Photo of the back of my home here in southern Delaware taken at 1:26 PM today - I may not have access to the boardwalk or a view of the ocean but I am perfectly happy here.
Another Labor Day Weekend rolls by this weekend. I didn't go out today at all. And I won't all weekend. Like the rest of the summer, I gave up even attempting to take the ten mile ride down the road to Rehoboth Beach. Why would I? Fight all that traffic to find an expensive parking place in Rehoboth Beach to do what? The only thing I used to enjoy was walking on the boardwalk and I can't even do that now because of my physical infirmities. No problem though, I have a beautiful home right here on my Almost One Acre oasis in the midst of all the summertime chaos. I hear the constant roar of traffic going north and south on Route One just beyond my planted tree barrier while I'm fussing around my fish pond. That's just the way I like it.
Ah yes, here we are in September and as the album cover states "September In The Rain."
Dinah Washington is one of my favorite vocalists.
I have this album of hers.
I started to collect her albums after I got out of the Army in 1963. I lived alone (before met and moved in with Bill) for about two years. Dinah's music kept me company.
Over the years I drifted away from her music. However I still kept all of her albums.
After Bill died two and a half years ago I started to listen to her music again. This time I stream her music from my Pandora subscription on my Bose radio. Listening her Dinah sing brings back fond memories of my early days while I was looking for love in all the wrong places.
Yesterday during one of my several daily conversations with Pat on FaceTime (we're still waiting for his green card), the subject of all my albums came up. I'm at the point in my life which I'll never play another LP again. I have decided to sell online all of my albums, including my Dinah Washington collection. I think I have about two hundred LP albums.
LP albums have come back into favor again. Pat buys them at about $30 a clip. I bought mine (in the day) for $4.99. Pat and I were checking the value of selling some of my collection and were pleasantly surprised that most if not all of my albums are valuable, some selling for as much as $300. Of course all of my albums are in excellent condition. I even have mint 45 RPM that I've never even taken out of the bags that I brought them home in. They are also of value. This makes me feel good that I can pass on these treasures to others for a new life. A few years before Bill got sick, I was selling items on eBay including my old leather jacket and vest. I was also selling my vintage jeans. I made about $500. I still have about twenty pairs of jeans left to sell. I plan to sell them now that it is fall and I don't have to concern myself with the summertime tourist traffic down here in coastal Delaware. Selling anything on eBay and keeping a good reputation requires a fast and efficient delivery system.
That's it for now folks. And oh, yes it did rain last night.
Bill at our late friend Bob Mc's home outside Georgetown December 23, 2014 - we both miss Bob so much!
This week I had my annual visit to my cardiologist.
The visit went well.
My blood pressure was 124 over 68!
For at least a year now my blood pressure was measuring in the high 140's and low 150's. That was worrying for me because for most of my life my blood pressure has always been in the safe range.
One time it was measured at 184 at the VA right after I went by a picture of Trump at the VA Outpatient Clinic on the way to get my blood pressure taken.
During my last visit to the VA my primary care doctor increased my blood pressure medication (Losartan) to 10mg. That seemed to do the trick.
I still have my extra heartbeat which is the reason I began seeing a cardiologist about fifteen years ago. He says I still have that problem which is caused by one of my worn out heart valves (caused by age my cardiologist tells me). That extra heartbeat is my body compensating so I can keep ticking away.
Pat and I used to visit Palm Springs every February for Modernism Week. Sadly this annual holiday came to an end with both COVID and me taking care of Bill after he had his two strokes.
Now that Bill is gone and I no longer have a part-time job I don't think I can renew our annual holiday. The last time I went, two years ago, I almost didn't make it back. I was lost at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport, trying to make my connection. If it wasn't for a black airport employee pushing an old fat white man in a wheelchair, seeing my dilemma, I would probably still be wandering around that massive Texas airport. He, the airport employee, after seeing me, motioned for me to follow him as he pushed his wheel chair guy to the airport monorail to make my connection. Once I got on the plane I made a note to myself, "Never again. I think this is my last trip." As I've been saying lately in this forum friends, I don't move around well at all these days. The stress just isn't worth it. But enough with my constant whining about my deteriorating mobility. I even bore myself.
Back when I did have my mobility, I liked to dance. I don't dance well (think the "Elaine Dance" and you come close to the way I dance) but I do enjoy dancing. In one of the exhibitions there was a Canadian band called "The Dreamboats." Here is a video I took of them playing the old Chuck Berry hit, "Johnny B. Goode. Watching and listening to this video brings back many fond memories of our visits to Palm Springs. Maybe some day I can manage to go back.
In a few months I will be eighty-five years old. Something I never would have believed if you had asked me twenty years ago when I retired from a full-time job.
But here I am, approaching my nineties. To tell you the truth folks, I don’t want to be ninety years old. I’ve lived a good life. A good long life.
Lots of interesting things have happened and continue to happen in my life Just last year I remarried again after my partner then husband of fifty-nine years died. He was ninety-five years old. He also had a good life (with me for much of it) but the last three years of his life was misery for him. He was blind, couldn’t swallow food and needed full-time care. We were both fortunate enough that I was healthy enough to keep him at our home which he loved so much. My promise to him as it was with my Mother, was to never put them in a facility. The “facilities” are actually warehouses of death that just drain one’s lifetime accumulation of wealth. Not that they aren’t solutions for some from children who don’t want to care for their parents to the widow who doesn’t want to spend her final years alone in a big house. I know all this first hand and I know the solution I wanted for my Mother and for my late husband. Now it is my turn.
