Rushing's Ramblings

Several of my friends have experienced strokes this past year. While each one has either wholly recovered or is well on the road to recovery, they all made poor decisions when the symptoms appeared. Many of us suffer from denial when symptoms of serious illness occur. I am one of those stubborn people who refuses to accept that I'm getting older with each passing day. As we age, this type of behavior can lead to severe consequences. The risk of death or permanent damage is very possible the longer we wait to seek treatment. Nearly 800,000 people in the United States have a stroke every year. It is the 5th leading cause of death, killing approximately 130,000 people annually. Most of the symptoms occur suddenly. One easy way to learn the signs of stroke is to think " FAST " and do the following: Face.   Ask the person to smile. Does one side of the mouth droop? Arms.   Ask the person to lift both arms. Does one arm drift downward? Or, does is one arm unable to rise up? Spe

Everyone knows I don't like cats, even though I'm now feeding five feral cats every morning. I never dreamed that moving into a townhouse in Horseshoe Bay almost three years ago would feel like living on a farm. After all, I have to get up at the crack of dawn to feed all the animals! My friends think I'm crazy, and my family has grown accustomed to my eccentricities. Most of them love me despite my weirdness. Some say I shouldn't be feeding feral cats because they need to fend for themselves in the wild. Some have severe cat allergies and start sneezing at the mere mention of cats. Some hate cats and cannot figure out why I'd want to feed them. I inherited the job of feeding the cats after my friend and neighbor, Bruce, moved to another part of Horseshoe Bay. At least Bruce made sure they were all neutered before he left. Maybe my love-hate relationship with cats is better explained by remembering the ancient sects of Catholic monks and Muslims who pra

Paul Biggs devoted most of his time away from work to be the unpaid music leader of our Baptist church in the small town where I grew up. He was the human resources manager at the plant, but his real love was singing. I was born a skeptic, so my time as a child during church services was spent reading books when I could get away with it. I haven't changed all that much. There's no cure for skepticism. I sometimes take a longer and more difficult route to reach the same destination as everyone else. My friends and family usually wait for me. When I was old enough, I eagerly joined the choir, not because I had a good voice but because Brother Paul was such an inspiration. One of the downsides of being in the choir was that we were behind the pulpit and faced the audience. I had to behave and resist the urge to talk, but learning to not do whatever I pleased was good practice for the grown-up world of work. I still struggle. Brother Paul has been gone from this world for m

I bought my townhouse in Horseshoe Bay two years ago to serve as a winter home while living in Seattle. When my daughter and grandbabies moved to Austin from Seattle shortly after closing on my Horseshoe Bay property, I became a full-time resident. The only reason I lived in Seattle was to be near my daughter and grandchildren after I retired, but the Hill Country was where I always wanted to live when I no longer worked. While the temperature might sometimes get chilly in the winter here, we don't have six to seven months of continuous rain without any sun. Admittedly, the one summer I spent hiking in the magnificent Cascades was an unforgettable experience! The previous owners of my townhouse were a husband and wife who were residents of Colorado. They enjoyed spending occasional long weekends in Horseshoe Bay. When she died from cancer, he quickly sold their boat and a wholly furnished townhouse, including furniture, linen, cookware, glasses, cleaning material, light bul

We are embarking on a new year, a time for new beginnings. May each of us pledge to be kinder, to hear without insisting that we are listened to first, and to open our minds and hearts to other viewpoints without passing judgment on who is right and wrong. I am a member of a book club composed of retired professional women with progressive views. We have discussed the possibility of meeting with women in our fair city from the right side of the political spectrum. Although we are aware of being outnumbered, we firmly believe we share some core values, such as our country and love for our families. We wish to provide a format to discuss shared values, as polarization has become so extreme that people of opposing views are afraid to talk to each other. Bringing people together has been on my mind for a while and was first brought to my attention months ago by a friend who has lived here for many years. We were both frustrated that political signs were being stolen or deface

Shirley Chisholm would have been 94 years old on November 30. I met her almost 40 years ago when I was lobbying Congress for disability rights on behalf of a large non-profit organization. She was a tiny woman, but her aura was more extensive than her office could contain. I was nervous as I walked into her office. After all, here I was, a young white woman in my 20's from Texas. Yet, she listened as I spoke about the need for legislation to improve the lives of those with disabilities. You knew you were in the presence of greatness as you sat across the desk from Representative Chisholm. Chisholm was the first African-American woman to be elected to Congress in 1968. She was the daughter of immigrants. Chisholm's mother, a seamstress, was originally from Barbados, and her father was from Guyana. Even though Shirley was born in Brooklyn, her mother sent her to Barbados to live with Shirley's grandmother. Schools in Barbados were modeled after Great Britain's education

I never considered myself poor when I was growing up until a former high school classmate mentioned recently that she didn't realize she had been poor as a child until she was an adult. Our small community consisted of identical houses adjacent to a petroleum plant.  All our fathers worked in the plant.  There was a school for grades one to twelve, a grocery store, a post office, dry cleaners, and a gas station. While her comment gave me pause for a minute, I still don't have the same perception of our childhoods. We didn't have everything we wanted, but we all had everything we needed. Most of our fathers had been in WWII and eagerly accepted jobs at the petroleum company plant when the war was over. We lived in houses provided by the company that sat on land owned by a local rancher. I was in middle school when the company allowed employees to buy homes. I wonder if it was a good deal or if families had a choice, as the land the houses sat on still belonged to the r

