had plastic gloves or rubber gloves on their hands, just like I did.  I even had a big scarf around my neck, covering up every spare inch of skin from my shirt to my chin.  You can't be too cautious.  My very cautious son had warned me to be extra careful at Walmart because his brother-in-law had fed him a horror story about how few people were obeying the new rules and regulations pertaining to the pandemic by shopping without masks and even in shorts and summer shirts.  My experience was contrary to what was reported to him.  Now, for Me, a confirmed rule follower, the only skin that might be exposed to the drops of the pandemic virus was the skin between the top of my mask, which was right under my eyes, and the beginning of my hair.  I felt like I had been a very obedient person and had, to the letter of the law, obeyed what the CDC experts had advised.  It was a somewhat eerie feeling to see everyone covered up with masks, scarves, long sleeved shirts, long pants, shoes that covered their feet and various kinds of gloves covering their hands. 
   Suddenly something happened that surprised me and it has left me with some consternation about my appearance.  Almost every person in that store was covered up completely and some people had hats on their heads, just to make sure the drops of virus did not lodge in their hair.  I had not thought about that precaution myself.  The scene in that store reminded me of some movies about the world being destroyed and everybody was rushing to make sure they had enough food if they died, which always defied logic to me. So there we senior citizens were, decked out in our homemade camouflage gear, thankfully, as prevention against the drops of virus that were supposedly in the air, pushing our baskets on which we had sprayed the handles thoroughly cleaned of any suspicious "drops" using the paper towels that had been sprayed with disinfectant as we entered the store.  Happily feeling like I was incognito in my gear, looking like everyone else, suddenly a man pushing a cart said to me, "Good morning, Tommy.  How are you?" 
   I was flabbergasted.  How had the man recognized me with only a few inches of my face being exposed to the air?  I was amazed how he had recognized me with so little of "me" being exposed.  I answered the man politely that I was wonderful and asked how he was, mindfully keeping six feet between us.  I was trying to act like I knew the man who had kindly spoken to me because few people were talking, either because of the early hour or because of the fear of breathing in a drop of the virus.  I had no idea what the identity was of the man who had spoken as if he knew we very well.  All I could see was gray hair, but every head there in the store that was exposed had gray hair in various poses of disarray, considering the early hour.
   As the nice, friendly man and I pushed our baskets further apart, making sure we were at least six feet from each other, I began to think, okay, what about me is so recognizable that the man recognized me with only a few inches of my body exposed when I didn't recognize him with the same number of inches of skin exposed.  Let's see, was it my ample derriere of which I used to try to cover up until JayLo made well shaped rear ends on women popular, for which I am eternally grateful to Jaylo?   No, that was covered up with a long vest.  Was it my distinctive German nose that I inherited from my dad?  No, it was completely covered up by the mask.  Was it something about my hair?  No, I had dyed it the day before and it came out a darker color than usual.  There was no logical explanation to me on how the man recognized me while I did not recognize him in his cautious pandemic coverings.  All I could see on him were his eyes and gray hair, just like me and everybody else in the store.  He looked like every other man in the store. 
   That experience will give me something to keep my mind busy, at least for the day, on what is so recognizable about me that a man could single me out in a store filled with people who all looked alike from a distance of much more than six feet, when I was completely covered up except for my eyes and hair.
   I rarely look in a mirror except when putting on makeup, but I might have to don my pandemic gear again and stand in front of a mirror and figure out what is so unique about my appearance for me to have been recognized quickly and easily by the man, whomever he is.  No, I won't do that.  Just as curious to me is who the dadgum man is!  Now, that is the real mystery!  That will keep my mind busy at least all day.  I may never figure it out. 
   Isn't it kind of pitiful that here we are in the middle of a worldwide pandemic with not much encouragement that it will be over soon, and things are so boring from being cooped up for three weeks that the only exciting thing to happen to me is being recognized in the grocery store by some mysterious man.  I guess the question in my mind is, should I be complimented or should I be insulted? I think I'll consider myself complimented to have been so easily recognizable.
   Life does keep getting more and more interesting as we get older.  Not in a bad way, but in a good way. My preoccupation in my mind with wondering how the man recognized me caused me to do an "old lady thing" when I got home.  After I had washed off my plastic gloves to make sure any virus drops went down the drain, took off the gloves and disposed of them, washed my hands the required length of time of five ABCs, put my vest and mask in the laundry room for the rest of the entire day in case there were "drops" on them, unpacked the groceries and threw away the plastic sacks after grabbing them from the inside bottom instead of the outside to avoid "drops", left the unrefrigerated groceries that were in plastic containers on a remote cabinet for the rest of the day to allow the "drops" to die, washed the outside of the containers of refrigerated food with Colorox wipes, put those food items in the fridge, changed my shoes which was suggested by the CDC officials in case Walmart didn't do a good enough job sanitizing the floor, I finally was able to fix breakfast for myself, having thought all of that time about why the man recognized me.  I scrambled the raw egg and the egg white in a bowl, added the spinach and cheese, all the time thinking about the man.  I made coffee, heard the microwave oven beep that my scrambled omelet was ready.  So I opened the door to the microwave only to find it empty and the bowl with the omelet raw ingredients was still on the cabinet.  I had microwaved nothing.  I had done another old lady thing, as I call them, which always warrants at least a giggle from me and sometime outloud laughter as I laugh at myself.  That was a signal that I had spent enough time on wondering something concerning myself and it jolted me out of self reflection, which often is the devil's temptation to give too much mental attention to one's self.      
   Maybe the incident happened for me as an opportunity for me pray for the man.  I just thought about that.  It was really a supernatural event.  Okay.  I got the message.  The man needs prayers.  Thank you, God, for the reminder. You got my attention!  God knows who he is.  I'll just pray for the mystery man.
   Thank God for having the privilege of belonging to God's Prayer Co-Op, a name that a friend and I called the cooperation between a person, God and us when we know that we are called to pray for someone.  We bring someone into the unity relationship we have with God.  It's like when Jesus prayed that we would be One with other people and with Him just like He and God are One.  When we pray for someone for whom God alerts us to pray, it's cooperation between God, us and the person, a spiritual co-op! 
   God's Co-op is much more important than any thought relating to ourselves.  We can always trust Our Father to bring us back to what is important, praying for each other and praying against the demonic force behind the pandemic or any other catastrophe that is going on in the earth.  That's what His kids do, enjoy the Co-Op's call for prayers.
   There's nothing to be bored about when we are engaged in the call of God's Prayer Co-Op.  It's a full time profession which has magnificent results which bring unspeakable joy to us.
   God bless the mystery man!   I know He will!    