Since Bill (my former husband) died two and a half years ago my health has gone down hill. Maybe when I was caring for Bill I pulled on my adrenaline reserves. I don’t know how I was able to care for him by myself (with help from the VA and Delaware Hospice) but I managed to keep him home until the last three days of his life. His health finally got to the point where he was unconscious and kept sliding on the floor. The instructions the hospice workers gave me for injecting pain relief morphine into Bill was just too much for me. I had finally reached my limit and I could no longer take care of Bill by myself. Delaware Hospice saw my dilemma and removed him on a Wednesday night. Bill lasted two and a half days at the Delaware Hospice center in Milford. I spent the first night with him and the next two days. I wanted to be with Bill when he died but I didn’t want to drive at night so, except for the first night which I stayed with him, I left at the end of the day before darkness fell. Early Saturday morning (a little after one AM) I received a call from Delaware Hospice. I knew.
They informed me that Bill had died at 12:20 AM.
My life hasn’t been the same since.
At first I was in shock that this man who had been so much a part of my life (we met when I was twenty-two years old and he thirty-five years old). Of course I knew he was going to die, we often talked about it. But this was a man who I lived with almost my entire adult life. Now I was alone. It took about three days for the shock of his death to sink in. Knowing that I would never see him again in this life.
I’ve experienced death before in my life and one time experienced grief. I probably should be ashamed to admit this but the most grief I ever experienced until Bill died was when my little sixteen year old five pound orange Pomeranian dog “Horace” died. We were best buddies. Of all the dogs that have been in my life, Horace was the one who chose me. When he died, I cried for the first time in my life. “So this is what grief is like?” I thought. Oh how little did I know. After the initial shock of Bill’s death wore off, then The Grief set in. Now two and a half years later it is still here and will be until my last dying breath. Even though I got married to a wonderful man last November, a good friend who I’ve known for thirteen years, it’s not the same. He lives in Canada. We’re working on getting his green card. And when he does get his green card he won’t live with me full-time. Part time at best. I will continue to live in my home of the past twenty years here in Delaware. There is so much of Bill in this house which I will continue to call “Casa Tipton-Kelly”, that the only way I will leave is on a gurney with a white sheet pulled over my head. Bill left this house on a gurney but that white sheet wasn’t pulled over his head. Mine will be different.
Bill and I both loved the woods. Our house in Pennsylvania was on 6.875 acres of wooded hillside land. We had to move because in retirement we could no longer afford to pay the high Pennsylvania taxes. Like many others retirees from the high tax states of New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania; we moved to Delaware which is much more retiree friendly. In the past twenty years I tried to replicate our .97 acres of flat coastal land into our own personal wooded oasis. I have been somewhat successful. Bill always enjoyed walking out in our backyard, even during his final months when he was blind (macular degeneration) and couldn’t fully see all the wooded fauna that I had personally planted over the past twenty years since we moved into our newly build home. We had no mortgage on our home. Only one tax, which was in three digits. No other taxes. To his dying day Bill missed our home in Pennsylvania but I had no other choice. I had to move to Delaware if we were to survive. Most of our new neighbors in our newly build development made the same decision. We all had that reason for living in Delaware in common.
Bill is in Heaven now. Occasionally he stops by via a burned out Christmas light that I had strung up in our living room year round. Bill’s form of macular degeneration was that he couldn’t see out of the center of his eyes. He could only see peripheral vision. He could see colors. He loved the colors of those Christmas lights. That’s why I left them up year round and I will continue to do so until I am no longer in this/our house.
During the last year of Bill’s life we had talked about “what was on the other side.” I told him “If there is something there, try to contact me.” And indeed he did. A few days after he died, while I was in our kitchen my peripheral vision saw something blinking. Our house has an open concept kitchen that looks out over the living room.
Again, I saw something blinking! I looked up and there it was! That burned out light I was thinking of replacing. “Why is that light blinking when the other burned out lights don’t blink?” I thought. After a few more rapid blinks then I got the message. Of course, it was Bill! So appropriate too because Bill’s occupation while he was alive was as an electrician. Since that first night of contact over two years ago, Bill has come back many times. Often when I need him during a stressful period or just sometimes when I’m lonely. He is there. I believe. I don’t have to convince anyone else what is happening. I know what is real for me and that is all that matters.
Now that I am at the end of my learning experience during this lifetime, I have no fear of death. Of course I am a little concerned how I get there. I don’t want a prolonged or painful death where I am a burden to anyone. That’s why I have decided to take advantage of Delaware’s new right to die law that became in effect this past January 1st. My doctor gives me six months or less to live, I’m making my final plans. I don’t know what I’m going to die of. My prostate cancer has returned for which I’m not seeking treatment. I have a heart condition. I have trouble walking.
I take one day at a time though. No more medical treatments to prolong my life. I’m done with treatments. I live each day here in the comfort of my home with all my memories of Bill. My new husband visits me four times a year for two weeks at a time.
These days I tire easily. I take a lot of naps. However, I’m still able to keep up my home. I cook for myself. I tend my almost once acre oasis. I pay my bills. I enjoy my privacy. My neighbors are wonderful. Best neighbors I’ve ever had in my lifetime.
