Choosing to Be Thankful for a Brain Tumor

“I choose to look at that brain tumor as

 the greatest gift I could have ever gotten …”

          During the 1984 Winter Olympics, my bride of less than a year wanted to watch figure skating.

          I skipped whatever favorite show competed for that time slot and released the remote into her hands. I’m pretty sure I groused a bit.

          For crying out loud, it was … just … figure skating.

          When Scott Hamilton slid onto the ice, I grew mildly intrigued. When he won Olympic gold while skating to “Walk This Way,” I was hooked.

          I laughed at his antics and gasped at his signature backflip. And I fell in love with figure skating.

          Almost 30 years later, I recently showed clips of Scott Hamilton to a group of teenagers. I wasn’t sure they’d find him as incredible and fun as I did. In fact, I feared a figure skating clip of Scott Hamilton would get a groan, and I’d be tagged as the out of touch geezer.

          But I needed that clip to demonstrate what an incredible athlete he’d been in the 80’s and 90’s. I needed it before I showed him talking about his health issues.

          The kids cut up and horsed around as they gathered around to watch the video. Then they watched him slide, glide, twirl, flirt, and flip. They laughed. They gasped. And in the end, they enjoyed Scott Hamilton and … figure skating.

          The routine captured all the joy and pleasure Scott Hamilton brought to the ice.

          Exactly what I’d hoped would happen.

          It gave the context of what followed—Scott sharing about his health struggles as a child with a mysterious illness that stunted his growth, the loss of his mother to cancer, a fight with testicular cancer, and the eventual discovery of a brain tumor.

          The latter had been with him from birth. He mused about what his life would have been like without the tumor, if he’d grown to be a taller man, if he’d not, due to the childhood illness, ever been exposed to ice skating.

          That’s when he made this statement. “I choose to look at that brain tumor as the greatest gift I could have ever gotten … because it made everything else possible.”
Link to the whole video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9ZcN_6wzp8

T. Neal Tarver has served churches in Texas and Wisconsin. He, his wife Ellen, and son Daniel lived and worked for three years as missionaries in the Russian Far East. Tom speaks enough Russian to both converse and confuse.

In 2011, Tom was selected as a semi-finalist in the American Christian Fiction Writers’ Genesis contest. He’s also been a two-time winner of MBT’s “Make Every Word Count Flash Fiction” contest. He has written articles for the local newspaper and an international mission magazine. His debut novel, Dark Eyes, Deep Eyes, is available through WestBow Press, Amazon, BARNES & NOBLE, and other retail outlets.

He currently serves as an associate pastor and writes from his home in Wimberley, Texas. He also writes about Christian community at A Curious Band of Others (www.tnealtarver.com).

Tom has spoken in churches across America, and in Europe, Asia, and the Middle East.

Avid Gardening

By Nancy Lynn Jarvis

It’s not a surprise to me that many avid gardeners are older or that many people become avid gardeners in their senior years. Gardening takes experience, not with plants, soils, watering, and fertilizing ― those understandings are skills which can be studied and learned ― but with life.

Young children can have gratifying gardening experiences by planting sunflowers or zucchini or other showy sure-fired plants that grow quickly and we older gardeners may spring for a flat of in-bloom annuals looking for some instant gratification, too, but at heart, we’re plotters who have learned the value of patience.

It’s understandable that when I head to my local garden store to check out the clearance section, I run into other senior gardeners. We stand there passing sad looking potted plants back and forth based on their color, sun requirements, and where we live. We appreciate that there’s no need to be in the peak of glorious bloom to be worthy of love. We like bargains and have the experience to know that, with nurturing and possibly a nap, the tired perennial s we buy for a song will reward us for our care next year.

Our gardens remind us of who we are, where we’ve been and, who shared the journey with us. In my garden I have an inherited coffee tree.  My sons and I brought it back from a trip to Hawaii for my dad. It’s big now, but fuller than its branches with memories.

