Afraid. I’m Afraid I Am
I am fearful of what I am thinking of what I am about to do. This past winter has made me deadset on downsizing. I can no longer manage to live in and care for a four bedroom house by myself. At 75 why do I need a house this large? Keeping it clean is a major undertaking and I find myself falling behind on many chores. Cooking and “redding” up afterwarc is more than enough some days. I have begun to actively search for a smaller home on one level with a basement, garage, or storage building.
It’s the thought of moving that causes me to cringe. The last time I moved was almost 45 years ago and that was a Herculaean labor. I was under thirty and had a wife, in-laws, and parents to help. Now I have three kids, spouses, and granddaughters. But they have their lives to live as well. I don’t want to impose on them, but it will have to happen. Some of the things tucked into the attic, basement, and nooks of my house belong to them. I have told them that when I make the move, I will take what I want and need; the rest will stay in the house.I will give them one month to retrieve what they want and the rest will be sold at auction. Once the house is cleared of everything that is not nailed down, I’ll sell the house. It is the only way I can save my sanity. Any other way will be much too stressful.
The jumble of paperwork and legal intricasies that I face are another of my concerns. Back during my first attemp at establishing a new home, my wife Cindy Morrison Beck was there helping to explore the purchase of land, mobile home, and set-up. As newly weds, it was an adventure.
Later when we sold that home and bought this home, the move was definitely a task. Cindy’s dad Elmer (Bud) Morrisan helped us move with his truck. We carried out load after load and Bud said, “Are you carrying out from the back and then back inside?”
We had things stored everywhere and because this house is bigger, it will be much worse. I cower at the thoughts of sorting through the accumulated ‘heirlooms” and ever multiplying paper trails. This has been the collection spot for my past generation and I’ve lived here for nearly forty years.

 Keeping It Under One Hundred
I’m not talking about speeding in my car or my weight, but I am talking about my blood sugars. Neither of my parents had diabetes and yet I have the disease. I was always a chubby kid and wore husky jeans. I won’t say I was lazy, but didn’t exert myself too rigorously. I preferred to read and follow less strenuous activities. A gym session was not my favorite high school class.
Now that winter is over, I have decided to oncce again continue my daily walks. I do enjoy walking and taking photos, especially now that the weather iis warmer and the trees are losing their bareness. The leaves are unfurling and the blossoms are covering them with colorful blossoms.
I’ve shared I am taking an expperimental medication to help control my diabetes. I’ve had the disease for probably thirty years or more. The blood sugars back then were “controlled” by taking oral medications. Eventually it became necessary for me to start injections of insulin. Not a large dose, but I still didn’t relish the idea of stabbing myself with a needle. However, my family doctor finaly convinced me that it was necessary.
My old family doctor Dr. Balcita wanted my blood sugar below one hundred, but anytime it approached tat number, I felt dizzy, weak, and nauseated. He still pressed me to get my blood sugar below one hundred and I would tell him “No way.” I felt that I couldn’t tolerate a blood sugar that low.
New drugs came on the market and I was referred to an endocrinologist who put me on the injectable drug Ozempic. I couldn’t tolerate it even though it started to lower my blood sugar. With the Ozempic, I had continuous bouts of nausea alternating with severe periods of heartburn. I even went back to half strength. I stopped it when I tried to explain my problem to his staff. All they would say was that the doctor wanted me to take it.
I found an ad asking for volunteers for a new medication created by Lilly Pharmasuticals. I applied and after many rounds of sharing my history, testing, and paper work I was accepted. Since I began taking the medication my daily blood sugars have been much better, Most days I am under one hundred with my fasting morning bllod sugar AND without any hypoglycemic sumptoms. That was something I thought would never happen.

 In My Dreams
I rarely remember my dreams. For the past two days I heve remembered them. I know there are those who “interpret” dreams like Joseph did as a boy and while he was jailed in Egypt, but Im not one of them. I don’t own a book of dreams that tells someone what the detaills of a dream means. There are others who believe that a dream is just warped replay of things that have occurred over the past few days like a marred reception on a television where wires get crossed. I don’t know if either are correct, I just know what I have dreamed.
When I woke this morning, the impression that remained was the American slowy furling and unfurling. There was a gentle breeze stirring it. The flag was partially hidden behind a sign. A soft light illuminated the flag, but not the sign hanging in front of the flag. The sign remained blaack. The backdrop was a foggy haze without distinguishing features. It wasn’t a scary dream, just a curious one.
The other dream that I remembered from the past week was a dream where I became lost inside a mall like structure with halls and walls almost like a maze, As I wandered, I couldn’t recall getting there and couldn’t remember the way to leave the building. I had no idea why I was there; I only remember my frustration as to how I got there and had no idea how to escape.
But there is more. I am outside without any knowledge how I got there. I only have a vague memory of pushing out through a double glass door into the cold and snowy parking lot. None of the cars in the area are familiar to me and I continue my attempt to leave the area. Although the lot is coveered in snow, the cars are not. The cars are free of snow and I can see the sea of vehicles as I meander through the maze of steel bodies searching for mine.
My dreams always seem bizarre, unlike my Gram Rebecca Rugg Miner. She would tell us stories about her dreams that came true. The simplest to believe was the dream of the snake in her flower garden. She recognized the situation from her dream and killed the snake.
The most illogical was her dream of a car driving down their farm lane. She was looking out her bedroom window. Looking down, it seemed that the driver had no head. It came true. A car drove by, the porch light was on and the shadow cast put the driver’s head in shadow and he lookes as though he was headless.

