I woke up as sore as a stubbed toe. Somehow, I pulled a muscle in my lower back; at least I hoped it was a muscle instead of something worse, which wouldn’t be out of the ordinary given my past medical record.
That’s not the only thing that was sore when I hit the floor sometime around 6:30 a.m. That day, brother Jim was scheduled to undergo a heart catheter procedure. His doctor had decided that a peek was necessary to make his heart could take a licking and keep on ticking. To say I was concerned would have been an understatement.
Jim and I have been through all sorts of things together, many of them tough. When we were still babies, chicken pox visited our house, and both of us were covered in splotches. Mother said that we squalled for days as the yucky welts erupted, itched, and finally disappeared. The only upside to the situation was that we were too young to scratch them, thereby keeping away some of the nasty scars that older children had when they clawed away for relief.
When we were still pre-school age, the mumps settled in our house. Jim and I awoke with “chipmunk cheeks.” What I remember most about the illness was that it zapped our strength and made swallowing food almost impossible. Unfortunately, Mother came down with a case at the same time. She took to her bed and felt too bad to much care if her brood survived.
Jim and I shared the measles. Whew! They knocked us for loops as fevers spiked and red dots covered every part of our bodies. We missed a week of school and didn’t regain our energy for awhile, but eventually, we were back. Our parents told us watching television while we were infected could damage our eyes. That worsened our condition by adding boredom to the mix.
We went through the illnesses of others. When we were thirteen, it was Daddy, who had several doctors give him differing diagnoses before learning that he had lung cancer. From April until August 31, he hung on through the ravages of the disease. Mother was diagnosed with the same thing and spent a year battling, only to finally be consumed by the cancer. Jim and I watched as the same damn stuff ate up our brother Dal, who had served as our surrogate dad and real-life hero. A couple of weeks after he turned 54, Dal quit fighting and found relief.
Jim and I have tended to nurse each other through other health problems. He visited me and did things around the house when I had back surgery. I played taxi and drove him to physical therapy after his knee replacement surgery. Both of us try much too hard to be helpful when an injury or illness rears its ugly head; that’s what brothers, especially twins, do for each other.
Jim was all right. However, any time a person has his heart checked, plenty of things can be found. Amy had this same procedure, and a blockage that required a stint was discovered. The good thing was that taking a look prevented a serious condition from worsening. In the end, the doctor pronounced Jim fit with the heart of a teenager. He told Brenda the bad news was that she’d have to live another thirty years with Jim.
I worry about Jim because he’s the last family member I have left. He’s also my lifelong best buddy. He needs to be okay for his family and for me. He told me there was no reason to be at the hospital during the procedure, but I told him to be quiet. I arrived, sat with Brenda, and when the doctor said all was well, I left for home knowing that we’d survived another event together.
Watching Out for Each Other
I woke up with a sore back. Somehow, I managed to pull a muscle in my lower back; I hope it’s a muscle instead of something worse, which wouldn’t be out of the ordinary given my past medical record.
That’s not the only thing that was sore when I hit the floor sometime around 6:30 a.m. Today, brother Jim is scheduled to undergo a heart catheter procedure. His doctor has decided that a peek is necessary to make sure all is okay with his ticker. To say I’m concerned is an understatement.
Jim and I have been through all sorts of things together, many of them tough. When we were still babies, chicken pox visited our house, and both of us were covered in sores. Mother said that we squalled for days as the places erupted, itched, and finally disappeared. The only upside to the situation was that we were too young to scratch the places, thereby keeping away some of the nasty scars that older children had when they clawed away for relief.
When we were still pre-school age, the mumps settled in our house. Jim and I awoke with “chipmunk cheeks.” What I remember most about the illness was that it zapped our strength and made swallowing food almost impossible. Unfortunately, Mother came down with a case at the same time, and she was a much sicker individual.
Jim and I shared the measles. Whew! They knocked us for loops as fevers spiked and red dots covered every part of our bodies. We missed a week of school and didn’t regain our energy for awhile, but eventually, we were back.
We went through the illnesses of others. When we were thirteen, it was Daddy, who had several doctors give him diagnoses before learning that he had lung cancer. From April until August 31, he hung on through the ravages of the disease. Mother was diagnosed with the same thing and spent a year battling, only to finally be consumed by the cancer. Jim and I watched as the same damn stuff ate up our brother Dal, who had served as our surrogate dad and real-life hero. A couple of weeks after he turned 54, Dal quit fighting and found relief.
Jim and I have tended to nurse each other through other health problems. He visited me and did things around the house when I had back surgery. I played taxi and drove him to physical therapy after his knee surgery. Both of us try much too hard to be helpful when an injury or illness rears its ugly head; that’s what brothers, especially twins, do for each other.
