Ready to Return to Heaven

Having been in and out of rehab hospitals in the past seven years...and currently in one for seven months trying to recover from a broken ankle..

I can pretty much say with conviction that there are no normal people on the patient roster.  So when I met my new neighbor two doors down, I was not surprised that he was in his doorway, dressed with a small suitcase by his wheelchair, looking ready to go.

I asked him, "Coming or going?"

He sort of shrugged and said he didn't know.  

He caught me by surprise when he told me he just returned from heaven.

"Why did you come back?" I asked.

"I didn't have a choice."

"So you got kicked  out of heaven?"

"I apparently got kicked in and kicked out."

Guess St. Peter didn't like the answers to his questions.

"No, it wasn't that.  I didn't even see St. Peter or anyone for that matter."

"So how did you know you were in heaven?"

"There was a roadsign that said WELCOME TO HEAVEN (if you are a sinner and you know it turn around and go to hell).  

I kept going. When I got to heaven everything was all a vibrant green...thousands of green acres.  It looked like Kansas."

"Maybe it was Kansas," I suggested. "Maybe you were in the land of Oz."

"I don't think so because a phone rang and a voice said there was a slight backlog in processing...to be patient...say the Lord's prayer or sing something appropriate, we will be with you soon. I sang 'Hey Jude'.

It's funny that it only took a second or two to get up to heaven. Then fifteen minutes or more to be processed.  

"I went up in a puff of smoke. Cigarette smoke. I was taking a last drag on my cigarrete before i went to bed.  Poof. Cloud of smoke to heaven's door.

I feel certain I will be going back.  That's why I have my clothes packed."

I would think they would give you a robe or something more appropriate than a pair of jeans from Old Navy, and I would ditch the t-shirt that says "I got here from Uranus". I was curious about his first visit to heaven.

"Were the streets paved with gold.  My grandmother was sure they would be.  Even an eight year old boy like myself at the time wondered why."

"No gold streets. No streets at all where I was. Just vast green fields. No houses or anything, I was not disappointed.  Soon the phone rang and it was a welcomer that tried to explain the rules.  They had a very sophisticated electronic system  that could read your thoughts, words and deeds.  Which means you don't think about sex.  You don't talk about sex.  And God forbid, you don't do sex of any kind.  I quickly asked, 'Not even in the privacy of your own shower?'

"And the voice said, 'especially not there. We know everything you think or do. Some things you get demerits for.  Other things, you go straight to a big red bus, the size of a Greyhound bus . . . painted red with a sign that says:  Non-Stop Bus to Hell.  It leaves every Friday and it is filled to capacity.  Seats 89, plus standing room. You don't want to be on that bus.  It looks like they are having a grand time.  Wait 'til they get to hell."

"So you got sent back for some transgression?"

"I don't think so.  The voice on the phone said there were no rooms at the inn, but there probably will be by Friday.  Just sit tight.  We will bring you back. So that's what i'm doing."

Saluda Lifestyles - October Article

MY DAUGHTER, THE VIKING QUEEN

Our second daughter, who is now in her forties, was always an unique
child. She was so cute...black hair and a big smile. People often
mistook her to be a cute Eskimo.

Although she wasn't a fat baby, she was heavy. My wife and I would
laugh when people would try to pick her up. They really had to
strain. We just said she was "big boned".

When she went to school, she was taller than kids her age. She was
relatively thin during most of high school and college. But still the
scales weighed her heavy.

She is quite the sportswoman....swimming, volleyball, soccer. But it
plaqued her that she was always overweight. She would diet, but with
little longterm success.

The last time she visited us, she quite seriously confessed to me: "I
think I am a Viking. I am sure my DNA would prove it."

She pointed out that she had more than a dozen aunts and cousins who
were more than 6 feet tall. She was sure their DNA would show them to
be Vikings as well.

"I'm not getting on the scales any more," she told me. "I'm
concentrating on being healthy and happy. I'm going to be a Viking
Queen."

I told her I thought that was a great idea. "Just don't start wearing
a horned hat like
the Vikings did."

She now swims every day, training for the Senior Olympics. When she
is old enough, she wants to be ready. And if they call her a Viking
Queen, she will be happy.

If you see a tall woman paddling a kayak on Lake Sheila (and if she is
wearing a Viking hat), it is probably her. Especially if she has her
volleyball team with her or
her cousins. They're all Viking Queens.

Listen to Your Elders.

Chances are good that they are over-medicated. They may sound a
little crazy but.then again, they may just be speaking the truth. I
would advise you to listen to them, and not necessarily to the doctors
or nurses.

My dear mother in law was in a nursing home for nearly 8 years. When I
would go visit, she sometimes had stories to tell me of things that
she saw on TV. One day she wanted me to guess who she had seen the
night before. I guessed
"Perry Como." She loved Perry. But she said, "No, not Perry. I saw
Celeste Holme
on Batman. She was Catwoman."

"Are you sure it was Celeste? Maybe she was dressed like a Nun. She
played a Nun
often," I suggested.

