Let Me Die

I find the desire to live as long as possible odd.

I have watched the process of growing old throughout my life. Heck, I have been running an experiment on the subject. I watched it often as a boy, and more frequently as a man. There is one very strong commonality that is almost universal in the process; live long enough and you will wish you were dead.

　
My wife’s grandmother was a remarkable woman. She lived through a rich and full life. She lived to be 98 years old. She told stories of riding to church on Sundays in the wagon, drawn by her father’s plow team; she used her “new-fangled” hand lever agitated washing machine with hand-crank wringer until the very end; she saw the dawn of airplanes, and man set foot on the moon; she gave birth to six children, and buried 3 of them after they had lived full lives; she was a treasure.

She was also very tired. Each letter that she sent us for the last full decade and a half of her life ultimately boiled down to “God, why am I still here” and “When will you call me home”?

My paternal grandmother?; Much the same.

My father-in-law lived to 83. Spent the last 10 years in a succession of care facilities, and the last 2 and a half in a place that was locked down like a prison; heck, no like about it, it was a prison, a prison of old folks who could no longer remember, who they were, how to take care of themselves, or much of anything else.

　
Look around you; people are living longer and longer lives. We live in such comparative wealth that we no longer have to focus all of our time on just eking out an existence. We are free to spend more time exercising, we know more about the benefits of exercise on the physical and mental being. We know more about nutrition, and medicine, relaxation, and safety. We pour uncountable resources into every conceivable concept that will extend life.

Still, we suffer from more dementia, Alzheimer’s, cancer, arthritis, heart disease, depression, Parkinson’s, and osteoporosis than ever before.

In fact, the single fastest growth industry in the industrial world is: Elderly Care.
　

That’s right. All that living better to live longer means that those who do, get shoved aside and housed in do-nothing, go-nowhere left to die facilities for longer trying to stave off the inevitable end.

Face it, Old Uncle Joe no longer lives out his days sitting on the front porch, playing checkers with his cronies, and tinkering in his shop. Granny Sue isn’t puttering in the kitchen, growing flowers, quilting blankets, or playing bridge.

No, the Middleton’s who lived across the street some years back? Wonderful, giving people who had no biological kids of their own but adopted three small children. They both passed within a couple weeks of each other, and in the 4 years that we lived across from each other, and all the times I visited, did a bit of “fix up” or called an ambulance, I never once saw any of the three kids who’s’ financial squabbling tied up the sale of the old homestead for 3 years after their death.

Or Pastor Ron and his wife Maybell. Out walking each morning and evening. Devote souls. My son stacked firewood and repaired cars for them. Money was tight, and their grown kids were far off living pressure filled lives. And like Carmen Wildt, it wasn’t that the grown kids didn’t care, it was just that life had pulled them somewhere else and the job and distance, kids and commitments meant they didn’t have time for the folks.

Whatever the reason, be it health, wealth, loneliness, or disappointments, the vast majority of people that I have known over 80 have lived more unpleasant days than pleasant ones.

An extra ten years of that?

I think I’ll pass.
　

Copyright © 2011 - Marty Vandermolen -　All Rights Reserved

A Day on the Trail – Morning Breaks

First Light.

That gentle time in the wilderness when stars still fill the waning night sky and galaxies paint broad whitish slashes through the heavens.  The eastern horizon is just beginning to pale from black to gray while the night’s creatures are rushing to nests, burrows, cracks, and dens and the day’s replacements remain securely enfolded in sleep.

Eyes open coming into focus after grit is wiped from moist corners.  Legs, arms, and back are stretched to ease the stiffness of ground, cold, and yesterday’s exertions.  Chill, dark, slightly ominous draping of trees and brush, hill and rock surround each warm, comforting, cocoon.  Contesting desires delay venturing forth from sleeping bag into the coming dawn.     

One by one, arms reach forth, drawing cold clothing into spare spaces to be gently warmed before donning.  The first person up stirs the surviving coals and kindles the beginnings of the breakfast fire.   The second riser heads to the food cache, untying the rope that holds sacks high, above small noses and large paws.  Once lowered and carried to the fire, the morning’s meal is removed, organized, and laid on the kitchen rock; the remaining food is left bagged, to be individually collected as the others pack.

The first rustling of the day is heard in camp.  Individually as breakfast is prepared, each youth gathers, rolls, collects, organizes, and packs.  They make furtive trips to the fire, to warm chilled hands, to the food sack to collect their lunches and share of the patrol’s food, and back to continue preparation for the day’s march.