                                          

PEAS PORRIDGE HOT, PEAS PORRIDGE COLD, PEASE PORRIDGE IN THE POT, EIGHTY-THREE YEARS OLD

PEAS PORRIDGE HOT, PEAS PORRIDGE COLD, PEAS PORRIDGE IN THE 
                            POT, EIGHTY-THREE YEARS OLD
                                                                       T. Wieland Allen
    Oh, the wonders of age and the things that happen to people of advancing    years.  Some of us are still reluctant to act eighty, but things happen to us that require more attention to doing things now in later years that we did by rote or automatically for years.
   Take for instance my love for mowing the yard and trimming the hedges.  I love doing both of them because of the sense of beauty and accomplishment when I gaze upon my job well done and admire the fresh, manicured look and, as my late husband used to say, "The results look like someone cares."  Somehow it is more than a delight to me.  It's a thrill.  I love to iron, too, love to look at the finished results.  Somehow it gives me joy.
   I know that most people don't view those menial labors as rewarding but I have been that way since childhood.  I surmise that is because I always wanted to mow the lawn for my dad but he had the same love for mowing that I do, and so he never relinquished the job to me.  In those days girls weren't supposed to mow the lawn; it was man's work.
    I admit that I have given up my job of trimming certain really tall hedges since my kids insisted on it.  It's all because of that one little privet hedge limb that was just beyond my reach, and I leaned in to allow the hedge trimmer to snip it off, but I lost my balance since it was on a slight incline and I ended up off balance and slowly advancing in slow motion toward the ground in the middle of the hedge with the trimmers still in my hand.  Fortunately the automatic cutoff worked on the trimmers so I was not in any danger of cutting my fingers off or something.  But that little incident was enough for my kids to tell me that I shouldn't try to trim that particularly tall hedge again or I might end up finger-less or, much worse, hand-less.
    One would think that a self propelled walk-behind lawn mower would be safe
for a person my age and a person of my high activity level.  Under normal circumstances the lawn mowing duty during that day would have come and gone with no drama.  Not that infamous day.
    That day, while I was mowing, a neighbor stopped me in my enjoyable job of mowing the front lawn by wanting to discuss my newly built flower beds.  We talked for a few minutes and I informed her about the reason for the new large flower beds, which is to prevent any further erosion of the soil in the front yard.  After the huge amounts of spring and summer rains, my normally beautiful lawn is almost void of dirt on the front east side of the house.  Instead of grass, it has big tree roots exposed and lots of dirt, hardly any grass.  The lawn tech who sprays for weeds told me what to do, and so I worked with some helpers and we followed the tech's instructions.  It worked out great.  For a little while I will be relieved of mowing that large section of my yard while newly planted grass sprouts and grows.  Because of not having to mow that section, I was able to complete mowing the other sections which normally I split into two sessions after having a blood clot in my leg three months ago.  I am not supposed to get overheated.  I felt like I was safe in going ahead and completely mowing the large west side of the front lawn since it was a much cooler day than in the past few weeks. 
    After conversing for a few minutes with My neighbor, I resumed finishing up mowing the west side but I was mentally distracted, I must confess, by thinking about something I should have told the neighbor.  Let me remind you, I am super conscious about being cautious about falling because while on blood thinners a fall could cause my lights of life to permanently go out if a fall caused a brain bleed  so I am super careful.  However, mental distraction is a problem if a person's thoughts are not focused.  And that's how it happened, my most embarrassing moment.
    I was joyfully mowing a small section underneath a tree and I always just drag the mower a short distance backward at a certain spot onto the next section to mow.  Being mentally distracted and thinking about what I wanted to tell the neighbor, I forgot all about the three really large flower pots on the sidewalk about 15 feet behind me.  Cautiously pulling the mower backwards slowly, suddenly I felt something hit me in the back of the calves of My legs and I went down, down, down backwards into one of the large flower pots that sits on the sidewalk adjacent to the grass.  Now, mind you, I am well endowed in the derriere so for me to land sitting down in the middle of one of the large pots took a rather large pot. 
    There I sat poised, sitting all the way down inside of the pot with yellow mums sticking out from the back and both sides of the pot. My two legs, bent at the knees and hanging down the front of the pot a few inches from the ground, covered up the mums in the front of the pot.  Bear in mind I was not on top of the flowers and dirt.  The potting soil was soft and I was sitting deep inside of the pot.  There I sat.  At least I was surrounded by beautiful flowers if anyone saw me. 
    The mower shut off, of course, the minute I let go of the handle, and there I was seated in the middle of beautiful mums in a place I wasn't supposed to be; in fact, no human was supposed to be.
    Now, it was easier to fall inside of the flower pot than it was to get out of the flower pot.  Even though I had lost a few pounds, my ample buttocks was stuck tightly. 
   First thought:  Oh, God, don't let anybody see this ridiculous sight.
   At least I had the yellow mums surrounding me in the pot.  Maybe they would distract anyone driving by the house or walking down the street. 
   I was deep inside the pot and far enough from the ground that I could not use the sidewalk on which the pots rested for leverage by which to use my hands to lift myself out of the pot.  Using the edges of the pot to lift myself up didn't help, either, because of my being stuck so tightly.  My feet were at least six inches off of the ground, so no luck there, either, as far as pushing myself backwards or using my legs to lift myself out with the help of grasping my hands on the side of the big pot. 
   Second thought:  Oh, God, let me be invisible to human eyes.
   Comforting thought: at least I had the yellow mums surrounding me in the pot.
   Suddenly it came to me to start rocking my body back and forth and maybe the pot would turn over and I could crawl out of the predicament I had gotten myself into by being mentally distracted while mowing the lawn. 
   Third thought:  Dear God, if you will temporarily strike people blind who walk by, like you did Saul in the Bible before he became Paul, then they won't see me rocking back and forth stuck firmly in a flower pot with yellow mums protruding from the flower pot around me; and if you do that, I promise to never mow while being distracted again.
    I never bargain with God, but I sensed that He was chuckling at the silly scene and He wanted to work with me because of my pitiful situation of caring what people think about me.  Truthfully, I just didn't want anyone to tell my kids or they might firmly "suggest" that I get someone to mow my lawn for me and take away one of my greatest enjoyments in life.  Yes, it doesn't take much to make me happy! 
   Lo and behold, it only took a few forward rocking motions and then a few backward motions of rocking back and forth before the pot bent forward and the dirt and crushed mums in the pot let go of my buttock and I landed on the grass in front of the sidewalk with the pot on its side. 
