Pardon My Ramble

puttering thru my waning years . . .

Patio nasturtium vines regrown after being told I can’t grow them on the railing . . . photo by Margie Willis

A mostly manic bipolar, I’ve done life on a tear. Nowadays, years after having my broken neck braced with titanium, I’ve mastered a measured end-of-life puttering routine.

You can find me muttering: only do one thing at a time!

One thinga-time. One thinga-time. My daily mantra.

My mother would tell this childhood story on me like it was a gotcha! She would say I potty-trained myself because I was such a perfectionist, I could not stand other people pointing out and ridiculing my potty accidents.

(Growing up in an abusive home, rife with scorn).

Wet baby in a family of nine kids being passed around as people argue about whose turn it was to change my stinky diaper. Forget that. I began to climb onto the toilet by myself to put a stop to my public humiliation.

The reason I turned out criminally independent is because, in a big family, everyone else speaks for the baby, carries the baby around and otherwise prohibits the baby from functioning and growing up.

Almost seventy years later in a taxpayer-subsidized old-folks home, I still insist on being self-sufficient. I can be downright shitty to those who assume to take care of me just because I…