"NO. She was Catwoman...and a fierce one at that."

I should be ashamed to say that I laughed out loud.But she just told
me to look it up in the TV Guide. I told her you couldn't believe
everything in the newspaper. buy she assured me she had seen it with
her own eyes. The nurse said she had been taking El Dopo, a medicine
that gave patients hallucinations and I let it drop.

But when I got home, I told my wife and we had a good laugh about it.

"Was Bing Crosby in the movie?" my wife wanted to know. I should have
asked her.

The TV Guide was nearby and I didn't even have to look up last night's
listings. There was a four-color photo on the cover of
Celeste...=dressed as The Catwoman.

"Oh my God," I exclaimed. "I tried to convince your Mother that she
was a little dopey
to ever think that Celeste would be Batman's enemy. Of course, she
was known for
taking any part at that time in her life. I would have bet good money
that she was dead."

Well, now she IS dead. Thirty six years later. My Mother-in Law has
passed a long time ago so I can't really apologize to her. I am sure
she is in Heaven yelling down at me, "You SOB. I told you she was
Catwoman."

Saluda Lifestyle Article, July

13 FOOT ALLIGATOR BIG AS A TRUNK

The Critter Management patrol on Hilton Head Island captured a 13 foot
long alligator
that could easily be a trunk if somebody put handles on him. He had
been harassing tourists and residents for a long time and was
consideered The Loch Ness
Monster of Hilton Head. After chasing him relentlessly for days, the
patrol finally captured him. He had to be "put down" because he had
become such a dangerous
pest.

"How dangerous?", you may ask. Just check all the stuff they found
inside of him
when they did the autopsy.

First of all they found another entire alligator inside...4 feet long
and he was apparently being held for a later feast. It was like those
carved wooden Russian
dolls whee one is inside another. A good idea for a tourist trinket.

Then there was one undigested tennis shoe...no foot inside. The
alligator was probably hoping to get three more shoes or three more
feet. In spite of signs warning people not to feed the alligators,
some people still dangle their feet in the
lagoons while fishing.
They are perfect bait for alligators.

They also found about 50 pounds of lead sinkers, dozens of fishing
hooks including
lines.

He must have been a sports fan because they found a couple of tennis
balls, two baseballs, some unidentified partially digested balls...and
a beer can. They also found nearly 50 rocks of various kinds as well
as two whole turtles which are surely
difficult to digest.

You can imagine what that alligator might have swalled that he could
easily digest...so keep your feet ou of the creek.

Saluda Lifestyles - May Essay

WE ARE BEING INVADED

Down here in the Low Country of South Carolina, we are being
invaded by nasty critters. They arent aliens from outer space. They
are wild hogs, coyotes and armadillos. Now they are headed your
way......toward Saluda. The wild hogs and coyotes at least, but not
the armadillos. The armadillos are headed north but they are staying
close to the shoreline. (If they make it to New York, I'm sure some
designer will say "Cute purse" and armadillo purses will be the next
fashion statement.)

South Carolina has declared a special hunting season to clear out
these pesky invaders.

Now they might have to add Turkeys to the list.

A woman in North Carolina was housebound for days by a 45 pound
turkey that was stalking her. She couldn't even get out to get to her
car without the bird chasing her. She finally called a friend of hers
but when he came over in his car, the turkey wouldn't let him get out.
Stalked him as well.

Critter management people suggested the woman should get a big
umbrella, open it and approach the turkey. I think the idea was for
her to diguise herself as a bigger turkey.

I'm not sure how the whole thing turned out but there have been
reports of a large turkey carrying an umbrella out by Lake Sheila. He
has painted it like the NBC logo....trying to make people think he's a
peacock.

We had a huge turkey here on Hilton Head Island.....he wandered
around on a green and shady medium on a busy highway. He was there
for days. Nobody dared approached him. But finally one night he
disappeared. Someone saw him getting into a van with a dozen
Mexicans. He's probably a burrito by now.

April Lifestyles

February Lifestyle Artic;e

ARE BLACKBIRDS SMARTER THAN A FIFTH GRADER?

They are very smart birds. They speak two languages. Really. They
have one dialect that warns their friends of impending danger. It is
very noisyl
The other one is quieter and they use this
one in everyday conversation with their friends.

My wife hates blackbirds. Sne says they intimadate other birds,
especially smaller ones.
She also hatest the noise. But I'm deaf so the noise doesn't bother
me at all. I think the blackbirds remind her of a Alfred Hitchcok
movie

They hardly ever travel alone. If you see one blackbird, you can be
fairly certain that one
or more are nearby. I have a beautifully illustrated book that claims
you can tell the future
by how many blackbirds you see in your yard. One bird forecasts a
death to come. I think that's right. Two means something
else...three something else. Fortune tellers probably use the book
for reading your fortune. I don't put much stock in the book actually

I don't think my wife likes the idea of birds that are smarter than
her grandchildren.