   At my age and level of physical activity, if I am sitting on the floor or ground, it often takes my rolling onto my side and lifting myself up with My hands to enable me to rise from a sitting position.  Under the embarrassing circumstance, I scurried up very quickly from a sitting position on the ground much like I did when I was in my twenties.  Of course, I had to wiggle out of the crushed mum plants in the middle of the pot before turning on my side and boosting myself up, brushing myself off, and acting like I was just out for a casual stroll in my beautiful yard, checking on the many flower pots to make sure the flowers weren't thirsty.  I casually walked around checking my legs, arms, neck and back to make sure nothing was broken and nothing was bleeding, acting like I was picking weeds while bending over to check everything. 
    Everything was A-OK, even my ego, because I have a habit of thinking about my two sisters and how they would have bent over in laughter at the sight.  I started laughing about how I must have looked to anyone who might have seen me and had maybe wondered if I was trying on the pot to see if I could fit into it for some silly reason.  Maybe I could have blamed it on dementia but fortunately I still work at my profession so I keep my mind nimble.   I'm sure with My big turquoise sun hat, my big black cataract surgery sunglasses, my surgical mask covering my mouth and nose to prevent allergies, my husband's big giant gardening gloves on my hands, and My dirt covered derriere which looked like I had used the pot for another kind of pot, if anyone had seen me they would have just looked and thought I had gone looney, anyway, since they see me working in my yard all summer dressed like a female hobo.
    The next day I had no residual effects from falling backward into the big flower pot, only a tiny bit of a stiff neck.  That probably came from the rocking back and forth motion in trying to work myself out of the pot.  Praise God, no blood clot or increased bleeding, no headache, no nausea, and not even any bruising.  It's a miracle.    
    I've heard gun lovers say that they will never give up their guns until someone takes the guns out of their cold dead hands.  I feel the same way about my mower.  I began to feel the same way about my hedge trimmer, too, after I got a really powerful one.  I finally figured out why some guys like power tools;  it's the power!  I understand perfectly now.
   Now you know my story about my few minutes stuck in the flower pot.  At least the yellow mums framed my body.  However, the ones in the center of the pot are crushed flat, never to bloom again, a reminder to keep my mind on the chore at hand.  Those mums cushioned my backward fall so I am grateful.
   Thanks to my angels for depositing me in the flower pot instead of on the hard sidewalk.  They used the mums to save my life.  Thank you, God, for giving your angels charge over us to save us from tragedy! 
   I'm covering all bases and calling my neighbor across the street and asking her if I can call her every time before I mow so she can keep an eye on me.  She's young.  She's only 75.  She will be delighted to watch out for me.  She's a great neighbor lady.   
   Experience is sometimes the greatest teacher.   Thank you, Mr. Experience, I learned my lesson well! 
   Actually, in mowing the back yard today, I learned that when you pull a mower backwards, that you must turn and look backward where you are going.  Problem solved. 
   I don't mind being laughed at or "laughed with" in this case since I enjoyed a good laugh, too.  One of the workmen building a new pergola for me just told me as he left my house for me to watch out for wandering flower pots.  He enjoyed the story immensely.
   Life is like a bowl of cherries.  I love going cherry picking for the delightful fruit of joy.  I always tell my kids and grandkids that there is always a solution to everything.  Rocking back and forth in the flower pot solved my problem.  I think there were God's angels behind that, too.
   Don't tell this to my kids, please.  This is just between us good friends.

FAMILY BLESSINGS OR FAMILY CURSES

FAMILY BLESSINGS OR FAMILY CURSES
                                                                     T. Wieland Allen
   Do not tell anyone about this, please.  I won't swear you to secrecy, but please do not tell my kids about what I am about to tell you that I found in my house recently. 
   First let me tell you about My family.  I come from a family who laughs at everything.  It's a family tradition, most often resulting in being a blessing but a few times it's resulted in being a curse.  We laugh heartily at everything, people falling down stairs, mistakes made by pastors or choirs in churches, and most of all our own silly mistakes.  Instead of persecuting ourselves for obvious mishaps, we have the habit of laughing hilariously at ourselves.
   I remember my dad being on a trip with his 82 year old professor friend who had stumbled over his own feet and then tumbled down an entire flight of concrete stairs at a state library years ago.  My dad had marvelous restraint that time because he helped his elderly friend up, helped him to the car, drove him to their motel and helped the professor into his room.  Then my dad entered his own room with dignity, but upon entering to his safe space Daddy fell on the motel bed in hysterical laughter for 15 minutes.  It's just the way we are put together.  Life is laughable to us.
    I have been known to laugh at myself when nobody else is around to laugh with me or at me.  I am subject to make mistakes when cooking because I am a highly goal oriented person and I try to accomplish three or four things at the same time. Years ago I was baking a cake from scratch -- you know, with multiple fresh ingredients -- and I reached into the cabinet for the vanilla, always the last addition to baked goods, but instead of getting the vanilla I grabbed the Liquid Smoke bottle instead and measured a teaspoon of it, pouring it into the freshly combined sugar, butter, flour, cocoa and other ingredients mixture. Suddenly I got a strong hankering for barbecue pork sandwiches.  After letting the mixer do its job of combining the many ingredients, along with the liquid smoke, I realized that we were not having cake for dinner and laughed and laughed at my mistake.  That unbaked cake batter ended up in the trash and I dashed to the store for some of their commercial cookies with the proper seasoning. Our guests for dinner that night found my story as funny as I did and they forgave me for having store bought cookies instead of my special moist chocolate cake.
   In fact, just this week I reached in the fridge for a new bottle of vidalia onion and tomato salad dressing to put onto freshly cut home grown tomatoes for dinner but instead I grabbed a bottle of Head Country barbecue sauce.  My daughter caught me just in time to avert a disaster.  Ruining my son freshly picked home grown tomatoes by dousing them with barbecue sauce might not be a laughing matter to other people like it would have been to me. 
    My oldest sister was visiting us years ago when we lived in a two story house.  She kind of pranced with dignity when walking, much like our mother.  One day I was sitting in the living room just in time to see her turn from the first stair landing onto the second landing, missing the first stair, landing on her buttock and bouncing with dignity all the way down the ten carpeted stairs to the bottom.  I couldn't resist.  I laughed and laughed at her effort to be dignified, even in bouncing down each step on her rear end.  Fortunately, she was not injured but I'm not sure that she ever forgave me for laughing so loudly at her less than dignified descending down the stairs into the living room.    
    Now to the current situation which caused me to laugh and laugh at myself which I ask you not to publicize to anyone that I know.  Here's the scenario:  My daughter and granddaughter came to my house for a five day visit.  I cleaned and cleaned inside and outside of the house with meticulous efficiency, I thought.  I moved things and swept under and behind most of them, I thought.  I was really very proud of my clean house, I thought.  My oldest son, his girlfriend and his two grown children came for several meals and we always gather in the den which is in the middle of the house.  We moved a few chairs around to make sure everybody had a place to sit.  I did not see any surprises during those five days.  Thank God I didn't. 
