Pat Bertram's Blog, page 33

Homo Unsapiens

I sometimes watch Judge Judy reruns with the woman I help care for, and boy is that an eyeopener! I know that the cases are chosen specifically because of the bizarre nature of either the problem or the people involved, so I try not to let that interfere with my concept of the world today, or rather my concept of the people in the world. (I already have a poor opinion of people in general, though individually, I like people just fine.) Still, I can’t help but be appalled by people and their behavior. It makes me wonder if, despite the already low regard I have for them, I have greatly overestimated the intelligence and integrity of humanity.

But, as I said, I try not to extrapolate any greater meaning from this small segment of the human population.

What is an eyeopener, however, is how often people who are in the wrong will sue their victim. It’s not as if they are trying to scam the person — they truly seem to believe as if they have right on their side. Several times, people who have tried to cheat the system by getting childcare costs or elder care costs they didn’t really qualify for will sue their accomplice for not turning over their share of the funds. (In a couple of cases, the defendant applied to be a certain person’s caregiver, even though they weren’t going to be doing the job, and the litigant wanted their share of the money.) Sometimes, a person who is getting childcare from the other parent of their child even though they share joint custody (in which case, neither parent should have to pay the other) will sue for additional funds. Or someone who is driving without insurance and who makes an illegal turn will sue the person with the right of way who ran into them so they can get the money to fix their uninsured car.

What interests me from a writer’s point of view, is the total belief in the rightness of their cause. I don’t often see this in books — too often antagonists make excuses to themselves (and eventually to the cops who catch them) for their behavior. If they truly believed they were in the right, they wouldn’t need to justify their actions. They would simply know they were the victim. (Even burglars who get shot at when breaking into a house don’t deny their crime; they just believe there shouldn’t have been any repercussions.) Every time I watch this behavior — the belief of the wrongdoer that they are the rightdoer — I remind myself to use this for a character in my next book (whenever that might be).

Another eyeopener is the constant and ubiquitous use of “had.” For example, “I had went to the store.” If all the “had”s were edited out of the show, I’m sure the shows would be at least five minutes shorter. It’s surprising to me that while Judge Judy feels compelled to scold people for using fill words like “basically,” idioms like “like,” and bad grammar, she never mentions all the “had”s. I suppose she picks whatever most offends her at the time. Or whatever seems most rant-worthy.

What amuses me most are the obvious signs that people have been coached. People who use such constructions as “Basically, like I had went to the store” simply do not use words such as “property” when referring to their stuff or “altercation” when referring to a kerfuffle.

It also makes me laugh to think that humans named themselves “homo sapiens sapiens” when there seemingly is so little sapience involved in human interactions. A better term, perhaps, especially after watching the people who come before Judge Judy, would be “homo unsapiens.”

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***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

Age Is Not Just a Number

Numbers are important in our lives. Or at least, we’ve made them important. Today seems a significant day, a rare Twosday — not only is it a day of twos (2/22/22), but it’s also Tuesday.

Dates are important to us; if nothing else, the numbers on the calendar make it easier for us to navigate our complicated lives. More than that, we give some numbers on the calendar a special significance. For example, we make a big deal about New Year’s Day (1/1) even though it has no real significance other than a change of calendars. In fact, the new year in other cultures starts on a different day.

Temperature numbers are especially significant to us. This morning when I got up, it was 7 degrees. I don’t really need the number to tell me that it is cold — a brief step outside would fulfill the same function — but somehow, knowing the number makes it official.

And yet, when it comes to age, especially an elder age, any concern a person might have about growing older is met with a dismissive, “Age is just a number.”

Age is not just a number. It tells us the time on our biological clock. We only hear about “biological clocks” when it comes to childless women nearing the end of their reproductive years, and yet time is ticking for all of us. We might not know the end, but we do know the end is coming, and the older we are, the more the end looms.

A friend who was about to turn seventy was really freaking out about her age, and she was embarrassed about her reaction to the birthday, but to me, her reaction was totally understandable and nothing to be embarrassed about. In fact, seventy is a significant birthday and worth freaking out over.

All through their sixties, people can convince themselves they are still middle-aged — late middle age, perhaps, but still solidly in the middle years. Then comes seventy, and any pretense of still being young are gone. Especially now, with the pandemic and all, seventy-year-olds are stigmatized as “elderly.” True, they are elderly, but not as eld as they will become. That dang clock is clicking louder and louder as it counts down the last years of life. Oh, sure, they might still have two or even three decades left, but changes will be coming more rapidly.

