Its official, I’m getting old. After turning 50 in February I am racking up the frequent flyer miles to the doctor’s offices and I’m not thrilled about these flights. First they put me on cholesterol medicine. You know your getting old when the conversations with your buddies turn from your athletic abilities or youthful escapades to what is the name of your cholesterol medication. And it’s kind of like golf in that you take a strange sense of pride if your milligrams are lower than what they have to take.
Then they signed me up for a colonoscopy. It was not near as bad as some made it out to be, but just the same it won’t bother me not to wait another 10 years for round two of “here’s looking up your ole address”.
When I went for my five year annual check up I realized my wife had flanked me. Dr. Cox had been telling me for a year or so that I had sleep apnea and needed a sleep study. Like a well trained husband I ignored her diagnosis. So while at the doctor’s office herself one day she told our doctor about her diagnosis. So at my five year annual check up our doctor warned me about sleep apnea and recommended a sleep study. Realizing the two were in cahoots, I knew I was whipped. Two sleep studies later it was confirmed, I have sleep apnea.
The treatment for sleep apnea is a machine that blows air into a hose. This hose is hooked to a mask that has to be worn while you sleep. I got my device this week and it was a little like getting a new car. The saleslady proclaimed the wonders of the latest model, Model #9, like a car salesman. It’s sleek and shiny, looking somewhat like a Bose stereo. It has all the bells and whistles. The Swift FX mask, with pillows, has the latest comfort designs on the market. I thought about asking how many miles to a gallon (distilled water) it gets.
I have several friends that have these machines and mask to help them sleep. Some proclaim them the best thing since sliced bread, while some say they wouldn’t even make a good boat anchor. I must confess that while traveling with some of these fellows I have teased them about their bedtime accessories. They put on their mask, hook up their hoses and fire up the oxygen tank. They look like scuba divers getting ready for the big plunge. When bedtime rolled around for them I would howl “diver down” and chuckle as I crawled mask less into my bed.
Well those days of teasing my buddies are over. I have joined their ranks and from now on, Simply Put, it’s diver down for me too.
From the Front Porch: Coach said never tell anyone your problems to anyone…20% of them don’t care and the other 80% are glad you have them.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
“Peach Run”
Last week’s column about Grandfathers had me thinking a lot about my family tree. And then last Tuesday I went to the grocery store and made my way to the produce section. A box was sitting on the floor and it quickly caught my eye. It was a box of peaches. But not just any peaches. It was a box of Chilton County peaches.
The roots of my family tree run deep in Chilton County (Alabama). My great great grandfather, Littleton M. Cox, moved his family there in 1870. Some contingency of our family has been there ever since. My folks left Chilton County and moved south of the border (Florida) in 1954. But they made regular trips back there to visit family. Growing up I can recall that any trip made during the summer meant the added treat of Chilton County peaches.
In my dad’s later years he began making a peach run each summer to Chilton County. It started out with a few baskets and each year the payload increased. By the end the payload was the bed of a truck full of peaches making their way back to the Sunshine State.
Upon seeing that box of peaches in the grocery store I picked out several and took them home to promptly devour them. One was sliced and eaten immediately. The others ended up in a cobbler. As usual they were delicious. Between that box of peaches and the reminiscing about my family, the light went on in my head. I realized that action was needed, and needed now. It was time for a mission. It was time for a peach run.
Contact was made on Thursday with my cousins Danny and Tim Carter, as well as my uncle Raymond Cox. Tim’s nephew works at a peach orchard and arrangements were made for five boxes of peaches to be ready for pick up Saturday morning. On Friday I called up my mom in Tallahassee and she accepted my spur of the moment invitation to join this mission.
The mission went off without a hitch. After picking up the peaches and short visits with my cousins, uncle and some of my mom’s family in Montgomery, we motored our way on back south of the border. Smokey and the Bandit would have been proud of this mission.
There’s an old country song that hails the wonders of home grown tomatoes. “Ain’t but two things money can’t buy, that’s true love and home grown tomatoes.” I don’t know of any songs about peaches but I do know that The Allman Brothers Band titled their 1972 album “Eat A Peach”. The Allman Brothers were southern rockers from Georgia and while Georgia peaches are okay, they don’t come close to Chilton County peaches. Simply Put, ain’t no peach like a Chilton County peach.
From the Front Porch: Uncle Bob said the key to being a good manager is keeping the people who hate you away from the people who are undecided.
The roots of my family tree run deep in Chilton County (Alabama). My great great grandfather, Littleton M. Cox, moved his family there in 1870. Some contingency of our family has been there ever since. My folks left Chilton County and moved south of the border (Florida) in 1954. But they made regular trips back there to visit family. Growing up I can recall that any trip made during the summer meant the added treat of Chilton County peaches.
