Bain Honaker House in Farmersville Texas - Historic Houses

Nestled into a quiet rural street east of the Farmersville square, the Bain Honaker house is a reminder of the struggles of daily living in the 1800s. Constructed just after the Civil War, its builder and first owner, Anna Melissa Bain, was the widow of John Alexander Bain, 1823 - 1862. She was a woman of vision who with keen foresight, bought nearly seven acres in a small town fifty miles northeast of Dallas.

Inside the house there's a collection of items from workers, gun owners, revolutionaries, widows, orphans, musical instruments and lasting architectural design. Visitors can browse through antique books, old photos, vintage clothing, parlor-style furniture, and the remnants of lives well-lived.

Decorated in period-correct wallpaper, the interior is warmed by a shared fireplace in the wall between the parlor and the sitting room. 

"Mid-nineteenth-century homes included a formal parlor, sometimes described by social historians as a sacred space, where weddings, funerals, and other public events were held."

At times, it might hold the body of the deceased on display for visitation by friends and relatives prior to the funeral. The parlor was likely the most expensively furnished and elegant room in the entire house.

"The parlor furniture was made of richer materials and included the piano for entertaining guests. The cozier sitting room was used by the family for reading and sewing."₂

A ceramic and enamel container held excess ashes from the hearth. As the fire was the primary source of heat, it would need to be emptied on a regular basis. 

"A family would gather in the sitting room in the evening, drawing close together to share the light of an oil or kerosene lamp.

Reading was a popular activity during which the family was likely to listen to someone reading aloud. Typically, the man of the house would read aloud, while women engaged in some form of sewing or handwork."

A writing desk and a comfortable chair were highly valued items in a sitting room.

Anna Hicks Bain, born in 1834, was eleven years younger than her husband, John Alexander Bain, who passed away in November 1862. A widow at twenty-eight years old, she raised five daughters in the house following his death. She smartly supplemented her income by dividing the 6.7 acres into smaller plots which became commercial properties and by taking in boarders in the spare rooms upstairs.

This room offered entry to the house through the back doors, possibly used as the servant's entrance, or to allow boarders a private access to the stairs. It served as a mud room in inclement weather to store wet boots and outer garments or in summer as a place to cool off. Off the screened porch is a brick path leading to the outhouse and the fresh-water well.

The porch allowed access to the informal dining area, possibly an eat-in kitchen where food was prepared. Cold food was stored in the wooden ice box in the corner. A sign would be put in the window to let the ice man know what size block to bring in from his truck.

Many of the daily chores revolved around cooking, baking, cleaning, washing, mending, raising chickens, planting a garden, gathering the harvest. In the absence of modern appliances, most work was done by hand. Sundays were a day of rest and worship.

When the Bain-Honaker house was built in 1865, it was a time of national unrest with the war between the states just winding down. Supplies were scarce, tensions were high and many wounded men were returning home after battling neighbors and brothers over issues of States' Rights versus Federal Authority, Westward expansion and slavery. The years 1860 - 1864 marked some of our nation's most difficult times, certainly a difficult time to lose a husband and raise five children alone.

Music played a large role in daily life in the absence of telephones, television or radio. Books and reading, singing, sewing and hand crafts kept idle hands busy.

Anna Bain's daughters, Mary and Catherine (Cassia) married brothers Henry Honaker and Andrew Honaker. Cassia lived in the house until her death in 1928. Five generations lived in the house.₃

The bathroom was upgraded over the years. There's an upstairs bathroom with the old cast iron bathtub and another remodeled bathroom downstairs.

The house was donated to the Farmersville Historical Society by a descendant in 1989.

Farmersville, Texas is the place to visit if you enjoy quaint, old-fashioned towns with antiques and curiosities. Located near Highway 380 and Highway 78, the town has friendly merchants, good food, a quiet laid-back environment and the largest yarn store in Texas.

Sources:

1. John Alexander Bain, March 15, 1823 - November 1862. Facts from Ancestry dot com
2. Anna Hicks Bain, 1834 - 1906
3. Collin County Texas dot Gov, Bain Honaker House

Everyone Has A Story - The Tough Part is Getting It Out

 

Memoirs & Other Tall Tales, Peggy Cole

Coming soon to Amazon on eBook and in Paperback

It's been a long, hot summer and my muse has been mostly on vacation until this week. My recent desire to work on my latest book is a welcome change to previous neglect. I find that posting about my progress (or lack of it) makes me work harder either out of guilt or shame. Who knows?