    A few days later, after the family guests left for home, I was recuperating from a minor operation so I was sitting in my usual reclining chair in the aforementioned den with my arm elevated, per the doctor' instructions.  My cell phone was almost out of power, so I went behind my chair to plug it in.  Beside my chair my eyes landed on something that I had not seen while cleaning the room during the last week.  Huh, I thought, what in the world are those two pieces of white fabric?  They had not appeared into my range of sight while I was cleaning the room days earlier.  I bent down carefully to pick up one of the pieces of white fabric and realized that it was one of a pair socks which had been hidden from view for who knows how long.  It was so stiff it felt like it was petrified.  I picked up the other sock and it was equally as petrified, stiff as a board.  Upon quickly smelling the socks I realized that they were a pair of socks that I often remove from my feet after I mow the lawn and sit down in my recliner before I take a shower.  There was an aroma of what used to be called lady's "glowing", but those socks were not lady's perspiration.  They were petrified with just plain old SWEAT.  Take my word for it, both socks were stiff.  No telling how long they had been under the small side table which is loaded with books.  I always move the two reclining chairs and the table between them to sweep, but rarely do I move the side table because of its weight.  Yes, ma'am and yes, sir, the socks were practically petrified, they were so stiff.  They weren't necessarily dirty.  They were just two practically new white socks which stood straight up in the air when I held them up, petrified stiff with dried sweat.

   I sat down in my recliner and laughed for ten minutes at the thought of someone other than myself finding them when the house was full of people.  How embarrassing would that have been.  Oh, no, knowing My family we would have all had a big laugh at my expense.  My face would have been red, but I would have been laughing right along with them, just like I still laugh alone by myself today at the image of someone else locating the petrified socks which were stiffened by my sweat who knows how long ago after mowing the lawn.
   How long did it take to stiffen the socks?  As I said, only heaven knows.  They could have been there a month or only a week, but long enough for them to dry completely and cause them to stiffen.  I could bend them, but they didn't soften.  They stayed right where they were bent.  Now they are in the washing machine waiting for a full load so that they will be back to their normal clean, white, soft condition. 
   Being born into a family that laughs at everything is a wonderful family trait.  It keeps people in the family young and vibrant.  Both of my parents lived into their 90s, still laughing until the last breath.  I don't remember either one of them ever having a good laugh at finding two petrified socks in their house a few days after their kids and grandkids left.  If they ever did, I know they laughed about it.  I can guarantee you something equally as bizarre happened to them and they laughed.
   Maybe I should not use so much of my trusty orange scented house spray.  Maybe if I didn't spray so often I could follow the scent of sweaty socks and find them under the side table before guests come to visit. 
   Thank God nobody acted like they were offended by a stinky aroma during the five days they visited.  Oh, yeah, the socks were petrified and a person had to hold them close to the nose to notice the aroma of good old lawn mowing sweat.  Fortunately they were new socks, so that was a plus.
    I found out that good old fashioned sweat is a substitute for laundry starch.  There is a minus to it.  The aroma of the dried sweat keeps people away from you.  If that's your desire, to escape from people, try socks petrified by dried sweat.
    I trust you not to tell anyone in my family about my finding the petrified socks after they left to go home.  Now that I am in my 80s they watch for any signs of dementia.  They must never find out about the petrified socks.  I want it to be our little secret.  I will take it to the grave and I trust you to do the same.
    Hope you got a laugh.  After the laugh, shhhh ----- please don't tell anybody.

HOW IN THE WORLD DID I GET HERE

                                    HOW IN THE WORLD DID I GET HERE?
                                                  T. Wieland Allen
    I honestly don't know how it happened but I got to this place so suddenly, it seemed.  It's almost like I was Rip Van Winkle and woke all of a sudden and I was at the most dreaded age for women, old age.  Now, mind you, I don't feel aged.  My face doesn't show it, my mind doesn't betray me, and my productivity doesn't mirror it.  But, unfortunately, the number of years that I've lived often say it.  LOUDLY!
    Honestly, I have refused to get old, preferring to say I am mildly and slowly aging.  In fact, when my oldest child became 59 the other day, it was a shock to my self image because I feel 30, have the energy level of a 30 year old and lie to myself, telling myself that my body can do the work of a 30 year old, which I most often  do, being very healthy.  Now, I'm not a health nut, just a person who takes good care of my body, soul and spirit, preserving all areas of my life wisely.  My parents lived until their middle 90s in great health, living a lot and laughing a lot because of good stock, my mom used to say.  I want to honor their memory by doing the same thing.
    On the event of my oldest child's 59th birthday it occurred to me that the next number is 60 and the idea of having a 60 year old child is almost terrifying.  It denies the fact that I still think that I'm only 30.  It might be a miracle that a 30 year old woman could have a 59 year old man child, but I believe in miracles so I'll claim that one. 
    On that fateful day of waking up with the realization that I am a real senior citizen, I chose to switch my mind back to lying to myself and telling the aging woman in me that I'm still young and vibrant.  Lying to oneself is easy because nobody else lives in your body to refute the lie.
     Then the Rip Van Winkle rude awakening happened.  I was getting ready for bed that night (a habit that everyone does automatically without deliberately being conscious of what we are doing ) and in the middle of my nightly change from clothes into pajamas, I suddenly had an awakening as if waking from a dream, and I suddenly realized that I was routinely wiggling into a pair of -------- Depends. 
      How did I get here, in need of Depends?  As they say, a girl's got to do what a girl's got to do.  As a matter of necessity, Depends are a blessing when a person's bladder decides to activate at strange times and as a surprise to the owner of the bladder.  With me, it happens only at night.  Thank God it doesn't happen in the daytime or I would really feel aged.  Maybe a person's bladder, as it ages, becomes self determined and just does its own job without the participation of the owner, which for me is at night.  It's not a big deal, just some mild leakage that has been a real surprise to me for a few months.  I ignored it for a while, thinking it would go away, but it became clear that there are supplies at the store or pharmacy that are made for just such times when a person's bladder become rebellious and has its own off and on switch, much to the chagrin of its owner.  I decided to some day in the future buy the supplies that are made for people who have a bladder that has developed a mind of its own.
   Being a real bargain seeker, I have a store that I frequent regularly.  Listen, it's a real bargain store.  When My dad was the age that I am right now, I took him shopping at that store and he bought a Hart, Shaffner and Marx three piece suit for $10 which fit him perfectly.  As he checked out and proudly paid his $10, he discovered that there was a bonus under the jacket, a beautiful white thick men's  belt.  Now, the belt had been out of style for years, but Daddy surmised that it would surely come back in style in a few years.  He died with the much treasured white belt still hanging in his closet, unworn.   But, still, he got the joy of finding a real bargain and feeling like he had cheated Mr. Hart, Mr. Shaffner, and Mr. Marx out of the $700 price listed on the tag.  