One day I will no longer be here. I write this on my Substack account because I feel a need to leave a little of something behind once I leave. Maybe there is or will be someone like me out “there” who will find my experience of dealing with the end of my life interesting. If not, that’s alright too. Writing for me has been by whole life a form of therapy for me.
That said, I’m done with his stream of consciousness.
I lived in center city Philadelphia from 1969 to 1980. I loved walking to work during the day. Walking to the gay bars at night. Only problem was avoiding getting mugged. So I had a path. Thus I only got mugged once. Now I live in Delaware, near Rehoboth Beach. This is one street (Baltimore Avenue) where I can walk the street and not worry about getting mugged. Taxes are lower too. However, I still love Philly! Often visit. I think the streets are safer now too.
Every day I thank the Heavens above that I have a home that is bought and paid for.
This is something I worked my whole life for. To own my own home, mortgage free.
It took many years and there were a few scary times when I almost lost everything, but I’m here now.
My home is in southern coastal Delaware, near Rehoboth Beach.
Ironically I was a Beach Person in my younger days (I’m 84 now) but these days, in the twilight of my life, I never go to the beach. First for the obvious reasons, I don’t need anymore skin cancer pop ups for my dermatologist to burn off, but the main reason is that going to the beach just isn’t my in my interests these days. What is in my interests is living comfortable in my home until I meet my Maker in the Great Sky above.
Recently I discovered a Substack post of a guy who looked a lot like Pat, my current husband. He’s living out of his car. Something I could never do. He has a good reason to live out of his car, he doesn’t want to pay the exorbitantly high cost of housing himself in today’s economy. I can’t say I blame him. If I was just starting out today I couldn’t afford housing either. My first rental I was paying eight dollars a week for a one room efficiency apartment in Pittsburgh, PA. Before that I had free housing in the U.S. Army at Fort George G. Meade, Maryland. But I could never live out of my car. Mainly because I value my privacy too much. Another good reason is that now I am eighty-four years old I have physical limitations. I don’t walk steady. I need a lot of rest (heart problems). I don’t do stress sell in my old age dotage. This guy’s Substack I’m reading, he’s young (relatively 65 or so) and doesn’t require “things” like I do. He’s a minimalist. I’m not. I like my “things”. They invoke fond memories for me of my life with my previous partner/husband whom I was with for fifty-nine years.
My current husband, who is a minimalist and a Canadian, could probably live out of his car if he had a bigger one. He has a Fiat now. He lives in a small house that isn’t more than five hundred square feet and has minimal “things.” If he gets a new T-shirt a new pair of pants, he donates his old T-shirts and pants to Sallie Mae (as he calls the Salvation Army.) I admire him but I could never live that way. I have oodles of shirts and pants and out clothing which I will probably never wear in whatever remains of my life but I’m keeping them. I even have about forty neck ties from my former banking job. I keep them under my care in my two walk in closets until I depart this earth. My current husband will gladly and quickly dispose of those items. No problem there.
Pictured above is an older photo of me with my Subaru Forester taken a few years ago. I now own a Hyundai Venue which is even small that my Subaru Forester. It would be a tight fit for me to move and sleep in the back of my Venue. No thank you.
Every night I lay my old, tired body in my queen sized bed on my air foam mattress and enter my Dreamworld where, hopefully, one day I will be reunited in spirit with my former husband who was and is my soulmate.
When I go to sleep at night all is quiet around me. No noisy neighbors. No mortgage other worry about. Only thing I have to worry about is that I don’t fall when I get up multiple times in the night to take a pee in my bathroom.
A selfie I took this morning on my back deck with my new tripod.
Finally! After all these years I finally got a tripod that accommodates my iPhone.
For years I've been asking Bill to take photos of me. Then when he lost his vision to macular degeneration I had to figure out another way to take pictures of me. When I was with Pat I would ask him, which he would often accommodate me, but I know it wasn't his thing. It wasn't really Bill's thing either. Both of these men, lovely men who I loved and love dearly, weren't as interested in taking photos as I was and still am.
The rare time I would attempt to take a selfie or a video (I took some of me and Bill a few months before he died), I would prop my iPhone up on the kitchen counter or some other surface. I have several older tripods but they don't accommodate iPhones. They have that screw in the bottom for SLR cameras. I have an SLR camera but haven't used it in years. Paid over a thousand dollars for it too! Does anyone use SLR cameras anymore? Even the ones that take videos, which mine does?
So folks, expect a lot more current pictures of me and even videos. I'm sure some of you are very tired of seeing my old photos posted over and over again to this blog. Now you'll get to see me in all my rapidly deteriorating physical state, especially my posture problem (called humpback) where I can no longer stand up straight. My condition is called "age-related hyperkyphosis or a "dowagers hump" which is usually caused by a combination of bone leaking, muscle loss, spinal wear and tear and every day postural habits. I'm in good company. Below is 96 year old Clint Eastwood.
Photo taken this morning with my new tripod with remote control!
Well folks, here we go again. I just completed opening a Substack account. Click here:
I started this process about a week ago. At times it was frustrating going through the procedure only to encounter another hurdle. But after a long and frustrating morning, I think I accomplished my goal.
Good question and I have an easy answer. To earn extra money to supplement my household income.
Now the next obvious question is:
"Ron, what would be different in your new Substack postings than I already read now in your Blogger postings?"
Again, another good question! And I have an easy answer:
Not much really.......at first. Maybe, as I get more comfortable with the Substack format, which I like very much, I'll have extra content that I'm unable to have on this Blogger format.
