Previous month:
July 2019
Next month:
September 2019

INTERESTING STUFF – 31 August 2019


Willy Daly, the Youtube page tells us, is a professional matchmaker in County Clare, Ireland. He's been doing it for more than 50 years, as his father and grandfather did before him.

Timing is everything, he says. And a little drinking at the local pub can’t hurt.


I am willing to bet there is not a TGB reader among us who has not seen the famous Dorothea Lange 1936 photograph titled Migrant Mother that came to symbolize the Great Depression.

Find out more that you probably don't know about the photograph, its subject and her children in this video. (Sent by Jim Stone)


For 40 years I did The New York Times crosswords puzzle on the subway every morning on my way to work. In all those years, I never tried to create one. Here's a video from The New Yorker about how clues for crosswords are developed.


In last Wednesday's New York Times, columnist Frank Bruni wrote about Trump fatigue. It began like this:

”I woke up Saturday, made my coffee, shuffled to my computer, started to glance at the news and suddenly had to stop. I couldn’t go on,” wrote Bruni.

“Trump had yet again said something untrue, once more suggested something absurd, contradicted himself, deified himself, claimed martyrdom, blamed Barack Obama, made his billionth threat and hurled his trillionth insult.”

Further, writes Bruni:

”Trump’s instinct and strategy are to conquer by overwhelming. But there’s a difference between wearing people down and wearing them out. He’s like the last seasons of House of Cards — a riveting spectacle devolved into a repellent burlesque, so unrestrained in its appetites that it devoured itself.”

I'm with Bruni in regard to both Trump and House of Cards. Read the whole column here – it's a good catharsis (unless you turn on cable news again).


TGB Reader Erika Brekke send this video about Blair Somerville who lives in the remote town of Papatowai, on the South Island of New Zealand, the Youtube page tells us. He uses found materials and other curious objects which he re-purposes into magical moving artworks.

Take a look:


Here's a Twitter gif of cows who think painted road markings are fences of some kind. Such a silly giggle.


As long as we're doing Twitter pictures, here's a Twitter video of Jeopardy! host Alex Trebek returning to work after a summer of chemotherapy for pancreatic cancer.

The program resumes broadcasting on 9 September.


Former U.S. Secretary of Defense, James Mattis, had this to say in his new book, Call Sign Chaos, which he wrote with Bing West and will be published next week:

“If you haven’t read hundreds of books, you are functionally illiterate, and you will be incompetent, because your personal experiences alone aren’t broad enough to sustain you...”

More at The New York Times.


In the nearly 10 years it has been online, this video has garnered about 28 million views. I posted it way back when. It's still good and it feels like it goes with the Mattis quotation above.

* * *

Interesting Stuff is a weekly listing of short takes and links to web items that have caught my attention; some related to aging and some not, some useful and others just for fun.

You are all encouraged to submit items for inclusion. Just click “Contact” at the top of any Time Goes By page to send them. I'm sorry that I won't have time to acknowledge receipt and there is no guarantee of publication. But when I do include them, you will be credited and I will link to your blog.

What Cancer Patients Don't Tell You – Part 1

I don't mean JUST cancer patients. I am also including people in general who live with a deadly disease and some elders who may not have a scary diagnosis but whose bodies are letting them down in old age.

And oh, how bodies can do that.

These thoughts came to mind Monday when a couple of reader comments about Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg's cancer caught my attention. From Darlene Costner:

”Logically she must have suffered terribly during her struggle with cancer (not to mention broken bones). In spite of it, she just keeps going on like the energizer bunny.”

Reader Carol Leskin (who contributes to the Tuesday Reader Story feature of this blog), left this note on Facebook:

”I have often wondered what it is that keeps you moving forward. On days when I struggle and just want to give up, I think of you. It helps me and I say, 'what the hell' to myself and get on with the day as best I can. I am glad you look to RGB for inspiration...”