   For me at my current shopping spree at the same discount store, I noticed some big packages of Depends, even though I had not really decided to buy any yet because, if I did I thought, then I would turn into a wrinkled, derelict, stooped, babbling old lady who had lost control of all bodily functions.  Maybe I thought that buying Depends would be a signal to my body of, okay, it's time to stop functioning  properly now.
    But, the price was right at the bargain store, only a couple of bucks, so I placed the package of Depends under the other purchases in my basket so as not to reveal my need for them.  I planned quickly in my mind that if the checker commented on them that I would tell her that they were for my mother.  She wouldn't know that my mother had gone to heaven a long ago.  I didn't have to lie since the checker wasn't the least bit interested in my purchases and was less interested in my bladder.    
     After paying and on the way out to the car, I shifted things around in the sack and put that tell-tell package of Depends on the bottom of the sack and put the other purchases on top in case someone was at my house and would know my deepest secret, that I had to use Depends at night when my rebellious bladder refused to wait on me to turn it on and off myself. 
    That evening while dressing for bed, I opened the package and found that I had bought Depends of the wrong size and for the wrong gender.  In my effort to hide my purchase so as not to reveal my advancing age and slight problematic bladder problems, I had bought a package of Depends for men in an extra large size, extra thick and super absorbent.  Well, you can guess what my thoughts were.  No way I was going to march back into that store and exchange them for a smaller size.  No way in hell, I thought.  Not ever would I put myself through that again. 
    My next thought was that I would go ahead and try out the men's extra large, extra thick and super absorbent Depends that night and see it if would work.  In getting ready for bed I pulled one on and it didn't slip down off of my hips, so I knew maybe I could keep it on since I would be lying down and not going dancing in the Depends.  Heaven forbid. 
    The only thing about the men's extra large, extra thick and super absorbent size of Depends was that the super thick absorbent material was so thick that it hung down between my legs about two or three inches.  As I walked around the room seeing if it would stay on my body, I started to think that that thick material hanging down between my legs must be what a man feels like walking around with one of his organs hanging down between his legs, which was very, very uncomfortable.  I remembered what Yoko Ono said one time.  She said that men are so constantly angry because of having something hanging down between their legs all the time.  She said that it must be very burdensome because they are always adjusting and shifting it.  I fully understood as I walked around my bedroom trying to get used to the extra large, super thick and super absorbent Depends on my body. 
     Well, I didn't need that size, did not need that thickness and certainly did not need that extra absorbency for a mild occasional leak, but a bargain is not a bargain unless you use it so I was determined to use them until they were gone.  They served their purpose and kept me dry and allowed me to sleep soundly during the night.  I blessed the inventor of Depends after that first night.  My attitude toward them changed completely. 
     On my next trip to the pharmacy I will peek into the ladies feminine product section and see if they do make ladies medium size. thin, light absorbency Depends.  I'll have to buy some other products also so that I can cover them up in my basket so as not to identify to the world that I am not only a senior citizen but a leaky one at that.
      Nope, I will never change My thinking.  I still feel 30 during the daytime, but at night when I slip into the Depends my mind does a quick forward switch into reality and tells me that I am an octogenarian.  Maybe the time will come when I don't hide my Depend purchases and I will proudly display them on top of my other purchases instead of hiding them on the bottom.  I don't know why I feel like I am shop lifting or something when I buy Depends.  Nobody cares.  I need to stop caring.  Maybe writing this story will allow me to treat aging with grace instead of disdain.  Yeah, I like change so I'll do just that, change my thinking into thanking God for the dear person who invented Depends instead of being ashamed of needing them.  
   I must face the fact that I am dependent upon Depends.  It happens to all of us sometime if we live long enough.  It is a sign that we have lived long, wonderful lives.  I will celebrate my long life from now on instead of denying my age.  Other signs of aging are sure to come and I want to look at them as evidence of the great wisdom that we gain from years of living.  Yes, that's what I will do, rejoice in wisdom instead of being ashamed of the Depends. 
    I feel much more appreciative of aging now.  Thank you for helping me sort out the wisdom of aging by writing this experience.  I guarantee that you will think about my first experience of buying Depends when you are called upon to do the same thing.  
    Just be sure you buy the right size, though.  If you mistakenly buy the men's extra large, super thick and super absorbent ones, unless you you have a bad back and are use to sleeping with a pillow between your knees you are in for the shock of your life. Just remember Yoko Ono's great wisdom relating to bulky objects between your legs and get a good laugh.  Be sure you are wearing a Depend because, at our age, laughing and coughing often calls for changing our britches.
    Life is an adventure and it's gets more and more adventuresome as we age.                  
      
                        
       

IT REALLY HAPPENED, I SWEAR IT DID

                                  IT REALLY HAPPENED, I SWEAR IT DID
                                                                            T. Wieland Allen
     Yes, it really did happen just the way that I am going to tell you.  I was amazed and I know you will be amazed, also.
     The temperature had reached 100 degrees outside, 115 with the the heat index.  It was so hot but I had to make a run to a store that had some things on sale.  It didn't really seem that hot to me, but after purchasing my good buys at my favorite store, I only had one short stop to make before going home.  Since it was so hot, I decided to stop by the drive through at McDonald's and get a large diet Dr. Pepper, which I occasionally do if I am out shopping for a good while.  Besides that, it was happy hour at McDonald's and the large drinks were only $1.09, a real bargain. I could almost taste that Dr. Pepper and feel the cooling effects of that first drink through the straw. 
     I ordered a large diet Dr. Pepper at the proper place, the faceless, windowless structure.  At the first window with a real person visible, the young lady told me that the diet Dr. Pepper was flat and do I want a substitute.  I told her that diet Coke would be fine and paid her my $1.09 plus a nice tip. 
     On to the next window I went, adjusting my taster to take the first sip out of the diet Coke, wetting my thirsty palate, as they say.   The pretty girl at that window told me that the diet Coke was flat.  I remarked that I thought it was the diet Dr. Pepper that was flat.  She said that both were flat.  I asked how long they had been flat and she said a week or longer.  What an inconvenience since that McDonald's is on a busy highway and there are always cars backed up in the drive through line. 
    The pretty girl asked if I wanted to substitute anything.  I didn't want that much sugar if I had a regular Coke or Dr. Pepper, so I told her that I would just take one of their good iced coffee drinks instead.  Eager to please, the pretty girl disappeared from the window and was gone for about a minute.  Then she appeared again and asked what kind did I want.  I asked what kind they had, expecting her to say a caramel frappe or a mocha frappe or some other tasty drink.  Instead she said, "Decaf or regular."  I was impressed that they had begun to have decaf specialty drinks, the frappes of which I am so fond with their thousands of calories.  Elated that they had decaffeinated specialty drinks, I told her decaf and waited for her to ask which flavor.  Her face disappeared from the window again.