Apparently there are more 50 species of the common blackbird.
Goodness knows how you tell the difference. They are all black. I
know they come in different sizes. But they all strut the same way.
I love to watch them wallk across the yard. And , my wife is
right...they hog the birdfeeder and make smaller birds get out of the
way. It is a dog eat dog world, as they say.

saluda lifestyles...november 2011

HE THINKS HE IS A RESURRECTION FERN.

     Here in the Lowcountry of S.C., we have some wonderful subtropical plants.  One of my favorites is the resurrection fern.  It grows along the branches of Live Oak trees (also a favorite of mine).  It is almost impossible to kill a resurrection fern.  During dry spells, it turns from green to brown and shrivels up....looks dead.  But if it rains or if the air gets humid...the fern greens up and comes back to life.

 

     I just spent nearly three months in a rehab facility...as I was checking in, they wanted to know if I wanted to be resuscitated.  But I told them "no, I only want to die once, so don't bring me back.  But make sure I am really dead.  I am a shallow breather so sometimes I just look and sound dead.  Put a mirror under my nose before you send me off to the crematory."  They laughed, but I was serious.

 

     There was a younger man standing there and he started talking to me.  He looked like he had just washed up on the beach...had on a Cuban wedding shirt and designer jeans.  He started giving me medical talk and I asked, "Who are you?  A surfer?".  He tried to convince me that he was the main doctor for the

rehab but I told him he didn't look like a doctor and that I would have to see his

certificates.  He said they were back in his office on the wall but I told him. 
Not good enough.  I need to see them."

 

     They took me to my room then.  The guy came by later...told me to drop my pants.  I said, "Drop yours first."  He said, "I'm the doctor!"  And I said, "So you say."

 

     This is a wonderful but old rehab hospital.  The beds looked like they were left over from the Civil War.  Some of the nurses did, too.  And all the patients looked

leftovers.  Except for the physical therapists.  They really know their stuff.  My wife had warned them that I would try to weasel out from anything too strenuous, so they were on to me..  I tried to get out of therapy on Saturday by telling them I was a 7th Day Adventist and it was my Holy Day. (They gave you a banana if you attended church service on Sundays.  I went once, but I wasn't that desperate for a banana.Besides, my family members brought me cheeseburgers and milkshakes when they came .... that is until the dietitian caught them and said she would have to strip search them if they didn't stop..  Actually I lost more than 50 pounds on the rehab food.)

 

     They wanted to know what my goals were.  I told them I wanted to be on Dancing with the Stars, that I wanted to find my goat and I wanted to  be able

to attend my granddaughter's wedding.

     Carol came almost every day...one day she brought her WD40 and was under the bed when the nurse came in.  I explained that my wife was changing my oil.  Carol said it was me that was squeaking and not the bed.

 

     My daughter Laura said the dietitian had bought a new cookbook since the 50s...we had a lot of tuna noodle casserole which I tried to trade for a hot dog.

Speaking of dogs, they were allowed to come visit if they had their shots and brougjht proof...so when my friend Elwyn came to visit, Tallulah (his poodle) came in with him.  She was a hit...my room was filled

with visitors, all trying to pet her.

 

     Actually the Surfer was the doctor.  He saved my life at least twice...once when I got hundreds of bloodclots in my legs.  I decided to change doctors and keep this one when I got out of The Home.  Carol didn't like him much because he called her "babe".  I tried to explain that Cuban men think every woman is a babe but she wants to be called Mrs. Babe.  When I was ready to get out of the rehab place, we made an appointment for the docotor's office.  He said to bring a live chicken...preferably a white rooster and to come after dark.  I have to admit that it is a little strange....it's the first time I've had to go to a doctor and bring a live chicken.

DO, SI, DO......SWING YOUR PARTNER.

     I was so happy to hear about the square dance over at Jamboree.  And about the free lessons.  
Even if you think you can square dance, I would advise taking the lessons...especially you guys.  It's not as easy as it looks.

 

     Years ago when my parents were first married, they ran a square dance place.  It was a covered pavillion by a lake.  
They only operated it on Friday and Saturday nights.  Mp Sunday dancing unless you were shouting and dancing i.  n church.

My Father was the caller and everyone claimed he was good.  My Mother loved to dance and she usually had no trouble finding a partner since she has heavy in the bosom.  My Father made more money selling Moonshine than from selling tickets for square dancing.  Lots

of guys would never get on the dance floor without a few swigs of home brew.  
But that's why you need those free lessons.

 

     Square dancing is fun...even if you don't know how.  But it's dangererous, too.  I would recommend two things for guys:

 

1.  Don't wear a felt or straw cowboy hat.  You might look good but they are very little protection when you are ready ro dance roward and bow to your partner.  i got a huge knot on my head bowing (or butting) to my partner.  She and I were both over enthusiastic.  She didn't get a knot...I think her bangs\

saved her.

 

2.  Wear a motorcyle helmet.

 

I have had two big square dance parties where we hired a square dance club to give lessons and a professional caller to send us around the floor.  My wife said no one would like it, but everyone who didn't get knots on their heads had a great time.