I know exactly what Carol Leskin is talking about. But even though I resolved early on to write as clearly and honestly as possible about my cancer predicament and, now, COPD, I've shied away from the day-to-day difficulties which in shorthand are this: it's hard. It's really hard sometimes.

Mostly, old people don't talk about these things – the difficulty of just getting through a day. Part of that is succumbing to long-term, societal prohibitions against old folks' “organ recitals.” We're not supposed to mention our health troubles because younger people don't want to know.

Another part for me is to avoid sounding whiny but both of those reasons are stupid. It's what is happening to us and if it comes as a surprise, it's because nobody talks about it.

So let me take a stab at what an average day has become. It can apply – often unexpectedly and with differing particulars - to pretty much anyone in the age group we are concerned with here.

That said, let me tell you about my mornings.

When I wake at about 5:30AM each day, I feel terrific. The bed is warm and cozy and my comfort level is near 100 percent, not a twinge of pain and I cannot imagine that I hurt anywhere.

Then I try to throw back the covers and realize that no, the body and muscle pains have not gone away since yesterday. How is it that an arm, a hand and fingers can hurt that much, I ask myself.

I wince as I turn on the light, fingers screaming to me, “don't do that”. I do it anyway and then I try to stand. Depending on how much my left or right (never both at once) ankle hurts, I slowly crab walk to the bathroom for morning ablutions (isn't that a fine word?).

Or, on a good day, I can walk almost normally.

I do a mental check of what else hurts. For the past month it has been some combination of fingers, ankles, an elbow and/or knee and back of my neck. Have you tried brushing your teeth when you can't close your hand around the toothbrush handle? Hint: Holding your hands under hot water helps loosen them up.

In the kitchen while the coffee is brewing, I grab some ibuprofen for the pains and sit down to wrangle the newest inhaler into submission.

I've been using the new one only since Tuesday but it seems to be improving my breathing.

Sometimes I think the coffee might be what does the most good but either way, it will be two hours before the pain killer fully kicks in. I use that time to meditate, read the news online with TV news droning in the background, answer overnight email, plan the day or the next blog post or whatever else is on my mind that doesn't involve physical exertion. Like walking. Or showering. Or dressing.

It is astonishing how precise the timing is. Within 15 minutes one side or the other of two hours, I am close to pain-free. So – breakfast, shower and dress which seem to take forever compared to pre-cancer life.

And then, about 9AM my day begins. Before cancer and COPD, I could shower, dress, have breakfast and be out the door by 6:30AM.

Here's a little secret: if I don't need to shop or see a doctor or meet a friend or some other outside activity, I've been known to skip showering and sometimes I stay in my jammies all day because it's not unheard of around here to lose my breath just dressing or undressing.

Part 2 is here

Surprise! Nothing to See Here Today

After a busy morning away from home Tuesday, I simply ran out of steam when it was time to finish a blog post I had begun for this space today.

So there you are – nothing here today. Maybe I'll publish that half-finished story tomorrow. Or maybe wait until Friday. Or maybe I'll take time off until after Labor Day. I don't know yet. Right now, I'm heading for a nap.

“Here’s Looking at You!”: The Amazing Eyes of Birds

By Diane Darrow

As a big-city dweller, I often like to sit on a bench in my local community garden appreciating nature – the clean, fragrant air; the trees, plants, and flowers; and the many visitors that pass by on the paths and lawn.

I particularly enjoy looking at the avian visitors because the garden attracts many kinds of birds.

One day I was struck by the differences in eyes between people and birds. People have basically almond-shaped eyes, with a colored circle, the iris, in the center and whites tapering to the ends.

Most of the birds I see – such as sparrows, robins, blue jays, and doves – have tiny, round, all-black “boot-button” eyes. I wondered about that difference, so I did a bit of research.

Boy, did I learn a lot! For one thing, it seems that birds actually have very big eyes. They do have whites, but in most species, we can’t see them: Everything but the iris is covered by feathers. And birds’ eyeballs are huge in proportion to the size of their heads. If human eyes were in the same proportion, our eyes would be as big as tennis balls.