Last question:
"Ron, will you keep your Retired in Delaware blogger account?"
Answer: Absolutely! I've been blogging for twenty-one years now. I'm comfortable here and here I will stay until exit Casa Tipton-Kelly on a gurney.
Pat's home in downtown Hamilton, Ontario, Canada March 27, 2024 (the one on the left with a yellow door)
Remember a few years back when I wrote about Pat's problem neighbor?
Pat lives in downtown Hamilton, Ontario, Canada on Hess Street.
He moved there three years ago after selling his penthouse condo at the former Royal Connaught Hotel (at a big loss) when the housing market in Canada was collapsing.
He was lucky to find this gem of a small house that was built in 1910. He fell in love with it right away, being the minimalist that he is.
The location (downtown, right next to Hess Village) was perfect.
The size (under six hundred square feet) was also perfect. Pat is the opposite of me. I like a big house (mine is over 5200 square feet).
However, there was one big problem that Pat didn't discover until after he moved in.
Pat's house is on the left (yellow door).
The problem is the middle house. It's inhabited by squatters. Druggie squatters.
Well, not actually squatters. The woman who occupies it is the granddaughter of a man who died intestate. He owned several properties in Hamilton, all in disrepair. She doesn't own the house. She (Kim). , with her druggie boyfriend (Ray, also the father of her children, Pat thinks they are married), moved in three years ago.
After they moved in Pat and his neighbors began to see a steady flow of "customers."
Yes, this is a real picture of some of Pat's neighbor's visitors. I wonder what the draw is?
Drug customers.
Sex (yes) customers.
"Houston, we have a problem here."
I could write a small book about all the going ons the past three years but I don't have the time here to do that. But what I can say that this has been a nightmare for Pat and his neighbors, especially the woman (Samantha) who lives in the other small house connected on the right. The druggie squatters live (if it can be called living) in the middle house.
Ray, Pat and Sam's neighbor and what the inside of their "home" looks like. Sam snuck this picture.
When they first moved in they didn't have running water or electricity. They were probably stealing Pat or Sam's facilities. Pat and Sam ended that.
More "merchandise" from Pat's neighbors - right on the front lawn
Then the druggies were keeping Pat and Sam up all night (at that time Sam was the full-time caregiver of her dying husband, who has since died) with hammering on the walls (they must of been doing redecorating), loud arguments (always from the woman who was screaming at her partner and father of her four children who aren't there thank God), and the worst of all the constant stream of unsavory characters coming and going at all hours. The only quiet times were in the morning. Pat and Sam suspect they're vampires.
Now for the past three years Pat and Sam have complained and complained to the city authorities. Made calls to the police. Contacted and paid lawyers to see what they can do about having their druggie neighbors evicted because they haven't paid taxes (of course) for the past three years.
About two months ago Ray disappeared. Pat and Sam think he's in jail. Arrested for either selling drugs (which they obviously were doing out of this house) and/or selling stolen goods (lots of furniture and clothing and other items pass through their doors).
This picture taken last month of Kim sitting on her front stoop with a friend. Pat tells friends who visit him that he lives on Skid Row. I actually feel sorry for her. What a waste of a life.
Since Ray disappeared from the scene it's been relatively quiet. Except for two occasions when someone else was over there and left the radio on all night blasting. Both Pat and Sam called the authorities but they couldn't do anything (break in). Eventually that stopped but someone else is there. Pat and Sam don't know who but this whole thing seems to be coming to a head. Yesterday Sam took picture of Kim trying to remove a padlock from the front door.
You know what folks? I'm getting depressed with writing this post about Pat's neighbors. What a terrible waste of life. This woman is the mother to four children. I understand she's just trying to live her life the best she can with her addiction. It's just a shame that her life is impacting on so many others. Not just Pat and his neighbor Samantha but the other neighbors on the street.
Now that someone (we think the city) has padlocked the residence, maybe something will finally have to be done. This situation is a complicated because the property did belong to her father (or grandfather). But she hasn't paid taxes for at least three years and she is a disturbance to the neighborhood.
When I see something like this I realize how fortunate I am to live where I live. Back in the eighties, when I had an apartment in center city Philadelphia that I leased for a year while our house out in the country was being completed (believe it or not we sold our house in Philly too fast, before our other house was completed and I needed a place to live and go to work), I tried to help two different drug addicted guys. It just didn't work out. One almost burned down my apartment when he fell asleep with a lit cigarette. When I mentioned this to a friend he told me the reason this guy was homeless was because where he was staying he did catch the place on fire by falling asleep with a lit cigarette and they threw him out. I had to do the same thing. I won't even get into what I had to deal with the other guy I was trying to help. Both of them were gay so that was the link. All I remember it was a nightmare trying to help these guys who had the addiction. I failed.
I'll leave with this image of Kim having an episode out in the street in front of Pat's house. So sad.
Now you know why I haven't been posting about Pat's problem neighbor.
There is not one day that goes by that I don't think of him and miss him.
After fifty-nine and a half years together, almost my whole adult life (since I was twenty-two years old), it's not hard to understand.
I thought with time I would get used to not having Bill in my life. How foolish I was to think that.
I now realize that until my dying day, I will have to endure the pain and grief of not having him in my life.
The last three years of Bill's life I was his full-time caregiver. In many way, even though it was very difficult for the both of us, those were our best years together.
The love we had for each other even grew stronger.
When Bill died that early Saturday morning, the first thing I felt was relief.