    When her pretty face appeared, she said that it would be just a minute.  I complimented her on her hair which was piled high upon her head in a long braid and her neckline had been tattooed with a razor, meaning that there was a pretty shaved design in the hair on her neck.  She was grateful for the compliment. 
     Suddenly I saw someone, probably her supervisor, appear beside the pretty young lady carrying a small McDonald's Styrofoam coffee cup in her hand.  I surmised that she was going to make a frappe of some flavor for me there at the drink dispensers out of the cup of coffee. 
     Was I ever wrong.  The supervisor took the top off of the cup of coffee and added a big scoop of ice, put the top back on and handed it to the pretty girl with the elaborate hairdo.  As she handed it to me I was stunned, but told her how much I appreciated her going to that much trouble for me.  She remarked that it was her job to please the customer. 
     I was still thirsty and the ice had melted in the coffee, producing weak coffee with no cream or sugar.  What a bummer.  There were cars behind me, several of them, and they were getting impatient, so I drove away letting the pretty girl think she had made my day. 
     I was reminded of the time when we had first moved into town and my husband had a few hours to spare from work one day and asked a new neighbor to go with him to have a cup of coffee at the Walgreen's store which had a soda fountain at that time.  They sat at the counter and my husband ordered a cup of coffee.  His friend said that he wanted iced coffee.  My husband noticed a confused look on the face of the waitress.  The waitress brought my husband's cup of coffee to him, went and got another cup of coffee for his friend, grabbed a piece of ice from the dispenser and plopped it into the coffee that was sitting there in the white cafe style cup.   Unfortunately, my husband's friend was not as gentle with the lady as I was in my situation.   
    Some things are not serious enough to make a fuss over, iced coffee being one.  We can either laugh about the naivete of people later in a strange situation or we can make a scene at the time.  I have always made it a habit to laugh about things; in other words to go with the flow and flow with the go.  
    Both waitresses had done what was logical to them.  Actually in my situation it was my fault that I had not made it clear that I wanted one of McDonald's  specialty coffee drinks, frappes, instead of a hot cup of coffee with ice in it. 
     I got my specialty drink.  I made my own out of the cup of coffee from McDonald's, some almond milk, a teaspoon of stevia for sweetening,  a dash of Hershey syrup and plenty of ice to replace the melted ones. 
     Where there is a will there is always a way.
     I'm wondering if it ever occurred to the young girl with the fancy hairdo or her supervisor that what I was really wanting was a summer specialty frappe drink instead of a cup of hot coffee with a scoop of ice floating around in it.  Something was missing in the translation, evidently. 
    It was my translation, not theirs.  I will be more specific next time.
    My frappe was much lower in calories than the McDonald's frappe.
    It worked out better in the end.

THE DAY FROM HELL, I MEAN LITERALLY THE DAY FROM HELL

                       THE DAY FROM HELL -- I Mean Literally the Day From Hell
                                                       T. Wieland Allen
     Actually the day from hell started the night before the actual day when I discovered a tiny bump on my abdomen.  It was itchy one minute and painful the next minute.  Thinking that was a clever mosquito to be able to get under my lawn mowing shirt that I wore trimming the hedges that day, I immediately thought, "No, mosquito bites don't look that angry immediately."  Well, could it be a tick that I have dreaded finding on my body ever since my dear husband died.  He was my tick investigator.  Now, no self respecting  woman in her right mind would ask her adult son or his wife to inspect her in embarrassing private areas, especially the private ones of an 80 year old mom.  In fact, checking myself for ticks and moles is a real adventure because the cataracts on my eyes are not "ripe" enough yet to be removed, so I use 2.5 dollar store glasses to read and try to find ticks and troublesome moles on my body.  Sometimes the glasses are not strong enough for me to distinguish black moles from ticks on those private areas.  So I switch into  my contortion act, twisting and turning as far as I can with a magnifying glass in one hand and a pair of tweezers in the other hand.  I always think about being so glad that my two loving sisters are not around to see me or they would be laughing hysterically and being no help at all.
   You see, when female aged bodies change it causes body parts to sag in all directions.  On my mole/tick adventures I have been known to tie particular parts of my body up high with a soft sash in order to see under sagging skin, inspecting every possible hiding place so I can tell my young, handsome dermatologist that I was a good girl and followed his orders perfectly.  If he could only see an elderly woman in her efforts to follow his directions he would get a good laugh, too.
    Sorry for the digression, so now back to my literal day from hell.  After finding the little bump on my belly (to heck with being proper) I put on some of Paw Paws Salve, which always works, and went to bed.  The day from hell officially began at 3:00 a.m. that day, July 14, 2016.  I woke with real pain around the area of the bump.  Upon inspection with my trusty magnifying glass, I saw that the bump had had babies during the night and there were three bumps.  The babies had blisters on their heads.  Oh, no, those buggers were not mosquito or ticks bites, they were the much dreaded shingles.  I ran to the kitchen, got some ice, put it in a plastic bag and slapped it on the fevered blisters around which redness was now prevalent.  The pain stopped immediately.
     Back to bed I went but sleep was impossible.  I made plans in my mind for the day for going to the Urgent Care facility at 8:00 a.m. in order to get to my dental appointment at 10:30 to get a root canal and cap.  Not my favorite thing to do.  During my awake time I planned to also call the dentist office before I left home for the Urgent Care to inform them that I might have shingles and since it can be contagious to anyone who has not had chicken pox, telling them that I might not make it to the dental appointment.  I got out of bed at 6:00 a.m. in order to dress, make the phone call and get to the doctor early in order to be the first patient.  Heaven forb
id that I would miss the adventure awaiting me at the dentist's office later.
     Sure enough, after examining me the nice doc at the Urgent Care said I had an early case of shingles.  Bummer, just what I had suspected.  Since I had his attention and no one else needed him at that moment I told him that I had had some lower back pain that I assumed was from pulling a child's wagon up a slight hill in my yard loaded with large bags of gardening mulch, one at a time of course.  The nice doctor asked me if I had had any problems with eliminating urine lately.  I told him that I had more frequent needs to urinate, but I have been drinking more liquids lately since I work outside a lot.  He ordered me to urinate into a plastic container in the bathroom and quickly came back to tell me that I had lots of bacteria in the urine so I had a UTI, not unusual for women my age but no less painful in the lower back.  He told me to cancel my dentist appointment since I was  contagious with shingles to someone operating on my mouth and he told me that I needed to go home and rest because my blood pressure was dangerously high.  He commented that he wasn't surprised at the high numbers since I was anticipating an extensive dental procedure and had shingles as well as a UTI.  He gave me four prescription scripts and told me to go home, take another BP pill and get some rest.  To be honest, when he told me the high numbers of my blood pressure I was concerned, too, and, as my handsome clever husband used to say, I'm usually fearless.  