I must have been around six or seven when my father decided to shoot a wild turkey for our Thanksgiving dinner. He also thought our hunting expedition would be the perfect time to teach my older brother and me to shoot rifles. We were enthusiastic wannabe hunters, so the three of us went on a bitterly cold November day in the Texas Panhandle to find a turkey in the Canadian River bottom. The Canadian River, a tributary of the Arkansas River, begins in the Sangre de Christo Mountains in New Mexico and flows through the Texas Panhandle on its way to Oklahoma. When it reaches the drought-prone Panhandle, the river becomes a trickle of water in many places. Yo u might think of the Panhandle as flat, and you'd be right, except for the area around Borger and Phillips. Palo Duro Canyon, the "Grand Canyon of Texas," is located 75 miles south of my hometown. Since the Panhandle is over 3,000 feet above sea level and semi-arid, much of the land is unencumbered by trees and

Next door to the rehabilitation hospital that I managed a few years ago in south Florida was a heart hospital. The heart hospital was built a couple of years after my hospital opened. An indoor bridge separated my office from Dr. Smith's, the chief cardiac surgeon. Dr. Smith was originally from Dallas. I had lived there for many years before moving to south Florida, so we had something in common and instantly became friends. He had a lot of time on his hands, as the heart hospital was rarely at capacity. Seven hospitals within a 15-mile radius also had state-of-the-art cardiac programs, each touting theirs as the best in South Florida. At one time, there was an agreement between hospitals that they would specialize in different areas of medicine. Hospital administrations soon discovered the significant revenue from cardiac procedures and started their own heart hospitals. Subsequently, many cardiac beds stayed empty. Although cardiac surgeons are paid handsomely, they maintain t

Reiki was developed in Japan in 1922 by Dr. Usui as an alternative form of medicine to reduce stress and promote healing through light touch, which transfers energy from the practitioner to the individual. Although I had heard of Reiki in the past, I had never experienced it personally. When I managed a rehabilitation hospital for those with recent strokes, amputations, head injuries, etc., I was contacted by a group of people who practiced Healing Touch, a similar treatment method. I agreed to let them use my hospital to train practitioners. We were cautious in introducing this to patients, as they were required to consent. Most patients were open to Healing Touch and reported feeling better and more relaxed after the sessions. I consider myself open-minded and wanted to give Reiki a try. A close friend has a daughter named Heather Elizabeth, who has her own Reiki practice. Heather Elizabeth is a licensed master's level social worker but found traditional psychotherapy me

Nelson Mandela is always at the top of my list when asked whom I'd like to meet. I was fortunate to have lived in South Africa while he was President, although I only lived there for one year of his presidency. I never had the opportunity to meet him, but I remember trying to get a glimpse of him when I passed his compound in Johannesburg. I'm currently reading  The Prison Letters of Nelson Mandela . I had recommended the book to my book club because of my admiration for Nelson Mandela and the many fond memories of living in South Africa. When I suggested it, I didn't realize how tedious the book would be. The book, over 600 pages, not only contains his letters for 27 years of imprisonment, but almost every page has a quarter of footnotes in the tiniest font imaginable.   When I first started reading the book, it was apparent that each letter he wrote was with the censors in mind. Many of his letters never reached the recipient because they were deemed subversiv

I didn't know what I would be doing after I retired. I imagined some volunteering, writing, consulting, and meeting new friends. I wanted to live close to my daughter and grandson, so I drove from Florida to Seattle with my dog and brother.   A year in Seattle was enough for me to abhor spending nine months out of the year in drizzly weather with very little sunshine and daylight that lasted for about four hours. Three months of beautiful sunshine, hiking in the splendor of the Cascades, and being surrounded by like-minded folks were not going to keep me in Seattle. My grandchildren were still a priority, so I made plans to move to the Texas Hill Country for the more significant part of the year while flying back frequently to spend time with the grandbabies.   The drive across the country from Seattle to Texas in the latter part of October two years ago was eye-opening. While polls and news sources predicted a Hillary landslide, you wouldn't know it by the thousan

They go to their lily-white churches in their Sunday-finest clothes where they can see and be seen.  They listen to their whitewashed sermons filled with platitudes and non-controversy.  They say prayers for their daughter's "A" or a new car or the approvals of financing on a new house. They continue to support the most amoral man ever sitting in the White House.  A man filled with hate, racism, misogyny, and an admitted sexual predator.  A man makes fun of a disabled reporter, women who don't meet his definition of attractive, women who have been sexually assaulted, and the list goes on.  A man runs his hands all over his daughter and claims he would date her if she weren't his daughter.  A man who lies to energize his base--most going to church every Sunday.  A man who celebrates because a man like him was recently confirmed as the newest Supreme Court Justice. When Jesus hears so-called Christians support politicians who lie, cheat, and steal, he prays

I've struggled with religion, specifically Christianity, my entire life. There was a disconnect between what the church leaders taught and what was occurring at home. The real problem was that my father was one of the church leaders. I might have been born a skeptic anyway, as I remember feeling doubtful that anything happening in the church was authentic at a very young age. Something about it seemed like a play, with everyone fulfilling their roles in the church while acting anything but Jesus-like otherwise. I can't think of a time when that isn't again more evident than now. After reading the Bible and the Koran, studying Hindu practices, attending a Jewish Temple for several years, and absorbing the teachings of The Buddha, I'm finally at a place where my beliefs reflect a mixture of many spiritual leaders. I believe in a Supreme Being, God, Allah, KHVH, or the Masters. I believe in spirits, angels, past lives, and reincarnation. All the great spiritual lead