Rushing's Ramblings

  I am fascinated by people who claim to have all the answers to significant issues. The problem is that their conclusions are often made without critical thinking skills. You know…that pesky long process that involves reviewing data objectively with a rational, unbiased mind. Most graduate school students learn critical thinking; otherwise, they’d have difficulty passing a course based on their opinion without doing any research. Yet, we live in a culture where everyone has an opinion, often fed to them by conspiracy sites, a news program, or someone they admire. Proper research and then reaching a conclusion takes time; otherwise, it’s just lazy thinking. I am someone who does the laborious chore of research. I was born a skeptic, and just because someone in authority tells me something, I have difficulty accepting it without checking it out. There are plenty of people who have easy answers on immigration, gun reform, abortion, homelessness, various forms of addiction, differences

  There are good things that happen at the Fallingbrick/Geezer Apartments.     There are also good people who want to help those in need, whether it’s to bring food to those staying in their apartment due to illness, to drive someone to doctor’s appointments, or to invite others to lunch.     We have advancing age in common, and it doesn’t take much for any of us to need help. I worry about those living here who have dementia.  One woman constantly walks around the building.  She gets very confused when one tries to converse with her and cannot respond coherently.  I’ve seen her walk down the street and wonder if there will come a time when she’s unable to find her way back to the building.    A couple moved here a few months ago.  The husband follows his wife around, never speaks to anyone, and is apparently suffering from dementia.  Often, the couple will sit in the common area while he usually sleeps. She looks toward the front entrance, almost as if she’s wondering how she got here

  The tremors in her hands were severe, yet our teacher, Mrs. Thompson, could thread a needle and use scissors to cut a straight line across cloth at record speed.  Watching her use the sewing machine was a sight to behold.  I’ve been around numerous people with tremors throughout my career in rehabilitation, yet she was a shining example of someone who overcame her disability.  I’m not sure an occupational therapist or a physician specializing in physical medicine could explain how she did it.  I had difficulty cutting cloth even if the pattern had straight lines.  It took me forever to sew, and I disliked every minute.   I didn’t care much for home economics even though all females in high school were required to take the course.  Heck, I still dislike cooking, sewing, and all the trappings of being a “homemaker.” Besides, I had already been cooking five days a week for our family of five while my mother worked. On the weekends, I had the chore of ironing clothes despite the not-yet-

  I had been thinking of her for a few weeks but had not picked up the phone to check in with her. We had not seen each other in over two years, yet the sweet memory of our time together leaves me with an inner warmth that only the closest friends can invoke.  Today, she sent a brief email to tell me she missed our time together and hoped I was doing well. Without a thought, I called her, and my day was made brighter by hearing her soft voice.   I met Caryl almost seven years ago, shortly after I moved to Horseshoe Bay. Caryl hosted a writers’ group in her beautiful 130-year-old home in Marble Falls.  This group of 10-12 writers met once a month to share their work and give constructive feedback.  One of the members delighted in grammatically correcting others but didn’t take too kindly when the roles were reversed, which was always fun to observe.   Caryl is a quiet, unassuming poet and has honored me on many occasions by sharing her latest poem.  She has been published in numerous po

 DREAMING OF HIM Those we have loved but lost never really leave us.  We might think we see them walking down the street or hear their voice at the next table at a restaurant, but then reality sets in, and we realize it would be impossible since they no longer exist in this world.  If we’re fortunate enough, they sometimes visit us in our dreams. I dreamed last night that I wrote a song about a man living on the first floor of his house while his partner lived upstairs.  He was slowly dying of cancer and could no longer use the stairs. My song was about their love for each other that would never die. I performed the song while playing a guitar, which is a far reach for me since I cannot do either.  I only wish I could remember the lyrics! When I awakened, I realized the dream was about a man I once loved with all my heart.  He’s been gone from this earth for almost eight years, and while I’ll probably never love anyone as intensely as I loved him, I’m grateful that I had the experience

He must have been in a lot of pain the last decade or so of his life.  When my dad was in his 70s, his doctor recommended bilateral knee replacements due to advanced arthritis.  Dad told me he had heard that the surgery was excruciating, so he wanted to know what I thought since my education and career were in rehabilitation.  I was surprised that he even asked me, as he was in great physical shape from walking 18 holes of golf almost every day, and short-term pain is not a deal breaker for most people. I told him that knee replacement surgery hurt, but he would recover after a couple of months of physical therapy.  However, since he had already decided he would be in great pain and mentioned it several times, I realized he might not be the best candidate because his mind had already determined how he would feel after surgery.  So, my dad decided against surgery. Even though his knees were painful, he continued playing golf well into his 80s. I loved playing golf with him for several y

