The sublimation of Ronni Bennett

Ronni Bennett is retiring "Time Goes By," her ground-breaking, nationally known blog on what it's really like to get older. Authentic, warm, humorous, and intelligent, Ronni led the way for many bloggers over fifty, and was generous in sharing her knowledge and wisdom about the way things are for many of us as we age. She even shared her blog space, inviting elder bloggers to guest from time to time.

She crafted thoughtful memes for her readers and blogosphere to encourage them to engage with each other. In one, readers were to choose and visit a blog from her prodigious elder blog roll that was new to us, and report in the comments to that post.

Ronni created and will continue to maintain "The Elder Story Place," encouraging folks to write the stories in their lives, offering a space to record memories, or special wisdom we received from our elders.

Ronnie researched and wrote about global and personal issues on aging. You can count on Ronni to be rigorous and timely on the latest information. She did not flinch from the truth. She did not sugar-coat getting old. She did find and share vital facts, figures, comings and goings, inconsistencies, legislation, the whole nine yards, on the latest, expert reports about age, aging, and how the US treats its aging population.

She issued a call to arms to learn about and vigorously resist the insidious S.B. 1959.

Oh, frabjous day! Ronni has reconsidered! That doesn't change this post a whit. I am relieved that she is still with us on this journey into elderhood.

Beverly Sills, music, and aging

This is where I spend most of my time at work. You will notice the wave keyboard and orthopedic mouse. Also the theater monitor screen, which is more for opening several docs at once for reference and comparison.

Just the floaters that swim around in my eyes (I know they really don't!) can make me swear there's a comma rather than a period at the end of a sentence. Needless to say, unless I'm 8" from the laptop screen, I always bump the magnification to 150-200%. Don't get me started on dotted note values in music...

This issue of reading music is looming on my horizon. It may come down to a race between which goes first, the eyes or the voice. The limiting feature of musical scores is that the larger the notes/words, the larger and heavier the printed edition, and the more pages to turn. The only solution I can see at the moment is magnifying glasses. This would mean scaring myself or the conductor to death with alien bug-eyes, or relying on peripheral vision to watch the conductor.

I refuse to give up my musical endeavors. I just hope that I have the perspicacity and class to bow out before I 1) make a pitiful fool of myself, or 2) compromise the musicianship of a group. One of my sheroes, Beverly Sills, the gifted opera soprano, retired at the peak of her career. I admire her more for dealing with the personal loss she must have felt than for reasons 1) and 2) above.

Ms. Sills filled her life with activities just as meaningful as performing at the Metropolitan Opera. After retiring from singing, she became the director of the New York City Opera, elevating the organization to the top of the field. She didn't stop there--she eventually directed the Metropolitan Opera and Lincoln Center.

Even as she guided the fortunes of these stellar organizations, she managed to raise more than $70 million over ten years as national chair of the March of Dimes Mothers' March on Birth Defects.

My musical career is miniscule in comparison. I hope that when the time comes, if it does, I have the integrity to make as graceful an exit as she did.

Brava, Bubbles. You made the world a better place in many ways. We miss you.

The dark side of Austin

I listen to NPR on my drive to and from work--KUT-FM, with studios on the UT campus. Mornings, I listen to "Eklektikos," hosted by the marvelous John Aielli. As he read a few announcements this morning, he paused, then spoke as if he was having difficulty controlling both his emotions and his words.

"The Austin Interfaith Ministry Thanksgiving dinner and gathering this Sunday announces a change in venue."

Pause.

"Originally scheduled at the (a prominent, central Austin Baptist church)... pause...the dinner has been relocated to (a central synagogue)."

Longer pause.

"The reason given for the venue change...was that the (HPBC) learned...that there would be non-Christians attending."

Even longer pause.

The silence stretched.

"Here's a song by (xxx), called 'Jesus Loves Me.'"

There followed a C&W song distantly resembling the Sunday School version, with significantly different lines such as, "Jesus loves me, but he hates you."

Longest pause of all.

Perfect.

Straight to pre-recorded piece. No further comment from Aielli. Good man.