I’m sure Jim will be all right. However, any time a person has his heart checked, plenty of things can be found. Amy had this same procedure, and a blockage that required a stint was discovered. The good thing is that taking a look can prevent a serious condition from worsening. It also might prevent a heart attack or worse.
I worry about Jim because he’s the last member of our family that I have left. He’s also my lifelong best buddy. He needs to be okay for his family and for me. He told me there was no reason to be at the hospital during the procedure, but I told him to be quiet. I’ll be there with his wife Brenda,and when the doctor says all’s well, I’ll go home and know that we’ve survived another event together.
That’s not the only thing that was sore when I hit the floor sometime around 6:30 a.m. Today, brother Jim is scheduled to undergo a heart catheter procedure. His doctor has decided that a peek is necessary to make sure all is okay with his ticker. To say I’m concerned is an understatement.
Jim and I have been through all sorts of things together, many of them tough. When we were still babies, chicken pox visited our house, and both of us were covered in sores. Mother said that we squalled for days as the places erupted, itched, and finally disappeared. The only upside to the situation was that we were too young to scratch the places, thereby keeping away some of the nasty scars that older children had when they clawed away for relief.
When we were still pre-school age, the mumps settled in our house. Jim and I awoke with “chipmunk cheeks.” What I remember most about the illness was that it zapped our strength and made swallowing food almost impossible. Unfortunately, Mother came down with a case at the same time, and she was a much sicker individual.
Jim and I shared the measles. Whew! They knocked us for loops as fevers spiked and red dots covered every part of our bodies. We missed a week of school and didn’t regain our energy for awhile, but eventually, we were back.
We went through the illnesses of others. When we were thirteen, it was Daddy, who had several doctors give him diagnoses before learning that he had lung cancer. From April until August 31, he hung on through the ravages of the disease. Mother was diagnosed with the same thing and spent a year battling, only to finally be consumed by the cancer. Jim and I watched as the same damn stuff ate up our brother Dal, who had served as our surrogate dad and real-life hero. A couple of weeks after he turned 54, Dal quit fighting and found relief.
Jim and I have tended to nurse each other through other health problems. He visited me and did things around the house when I had back surgery. I played taxi and drove him to physical therapy after his knee surgery. Both of us try much too hard to be helpful when an injury or illness rears its ugly head; that’s what brothers, especially twins, do for each other.
I’m sure Jim will be all right. However, any time a person has his heart checked, plenty of things can be found. Amy had this same procedure, and a blockage that required a stint was discovered. The good thing is that taking a look can prevent a serious condition from worsening. It also might prevent a heart attack or worse.
I worry about Jim because he’s the last member of our family that I have left. He’s also my lifelong best buddy. He needs to be okay for his family and for me. He told me there was no reason to be at the hospital during the procedure, but I told him to be quiet. I’ll be there with his wife Brenda,and when the doctor says all’s well, I’ll go home and know that we’ve survived another event together.
Who Needs Safety Equipment?
Amy says we’re a safer nation these days. I say we’re too cautious. Americans are afraid of everything, so much so that we’ve quit some activities. That’s not quite how things were in the 60’s and before.
Children today ride bikes just as we did. However, they are outfitted with all sorts of safety equipment: helmets, reflectors, rear view mirrors—accessories to protect young’uns from being hurt. Our bikes were regular ones. Only the richest kids had three speed bikes. Most bikes went only as fast as two pumping legs could propel them. Just riding bored us, so in no time at all we were practicing riding without using our hands or we were jumping bikes from ramps constructed with blocks and two-by-fours.
We had our share of accidents. On one occasion before I was big enough to ride a bike, one of the neighborhood boys sat me on the frame in front of the seat and rode me around the yard one and a half times. Then my bare toes were caught in the front wheel spokes. Yikes, it hurt, but I didn’t die from it. Neither did we succumb to other wrecks when we hit things or when dogs chased us. Sure we left plenty of hide along the asphalt paths where our knees and shins and bottoms slid, and sure, we shed plenty of tears when those unfortunate things occurred. The cure for all that was merthiolate or mecurochrome. Those products burned like the fires of hell, but they healed abrasions and cuts on all us boys. Having the orange-red medicine on a scrape was a badge of courage.
One thing’s for sure: we didn’t wear helmets. Back then, getting to most places meant kids rode bikes. Jim and I logged plenty of miles on trips to Hardin Valley, Karns, and Ball Camp. All the while, we never wore a helmet, unless we had one for football and were going to a back yard game. Some of us took a couple of blows to the head, something others might say accounts for our abnormal behavior. I’ve also known some guys who were separated from their bikes by riding into a clothes line at dusk. Still, not a single one of us had a helmet.
