A Senior Xmas Carol

Yes Virginia there may be a Santa Claus

But it's been decades since he's visited my house

My wife is pushing seventy with me beyond

Just like those elders in On Golden Pond.

Christmas becomes different at our ripe old age

It's just another holiday, we but turn another page

It's been ages since I shopped a boutique or a mall

Everything's available on-line after all.

But trying to choose gifts now; it's so hard

We've come to rely on that staple—the gift card

And to come up with ideas for ourselves, please no

We already have so many things with no place to go

And that big family party we used to spearhead

We'd like to pass on to a son or wife now instead

We don't mind driving if not too far

As long as we don't go to some noisier bar

And remember that walking in winter for seniors can be dicey

Please shovel and salt so the walk won't be icy.

With the missus bad knee and my vision myopic

Falls at our age can be quite catastrophic

Yes, we put up a tree as we tried to decorate

But our sorry efforts this year were nothing to celebrate.

This season many lights and bobbles never emerged

To be honest, many are broken and need to be purged

And if some day we winter south please don't scold

Seniors our age can't handle the cold

Our warm wishes and cheer still will be spread

Even if our family Christmas is virtual instead.

Thankful For Little Things

     So what am I thankful for this Thanksgiving. Of course, there's always the obvious blessings . . . life, God, family, and health. And I am thankful for all these. But there are smaller things that I'm thankful for as well, mostly thankful for anyway.

    I enjoy my Kanopy streaming service on our television. It's a free and most importantly totally commercial free way to watch full-length movies. OK so the movies aren't always in English and the movies can be a bit strange, like the movie I just watched this past week. Mother was a Korean movie about a middle aged woman living with her adult mentally challenged son. He is charged with murdering a young Korean woman and the man's mother does everything she can to prove his innocence. She finally finds a witness who confirms that it was indeed her son who killed the woman. The mother brutally beats the witness to death with a pipe wrench and in the end, both mother and son end up going free when an even more mentally challenged fellow confesses wrongly to killing the young woman. The movie ends with the mother dancing on a bus with fellow senior citizens. As I said the movie was strange with subtitles but still better than watching a half hour of commercials.

    Something else I'm thankful for is that we recently got caller ID on our landline telephone. So now do we always know who's calling? Absolutely not. The telemarketers almost always mask themselves by putting in a fake phone number and location. So we get calls from Romulus, Livonia, Whitmore Lake, even calls that our caller ID said were coming from the Lost Peninsula and Scotland Neck, NC. But if we ever answer, the voice on the other end drones “Hello” and we know it's this particular telemarketer who wants to sell us an extended warranty on our car. So now we know not to answer those calls. OK, except once the caller was identified as “Therapy staff.” Now that sounded possible given the number of doctors appointments we have that “therapy staff” could be somebody important. I answered and heard the familiar “Hello” coming from that same telemarketer.

    Finally, I've always enjoyed peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Ever since I was a kid a good PB&J was my go-to meal. I was thankful that as I grew up, if I didn't like the dinner my mother prepared, she said I could always have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich instead. These days picking out an unusual jelly is a real treat. I even put some on my Christmas list—thimbleberry, gooseberry, huckleberry, lingonberry and others. While in Shipshewana, home to an Amish community in Indiana, I bought blueberry hibiscus jam. Worst jam ever. It had a terribly bitter aftertaste. It's languishing in my refrigerator as I speak. So I'm thankful for peanut butter and jelly, so long as the jelly isn't blueberry hibiscus.

What Would Dan Do?

     What would Dan Campbell do? For those unaware, Dan Campbell is the head coach of the Detroit Lions who has impressed his fans with his team management.

    I have five six grandsons who all play football right now. Only my youngest who is two years old doesn't play. My second youngest, Lewis, turned four years old in May and now plays flag football. His dad, my son Scott, is coach.

    Both my wife and I wondered how Lewis would do playing football. He's not great at following directions, he certainly doesn't understand the rules that govern football, and he is prone to major temper tantrums. But his dad would be the coach and his older brother would be on the team too, so Scott hoped all would be well.

    Lewis embraced the chance to play on a football team. He put on his team jersey many days right after school. He smiled as mom took a photo of him complete with his uniform, wearing his belt with his yellow football flags attached. Afterall, this would be flag football.

    But then Lewis said something that raised another type of flag, a red flag. “If someone takes my flag,” he told his dad, “I'm not going to play.” His dad, the coach, explained that in flag football, someone taking your flag is part of the game. But Lewis repeated, “If someone takes my flag, I'm not going to play.”