Next, birds’ eyes are positioned on their heads differently from the way ours are. Human eyes are set forward on the face, so we can see straight ahead with 3-D binocular vision. That’s true of only a few bird species (owls, for instance.)

Most birds have eyes that angle out to the sides of their heads, so their brains have to reconcile two separate, overlapping fields of vision to see what’s directly in front of them. Oh – so that’s why I often see a robin tilting its head sideways to focus its “good eye” on something on the ground!

Birds’ eyesight is also much sharper than ours. We think we’re doing great if we come close to 20-20 vision. Most birds would score at least 20-10 on our scale. That means, if I’m squinting to see an object lying some distance along a garden path, the blue jay on a branch above my head can see it as clearly as I could if it were only half that far away.

If it’s edible, he’ll grab it.

Moreover, birds’ eyes have at least twice as many light-sensitive cells as human eyes, letting them see much better than us in low light conditions. And beyond the top of our visible color spectrum (red-orange-yellow-green-blue-indigo-violet), birds can see ultraviolet light, which makes colors appear far more brilliant and differentiated.

So now whenever I see plain, dull brown or gray birds in the garden, I try to imagine what they might look like to each other – or what I must look like to them!

Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg and Pancreatic Cancer

Did you see the news last week about Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg? The headlines were everywhere:

Ruth Bader Ginsburg Treated for Cancerous Tumor on Pancreas (AP)

Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg Undergoes Radiation Therapy For Tumor (CBS New York)

Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg Treated for Pancreatic Cancer (Variety)

That the news of her latest cancer treatment made Variety just goes to show that she's a rock star way beyond her position on the top court of the United States.


There were dozens more similar headlines. It would be gratifying to know that the media is as much in love with the “Notorious RBG” as so many women of all ages are but the more likely explanation that she is 86 years old, and if she leaves the bench, President Trump will get his third appointment tilting the Supreme Court even further to the political right, six justices to three.

I'm a fan, have been for a long time - even before the 2018 documentary, RBG, recounting her pre-Supreme Court legal wins that changed the world for women. That film won at least 13 major awards including the Oscar for Best Documentary Feature.

Maybe I see her as such a hero, too, because she is small and she is quiet, not the sort of person in our selfie-driven, narcissistic era who usually gets a chance to stand out. But she does, entirely on merit.

So my heart sank when I saw the first headline about her recurrent pancreatic cancer. If you've been reading along here in the past couple of years, you know that I know a thing or two about that now – the most pertinent fact being that the overall survival rate is about 10 percent.

But the news of her treatment is heartening. It is the Supreme Court that issued a press release about it on Friday. According to the AP:

”The court said in a statement that a biopsy performed July 31 confirmed a localized malignant tumor,” reported the AP. “Ginsburg, 86, underwent a three-week course of radiation therapy and as part of her treatment had a bile duct stent placed, it said.

“The court said Ginsburg 'tolerated treatment well' and does not need any additional treatment but will continue to have periodic blood tests and scans.

“The tumor was 'treated definitively and there is no evidence of disease elsewhere in the body,' the court said.”

This was not Justice Ginsburg's first go-round with pancreatic cancer. She was successfully treated for the disease in 2009, which itself followed surgery ten years earlier for colorectal cancer.

In a sense, cancer has been a companion of RBG's for 20 years.

The past twelve months have been a particularly fraught health year. In November 2018, she fractured three ribs in a fall and in December, she underwent surgery to remove two cancerous growths from her left lung.

The news of this latest cancer treatment along with accompanying reminders of her previous cancers leave a lot of people wondering if Ginsburg will soon retire from the Court. But she seems to be indomitable.

There are reports that she attended at least one Broadway show while she was in New York City for the three weeks of radiation treatment. And according to one story, she was back at work at the Supreme Court Friday afternoon following her final radiation treatment.

Is it any wonder that Justice Ginsburg is my inspiration during my own predicament with two of the same cancers. It may be an odd thing to say but although my admiration and respect for Justice Ginsburg is wide and deep, it is moreso because we share this horrible disease.

