AN OLD MAN REMEMBERS LIFE AND LOVE

The older we get, the more we fret about this and that.  I remember the time I told my wife I couldn't find my favorite hat, "It's on your head," she said. just like that.

 "I can't find the pie I baked to donate to the county fair," she said in great despair.  "Get up!" I said. "By gosh, you're gonna squash it. You're sitting on it. It's right there beneath your bottom on the chair."

"Who took off my clothes last night?" I asked, turning on the bedroom light.

 "You might remember, It was I," she replied with great delight. "Your " passionate yawn turned me on. Your peck on my cheek  made me weak. Ahh, but when we did IT, that was IT!" 

"What Was IT?" I was confused.

She was amused. "Don't you recall? You squeezed me tight, turned off the light and.."

“How could I forget? It was the first time our  bodies met,  We tried,  clumsily. I feared if I had a premature manipulation it might dampen my lover’s  anticipation of satisfaction, a reaction to two who enjoy mutual physical attraction.

“We were awkward at first, but our thirst for each other convinced me we were destined to be lovers forever. We quickly  wed and went straight from the preacher  to the  bed, as court sanctioned legal husband-wife relations, and continued our nightly sexual celebration. 

“I remember, when I was  eighty two and you had just turned seventy nine. What we did was just divine. I looked at  yours,  you looked at mine Those valentines  said it all.”

“We  shared a glass of wine, undressed and went to bed, lay close together cheek to cheek, vowed our everlasting love and went to sleep, counting sheep.”

Our sex was through, but something new has taken its place. A soft embrace,  a smiling face, fond memories of the used to be that is no more, Isn’t that really  what old age is for?

Mumbly Ed and the Tale of the Beautiful Mind

Mumbly Ed and the Tale of the Beautiful Mind

First of all, for those who don't know I work at a Retirement Community. Not a nursing home, so not too many crazies. But we still have our share, which is irrelevant to this story.

There is a man we call Mumbly Ed. He is a guy in a wheelchair, probably 70'ish, who mumbles alot. We poke fun at him and his breakfast ordering habits by aiming our mouths into our shoulders and saying "Rumma rumma rumma rumma PANCAKES." It's quite amusing.

Don't you judge me, by the way. We make fun in the spirit of friendliness. I actually do like most of the people for whom I work.

So back to Mumbly Ed. A few weeks ago a server came in and told me that he had given her a piece of paper with a link to his blog. His BLOG?!? We HAD to see this. I loaded up the page and was instantly impressed by the fact that the man has been blogging since 4-05. More than four YEARS of blogging for a 70+ year old man. Then I noticed that he had been a newspaper reporter/editor for 50 years. That would explain the blogging.

Next I started reading the blog. Apparently he has come up with a style of poetry/blogging that uses internal ryhme and alot of allegory to make his points. He covers religion, politics, race relations, music, pop culture, history, just about everything you could imagine. He also hates Dubya.

So here are some samples from the blog.

"The mirror of our exterior reveals us as either achiever or deceiver and disbeliever."

"What the eye inspects the mind directs to the subconscious the guilt that filters from our no nonsense sense of common sense to the conscience of our soul."

My personal favorite so far... kind of like a spoken limerick:
"I went to the funeral of the inventor of the urinal, a man of unerring aim who rose to fame and great acclaim and made a splash seldom seen on the scene among visitors to the local latrine. He was really a standup guy who helped keep the men's room dry. To honor the man who aimed so high, pee on his grave as you go by."

So now it's time for the website. Go to:
wegads.blogspot.com

Once you have read a little, do the world a huge favor and share this blog with others. I'm not part of any blogging communities or forums, given my disgusting lack of spare time, but those of you who are should share Mumbly Ed with the world. You won't regret it.

-Eric

WHY I MISSPEL

(Probably one of Ed's last Post. He died at 88 and 1/2.)

Wegads was on the blink, I think. because I  mizzspelled misspelled the word misspelled.  Printers can print but they learn to spell at night but not during the day.  We  worked night and day.  Thats how we learn to spell krectly.     

There are other reasons why my blogs have been delayed. I  fell and broke my wrist and since my wrist is attach to my hand and my hand attached to my wrist I had to be careful how I spell misteaked  mistake.  

To tell the truth my wife was a better speller than I  was so I always blamed my spelling on her  and I miss her very much.  On Sunday June  19 I will be 88 years old and I  will miss her even more.   

MEMORIES  OF  A  LIFE  WELL  LIVED

A hug, a kiss, a last goodbye for those quite old about to die. A sharing of fond days gone by. Walking, talking, holding hands, leaving footprints in the sand. Laughing, dashing through a sudden rain. Whiling away hours admiring flowers at a garden show, walking slow. Talking low. Sipping cups of tea while listening to a melody on the radio. Memories to treasure as years pass by

A lazy Sunday at the shore. Eating, reading, watching your children play. The sea, the sky, birds flying by. Waiving hello to a guy you don’t even know. He returns the greeting. In a fleeting second he is gone. A day tucked away in your heart and mind. 

WHY BIRDS FLY AND DO WHAT THEY DO

Why oh why do all birds fly? Some fly high and some fly low and some just go to and fro. Most stay near their nest. They cannot rest and do their best when they stray here and there and everywhere in the air, swooping down to end their fast for a breakfast treat of meaty worms and sweets that creep on city streets.

 Some birds circle, others swoop to do their thing on the wing in answer to nature’s call. Could they do all sorts of flying just by trying this and that? That I doubt. I figured it out. Each bird was born to do certain things with their wings. How high to fly, how to do it.  They aren’t designed to have a mind to try to fly another way.