    Lewis was still very excited to be playing football. He showed up at his parents' bedside at 4:30 in the morning on opening day. “Football,” he announced to his mom when she was awakened. . That's how excited he was to play. And the first couple games went fine. He was proud of the touchdowns he said he scored though he really had run out of bounds. But since nobody had taken his flag, it was a touchdown in his mind.

    Then his dad the coach had to go out of town and the assistant coach had to manage the game this past weekend. When Lewis got his turn running the ball, he ran out of bounds again to avoid getting his flag pulled. He continued going out of bounds all the way to the end zone.

    When the teams assembled for the next play, I saw Lewis talking to the referee, almost certainly telling him that he scored a touchdown. I saw the referee responding back to Lewis, almost certainly telling him that he ran out of bounds. I could have told the referee something that I've known for quite a while. You are not going to win any arguments with Lewis. In fact, when Lewis came to the sidelines he told us that he indeed had scored a touchdown.

    Then in the game's waning moments, it happened. Lewis was handed the ball and before he could run to the sideline, somebody pulled his flag. Lewis threw a full blown tantrum, falling to the ground, kicking and screaming. Neither the coach nor the referee could console him. The tantrum continued.

    I saw the coach look pleadingly to the sidelines for help as that's where his mother and both grandfathers were sitting. But we stayed put. I'm sure Dan Campbell in his coaching days had learned how to manage a misbehaving player. So here's a similar teachable moment for the assistant coach.

       And it got worse. When Lewis wouldn't at least get up and go to the sideline, his teammates started heading to the sidelines themselves. The game clock was ticking too. When the coach tried to coax his players back onto the field, only a couple responded, the others taking a rest or a water break.

    Again, I'm thinking Dan Campbell would know what to do when his players decide to take an unscheduled mid-game break. Lewis's coach took a time-out. Good call. We got Lewis off the field and, true to his word, he said he quit. Fortunately, it was almost the end of the game anyway so it didn't matter.

    My son Scott will be home for Lewis's next game. Will he be able to coax Lewis back onto the field? To be honest, knowing my grandson, I'm not even sure Dan Campbell could talk him back onto the field. We'll see.

Searching for Morgan Falls

    While on a camping trip near Marquette in the Upper Peninsula, I decided to hike to a waterfall since the U.P. Is full of small, picturesque falls. What was called “The Unnamed Morgan Falls” appeared to be a relatively short hike of just over a mile from our campsite. I checked with the campground desk clerk who confirmed that the trail to the waterfall started at the edge of the campground. I was told to just follow the path that went under a bridge and along the river. So I did.

     It was soon obvious that the path I was taking was primarily a mountain bike trail. I navigated twists and turns, deep descents and rather steep hills, going one way then reversing direction to go in the opposite direction seemingly getting no closer to the waterfall I was seeking. For a mountain biker, this trail looked like fun. In fact, I encountered three pairs of mountain bikers on this trail, all looking very fit.

     On the other hand, I am 72 with shooting pains in my hips, knees that buckle and a weight issue. I didn't encounter any fellow hikers on my trek. My legs soon convinced me to give up my search and I found a road that seemed to parallel the spaghetti maze of paths I'd been hiking. The road took me right back to the campground. It was then that I discovered that the trail I was on WAS in fact a mountain bike trail that WOULD eventually after some miles reach Unnamed Morgan Falls. That campground desk clerk must have mistaken me for one of those extreme mountain bikers. I wasn't sure whether to be angry or flattered. Either way I shouldn't have trusted her.

     But I still was determined to find Morgan falls. I checked Google and they said the road I had found the day before would actually take me right to the waterfalls after about a mile of walking. The short cut-off path to the falls would be marked by a sign and there was a parking lot there, Google instructed.

     Starting off on the road early the next morning, there was an older couple walking a pair of Golden Retrievers ahead of me. The lady was wearing a backpack and I assumed they were all heading to the waterfalls as well. I soon passed them as dogs like to stop to smell the flowers and often water them too.

     But every once in a while I'd look behind me to see if they were following. Then after walking for quite a while I turned to see they were gone. Did I miss a path? I knew I didn't miss a parking lot. So I kept walking. Finally after walking quite far I thought I'd pull out my cell phone and use a navigator app to find where I was and maybe how close to the falls I was.

     The navigator found me and identified a nearby river, but no waterfalls. Then I found a large trail sign with a map. It didn't show the falls either. While I was there a mountain biker came along. I asked him where the waterfalls were. He said it was his first time on this trail but he would check his navigator app. It didn't show Morgan Falls either. So I headed back on the road I came. After a while I saw the old couple I had followed coming onto the road, their Golden Retrievers wet from frolicking in the water. Yes, they were at Morgan Falls all the time I'd been seeking it myself.