Relief that his suffering had ended. Little did I realize my suffering was just beginning.
Initially I was in shock even though I had expected that call from Delaware Hospice which Bill had entered the previous Wednesday evening.
Then I had a feeling which I didn't expect at all. I felt like I had lost control over caring for Bill.
Who would care for him now?
The last forty years of our lives together, since he retired early at fifty-five years of age, I had taken care of running our household. I saw that the bills were paid. I was the interface with the outside world that Bill didn't like to deal with. I ran interference for him. Now I could no longer do that.
Bill always depended on me. Now who would take care of him? Of course the answer is God. Or that Supreme Being in the Afterlife that we will all eventually get to meet.
I still had mixed feelings about losing control over caring for Bill. After all I had dealt with the Veterans Administration all these years and if I could get through THAT, I could do just about anything (smile).
So here we go folks. Ron bemoaning the fact that I still miss Bill. I try to tell myself that I'm not the only one in this situation but that doesn't help. The hurt of not having Bill in my life will stay with me for all the rest of my days on this earth. This is a fact that I just have to accept. In the meantime, I count down the days until Bill and I reunite again in Heaven.
And by the way, this doesn't mean I don't love Pat. I do but it is a different kind of love. Not the kind Bill and I had. I will always remember what Bill said to me about a week and a half before he died. He called me aside and said "Something different has happened." I think he meant he knew he was going to die soon. Then he said something that just melted me. He said "When I die, I want you and Pat to be very happy." That was Bill, always thinking of me.
Few people had the kind of love that Bill and I had for almost sixty years. For that I am so grateful.
There, now I feel better that I spilled out my feelings again. Back to normal tomorrow but I will always continue to miss Bill. Until the day I die. Then, if there is a Heaven, our spirits will be reunited forever.
That is the way it is meant to be, will me and Bill.
1962 Chesapeak City, Maryland Pictured from left to right, bottom row Dessie, me and Dave M. Top row Ed C. and George B. All gone now except for me and Dave
Sixty four years ago I was in the Army stationed at Fort George G. Meade, Maryland. I worked for the National Security Agency.
I was able to go home almost every weekend. I also had leave time. "Leave Time" is Army talk for vacation time.
During my time at Ft. Meade one of my very good friends was a guy from Georgia named Dessie Stroud. Of course he couldn't go home on weekends like I did. Occasionally he would go home with me just to break the routine of hanging around the Army base on the weekends.
One stretch of time I think he took some leave and spent a few days at my friend Bill B's family cottage near Chesapeak City, Maryland. Bill had a boat. A speed boat. It was fun to drive around the Chesapeak Bay in.
One weekend two of our high school friends and one of Bill B's friends took over "The Cottage" for the weekend. Oh we had a grand time. I remember that long weekend well. Dave M. had one of those old VW buses. We drove around town like the carefree twenty year olds we were. Interestingly enough, I haven't been back to that cottage since. Actually my friend Bill B.'s family sold that cottage but he has another one which he has invited me too often. It's now that far from where I live in Delaware. I would like to go on a speed boat ride again before I check out. I think Pat would like that too.
I'll put this one on my Bucket List.
P.S.
One of those guys was my very first crush/boyfriend. I'll never tell.
With all the chaos that is going in the world today I am so thankful for my almost once acre backyard oasis that I built by hand for the last twenty years.
Today, as I listen to the summertime visitors speed down to Rehoboth Beach and further shore destinations, I am so appreciative that I have a place to escape to peace and quiet.
I took this three minute video to share with my faithful blog followers and anyone else who happens to stumble over my blog and wonder "What the hell is this?"
Now I'll post this and go out and feed my pond goldfish. They await me.
One of my many cousins paid me a surprise visit at the hotel in Lewes where I worked in 2010.
He is the son of my cousin Sandy Hadfield Hart. She is my Mother's first cousin. Her father and my Mother's father (my maternal grandfather) were brothers.
Just this past week I've gotten back into updating my family tree on Ancestry.com. I love doing that. Of course I'll never catch up with all the information I still have to post. I hope some family member can take over when I leave this earth. If not, oh well. I enjoyed keeping the records.
Me and cousin Sandy Hadfield Hart 2009 (Danny's mother)
I captured this picture from my Facebook account. Daily someone posts pictures of Rehoboth Beach.
Each summer I like to go down at least once during the day and, hopefully, once during the evening. If I do the evening it has to be only when Pat is here because I don't drive at night anymore.
The Rehoboth Beach boardwalk is only ten miles down the road from where I live in my "Not Many People Can Afford To Live Here" development of Covington Chase. Fancy name eh?
This year it doesn't look like I'll trod on the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk at night this summer. Perhaps in the fall when Pat is scheduled to visit again. He visits me quarterly. Whereas in the past we used to get together and travel to either Philadelphia, Canada, and Palm Springs. These days, when both Pat and I are cash restricted, we're not making those destinations anymore or as much as we used too. It's expensive, especially now with the economy the way it is (inflation, tariffs, cost of living for those of us on fixed incomes).
I love my home here in Covington Chase. It's nice and quiet but occasionally, I do like to get out and mix it up with the summertime crowd. To experience that "summer vibe." Probably not going to happen this year.
Bill's little memorial flower patch, right beneath my bedroom window.
Nowhere.
I'm doing a bit of a reset in my daily routine folks.
There are a couple reasons.
First, I have to stay within my budget.
