Rushing's Ramblings

Whatever happened to active listening? The art of conversation has fallen into disarray, or perhaps it's because I am around more people of a certain age who feel they have lots of stories to tell. I keep running into people who will not stop talking. They start on a subject, and before you know it, they give you more details than you want, followed by another story with extraneous information. I swear I can hear marbles rattling inside their skulls.  Many spend way too much time discussing our health issues as we age. My goal is to stop endless discussions about health or the lack thereof! When I notice eyes glazing over, I know it's time to change the subject of my latest illness by asking them about their recent vacation. Some people need help to read body language, lack insight and have no realization that the person they are sharing valuable(!) information is bored out of their minds. It never crosses their minds to ask the listener questions because what they say is

Sometimes, how a person will die is predictable by how they're living.  It's like watching a runaway train going too fast.  We watch in horror when the train barrels around a curve and the wheels leave the tracks.  Or when a helmet-less cafe racer passes us on the freeway at 120 mph.  We can almost envision body parts and brain matter splattered all over the highway, yet we're helpless to stop him. For him, the thrill of speeding outweighs the risk of dying.  We might know of a friend who spends time sitting on the barstool, day after day, the obese person in the buffet line, or the worker standing behind the office building smoking during a break.  The thrill of racing or the pleasure from drinking or eating or the narcotic high from smoking is somehow worth the risk of dying.  The problem is some of those habits don’t result in immediate death after a crash or from continuous overeating or from getting drunk or from a pack a day of cigarettes.  I've known too many

The summer of 1970 was after my sophomore year at a small college in the Oklahoma Panhandle. At the time, journalism was my career path. Writing stories about the happenings of our small college, located in the middle of nowhere, was very challenging for a small-town girl bereft of meaningful life experiences. It would be soon that I changed majors. Needing cash for my junior year, I answered an ad for a mental health tech at the Psychiatric Pavilion in Amarillo. Shortly after arriving for the interview, I met the administrator. She was middle-aged, tall, thin, severely dressed, and had a perpetual scowl. She looked like one of those hard-nosed nurses from the 1920s horror movies. When satisfied with our brief interview, she escorted me to the hospital's second floor, where patient rooms and other multi-purpose rooms were located. She quickly led me into a treatment room to prepare a patient for electroshock treatment (EST). The patient was strapped to the table with large electrod

Fall always brings back memories of trick or treating on Halloween (and I did both!), marching in the band at football games, and the winter holidays spent indoors during mostly frigid days and nights in the Texas Panhandle. There's nothing like playing a reed instrument at halftime during a football game in 20-degree weather with snowflakes swirling around in the omnipresent high winds. Musical i nstrument keys and reeds freeze and stick while fingers become frostbitten. Someone once told me that people from the Panhandle were not only the friendliest but also the hardiest of humans. After all, it had to be tough to survive the harshness of winter. When one grows up in cold and windy winter weather, it takes many years for bones to thaw after leaving the Panhandle behind. Somehow, we endured. Living in a semi-arid environment over 3,000 feet above sea level meant we had to be creative when it came time to decorate for Christmas. What few trees and bushes that existed were b

There are plenty of us in Horseshoe Bay in our 70s, 80s, and 90s, with maybe a few over 100, so it isn't a significant event that I'm turning 70. The most fascinating aspect about reaching this age is that I lived this long, despite a few illnesses that, by some miracle, I survived. Worse than any sickness I endured is my proclivity to ignore danger and step right into the middle of situations that might have shortened my life considerably. Those days may be over. Let's skip childhood altogether and fast-forward to the adult years. I admit that working full-time while attending college to earn three degrees was not a carefree and happy period. Still, it taught me that delayed gratification, coupled with a sharp focus, would eventually lead me to a productive professional career. There were some poor decisions along the way, as is often the case with risk-takers. Professional and personal relationships often suffered because of my high expectations and inability to ac

Dating in my late 60s is fraught with missteps, misconnections, and misery. My partner died almost three years ago, and I only started dating in the past five months. What in the world was I thinking? The romantic notion of having someone with whom to share my life, attend events, and travel together led me on a journey to find a partner. When one has experienced great love and death comes knocking, it's next to impossible to replace that feeling. Oh, it's not possible to replace anyone with someone new. If the expectation is to find compatibility and anything else is the icing on the cake, it's not asking much. Or is it? One of the first men I dated was the quintessential lady's man. We met at a party, and sparks flew between us. It was the first time I had even thought about dating in a long time. He was quite a few years older than I was, but when he walked into a room, his aura filled every inch of airspace, and the years seemed to melt away. We engaged in c

Stephen Harrigan has written a new book entitled Big Wonderful Thing: A History of Texas. Excerpts of Harrigan's book are in the September edition of Texas Monthly. Harrigan's approach to Texas's history is udifferent from what I've read in the past. The thoroughness of his research from a fresh perspective will likely captivate any reader brave enough to read all 900+ pages. As I read one of the sections, I almost fell out of my chair from astonishment upon learning something new about one of my ancestors. My great,great grandfather, Colonel William Young, moved from Tennessee to Red River County as a young man in 1837. In 1844, Sam Houston appointed Young as the district attorney.  Young also led expeditions against the Indians and served as a Colonel in the Mexican War. Beginning in 1851, he practiced law in Grayson County. The Texas Legislature honored his service by naming a new county after him in 1856. Jefferson Davis appointed him Commander of a unit cha