Another thing, puzzling at first: why do some birds quench their thirst by sucking up the morning dew while others wait for  rain? Can someone explain that aviary mystery?

 Some species drop their feces in the grass, some flying through the air, anywhere or, instead, defecating on the heads of people passing by. Why?

This too is so. Birds fly to where they go and are smart enough to know the route to take without mistake and not get lost along the way.

(Why do all birds sing  different songs?  I’ll tell you soon, so string along.)

Now back to bird elimination. I believe birds relieve themselves prematurely due to lack of proper medication. They gotta go and cannot wait until hey get to where they’re going to go to go.

How they know the route to fly without a map or the AAA is hard to say, but my guess is God blesses each birdbrained creation with that information while they’re still in incubation. Between the moment of fertilization  and when they crack their shell and come out to Earth they’ve already gotten their DNA donation. They know  every thing about bird births worth the knowing. So they’re going into life prepared for flying in the air, how to fly, how to go and what they’ll find when they get there.

One more thing: why birds all sing a different tune, some chirp, some peep (do some talk or sing in their sleep?) Geese honk, ducks quack and roosters crow, but I lack knowledge why owls ask “Who?“ and I wonder what they would do if they knew.

Why don’t all birds sing the same? The answer came to me in a prayer. Birds all were born in different places of separate             races and talk in different words only understood by birds of their ethnicity. Each is born of special breed and pleads
his/her prayers in their native tongue.
Each bird prays to God as best he/she can and He always understands. The same is true of animals in the zoo and jungles, too.

REINCARNATION AFTER CREATION

After my beginning via creation I have been part of reincarnation, starting as a vertebrae until today I am a member of the insanity of humanity.
Along the way, at various stages of development as part of God's experiment,

I have been a bug, a slug, a crawling creature,  a flying screechier, a jellyfish without a feature, a bat, a rat,  a dog, a cat, a bit of this, a bit of that, a raccoon hat, a kitty cat---oops! I already mentioned that, but there are so many kinds of felines I might have been I can't recall them all.

I was once a donkey, a monkey, a mule, a slab of ham, a lamb who went to Sunday school, a lizard who drowned in a lake while eating a steak during an earthquake. For goodness sake! That could have been my Uncle Jake!

When you're a product of reincarnation you never know where you'll turn up next. You might turn up a turnip in a garden patch, a spud stuck in the mud, a reborn ear of corn or some other form of vegetation  because that's what reincarnation's  all about, Everything that grows  knows it is a gift of God that includes the sod, a Lilly pod, goldenrod, a rose, dust that tickles an allergic  nose, a bee that pollinates a flower. All are the result of reproductive duplication that began with creation.

All are different,  all the same. Life goes on playing the same recreation game. For better or for worse, the universe could end up in a hearse.

MY OBITUARY

*** Ed Weiland passed away on January 29, 2012. He was 88 years old. He wrote many poems about death. This is his self-written obituary. ***

MY OBITUARY

When I die I won't ask why. At the age I'll be, obviously, mortality will have its fill of me. But I wonder when I'm six feet under will I still hear thunder, will rain seep down and dampen me in my sleep? Will I hear footsteps above my head or hear words falsely said for the brand new dead?

I'll miss the bliss of sleep, knowing I'll awake to watch the sunlight creep into my sky, that I'll still be there to smile good-bye to a sunset rainbow hue that will return anew as a sunrise after all my days are through.

I'll miss tuning in on the morning news, any network that I choose, to tell me if my stocks are up or down and how much did I win or lose.

I'll I miss my favorite nurse who likes to listen to my verse. Will I start that awful cough on her day off when she's not here to comfort me? Will I die before I've said good-bye? Will she cry or just sigh and go her way?

I'll miss my friends and family and hope they miss me now and then. I'll miss my kids and grandkids who I'll never see again. Will I soon be with my wife who waits for me in a place I hope is heavenly?

What will become of my writings when I am dead? Unpublished, most not ever unread. What my novels begun, left undone? My Page One by-lines in the press, highly praised but brought no big success. I did my best. Had my share of scoops, it's true. But what good did all that do? A moment's fame flickers like a dying flame.

Words hold power for just an hour or a day, then fade away. It's a shame. But that's the newspaper game. All this said, now that I am dead, let this be my obituary. Now have a laugh as you read my epitaph:

When I die do not cry. Just turn and walk away.
I want to be alone so I can quietly decay.
ED (WEGADS) WEILAND - 1923 - 2012

THE COSTS OF WAR

The Masters of Disaster since long gone, and tyrants of the here and now, somehow cannot comprehend the sadness that their madness leaves in its wake, the misery and the agony, the blood soaked history, the idiotic atrocity of humans lost, the incalculable cost of progress turned to rubble.

All that trouble caused by a hasty act of waste by men who place war ahead of peace without the least idea of what they'll do when all the senseless wars are through.

War, won or lost, has no long-term benefit. It only leads to fragile peace while those alive who have survived want no more war. But there are many
who through Gaul and greed plant the seed of future hostilities.

What may make no sense to the dense pro-warriors of war is that immense death and disabilities and untold tragedies are the consequences
of hostile actions.

Nation-to-nation negotiations all end up in strained relations, at first small altercations, then provocations which result in new devastation. Those who didn't die before oppose another war. But there are the young who crave to save the peace at any price. They line up and they sign up and
they are taught to shoot and kill and die if that is God's will or the skill of the
enemy.

Why do we build academies dedicated to the art of military mastery and graduate men who just can't wait to take a gun in hand and spread havoc over a foreign land? Why not institutions that concentrate on seeking solutions instead of revolutions. Peace instead of war. And brotherhood by far.

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