I've passed the halfway point of putting together this collection of stories, some old, some new, some familiar to those who know me from other writing sites. I hope that these stories have been improved by all the time I've spent editing stuff that's already written. That has to be the worst part of writing a book, but a necessary part. 

Years of gathering information from family members, friends, even adversaries, indicates that everybody has a story to tell. The hard part is making the effort to write it down. And then, properly changing the names of the guilty (fictional characters) before publishing.

So I'm off to my battered keyboard which bears signs of my abuse. My ballpein-hammer style of typing is a gift learned during the old manual typewriter days of my youth.

This prototype cover, designed and created by Michael Friedman, is printed out and tacked to the wall in clear view of my laptop in hopes it will inspire or guilt me into working on my story. Over and out for this post and back to work. 

Happy writing to all aspiring and actual writers. All hands on deck, fellow authors!

Thursday's word count: 38,047 at 207 pages 8/25/2022

Saturday's word count: 42,056 at 225 pages 8/27/2022

Tuesday's word count: 48,020 at 240 pages 8/30/2022 

Friday's word count: 50,957 9/8/2022

People Watching in the Waiting Room

One thing that ties people together is time spent in a doctor's waiting room. The setting is familiar no matter what kind of doctor. There are the stiff, upright chairs, bright overhead lights, people behind glass panes, and often, an elevator that dings in the background.

Attendants in scrubs call out patient names while each new arrival is questioned about birthdate, insurance and changes since the last visit. They're told to take a seat and wait.

Last week's journey took me to the Eye Institute Surgical Center where folks of a certain age gathered, hopeful for improvement in their eyesight. Arrival time was nine am with instructions to be upstairs by that time after a night of fasting and no coffee or liquids of any kind. Most sat stiffly, bringing along a solid case of anxiety. To have someone cut on your eyes is scary. A couple of dozen other people and I waited to hear our names with little to do besides fidget and observe.

My driver and I chose seats in a tight corner across from a trio of women, two staring at their phones while a third sat, stony-faced, waiting her turn. Once she'd been called to the back, her companions left in search of food. They were replaced by a man who sought a chair to fit his linebacker girth. The tiny chairs were no match and as he lowered himself into it, the chair emitted a painful squeal.

It was a good time to study traffic patterns from the 4th story view of Central Expressway, busy any time, day or night. Cars sped by, coming and going to important places, their occupants unaware of our room full of tense, clean-scrubbed, lotion-less patients praying for a miracle.

Names were called to come to the room where forms were to be signed absolving the facility of responsibility for injury or death at their hand. A photo was taken to confirm our identity and add to our permanent record. Time ticked by at a snail's pace.

We maintained social distances, adorned with itchy face masks enhancing our discomfort. It was impossible not to stare as one frail woman dozed off in her wheelchair, bent forward, head down, those nearby praying she didn't nose-dive off onto the spotless tile floor. She woke with a start, and in near-blindness, demanded to know her whereabouts. Her son had "dropped me off here without a word." His booming voice, like a beacon in the cold silence echoed from the tiny registration room where her wheelchair wouldn't fit.

Finally, around 11:00 am, my name was called and I trudged back to the frigid pre-op room, changed into a gown and hair net, was hooked up to an IV and oxygen and drifted off into the land of the oblivious. Thirty minutes later I was in the post-op area drinking apple juice and waiting for my ride home; home sweet home. The cataract surgery was a success and now I await scheduling for the other eye.

People from the 1880s - CD and Eula

When I was barely a teen, I met a couple at church who were in their 80s. C.D. and Eula Walker. I was enamored by their old fashioned way of talking, their infallible courtesy, their acceptance of our family as their own.

They had an after-church gathering at their house one Sunday and I was fascinated by the way the food was presented in fancy dishes and served buffet style from a sideboard. I remember someone asking Mrs. Walker where her husband had gotten off to. 

"He's probably at the buffet building sideboards on his plate," she answered. I wasn't sure what that meant so my dad later explained it was like having a wagon with wood rails along the side so you could pile things higher. 

We sat in their parlor on red velveteen couches with carved legs and arms. Crystal chandeliers twinkled in the dim lighting of the room as we ate our food and communed with one another.

Their house was filled with family heirlooms that looked to be from the "roaring 20s" and treasures from their travels abroad. Things they had collected mid-life when they were around 40. Mr. Walker took us on a tour of his garage where, hanging on the wall was a helmet from World War I and other mementos of days gone by. They would have been born in the 1800s around the same time as my own grandparents who lived out of state and we saw rarely. The Walkers had no children so they adopted us as a surrogate family.