When you're a 17-year-old kid growing up in the 1950s in a town located in Indiana with a population of less than 50,000, you never expect to meet anyone famous.  Mike Maine had a dream fulfilled.  Indiana has always been well-known for basketball, but it is also a state that has generated famous musicians from Butler University.  Mike attended the only high school in Anderson, where he was one of over 600 students in his class.  The school had a large music department, which consisted of marching, stage, and concert bands, and a choir. The department also had its own composer/arranger.  The music director decided to form a jazz quartet, and Maine became one of the members of the quartet called The Jaguars. Their idols, The Four Freshman, were a world-renowned group at the time. The school's composer would listen to The Four Freshmen records and create arrangements for The Jaguars. The group kept busy performing at clubs and events around town.    The Four Freshmen wer

Patrick was diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder (ASD) over a year ago.  He was three years old, rarely talked, and had frequent meltdowns.  His parents immediately enrolled him in speech and behavioral therapy. Patrick is now in his second year of a preschool program, which provides individualized treatment while integrating children into regular classrooms. Patrick has made significant progress in the past 18 months. While the tests by therapists at school last year revealed that he had mild autism, a comprehensive evaluation by a specialist in Houston a year ago confirmed it.  A recent report by the educators revealed that he is now performing tasks at his age level and will be in regular kindergarten next year.  The educators are no longer confident that Patrick is autistic. We all want the same for those we dearly love.  We wish perfect lives for them with happy endings.  We understand that life doesn't always work that way when we've lived a few decades.  Learnin

This past Labor Day brought back memories of living in a “company town,” where all our fathers were employed at the Phillips Petroleum plant in Phillips, Texas. Most of our fathers were union members. My classmates reminisced on the Phillips Blackhawks Facebook page about their experiences when the union members struck.    Many talked about the store created by the union officials to help feed families during the strike. Some of my former classmates shared stories of worried conversations between their parents. They would whisper about the men who crossed the picket lines to work in defiance of the union and the managers taking the striker’s places at the worksite. A cloud hung over our households during those times. We often wondered if our food would last until the strike was over. My father would temporarily move to my grandmother’s home over a hundred miles away to load bales of cotton at the cotton gin factory in Memphis, Texas. Stacking 500-pound bales of cotton is backbr

As a young woman, I never would have predicted that another woman would stalk me in the autumn years of my life. The legal definition of stalking or harassment involves a threat, yet "emotional stress" falls into the harassment category. I've yet to feel threatened, but one never knows what's coming. The stalker (I'll use the pseudonym "Stella") contacted me shortly after Jack, an ex-boyfriend, died in early 2017. Jack and I were a couple for several years, beginning in 2010. I was the only woman besides his wife with whom he lived. Our whirlwind romance included traveling worldwide as we enjoyed every minute of our time together. I was his first girlfriend in almost 50 years. Jack's grown children (ages 40+) began interfering in our relationship because they feared losing their much-anticipated large inheritance. I also understood losing their mother and seeing their father with another woman so quickly was tough on them. Their unrelenting drama

August 18 marked the 99th anniversary of ratifying the 19th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, giving women the right to vote. The bill had narrowly passed both houses of Congress before being sent to the states to be ratified. Most Southern states did not support women's right to vote, but Texas was the first Southern state to ratify the Amendment on June 28, 1920. The 19th Amendment states, "The right of the citizens of the United States to vote shall not be abridged by the United States or any state on account of sex." Thirty-six states had to approve it before the constitutional change became law. By the late summer of 1920, thirty-five states had ratified the Amendment. Tennessee started debating the Amendment in August of 1920. Thousands of suffragettes and protestors descended on Nashville. It had passed effortlessly in the state Senate but stalled in the state House of Representatives. Opponents wore red roses, while proponents wore yellow roses. One o

Sometimes heroes are right before us, and we don't know how extraordinary they are until they answer our probing questions. I discovered this reluctance when, toward the end of his life, my father only began sharing stories about his role in the South Pacific during WWII. Once he started talking about the war, it was as if he got stuck in the 1940s and kept repeating himself. Oh, to hear him again!  Another friend shared his experience as a fighting Marine on Iwo Jima during WWII for the first time when he was in his 70s. He began having nightmares that continued until his death two years later. The biggest heroes are often the quietest because they don't consider themselves particularly brave. Steve, the owner of a small construction company in Horseshoe Bay, is one of those quiet heroes. He was in the Air Force during Operation Desert Storm in 1991 and was part of an elite team who were dropped behind enemy lines. Steve didn't want his last name used for this story

Many of us know what it's like to live in small communities with Homeowner's Associations. Most of the time, everything works fine, and everyone gets along for the greater good. I serve on the board of the Horseshoe Bay POA, which encompasses 7,700 property owners. Our board is composed of fine folks to make life better for everyone living in Horseshoe Bay. As I age, stubbornness and impatience are frequent companions. Sometimes in the smaller HOAs, though, people with a bit of newly acquired power get carried away.  And, if the person "in charge" overreacts and dislikes any feedback that isn't supportive, it can be hell on earth for the person(s) criticizing.  I admit that I can be very outspoken. I am compelled to express my opinion when I've had enough unwise decisions that hit my pocketbook. I live in a tiny community of 30 townhomes.  I bought my townhouse with plans to live in Horseshoe Bay during the winter, as Seattle's rainy, sunless