considering the inevitable

Patsy reminded me in a comment on the last post that if either Cliff or I move on to the golden streets, household income will decrease considerably.  
Indeed it will, and when that happens, whoever remains will be making some fast changes.  
My Social Security makes the house payment, pays the water softener bill, and puts some money in savings for emergencies.  There's no way this household will remain solvent without it.  
As I have said many times, I would have a sale of farm equipment and tools, and sell the place; I think even in this depressed market the place would bring what is owed against it; but if not, I could just abandon it to the bank like a couple of neighbors have done with their places recently.  I would then move to an apartment in a town or city with sidewalks and a city bus service.  
I don't really know what Cliff's plan of action is, or whether he has one.  I do know his boss told him, when he retired, "If you ever need a job, come on back."  
That job is one that he could still do at the age of ninety, as long as his mind was good.    
It's a bridge that one of us will cross when the time comes.  
For now, everything is working.  

Another one of those grim conversations

I was doing some online bill-paying this weekend when it occurred to me that Cliff would be in a state of confusion if I were to die:  I've "gone green" with most of my bills, so we don't even get a bill in the mail.  Poor Cliff wouldn't know when it was time to pay anything, or who to pay, for that matter.  
I told him this morning I was going to write down all bills and the phone numbers to call for each of them, starting with utilities.  He agreed it made sense and giving me a few things to add to the notes I was making for him, when he said, chuckling, "This is really funny... as if you're going to go before me."  
I guess he thinks just because he's had heart surgery, he's guaranteed to die first.  
"Cliff, I could croak any minute now.  You never know," I said, grabbing my chest, coughing, and reaching an arm toward heaven as if I was dying on the spot.    
So I've spent all morning writing down passwords he'll probably never use, but my daughter could always help him out with the online stuff if need be. 
Then I wrote down every bill we have to pay, explained what it was for (Cliff didn't know Century Link was the name of our phone company) and put beside it the phone number to call to get back to paper billing.   
Then he said, "How would I know where to find the notebook all this stuff is in?"  
Good point.  I must make sure to leave it in the same place all the time.   
Honestly, these are plans even young couples should make.
Death is no respecter of age.  

The circle of life

Cliff was asked to be a pallbearer at his Uncle Phineas' funeral, which was held yesterday at the same place where we bade goodbye to his parents, his grandparents, and most of his other relatives who have died up to this point.  Now that it's getting close to our generation's turn, the funerals are likely to be spread more widely around the country.  I'll bet I've been to a couple of dozen funerals at Kidwell's over the years.  
Because it was a nice day with no rain forecast, Cliff and I rode to Versailles on the motorcycle.  It's a two-hour drive one way through picturesque Missouri countryside.  
Uncle Phin was eighty-nine years old, a World War II veteren; so he was buried with military honors. Quite impressive, as always, in its simplicity.  
Once the graveside goodbyes were said, Cliff's sister and I wondered if we could find their parents' graves.  I knew if the younger sister were with us, she could lead us right to the spot.  Versailles cemetery is a large one, and it was too hot a day to be searching out markers.  I was, however, fairly certain that Cliff's grandparents' grave wasn't far away, and we went looking for that.  

And there it was!

I remembered that Uncle George's grave was near their marker, and we soon located it, too.  Uncle George really liked me, which of course made him a favorite of mine.  He lived in a cabin in the woods where Cliff and I would occasionally visit him and spend a night, early in our marriage; it was pretty primitive:  Uncle George got his drinking water from an open spring, and although there was an outhouse on the place, it was filled up with junk and therefore not usable.  When nature called, there was nothing else to do but find a convenient tree behind which to hide.  Let's not talk about the ticks that thrived in the woods and hitch-hiked back to the cabin after such a mission.  
I once wrote a song about Uncle George and his cabin, long after he passed away.  


Speaking of the circle of life...

Remember when you, my readers, helped name this little fellow?
He goes to the butcher shop today to become grass-fed beef for our freezer.  He is one year old and outweighs his mother.  It's time.  He's had a wonderful life and given me lots of laughs with his antics.  His mom will get a few weeks of rest, and then deliver a little whiteface calf, good Lord willing.  I really, really hope for a heifer calf, as I always do.  But once the sperm has met the egg, there's no changing the outcome.  So it's just wait-and-see.  
I hesitated to mention Sir Loin's imminent demise, knowing how much complaining I've read online about what goes on at Pioneer Woman's ranch.  Folks, if you eat beef, you may very well have eaten a product that spent part of it's life on the Drummond ranch.  So get over it.  If you are going to eat meat, some animal has to die for you.  That's just life.  And before they die, those animals must be herded and branded and castrated and sorted and weaned.  All of which may seem cruel to sheltered city folks.  
I do not feel bad eating meat that comes from an animal that enjoyed life and was loved and laughed at while he was here.  