She is a beacon to me. One thing I've learned about cancer is that if it doesn't kill you right away, it never gives up trying. In her quiet way, Justice Ginsburg just keeps on keeping on and I try to do the same.

Of course, this latest cancer announcement gives the media and other Washington watchers the chance to again speculate on Ginsburg's retirement from the Court. As she said not long ago, according to NBC News,

"'My senior colleague, Justice John Paul Stevens, stepped down when he was 90, so I think I have about at least five more years.'”

Dear god, make it so.


Tibbles1SM100x130This Sunday Elder Music column was launched in December of 2008. By May of the following year, one commenter, Peter Tibbles, had added so much knowledge and value to my poor attempts at musical presentations that I asked him to take over the column. He's been here each week ever since delighting us with his astonishing grasp of just about everything musical, his humor and sense of fun. You can read Peter's bio here and find links to all his columns here.

* * *


L'ANGÉLUS is a family band, surnamed Rees, from Lafayette, Louisiana. There are four in the group, two sisters and two brothers. They are Katie who plays guitar, Paige on bass, John on drums and occasional piano and Stephen plays fiddle, accordion, saxophone, harmonica and anything else that needs playing.

Their music is Cajun with Irish roots and some rock and roll thrown in as well.

They all sing lead vocals, depending on the song, and because they are siblings, their harmonies are gorgeous. They started out performing with their mother Linda as Linda Lou and the Lucky Four. Mum occasionally joins them on stage these days.

If you check their vids on YouTube, and there are a lot of them, you’ll find that they really seem to be having a good time in all of them. That’s a nice change.


Way back in the late forties, Professor Longhair recorded a song called Hey, Little Girl. A few years later, into the fifties, Zydeco accordion master Clifton Chenier performed the song as Ay-tete Fee.

The record company didn’t know what he was singing so Clifton did it again using his native New Orleans jive talk as Eh, tite Fille. Others, including our family, have sung it as Hey 'Tite Fille. STEPHEN sings this one.

♫ Hey 'Tite Fille


Iko Iko is a traditional New Orleans song made popular by The Dixie Cups in 1965. It’s a song that’s had several law suits concerning its authorship and who owns the rights to the song. This is unfortunate, but not unexpected. Anyway, our family perform it live with PAIGE singing lead.

♫ Iko Iko


Give a Little Bit is as close as L'Angélus get to a standard pop song with standard instrumentation – two guitars, bass, drums. Of course, they do it really well with STEPHEN singing lead.

♫ Give a Little Bit


The group recorded an album of religious music as is their wont. I like the songs that are not in English as I don’t have to understand the words. I have the same attitude to opera; I much prefer those in Italian and French. I really don’t like opera in English.

Anyway, one of the songs from the album is called J'irai la Voir Un Jour, sung by PAIGE

♫ J'irai la Voir Un Jour


River Road was written by all members of the group. It’s another that comes close to a conventional pop song. It has in it the road to New Orleans, the Mississippi River, the Gulf wind and so on.

KATIE sings this one.

♫ River Road


Ça C'est Bon is another song written by all four members and it is also the name of their first album. It mixes Cajun style with some hard driving drumming, as well as some nice harmonies (that goes without saying, but I said it anyway). STEPHEN sings lead.

♫ Ça C'est Bon


JOHN steps forward, well actually, he sits forward as he’s still at the drum kit, with the Van Morrison classic Brown Eyed Girl.

♫ Brown Eyed Girl


It seems that our candle is alight, which is good so we can read by its flickering illumination. Of course, it sounds better in French. So, La Chandelle Est Allumée, sung by PAIGE.

♫ La Chandelle Est Allumée


Wait a Minute was written by Herb Pedersen and first appeared on the album “Old Train” by the bluegrass band The Seldom Scene. Herb recorded a terrific version himself on his first solo album (he’d previously been a member of The Dillards) called “Southwest”. In the version today, KATIE sings lead.