I had foolishly worn my watch out to play and the band broke off. C.D. repaired it so that I could wear it like a pin attaching it to a gold Fleur de Lis broach. He presented it to me as a gift one Sunday at church. Having lived through the Great Depression, they learned to repurpose and reuse everything. Nothing was wasted.

How I wish I had thought to ask them about their lives, their travels, their experiences before it was too late.

Father's Day 2019

On Father's day I fondly recall the many things my dad taught his three children like how to catch fish, the value of hard work and the joy of learning to do things ourselves. He was big on discipline like postponing gratification and held up the importance of an enduring faith. As a Sunday School Teacher he brought the Bible to life with his well-prepared lessons.

It was during the early sixties he seated a person in the front rows at our church, someone who by policy was only allowed to sit at the back of the congregation. Dad disregarded tradition one Sunday morning when he served as an usher and for a time, we were not welcome at that church. He carried on anyway, teaching the Bible in our living room every Sunday morning until that preacher left for another church in the Deep South. Times were different back then.

The Only Church in Town

Dad was a great story teller and shared many of the stories about his own father who was born in 1880, who raised six children as a single parent while working on the railroad as a mail-carrier and who later worked as a sharecropper.

Stern and strict at times, Dad believed that "sparing the rod" spoiled the child. But he also could be funny and witty. He was a good singer and liked to play the guitar and sing, "You are My Sunshine" and "Red River Valley."

He had a great smile and an enduring love for animals. He taught us that all life was valuable. I'm grateful that he stuck around to raise us after a trial separation before I was born. My older sister and brother were small children when Mom moved back home to Grandmother's house in Texas. He followed his own father's advice and did the right thing staying around to see the children he brought into the world all graduate high school and leave home before he and Mom parted ways.

He's been gone from this world since 2005 but I will always remember him fondly and often replay in my head that last time he told me, "I love you, my darling."

Remembering Paula - 2017

This story is dedicated to my friend of many years, Paula.

Paula and I managed to stay in touch over the years despite living in different states. The calls would get more frequent before our annual week spent together at the beach.

We'd played phone tag for days and I came home to a voice mail from her apologizing for not getting back to me.

When I called her back she told me the worst news possible.

She'd spent ten days in the hospital being poked and run through a battery of tests. They told her the results via an impersonal phone call from her doctor.

Her doctor told her she had Stage 4 pancreatic cancer.

1983 at the Gold Twin Towers in Dallas

Over the years, our lives seemed to run in parallel. Both of us moved from owning our own hair salons to earning our real estate licenses, to later, taking jobs in the corporate world.

We had each become instant stepmothers to five-year old boys through marriage. We shared the heartbreak of those failed relationships and our bankrupt businesses. We also shared the joy of coming back from darkness to better times.

In 1983, during the heyday of the TV show "Dallas" she came to Texas for a short visit. Naturally, we visited Southfork Ranch and the Gold Twin Towers where JR's fictional office was.

September of1988 we spent our first week together at her timeshare on the beach. We shopped at Publix for the week's groceries, cooked on the outdoor grills and enjoyed spectacular views of the sunset, before staying up all night laughing and watching old movies.

1996 North Reddington Shores, Florida

Every year, we'd spend 7 days walking the beach, baking in the sun and swimming in the pool. We'd pack up with sadness at the end of the week and drive back to her house spending our last night together watching reruns of Star Trek. We dreaded the early morning flight when she'd drop me off at Tampa Airport. When I called to tell her I was home safe, she'd say she'd cried all the way home. She felt things deeply and wasn't afraid to show her emotions.

We shared numerous meals at the Village Inn Pancake House, Houlihan's, Friday's, Puerta Vallarta and Café Pepe where we ordered paella with sangria and homemade bread. We shopped the thrift stores for stuff to sell in my antique store and we drove around the neighborhood where parrots from Busch Gardens roosted in trees near her house. My old house was only a few blocks from hers and we'd do a drive-by.
During the 90s we'd meet in Orlando at my dad's house to share a family meal. Dad served as the father figure she'd always wanted having been raised by a single mom. We called each other sisters. 

1995 at my Dad's house

When Dad passed away, she made the two-hour drive from Tampa to Le High Acres to be at his funeral and take me home with her. She was a source of comfort and friendship during my grief.

In 2009, she was proud that she finally got into her first pair of size 10 shorts. Not the kind with elastic waist, either. These were the button and zip shorts she'd always dreamed she would wear. She'd finally conquered her life-long battle with weight control.

