Southern Observer - Featured Column

Growing old presents its own unique set of problems, but none more troublesome than forgetfulness. It is quite bothersome when one starts up a set of stairs and comes to a landing, suddenly not remembering whether you were going up or coming down. It’s equally disconcerting pondering if that doctor’s appointment was on the 11thh at 4 o’clock or the 4th at 11 o’clock.

They tell us that as we age we sometimes forget to drink liquids. I wish this was true for eating as well because I have noticed no difference in my food intake and my weight has tended to increase with each year of longevity.

I often do forget to drink enough water. With advancing age, we tend to lose our reflex notion of thirst. I have found this to be the case and I try to drink water every time I can think of it. But, there’s that old bugaboo of failing memory again. I forget that I forgot.

Anyway, I read that a large glass of water in the morning can restore about two or three points to your IQ. They say that dehydration, which is likely to be present upon arising in the morning; can actually cause your intelligence to suffer. Eureka! I thought I was just getting stupider. Not just thirsty.

This was quite a revelation to me and I attacked the newly-discovered, water-drinking practice with gusto. I started drinking a 10-12 ounce glass of water each morning upon rising. At least, on the mornings that I could remember to do so. That old memory problem again.

Sure enough! I found that in just a few minutes after a large glass of water, I felt smarter and could reason better.

I need all of the help that I can get when it comes to raising my intelligence quotient. (Just ask some of my readers). So, I reasoned that if one glass of water could raise my IQ by two or three points then two glasses would elevate it by four to six points; three glasses by six to nine digits and so on.

So, I gave it a try and was finally up to about five glass of water at a sitting. Man, was I beginning to feel smart. In fact, I got so intelligent that I was finally able to reason that I had an important decision to make:

I could continue to become smarter and smarter with my elevated water-induced IQ or I could spend the rest of each day in the bathroom. What’s the use of a genius IQ if you can’t leave the toilet?

I opted to drop back to one glass of water upon arising in the morning. Perhaps just a two or three point advantage in my IQ would be enough to get me through old age.

I don’t know why the “more is better” concept didn’t work in this case. But then I remembered my late father-in-law and his lawn fertilizer experience.

That dear old man truly loved his yard and he worked diligently to have one of the finest looking yards in town.

I’ll never forget the time he found a new lawn fertilizer with elevated nitrogen content. He gave it a try. He was one to try out anything new that came along in television advertising, be it nasal sprays, make-your-life-easier gadgets or lawn fertilizer.

Sure enough, the fertilizer turned his lawn grass green as the lush hills of Ireland. He reasoned if a little fertilizer could bring about such a dramatic improvement, then two bags would be twice as good. Perhaps three or four bags even better.

Poor soul, he succumbed to the more-is-better philosophy and killed his entire beautiful lawn before Memorial Day.

So, I suppose more is not always better when it comes to glasses of water or fertilizer. But, I can offer an example of what will work. I’m an eternal optimist and my life-long companion, Barbara, sometimes leans toward the pessimistic side of life. Her glass is often half empty while mine is always half full. We have lived our years together with both halves combining to create a life that has always been full to overflowing. Not too much, not too little but JUST Right.

In fact, we will have been together for fifty-three years next July.

It has worked out so well that if we make it to July, we plan to be married! Just kidding. Our glasses were joined in Holy Matrimony almost fifty-three years ago and I wouldn’t change a thing.

Well, perhaps there has been a thing or two that I would have changed but I forget what they are.

Maybe a glass or two of water will help me remember.

When it comes to saying a few words, Southerners are not very good at it. We find it difficult to limit our comments to several utterances. You say, “Good Morning” and we don’t seem to be able to say simply, “Yes, isn’t it.”

More times than not, we will add additional comments such as, “But not as good as the morning I got out of the hospital, which reminds me. Did I tell you about my gallbladder operation…, well, it was about two months ago… blah, blah, blah……etc. We are not adept at letting the conversation die down. We feel compelled to keep it going. Have you noticed? Southerners always seem to say “Blah, blah, blah” when “Blah” would do. In case you haven’t paid attention (a few letter-writers have), I am no exception.