     I went to Walgreens, left the scripts and went home, sat down to rest when I remembered that the lawn needed mowing.  I called two friends who help me in the yard with trimming trees, etc, and asked them if they could mow my yard the next day so I wouldn't have to worry about that.  Joan said that she and Steve were working in my neighborhood and would be there in a few minutes if that was okay.  Yea!  She never fails me. 
     They arrived and did a cracker jack job on the lawn while I rested in my recliner and got the BP down a little by doing deep breathing exercises after taking another pill.  My efforts were rewarded and it's a good thing because hell was waiting at the door.  Joan and Steve completed their task, I paid them and they went on their way.  Finally, I thought, now I can have a stress free, relaxing time the rest of the day.
     Back to my recliner I went with two full glasses of water, following the package insert instructions on the new pills, an antiviral one for shingles and an antibiotic for the UTI.  I picked up the newspaper to read, knowing that I would go to sleep and get some rest, having awakened at 3:00 a.m.
     The phone rang.  I started to ignore it, but am I glad I didn't  It was Steve, the yard helper, and he screamed into the telephone, "Tommye, close your garage door and head for the basement.  Ninety mile an hour winds are headed our way. They are five minutes away."  That storm was not predicted at all, just came up out of the blue.
     Oh, Lordie, I thought, this is surely a day from hell for me.  I wanted to sit down and have a good cry, which is a great stress reliever, but I didn't have time.  I grabbed a plastic bag of frozen peas out of the freezer, strapped them to the shingles which were hurting, found a sash quickly and tied the package to my belly.  I grabbed a bottle of water, two automatic light bulbs I have for such occasions, a battery operated radio, my cell phone and ran down the stairs to the basement, grabbing from the garage on the way my hubby's bike helmet.  The tornado warnings all say to put a helmet on your head in case the upstairs falls into the downstairs or basement and conks you on the head, killing you.  Putting the bike helmet on my head and getting settled in the basement, I started laughing hysterically.  I had visions of myself if the upstairs did fall in on me, with lying here dead and being found with a plastic bag of mushy peas tied around my waist and a bicycle helmet on my head.  I laughed until I cried.
    Then I remembered reading years ago about the woman whose washer was in her basement and she carried a load of clothes down there to wash.  She decided to take off her workout clothes and add them to her load of washing so she striped and added the clothes to the washer.  She spotted her son's football helmet and knew he would need it that afternoon, so she put the helmet on her head since she was carrying the clothes basket back upstairs filled with already folded clothes.  Suddenly the basement door opened and the meter reader walked in.  There she stood, nude with a football helmet on her head.  They stared at each other for a minute and then the meter reader said, "Lady, I don't know what team you play for, but I'll root for your team any day."
     Remembering that story kept me laughing while the tornado sirens blared outside for a long time.  I was still laughing 30 minutes later, still thinking about being found with the bag of mushy peas tied around my belly and the bicycle helmet on my head, as well as thoughts about the football team.  I could feel all stress leave my body from the literal day from hell.  I'm sure it does not sound like not your favorite kind of day, either.
    After the all clear whistle, I went upstairs and deciding to sit in my recliner after looking out of windows and seeing that the wind was still blowing but nothing like the way it was when I was in the basement.  While down there I could hear things hitting my house with a bang.  I saw no visible signs of any big trees blown down so I just decided to enjoy the low blood pressure, the pain free belly as long as I had something cold strapped to my belly, no pain in my lower back from the UTI as long as I sat on the full body vibrator I had put on my recliner.  It was so peaceful. 
    As I sat there I remembered that God said to count it all joy when tribulation comes your way.  Ah, such was the necessary laughter that I experienced.  Then I remembered that God's Instruction Book insinuates one tribulation at a time, not five in one morning, and all of them from hell, definitely not from heaven.  I found out that the joy that came from laughing so hysterically lowered my BP so much that I was tranquil after the storm instead of fearful. 
     God said that if we are joyful during tribulation that it will produce patience in us.  I can see that, because after that day from hell and then laughing at the circumstances worked good things for me.  I will remember to be joyful the next time tribulation comes my way from hell, just hope it is one at a time, not five in the same morning. 
     With the power still out that night, I knew that I had to write this story to encourage other people that what God says to do will work every time.  I wrote this story by hand, no computer with the power out, and I felt like Abraham Lincoln who studied as a child by candle light.  I had a battery powered light bulb that gave me enough light by which to write. 
     Remembering also that Jesus said that in the world we will have tribulation, but He said that we should rejoice during our tribulations because he overcame all the evil in the world which confronted Him, yes, even to crucifixion and death.  That is a promise. I experienced overcoming multiple tribulations that day, not to the extent Jesus did in his life, but knowing that the incidents were sent to defeat me, the gift of joy caused laughter and the laughter defeated all of the bad incidents.
    As I perused my property, there were only small twigs and leaves covering the yard, no problem to clean up.  My huge heavy umbrella by the outdoor tables and chairs was blown out of its heavy iron holder and deposited by the wind only a few inches from the pool.  I would have loved to have seen that huge angel protecting it from ending up in the pool.  Even though I was lacking power until the next day, there was very little inconvenience.  If there was, I didn't notice it because I was tranquil and peaceful, still enjoying periods of laughter at the thought of being found in the basement decked out in the package of mushy peas tied to my waist with the bike helmet on my head. I believe God gave me that vision to cause me to start laughing hysterically, having joy in the midst of several tribulations of that day.
    Oh, yes, there is one other thing that turned out great.  With the power out, the fridge was silent.  Inside the freezer were four Braum's chocolate/caramel ice cream bars rapidly melting.  Somebody had to eat them before they melted.  The good news is that I gave myself permission to indulge after not only surviving the literal day from hell but learning some things about joy and laughter.  The ice cream bars made a great evening meal.  That indulgence topped off the day, and I ate the slightly melted, messy ice cream bars with no guilt at all, just delighted that I could.  Actually the circumstances demanded that I reward myself.  God had rewarded me with joy and laughter.  I like his reward equally as well, if not better.
    The package of peas lost their medicinal effect of helping the pain as they had gotten hot from the feverish blisters.  I had seen a plastic bag of old dried up spaghetti in the freezer.  Before it defrosted I applied it to the shingles blisters.  They weren't particular as long as it's cold.
     My electric power came on the next day.  "All is well," is one of my favorite sayings.  Someone wrote a song that said that,  'It is well with my soul."