2008 North Reddington Shores

She'd already been through agonizing pain and a long battle to find a doctor to do hip replacement surgery. She was still in her fifties. Her osteoarthritis had destroyed her hip joint making it nearly impossible to walk. Our shopping trips to favorite places like Donation Station, Goodwill and other thrift stores met less enthusiasm from my friend whose every step radiated pain.

1993 Kongfrontation

In 2015, she underwent spinal surgery, fusing five vertebra and several vertebra in her neck. The symptoms of numbness in her hands, the unexpected falls and other more disturbing side effects lessened. She looked great. I was proud of her resilience and resolve.

Our last beach trip in September 2016, grocery shopping was different than the years prior. Instead of several desserts for the week, we got half a Key Lime Pie. The variety of breads we usually picked out were missing, too. The potato chips, ice cream, cookies, apple strudel and chocolate candy had shrunk to just a couple choices.

I was proud of her restraint and mine as well. I usually went home a few pounds heavier after our vacation. I had no idea that something was going wrong with her digestive tract. Something very wrong.

My friend was in Stage 4 of cancer, too weak to take the chemotherapy which might prolong her life a few months, maybe a couple of years. But she was resilient, still hoping to beat this disease that made her look as she described, "like a skeleton."

I wanted to fly down there immediately but she wanted me to wait until she started chemotherapy. At that point she had stopped eating because of the gastric reactions she'd have after any kind of food.

I'll never forget her words. "Don't think the irony of this disease is lost on me. All my life I've struggled to lose weight and now I'm dying of starvation."

Even to the end, she remained grateful for the small comforts and blessings of life: friends who loved her dearly; two precious dogs whose awareness of her situation was clear in their actions; a mother who never expected to outlive her daughter after her own critical illness the prior year. Paula had spent months helping her mother recover a near fatal infection in 2015.

I treasure my photos from forty years spent with my friend. Her house was always welcoming, warm and casually inviting. I have fond memories of her cockatiel, T.C. Wilson, who talked to the dogs that came and went over the 20 years he lived. We shared mutual losses of beloved canines, felines, birds, relatives and friends over the years.

1995 with Nevy and Chloe

I recall our many talks over cups of coffee in her living room watching out the front window as her neighborhood changed with time. She was a friend who could put you instantly at ease whether watching TV or just hanging out. We could be comfortable reading books, silent for hours. There was no pressure to follow a schedule or do things. We were there for each other.

She was a friend who remembered to call on birthdays, holidays and in-between, always sharing the latest news and listening and sharing the ups and downs of our jobs.

She had an amazing recall of my family, the names of aunts and cousins, stories told over the years. When our roles expanded to caring for our aging mothers and their live-in partners, we often shared the joys and difficulties of being caregivers and about the day we might lose our mothers. We never imagined that one of us would go first.

2016 at the beach

She passed away on July 21st, 2017, just two short months after her diagnosis.

I still reach for the phone to call her, even after these years. I still think of us sharing a cup of coffee in her living room with the dogs, cats and T.C. Wilson.

She loved the Lord and had a strong faith. I hope she's had a chance to meet Him and reunite with her pets that have crossed over: Chivas, Aramis, Nevada, Spunky, Chloe, Zoey, Hansel, Gretel, Dakota and TC Wilson.

Paula is gone but not forgotten. She lives on in my dreams and memories.

For the Good Times

The heartbreak isn't over but I'm beginning to see the light. I've never lost a best friend before. 

Yesterday I was measuring the refrigerator for a replacement. After eighteen years, the old one has finally given up on making things cold. All of a sudden, a magnet jumped off the side wall. When I fished it out from the narrow space between the counter and the appliance, I realized it was the magnet my best friend gave me many years ago. It seemed like a sign to me that she's still with me. I smiled for the first time since Friday when she passed away.

The magnet reminded me of the time at her house when I was raiding her refrigerator and slammed the door too hard. Her little ceramic angel magnet fell off and broke in two. The head rolled underneath and was lost in the dark kingdom of dust bunnies. She'd had to leave town unexpectedly, following the loss of her grandmother and my return flight was not changeable, so I waited alone to go home. I wrote her a short, sorrowful note of apology with an offer to buy her a new magnet to replace the one I ruined. She forgave me with no hesitation and the matter was closed.

My next trip to her house, I was amazed to find the angel magnet hanging proudly on the front of the refrigerator door. She'd found the lost piece and glued it back together. I carefully closed the door on the cold realm of leftovers and sodas and smiled.

My friend will never call me again. We will never walk on the beach looking for shells. Or watch the glorious beauty of sunset we like did so many times on our vacations together. Somehow, I cling to the hope that we are still together, even if separated by life and death, and that one day we will again walk along the shore in awe of God's handiwork.