 

For a corporate party, we rented a big barn that had been built just for square dances.  One of my fondest and funniest memories was from the dance.  A guy who worked for me came and brought his wife who really didn't get out a lot (or drink a lot).  The two of them were in our group.  
After dancing for a while, we would have a rest and more instructions.  At one of the rest breaks,

my friend's wife sat down on an open window to have a cigarette.  No one else noticed but me, but

she fell out of the window backwards.  It wasn't a big fall; I saw her legs sticking up in the air but then

they disappeared.

 

When the music started, my friend turned to where his wife had been,  He was surprised that she was not there.  Then he looked to his left...no wife....then he looked on the floor...then he looked up on the ceiling.  I was laughing the whole time and pointing out the windown..  At that point, she was  getting\

herself up obviously wondering where she was and he was saying, " What are you doing out there."

 

I don't think she is coming to the Jamboree Dance.  In fact, I don't think she has ever square danced

again.

 

But you can grab a partner and do-si-do.

 

 

 

SALUDA LIFESTYLES - JUNE

EVEN WHITE GIRLS GET THE BLUES.

 

     I MISS MY FRIEND HELEN.  SHE HAS PASSED  ONE LIKE SO MANY OF MY OTHER FRIENDS.  SHE WAS A GREAT PIANO PLAYER...LOVED TO PLAY THE BLUES.  SHE WAS BORN IN GEORGIA AT A TIME WHEN IT WAS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR NICE WHITE GIRLS TO BE HANGING OUT IN JOOK JOINTS AND PLAYING THE BLUES.  BUT SHE DID IT ANYWAY.

  

     SHE ALSO PLAYED THE PIANO AT THE TOWN MOVIE HOUSE WHEN THEY SHOWED SILENT MOVIES.  SHE DIDN'T PLAY POPULAR SONGS BUT ACTUALLY COMPOSED MUSIC TO FIT THE ACTION ON THE SCREEN.  THAT WAS O.K.

WITH HER DAD AND MOM.  BUT THEY DIDN'T LIKE IT AT ALL WHEN SHE WANDERED DOWN TO THE JOOK JOINT TO LISTEN TO MUSIC ON SATURDAY NIGHT...AND EVEN WORSE WHEN SHE JOINED IN TO PLAY.  THEY TOLD HER SHE WOULD GO TO HELL, BUT SHE WAS WILLING TO GO THERE IF THAT'S WHERE THE GOOD MUSIC WAS BEING PLAYED. 

 

     I DON'T THIN\K SHE'S IN HELL.

 

     SHE COULD PLAY CHURCH MUSIC, TOO.  AND DID.  THAT'S HOW I MET HER.  SHE USED TO COME ONCE A YEAR UP TO MARYLAND TO VISIT HER TWIN DAUGHTERS.  WHEN SHE CAME ONE OF THE DAUGHTERS WOULD FIND AN OLD HYMAL AND WE WOULD HAVE A PRAYER MEETING,  HELEN WOULD FIX US A REAL SOUTHERN DINNER...BLACK EYED PEAS, FRIED CHICKEN, COLLARDS.  AND THEN SHE WOULD PLAY FROM THE HYMNAL....AND WE WOULD ALL SING,  EVEN THE CATHOLICS...OR THEY DIDN'T EAT.

 

     YEAR AFTER YEAR, SHE WOULD RETURN AND FIX ME A SOUTHERN DINNER.  WE BECAME GREAT FRIENDS,.

 

     SHE TOLD ME WHEN SHE FIRST MARRIED SHE WOULD PLAY THE PIANO AT HER BIG HOUSE AND A BLACK WOMEN WOULD COME ONCE A WEEK TO DO THE WOODEN FLOORS.  HELEN WOULD PLAY BLUES AND THE BLACK WOMAN WOUILD DANCE AND CLEAN.  THE BLACK WOMEN REFUSED TO TAKE ANY MONEY  SHE AND HER HUSBAND MOVED TO WASHINGTON, D.C.  SHE SOON HAD  TWIN GIRLS TO PLAY THE PIANO FOR.  IT STILL WAS NOT APPROPRIATE FOR WHITE WOMEN TO PLAY THE BLUES BUT HELEN CONTENTED 'EVEN WHITE GIRLS GET

THE BLUES.' AND INDEED THEY DO.

 

      YEARS PASSED AND HELEN MOVED BACK TO GEORGIA ON HER OWN.  SHE HAD A ONE ROOM  APARTMENT

IN A MANSION THAT HAD BEEN CONVERTED TO APARTMENTS.  IT WAS ABOUT TEN BLOCKS FROM THE TOWN LIBARY.  SHE LOVED TO READ AND I TOLD HER ABOUT BIG PRINT BOOKS  BECAUSE SHE WAS HAVING TROUBLE WITH HER EYES.  THEN I CONVINCED HER SHE SHOULD START GIVING CONCERTS AT THE LIBRARY.  SHE WAS A BIG HIT, EVEN PLAYING THE BLUES.