I am not bound by the restraints of maintaining a sense of decorum in a conservative public forum. There is no way I can refrain from commenting, especially since my father was a well-educated, responsible Christian minister. This is not the Christianity he believed in and preached.

Fer Chrissakes, even the puritan Pilgrims invited non-Christians to the first Thanksgiving. Is not the tradition we honor based on charity and an open heart and mind? The event in question wasn't even scheduled in the church proper, but in another building. If what my father taught me is true, I hardly think Jesus would have turned anyone away from an expression of good faith and brotherhood. Maybe my daddy knew a different Jesus. Jesus Jones, or Jesus Garcia maybe, certainly not the Jesus that was born and lived his whole life in (gasp!) the Middle East, which is where Nazareth and Bethlehem and Jerusalem and all those towns are, according to the last atlas I consulted...

This decidedly un-Christian, hypocritical, inhuman, fear-based, appalling way of thinking is not only misinformed, it mirrors the same attitudes these so-called Christians so vehemently oppose. The scariest part is that this is the attitude that (dis)informs the current White House resident.

Verily, who(m) would Jesus bomb? Thus endeth the lesson.

I actually have roots

I denied it for decades. A broadly-educated, cosmopolitan adventuress doesn't do roots.

I've just returned from Aunt Midge's funeral and memorial gathering. It was an unexpectedly satisfying and reassuring experience, one of the few times in recent history that my sisters and I have interacted with that branch of the family, as my father was a minister and pastored churches far away for a good portion of our lives. In spite of our limited acquaintance with Aunt Midge's husband's family, the day gave us a welcome opportunity to get to know our various cousins and their offspring.

It was daunting, absolutely, at least at first. How could counting the number of surviving family elders on one hand, and finding oneself in a benign but slightly alien scenario not be daunting? Participating in conversations and listening to stories revealed that we had in common a rich, enduring heritage that typifies the spirit of those tough, durable ancestors who migrated to Texas in the 1800's in the hopes of carving a decent life from the earth.

Two octogenarian women sitting behind us in the chapel whispered to each other as immediate family filed out at the conclusion of the service. I'm quite sure they didn't realize that their conversation was clearly audible--they unconsciously compensated for impaired hearing by whispering louder.

"That Roy Junior is a handsome young man." (Roy is at least four years older than I am, which puts his age between 65 and 70)

"Oh yes he is--a very handsome young man."

Adorable. My heart swelled with pride and love for a family that I've been away from for too long.

Ordinary? Yes. We come from hard-scrabble farmers who worked themselves to death in the struggle to survive and flourish in a frequently hostile environment, rarely completing more than a few years in school. They were needed to keep the farm producing. At times, the only option was everlasting physical labor under brutal conditions. And when Ol' Boll Weevil brought King Cotton low, these hard-working people turned to less risky, more dependable employment in the local butcher shop, grocery store, or filling station. A microcosm of an agrarian populace adapting to the changing world.

Extraordinary, certainly. These descendants of the original Texas settlers inherited and passed along the more useful traits of their sturdy ancestors: courage, resourcefulness, love and husbandry of the land, determination, the importance of family, honesty, and a natural wisdom sufficient to thrive.

Today was a marvelous, gorgeous, warm, late autumn Indian Summer gem, gentle, stray breezes giving notice of an impending cold front. Midge was buried in the Young's Prairie Cemetery with many of her ancestors. Earlier this afternoon, our little gang visited our Daddy/Papaw, grandparents, and other family spirits in the tiny Elgin cemetery, recounting childhood stories, with occasional interjections to clarify the relationship for my niece's benefit.

The late afternoon sun saturated the cemetery and surrounding farms in a soft, golden light. A profound, peaceful stillness settled over the land. Pecan shells crunching underfoot, we wandered among the old and new headstones as the service proceeded, our attention focused on the solemn ritual unfolding under the small, open tent, even as we processed the experience--one foot grounded in the earth, the other connected to the small group of people huddled together near the casket.