In my dad’s later years he began making a peach run each summer to Chilton County. It started out with a few baskets and each year the payload increased. By the end the payload was the bed of a truck full of peaches making their way back to the Sunshine State.
Upon seeing that box of peaches in the grocery store I picked out several and took them home to promptly devour them. One was sliced and eaten immediately. The others ended up in a cobbler. As usual they were delicious. Between that box of peaches and the reminiscing about my family, the light went on in my head. I realized that action was needed, and needed now. It was time for a mission. It was time for a peach run.
Contact was made on Thursday with my cousins Danny and Tim Carter, as well as my uncle Raymond Cox. Tim’s nephew works at a peach orchard and arrangements were made for five boxes of peaches to be ready for pick up Saturday morning. On Friday I called up my mom in Tallahassee and she accepted my spur of the moment invitation to join this mission.
The mission went off without a hitch. After picking up the peaches and short visits with my cousins, uncle and some of my mom’s family in Montgomery, we motored our way on back south of the border. Smokey and the Bandit would have been proud of this mission.
There’s an old country song that hails the wonders of home grown tomatoes. “Ain’t but two things money can’t buy, that’s true love and home grown tomatoes.” I don’t know of any songs about peaches but I do know that The Allman Brothers Band titled their 1972 album “Eat A Peach”. The Allman Brothers were southern rockers from Georgia and while Georgia peaches are okay, they don’t come close to Chilton County peaches. Simply Put, ain’t no peach like a Chilton County peach.
From the Front Porch: Uncle Bob said the key to being a good manager is keeping the people who hate you away from the people who are undecided.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
“Grandfathers”
Over the past few months I’ve had the pleasure of chatting several times with Bing Tyus about his grandfather, Tower Stevens (Yesteryear Bing Tyus – Part II). And this past Sunday I spent some time with Bing at the ole Stevens home place south of Graceville.
It is clear to me that Bing has a very special place in his heart for his granddad and the ole Stevens home place. I can see the sparkle in his eyes when he reminisces about the good times he spent with his grandfather and about his plans to return to the ole home place to live. I know that we are not supposed to be envious of other folks, but I must confess that I envy Bing and that sparkle in his eyes. You see while the Lord has blessed me in more ways than I can count, I never knew either one of my grandfathers. My mother’s father died almost 20 years before I was born. My father’s father died when I was one year old.
I have thought about this fact on more than one occasion and also the fact that none of my kids have known either of their grandfathers. Both my father and my wife’s father died before any of our kids were born. All this pondering also got me to doing a little digging in my family tree and what I found was alarming.
I can trace my paternal family tree back for six generations and my digging revealed that the last four generations have been deprived of knowing their respective grandfathers. I don’t know about the fifth and six generations, but I know for sure that neither I, my children, my father or my father’s father knew our paternal grandfathers. My Jackson County math tells me those four generations of not knowing their paternal grandfathers spans 120 years and counting.
While I don’t lose sleep over this, nor am I in counseling or on medication because of this fact, it is something that bothers me. And for several obvious reasons, I am hoping that this unfortunate trend doesn’t continue with my children’s kids. Both for my sake and their sake, I’m hoping to be the first Cox grandfather in a long time for the next generation of Cox kids.
Granddads are special and, as attested by the Bing Tyus Part II story, can have a life long impact on their grandchildren. They can have the kind of impact that leaves a sparkle in the grandchildren’s eyes when they talk about grandpa. If you have known your grandfather and have had that kind of relationship, you’ve been blessed. If not, like me and my children, we must settle for looking to the future. Simply Put, I hope the Lord lets me live long enough to break the past trend in my family and to be a “Tower Stevens” kind of granddad.
From the Front Porch: Uncle Bob said the best armor is to keep out of range.
It is clear to me that Bing has a very special place in his heart for his granddad and the ole Stevens home place. I can see the sparkle in his eyes when he reminisces about the good times he spent with his grandfather and about his plans to return to the ole home place to live. I know that we are not supposed to be envious of other folks, but I must confess that I envy Bing and that sparkle in his eyes. You see while the Lord has blessed me in more ways than I can count, I never knew either one of my grandfathers. My mother’s father died almost 20 years before I was born. My father’s father died when I was one year old.
I have thought about this fact on more than one occasion and also the fact that none of my kids have known either of their grandfathers. Both my father and my wife’s father died before any of our kids were born. All this pondering also got me to doing a little digging in my family tree and what I found was alarming.