There is not a significant physical change between the ages of forty and fifty. Nor between fifty and sixty. Or even sixty and seventy. But there is a huge difference between seventy (with the blush of middle age still on one’s cheeks) and eighty (which by anyone’s definition — except perhaps an eighty-year-old’s — really is old). An informal poll tells me that seventy-five is when most people notice a substantial change, but still, at seventy, there are signs of decrepitude. Mentally, people may feel the same, but physically, by seventy, most people are slowing down. Joints hurt. Doctor visits are more frequent. Medications aren’t just a quick cure but are a permanent fixture. The possibility of a frail old age, once unthinkable, becomes . . . thinkable.

When you’re young, old age is for other people. Youth is eternal. Until it’s not. And suddenly, there you are, wondering who the old person is looking back at you in the mirror.

It’s not really a surprise, then, that people want to believe that age is just a number. To think beyond the number is to accept truths that people might not want to accept. Still, when you’re at peace, when the aches and pains are momentarily absent, when the ticking clock silently recedes into the background of your mind, then you feel like . . . you.

When my sister was 35, she asked my mother, who was then in her seventies, how old she felt, and my mother said she thought of herself as thirty-five. My sister thought it wonderful that she and our mother were the same age. I don’t know how much longer after that my mother continued to think of herself as thirty-five. It’s not the sort of thing she and I ever talked about. But no matter how she felt, she did start having health issues, and she definitely showed her age. Then, a few years later, after my brother died, she suddenly grew old and ill and died within the year.

So, yes. Age is just a number, and yet it’s not.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

A Small Life

It’s amazing how many hours there are in a day when one gets up early, like way too early, before the sun is even a hint in the sky. Already I’ve read, played on the computer, cleaned house, went for a walk, fixed a meal, and now here I am, trying to put together today’s blog.

For a change, I have plenty of time to write; it’s just a shame I don’t have anything exciting to write about. There’s just me, and that for sure is not exciting. I am not one of those folks who live large. I’m certainly not lavish or extravagant (though I did recently splurge on a winter coat that was marked down for clearance). Nor am I living in what is considered luxury by other people’s standards.

The truth is, I live small. I spend most of my time alone. Even before the whole Bob mess, I stopped going to restaurants or any place groups of people hang out. (Groups were never really my thing, anyway.)

And yet, my life seems luxurious to me. I have a lovely small house and a comfortable home. (Although in today’s world, “house” and “home” are synonymous, I don’t consider them so because you can have a house that’s not a home and a home that’s not a house.) I have a small job so I can afford luxuries like eating. I drive a small car that was paid for decades ago. I have all the books I want to read a small walk away. So, yes, luxurious!

Still, luxury in my eyes is not exciting to others by any means. And even though I mention such things as my house out of gratitude at this still-surprising upturn in my life, I fear sounding braggadocious if I expound too much. But basically, this is my life. A small life.

And yet, I do wish I had something more exciting to write about than me.

Maybe someday . . .

***

Pat Bertram is the author of intriguing fiction and insightful works of grief.

Strife, Strife, and More Strife

This is one of those perfect days: clear blue skies, bright sun, light-jacket temperatures, still air. Admittedly, there are a lot of such days throughout the year, but there’s something even more perfect about such a day appearing between two glacial fronts. You delight in the warmth when coming out of a cold spell, and you make a special effort to enjoy the day when more cold weather is on the way. (Tomorrow will another warm day, but desperate winds will be blowing in a new storm that will drop the temperature more than 60 degrees tomorrow night.)

In memory of the cold weather we just had and in preparation for the cold to come, I am making chili, which also adds to the perfection of the day. I like to cook but I don’t often feel like making big batches of anything, so there will be enough to last a while. Also, this is Jeff’s chili recipe. It took me almost a year after he died before I could make it (even the thought of the meals we shared made me sick to my stomach). It’s been two years since the last I made his chili, though I don’t really know why except that I haven’t been cooking much of anything that takes an effort.

I have also the windows open to air out the place. It never smells musty, which is interesting for such an old house, but the air coming in makes the house smell sweet and clean.