The older, more practiced youth finish first and gather around the fire to pull out maps, review the planned route, identify likely lunch stops and emergency plans.

The boys and girls gather for a hurried breakfast of hot cereal, dried fruit, warm drink, and laughter.  Cups are rinsed, extra fruit is tucked in pockets, pots are washed and dried, and the fire is drowned under a flood of stale liquid poured from individual water bottles and canteens.

A quick stroll to the lake, nearby stream or snowfield and bottles, canteens, and bota bags are refilled and dosed for purification.  A few fish rise in the early morning grasping at insects that dot the glassy, mirrored lake, leaving expanding circular ripples in the surface serenity.  An early Osprey tucks wings into a streamlined dive chasing breakfast into the deeps.

Long pants are shed in favor of shorts, jackets are tucked into flaps, feet are checked for tenderness or wounds, and boots are laced tight as the birds of the forest begin for flit from tree to tree under the first colored edges of dawn’s full glow.  The group lines up at one end of camp, walking closely in a broad line they search the ground for any scrap of paper, piece of plastic, or man-made object lying half hidden in the duff and dirt.

Straining weight up off of the ground, and onto shoulders, hips, backs, and thighs.  Packs settled high, or low, or in between as each prefers.  A groan here and there, a joke tossed into the clearing, as each one shifts and settles, tightens and cinches.

The sky is fully alight, but the sun has yet to rise above the horizon when the point rolls into the familiar early morning stride and heads up out of the campsite, climbing slightly to reach the trail and one by one the remaining individuals fall into line behind.

As drag leaves camp, if they choose to stop and turn, they will be just in time to see all of the little creatures dash out of hiding and scurry back and forth seeking anything that was inadvertently left behind.

And so, as another day begins, the miles stretch out before us, our belongings are on our backs, the world is at our feet and the yards begin to fall slowly behind.

© Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved

That’s a bit of a Different Breed isn’t it?

My brothers and I had four dogs during the years we were growing up.

That is of course only if you discount the basset hound that “followed” one of us home tied with a slip knot around its neck, or the Beagle that came in the yard tightly tied into a set of paper route bags with a plaintive “It followed me home, mom, can we keep it?”.

 

The first real dog pet was a cast off female Springer Spaniel that we found at the SPCA over in Oakland, California named Lady. That dog I have written about in greater detail in other stories.  She intimidated me when I was young, and although Jeff may not admit it, she scared him too.

She breathed on my neck on the way home from the pound, I was short enough to look her directly in the eye, I thought she was going to eat me, and she did steal and eat my graham crackers in later years. 

Karen has always found it tremendously funny to imagine me afraid of anything, much less a dog the size of a Springer Spaniel.

Other than that, her Brillo pad course hair and joyful nature ultimately won me over and I recall being mortally crushed on the morning I was headed to school knowing that mom and dad had decided she needed to be “put to sleep”.

Between the getting and the loosing, she ran and played with us, stomped me into the ground on more than one occasion, helped to break my glasses often, and was the patient devoted companion that every boy wants his dog to be.

 

Then there was Hunter.  A full blooded Black Lab.  Dumb as the day is long.  Undoubtedly inbred.  Woeful, insensative, and footloose.

Hunter was a dog that found it impossible to contain his joy.  He was happy to wake up, eat, walk, not, whatever, he was happy.  His tail was always in motion.  So much so that he literally beat the tip open by wagging it into hard objects.  There was a blood line on all of the walls and furniture in the part of the house Hunter was allowed in.  And outside as well.

His tail wag muscles were built up so strong that he could raise a bruise on a person with that thing. 

But most remarkable about Hunter was that he had a wanderlust like no dog I have ever known since.  It seemed that he lived to break out of the yard and run off down the street.  We boys would play with him all day, and then as soon as it was dinner time and we sat down to eat, we would hear his soulful “Bowr, Bowr” fading off into the distance.

It was so commonplace that everyone knew exactly what they were to do.  No naval crew was as well drilled.  Dad would jump into the car while each of us boys would jump on our bikes.  All four of us headed to our prescribed search sectors in town and we would start combing the streets looking for that vacuum-headed dog.

Didn’t take too many of those dinnertime excursions before dad was done with that routine.  He removed Hunter’s collar and identification tag and said: “Next time he goes, he stays gone”.

No sooner said than done.

I never really built up much attachment to that short bus dog.  But Barry sure did.