In a word, you could say we Southerners are “verbose.”

Now this doesn’t always apply when we are speaking to strangers – especially anyone whose dialect does not match ours. We are not always comfortable in our conversation with folks we don’t know until we find out who this person is, where he/she is from and more than likely where they go to church.

Because of our tendency to speak on and on, we have, through the ages, been story-tellers. In fact, American literature was dominated during the first century of American history by Southern writers. They still hold their own with writers from other areas. Before radio and television, we entertained ourselves with sitting around the fire or on the front porch telling stories. Most Folks, it seems, from “up there” apparently were too busy complaining about the bread (or something else) to form a story-telling habit.

Southerners, perhaps because they couldn’t afford to do anything else, relished the telling of stories. We can be long-winded but not as bad as those Russian writers. Just take a look at their long, long novels. I once owned a Russian novel, “Quietly Flows the Don” that was six volumes long. It covered almost a foot of my bookshelves.

Southern novels were much shorter. I suppose those long winters on the frozen tundra of the Russian steppes offered nothing else but boredom — overtaken by long-windedness. Our Southern winters were mild; therefore, our novels are shorter.

Times, though, they are a’changing. Brevity can sometimes be less than forthcoming. We are bombarded hourly with television sound-bites and newspaper headlines that don’t usually tell the whole story. Many folks don’t look or read past headlines and/or sound-bites; therefore, they often get a distortion of the true picture.

TV stations can take a whole day’s political activity and reduce it into six words. I wonder what they would have done with the Abe Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address if it had been delivered yesterday. Would sound bits/headlines have been condensed into something like this?

Lincoln’s words, “…whether that nation or any nation so conceived and so dedicated, can long endure” would be reported: “Lincoln doubts future of America.” And, “…government of the people, by the people, for the people….” would likely be: “President promotes anarchy.” You get the idea.

Ernest Hemingway was once asked to tell a story in six words or less. His composition was sheer genius:

“For sale: baby shoes, never used.”

Wow! I wish I could write like that.

And excessively wordy graduation speeches are most times remembered about as long as it takes the procession to leave the auditorium but I doubt that anyone who heard Sir Winston Churchill’s famous baccalaureate ever forgot it. His address was the epitome of brevity:

“Never give up!”

On another occasion following several long-winded speakers, Churchill was called upon to give his “address;” whereupon he rose, paused a second or two and said, ”My address is 10 Downing Street and that’s where I am now going right now!.” He walked off the stage.

William Shakespeare understood the value of brevity when he put these words into the mouth of Hamlet: “…brevity is the soul of wit….”

Brevity is preferable in most cases and Thomas Jefferson (not always known for succinctness) probably had it about right when he said: “The most valuable of all talents is that of never using two words when one will do.”

I’ll take his advice, at least for now, by saying my two words:

“Bye, bye.”

(This was written a few days before my Mom died last year)

All indications are my Mother, age 92, is experiencing her final days on this earth. By the time you read this, she may be gone.

We knew the day was not too far distant three years ago when she moved to a nearby nursing facility. But, I was just thankful that for the first time in many, many years we were once again in the same town. Sadly, this seems to be coming to an end. But only God knows. She is a resilient woman and has survived cancer, a mastectomy and a broken hip in the last five years.

There’s nothing I can do. The professionals are doing everything they can to give her loving care and to make her as comfortable as possible. All I can do now is just go by daily and hold her hand. The time comes to us all, if we live long enough, when there is little left in this life. But in my Mother’s case, it’s not the end. There is a more joyous life at the end of this earthly tunnel. She has always believed this — and so do I.

In the meantime, I am unable to converse with her beyond a gentle greeting on my part and a slight recognition or an occasional smile from her. Her words are all used up, but, I can, upon occasion, garner a slight sense of recognition. Two-way conversation is a thing of the past.

Today, I found another means of communication. The door to her room was closed and I impulsively broke into song. Not just any song but her favorite old-time hymns.