I took my sons to Hawaii after their father left me for another woman. I was terrified to make such a trip with a seven and ten year old, but determined life would go on…splendidly. We had an amazing time and learned that we were still a family. The plant we carried back was tiny and shouldn’t have done well in foggy San Francisco where Dad lived, but he was older, and a gardener, and it thrived under his care.

When my dad was in a nursing home near the end of his life, I went there every day to have a cup of coffee with him; he loved his coffee. As I care for his tree now, I know memories of loss and sadness, because those are part of life, but mostly his tree floods my heart with memories of love, adventure, sharing and nurturing, and a life well spent.

My garden has a rose in it that’s as old as I am ― my gardener dad’s doing, as well.  He started it from a bouquet of pink baby roses he brought my mother when I was born. Its trunk is a bit off center and occasionally its leaves look sparse, but it grows and blooms and lives. It’s a tough old thing that has been uprooted and challenged with less than perfect soil sometimes, but it still puts out riots of tiny pink roses. When I look at that rose, like it, I’m strong. 

Especially in my garden.

                    

Nancy Lynn Jarvis was a Santa Cruz, California, Realtor® for more than twenty years and is still licensed but she’s enjoying writing so much, she may never sell another house. After earning a BA in behavioral science from San Jose State University, she worked in the advertising department of the San Jose Mercury News. A move to Santa Cruz meant a new job as a librarian and later a stint as the business manager for Shakespeare Santa Cruz at UCSC.

Nancy’s work history reflects her philosophy: people should try something radically different every few years. “Mags and the AARP Gang” represents a new direction in her writing adventure. After four Regan McHenry Real Estate Mysteries, Nancy put her characters, Regan, Tom, and Dave, on hiatus so she could let Mags and her gang, characters who had been forming in her mind for the past year, tell you their story.

 

ARE OLD LADIES CUTE?

by Linda Lange



I’ve been thinking about something my friend Pam said.  We were planning our annual trip back to our hometown of Green Bay, Wisconsin, and I e-mailed her to say the Packers autograph session we’d wanted to attend was sold out. Pam replied, “We could crash it and be on the front page of the Press-Gazette!  We are so old that people will say, ‘Aw, aren't they cute?'"

I know Pam was kidding.  And I don’t think we’re quite old enough to pull that off.  But her response got me thinking:  Are old ladies inherently cute?  

 

 

 

Old enough to be cute?

At sixty-six, I’m into what some people call The Second Adulthood or The Third Stage of Life, so maybe I should decide whether I want to be cute.  I’ve reinvented myself at numerous stages throughout my life.  Is “cute” my ultimate persona?

 

I admit that one of the cutest things I ever saw was a pair of elderly ladies in San Francisco, sometime around 1985.  They had to be twins and were probably past eighty.  Their carefully coiffed wigs and cats-eye glasses reminded me of my grandmother’s twenty years before. 

 The twins looked like miniatures of my grandmother.

 

They were tiny, barely more than four-and-a-half feet, and dressed exactly alike.  Their veritable sameness, their outdated look, and their diminutive size (ooh, the tiny feet!) made them undeniably … cute.  I wanted to take a photo, but thought it rude to ask.

Alternatively, I find the bumbling crones portrayed on so many greeting cards frightening, rather than cute. (“Isn’t it windy?” “No, it’s Thursday.” “Sure, let's have a drink.”) This portrayal demeans me, somehow.  I hope this isn’t my future.

No, no, I’m not ready to be cute.  When I think of iconic women around my age, I don’t find them cute.  Meryl Streep is not cute.  Cher is not cute.  Hillary Rodham Clinton is Definitely.  Not.  Cute.

But take Betty White.  At 91, she's pretty cute.  So maybe I'm just not old enough ... 

I’m not sure I was cute even when I was a kid.  My classmates were cute in their frilly party dresses.  My parents, for the most part, eschewed the frills and dressed me up in miniature, tailored suits with pleated skirts.  I hated those suits, but now it occurs to me that my folks might have been sending me a message.  Don’t try to be cute.  Try for … what?  Dignified?  Classy?  When I was six, my skinned knees tended to spoil the image, but now maybe I could pull it off.