     It is well for my soul, for sure.

MISMATCHED, SMISHSMASHED AND HAPPY
                                                             by T. Wieland Allen
    Okay, I admit, it's time for cataract surgery for Me.  Doc said I would need the surgery this summer and I thought, what does that young whipper snapper know?   My hubby and I were his youth sponsors at a church when he was a preteen and a teenager.  Then I remembered he said that he is going to retire in a year.  Maybe he does know what he's talking about.  Figure it out, age-wise that puts me "up there" in years but not too up-there to stop mowing my huge lawn with a walk-behind mower, edge the lawn, trim my long hedges, take care of a large pool and big house, still hold down a 3/4 time job -- not a part time one but a 3/4 time one -- and I write three blogs, teach a Bible class every week, co-chair a neighborhood association and occasionally I will -- I'll be honest -- I tell people how to live their lives.  I haven't been hit, run over, chased, cussed out or assaulted for any of my advice yet.  So I live a full and exciting life.
   You ask what was the shocking occurrence that caused me to agree to have cataract surgery soon?  All of my friends have had their surroundings brightened by having that surgery at least ten years or more in the past so I'm a Johnny- come-lately in that area.  It took an incident that would be embarrassing for a much younger person but was hilarious to Me and shook my jolly tree, because I usually get the best laughs every day by laughing at myself.
   The crowning revelation that I might benefit from having the lenses in my eyes replaced with inter occular lenses so that I might see better came after I had run a few errands in the morning, had done some cooking, had taken a meal to a neighbor who is recuperating from hip replacement surgery, and then I had mowed the front lawn.  I decided it was time to ready myself for bed and I sat down in a chair to remove my sport shoes, which used to be called tennis shoes but nowadays they are called sport shoes.  You know what I mean, the sport shoes that are the everyday attire of most people my age, those seniors who are ten and more years older than you and those who might be at least ten and more years younger than you. 
    After untying and removing the shoe off of my right foot, a leather New Balance sport shoe, I untied the left shoe and immediately said, "Well,  Mr. Reebock, where did you come from?"  Yes, I had on two different sport shoes, the leather New Balance one and the mesh fabric Reebock on the other foot.  I had been walking around in them all day.  At least they were both white, albeit they were made of different fabrics and were different styles. No wonder an old hip injury from a car wreck had started hurting again that day, the sole on the New Balance was a good inch thicker than the Reebock.  Yep, I laughed and laughed at myself after addressing the Reebock shoe with such honor by calling him Mr. Reebock.
    Reviewing my day and dreading to even consider that someone I knew had seen me, I remembered that I had gone to several dollar stores for some colored napkins and party supplies.  Whew, I was safe there.  The patrons at those stores are glad everybody walking those aisles has shoes on their feet.  One time I was shopping at a dollar store and a lady was there shopping with a shoe on one foot and a sock on the other foot.  She could have been kin to Diddle Diddle Dumplin' who went to bed with one shoe on and one shoe off, I didn't know.  If Ms. Dumplin' had seen me with two entirely different shoes on my feet, she would not have even noticed the mismatched attire.   She would have thought I was going to a ball because both of my feet were clad with shoes, mismatched ones but both feet were covered, anyway.  The sign on the door said no shirt, no shoes, no service.  It didn't say a word about the shoes needing to match. I was safe all the way around.
    I have heard that getting older is not for sissies.  Personally, I love my life more and more as the years pass because all inhibitions can go to you- know-where, all sophistication can be exchanged for humiliation without a tear or regret, and I can wear purple, shocking pink and lime green together and at the same time, as well as unintentionally wearing unmatched shoes. 
    The scary part is that I always think I look smashing, classy and youthful.  Well, maybe not youthful because young people nowadays only wear jeans and black shirts all the time.  At least I add some color to the world.
    I am looking forward to the cataract surgery.  Everyone tells me that colors will be brighter and sight will be better.  I'm just eager to see good enough that I don't put on mismatched "old lady shoes."  
    With new eyes I guess I'll have to get a different ideosyncrasy.  I'm sure there are some unused ones around.  Life wouldn't be much fun if I couldn't laugh at myself.  I entertain myself royally every day.  Try it.  You'll have a smile on your face all the time and people will think you are a simpleton.  Actually you will just be laughing at your mature intelligence of thinking you are really clever and funny; plus, you don't give a darn what other people think, which is the biggest perk of getting older.
   A clever lady made a fortune off of a book called, "When I Am Old I Will Wear Purple."  Well, I one-up her -- I wear purple, lime green and shocking pink all together, and at the same time.  If you see a lady wearing outlandish colors, it might be me.  Check her shoes and see if they match.  If they don't, it might actually be me.  I will be happy in my own little world of color and eccentricity.  My motto is this:  When I am old I will just be me.  That's my gift to the world and my reward to myself, to be me and be worry free.
    Come to think of it, I have a relative, a Brother, who told people to love their enemies and do good to them.  He told us not to return evil when evil is done to you but to return good for evil  Now, that was revolutionary in a world in which striking back at someone who injured you was par for the course.  You were considered to be a sissy if you didn't defend yourself; but His practices were completely opposed to the accepted behavior at the time.  He told people to bless people who cursed them instead of returning curses to them.  Wow, talk about  eccentric.  It's still considered revolutionary behavior.  That would get you killed. 
    Oh, yeah, it did.  It got Him killed.  But He fooled His enemies, He didn't fight back, He died and He rose from the dead.  That put His enemies in an abnormal place, which was to be completely in awe. So I come by My eccentric actions honestly.  It's a family trait that I share with my Brother Jesus.  He even hung around with his friend John who ate locust and wore animal skins instead of clothing, and John told people to listen to his friend Jesus and do what he taught. I've heard of nonconformists but that guy was ridiculous.  Of course, he lost his head as a result.  I mean literally lost his head. 
     I'll never be beheaded for being myself and I'll never be killed for wearing the colors I choose or wearing mismatched shoes.  I might be ridiculed but I'll just tell people that I am eccentric like my Brother and his friends.  That will really confuse them. 
     I have found that when I do bless people who curse me, when I do good to the people who do mean things to me, when I refuse to fight with people who are different and hold differing beliefs than I do, I become very happy because I don't have any enemies anymore. 
    I wish I could get that message to politicians today.  I bless them every day, pray for them and hope their judgmental, toxic words don't come back upon them and curse them, as my Brother warned. Unfortunately for them, they always do.  I choose not to listen to poisonous rhetoric because it poisons me.  My mind is too precious to allow it to be contaminated.  
     Practicing My Brother's eccentricity of being kind and loving to everyone has worked for me because, when you do, everybody plays on a level playing field in life and happiness is guaranteed. That's what my Big Brother says.