On the verge.
Happy birthday to me (as if I needed to be reminded.)
Feeling the years.
Not as much energy as I once had.
A golfing partner told me recently that life is but a slow death.
Morbid but true.
So much stuff in my mail these days about long-term nursing care, pre-paid funerals and burial plots.
What is there left of my life?
Maybe a few more healthy, vibrant, happy years—if I’m lucky.
Need to really bear down during this homestretch of medicine-taking, frequently going to the VA Hospital (to something called, of all things, the “anticoagulation clinic"). Cynthia and Becky take care of me there, and I have a good, caring, supportive nurse, Barbara—who works on the same floor but on the opposite wing .
Must find God and religion. For I’ve always been a believing Christian but not a very faithful church goer.
Must finish writing this second novel, which Michael (my co-author) and I have titled “Justice For Toby.”
Must take good care of my dogs and my family.
Need to do a better job of expressing my true feelings. (I’ve always had a tough time with that).
Lots of places I yet want to visit. And I have a BUCKET LIST (rhymes, as President Obama recently noted) with F….LIST).
Books and other literature I want to read. Classics. Shakespearean plays. Poems. The New York Times. (Have always thought if I read that newspaper very day, I’d be smart as heck).
Babies to hold and spoil. Children to take good care of before I punch out.
Golf balls to hit. (I’ve never solved the mystery of playing golf but keep trying).
Fish to catch.
Music to listen to.
Walks to take. (I’ve been walking somewhat consistently—almost every day for about two miles—the past two years).
Songs to sing—or at least hum.
Freelance articles to write.
Old friends to reconnect with—especially in Virginia, South Carolina, Kentucky, Iowa, Georgia (Mark Staley, I hope you’re still reading my blog) and Tennessee.
Let the final home stretch begin.
Happy birthday, Larry C. Timbs Jr.!