My sisters in our usual style--quietly making irreverent quips to one another, unobtrusively pointing out the cultural artifacts particular to Central Texas--headstones decorated in the school colors and symbols of the oldest college football rivalry in Texas: The University of Texas at Austin and Texas Agricultural and Mechanical College, better known as the tea-sipping Longhorns vs. the hard-drinking Aggies. A visceral manifestation of a long-standing Texas tradition.

Delicate tinkling sounds bubbled into awareness, drawing us close to an old pecan tree close by, where four silvery wind chimes danced in its wind-rocked branches, adding a pleasant, high-pitched polyphony to the minister's simple, elegant homily; weaving a magical contrapuntal progression into the murmured prayers and responses.

After saying our last goodbyes to Aunt Midge, we re-convened at a local family-owned Bar-B-Q establishment renowned for their smoked meats. We enjoyed the traditional two-meat dinner plate, with pinto beans, potato salad, sweet or unsweetened iced tea, onions, pickles, two slices of foamy, white bread, and a taste-tingling infusion of two humble ingredients: ground chile peppers and vinegar. Each bottle carries a warning label for the tender of foot or tongue. One of the grand-daughters brought a scrumptious, home-made lemon pound cake--a companionable finish to a Texas-style dinner.

Small town Texas, country goodness. Robust tales of days gone by. A gentle and reverent gathering to honor the passing of a well-loved and accomplished elder.

Goodbye, Aunt Midge, please say hidy to Ann and Molly and Judythe for me

My aunt Mildred, affectionately known as Aunt Midge, passed away this Wednesday morning. Beyond the feelings of loss, grief, sadness, it is significant to me personally in that we were not particularly close, but that we recently reconnected after decades of wildly divergent lifestyles, tacitly agreeing that it was all water under the bridge, and discovered a fondness that has spanned six decades. Her spirit remained as robust and her mind as sharp at 91 as it was fifty years ago. I am fortunate to have such a vibrant, life-affirming heritage.

Aunt Midge is a legacy from the era of independent, hard-scrabble farming, the native Texan offspring of a Welshman and French belle who migrated from the Carolinas across Alabama and Georgia to the fertile sandy loam of central Texas. The Hill Country is a gentle remnant of the ancient Balcones Fault, which lies thirty miles to the east of Elgin.

The north-south fault line exposes a hundred mile long slash of granite, marble, and fossil-laden limestone formations, honeycombed by the myriad cold water springs that percolate through the matrix. To the east of the fault, the land slopes off to the fertile, black, loamy topsoil accumulated through the ebb and flow of archaic tides. A rich, alluvial plain gradually descends from the heart of the state to the Gulf of Mexico 130 miles east.

Long stretches of beige, sandy beaches ring the deceptively small, utterly treacherous bowl of water that regularly brews up ferocious hurricanes to batter, drown, and gouge out huge chunks of the coastline. The circumference extends from the Yucatan Peninsula of southern Mexico, north along the oil-soiled Texas coastline, across the swamps of lower Louisiana, the diminutive panhandles of Georgia and Alabama, to end at the southern tip of the Florida peninsula. The finger of land appears to stretch toward Cuba and other Caribbean Islands that dot the narrow mouth in an attempt to complete the circle. A tricky gap where cooler currents from the vast Atlantic to the east frequently and forcefully intrude into the shallow, bathwater-warm Gulf.

Alas, poor Florida! The straining finger is frequently bombarded from coast to coast when a big 'cane plows across the entire state unabated. Florida is the point of no return, deftly deflecting a big blow to the north, drowning much of the Atlantic coastline; or diverting the storm westward, to be whipped into a frenzy when the chilly Atlantic system travels over the tepid Gulf.

The Cherokee were one of the largest groups of Aboriginal people, with established communities in North Carolina, Alabama, and Georgia. My European ancestors commingled with these original residents to establish one of the robust, hybrid stocks common to Texas. So common, in fact, that I have Cherokee genes from both parents. An earlier product of the blend, Aunt Midge was closely connected to the land--she spent her entire life within a one hundred and fifty-mile radius encompassing Austin, Elgin, and the Gulf coast.