Considering the perfection of the day, it’s odd that my two-card tarot today was all about strife. The first card, the five of wands is about violent strife and contest, boldness, and rashness. The second card, which is supposed to temper the first card, is The Emperor, which in this deck is about war, strife, war, conquest, and ambition.

Admittedly, my question “what do I need to know today” is so vague the response is not necessarily about me, so although I am planning on taking care of myself and keeping calm so there’s no strife in my life today, I can’t do anything about what is going on in the rest of the world — strife, strife, and more strife. I’m not sure why I need to know this, but I do know it anyway. Even if I didn’t want to know (which I don’t) it’s hard not to learn of such things.

I suppose it’s possible the tarot is telling me to enjoy my strifeless time as I do the interval between two winter storms, because like it or not, there will always be strife.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

House Responsibilities

Today I went to take one last look at the house I’ve been looking after because the owner is returning and I wanted to make sure everything looked okay. And it did. Nothing out of place, nothing broken, the roof fixed where the shingles had blown off during a windstorm.

At least, everything looked good on the outside. On the inside? Not so much. Although I’d merely agreed to check on the place occasionally, I’d tried to keep the plants alive, thinking it would be hard for him to come back to an empty house, and even harder to come back to dead plants. The plants did fine for ten months, then suddenly, whatever I was doing was the wrong thing, and several of the most expensive plants died. Too much water for some plants, perhaps, and not enough for others, though I’d stuck to the twice a month schedule that I’d been doing all along. I suppose the house temperature, set for 55 degrees in winter, could be a mitigating factor once the cold hit, but whatever the reason, those poor plants look awful. The way I figure it, though, if he was really concerned about the plants, he’d have given me specific instructions other than simply for me to check on the house once or twice a month.

I’ll be glad not to have to worry about his house for a while. Taking care of my own house is enough of a responsibility, without worrying about anyone else’s. (My water meter situation still isn’t resolved, for example.)

I have a hunch I’ll be back taking care of his house again in another month or two, because once he gets his papers in order, he’ll be rejoining his wife in Thailand. She’s doing well, but apparently not well enough to travel, though to be honest, I can’t imagine anyone being well enough to handle such a trip — talk about planes, trains and automobiles! Buses, too. Yikes.

I feel sort of mean, but I won’t stop by to see him for a week or ten days until he’s out of quarantine. So, not only will the poor fellow be coming home alone to a house full of dead plants, he’ll continue to be alone for a while until he’s safe from catching and spreading The Bob. (Other people, though, might be friendlier and less picky than I am.) Even worse, he’ll be coming back during one of the coldest spells we’ve had all winter. Tomorrow and the next day we’ll be getting up almost to seventy degrees Fahrenheit, but then Monday night, temperatures will drop more than sixty degrees into the low single digits. The daytime highs for the following few days won’t get out of the twenties. Brrr!

Luckily, I’ll only have to worry about my own house, so although that won’t help him at all, it will help me get through the winter blast that’s coming.

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

Leaping Into the Breach

A couple of years after I signed up with my current internet provider, I discovered that a subscription to a virus protection program came with the service. As it turns out, it is the very same protection plan that came loaded on my new computer. After a year of free service through the computer seller, I’d received a good deal on a renewal of that plan because I signed up for two years (though obviously it’s not as good a deal as it would have been if I’d signed up for the protection plan with my internet provider). Even after learning about this benefit from the internet provider, I kept the original program for a while. I didn’t want to lose the money I’d already paid, of course, though it really wouldn’t have mattered since either way, I wouldn’t have to pay any extra and would have still had the same service, but even more than that, I didn’t want to have to download the new program because there are always problems.

I had it marked on my calendar to cancel the original plan this month, but that company decided to auto-renew early via PayPal. I don’t know how that was possible because I didn’t have any money in the bank account associated with PayPal, but it still created an aggravating morning as I got all that straightened out.

Meantime, I’ve had a note by my computer for a couple of weeks now to switch protection plans, but I simply didn’t want the hassle. I also needed to make sure I had a big chunk of free time to get it done so I could solve any problems that might show up. Well, yesterday, I finally girded my loins, faced the music, bit the bullet, sucked it up, leapt into the breach, crossed the Rubicon and seized the opportunity. All those idiomatic expressions are to emphasize the great trepidation I experienced when I finally hit the download button on the internet provider’s website.