Beach Therapy Please

Tomorrow my best friend will face the hardest day of her life. She's scheduled for an appointment at the cancer center to find out what options she has.

Our days go way back in time, way back to working in a hair salon, sitting for our real estate exams, climbing the corporate ladder, each trying to be a good step-mother to our ex's only child. We've faced hardship and joy together over the decades and now, she faces the hardest times ahead.

I think of her comforting me during my darkest days and realize there's no comparison to what she must be going through. Even now, in these days of bad news, P.E.T. scans, emergency room visits, missed diagnoses and pain, she keeps reminding me that God is in control. She is assured that He will do what's best for her and help her get through whatever lies ahead.

The last time I saw her, I couldn't believe my eyes. She was thinner than I had ever seen her. She has always battled extra weight, up thirty pounds, down ten, up twenty, down five. Now, she tells me she weighs only a few pounds more than I do. Down a hundred.That's not necessarily a good thing.

We've shared a week together on the beach at her timeshare right on the Gulf nearly every September since 1988. The memories we made won't fit into any photo album. There are thousands of scenes in my mind, captured along the way. Seagulls soaring, dolphins swimming, surf roiling, Hurricane Gilbert, poolside chats, beach strolls, sangria toasts, apple strudel, Beach Boy Video and precious time together with no cell phone anywhere near.

We've spent thousands of hours sharing personal issues, dilemmas, new jobs, joy, unemployment, stories of our past lives and loves. She has truly been a sister to me and a genuine friend in thick and thin. Time for some beach therapy.

I'm thinking of her today and praying.

Corporate Obscurity

It was toward the end of a dozen years with a multi-billion dollar corporation that I found myself on a list of employees whose value to the company had come into question. The unfortunate group was assigned to a "special project," which may sound like something desirable that would distinguish or redeem us. Not so for the corporate professional whose contributing days had run their course.

Each of us knew this was a make or break situation. We were in the pool given a monumental task that we knew was destined for failure. There was minimal chance that when the task was completed that success would lead us to a new position within the company. We were living in limbo land.

There were participants from many departments of various levels, grades, and specialties, yet, despite our wins in the past, we now faced that dreaded outcome: "separation from the company" which would end our careers.

Still, most of us took on the responsibilities with chins held high, our stiff upper lips pursed into dogged expressions, and our noses planted firmly on the grindstone.

Our job was to inventory company assets scattered through the facilities of its outsourced transportation company and find discrepancies in the millions of dollars of equipment that had gone missing from the books. For the best part of five weeks, we traveled from city to city across the United States serving in the heat of blistering warehouses in Atlanta, Boston, New Jersey, Florida and other, more obscure towns.

The members of our team, for the most part, grew closer through our mutually shared yet unspoken knowledge of upcoming doom. Each of us hoped somehow to distinguish ourselves in some creative way and regain our misplaced importance to the corporate entity. Our futures depended on making the right impressions with those token "safe" employees who joined us from time to time to interject a sense of validity to our efforts. If only we could make the right connection, impress the holder of an open personnel requisition, perhaps befriend someone who could keep us afloat in a top-heavy, overburdened ship with excess cargo.

The rumors of upcoming layoffs floated among us in the evenings when we gathered for the dinner meal. Those were times when the most desperate tried their hardest to find a listening ear, to work out some deal to keep themselves on the payroll. Doomed alliances were pushed to the limit by intense competition for any safe place left within the organization.

As we toiled in our unaccustomed manual labor roles of the temporary assignment, we brushed elbows with Vice Presidents and departmental leaders whose objective during their brief tenure among us was assessment of team members.

As the hours, days and weeks passed, the stays at adequate but less than luxurious hotels continued. We sweated, washed our clothes in motel laundromats, ate take-out food, sang songs and whistled while we worked, and grew as close as our tenuous situation would allow. When we concluded our round-about inventory tour, our diverse team members returned to their respective home bases and awaited our fates.

To our immense surprise, the project was deemed an unqualified success. We located and documented millions of dollars of elusive inventory and turned our ill-fated mission around. Many were able to secure jobs in new areas within the company. Our assignment became a test of our adaptability to change. Those who were able to embrace the uncertainty and plow through were awarded a cash bonus and handed an engraved plaque of recognition by the Senior Vice President.

It was a memorable moment in the trial by fire of the corporate worker.