 Shanks Mare
Shank’s mare is one of those idioms that my dad Carl Beck and the older generation used. A person using their legs to propel themselves instead of riding a horse, buggy, or car when travelling would say they were walking or going by shank’s mare. I’d been avoiding my daily walks, blaming the cold windy weather or the rainy days, but much of it was because I’m a couch potato and too often just too lazy. I think much of my recent feelings of tiredness and sluggishness was because I haven’t been taking my daily walks.
I started yesterday by going to my local polling center to vote in the primary electtions. I saw that Nicki Haley was on the ballot with Donald Trump. I was surprised to see her name still on the ballot. My next stop was to the gas station for a fill-up. No surprise there, the price for gasoline will continue to rise until the United States drills ardently for its own oil, completes the pipeline, and stops trying to force those ill-imagined electrical vehicles on the public. The high cost of the EV, its limited mileage, and the lack of charging stations is an attempt to control the public. It’s to force people to live in cities and limit Americans’ mobility. If the government can force American citicens to use electricity to heat their homes, cook their food, and drive vehicles, they can cut the power to anyone and control every part of their lives.
Next I stopped at the bank to withdraw a few bucks before heading to Wal-mart. I always meet someone at Wal-mart who I’ve worked with and today was no exception. But many times I will talk with complete strangers. I live alone and it is nice to talk with someone, even a stranger.
Back home after the groceries were unloaded and put away, I decided that it was too nice to stay indoors and felt the need to spend some time in the sunshine. It was just a shorter walk, but it was a beginning. I believe that I walked about an eighth of a mile. I managed to take a few photographs of blossoming trees, the road I walked on, and a few ragged cattails with lush green grass background.
I rescued my neighbor girl’s ball that had blown across the road and into a ditch. It had been forgotten. Sometimes the wind where I live can be fierce. I’m sure that it blew the ball from the neighbor’s yard into the ditch.
So I am starting to “ride” shank’s mare again and my legs actually feel good with no cramping yet. Giddy-up.

 Just What You’re Looking For
Unusual incidents somehow connect with others in my past. In February I purchased a reclining chair to replace a recliner that a spring had broken. Of course the broken spring occurred about two months after the “year warrenty” ran out. I ordered a replacement spring on line. It was the correct length, but not the proper strength. The chair works, but not very well. There are several bolts in the chair that loosen and must br tightened. It is a comfortable chair, so despite all its faults, I kept it and still use it.
Back to the February chair. After the problem with the first chair, I purchased the extended warrenty. Last week I moved the February chair to vacuum around and under it and what to mu wandering eyes appeared but a black single bolt. The head of the bolt had a star shaped opening for a specialized screwdriver. I upturned the February chair to try to find where the bolt came from. I was unable to find a spot in the tangle of metal parts beneath the seat where the bolt had escaped.
I called the furniture company and explained my situation. Because it was so recently purchased and it was still under warrenty, they set an appointment for a technician to come to my home to service it. The appointment day came and so did the technician. We upturned the chair and he knelt behind it, peering into the metal skeleton beneath. We both searched and could see nothing. As a matter of fact, there were no other bolts with the same star shaped heads anywhere in the chair. It seemed to be a strange bolt from some other piece of furniture.
I will share another odd incident that my dad, Carl Beck shared about one of his relatives. She had purchased a brand new 1956 Ford.I can’t remember the model, but soon after she began driving it, she heard a rattle. The rattle irritated her. A brand new car shouldn’t have a rattle. It seemed to be in the doorpost just behind her head. After several trips to the dealership and several times the mechanics insisting that there should be nothing thee to rattle, they finally removed the panel. Inside was a Coke bottle and inside the bottle was a note that read, “I’ll bet you had a hard time finding this one.” I’m wondering if the extra bolt in my chair was tossed in at the fatory without a note.