 

    SHE HAD A BLACK MAN WHO WAS A TAXI DRIVER TO COME TAKE

HER TO THE LIBRARY AND TO BRING HER HOME.  SHE TIPPED HIM EVERY TRIP.  BUT THEN AT CHRISTMAS, HE HAD TIED UP ALL THE TIP MONEY IN A NICE HANDKERCHIEF AND GAVE IT BACK TO HER AS A GIFT.  SWEET MAN.

 

    THE LAST TIME I SAW HELEN SHE WAS VISITING THE TWINS IN S.C.  SHE MOTIONED ME OVER WHERE SHE WAS SITTING AND SAID, "COME SIT BY ME.'  I SAT THERE FOR A FEW MINUTES AND

SHE FINALLY SAID, 'YOU ARE THE CRAZIEST PERSON I KNOW.' I ASKED HER, ' IS THAT A COMPLIMENT?'  HELEN SAID, 'YES, YES OF COURSE.'  \

 

     IT IS ONE OF THE NICEST THINGS ANYONE HAS EVER SAID TO ME. 

 

     HELEN DIED SOON AFTER THAT.  HER DAUGHTERS WERE VISITING AN OLD BLACK GRAVEYARD AND HAPPENED TO SEE A

WREATH MADE UP LIKE A GRAND PIANO.  THE FLOWERS HAD DIED

BUT THE FRAME SHAPED LIKE A GRAND PIANO WAS STILL THERE.

THEY DECIDED TO TAKE IT AND RECYCLE IT FOR THEIR MOTHER'S

MEMORIAL SERVICE.  THEY SAID IT WAS THE HIT OF THE GRAVEYARD AND THAT YOU COULD ALMOST HEAR HER BLUES MUSIC BEING PLAYED. 

 

     SWING LOW, SWEET CHARIOT. COMING FOR TO CARRY ME HOME,.

 

 

JOE ADAMS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Saluda Lifestyles , May

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why Goldfish Never Graduate From High School

 

     It's not because they can't get a cap and gown to fit, although that could be a problem if they ever made it to high school.

 

     The problem is much simpler.  They are fairly dumb.

 

     The goldfish are gorgeous.  And they swim better than Esther Williams.  But they are dumb as a stump.  They only have a memory span of 30 seconds according to scientists.  I have no idea how they know this but they claim that whatever you tell them goes in one ear and out the other.  If they have ears.  That might be the problem since I've never seen fish ears.

 

     Goldfish rarely get beyond first grade.  They can't hold a pencil, poor things.  Even if they knew the answer, they couldn't write or tell the teacher.

 

     "Hold up your fingers," she would yell.  "Blow four bubbles."

 

     There are other problems other than the pencils.  They can't tie their shoes.  No wonder.  No feet.  And getting on the schoolbus is a major feat.

And once they are on the bus, they tend to slide from one end to the other.  If their mothers were thoughtful enough to put them in a sealed baggie with water, some of the bullyboys start playing toss with the fish.

 

     I sympathize with the goldfish.  I really do.  They're not going to get a good job unless they graduate from high school.  I am retired so I don't have to worry about getting a good job.  I worry that I am turning into a goldfish.  I can't remember anything I'm told more than 30 seconds ago.  Sometimes not

then.  Of course, maybe I just don't care.  Maybe the goldfish don't either.

Saluda Lifestyles, April - 2011

I Saw Grandpa Picking His Nose.

 

My great grandaughter has been living in St. Louis for a while with her Dad, but she just recently returned to Hilton Head Island to live with her grandmother.  We are glad to have her back, but I don't get to see her that often.  She's very observant and is a real

blabbermouth.  She tells everything.  She told my daughter recently, "I saw Grandpa picking his nose."

 

My daughter asked her what I did with the boogers.  She said, "Sometimes if they are big, he feeds them to the dog.  The dog

seems to love them.  Other times he picks one side of his nose, then if he has no place to put it, he sticks it in the vacant side.  It is

so sick and disgusting."

 

My daughter wanted to know if I ever flicked them  or stuck them anywhere.  But I was not quilty.

 

I confronted Ellie why she was telling stuff like this.  She said it was what girls do.

I asked her why she said I picked my nose.  I also pick apples, blackberries, blueberries, strawberries...but she never tells that,  She said they don;t come out of my nose.

I tried to convince her that we had two "picking" fingers just for getting boogers...that was what God gave us those fingers for.  But she wasn't buying  .it, 

She said he hade the so called "Picking" fingers  to keep your place while reading and to paint so they look pretty. 

 

I doubt that I will be able to stop after all these years.  Unless she starts smacking my hands.  Then I might have to flick the boogers at her, sweet as she is.