Or I could take my cue from a woman I’ve met through volunteer work.  She so resembles a different greeting-card heroine, in both looks and personality, that I’m hard pressed to call her Doris rather than Maxine.  Salty … that’s a good word for her.  I have a black sense of humor and (unlike Doris) a bit of a potty mouth.  Maybe I can be salty.  It’s got to be easier than dignified.

Cute?  Dignified?  Salty?  None of the above?  Which personality would you choose for your Third Stage of Life?

 

*****

 

 

 

 

Linda Lange has never forgotten what it was like to be a teenager living in Green Bay, WI, during the Sixties when Vince Lombardi coached the Packers.  She shared her memories in Incomplete Passes:  Reflections on Life, Love, and Football. The memoir, Linda’s first book, was a finalist in the 2012 Next Generation Indie Book Awards.
 

When Linda is not writing or watching football, she volunteers at Save the Animals Foundation, a no-kill shelter for dogs and cats.  She is currently working on a novel with a shelter setting.  Follow Linda's personal blog at http://lindalange.authorsxpress.com.

 

Gorgeous

Gorgeous

By Ed VanDeMark

My wife, Linda is fantastic, beautiful, the love of my life and she has a ton of other wonderful qualities but there is only one most beautiful woman on the planet at any given time. 

I saw this young woman on the Buffalo State campus in the fall of 1962. She was too gorgeous to have a name that equaled her appearance. Rather than discover her parents hung Hilda or Dorcas on her, I intentionally didn’t attempt to find out what her parents tagged her with. Because of her flaxen hair, azure eyes, and pure unblemished skin she lives in my mind as “The Swedish girl."

I chose not to meet her because it would have been a downer to discover she had so much as a single flaw. Mostly I didn’t try to meet her because I was a tall skinny guy with acne, an off beat personality, a cumulative grade point average of 2.9 and a history being a girl's friend but never her love interest .

My Swedish girl had to remain flawless. There was no way around it. I couldn’t risk having it any other way. I didn’t ask any questions about her for fear someone might damage my dream image. Perfection is not to be messed with. As an artist I know the hardest thing to do is to know when to say my painting is at its zenith, it is finished.

 Less is not enough and more is too much. 

She was at her zenith and I had to lock her in my memory at that point. It hurt to watch Willy Mays continue his career after he headed down the other side of the mountain of perfection. I couldn’t let that happen to the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.

She lives in my mind as she was the day I first saw her in 1962. At that moment, at that instant she was at her peak of perfection. It's the eye of a true artist that captures perfection and preserves it for all time.

 In addition I was a tall skinny guy with acne, an offbeat personality and a 2.9 cumulative grade point average. I was also a third string  outfielder on our college baseball team who couldn't hit a high inside curve. History told me a girl like her was scoping out the hunks and the bad boys. Second place is painful, never getting a second look is much worse.

Perfection aside the worse thing of all is never coming up to bat. So nine years later when Linda came into my life I stood up to the plate and took my cuts.  

Edward is a pompous name and Eddie is condescending, I therefore prefer to be called “Ed” which is, in my opinion, neither pompous nor condescending.

I was born in Endicott, New York on July 16, 1941 and have lived most of my life fifteen miles west of Endicott in or near the village of Owego. When I find something good I stick with it.

I’m married to Linda (Masters). We have three fine adult children (Tony, Lisa and Dan) and nine wonderful grandchildren ranging in age from 20 to 2.

I write about my observations of life and draw cartoons because there is a force embedded deep inside of me that will not release me to ignore these modes of expression. I’m not interested in a second career as a writer or as a cartoonist. I’ve served my time meeting other people’s deadlines and I’m not in love with the tension they cause yet I do send off finished works for publication. Chicken Soup for the Soul has published three of my stories as have other lesser known publications.

