On Disconnect

Jym reflects on a disruption of an otherwise ok holiday season and its meaning and benefit.

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I’ve been ruminating for over a month, now, adjusting to the first inklings of a new, harsh political order. And I have adjusted. This post is not about the election or its consequences. It’s a story about one of the many challenges of senior life; a reflection about struggle and strength.

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Sometimes things seem to be upside down

Jym copes with political phone calls and door calls.

Sometimes, things can just really be complicated. I had returned from shopping the other day, and was parking in the handicapped spot in front of our yellow brick 1895 townhouse in Fox Park. I noticed a guy distributing political doorknob hangers on my block, just starting on the other side of the street. I was listening to one of the hourly news briefs on public radio, and so I just kept watching him. Nice looking black man dressed well, but casually in slacks and a sweatshirt, modest colors. Maybe he’s in his fifties. Now he’s crossing the street and going straight past me and up the steps to my place. Stephen is home. He rings the doorbell, which is a video system. Stephen is not answering. He comes back down the steps after a while, just as I am exiting the car and gathering the groceries.

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Un encuentro en las tiendas, Take Three*

I’m pulling up to the Schnuck’s at Grand and Gravois once again around noon on a beautiful August day. My feelings are divided about this, because recently Mike made me aware that Schnuck’s replaced all the union workers at their Bridgeton warehouse with nonunion workers. I have been seriously weighing this issue. But today, here I am on South Grand already right by this familiar shopping place, and I only have three items on my list. I know right where they are here, and the place is nearly always a learning experience.

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Un encuentro en las tiendas, Take Two*

So this time, I’m shopping at Schnuck’s South City at Grand and Gravios. This is my closest supermarket; it’s where I go to when I just have to get a few things. I long ago gave up trying to figure out how to get into the fastest moving lane. In fact, I have told people, if you don’t want to get into the slowest lane, watch where I am, and then definitely don’t pick that line.

It’s packed this afternoon, but I spy the handicapped line with only one guy with a very full cart. Zip, I am right there, past two uncertain shoppers. I don’t even read People magazine any more, I just patiently wait.

“You better try another line,” the checkout woman says calmly.

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In Honor of Lucille: A Memory from 1984

In October of 1984 I attended the Shealy Pain and Rehabilitation Clinic in Springfield, Missouri for three weeks in a successful attempt to heal a ruptured disk in  my lower back without surgery. The following is a reflection about an admirable woman I met at a local nursing home that I used for lodging while at the Shealy Clinic. Continue reading “In Honor of Lucille: A Memory from 1984”

A Rude and Aberrant Person

Back in the 1980s Stephen and I were living in a 3rd floor walk-up condo in the Central West End called The Barwick. I had decided to move to St. Louis in 1980 and commute 25 miles to work in Edwardsville, Il, rather than living in Illinois and commuting 25 miles to play. I had a rather busy work schedule, and that meant I had to get up early and drive that long distance. Often, I had to stop to put gas in the car on the way to work.

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