I can trace my paternal family tree back for six generations and my digging revealed that the last four generations have been deprived of knowing their respective grandfathers. I don’t know about the fifth and six generations, but I know for sure that neither I, my children, my father or my father’s father knew our paternal grandfathers. My Jackson County math tells me those four generations of not knowing their paternal grandfathers spans 120 years and counting.
While I don’t lose sleep over this, nor am I in counseling or on medication because of this fact, it is something that bothers me. And for several obvious reasons, I am hoping that this unfortunate trend doesn’t continue with my children’s kids. Both for my sake and their sake, I’m hoping to be the first Cox grandfather in a long time for the next generation of Cox kids.
Granddads are special and, as attested by the Bing Tyus Part II story, can have a life long impact on their grandchildren. They can have the kind of impact that leaves a sparkle in the grandchildren’s eyes when they talk about grandpa. If you have known your grandfather and have had that kind of relationship, you’ve been blessed. If not, like me and my children, we must settle for looking to the future. Simply Put, I hope the Lord lets me live long enough to break the past trend in my family and to be a “Tower Stevens” kind of granddad.
From the Front Porch: Uncle Bob said the best armor is to keep out of range.
Friday, July 9, 2010
“A Tri-Athlete I Am Not”
After covering last year’s Freedom Springs Triathlon at Blue Springs I set a goal to do the race in 2010. Participants swim ¼ of a mile, bike 10 miles and then run 3.1 miles. I had done the race at age 35 and then again at age 45. So I figured that setting a goal to do it again at age 50 would be a good motivator to get me exercising.
I showed up ready to roll this past Monday morning. When I arrived I was once again reminded of several factors which clearly demonstrate that I would not be considered the prototype tri-athlete.
The first clue was my waist line. You don’t see very many overweight tri-athletes. Most tri-athletes aren’t packing any “love handles”. According to my doctor, and his weight charts, my love affair with food has put me squarely in the overweight category.
The second clue was my bicycle. Most tri-athletes showed up with these aerodynamic bicycles that are designed strictly for speed. I showed up with my cruising bike that features my number one cycling priority these days, an extra wide padded seat.
The third clue was my outfit and color scheme. Most tri-athletes wear a type of wet suit designed for swimming, biking and running. They look a little like the old spandex outfits and these “body gloves” leave nothing to the imagination. And for some reason almost all the outfits are black. I am not sure if black outfits make you faster, but I kept looking to see if Johnny Cash had made an appearance.
I will confess that I did have on a pair of these new fangled running undershorts. The label said they’re a large, but I looked like I’ve been poured into them. So I wore a swim suit over them so that folks wouldn’t talk about the old fat guy in the back of the pack. My color scheme was all wrong too. My swim suit was light blue and my biking/running shirt was yellow. So instead of a tri-athlete, I looked like I was a UCLA Bruin fan.
The last and most telling clue was my performance. I finished dead last. My final time of just over one hour and 59 minutes was slow enough that several gentlemen in their 70’s smoked me. And wouldn’t you know it, there was Royce Reagan capturing me on film for all eternity, crossing the finishing line in last place.
But for that last ½ mile of the run I switched my MP3 player to Lynard Skynard’s “Call Me The Breeze” and kicked it into high gear. So while my athletic ego didn’t get any boost and I won’t be appearing on any Tri-Athlete magazines covers, I did finish. And I did so without having to stop or walk. Simply Put, I accomplished my goal and, for me, that was what it was all about.
From the Front Porch: Uncle Bob said the best way to always remember your wife’s birthday is to forget it once.
I showed up ready to roll this past Monday morning. When I arrived I was once again reminded of several factors which clearly demonstrate that I would not be considered the prototype tri-athlete.
The first clue was my waist line. You don’t see very many overweight tri-athletes. Most tri-athletes aren’t packing any “love handles”. According to my doctor, and his weight charts, my love affair with food has put me squarely in the overweight category.
The second clue was my bicycle. Most tri-athletes showed up with these aerodynamic bicycles that are designed strictly for speed. I showed up with my cruising bike that features my number one cycling priority these days, an extra wide padded seat.
The third clue was my outfit and color scheme. Most tri-athletes wear a type of wet suit designed for swimming, biking and running. They look a little like the old spandex outfits and these “body gloves” leave nothing to the imagination. And for some reason almost all the outfits are black. I am not sure if black outfits make you faster, but I kept looking to see if Johnny Cash had made an appearance.
I will confess that I did have on a pair of these new fangled running undershorts. The label said they’re a large, but I looked like I’ve been poured into them. So I wore a swim suit over them so that folks wouldn’t talk about the old fat guy in the back of the pack. My color scheme was all wrong too. My swim suit was light blue and my biking/running shirt was yellow. So instead of a tri-athlete, I looked like I was a UCLA Bruin fan.