After a rocky start (I couldn’t open the downloader and my computer shut itself off out of frustration), things went smoothly. Unbelievable! Even more unbelievable is that after a year of having this whole thing hang over me, it’s finished. Well, finished as long as the internet provider continues to provide the virus protection plan.

Still, it makes me feel good that’s it done. It makes me feel even better that I didn’t have to pay the extortion rate the protection plan company wanted to charge me.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of intriguing fiction and insightful works of grief.

Restless Sleep

A friend sent me a cartoon of a woman reading in bed, with the caption: I tried everything to get to sleep last night. Well, everything except closing the book and putting it on the nightstand. Let’s not get too crazy.

I had to laugh at that because oh, it’s so true! At least some of the time, anyway. Last night was not one of those times.

I did close my book and put it on the nightstand, tired physically and tired of the tiresome story, but I still found myself too restless to sleep. My allergies were acting up, which exacerbated the touch of insomnia, but the problem was mostly external. I find that when a storm is moving in, I get restless and unable to sleep. The same thing happens with a full moon. And last night, there was both a snow storm and a full moon. I’m lucky I managed to fall asleep at all. Or maybe not. I woke up stiff and sore, so whatever sleep I did manage to get wasn’t exactly relaxing.

Fortunately, even though it’s very cold today, the clouds are moving away. And the moon is on the wane. I shouldn’t have a problem sleeping until the middle of next week when another storm hits the area.

It has been an interesting winter so far, with the middle of the week becoming very cold, warming up to a relatively nice weekend, and then dropping back into the midweek cold spell. Spring will be here in four and a half weeks, and it will be interesting to see if this same pattern holds true, though spring around here doesn’t really mean a whole lot because the last freeze doesn’t come until the beginning of May.

Still, change is in the air, but hopefully not too much change. It would be nice to get a good night’s sleep tonight. Who knows, I might even get crazy enough to close my book and put it on the nightstand earlier than usual!

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.

Talking Ourselves Out of Things

When talking with a friend the other day, I happened to mention the supplements I was taking for immune system support, but then I had to admit that I don’t always take them. She said, “It’s easy to talk ourselves out of things.” And boy, isn’t that the truth! She and I both try to stretch every day, but we find it easy to talk ourselves out of doing it. Too tired. Not enough time. Too lazy. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that a day or two won’t make any difference, and it’s true. A day or two won’t make any difference, either in the case of the supplements or the exercise, but a day or two tends to become three or four or even more.

Even that wouldn’t be a problem — many people go their whole lives without exercising or taking supplements — but I’m to the age where if I let these things go too long, I might not get back to them, and then there would be a problem. The exercises particularly are helping since so many are geared toward strengthening knees and back, and when these go, you end up with a whole mess of problems. When you’re young, you can slide for years, but there comes a time when there might not be years, and if you don’t do it now, you might never be able to. (And if you don’t do it now, you will guarantee that you will never be able to.)

I’ve spent a lot of time the past couple of decades around the elderly, and I see how their lives changed because of injuries or illness or lack of exercise. Many times, of course, the changes came no matter what they did, but other times, life got to be too much, and they just gave up and gave in. Gave up on trying to better themselves on their own; gave in to the doctors and all the medications the doctors prescribed, as well as all the medications the doctors prescribed to offset the side effects of the original medications.

Obviously, I have no idea what the future holds for me. But I do know if I take care of myself now as well as get into the habit of making an effort when that’s the last thing I want to do, the future could be a bit healthier for me.

To that end, I’m trying to force myself into accountability. Not force myself to exercise (stretching and walking) or take the supplements, or eschew sugar, or get off the computer early enough so that it doesn’t affect my sleep. Just the accountability. Keep a record of when I do the things I should do for my health and well-being. That way, maybe I will stop talking myself out of doing those things, and just do them.

Admittedly, some of these things, such as taking a walk every day, are affected by my crazy work schedule, but for right now, I just want to get into the habit of accountability. Though chances are, in a couple days or so, I’ll talk myself out of doing that, too, because it really is easy to talk ourselves out of doing things.

***

What if God decided S/He didn’t like how the world turned out, and turned it over to a development company from the planet Xerxes for re-creation? Would you survive? Could you survive?

A fun book for not-so-fun times.

Click here to buy Bob, The Right Hand of God.