Those who have ever sat beside me in church know full well that I cannot sing. I often feel the need to apologize to those around me when I try. But, today, I just felt it was the proper thing to do.

I was not wrong.

For a half-hour, as I fumbled through almost every hymn I knew by heart, her spirits rose and for a short while we were communicating. A broad smile crept across her face during the first notes of “Lilly of the Valley,” and broke even wider as we segued into other hymns from her childhood and mine. Her hand, help closely in mine, grasped tighter each time I came to one of her most favorites. The old hymns were speaking to her subconscious soul.

By the time the medical personnel came in, I thought Mom was about to join with me. A false hope, I’m sure, but nevertheless, it was a glorious time for us both. Now that I have found this method of communion, I will hold her hand and sing every day just as long as life prevails. Although her voice was not added to my meager offering of song, her soul sang right along beside me. It was marvelous.

As I sang, my mind wandered into the distant past as I recalled my Mom singing these same hymns to my youthful soul. Our roles, as often happens if we live long enough, have reversed.

Mother was always able to conjure a smile even in the face of despair. And prayer was the answer to all the trials of life. She came by it honestly. Her father was a deeply religious man and Baptist to the core. Although seminary trained before his health prevented further study, he was never a preacher but he “preached” daily by his example to his family and those around him. I was one who benefited from living near him early in my life. Mom has sustained his spiritual devotion through the years. Hopefully, I enjoy some benefit as well.

Another thought came to me today as I witnessed the joy in Mom’s eyes. I was reminded that every time I go into a church today, I see a sea of gray heads – other older folks harvesting the last years of life. I understand that churches want to seek younger members into the fold, but in the process, we should not miss the opportunity to speak to the souls of older members. In my view, no church service is complete without the inclusion of at least one or two of the old hymns: Old Rugged Cross, Amazing Grace, What a Friend, Living for Jesus, Rock of Ages, Bringing in the Sheaves and others of that genre. An occasional old-time gospel song wouldn’t hurt either.

The sermon tops off a perfect service where aged and youthful souls are both nourished.

I don’t fully fathom the spiritual side of death and dying but I do know one thing for certain:

“When the Roll is Called up Yonder,” — Mom, you’ll be there!

Hallelujah!

I have always feared it would someday come to pass. Now, it’s actually happened — the inmates are in charge of the asylum. Very little in the news surprises me these days. Idiots seem to garner all of the coverage. Here are but a few examples gleaned from the pages of recent media offerings:

APES HUMAN?
At a time in history when the “personhood” of an unborn child is being devalued, a group of animal rights nuts are seeking laws to provide for the “personhood” of apes. You heard me correctly. Austrian animal activists want chimps to be declared persons to protect the rights of monkeys all around the globe. As Europe goes, can the US be far behind?

The animal rights crazies want a 26-year-old male chimpanzee legally declared “a person.” As such he would be entitled to “basic rights” ordinarily assigned to authentic humans. A judge has ruled against the first petition but the case is being appealed. In the meantime, Spain’s parliament is considering a national law that would extend “fundamental moral and legal” rights to apes. I suppose snakes, camels and sheep are next on the humanization roster.

Then what? Intermarriage with humans? Voting rights? Where will it all lead? Who can tell? Only a few years ago, most Americans thought the right for folks of the same sex to be married beyond comprehension. But, even that’s legal in a few states today. Human/monkey nuptials in the offing? Who will get custody of “Cheetah” if they divorce? Do animals have a right to abortion?

ON-SCREEN SMOKING
Smoking by actors on movie screens has come under attack by the Motion Picture Association of America which dictates movie ratings. Gone are the days of Bogey and Becall with smokes hanging from their lips. On-screen smoking will earn a film a more restricted rating (N-13 for nicotine?) because the movie moguls want to protect our young folks from the evils of smoking.

This might be a good cause but the elimination of cigarettes on the screen still leaves adulterous sex, abortion, explicit sexual promiscuity, drug activity, and let’s don’t forget the ever-present alcoholic drink on the silver screen. All of these practices will remain intact. But smoking? No-sir-ree. The movie crazies are at it again.

