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