I'm naturally a spendaholic. Comes naturally to me. Been fighting it all my life. I don't have a choice now what with my income the only cash flow here at Casa Tipton-Kelly.
I'm not complaining, just stating facts. I am fortunate in that I don't have a mortgage payment. But with the cost of living going up double digits every year I'm falling behind.
I admit I suffer the most common reason for being a spendaholic, buying things makes me feel good. I remember watching an Oprah show many years ago. I always used to feel superior when she had a show about people with various addictions. I knew I wasn't one of them until she had a show on spendaholics. I fit every symptom. Every one. It was embarrassing.
So in order not to spend money unnecessarily, I don't go out. Also, another reason I don't go out now as much as I used to is because of the heavy summer tourist traffic here in southern coastal Delaware where I live. Casa Tipton-Kelly borders Route One (Coastal Highway that goes all the way to Florida). That's a racetrack out there folks. If I do have to go out say to the supermarket to replenish supplies I go early Saturday or Sunday morning. The only other times I go out are for my doctor's appointments of which I have plenty now that I am old, feeble and failing. I try to arrange those doctors' appointments in Milton away from the Rehoboth Beach area. Usually my doctors' appointments come in bunches. I just finished a bunch when Pat was down here last month. I'm trying to arrange them again for when he visits again. Otherwise I'm on my own like next month when I have my regular six month VA checkup and my foot doctor appointment which happens every three months (I can't cut my toenails anymore).
So I don't go out much anymore but don't cry for me Argentina. I have plenty to do here at Casa Tipton-Kelly. I have more than enough yard work and there is the fish pond. When it's really hot and humid outside, like it has been most of this summer, I stay inside here and watch You Tube, post to my Threads account, talk to Pat on FaceTime and cook. I used to watch movies on my Netflix account but I suspended my account because I can't find any movies that I like. I wasted my money for far too long with my Netflix account. That suspension was long overdue. Lately I've been getting back into updating my Ancestry.com family tree information, which I've neglected for far too long. I really enjoy updating my family tree. I have tons of information backed up that needs posting and my Ancestry.com is another account that I've subscribed to over the years that I haven't been using. Time to make use of that subscription.
My only problem now is not to sit too long at this computer because my legs swell up. I asked Alexa to remind me to get up every hour so at least I can move around and get the blood flowing in my legs. My heart blood flow is weak and getting weaker by the day so I have to take these measures.
Legend has it the late doomed French Queen Marie Antoinette said in response to the French peasants clamoring for food during 18th century France drama. Of course she lost her head over such a flippant response to the legitimate pleadings of the French Great Unwashed.
I used to make cake all the time for me and Bill. However, since he died I have lost my taste for cake. Last night that cake urge came back big time.
One of my favorite cakes is lemon cake. I've tried all recipes from copycat Starbucks Lemon Loaf to the myriad lemon cake recipes interspersed with multiple ads on my iPhone. I have found the very best recipe is a simple box cake mix. My preference is Duncan Hines Perfectly Moist Cake mix. For the icing I prefer to make my own lemon buttercream icing.
Last night I succumbed to my desire and whipped up this scrumptious lemon cake.
Yes, I ate that much last night. First, a modest slice then a "bonus" slice before I went to bed.
Last night it rained. Lightening, thunderstorms, winds. Then this morning, humidity lays heavy on. the landscape here in southern coastal Delaware.
This is to be expected since I live on a peninsula surrounded by water, much like Florida.
On days like this I stay inside my house. It's too dangerous for me to go outside in this heat and humidity. Literally, too dangerous. A few times I almost didn't make it back inside before I passed out. This is the main reason I pay Jose to mow my lawn weekly, which he does every Wednesday (today).
I could stay all day at my computer here in the house but after a while my lower legs swell up. I have poor blood flow. If I take a daily walk it helps to keep my legs from swelling up. I wish I had one of those suburban malls close by that I could take one of those daily old people walks around the mall.
Last night I was up until after two AM. Usually I don't stay up that late but some nights I'm just not sleepy. I did get a good sleep in though and got up later (about 7:30 AM) that I usually do. Lately I've been waking up at 4:30 or 5 AM and can't get back to sleep. I sense "something" is going on. My appetite has changed too. I'm just not that hungry anymore. I've lost weight but not that much so far. About eight to ten pounds. Maybe this all is just an "old age" thing. But I do feel I'm transitioning to a different phase.
Today I will take a lot of time correcting and updating my family tree on Ancestry.com. Something I've been meaning to do for years but life caught up with me the last four or five years. Three years full-time caregiver for Bill and then over two years grieving for his loss. I'll always grieve over not having Bill in my life to love and take care off but I feel it is time to move on now and get ready for my grand exit. But before that happens, some loose ends to clean up. Of course I'll never have all of them cleaned up but I'll do what I can. I don't want to leave too much of a mess for Pat.
Apple has a nice feature on my iMac. It's called Memory. It randomly selects photos and videos I've taken and chooses a theme and presents these compilations to me occasionally. A few days ago they presented to me several Memory videos of the years I was taking Bill to his various doctors' appointments and caring for him. The years range from 2015 to 2019 with the exception of the year 2017 which I wasn't able to transfer over other my You Tube account. Occasionally I will be posting these Memory compilation videos to this blog in memory of Bill.