     There was no parking lot here. You can't trust the internet, neither what artificial intelligence nor what people say there. I'll give you another example. The next day I went to a restaurant hoping to get a breakfast pastie. an iconic Upper Peninsula culinary delicacy.  I read on the internet that people say you have to get to this particular diner early as the pasties sell out quickly. Not to be denied, we actually arrived before they opened at 7 a.m. We were their first customers. I asked for a breakfast pastie.

     “We don't make breakfast pasties,” the waitress replied.

    Like I said, you can't trust what people tell you and you can't trust the internet. Maybe that's why I don't own a cell phone.

Second Try

     Although our first camping adventure of 2025 was fraught with problems, from no running water in our camper to having to spend time replacing a power cord chewed through by rodents, my wife and I had high hopes our second camping trip of 2025 would turn out better.

    Now that we had figured out how to get running water in our camper, our next goal was to get hot water. It comes in handy when you're doing dishes or taking a shower. After searching everywhere inside our camper to find the valves to open the pipes to the hot water tank, we finally found them. They were under our camper bed. I would have never thought to look there.

    We were under a heat advisory when we journeyed to Sauder Village campground in Ohio. I parked our camper in the parking lot of a hotel adjoining the campground. It was a long heatstroke inducing walk across the blacktop to the hotel and its check-in desk. I filled out the registration papers for our camp, but balked when it asked for our license plate number. I didn't remember it.

    Another long walk across the broiling blacktop to get the license plate, then back to the hotel check-in desk again. Once all checked in, we located the wastewater dump station which is usually where you get fresh water. But there was no fresh water hose or spigot there.

    So another long walk across the burning blacktop to learn where we fill our camper with fresh water. We were told there were multiple spigots located inside the campground. We just had to supply our own hose. That's usually not the case at previous campgrounds where we'd stayed and the vermin who chewed through our power cord also did the same to one of our hoses. Thankfully we still had one intact. And it was just long enough for us to fill the water tank on our camper.

    We parked and unhitched our camper. My wife Wendy went inside to turn on the pump so the water would flow to our camper restroom. I was outside resting at the picnic table and waiting for my sweat to dry or evaporate when I heard the sound of gushing water.

    I walked around to the other side of the camper to see a waterfall coming out of a plug by our hot water tank. A rod which I thought had been securely screwed into place was anything but. I tried to push the rod back in but the water kept pouring out.

    Just then, a maintenance man came riding up on a golf cart. “Looks like you sprang a leak,” he said.

    “YA THINK???” I wanted to tell Captain Obvious. Instead, I told him it was just fresh water. We weren't dumping our wastewater or anything like that.

    “You good then?” he asked. Does it look like I have it under control? Hans Brinker had much better luck using his finger to plug a leak in a dike in the Netherlands than I was having trying to stop my waterfall.

    But I told him I had it under control. After he rode off, I had my wife turn off the water pump. That stopped the waterfall. I turned the valves to close off the hot water tank. No more leak. So we would get no hot water this trip but we still had running water anyway.

    Then Wendy announced, the water tank reservoir indicator light shows that we're almost out of water. And we're set up now nowhere near a water spigot.  I used a manual method involving a pail, a funnel and a couple hikes to a water spigot to put enough water into our camper to last the duration of our camp.  

    Maybe third time camping will be the charm.

A Forgetable Camp

     It was supposed to be the initial shakedown trip with our camper after retrieving it out of winter storage. Wife Wendy and I planned a mini-vacation in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to make sure all the electrical, plumbing and propane-powered appliances on our 18-foot Puma Ultra Light were in working order.

    But we made an unfortunate discovery on the day we were due to depart. I pulled out one of the cardboard boxes we had stored underneath the camper floor to discover it was filled with what amounted to confetti.

    A gang of rodents at the camper storage facility must have had a shredding party of some sort. What was shredded we couldn't determine as the mice did a better job than the professionals at the CIA,. Nevertheless, we replaced a heavy duty electrical cord they destroyed also. Good thing we did as we forgot our regular extension cord. We use that and my power drill to level the camper. I forgot to bring the power drill anyway. I had to level the camper manually.

    So we had electricity in our camper when we set up but for some reason no running water. We contacted the dealer that winterized our camper who told us to remove an access panel underneath the sink so we could open a valve there.

    That required us having the proper tools. We forgot to bring tools. We had to make a trip to the local hardware store to buy a screwdriver. But once we got access to the valve we got water. But then we weren't getting propane to flow to our stove.