♫ Wait a Minute


Ponchatoula is a small town in Louisiana and during the American Civil War it was captured by the northern army, as was much of the state. The current demographics suggest to me that people would rather leave the town than return to it. However, there is no accounting for taste because apparently, our family, or at least PAIGE, is dead set on Goin' Back to Ponchatoula.

♫ Goin' Back To Ponchatoula

I’ll end with Cajun legend D.L. MENARD who joins our band to perform one of his songs.


It’s a song D.L. wrote that L'Angélus have also recorded. Here is a version where they all got together in somebody’s back yard and really nailed it. The song is The Back Door.

♫ The Back Door


INTERESTING STUFF – 23 August 2019


Darlene Costner was the first of several TGB readers to send this video. Supposedly the two dancers are age 91 (the woman) and 94 (her partner) but I don't know where that information comes from.

Anyway, they are terrific dancers. And we should all age as well as these two.


Well, I don't know for sure that this video is about infidelity but it sure looks like it. From the South China Morning Post:


Whew! That headline is a mouthful. Here is what the Youtube page tells us:

”On your next road trip, take a pit stop in Lucas, Kansas, where you can visit arguably the best roadside attraction.”

See what you think.


Here is what Atlas Obscura tells us:

”Estimated to be 400 years old, the Mother Vine, located on North Carolina’s Roanoke Island, is believed to be the oldest grape vine in all of North America, planted by either Croatan Native Americans or settlers of the Lost Colony. Some have posited that it is the “mother” of all vines for scuppernong grapes, North Carolina’s state fruit.”


And they make wine from these grapes. There is much more historical detail at Atlas Obscura and at the mother vine's website.


I've been reading and watching videos from this guy for years. He writes, he makes videos, he even raps about the U.S. medical system. Zdogg is internist Zubin Damania M.D. Who explains on his website:

”As a way to address my own 'burnout' and find a voice, I started producing videos and live shows under the pseudonym 'ZDoggMD' that have since gone epidemically viral. This launched a grassroots movement — nearly a billion views and a passionate tribe dedicated to improving healthcare for everyone.”

Here is one of his most recent videos:


Everybody likes a good mystery, right? This one has been going on for hundreds of years. As Lisa Fagan Davis writes in the Washington Post,

”The Voynich Manuscript, an early 15th-century codex that belongs to the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library at Yale University, presents an irresistible medieval mystery. The tome is written using an otherwise unknown collection of symbols known to those who study the codex as “Voynichese,” with what appear to be roots, prefixes and suffixes as well as repeating spelling and grammatical patterns.

“Then there are the illustrations, which include unidentifiable but detailed and realistic plants, circular zodiacal and astronomical diagrams, crowned nude women bathing in green or blue pools and other images that defy description.

“For centuries, the Voynich Manuscript has resisted interpretation, which hasn’t stopped a host of would-be readers from claiming they’ve solved it.”

In the video below, curator Bill Sherman discusses the mystery of the Voynich Manuscript.


There is nothing outstanding about this video – just a look at wild lions being themselves at night.


TGB reader Jack Handley, who also contributes stories to the TGB Reader Story feature, sent this video. No wonder so many people are stressed.


That headline is all you need to know.

* * *

Interesting Stuff is a weekly listing of short takes and links to web items that have caught my attention; some related to aging and some not, some useful and others just for fun.

You are all encouraged to submit items for inclusion. Just click “Contact” at the top of any Time Goes By page to send them. I'm sorry that I won't have time to acknowledge receipt and there is no guarantee of publication. But when I do include them, you will be credited and I will link to your blog.


Not too long after a dire diagnosis such as my cancer, an unwelcome fact appears in one's mind (or, at least, in mine): “Oh, you mean I'm mortal after all?”

Once it appears, there is no denying it, no going back to that blissful state where all your life you kind of vaguely believed death would always be somewhere down the road.

Of course I knew that wasn't true, but when reality is too complex or too painful, humans are good at fooling themselves. I am not immune.