I don't think there is a day that has gone by since Bill died early Saturday morning February 22, 2024 that I haven't thought of him and missed him terribly. The initial shock of grief has lessened somewhat overtime but I know now this grief over not having Bill in your life will never leave me as long as I am alive on this earth in this lifetime. By posting these videos I honor and keep his memory alive.
This morning I posted a reply to one of my favorite bloggers who wrote about his grandparents. He asked his readers to share their memories of their grandparents. I left a long reply briefly sharing information about the grandparents I knew. I thought my reply was interesting and some of you might find the same. I have posted some of this information overt the years in my twenty plus years of blog posting. I'm posting it again, in this condensed form.
I only knew one grandparent, my maternal grandfather.
Maternal grandfather - George Hadfield
He was a piece of work. He was descended from his grandfather who came over as an immigrant from Glossip, England to work in the wool mills as he and his family did in England. The year was 1854. A womanizer (married three times), cruel to my Mother growing up and at the end of his life he made everyone miserable by berating them with his Jehovah Witness crap which he discovered late in life. He even brought over a young girl my age during one of his visits thinking that would sway me. I told him “The next time you come bring a young man and I might consider….”. Yes, I did that. Of course he never brought over the young man. I think my Mother explained to him my situation. He never bothered me again.
My paternal grandmother was alive when I was but I don’t remember her because he died when I was two years old. She was an uneducated hillbilly from the western mountains of North Carolina.
Hester Lewis Tipton, my paternal grandmother
She couldn’t read or write but she did chew tobacco and tell my Mother that dancing was “sinful.” Glad I didn’t know her.
My paternal grandfather died two years before I was born.
My paternal grandfather Fieldon Jacob Tipton with my paternal grandmother and two of their grandchildren (my cousins brother and sister Jackie and Bill Tipton) He was a farmer who along with his wife couldn't read or write but they could produce children (had a Toal of 12 sons)
He was descended from Jonathan Tipton who immigrated to this country from Port Royale, Jamaica after the Great Earthquake of 1692 destroyed his rum barrel stave making business. He had money and brought a lot of land in Maryland. His grandson fought along George Washington during the Battle of King’s Mountain. His name was Major Jonathan Tipton and he was my six time great grandfather. He was also involved in the formation of the state of Tennessee when it broke off from North Carolina. He settled in those mountains of Western North Carolina and proceeded to produce a prodigious batch of Tipton’s of which I am descended from. My paternal grandfather was also an uneducated hillbilly from those same western North Carolina mountains bordering on Tennessee. He was in the lumber business and brought his nine sons to Pennsylvania during the depression because they were starving and he and his sons (two more born in PA) lived on his brother-in-law’s fruit and vegetable farm in southern Chester County as field labor. My father met my Mother during this time. My father had multiple scars on his back from beatings received from his father. Such was the nature of chid discipline in those days. He died in 1939, two years before I was born. My Mother never met him, only knew him as “Mr. Tipton.” After the experience with her father, she probably wouldn’t want to meet him either.
My maternal grandmother died at 29 years old giving childbirth.
My maternal grandmother Ethel Hickman Hadfield. She was the oldest daughter of a well to do pig farmer. Very educated and quite the independent personality I understand from family lore. Unfortunately she died giving childbirth at home to her sixth child at 29 years old).
She was from a long line of historical Quaker families in Pennsylvania. From her picture she was very elegant. She died before my Mother was two years old. My Mother often talked about her.
There was one great grandmother (my maternal grandfather’s mother) who I met only once. She was on her deathbed.
My great maternal grandmother Isabelle "Belle" Donely Hadfield. She is the woman on the right with the long hair. My Mother as a young girl used to brush her grandmother's hair for hours. My Mother said she liked doing that for her grandmother and her grandmother liked it. I only met her once when she was a very old lady on her deathbed when they trooped up all us sweaty great grandkids to see her once before she died. I think she was about the age I am now!
They brought up all us unwashed ruffian offspring to see her before she died. She was also a very elegant lady from another long line of Pennsylvania Quaker families. During the 1880’s she was an actress. All I remember about her was climbing those stairs to the third floor of the house where she lived with her daughter and seeing this very small bird like white haired lady in a bed. As we ruffians came in one by one she turned her head and smiled slightly and nodded her head every so slowly. I will always remember that moment. Years later a cousin gave me a report card that great-grandmother Isabella Donely (she was Irish) had attend a private girls school during her youth. Her grades were excellent. She was a far cry from my tobacco, “dancing is sinful”, paternal grandmother.
Now you know why my personality is so fucked. Look at my family tree.
This morning I saw my urologist to discuss the results of my recent PET-SCAN.
He was puzzled by the results of my PET-SCAN because even though I recent elevated levels of my PSA score, the PET-SCAN didn't reveal any traces of prostate cancer, even in my prostate.
He immediately suggested that I begin hormone therapy just to "slow down" any chances of the cancer returning. I immediately shut that down saying "No, I'm fatigued enough." I realize he was going through his usual protocol by suggesting this treatment but I'm not having it. I told him why and I related the story of my friend Rich S. who had both. radiation and hormone therapy and is now dealing with a urethra that is destroyed by scar tissue. My doctor seemed taken aback a bit which didn't surprise me. I think most doctors just expect that you go along with their suggestions.