An Itch to Camp

I just finished a book where the characters went camping in the mountains, and it made me itch to go camping again. The fact that the campers in the novel ended up dead or maimed didn’t affect that yearning, and maybe even made it stronger for some perverse reason — perhaps for the feeling of putting in a total effort, pitting oneself against nature. Chances of my ending up with a wilderness guide who is also a serial killer like the characters in the book aren’t that great especially since I never used a guide on any of my treks, and probably never would.

The book I am reading now takes place not far from the Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument, which is intensifying the camping itch. I so enjoyed that area that it was one of the few places where I extended my stay. Not only did it feel as if I were living in a southwestern botanical garden, but I met some interesting people. One woman, who was the age I am now, more or less stayed there all winter, even though there is a limit to how long you can stay at one time. The people running the place let her stay because the place wasn’t packed, and because of her financial situation, I think. She camped out for long periods of time because she was alone and her teacher’s pension didn’t afford her enough money to live otherwise. I often thought I would do what she did, and in fact I’d planned on it, figuring I would go north in the summer and south in the winter, but fate intervened and I ended up with a permanent place to stay.

Despite the itch, I will probably never go camping again, though “never” is a long time. For now, I’m still enamored of my house, and don’t particularly want to spend a night away (I’d worry more about the house than my own safety, which seems a recipe for disaster). But as time goes on, and the feeling of newness wanes while the feeling that the house will still be safe waxes, I might head for the hills.

Although I stopped at many campgrounds on the cross-country trip I took several years ago, I didn’t visit any of the most prominent national parks, such as Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon. And while I took several trips back to Colorado when I was away, I didn’t camp out here either. So there are a lot of unlived adventures if I ever want to answer the itch.

Apparently, despite my saying “never” to camping, I haven’t totally given up the idea since I’ve kept all my camping gear — all the big and heavy stuff for campground camping and all the super lightweight stuff for backpacking.

It’s funny, though, how different things are when you are leading an intermittent nomadic life (periods of staying in one place punctuated by periods of being on the move). I was able to take chances back then because I was still under the influence of grief and felt I had nothing to lose, so any worry about driving a car that’s a half century old into remote areas was shoved to the back of my mind. Now that particular worry doesn’t want to be shoved. And rightly so, perhaps.

But who knows. I might be considered elderly (statistically speaking), but I’m still a young elderly and haven’t yet reached my dotage, so many things are still possible. Perhaps even camping.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of intriguing fiction and insightful works of grief.

Making an Effort

Valentine’s Day is a difficult day for people who are alone, especially those who are alone because of the death of their beloved.

For many who are left behind, it’s generally hard seeing couples you used to hang out with, doing things, making plans. It’s even harder when they tell you about it, with no regard for how it makes you feel. (It makes you sad, then mad, then sad again.) It’s hardest of all on Valentine’s Day, especially for the romantics who made a big deal about the day.

Jeff and I did not celebrate the day, which makes this no different from any other day for me, but it’s still, it’s hard to ignore this celebration of couplehood. So this year, I didn’t ignore it. I made heart cookies. I was going to pass them out to everyone I know, but making these embossed and painted cookies is a huge undertaking. Since I greatly underestimated how long it would take and the effort I would need to expend, I was only able to make a few. I reserved them for the woman I work for and another one or two people who are alone today. (Including me. Though I generally don’t eat cookies, I figured since I was one of those who are alone today, I might as well indulge.)

Making the cookies for some reason made the day seem more like Valentine’s Day when I was very young, where all the kids in my class brough valentines for one another. The valentines and the sentiment didn’t really mean anything back then. It wasn’t even something just between friends. It was mostly a break in the routine, something fun to do.

And so it was this year. Making these cookies was simply a break in my routine, something fun to do. Besides, I had a heart-shaped cookie cutter that had never been used, and what better day to use it than today?

Next year, perhaps, I’ll get started early and make enough to spread around a bit more, but for this year, it was enough — enough for me, I mean — to make an effort.

***

Pat Bertram is the author of Grief: The Inside Story – A Guide to Surviving the Loss of a Loved One. “Grief: The Inside Story is perfect and that is not hyperbole! It is exactly what folk who are grieving need to read.” –Leesa Healy, RN, GDAS GDAT, Emotional/Mental Health Therapist & Educator.