A few scant years after the second World War, Aunt Midge found herself a widow. Big Roy, my uncle, lost his leg in a lumber mill accident. Whether he died of complications resulting from the maiming, or from his inevitable surrender to alcohol, or simply from despair (it was never clear to the younger cousins), he left her with two young children still in school, and the burden of supporting a family as a single mother.

At some point along the way, she obtained a nursing degree, and embarked on a lifelong career as a practitioner and teacher of nursing, eventually retiring from the faculty of the UT School of Nursing.

My cousins were exemplary, negotiating the difficult years to excel in academics, participate in school activities, and make significant contributions to the community. Midge's daughter also earned a nursing degree, and became involved with the Travis County blood and tissue bank and other health service organizations. Midge's son also studied the sciences, retiring as a biologist for the Texas Department of Wildlife and Fisheries. A Water Ranger, as it were. Both epitomize the drive, passion, and acumen of well-educated, hardworking, diligent, salt-of-the-earth Texans.

More significantly for the younger cousins, the older cousins consistently showered us with love and joy, and exhibited the endearing, sweet, caring demeanor that I associated with our father. My kind and handsome male cousin exuded that same kindliness and acceptance, and my female cousin was the distaff manifestation of this most benign and caring facet of the Snowden persona.

In processing such a significant life change, I am impelled to honor my ancestresses for their wisdom, experience, love, support, and courageous spirit--all the life-affirming characteristics of an exceptional and caring human being. I gratefully acknowledge the essential life force that connects me with my predecessors and progeny.

Oh, Fortuna! Velut luna. Status variabilis. The Wheel of Fortune inexhorably turns once again in ever-expanding consciousness.

Rest in peace, Aunt Midge. Your indomitable spirit above all else makes me proud to be a Texan. And give Daddy a hug for me, would you?

Human Factors International report on trends in health information seeking

According to the latest issue of Health Factors International newsletter, World Usability Day this year focuses on health care. HFI released a report today on trends in seeking health information via the Web. There are some interesting implications for elders.

Comparing search habits in 2002 and 2006, as you would expect, the number of information seekers has grown significantly. At the same time, more and more specialized information has become available.

I am much heartened by this news, as I envision tens of thousands of us elders annually for the next few years hitting the ether to find ways to be better informed about our health and quality of life as we age.

In effect, this will eventually help lessen the burden on younger, smaller generations as we elders shoulder more of the responsibility for our own health care by staying connected to the community and continuing to learn.

Watching Ronni Bennett's presentation at Gnomedex and the robust Q & A period following, I was struck by the intense response of many of the younger audience to explore the issue of usability for a huge chunk of the population. Kudos to Ronni for making that conversation public and raising awareness, and to Chris Pirillo for offering her a high-exposure venue. Her presentation deserves much more comment.

Cool beans.

Traumatic Brain Injury

As I mentioned in an earlier post, Fried Okra Productions was in beginning stages of promoting a benefit concert with Little Feat and the Brain Injury Association of Texas. There is already an overwhelming need for services for TBI patients, and new studies from the Iraq War show that troops are returning home with TBI not only from direct injury to the head, but from trauma sustained through just being in proximity to explosions. The shock waves pummel the brain and lead to degeneration of neurons long after the exposure.

Veterans medical services are just not footing the bill. We are fixin' to have a problem that we have no means of handling at the present.

I am very excited that my brother in law is attending a summit on TBI in Washington, D.C. next week along with only 30 or 40 other TBI experts from the private, public, and military sectors. Their consequent report will be a must read for all medical providers and TBI supporters.

Perhaps it's time to dust off the old plans and try once again to put together what we envisioned before the war. We have even more reason to do it. Originally, we were going to limit it to Texas, but I don't see why we can't start with Texas and go national. Takes a lot of grassroots effort, and we had some good traction. Some of the obstacles have disappeared, so the prospect is even more hopeful.

I'll need to retire from my day gig, though. At the moment, it's eating up my time, energy, and health. I love what I do, especially learning new tech. There's a limit to how much I'll give to the man on such lousy pay--much rather be doing something I love with other people I love for free all day long.

Portraits from the Sixties

What to do with 6 large cardboard boxes full of slides?


So here are more of my friends. I really need a new scanner...