The last and most telling clue was my performance. I finished dead last. My final time of just over one hour and 59 minutes was slow enough that several gentlemen in their 70’s smoked me. And wouldn’t you know it, there was Royce Reagan capturing me on film for all eternity, crossing the finishing line in last place.
But for that last ½ mile of the run I switched my MP3 player to Lynard Skynard’s “Call Me The Breeze” and kicked it into high gear. So while my athletic ego didn’t get any boost and I won’t be appearing on any Tri-Athlete magazines covers, I did finish. And I did so without having to stop or walk. Simply Put, I accomplished my goal and, for me, that was what it was all about.
From the Front Porch: Uncle Bob said the best way to always remember your wife’s birthday is to forget it once.
Friday, July 2, 2010
“Primitive”
On page B4 is a feature titled Out and About…Tugaloo Lake. This is a lake that my oldest son Taylor and I went camping at last weekend. As I indicate in the article, primitive means that your shelter is a tent and there is no electricity, water, bathrooms or anything remotely considered to be a modern convenience.
And of course without electricity, or a generator, that means no air conditioning or fans, which is tough for an old fat fellow like myself during the summer months. And I will acknowledge that my days of sleeping on the ground are long gone. An air mattress and air pump are at the top of my list of camping gear.
Every now and then folks will ask me why I still like to go on these trips. I must confess that on nights, like last Friday night, when I was sitting in my tent with a thunder storm brewing outside and the inside being somewhat of a sweat lodge, I even ask myself these questions.
But then the sun will come out the next morning, the sky turns blue and a beautiful day in the outdoors is had. The night comes and miraculously the humidity takes a short vacation. A camp fire is built along the edge of the river bank. A father and a son spend some down time along side a river’s edge with a camp fire. A working man gets away from all the phones, complaints, dead lines, projects and hassles that come with making a living.
It reminds me of the commercials. Like the one that says “It doesn’t get any better than this” or the one that list a price of various items and then on the last items list it as …priceless. We all need to find our ways to unwind, relax or just get away. And there are many different ways folks enjoy doing that. And roughing it is not the only way that I enjoy unwinding or relaxing.
But going on these periodic excursions of roughing it or primitive camping offer something to me that takes me back to my youth. That sense of getting outdoors, back to nature or that sense of exploration. I know that may sound silly to some folks but hey I’m a guy that loves to read about Lewis and Clark’s exploring the newly purchased Louisanna Territory in the early 1800’s. I am the guy, and apparently I’m not alone, that likes to watch all these survivor man shows even though about half of it is fake.
So if I take a trip every now and then that falls into the roughing it category, don’t think that I’ve lost my mind. Just know that for me, Simply Put, going primitive once in a while has it’s purpose for me.
From the Front Porch: Uncle Bob said he is ready to christen anyone a true genius who can adjust the thermostat to suit his wife.
And of course without electricity, or a generator, that means no air conditioning or fans, which is tough for an old fat fellow like myself during the summer months. And I will acknowledge that my days of sleeping on the ground are long gone. An air mattress and air pump are at the top of my list of camping gear.
Every now and then folks will ask me why I still like to go on these trips. I must confess that on nights, like last Friday night, when I was sitting in my tent with a thunder storm brewing outside and the inside being somewhat of a sweat lodge, I even ask myself these questions.
But then the sun will come out the next morning, the sky turns blue and a beautiful day in the outdoors is had. The night comes and miraculously the humidity takes a short vacation. A camp fire is built along the edge of the river bank. A father and a son spend some down time along side a river’s edge with a camp fire. A working man gets away from all the phones, complaints, dead lines, projects and hassles that come with making a living.
It reminds me of the commercials. Like the one that says “It doesn’t get any better than this” or the one that list a price of various items and then on the last items list it as …priceless. We all need to find our ways to unwind, relax or just get away. And there are many different ways folks enjoy doing that. And roughing it is not the only way that I enjoy unwinding or relaxing.
But going on these periodic excursions of roughing it or primitive camping offer something to me that takes me back to my youth. That sense of getting outdoors, back to nature or that sense of exploration. I know that may sound silly to some folks but hey I’m a guy that loves to read about Lewis and Clark’s exploring the newly purchased Louisanna Territory in the early 1800’s. I am the guy, and apparently I’m not alone, that likes to watch all these survivor man shows even though about half of it is fake.
So if I take a trip every now and then that falls into the roughing it category, don’t think that I’ve lost my mind. Just know that for me, Simply Put, going primitive once in a while has it’s purpose for me.
From the Front Porch: Uncle Bob said he is ready to christen anyone a true genius who can adjust the thermostat to suit his wife.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