  I now know more than I ever wanted about coyotes on South Padre Island.  I thought it was an anomaly that I saw a loan coyote race across the beach twice during the pre-dawn hour, but apparently, they’ve been here for many years.  The first inhabitants were the Coahuiltecan and Karankawa Indians.  The Karankawa were called “dog-lovers,” so it’s entirely possible coyotes were their “dogs.”  After reviewing arrowheads, etc., it has been suggested that the Karankawa came to South Padre shortly after the island rose from a submerged sandbar to form an island approximately 3,000 to 3,500 years ago. And coyotes originated in North America many, many moons ago. Four Spanish ships were swept off course before wrecking on South Padre Island in 1554.  Three hundred people were on board, and only one person survived.  The majority drowned trying to reach the shore, while the remainder were either killed by the Karankawa Indians or starved to death. Padre Balli obtained the island from Spain in

About once a week, Paddy and I love to visit Wanna Wanna, a beach bar about a 20-minute walk from my condo in South Padre.  It would take us less time to get there, but Paddy delights in investigating and urinating on every bit of seaweed stranded on the beach.  I love this bar because it reminds me of Islamorada in the Florida Keys, which I frequently visited when I lived in South Florida. Heck, the entire island reminds me of the Keys and is one of the main reasons I love being here during the winter. I miss everything about South Florida, so South Padre eases that yearning to return. The other reason is that I don’t have to worry about dislocating my hip after falling on ice like I did in February 2021. The last time South Padre Island had snow was two inches in 2004, and no ice storms have been reported. The average temperature in January is 61. This January, we had many 70-degree days. I’m not one for going to bars alone, but I’m not alone with Paddy in tow.  Besides, his beauty,

    It’s an understatement to view how I lived my life as adventurous and fearless.  Okay, maybe I am not fearless under this strong exterior, but nothing stops me from doing whatever I want. And some might view my exploits as downright stupid.  Hey, I’ve survived…so far.  Age and various physical issues in the past few years have greatly limited my mobility, so the days of bicycle racing, running, hiking mountains, and traveling to remote locations are now a fabulous but distant memory.  It was a drive to cram everything I could into what I knew would be my best years.  I didn’t want to be old and not have fully experienced life in whatever direction curiosity led me. Years ago, PBS ran a series on Ernest Shackleton, who led an ill-fated expedition to the South Pole in 1914. Learning about how they survived after being stranded on Elephant Island for two years was fascinating.  They were only 97 miles short of reaching the South Pole when their ship became trapped in an ice floe.  In

  No one to call me ‘babe’ anymore. No more struggling to stop your constant self-pity While watching the minutes slowly go by. How I suffered being around you for 70 years   No more watching you favor my brothers  While looking at me with disdain Making me feel ugly and unlovable. You never cared for me.    ‘Babe’ wasn’t a term of affection But something you threw my way  Not meaning one minute of kindness.  At least you’re no longer trapped in your hate.   How were the past two years Living in a facility hours away  From your precious sons Who perfectly duped you?   No more “poor, poor me.”  And I will not follow in your footsteps Down your battered, broken, and bitter road. I’m forever free from your coldness toward me.   Tomorrow, you’ll be buried high on a hill, Next to my abusive father, A man you detested for almost 80 years. Yet, you never stopped the beatings or offered consolation.   If only you had realized your hate came from within…   Always looking to find a target. (pict

Over fifty years ago, I left the Texas Panhandle for the big city lights of Dallas over 350 miles down the highway. I was excited to leave the place where I felt stifled.  My many dreams were just waiting to be fulfilled at the end of that long road. To borrow lyrics from Mac Davis, “I thought happiness was [the Panhandle] in my rearview mirror.”   Only the Panhandle never left me.  Even though I eventually lived on both coasts and in a foreign country, I returned to Texas seven years ago after retiring.  I didn’t appreciate them when I was young, but I discovered over the years there are no finer people than those from the Panhandle.  We’re a hardy bunch who will tell you the God-honest truth even if it’s upsetting, but we’ll also help when needed. I learned over the years that happiness is not a destination but a companion to sadness, no matter where one resides.  What we’re left with in the final season of our lives are mostly good memories of a time when life was simpler and we cou