 Traditions
It became a tradition for our family to go to our grandparents Miner’s house for a meal on New Year’s Day. It wasn’t the traditional New Year’s Eve foods of pork and sauerkraut; it was something a lot less traditional. My Dad Carl Beck would buy a couple of cans of oysters and a gallon of vanilla ice cream. He’d also buy the little wafer-like oyster crackers.
Granddad Raymond Miner had a small farm with cows providing fresh butter, cream, and milk. He made lard from the pigs he butchered and Grandma Rebecca Rugg Miner canned apples and would bake two apple pies. Her crusts were nice and light from the lard that she used and the apples were seasoned just right for the filling.
As soon as we walked inside my glasses would steam up, assaulted by the cinnamon-spicy aroma of the pies and the warmth of the coal cook stove in her kitchen. There would be the scent of percolated coffee adding richness to the festivities. The ice cream would go into the freezer and the oysters would go into a large pot with creamy farm milk, home-churned butter and salt and pepper. Nothing else was needed to make a rich light soup. All we had to do was to wait and waiting was hard for us kids. The pleasantly warm smells made our stomachs growl.
Grandma would get up occasionally to stir the pot. We would all watch in anticipation for her to nod that the meal was ready and were disappointed when she returned and sat back down. When it would seem I could wait no longer, Grandma would say, “Let’s eat.” There was no need for a second call when the oyster broth was cooked and ready to be served.
Grandma would use a large ladle and lift out steaming broth and a few of the meaty oysters into bowls; smaller ones for us kids, and larger ones for the adults. When the savory soup was placed in front of me I would take a deep sniff, wanting to just have a taste of it, but I knew that all had to be served and grace needed said, the crackers would be passed around to spill into our bowls.
I always wanted to lift the bowl and drink it right down, but I would take one spoonful at a time makimg it last as long as I could. I knew the soup was steaming hot and it would have scalded my throat. Grandma would continue to ladle the soup until the pot was empty.
The adults would sip coffee and talk. Kids would squirm in our chairs wishing the apple pie and ice cream was already in front of us. But as children, we couldn’t ask and had to wait to be served.
Eventually Grandma would rise and fetch the pies. My mom would get the ice cream. Our eyes sparkled in anticipation. Apple pie and ice cream was never a common occurrence. Grandma placed a large wedge on a saucer and Mom would scoop a heaping mound of the ice cream on top of the pie.
We drooled until everybody was served and then dove in with gusto. Barely a crumb was left on the plate when we were through. Tummies full and appetite sated we cleared the table to play dominoes or Parcheesi. Some sadness would creep in. We’d have to wait another full year for the oyster stew and apple pie.

 Into the Darkness
I remember reading stories of pioneers who would find themselves returning to their family after traveling all day, coming home after darkness had fallen. The weary traveller had reached the limit of their endurance completely surrounded by darkness. Often they were burdened by needed supplies. The longer the person trudged along, the harder the person strained their eyes, searching for the light that was always left burning in the cabin window by fellow family members. It was a lighthouse that drew the sailor into a safe port. It was like a beacon that brightly welcomed the traveller home.
When our church group camped at the Great Sand Dunes of Colorado there was no light from any nearby city or town. The darkness was black velvet with stars seemingly so close we could knock them down with a stick. We were not able to enjoy its beauty for long before we were beset by a tremendous storm accompanied by a fabulous display of lightning so close and bright I was sure the bottom of the tents would tingle.
An incident that happened last night; it got me thinking of how welcome a light can be. Being more frugal than ever, I’ve recently been turning off some of my night lights scattered throughout my house. During the daylight hours I’ve been turning them off; wasteful to allow them to burn energy that I have to pay for. It’s especially necessary for me when I am going to be away for several hours.
Yesterday I shut off my living room light and forgot to turn it back on before going upstairs. The low wattage light illuminates my stairs well enough that I am not travelling in darkness. Last evening I had to slowly edge my way down the stairs. It was a path I’d traversed thousands of times before, but not in the dark. Needless to say the stair rail became my best friend. Each step was a step into the unknown.
I sometimes put things on the stairs so that I am reminded to carry them upstairs with me. Being forgetful, I was unsure if I’d left anything on the steps and timidly probed with my barefoot before placing my weight on the next step. It was that dark.
I usually leave a kitchen light on, a living room light, and my office light on. I also keep a low wattage light on in my bedroom since I whacked my shins on the bottom of my bedframe. I also keep a “dollar store” night light in my bathroom. As I age, I find that my night vision needs all the help it can get.