Skate boarders and in-line skaters spend hundreds of dollars on equipment that will keep them safe. When we were ten or eleven, Jim and I got skateboards for Christmas. Yes, they had them back that far. The ones we got were made of a piece of wood with a rounded nose and square back. Metal wheels like the ones on old skates were placed in pairs in front and back. Right outside my front door today is where we began our rides. The course took us down the hill to the cul-de-sac or, if we were daring enough, around the turn to another street.
Those metal wheels didn’t turn particularly well, and they were susceptible to object on the road’s surface. The smallest rock or even an acorn could stop the wheels from turning, thereby launching the rider forward. With luck the person could hit the road running. Otherwise, it was again time to paint body parts with medicines. My older brother broke his Christmas watch riding one of our boards; I never felt sorrier for him than when he did that.
What we didn’t have were helmets, knee and elbow pads, and gloves. Sure, we would have been safer, but being covered with those items took some of the adventure from the whole thing. Of course, we were smarter than today’s kids because none of us ever tried to ride a board down a hand rail or along the edge of a brick wall, nor did we try to complete tricks like jumping from the board, spinning it, and then again landing on it.
Children today ride bikes just as we did. However, they are outfitted with all sorts of safety equipment: helmets, reflectors, rear view mirrors—accessories to protect young’uns from being hurt. Our bikes were regular ones. Only the richest kids had three speed bikes. Most bikes went only as fast as two pumping legs could propel them. Just riding bored us, so in no time at all we were practicing riding without using our hands or we were jumping bikes from ramps constructed with blocks and two-by-fours.
We had our share of accidents. On one occasion before I was big enough to ride a bike, one of the neighborhood boys sat me on the frame in front of the seat and rode me around the yard one and a half times. Then my bare toes were caught in the front wheel spokes. Yikes, it hurt, but I didn’t die from it. Neither did we succumb to other wrecks when we hit things or when dogs chased us. Sure we left plenty of hide along the asphalt paths where our knees and shins and bottoms slid, and sure, we shed plenty of tears when those unfortunate things occurred. The cure for all that was merthiolate or mecurochrome. Those products burned like the fires of hell, but they healed abrasions and cuts on all us boys. Having the orange-red medicine on a scrape was a badge of courage.
One thing’s for sure: we didn’t wear helmets. Back then, getting to most places meant kids rode bikes. Jim and I logged plenty of miles on trips to Hardin Valley, Karns, and Ball Camp. All the while, we never wore a helmet, unless we had one for football and were going to a back yard game. Some of us took a couple of blows to the head, something others might say accounts for our abnormal behavior. I’ve also known some guys who were separated from their bikes by riding into a clothes line at dusk. Still, not a single one of us had a helmet.
Skate boarders and in-line skaters spend hundreds of dollars on equipment that will keep them safe. When we were ten or eleven, Jim and I got skateboards for Christmas. Yes, they had them back that far. The ones we got were made of a piece of wood with a rounded nose and square back. Metal wheels like the ones on old skates were placed in pairs in front and back. Right outside my front door today is where we began our rides. The course took us down the hill to the cul-de-sac or, if we were daring enough, around the turn to another street.
Those metal wheels didn’t turn particularly well, and they were susceptible to object on the road’s surface. The smallest rock or even an acorn could stop the wheels from turning, thereby launching the rider forward. With luck the person could hit the road running. Otherwise, it was again time to paint body parts with medicines. My older brother broke his Christmas watch riding one of our boards; I never felt sorrier for him than when he did that.
What we didn’t have were helmets, knee and elbow pads, and gloves. Sure, we would have been safer, but being covered with those items took some of the adventure from the whole thing. Of course, we were smarter than today’s kids because none of us ever tried to ride a board down a hand rail or along the edge of a brick wall, nor did we try to complete tricks like jumping from the board, spinning it, and then again landing on it.
Wood Floors
We’re having new flooring put in our place in Nashville. The existing stuff is a mish-mash of laminate, vinyl, and parquet. The combination was horrible looking, and each was a different type of floor covering. Problems like this never surfaced in our house when I was a kid. Mother and Daddy made choices that lasted.
The family home was covered with oak flooring. The boards were thick and hard as rocks, a fact that became obvious years later when holes were cut to insert vents for an HVAC unit. The contractor burned up a circular saw in the process, cursed the floors, and said he’d never seen any wood that solid.