    I opened the valve to the propane tank but that didn't help. After some time had passed Wendy asked if I had turned a switch that would allow the propane to flow through to the camper. Ooops. Forgot about that too. Once I flipped the switch, we got the stove burner to work.

    I remembered to bring my shaving kit but forgot to pack my electric razor. Wendy said I could borrow her razor but without my shaving cream, which I also forgot to pack, I sliced my chin. Fortunately, I did remember to bring bandages. They were packed in my shaving kit.

    It was time for a road trip so we could enjoy the scenery and relax. Our campground was located near the iconic Pictured Rocks lakeshore. It's a very beautiful national monument full of waterfalls and colorful cliffs. It does require a national parks pass, however.

    Last year we visited another U.S. National Lakeshore, this one at Sleeping Bear Dunes. But I had forgotten to bring my national parks pass which I've had for years. So I bought another one for Wendy then so we would both have one. It wasn't cheap but I figured we learned an expensive lesson.

    Or not. I didn't bring my national park passport this time. Wendy didn't bring hers' either. Were we about to pay $25 for the cheapest pass available and learn another expensive lesson? Heck, no. We skirted the Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore and opted for a boat ride on Lake Superior instead.

    We were starting to wonder whether those rodents shredding party didn't include our master packing list.

    Back from our boat ride, we decided to relax and play a game of cribbage. We did bring our cribbage board. But we needed a deck of playing cards too.

    Ooops/

What Grandma Said

     I remember my grandma telling me, probably more than once, that it's hell getting old. Her words stuck with me as I became a senior citizen myself. But though I believe that aging through one's sixties and seventies is like walking through a minefield of increasingly scary health issues, I'd felt I'd dodged anything too serious even now in my 70s.

    Then earlier this year I began experiencing chest pain during my regular workouts at the gym. My exercise routine always begins on the treadmill, logging the same number of minutes at the same speed, at the same incline level. But soon I would feel a pain in the center of my chest. Slowing down my routine or stopping it altogether would bring relief.

    I wasn't overly concerned about it but concerned enough to mention it to my primary care physician who scheduled a stress EKG to see what was going on. The cardiac lab said the earliest appointment available was in three months. Since the cardiac people didn't see the urgency in having the procedure done, neither did I.

    So late in May I reported to the cardiac center and after a nurse injected me with dye they placed me in a chamber where they gauged how well my heart performed. Afterwards, my wife and I went to a local restaurant for breakfast.

    At the restaurant, suddenly, my wife received a call on her cell phone. We didn't recognize the phone number of the caller, so we figured it was a scam and ignored it. Then right away we got another call from the same phone number, then a third and a fourth. Altogether, we got eight calls within less than ten minutes.

    I checked the phone's call log to discover one of the calls had come from the office phone of my primary care physician. The others we assumed came from the office cell phone which is not listed in our cell phone's directory. Eight calls from my doctor in quick succession? That can't be good. I was sorry now it wasn't a scammer.

    I called the doctors' office back and they wanted me to have a virtual office visit right there? That would be awkward in a restaurant. I might be talking with the doctor about my heart issues just when the waitress comes up to ask, “Who had the biscuits and gravy with a side of bacon?”

    So we talked later. Bottom line, I flunked the stress test. There was a blockage that would require a heart catheterization and a stent. Wonderful. I had that done earlier this month.. I was obviously nervous about it. But as the nurse said I would be sedated to a kind of twilight state and wouldn't remember anything from the procedure.  Mmmmm, no.  I remembered everything and seemed quite awake.

    I heard the music being played during the procedure. You would expect something to reflect the calm and serious nature of heart surgery. Perhaps light classical with violins, or easy listening jazz piano. I'd even settle for the blues which would match my mood at the time. Instead, I heard rock 'n roll music, in fact what I would call heavy metal rock 'n roll. You know the kind of atmosphere that encourages performers to jump on stage, gyrate wildly, and sometimes smash their guitars. In other words, not the type of erratic behavior you want to encourage in an operating room. C'mon, And where was that twilight they promised?

    Then about halfway through the procedure I looked over at one medical technician sitting in front of an array of computer monitors that appeared to be tracking my heart, breathing and other vitals. But instead of watching the monitors, he was on his cell phone. Hello! They're doing delicate procedures inside my heart. Focus, sir! And where was that twilight I was promised?

    In the end, everything went well. They never did have to puncture an artery in my groin to thread the catheter, settling for my wrist instead. The medical staff didn't play air guitar, break dance or otherwise get carried away with the music. My vitals remained normal throughout. And I never got the twilight I was promised. So I was able to keep a clear mind as I thought back to grandma's words and realized what she meant when she said, “It's hell to get old.”