5 Things to Make a Trip to the Emergency Room Easier

When the phone rang at ten pm on a Sunday night, a quavery voice said, "We've had a little accident over here." These few words can send the adrenaline pumping. The first time we got that call, we rushed over to check on Mom who said she'd fallen. She'd crawled from her living room to the bedroom to use the only working phone. The other one broke with her fall. We wondered if we should call an ambulance or just drive her to the hospital to get checked out. We made the wrong decision.

We learned the hard way that it's dangerous to move or transport an injured person. Worse, when we arrived at the emergency room there was a long wait behind others who either looked worse or had arrived by medical transport. She spent a couple of uncomfortable hours on a hard xray table before the doctor arrived at the small town hospital. Mom was admitted with a broken hip.

Another call came on the morning of New Year's Eve before seven am. Mom asked for help getting a shower explaining that she had fallen during the night. She lay on the bathroom floor until morning. The tone of her voice indicated something was very wrong. I should have called an ambulance immediately. Instead, we bundled her up against the January cold and drove her to the emergency room. Again, bad move. The hospital was operating with a skeleton crew due to the holiday. We waited in the ER eight long hours surrounded by patients who were coughing, sneezing or vomiting.

During that time, the staff would not allow Mom to have even an ice chip until the doctor examined her. When her name was finally called, the doctor launched into a lecture about the patient being seriously dehydrated and running a fever. Imagine our response.

When the time comes to go to the hospital, the arriving paramedics will ask about the patient's  medications, their allergies, and medical history before the current emergency. 

Emergency Go Bag

Ambulance drivers want to take the patient's insurance and identification cards with them on the way to the hospital. Giving them a photocopy can avoid the loss of the patient's original cards. Gathering copies of all this info in one place ahead of time can help reduce some of the stress. 

1. Make a copy of the patient's Medical Insurance Card, front and back. It has the phone number, policy and member's identification number. Put the copy into a Go Bag dedicated for emergencies.
2. While at the doctor before an emergency grab two of their business cards; one for your wallet and one for the Go Bag.
3. Create a list of other important phone numbers in case your cell phone battery dies during the wait. You'll want the numbers for their doctors, their minister, out-of-town relatives, friends and neighbors who might be concerned.
4. Make a list of prescription medications showing the exact dosages and the frequency taken. 
5. Add a list of known allergies or reactions to medication taken in the past and a list of over-the-counter medicines taken routinely.

When my husband went to the hospital for surgery, he was taking a lot of prescription medications. Rather than try to remember them, we made a list of each medication, its exact strength and dosage frequency. Several printed copies of this list went into the Go Bag. The admissions staff, nurses and doctors were grateful not to have to write it all down by hand. For example:

It's often necessary to provide info about previous hospital stays and the outcome, and whether the patient was admitted, along with a list of all surgeries the patient has undergone.

• Prepare a List of previous surgeries, the types and the dates, such as,  Appendectomy - 1975; Left Hip, Replacement Surgery - 1991

It's a good idea to ask the patient for this information ahead of time. If they're confused or possibly unconscious you'll have the list available.

Most of the following items are optional for the Go Bag, but they're handy and easy to pick up at the dollar store.

1. A small tablet for notes and instructions once the doctor arrives.
2. A good book for long waits at the hospital and to avoid the germ laden, out-of-date magazines in the waiting room.
3. Bottled water and packaged crackers or cookies. When your wait is long you'll be glad you have this. It never fails, if you leave the room for a minute to go to the cafeteria, that's when a medical person comes in with an update.
4. Cup of instant soup or protein bars.
5. Wet wipes and travel size hand sanitizer.
6. Tissues for tears or runny noses.
7. A new toothbrush and travel size toothpaste. This is for you.
8. Packets of sugar or artificial sweetener, salt, pepper, and plastic spoons. Sometimes a vending machine has food but there are no utensils or condiments available.
9. A clean pair of cotton socks to wear in those cold waiting rooms at the hospital.

If you drive your friend to the hospital, bring along any medical equipment they use. When Dad became critically ill after chemo, he refused to go in the ambulance. We drove him to the emergency room and in our haste, left his portable oxygen at home. The ER was overflowing and he had a dreadfully long wait before they finally admitted him to intensive care. Every gasping breath without his oxygen was a nightmare.

If your friend is admitted and you want to talk with the attending doctor,  sometimes they make their rounds near midnight so you could be waiting a while. Once you've invested hours waiting for X-rays, blood work and other stuff, you'll want to know what's going on.

In the hopeful possibility that your senior is not admitted, you'll want to bring their walker or wheelchair when you follow the ambulance to the hospital. They'll need these when they're released. One final tip just in case you lose the ambulance you're following. Ask the paramedics where they're taking the patient so you'll arrive at the right hospital.