Jim and I knew all about that floor. When we were kids, all that heated the house was a Warm Morning Coal Stove. The floors were ice cold, a fact that caused us to skitter across them as we reached the stove located in the living where we dressed for the morning. These days, my family makes fun of my refusal to go barefooted. One of a number of reasons I’m not a “shoeless Joe” is that I developed a habit of wearing shoes because of those cold oak boards.
The flooring was a source of pride for my parents. Mother spent hours on her hands and knees as she cleaned and waxed them. When she finished, they glowed as sun passed through the windows and reflected off them. One old story had Mother in the middle of cleaning the floors when Jim and I came in the house. Allegedly, our shoes were covered with mud, and the muck from our steps spread across the floors she’d just worked on. Supposedly, she sat back on her bottom and cried over the hard work that had been ruined in seconds by two grimy little boys. I’d more tend to believe that she sprang to her feet and rained down swats to two little bottoms. That sounds more like the mother I remember.
The hallway was a launch pad for us. It ran from a tile foyer to the basement door. We had some fun getting a head start and then sliding the length of the hall. I sometimes worried about picking up a splinter, but not enough to stop the sliding. One hazard of the game was not being able to stop soon enough and then slamming into the basement door. Another was veering off course and crashing into one of the walls. They were plaster with swirls and ridges and as solid as concrete. A run-in with them led to bumps, bruises, and abrasions.
The discovery of termite infestation sent up alarms. Daddy had exterminators spray and survey the damage, which was minimal, and the problem was fixed. One place was noticeable and always bothered Mother. It wasn’t evident to most people, but she knew exactly where it was and what its shape was. One of the few objects that she held pride was marred, and it ate at her.
In later years, Mother covered the oak floors with carpet to keep the house and her cold feet a bit warmer. After she passed, Rick and June bought the house, and they had the floors resurfaced. They came back to life after lying dormant for so long and again brought light and life to that old house.
Wood flooring is the rage again, but many folks of earlier generations already knew how sturdy and beautiful they were. Of course, today’s world needs to be careful over choices that they make so that trees aren’t harvested and lead to irreparable harm to the environment. Engineered flooring can replace wood floors, and they are beautiful. Still, I’m not sure they have the same character or staying power as wood does. My wish is that anyone who installs them makes as many memories on them as we did as kids.
The family home was covered with oak flooring. The boards were thick and hard as rocks, a fact that became obvious years later when holes were cut to insert vents for an HVAC unit. The contractor burned up a circular saw in the process, cursed the floors, and said he’d never seen any wood that solid.
Jim and I knew all about that floor. When we were kids, all that heated the house was a Warm Morning Coal Stove. The floors were ice cold, a fact that caused us to skitter across them as we reached the stove located in the living where we dressed for the morning. These days, my family makes fun of my refusal to go barefooted. One of a number of reasons I’m not a “shoeless Joe” is that I developed a habit of wearing shoes because of those cold oak boards.
The flooring was a source of pride for my parents. Mother spent hours on her hands and knees as she cleaned and waxed them. When she finished, they glowed as sun passed through the windows and reflected off them. One old story had Mother in the middle of cleaning the floors when Jim and I came in the house. Allegedly, our shoes were covered with mud, and the muck from our steps spread across the floors she’d just worked on. Supposedly, she sat back on her bottom and cried over the hard work that had been ruined in seconds by two grimy little boys. I’d more tend to believe that she sprang to her feet and rained down swats to two little bottoms. That sounds more like the mother I remember.
The hallway was a launch pad for us. It ran from a tile foyer to the basement door. We had some fun getting a head start and then sliding the length of the hall. I sometimes worried about picking up a splinter, but not enough to stop the sliding. One hazard of the game was not being able to stop soon enough and then slamming into the basement door. Another was veering off course and crashing into one of the walls. They were plaster with swirls and ridges and as solid as concrete. A run-in with them led to bumps, bruises, and abrasions.
The discovery of termite infestation sent up alarms. Daddy had exterminators spray and survey the damage, which was minimal, and the problem was fixed. One place was noticeable and always bothered Mother. It wasn’t evident to most people, but she knew exactly where it was and what its shape was. One of the few objects that she held pride was marred, and it ate at her.
In later years, Mother covered the oak floors with carpet to keep the house and her cold feet a bit warmer. After she passed, Rick and June bought the house, and they had the floors resurfaced. They came back to life after lying dormant for so long and again brought light and life to that old house.
Wood flooring is the rage again, but many folks of earlier generations already knew how sturdy and beautiful they were. Of course, today’s world needs to be careful over choices that they make so that trees aren’t harvested and lead to irreparable harm to the environment. Engineered flooring can replace wood floors, and they are beautiful. Still, I’m not sure they have the same character or staying power as wood does. My wish is that anyone who installs them makes as many memories on them as we did as kids.
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