\

 

 

October Lifestyles Article

I FOUND MY THRILL ON BLUEBERRY HILL

And also my breakfast! I love blueberries. A friend of mine who
lives in Candler found a spot on the Blueridge Parkway that has a
hillside of wild blueberries. He's not giving out the location, but
that's o.k. because he picks and brings me blueberries. He said he
noticed an old graveyard by the roadside. The headstones had become
overgrown with moss. But when he was looking around, he noticed the
blueberries bushes; some up to
fifteen feet high. So he started picking,..filling up whatever
containers he had in his car.
He said it was so easy to pick because there were so many blueberries.
He now makes regular weekly trips to Blueberry Hill and picks enough
to have bowls of blueberries three times a day. He's kind enough to
bring me a few, but he gives more to his girlfriend. (Wouldn't you?)

He claims that blueberries are the healthiest fruit you can eat. He
says they are "brain
food", although I haven't noticed my brain kicking in any faster. And
they are only 80 calories a cup. The wild blueberries tend to be
smaller but I think they are more delicious than the plump ones that
you get at the store for $3.50 for a little cup full.

A few years ago I tried starting my own Blueberry Hill in my backyard
at Lake Sheila. I met a couple at the Pickins Flea Market who sold
all kinds of plants. They had a sign that they specialized in
blueberry plants but you had to order them at a certain time of the
year. I placed my order for l2 plants and went to see them down at
Traveler's Rest.
(I love the name of that little town.) I had cleaned out my car,
expecting some big plants.
As it turned out, they looked more like "cuttings" I was fairly
disappointed but they assured me they would take off and grow really
fast. So I took them home and planted them along a walkway from the
house to the lake. I only have two left. Unfortunately I
didn't warn the yard man and he mowed down ten of them. But two of
them are flourishing. One is more than 6 feet high and usually loaded
with blueberries. I have to fight the birds for them and the birds
are winning. Not only do the early birds get the worms, they also get
the blueberries.

I spent a summer once in the northernmost county in the U.S.....in
Maine. It's the largest producer of wild blueberries in the country.
But the plants are really low to the ground...little more than a
groundcover. I noticed the blueberries first because the hills were
turning blue in color. Literally. Then I noticed busloads of migrant
workers who had been brought up to pick the blueberries. I had a
bunch of blueberries growing where
I was staying in a national forest. I picked blueberries every day,
but I wouldn't want it as a job. Unless of course I was very short.

I PRAY. YOU PAY.

I've read a couple of times that Catholic organizations here in
America are outsourcing prayers to India. People donate money to have
the Church pray for them, but they have so few priests nowadays, they
turn around and outsource the prayers to some Indian monks who pray
really cheap. I guess it doesn't matter. But I was thinking this
might be
a good thing for an old retired guy to do. I could pray for people.
Since I get Social Security I wouldn't have to charge a lot. And I
have a perfect place to pray on my backporch overlooking beautiful
Lake Sheila...a Heavenly view if there ever was one.
Actually I already pray for quite a few people that I don't know
personally. I pray for Zsa
Zsa Gabor. She's 93 and recently had to have hip replacement surgery
after she fell out of bed. I saw her on TV being put into an
ambulance.Her husband, the Prince, was taking her home from the
hospital because he thought she could recuperate faster at home with
the friendly faces of her staff. She had hospital hair instead of a
wig...no jewels...no make-up. I wouldn't have recognized the poor
thing. I don't ask her to pay me. The prayers are complimentery at
this point.
I'm very organized with my praying, too. I have various
sections...the Extreme Elderly, where I pray for Zsa Zsa and others
that are over 85...Those In Need of Healing...Loved
Ones...Soldiers...Road Warriors, those who make their living driving
around. I also have a section for animals. Mainly dogs. I don't
know that many cats. I pray for Tallulah. a black poodle that travels
with my friend Elwyn who drives for Federal Express. She's seen more
of America than I have. Elwyn takes her to Dog Parks when he can find
one in the
town they are visiting. It's very thoughtful of him, but I suspect
that he takes her there thinking he might meet some nice women for
himself. (He's looking for a wife in case anyone is interested.)
I'm aggressive when I pray. I'm not a Whiner. If you whine when you
pray, I think they put you through to a recording.
So? You need any prayers?
Let Us Pray.

Saluda Lifestyles Article for August

THE BINGO BOYS

The Bingo Boys of St. Peter's are having a reunion. This is a group
of guys who worked at St. Pete's Bingo games back in 1950's. We were
teenagers then and it was a great way to make some extra money and
learn to charm older ladies. Most of The Bingo Boys
have passed on. I think there are only three left. I'm not going to
the reunion.

St. Pete's is in Washington, D.C. They had bingo games on Monday
nights and, at first, they charged one dollar a card. Then they got
raided by the Internal Revenue Service. It
was against the law to make people pay for bingo gambling. But then
they continued to have bingo games. Instead of collecting at the
door, people entered and found their table.
Then they had a cadre of handsome young teenagers that would go around
to the people
as they sat at the tables. We would ask how many cards they wanted
and hand them out.
Then we would shake a basket at them to get their "donations".