Phenomenal artist and glass creations

Austin is such an artist's paradise. Well, at least there are many phenomenal artists who live here. Whether they consider it a paradise or not is something they'll have to tell you.

Rejina Johnson is a phenomenal glass artist. She works in other media as well. Please, please visit her Web site to see all the creative things she does with glass--just sand, but fired with the white hot passion of a visionary. Her work touches me way down deep.

I'm looking forward to visiting her studio/compound. I hear she is as phenomenal a woman as she is an artist...

Rejina, I hope you don't mind me uploading your pics. Your work is too good not to be shared.

Okra is good for you...really

Okra is loaded with nutrition, crazy amounts of some, and even has a high factor of anti-inflammatory components. This is boiled, naked okra--not fried in cornmeal, or in a dish with other ingredients.

A researcher has neat photos of the plant, blossom, and fruit. Thanks to Ravi Kochhar for permission to put them on my blog.

All about okra.

Lovely okra photos.

Props from Mother Nature.com

Nutrition facts.

For Fred and Connie--musical legends in their own time

I wrote this for an early blog called The Hob Nob, named for the infamous bohemian cafe across the street from North Texas State University (now the University of North Texas) where all the music and artsy folks hung out. The story was meant to be an introduction for a series of vignettes about what college was like for a group of friends in the early 1960's, but somehow I never got around to the Denton part of the series.

The Hob Nob--A Prequel

Commerce Texas, December 1962. All Senior Honor Band at East Texas State Teachers College--Connie Seidel, Fred Tackett, me, and I was told later, Bill Clinton. The first three would continue on to ETSTC, later ETSU, now TAMU at Commerce, and into the pages of history. Bill... well, he has his own special place. It's a good thing he went into politics--his saxual talents didn't seem to raise a blip in my consciousness. On the other hand, Connie and Fred's musicianship blew...me...away...

On that day, I met a future husband, and two of the very best friends--both fabulous musicians and composers--and truly wonderful people I have ever had the privilege of knowing. We remain close to this day, and I thank whatever wise stars brought us together in that sleepy, backwater, conservative, teacher's college town. A town where, every Saturday morning, they forked hay onto the downtown square for a lazy livestock auction. During our two years at ET, the three of us were inseparable. Literally.

Commerce is the buckle of the Bible Belt and as this was the Pleistocene Era, I was required to live in the dorms. Connie and Fred, however, got to room with two other male music majors off campus. When we weren't in class or rehearsals, I would sneak over to their apartment until curfew, which was 9:00 p.m. school nights, and midnight Friday and Saturday. Grim-faced matrons, charged with protecting the virginity of their young charges against all odds, locked the door at the stroke of 9 or 12, and if you weren't inside, you were invited to the Dean's office the very next morning.

7:30 every morning found us in attendance for the required Music Theory I, II, III and IV classes. We were seated alphabetically, therefore we dominated the back row--Seidel, Snowden, Tackett--the Three Museketeers.

The professor for the ear training part of MT would play long chord progressions, wildly modulating in and out of major, minor, diminished keys, being especially careful to avoid the traditional cycle of fifths. After what seemed like hours, he would come to an abrupt halt, fling his hands up from the keyboard in a grand flourish, and dramatically demand, "WHAT KEY AM I IN?"

By that time, our classmates' eyes would be spinning, holding their heads looking ready to throw up. Connie and Fred would snigger, point to me, and I'd nail it every time. After three semesters of this, the poor prof had begun to cringe when he reached that particular exercise. After we returned from Christmas holidays the spring of '65, he was openly snarling at me, and relocated the three of us as far apart as was possible. Even that couldn't stop us. Somewhere between spring break and finals, he gave up altogether.

We even attended the same non-music Honors classes together--tromping from the Music Building to far-flung reaches of the campus, reconvening at the MB for endless, myriad ensemble rehearsals, jazz jams, lessons, practice room shenanigans, concerts, juries, and mandatory concert attendance to show solidarity for our fellow musicians.