TERM “MASTER” VERBOTEN
Some building contractors and real estate folks have decided that the term “Master Bedroom or Suite” is too “politically incorrect” for describing the main bedroom and the term “Owner’s Suite” is coming into vogue.

It seems that the word “master” has bad vibes for women and some black Americans. My, my, another word that must be eliminated from the English language to accommodate political correctness. Absurd? You bet.

What’s next? Can we no longer use the words: Mastermind, master key, Master of Arts degree, master of ceremonies, or masterpiece? Come on. Give us a break. Words are words and we shouldn’t tamper with perfectly descriptive, traditional terms.

TARGETING LAWNMOWERS
If you have driven down the highway with an eighteen-wheeler belching clouds of black smoke in your face, then you just might be outraged that the Environmental Protection Agency is going after the pollution created by your lawnmower even as the behemoths continue spewing their black sin along our highways.

The federal agency has declared that any walk-behind or riding lawnmower of less than 25 horsepower must be equipped with catalytic converters just like your automobile. This will make home mowers more expensive because catalytic converters are laced with precious metals costing hundreds if not thousands of dollars per ounce. The catalytic-equipped mowers will also be less efficient while the trucking juggernauts continue down the Interstate unabated. Nutty? You’d better believe it. But that’s the rationale today of the politically correct – the eighteen-wheeler might be transporting a gorilla to its nuptials with a real human primate, therefore, it’s OK.

$60,000 MATTRESS
Baby Boomers are adding a new twist to the price of a “good night’s sleep.” New ultra-deluxe bedding costing more than a college education, a luxury automobile or a starter home is being scooped up by boomers with more money than brains.

A Swedish bed company has launched a new mattress product called “Vividus,” which is Latin for “full of life,” that will retail for $59,750. The bedding is made of latex, memory foam, silk, cashmere, lamb’s wool and horse hair. Horse hair! I thought that went out with Duncan Fife sofas.

The company has sold only a dozen of the high-priced mattresses. Wonder why. Could it possibly be that most folks are getting a good night’s sleep on a mattress costing only a few hundred dollars. As I said, the inmates are in charge of the asylum.

These are only a few of the insane shenanigans of the devout brainless. But idiotic ideas will always be with us as long as there is a substantial portion of the world’s population willing to be suckered into any wacky notion.

OK. Here we go again. If you are going to live in the Southland you must learn how we count kin.

Wilbur J. Cash in his book “Mind of the South” said that everyone who lives in the South is kin to everyone else within a thirty-mile radius. What he said was nearer to the truth in 1939 when he wrote his book, but that was before WWII, Interstate Highways and northerners’ reluctance to shovel snow six months out of the year shuffled America’s population. And, before “Moving South” became a national obsession. But, it still remains somewhat true – at least for those of us who have been in the region for all of our lives.

So, here’s how you count kin:

We all know about brothers, sisters, grandparents, parents, aunts and uncles but when it comes to cousins, it gets a little more complicated so, here’s the format.

Children of siblings (brothers and/or sisters) are first cousins.

Children of the siblings’’ children are second cousins.

The relationship of a first cousin to one of these second cousins is a first cousin – once removed.

The kinship of the first cousin to the second cousin’s child is first cousin – twice removed.

Two second cousins’ children are third cousins. And so on with the “removeds.”

Thusly, your grandfather’s first cousin is your first cousin twice removed. It really gets complicated when you get down the line to second cousins – thrice removed. But you’ll eventually figure it out.

One more reminder: we don’t pronounce the word “cousin” like folks from other parts of the country. To us, the word is “cud’n” as in “Cud’n George” and we always insist on adding the prefix, “Cud’n,” before the first name. I was speaking with a friend the other night about the subject and he said that he was grown before he understood that his Cousin Lucy’s proper given name was not “CudenLucy.”

We could just solve the whole problem by adopting the practice of the venerable Charlestonian, former state Senator and Member of the US House of Representatives, Arthur Ravenel, Jr. who calls everyone, “Cousin” or “Cud’n” — as the case may be.