The two best pieces of advice I’ve received as a writer are 1. Just tell your story and 2. Make it sing.

God Bless you my friends.                             

Ed VanDeMark.

After the Inspection

 After the Inspection

By

Annette Bergman

We moved out of our home in September, 2012 and some health issues kept us from putting it on the market until December.  We listed with a REALTOR and the only offer we received was the last of April and was 10,000 less than asking price, after a price reduction. My husband wanted to accept the offer just to get the house off his mind.

When the inspect was done there was two and a half pages of things the Buyer’s inspector found wrong with the house and the  Buyer walked.

My husband had a stroke shortly after that and was in the hospital so a friend and I went to work on the house and repaired or replaced all but three things I felt were out of line and one thing the inspector wasn’t as informed as he thought he was.  So a total of four things were not done that I felt were over the top.

So my friend that we hired, fixed GFI plugs, he did some electrical work, and a bunch of small things that were on the list. He replaced a back door, painted three rooms and a hallway an off white. He painted the front porch and the rear porch with a new textured paint with a ten year warranty. And power washed and painted the garage floor.

 I worked on the landscaping and got the flower beds cleaned, edged the landscaping and driveway and  our friend trimmed some bushes. I added new plantings and bark to another flower bed. Cleaned the floors and washed some windows. The total cost was $495.00 for the materials for the improvements.

Our listing had expired so I held three open houses by myself with just directional signs to the property.  No newspaper ad, just signs saying when the open house would be held. I had at least six couples or singles come through the open house and wrote an offer two days after the last open house for $9500.00 more than the first offer that we had accepted.

The moral to the story is that an inspector was paid for by the Buyer and we had a list to work from and increased our profits by over nine percent on the property and of course we didn’t have to pay a REALTOR’S fee so there was another savings.

If you are going to put your house on the market it would be best to have an inspection first so you won’t lose your first buyer. After selling real estate for over thirty years I can assure you that your first offers will be your best; providing the house is good condition.

If we had done all of the repairs on our home before we put it on the market chances are we would have had an acceptable offer a lot sooner for a higher price months before we did.

My husband wanted to give our friend and helper a bonus for his fine work, but he was called out of town before he knew we sold the house. Hope he’ll come back in town to collect his bonus. We really had an excellent friend ad helper.

TIME REVISITED

Time Revisited

 By Dr. Jeri Fink

It’s time. Again.

J.B. Priestly, the novelist who ran out of time 29 years ago, said it best: 

Today is the tomorrow you worried about yesterday.

A year ago I posted a blog, About Time. Since we just left Daylight Saving Time and “gained” an hour to use or misuse, I thought it would be an ideal time to revisit. We “give” the hour back on March 9, but who’s counting? Certainly not Arizona or Hawaii who refuse to indulge in any time control.

That’s left to The Masters of Time in Washington D.C. In 2007, Congress extended Daylight Saving for 4-5 weeks. This was a follow-up to the original Uniform Time Act passed in 1966 to reinforce the law supporting the Standard Time Act of 1918.

It’s amazing that both sides of the aisle were able to agree on time. Today, The Masters of Time wait for the very last minute to accomplish simple tasks like keeping the government running and paying bills.

My grandson Johnny has a better understanding of time than all our representatives in Washington. I was in California and decided to FaceTime him at home in New York. It was sunny in LA (isn’t it always sunny in LA?) and nighttime in New York. Have you ever tried to explain the concept of time zones to a 6-year old? After all my science talk, Johnny came up with the only logical conclusion.

“Time is broken.” 

 







I think he's right.

We have digital time, analog time, atomic time, and military time. There’s no time, anytime, every time, and time out. Why are there so many ways to describe time? Malcolm Forbes, the multimillionaire who ran out of time 23 years ago, summed it up:

There is never enough time unless you’re serving it.

                                                                        Good point. Where is time if we haven’t been behind bars?