I was flabbergasted at how often they tried to shortchange me. They
would take l0 cards
but only put in a couple of one dollar bills. I was told to watch
carefully and if they didn't
put in the proper amount of one dollar per card, I was to keep shaking
the basket at them
although I couldn't actually ask for more.

We made our money by being charming...running to get sodas or hot dogs
for our table
guests. If they won, they often gave you a tip. If they won big, you
could make some real money. Gratuities were our income. Or so I
thought.

Two years ago I was with some of The Bingo Boys and we were talking
about the good old days. One guy said, "I would never have been able
to get by financially without stealing that money at bingo every
week."

"Stealing?" I asked. I was shocked. I never stole a penny. But all
the others admitted that they stole regularly.

I said, "You stole from your church?" They claimed it wasn't really
the church...it was bingo money.

I was the only Bingo Boy that wasn't Catholic. I was a Methodist who
ran around with Catholics. But I was the only one that wasn't
stealing.

I envied my Catholic friends because when we went out on Saturday
nights, they would run into the church and go to confession. I always
wanted to know what they confessed
but they were vague about it. Whatever they confessed, we went out
and did the same things they had done the week before. And they could
confess again.

When you are a protestant, you talk directly to the Lord. I could ask
for forgiveness but
you never got an answer back so you had mounting guilt. I wanted a
voice to come back
and say: "You're off the hook, kid.". But it never did. I didn't
have a lot to confess anyway
because I certainly didn't steal at bingo or even know that the other
boys were doing it.
I have a feeling that a lot of them are still in Purgatory, burning
like a 3-hour log. That's another thing about the Catholics that I
liked...the idea of Purgatory. A place to go for a while short of
Hell. I think I read that they don't believe in Purgatory any longer.
That's a shame. It was an attractive part of their religion. Almost
as good as confessions.

Do You Have a Shy Bladder?

Well, according to doctors who specialize in these things, 7 percent of adult males have Shy Bladder.  Basically it means you can't go wee-wee in public toilets

 

How do professional trained medicine men come up with this crap?  I'm sure if they cross checked their research, they would find that 7 percent of adult males have tiny penises.  That's why they have a Shy Bladder.  If they had one the size of a pork loin, they would have no trouble in poppimg it out at a urinal....maybe even outdoors. 

 

I would be embarrassed to be a doctor that specializes in Shy Bladder.  Can you imagine being at a cocktail party and when someone asks you, "And what do you specialize in, Doctor?"  Then you have to tell them "Shy Bladder".  And then everybody in the room laughs out loud as you explain how you have to take your patients by the hand into public toilets.  Come on!  Nobody would want to shake hands with you after that.

 

The medical profession seems to be overrun with strange maladies.  Think about it.  We read nowadays about Irritable Bowel Syndrome.  It's just a spastic colon which has been around forever but now they call it Irritable Bowel Syndrome to give it a modern name.  Your bowel is yelling, "I am pissed!  I mean it.  I am angry and I'm not going to let you go more than two feet from the toilet today."

 

I'm sure it's not funny if you have either one of these maladies....ooops, I've got to go.  My bowel is growling.  I hope there's no one in the toilet.  I'm shy.

 

 

Adopt Me, Sandra.

Sandra Bullock's got rid of her sleazy husband, Jessie James.  Now she has adopted a little 2 l/2 year old boy.  Sweet.  But I just wonder why these movie stars always adopt little kids.  Why can't they adopt an old guy like me?  If she adopted me and Betty White, we would keep her laughing all the time.  I wrote to her on her Facebook page.  It already had more than 2,000 messages.  All of them  were probably asking to be adopted.  I should be faster; get in line first.  She wants her new son to learn about every corner of New Orleans so I

gave her the name of a neat cafe called Seimolina's, a place that makes 50 different kinds of pasta....including cheeseburger pasta and a macaroni and cheese pie.  I miss going to New Orleans.  I used to know most of the "corners" as Sandra calls them.  I'm sure I could find them again if they are still there after the big flood.  They might be covererd in oil this time.

 

Chatty Carl the Talking Dildo

Now there's a dildo that really knows what a girl wants...it talks.  It's like a Chatty Cathy Doll...it has a string to pull and it says things like:  "You want to just cuddle tonight?"

Or, "Have you lost weight?"  They come in various sizes and colors....from Finger size to Humongous.  You have a choice of languages as well.  There's a big South American style that asks, "Que pasa, Baby?"  What won't they think of next?

 

 

Fatty, Fatty. Two By Four. Can't Get Through the Smokehouse Door.