Each fall, from 3:30-5:30 p.m. daily, would find us "guiding right" on the practice field, rain, sleet, triple digit heat, getting that half-time show together. In those days, schools could afford to take the marching band to every game. No flag or rifle corps, no Janet/Justin leave-nothing-to-the-imagination MTV extravaganza, just precision 8-to-5 or 6-5 military marching, heavy on discipline and standard repertoire.

The director would exhort us to snap off our right turns "I want to see white shoes SPARKLE on those yard lines!" We accommodated by muttering "sparkle, sparkle" while pivoting in exact 90 degree boxes. What began as a murmur built to a war chant--"SPARKLE, SPARKLE." We did have one of the best musical organizations in the state, I have to admit.

As much fun as we had, and as excellent as our conservatory-style musical training was, we always felt there was greener grass just over the hill. Over several hills--60 miles to the west, to be exact. Since we were underage, Connie used his prodigious artistic abilities to "rearrange" his driver's license and finagle a marriage license. We walked into the first church we could find in McKinney and convinced the pastor to marry us on the spot, and took that giant 60-mile step to Denton, the North Texas State U Music Department, Library, and the Hob Nob.

From that point on, our lives pretty much exploded...Fred side-stepped to Oklahoma City to finish his degree, work with the monster sax player Joe Laine Davis, and later with practically every musician known to man--Jimmy Webb, Bob Dylan, Bonnie Raitt, et al. Fred currently performs with Little Feat, touring between gigs as a duo with Paul Barrere, Feat's other legendary guitarist. (Check out Fred's son, Miles Om Tackett and his group breakestra--way cool)

Denton, here we come!

Sally Field 1, Rupert Murdoch/Fox TV -100

I caught the tag-end of the Emmys last night, just in time to see Fox TV censure Sally Field's acceptance speech for best dramatic actress in a series. She made the reasonable, heart-felt comment that if mothers ruled the world, there would be no (bleep) war. Fox blipped it, showing a dark audience and stage for a second, then returned to the live show.

Tsk, tsk. For a station that claims to be unbiased, Fox continually shoots itself in the foot with amateurish, blatant censorship. According to FCC guidelines, the word "goddamn" isn't obscene, so there was no need to blip it. Unless, of course, it is part of a sentence that condemns the current administration's belligerent policy of war-mongering.

Today's Huffington Post carried the uncensored video as seen on Canadian TV. Go Sally! And what about '0l Greenspan? Too bad he didn't spill the beans when it might have done some good...of course, it has always been obvious that the real reason Bush is annihilating Iraq is for the oil, we just didn't push back hard enough. Money = power, and I'm short on both, even though that's not an excuse.

Elder visits to medical providers

You may have heard this story on NPR a couple of mornings ago. Evidently, the medical community is waking up to the fact that their services are sometimes inaccessible to disabled and elder patients. Duh.

Do you find you have increasingly daunting hoops to jump through at the doctor's office, or x-ray machines, or just getting to the front door? More than once I've wished for handles to help climb up on a table, or even turn over without falling off! And I'm a young elder.

A woman related how difficult it is to negotiate those tables from a wheelchair. She searched long and hard to find a gyn who could accommodate her needs so that she could ensure a thorough examination. Some tests are not valid unless we are in a prone position--you can't palpate everything in a woman's body that needs a good palping while sitting in a chair.

Interesting subject for compiling a state or national database of elder-friendly doctors and medical services.

Don't get me started with how accessible our university isn't. Having to visit the restroom in another building does not jive with compliance. Neither does having the only restroom with doors wide enough to get a wheelchair through designated for "Women." What are the men supposed to do? Pee in the bushes?

America: the leading edge of medical research, the antiquated, drop-dead caboose of medical care and insurance.

9/11--Brahms, flow, and Csikszentmihalyi

I was determined to not get all twisted up about 9/11 and put myself back in the stew of garbage since then. Singing Brahms was much better for my soul. Putting out heart-felt vibrations with my whole body and intellect. In truth, I've come to think of music and being a musician as a simple conduit for that ethereal life force that connects everything. Music, even 150 year old music, has the power to move and heal us, especially if we (musicians) transcend ego and simply let the spirit of the composer flow through us. I strongly believe that this flow is everywhere, we only have to sample the excitement in and of the air that we breath and sing with.