Just rambling, as usual

Seven or eight years ago (long before Cliff had heart surgery), I used to tell people that if Cliff left me a widow, I'd move to senior citizen's housing in Colorado Springs and live the rest of my life there.  Cliff's youngest sister couldn't believe I'd consider moving away from everybody like that, and I think she even worried about it sometimes.  I was dead serious about the plan.
At some point during the past few years, that idea has become unrealistic to me.  I'm too tired to even think about heading to Colorado.  I don't drive, so the chances of my taking daily walks in the Garden of the Gods are not good.  
As we took our walk yesterday, I told Cliff about my change in plans.  
"Probably," I told him, "I'd move to the apartments where my mom lived before she went to the nursing home.  There's a Walmart and a senior center close by, and my doctor's office is there."  
"You could have quite a good auction sale, if it's set up right," Cliff said.  "before you sell the place.  There's a lot of valuable stuff in my shop, not to mention all the tractors."  
That's when it struck me:  I couldn't live in the apartments where Mother lived; you can only have $2,000 to your name to live there.  I'd have proceeds from selling the place and proceeds from this huge auction Cliff is so worried about.  
"Oh, I know!  I'll live in a house like the one Helen rents (she's an aging former co-worker of Cliff's).  It's designed for seniors, and people come and pick her up and take her to the senior center every day.  So that's settled.  Now, what are you going to do if I die first?"  
"I don't think that's going to happen."  
"You don't know; I might be eaten up with cancer right now, or I might drop dead from a heart attack tomorrow."
"Well then," he said, "I guess I'd stay right here and play with my tractors as long as I'm able."  
I never thought I'd see the day I'd be having conversations like that with my husband.  
While we were walking and talking, we got a strong whiff of skunk odor.  
"That means spring is coming," I told Cliff.  "A biker friend on Facebook said skunk odor is a sure sign of spring!"   
You'd never know it today, though, with these single-digit temperatures.

Grave Matters

To start with, let me say that I first got interested in the subject of cremation when I read a post by the Kansas City Russian, "Bury Me Like a Jew".

That post made no mention of cremation (Jews don't do cremation), but it started me on a search that led to my reading the book "Grave Matters".

Mention cremation to most people and you get "Ewww, gross!"

After learning about what morticians do to a body before it's embalmed, I said, "Ewww, gross!".

I'd just as soon not have my blood washed down the sewer with everybody's excrement, thank you very much. From what I read in the Bible, blood is sacred... something to be treated with respect.

So today, Cliff and I, with his sister Rena, went and finalized our plans. We all opted for just a simple cremation. No fancy urn, although if somebody wants one after we're gone, that's fine; you can pay for it. Want a memorial service? Suit yourself. Throw a party? Oh, I love that idea. Be sure to play some John Prine and Iris Dement music, will you?

What to do with the ashes? Whatever makes you feel good. Set me on the coffee table so you can regularly tell me what you really think (I won't hear you, but maybe it will make you feel better); toss my ashes into the Missouri River (which I love so much!). Mix some of my remains with some ink and get a tattoo. People actually do that!

It just doesn't matter to me.

My sister-in-law, Rena, wants her ashes sprinkled into a flower bed.

I realize this is a somber subject, but we all have to think about it sometime; I just figured I'd share with my readers how we're dealing with it.

We do ride a motorcycle, you know; so now, we're prepared for the worst while enjoying the best.

There's lots of blues in Blogville

After reading over this entry, I realize it may sound a little "preachy", which isn't my usual style. Consider yourself warned: some of my readers may want to skip this one.

We're having a genuine winter here in Missouri, with very few breaks between the cold spells. I count my blessings daily, and they are many; but I confess that it's sometimes hard to stay chipper on these bitterly frigid days, with all the extra bills that come flooding in at this time of year. Add to that the rising price of gasoline, propane and groceries.

I've noticed, while surfing through my favorite blogs, that I'm not the only one who's a little "down in the dumps".

When I open my Bloglines each morning, there aren't half as many new entries as there normally are. And I've added a lot of new blogs lately, so there should be more than in the past.

This doesn't help the situation: Cliff and I hear of the death of somebody we care about every week or so, of late. I realize that goes with the territory when you're past sixty years old, but it isn't a thing a person gets used to. We had a discussion yesterday about how it could be either of us next, at any moment. The older we get, the more likely it is that our number will be up.

As a Christian, I believe in life on the other side of the grave. But as a human, I'm in no hurry to leave this poor, battle-scarred body.

Cliff and I used to laugh at my mom who, in her eighties, after being widowed for the second time, would sometimes say with a sigh, "Why can't I just die?"

But at the first tornado watch of spring, she was running to the basement.

I can imagine myself in her shoes nowadays.

Spring will come again. Chances are, I'll have several more weeks, months, or even years to share my life with my friends through my blogs.

The best I can do is to take this day and live it to the fullest.

For this day, I can try not to be judgmental (which is probably my worst fault). I can do my best to see troubled people the way Jesus saw them when He walked the earth... the way He still sees us, I'm sure: "When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd."

In the words of the old song: "Life's evening sun is sinking low; a few more days and I must go."

In a bit of a funk today

First of all, someone on my Tractor Tales message board passed away unexpectedly... one of the few people on that forum that Cliff and I had met in person, and one of my favorites: a God-fearing, gregarious man who often brought a smile to my face with his posts on Tractor Tales.

Poor Cliff is always hauling me somewhere-or-other to meet people I've gotten to know online. He rarely sits down at the computer, so he doesn't know a thing about any of them; it's just one of many ways he spoils me. One reason I was able to persuade him to go to the Indiana "Taler Reunion" was that there was a huge tractor show going on up there at the same time.

That group picture is from the reunion we attended; "Corny", the fellow who passed away yesterday, is the short fellow in red shirt and overalls on the right-hand side. He was often teased about his being "vertically challenged", and took it in good humor.

Rest in peace, Cornfused.

Although as I said, Cliff doesn't spend lots of time on the computer, he has come to depend on those guys on "Tales" for advice. Last weekend his brother, Donald, needed some information about the John Deere he's overhauling, and Cliff asked me to post a question about it on the "John Deere Forum" over at Yesterday's Tractors. Since I didn't receive an answer there, next day I posted the same question on "Tales", even though it's mainly just a forum for clowning around.

We soon had the information Don needed.

What did we do before the Internet?

The other reason for my funk is that this stupid cold I've been nursing for two weeks has decided to migrate from my chest to my head.

Don't get too close to your monitor. You'd be liable to catch my funk or my cold. Trust me, you don't want either one.