; Obama visited Asheville recently. His first stop after the plane landed was at 12 Bones Bar-b-que Smokehouse to get some ribs. They should have named the place 12 Bones and a Million Flies. It's an indoor/outdoors kind of place and the flies do love the ribs. My wife said she doubted if the President and the First Lady ate any ribs since they are so opposed > to fat...and fat people. She thinks they stood at the door and chanted, "Fatty, fatty. Two by four. Can't get through the Smokehouse door." Maybe, but they probably would have been beaten up with naked bones by the Smokehouse loyal customers. I can attest to the fact that they are good ribs even if you have to share them with lots of flies. When you order and get your silverware, you also get a fly swatter. But these savage flies don't just buzz around your face...they land on your lips and try to eat the meat off the bones before you can. So you really need to smack yourself in the face with the fly swatter, and who knows where the flies go? The Obamas moved on to the Grove Park Hotel, a luxury place where no flies are allowed. Before they left Asheville, they went to see Billy Graham who > lives not far away at Montreat. He's 91 now...he greeted Obama with "Did you bring me any ribs, Boy?" Billy's too old to worry about fat. Or calling "tan" people "Boy". They prayed for each other, Billy's son said. > > Billy has been chums with a lot of Presidents, mainly Republicans. I remember a couple of years ago, my wife and I were listening to an interviewer talking with Billy Graham. The interviewer said, "You're getting up in years, Reverend Graham. It won't be long until you are sitting in Heaven with God." But Billy objected. He said, "I'm not sure I have done enough to sit with God." I turned to my wife and said, "We are in deep doo-doo, honey. If > Billy doesn't think he's getting in upstairs, we'll never make it." But she said Billy was probably worrying because he was palsy-walsy with Richard Nixon...probably afraid he will go to Hell and have to play golf with Nixon. Besides, she felt confident that she would make it because she polished brass at church once a month and thought there's probably a lot of brass in Heaven. I told her I was not interested in going if there was work to do, especially polishing brass.

Lifestyle Article for May

YOU CALL THIS A SPA?

I wasn't born yesterday, but apparently the Spa Movement in America was. It seems like there are spas everywhere...but they are girly things where people go to have facials...mudpacks on their faces with cucumbers on their eyes.

When I think about Spas, I think of The Greenbrier Resort and Hot Springs in

West Virginia. To my mind, those are real spas and not just because George

Washington came to The Greenbrier and drank that awful sulfur water. It tasted

so bad, I spit mine out. They assured me it was the smell and not the taste that

turned my stomach. But how are you going to get the water past into your mouth

without going by your nose?

A friend and I took the famous "treatment" at Hot Springs. We signed up one afternoon for an appointment the next day. I had the attendant "walk" us through what we would be doing because at that time I had a hearing aid and wanted to make sure I would know what was coming next since I would have to store my hearing aid with my clothes. He was kind enough to give us a tour.

The next day we arrived on schedule and the woman at the desk asked, "You boys here

for the Treatment?" We told her we were so she buzzed a mountain man from the back.

Our first stop once we got naked was to the soaking tubes. And they were tubs literally.

The water there is a constant temperature. The tub looked close to full...when I stepped in I could feel the water rising...and as I sat down, the water really rose...right over the top. I

yelled "My goodness, the water is going out of the tub." But before I could panic, the attendant said it was suppose to. The tub had fresh spring water coming in constantly so one's body temperature didn't cool the water too much. They had not told me that part the

day before so I was greatly relieved because it was like a waterfalls once I got all the way in the tub.

Our next stop was into a steam room. The attendant gave us each a wash cloth and, at first I thought we were going to have to wash one another. I was planning to draw the line

there, but the steam was filled with eucalyptus so as the room filled up with steam, he said we might have to put the wash cloth over our faces. (Did I mention that we were paying handsomely for this?). The room filled rather rapidly with steam and I told my friend, "If you have anything to say to me, say it now because I'm not going to be able to read your lips once the steam rises." I was about to break out of the room from the smell just when the

attendant told us our time was up.

Next we went to have a rub down with rock salt...we were stretched out on a marble slab that seemed like what they might use for dead bodies. Actually the attendant was rubbing

(and not gently) dead skin off our freshly steamed bodies. After he got us rubbed down, we went around the corner to a huge tiled room. He had me stand against one wall and he was on the other side with a fire house. He was yelling something to me, but I couldn't read his lips across the room...then he started doing hand-signals by putting his hands across his crotch. Finally I realized that he was saying, "Cover your privates." When I did, he turned on the firehouse and the power of the water almost knocked me down. He was rinsing off the rock salt and the dead skin but there must have been a better way to do it.

My friend was laughing...but his turn was next.

Finally after these ordeals, we were ready to towel off and get dressed. The female attendant out front asked cheerfully, "You boys want to sign up for another treatment

tomorrow?" I said, "I've had all the treatment I can stand in this lifetime." She said that

some people have the treatment every day.

Real spas are in the Black Forest in Germany...palatial buildings with extravagant pools,

etc. And needless to say, extravagant prices. These are where Kings and Queens and rich South Americans come to relax. We had planned a trip there one year with some friends. Normally I would have felt too fat to get naked in one of these places. But in

Germany, the richer you are the fatter you are. Rich industrialists, you know, so I was

actually looking forwrd to parading around with them. Unfortunately because of a terrorist

attack (not on the spas), our trip had to be called off. Now I'm too poor to go. But I have a

sweat lodge under my house at Lake Sheila. Close your eyes and it feels like a European

Spa.