It has been awhile, certainly more than a year now, since this stark reality began plopping itself down next to me several times a day, poking me in the ribs to remind me that I need to prepare, to make peace, to be ready when the time comes.

Sometimes I pay attention, performing a mental check see how I'm feeling in regard to shuffling off this mortal coil. I've already done some fairly major preparation such as a magic mushroom (psilocybin) session last December (which you can read about in Part 1 and Part 2).

That “trip” was every bit as useful to me in reducing my dread as responsible researchers at major medical and academic institutions have been reporting for the past 10 years or so. And it continues.

Having been given this fairly lengthy reprieve from death – more than a year now - I have made it my job to get ready to die. I don't want to leave being terrified.

On the other hand, sometimes I wonder if giving one's death any attention at all is worth the effort. Like it or not, we are each going to die whatever we feel or think about it.

Nevertheless, it is in my nature to watch myself, to pay attention to what's going on in my mind when I'm not directing it, as now while writing a blog post.

I have discovered that without naming it or dwelling on it much, I seem to have believed for a long time that when people are nearing death, they lose interest in the world around them. I don't know if that's true or not but it doesn't matter because somewhere years ago I came to believe it.

And nowadays, when I have stopped doing certain things either because they are too physically taxing or, more likely so far, take up more time than I am willing to allot them anymore, I start to wonder if death is closing in.

When that happens, my mind takes off to my personal fantasy land telling me that if I instead keep doing those things, I will forestall the grim reaper.

What horseshit. Apparently, for some of us, there is no end to our ability to deny the inevitable even when medical science has been clear about what is next.

But maybe that's laying it on too thick. Not counting psilocybin, the best thing I've done for myself is to start meditating again. I had done so off and on for most of my life but even as I appreciated its effect, it was still more off than on.

Today, I think of it as, simply, my daily quiet time. A few minutes to be still and just notice what's going on around and within me.

When thoughts of death creep in, they occasionally feel as natural as the breathing to which I am paying close attention. I'm working on increasing the frequency of those feelings but there is no pushing that kind of thing further than it's ready for.

For now, I am trusting this “quiet time” will help me build on the good that the magic mushrooms did and lead me to welcome the wide river and drifting into the sea, as Bertram Russell describes the end of life. (See Wednesday's post.)

It's my job, or rather, the job I have assigned myself to make this time of my life and particularly its end as peaceful as I can manage.

Living While Dying

What I have always liked are the surprises in life, the unexpected events that seem to occur to remind me that I don't control everything, and this surely is the biggest ever for me.

There has always been a lot of loose activity going on in the ether that impinges on my plans. Some of it is pleasurable, but a large amount gums up the works.

Knowing perfectly well that some people die hard deaths didn't stop me from assuming I would be as disgustingly healthy up to the end as I had always been – that is, until I was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer at age 76.

Ruminating on my own demise now and then in those many pre-cancer years, I never got further than something like, “I lived and then I died”, anticipating no remarkable lead-up to death.

To repeat myself from a week ago, “Man plans and god laughs.” You can't say in the case of this particular unexpected event, cancer, that it doesn't gum up my personal works.

The joint and body pains from a medication that didn't work out is one of those. Three weeks or so since ending that medication, the pains are receding in small, daily increments, but it is so slow I wonder if it will entirely go away.

As interesting as life has been these past two years, and continues to be, this is not one of the better surprises of my life nor is the COPD that the medication was meant to help control.

Backing up a couple of years, after the Whipple surgery from which it took months to recover, I watched myself create a smaller life, shrinking it down closer to essentials without many frills.

I wanted more time alone, too, and tried to arrange my social life to accommodate that. I was winding down my earthly existence, concentrating on only what was most important to me in the time left.

Then, early this year, my oncologist told me that the chemotherapy had shrunk my tumors by half or so and that he expected me to be around “for quite a while yet,” he said.

Soon after, I noticed that I was gradually expanding my life again. A few more social engagements, purchasing some books I had thought I wouldn't have time for and I even bought a sweater I liked – the first new clothing since the cancer diagnosis.