Taking a few moments to assemble a few items into a Go Bag can reduce some of the anxiety that goes with any trip to the hospital. The best hope is that you won't ever need to use it.

On Becoming Your Parent's Guardian - Role Reversal

When our parents seek help on small tasks they've easily handled in the past, it can come as a surprise. The indecision creeps in slowly on little cat's feet starting with hesitation over making minor decisions about things they've handled effectively for years.

My mother asked, "How much rice goes in the pot and how long should I cook it?" I gently reminded her that she'd cooked rice for many more years than I had.

Small tasks became more difficult as time passed. In a way, being asked for advice from a parent was flattering. What I didn't know was that the tide had begun to turn; the child was becoming the parent one small step at a time.

Things went along smoothly as our new relationship emerged. I became more of an equal to someone who had always shown authority and control. This awesome responsibility is not to be taken lightly. It arrives with its own baggage, setbacks, and joy. Friends my age shared that they'd been also called upon to provide advice to parents.

My best friend shared the frustration she experienced when trying to persuade her mother to use her supplemental oxygen like she's supposed to. Another friend tried to convince her mother to use the hearing aide she clearly needs. She shared the frustration of constantly having to repeat herself to her mother. How familiar it seemed to be interrupted mid-sentence by someone who years ago said, "Not now, Mother is speaking." But the shoe is suddenly on the other foot.

Aunt Lou at 94

A stay-at-home mom of the fifties, my mother began her mid-life career with little or no employment experience. She left nurse's training to get married in 1945. After her thirty-year marriage ended, she took vocational training and embarked on a career as a Certified Nurse Assistant at the age of fifty.

Suddenly she asked for advice on dating, grocery shopping and apartment hunting, advice she'd provided me in the past. Mom's new life as a single, sole-provider spanned the next thirty years. Her experience of taking a job outside the home added skills, confidence and a sense of accomplishment. On her eightieth birthday, she officially retired from a second career as a Teacher's aide.

Reality struck when Mom went into the hospital for a month. Although I'd always been a co-signer on her checking account, it became my job to manage her bill paying. Looking over her checkbook register revealed a level of forgetfulness. There were unpaid insurance bills and past due notices tucked away in drawers.  Thankfully, Mom was glad to be rid of the responsibilities of balancing the bank account and paying the bills.

Driving soon became another challenge when she reached her eighties. With diminished reflexes and increased fragility, it was no longer safe for her to be behind the wheel. She no longer felt confident on the road anymore. It is the opposite of the day we first got behind the wheel of a car in our teens, a life-altering decision which makes a senior dependent on others for their basic needs to get to doctors' appointments, pick up groceries, or even visit a neighbor.

What a relief it was when she turned her car keys over without being asked. Not everyone is that practical when the time comes to stop driving and this can be a source of friction for concerned relatives.

The two sisters, well into their 90s, still functioned independently in so many important ways although living in a  skilled nursing home due to health, vision, hearing and memory impairments.

One thing remains certain in our relationship. It is the unshakable friendship of my Mom, my true friend. She is a blessing and reminds me in so many ways that I'm the lucky one. They both make me proud

Finding Leo

We were driving down a familiar road headed home to our cottage in the country when we saw something brown running alongside of the road. As we passed by the creature, it fell to the ground and turned over, legs up toward the sky. We pulled off the road and walked back toward the little thing and it started wagging its tail.

The pads of his paws were bloodied by the distance he had traveled on the blistering hot asphalt. We could tell he was some sort of toy poodle despite the filthy, matted fur that covered his entire body. We scooped him up and headed home.

I put him in the kitchen sink and ran warm water over his body, soaping him up with shampoo. He shivered nervously as I clipped the matted clumps from his frame revealing a soft coat of white fur. His ribs were showing through the short hair when I finished. We wrapped him in a soft towel and held him until he was dry. I’ll never forget the look of gratitude in his sweet eyes as he reached up to give me a kiss before falling asleep in my arms.

The veterinarian told us that he was likely around nine years old, about ten pounds, suffering a bit of malnutrition and from the normal parasites that go along with living in the wild. We got him his shots and medication for the flea bites and abrasions that were present on his feet and body. He went back home with us, immediately taking charge of my lap like a hood ornament, staring out of the front window of the car.

We weren’t supposed to have dogs in the small place we were renting, but we convinced the landlord that he wouldn't be any trouble. With tile floors, any cleanup would be minimal, we told them, and we would be responsible for any damage. The little guy never once messed in the house.