Barry was so worried that he biked the 7 miles out of town to the dog pound fence and called Hunter’s name just to listen to see if he had at least been caught and was “safe”.  I suspect Barry didn’t understand the reality of dog pound turnover back in those days.     

 

Possibly the most memorable dog we had was Gretchen.

Gretchen was a German Sheppard, reportedly “the runt of the liter” she was none to big all in all.  But what she lacked in physical size she made up for in intensity.

Gretchen had no problem walking along, choke chain cinched up around her neck, effectively cutting off all respiration, while on hind legs alone (front paws 6 inches off the ground) she drug one or more of us boys down the street towards some neighborhood cat.

That dog had a thing for cats, never knew another that was as focused on cats as Gretchen.

Some fool cat one time thought it would walk the top of the back fence and harass her.  Big mistake.  I never knew a dog could think in complex problem resolutions until that day.  We were out in the back yard playing with Gretchen when this big old Tom come slinking along the top of a 6 foot board fence.  History had taught that cat that he was safe up there and orneriness patterned him to stop midway across the back fence and announce his presence with a spittled hiss just to watch the fun.

Gretchen looked up from 35 feet away and launched herself straight at the fence.  The cat smiling smugly arched his back and started to hiss again.  About that time, Gretchen reached the fence.  And instead of trying to climb it, she threw herself at the fence, twisting sideways, and literally body slammed the top of the fence right out from under that cat.

His snotty hiss instantly changed to a falling scream as he dropped right in front of that Sheppard.

Last time that cat ever pulled that stunt.

 

And she was maniacal about protection.  Turns out she had been attack trained and took her responsibilities serious.  Not that she was inherently mean.  Far from it.  She loved to play and we boys could ball up our fists and swing as hard and fast as we possibly could, and on those few occasions that we actually connected, she just shrugged it off.  More often then not though, out fist would end up clamped gently in her teeth without here ever braking skin that I recall.

And we could take her to the football field, order her to sit and stay and anyone could walk up and she would love to be pet.

But lord help you if one of us was close by.

One of Barry’s good friends found that out the hard way.  Tim used to hang out with us a great deal, even though he went to the other High School in town.  But he was a fellow scout and thise a friend.  Tim and Gretchen would play at the football field without problem.

Then one day, Barry and Tim were chatting over the drive gate.  Tim laid his arm on the top rail.  Gretchen was watching his every move.

Tim rolled his hand at the wrist to punctuate some point he was making.

To Gretchen it was a movement that she interpreted as trying to reach Barry.

Tim’s arm ended up with this really neat set of parallel fang mark scars, right across the bulky part of his forearm.

That incident combined with the elderly next door neighbor’s fright of Gretchen was enough to send her on to another locale.

 

 Our last dog was a Doberman named Becket.  Black and brown, lean bodied and fast that dog was.  He was a bit of an airhead like Hunter before him.  But he was mostly lovable.

By the time we had him, my brother’s and I had grown to acquiring inappropriate “liquid beverages” as the saying goes.  We used to find it funny to get that dog drunk.

Becket was a happy drunk.  Mostly.  He would wobble around for a bit then curl up and sleep for a half hour or so.  That seemed to be all it ever took.  30 minutes and he would wake back up with a hangover.

Yep, poor dog would walk around moaning.  A moan would elicit a whine and the whine would elicit a yelp.  The funniest part to us was the most soothing to him.  He would stand up, slowly lower his head until the top was pressed firmly down on the carpet with his nose pointing back towards his tail, and then holding his head like that he would slowly walk forward rubbing the top of his head until he bumped into a wall and then turn around and do it all again.

We finally got rid of him after several odd experiences.  Once in a while, when Becket was waking up from a non-drink induced sleep.  He would have a very frightening spasm.  Something about the breed I understand, but they can twist their neck just so and the bones pinch the spinal cord.  When that happened to him, his teeth bared, and the hackles on his neck came up, his head would tilt off level to one side or the other and only one eye opened all the way.

Mom was worried we boys would get chewed up worse than our usual bike wrecks and fist fights.  So that was that.

 

I found out many years later that Mom had wanted to get my brothers and I a skunk as a pet.  And no, it has nothing to do with the wise crack that is forming in your head.  She had read somewhere that skunks were extremely smart and even tempered pets once they had been “de-scented”.  Only problem was, by the mid-1960s it was already hard to find an animal doctor hat had any real world skunk “flowerifying” experience.

Go figure.  Must have had something to do with the chemical weapons ban after the World War wound down.

 

©Copyright 2015, Marty Vandermolen, All Rights Reserved