I told him I've done quite a bit of thinking and research about what I want to do should my prostate cancer return and spread. I told him that I'm 84 years old and I'm not getting any more treatments for anything. I also told him that should my prostate cancer return and spread that I will take advantage of Delaware's new right to die law. I asked him if he "was on board" with my decision because I would need his approval plus another doctor's. He said "Sure, anything you want." Then I told him I have lived a fabulous life and that most of my friends are gone now and I have no family to speak of so what is the point of continuing? Again, he seemed a little uncomfortable with the way this conversation was going. I continued. I told him that I took are of Bill the last three years of his life. How unhappy Bill was. I also told him of my late brother's three year journey trying to stave off his lymphoma cancer only to die cancer free but of organ failure. By now he was just sitting there listening to me. He knew I had made my decision. And that decision was "watchful waiting." A term much used by older men like me who don't want to go through the side effects of prostate cancer treatment. He then suggested that I se him again in six months after I get another blood test. So that's where I stand now.
Then I left in this smoky town that is Milton. The Canadian wildfires smoke has descended on Delaware.
This morning at 10:00 AM I have an appointment with my urologist to review the results of my recent PET-SCAN.
That PET-SCAN did not indicate that my prostate cancer had spread throughout the rest of my body. That's the good news. The bad news is that my PSA keeps rising at a rapid rate.
Six months ago, when my doctor noticed my PSA score dramatically increasing he wanted to start radiation and hormone therapy treatments to "get me a couple more years." He also wanted to do another biopsy to see if and how much of the cancer was still in my prostate gland. I turned him down immediately on both counts. He then suggested that I get a PET-SCAN and see him again in six months. That's where I am now today.
So today I will inform my doctor that I will not seek any further treatment for my prostate cancer.
No radiation therapy.
No hormone therapy.
No biopsies.
At eighty-four years old, I am not going to subject this old body to more stressful "treatments" to hold the possible spread of prostate cancer.
After seeing what my younger brother went through the last three years of his life with "treatments" only to die "cancer free" but of organ failure, that's route I'm not taking
After seeing my friend Rich S., who was first diagnosed with prostate cancer back in 2013 the same time I was only to have it return in 2019 and he got radiation and hormone therapy treatment only to have his urethra destroyed by scar tissue and now he has to pump his urine out of his bladder with a device while the doctors try to rebuild his urethra with flesh from the inside of his cheek, I'll pass on that "treatment" too.
I will tell my doctor the only thing I need from him is a diagnose of six months or less to live, if it should come to that. I may die of something else besides prostate cancer. It is well known that most men die WITH prostate cancer but not OF prostate cancer.
I will tell my doctor that I'm taking the "Watchful Waiting" route. If and when my prostate cancer spreads, then give me that six month prognosis so I can make plans for my Grand Exit.
This is one thing I know, I will not leave this world the way my brother did or the way Bill did. I will leave this world as I am now. Fully functional and taking care of myself. No prolonged, undignified, dependent on others, exit for me. I know that is the usual way in our Western culture for dying human beings to go. I have decided to go the way I help seven pets of ours go, on our own terms.
Today is just a formality. After my appointment today I go back to my day to day living the best I can with my stooped over body, aches and pains, calcified heart and slipping memory. My main objective right now is not to fall and injure myself.
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My paternal grandmother was alive when I was but I don’t remember her because he died when I was two years old. She was an uneducated hillbilly from the western mountains of North Carolina.
She couldn’t read or write but she did chew tobacco and tell my Mother that dancing was “sinful.” Glad I didn’t know her.
My paternal grandfather died two years before I was born.
He was descended from Jonathan Tipton who immigrated to this country from Port Royale, Jamaica after the Great Earthquake of 1692 destroyed his rum barrel stave making business. He had money and brought a lot of land in Maryland. His grandson fought along George Washington during the Battle of King’s Mountain. His name was Major Jonathan Tipton and he was my six time great grandfather. He was also involved in the formation of the state of Tennessee when it broke off from North Carolina. He settled in those mountains of Western North Carolina and proceeded to produce a prodigious batch of Tipton’s of which I am descended from. My paternal grandfather was also an uneducated hillbilly from those same western North Carolina mountains bordering on Tennessee. He was in the lumber business and brought his nine sons to Pennsylvania during the depression because they were starving and he and his sons (two more born in PA) lived on his brother-in-law’s fruit and vegetable farm in southern Chester County as field labor. My father met my Mother during this time. My father had multiple scars on his back from beatings received from his father. Such was the nature of chid discipline in those days. He died in 1939, two years before I was born. My Mother never met him, only knew him as “Mr. Tipton.” After the experience with her father, she probably wouldn’t want to meet him either.
My maternal grandmother died at 29 years old giving childbirth.
She was from a long line of historical Quaker families in Pennsylvania. From her picture she was very elegant. She died before my Mother was two years old. My Mother often talked about her.
There was one great grandmother (my maternal grandfather’s mother) who I met only once. She was on her deathbed.
They brought up all us unwashed ruffian offspring to see her before she died. She was also a very elegant lady from another long line of Pennsylvania Quaker families. During the 1880’s she was an actress. All I remember about her was climbing those stairs to the third floor of the house where she lived with her daughter and seeing this very small bird like white haired lady in a bed. As we ruffians came in one by one she turned her head and smiled slightly and nodded her head every so slowly. I will always remember that moment. Years later a cousin gave me a report card that great-grandmother Isabella Donely (she was Irish) had attend a private girls school during her youth. Her grades were excellent. She was a far cry from my tobacco, “dancing is sinful”, paternal grandmother.
Now you know why my personality is so fucked. Look at my family tree.