Words amuse me. After visiting Ireland I find that I’m even more interested in colloquialisms and regional sayings. Learning just a smidgen of Irish Gaelic had me scrambling to find this old piece from the early days of my blog. Fittingly, I couldn’t remember what I’d called it. Go figure.
Shehanne Moore encouraged me to republish some of my older stuff on WordPress. Well, it doesn’t get much older than this piece. I give you my second blog post on WP.
This was originally posted on Sunday, June 17, 2016.
Gerald Delane Hall
–Teller of inappropriate jokes, and a gambling fool.
–Measurer of miles in terms of six packs consumed.
–Lacking political correctness, yet treated everyone as an equal.
–Maker of friends wherever he went.
–Soft of heart.
–My biggest fan.
I miss this man.
By Leslie Noyes (with Studly’s assistance)
It was a riotous Friday night here at Doright Manor. I was sitting in my chair trying to come up with ideas for this blog, and Studly Doright was sitting next to me in his chair watching Storage Wars on the telly and occasionally reaching over to fondle my, um, upper arm.
No decent writing ideas were coming to me, so in desperation I turned to Studly and said, “Give me a word.”
Now, I cannot type what he said because sometimes his mother reads this blog.
“I can’t use that word,” I said. “It’s not that kind of blog.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize you needed the word for your blog. That changes everything.”
So he gave me another, equally vulgar word.
“Last chance, smarty pants,” I said. “Just give me a decent word.”
See the title of this post? Yep, that was half of what he said. I don’t know why I bother.
Aging sucks, but as I’m frequently reminded it beats the hell out of the alternative. This past October I celebrated my 60th birthday. Six decades on this earth have taken a toll on my body. I’m no longer the svelte, lithesome broad I once was. And everything hurts.
My ankles hurt, my thighs hurt, and my hips seem to be stuck in neutral. I’m okay as long as I move forward, just don’t ask me to pivot or cha cha. Damn, I miss cha cha-ing.
A Facebook pop up advertisement (amazing how they pick up on my personal needs) prompted me to check on exercises designed to ease those frozen hips. Apparently, if I could stretch my hip flexors, I might achieve full range of motion. I could once again cha cha.
I turned to Google, and this stretch was the first thing to appear under “hip flexor stretches.”
Honestly. I can’t cha cha and they expect me to do this? I tried. Lord knows I tried. Studly Doright walked in during my attempt and laughed so hard I would have slapped him if I could’ve gotten up off the floor.
I’ll be in the whirlpool tub if anyone needs me.
My hands are sixty years old, and not the least bit shy about letting everyone know. Several years ago, back when they were only fifty, my hands and I had lunch with two of my oldest and dearest friends. I hadn’t seen these ladies in quite some time, so we had much catching up to do.
We chatted with each other over plates of delicious Tex Mex cuisine at a restaurant in Dallas, alternately reminiscing about our shared histories and filling in the blanks where our paths had diverged.
They’d both gotten their degrees four years after graduating from high school, marrying and having children only after they’d accomplished that educational milestone. My route was different. I’d married Studly, had two children, and then worked on earning my college diploma. By the time this luncheon took place I was already a grandmother, while they still had children at home. Different paths, many joys.
After the plates were cleared I noticed our three sets of hands on the table. Mine were clearly older than theirs. Where my friends’ hands were soft, smooth, and unmarred by age spots, mine were like a satellite image of a desert land, mottled and wrinkled, freckled and uneven.
I brought my friends’ attention to our hands.
“Look at how much older my hands look than yours do!”
They looked at me like I was slightly nuts. Why would I call attention to such a thing? I even wondered that as I left the luncheon.
Maybe I like my old hands. They’re certainly the oldest looking part of me. Good genetics, for the most part, have kept the rest of my body and even my face, from reflecting my true age. I’m not terribly wrinkled yet, except for a few crinkles around my eyes and several decent laugh lines around my mouth. (I’m probably pissing off the gods of aging right now and will soon be inundated with wrinkles.)
But my hands show everything: Years of helping Studly Doright mow lawns in the summer Texas sun to help ends meet during some very lean years, years of being an assistant Little League softball and soccer coach, years of piloting a motorcycle without wearing gloves (stupid!).
Nowadays they’re more pampered. They receive occasional manicures and are treated nightly to a fairly expensive cream to keep them from further deterioration. But they still look old.
On the other hand, they might look sixty, but they are still nimble. They can tie shoelaces and dry tears, pat people on the back, and occasionally shoot someone the finger. My hands are terrific at picking pennies up and at wielding an ink pen. They text pretty well and can scroll through pages on the internet like hands half their age.
I think I’ll take them shopping today. “C’mon, hands, we’ve got stuff to do. You, middle finger, show some restraint. That’s a good girl.”
A friend on Facebook posted a fun activity a few days ago as a way to break from politics. I earnestly searched for her post, but couldn’t find it, so I’ll have to wing the content.
Basically she asked everyone to post something that would be considered unthinkable to most folks, and it could have nothing to do with politics.
Her example was that she hated The Walking Dead. I was aghast! Who hates The Walking Dead? I mean, it’s the only thing that keeps me sane between Star Wars films. Of course someone then posted they’d never seen a Star Wars film. I almost had an apoplexy.