This is the essence of prana, the Hindu word for the breath/life force. It cannot be created, it cannot be destroyed. It just flows. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi has cool things to say about flow. One is most holy when one attains flow.

More photos from the 60's

Fun shoot back in '68 or '69 (now how can I remember?). The lady on the left is no longer with us. The lady on the right was a news photographer with the Dallas Times Herald when it was still publishing. She taught me how to take photographs without a light meter. "Just trust your eyes," she said. And I did. The weird coloring is due to my crudded up scanner, not the actual photo.

The paper furnished her with a great Nikon system, so she loaned me her personal system and we processed film and made prints on the weekends.

We would drive around Texas, looking for interesting places to shoot, and took pics of each other and whatever caught our eye.

This was completely off-the-cuff, we constantly flowed between the back and front of the camera, using whatever was at hand for props, and mostly natural light.

After decades of operating an SLR as an extension of my body, I'm finding it difficult to work with a digital camera. Maybe I can find a used digital SLR that can reveal the world to me like a non-digital SLR. My digital photos have no soul. I can't touch the essence of the person or subject through a digital like I can with an SLR. Early in my adult life I set a goal of capturing the very best portrait of each of my friends that I possibly could. Now where did I put those??

Elder and assistive tech catalog

The International Society of Gerontechnology originates in the UK, but it draws members from around the globe. A recent post to the group included a link to "What's New: Newer Devices and Gadgets for Older and Disabled people." Very cool, the non-PC title notwithstanding. Talking labels, timers, remote control appliances, smart homes, and more. I'll try to find out if these products are available in the US. If not, then the catalog is a great resource for US developers and engineers. Surely we have the equivalent somewhere in America...

Photos of old friends, windows, stuff

Messing around with magnification.
Dusted off the printer/scanner to upload some photos. Friends, some of whom have passed away, others whom I haven't seen in decades. Should anyone who is represented object, just let me know and I'll take them down. They'll probably never see Fried Okra Productions.

Blogging for Peace

If you want to know my true colors, here they are. You can join me in blogging for peace.

And if someone can help me figure out how to upload this image to the right nav bar so that it scales correctly, I'd be forever grateful.

Monkeying around with Survey Monkey

Came across the Blog Reader Project survey on Susie Bright's Journal, a feisty and insightful blog that always makes me 1) think, 2) wonder "How did she get in my head?", and 3) shout "Way to go!" The survey originates from blogads.com. Having worked in marketing and public relations, I'm always curious to take a peek, to see what the group is promoting and how, whether it has any redeeming or useful qualities, and the like. This one focuses on internet behavior and preferences, with a few sidelines thrown in, like preferences in tangibles like cars, spirits, etc.

If you're leery about giving out your e-mail address and blog site along with your preferences, you're probably wiser than I am. If you're still curious, Please take my Blog Reader Project survey.

Elder blogging and new template

The photo has nothing to do with either title subject. I just happen to love the kitties in the blue wheelbarrow. Taken by my daughter on her visit to an old friend in Greece. This was on one of the islands, don't remember which one, but the blue, which islanders use to paint their front doors, reminds me of the blue that New Mexicans paint their front door frames to protect against evil spirits. After a little research, I discovered that the New Mexico tradition was brought from the Mediterranean. No wonder they remind me of each other!

A lot like the ShiShi dogs protect Okinawan households. You see scores of them on every roof and entryway. I guess the American equivalent is a horse shoe over the front door. Of course, you have to remember to nail it in a "u" shape, so the good luck doesn't pour out.

Elder bloggers: should you not want your blog to show up in the blogroll to the right, just let me know and I'll either remove it or move it to the "links" section, whichever you prefer. Linkees: if you are 60+ and want to be included in the Elder Blogger blogroll, drop me a line and I'll be glad to re-position.

Template: I'm experimenting with what's available in Blogspot, which I don't find especially aesthetic. Even though I love the greens of the old template, it's difficult to see, and elder blogging is all about whether we can read the print or not. If anyone has any opinion, please leave a comment. Life is an experiment--I'm flexible.