Shortly after that, we relocated to another city where we took him with us into an apartment in a new complex with lime green shag carpet and Harvest Gold appliances. We both found new jobs and Leo stayed home during the day. It wasn’t long before the neighbors stopped us on our way inside.

“Did you know that your dog howls the entire time you’re at work?” they asked.

“Well, no.” We had no idea that he was so lonely. “I hope it doesn’t bother you.” No, they didn’t mind. They also had a dog, a beagle they named Beagle, and he barked most of the time.

Leo seemed fine for a time and then he started howling so much he began to wheeze and cough up foam. We took him to a new veterinarian who x-rayed his throat and discovered he had a torn esophagus, probably from eating sticks and rocks when he was out on his own. His jaw was also broken and not repairable, according to the doctor. We were given little choice other than to put him down.

Still in my teens as a young wife, it was my first time to make the ominous decision to end the life of a pet. I could barely live with myself for weeks afterward. The gaping hole in my heart after he made the trip to Heaven was nearly unbearable. The only consolation was that his last few months of his life he was happy and secure and well-loved. I always wondered where he came from, why he was out on his own, who might be missing this little boy.

The only remedy to the lasting heartache was to bring another dog into our household, a puppy, whose exuberance and joy was a much needed blessing after losing our rescued pup.

Ode to a Klingon - A Tribute to Buddy Lee

Driving past the rest area, I spotted two dogs playing next to the highway. Without a thought, I veered into the picnic area to draw them away from the seventy mile-per-hour traffic.

Both dogs followed the truck as I pulled in and grabbed the packet of dry dog food from beneath the driver's seat.They scarfed up the kibble in seconds prompting me to search for more food in the truck.

When I turned around, the Doberman was gone. The one that looked like a wolf remained close, watching my every move. His hair was matted and dirty; his ribs visible through the thick fur. He sat quietly by the open door of the truck waiting for the question that would change both our lives:

"Do you want to go home with me, boy?"

He raised his right paw as an answer.

The first night Buddy was with us, I put him in the fenced pen that once housed our emus. He had food and water, yet he lacked the companionship he so desperately craved. 

In the morning, I took his breakfast out there and found he had dug his way out from under the chain link fence. I cried all the way to work, believing him to be lost once again.

Once I arrived at work I retrieved my voice mail messages. Buddy found his way home and into the heart of my hubby who said, "This little buddy is a keeper." And so he got his name and became part of our family, joining our twelve year old Retriever, Slick, and his new Chow companion, three year old Dolly Joe.

One Christmas, I wrote a poem when Buddy Lee displayed interest in one ornament on our tree.

Ode to a Klingon by Peg Cole

The tinny voice of Mr. Worf
Grown silent now at last. 
Has echoed from the Christmas tree
Of many seasons past.

The shuttle craft has lost its voice
The micro chip is quiet.
And yet I do not toss it out
I dare not start a riot.

Each morning when the lights went on
The Klingon's voice would call
And Buddy Lee would tilt his head
In wonderment and awe..

Not that one...the Runabout, please, push the button.

The micro chip inside the ship
Spoke deeply from the boughs
And Buddy Lee would come and look
To find the source of prose.

His head pressed firmly on his paws
He guards the silent tree
"Where is the Klingon warrior's voice?
That used to speak to me?"

We laughed at Buddy's interest 
When turning on the tree
He'd always come and take a look
The curious Buddy Lee.

The Warrior's voice is silent now
Its magic has been spent
Though Buddy Lee still stalks the tree
Amid the limbs he's bent.

The thoughts inside my canine's head
Remain a mystery
The strange attraction Buddy has
Is plain for all to see.

And now to find another craft 
On eBay do I search
The plastic shuttle Rio Grande 
Not from the planet Earth.

Bud looks at us with pleading eyes.
His Klingon mentor lacking.
Quick, purchase from the on-line store
With automated tracking.

Bizarre and disconnected from
The day of Jesus' birth.
Yet still I long for Deep Space Nine,
To celebrate with mirth.

I'll hope that it arrives in time,
Without delay or reasons.
And pray each day that Buddy stays
To celebrate more seasons.

Buddy Lee at Twelve

For he's grown old my Buddy Lee
His bright eyes now grown dim.
And Christmas wouldn't be the same
An empty day without him.


So hasten to me UPS
Your brown truck at my door.
And let me see Bud's eyes light up,
When Worf will speak once more.

Buddy Lee was with us for twelve wonderful years during which he was a valued member of our family.

There is a street near our house named Dog Drop Road. Some people take it as an invitation to leave their unwanted pets wandering about lost, wondering what they did to deserve being abandoned.