Is it where my husband and I stand in Greenwich, England on the Prime Meridian, one foot west, the other east, at Zero Degrees longitude?  GMT (Greenwich Mean Time) was established at the Prime Meridian in 1851 and remains the global standard. Midnight is Zero Hours GMT. 

Can it be found on www.time.gov  where two government agencies, National Institute of Standards and Technology (NIST) and U.S. Naval Observatory (USNO) work to maintain time that never differs from Coordinated Universal Time by more than 0.0000001 seconds?

Let’s look at some alternatives. Consider time travel or time lapse – which everyone expects from geezers anyway. Head over to Times Square or spend an afternoon reading The New York Times. Check out Time Magazine’s person of the year, including such dignitaries as Joseph Stalin (1942) and You (2006).

There’s only one conclusion in this data swamp, generously offered by the author who gave us the timeless Harry Potter, Muggles, and Dementors.

“Time,” JK Rowling said, “is making fools of us again.”

______________________________________________________________________

Dr. Jeri Fink is a proud geezer and the author of hundreds of articles and twenty-five published books, including Trees Cry For Rain, a gripping historical novel where the past crashes ruthlessly into the present. It can be purchased at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

Her new series, Broken, introduces an innovative Baby Boomer genre that consists of six separate novels following related characters and events through time. It begins in the present and ends in the fifteenth century. Each thriller, set in a different time period, relates heart-stopping stories from love affairs to psychopaths. The Broken series will be available in 2014.

Visit Jeri at her website www.drjerifink.com or email her at drjeri@drjerifink.com

View From the Road

      View From the Road

            by Ed Crumley

What the hey? Do-rags. Patch-heavy leather vests. Earrings. Keys and bike fobs hanging from belt chains. Many with tattoos for gosh sakes. Beards, and goatees? What happened to these lovely people?

Some serious morphing from school principals, cops, lawyers, printing company owners, surgeons, ministers, commercial artists, cigar store owners, brick masons, and on and on into (gasp) bikers doesn't just happen by accident.

No! Bill Harley and his pals, Art and Walter Davidson must've had twinkles in their eyes when they attached the first pint-sized gasoline engine to a bicycle 110 years ago. But as excited as they may have been in their early marketing success, they couldn't possibly have envisioned the vast network of Harley-Davidson dealers and dealer-sponsored H.O.G. chapters that exist nationally and around the world today.

On any balmy weekend or evening of the year, normal citizens transform themselves into brothers and sisters of the road. And a large number of them are well past the midcentury mark of their lives, some even into their eighties.

Why do they do take up this dangerous hobby, many ask. As the patch says: "if you have to ask, you wouldn't understand." Some have been riding most of their lives. Others made it number one on their bucket lists when they retired. Still, others like me rode small bikes or scooters to work in our young years when we had only one family car and dreamed of the day when we could hit the road again on more noble steeds.

Every time we straddle our machines alone or in a group, we get a surge of positive endorphins. It's always fun when our costumed crowd walks into an eating establishment and invokes one of three looks from the patrons: fear, disgust, or envy. I try to fake a thin smile that says I'm nice but watch yourself. When stopped at traffic lights or in gas stations, we often receive a thumbs-up or positive comments from cagers (car drivers) in the lane next to us.

But this is not merely a self-indulgent pastime. Much charitable good is performed regularly by bikers nationwide. The Patriot Guard Riders escort and protect military funerals on a regular basis while seasonal toy runs for children occur in every state. Bikers tend to be very patriotic and charitable as individuals and don't suffer the unpatriotic and uncharitable lightly.  

In our genre of motorcycle riders, safety and practice leading to skills is a given. Helmets, obedience to traffic laws, and ongoing training is standard. We hold no affection for "sport" bike riders snaking their way through freeway traffic at supersonic speeds clearing car fenders by inches. Nor do we have any patience with folks texting or engrossed in phone calls while we share the road with them.

When we pass a fellow biker and throw down the deuce, a two-fingered greeting, we have one thought for them that we tell each other when we part ways: "Be safe!"

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