Before the latest diagnosis of COPD and the body/joint pains, I liked to tell myself (and others who would listen) that I was so free of symptoms that if I didn't know better, I would think I don't have cancer.

I suspect now that will never be so again. Even though, if you don't count the body pains and shortness of breath, I feel reasonably good, from now on I will be living while dying.

That was true before but I was not so out in the open and honest with myself about it as now, and maybe that's why I have been searching out smart thinkers, philosophers and others who have written well about growing old and getting closer to death.

Last week, that brought me back to 20th century, British philosopher Bertrand Russell and his essay written when he was about 80 titled, “How to Grow Old.”

It is very short – just three pages – and here are his points that are salient to me. Well, this week. We'll see how that changes or not.

”Psychologically there are two dangers to be guarded against in old age. One of these is undue absorption in the past. It does not do to live in memories, in regrets for the good old days...

“The other thing to be avoided is clinging to youth in the hope of sucking up vigour from its vitality.”

These have not been issues for me but it is still good to be reminded. More interesting is this, about facing the fear of death:

”The best way to overcome it – so at least it seems to me – is to make your interests gradually wider and more impersonal, until bit by bit the walls of the ego recede, and your life becomes increasingly merged in the universal life.

“An individual human existence should be like a river – small at first, narrowly contained within its banks, and rushing passionately past boulders and over waterfalls.

“Gradually the river grows wider, the banks recede, the waters flow more quietly, and in the end, without any visible break, they become merged with the sea, and painlessly lose their individual being.”

Although this cancer/COPD event was a surprise to me, I think if given a choice, I would prefer the situation I'm in, knowing death is coming relatively soon but with time to appreciate and make good use of the new and different perspective it gives me.

* * *

[EDITORIAL NOTE: This is the first of what will probably be more such ruminations on my predicament. Like today, they might be triggered by something I've read or what someone tells me. Other times it might be random thoughts without any conclusions. Perhaps we can call it, simply, thinking out loud.]


By Janet

[EDITORIAL NOTE: The backlog of stories is getting short. If you are inclined to submit one, check the note at the bottom of this story.

* * *

I won’t let go of you. I don’t want to, ever. What was I doing while you were breathing your last breath - while you, my little sister, were dying?

Drinking wine, reading a book, sending you a message you would never see, waiting for a reply that would never come.

How is it possible that things were so ORDINARY that day, and in the hours before the terrifying call that would change us all forever?

In my dream, I turn a corner into a sunny hallway. Suddenly there you are, standing there grinning at me as if to say: “I’ll bet I’m the LAST person you were expecting to see!” Your shirt is bright white. It’s pretty. You look happy. Dazzling, actually.

The pants you’re wearing catch my eye. They’re patterned in tiny blue flowers with yellow centers. There is purple, too - perhaps buds that have not yet bloomed. Such vivid detail in those flowers!

I reach out to touch you and say something, but I’m being patted on the shoulder and lightly nudged until I’m awake. I sit up in bed “What the hell?” I say out loud. (Is it possible you’re here?) I look around, but I’m alone and the house is quiet.

I cry myself back to sleep because I’m sad. We came close just now, but we didn’t get a chance to talk.

A few days later your dear, grieving husband sends pictures of some of your African violets in full bloom. The flowers remind me of the pants you wore in my dream, yet they are different. I remember thinking how poetic it would have been if they had been the same.

Sometimes I try to fall asleep by closing my eyes and conjuring up the dream again. It’s pleasant, as if you came back one more time. I see the sunny hallway, your smile, the colors, and the flowers. Suddenly I bolt upright.

The flowers! I know what those flowers are! They are forget-me-nots. Forget-me-nots! I search the internet for pictures and I find them. Sure enough, that’s what they are; forget-me-nots, beautiful and vibrant. Just like in my dream. Just like you.

I will not forget you. In my memory you smile every day. I watch you. Blue eyes, quick step - the ease with which you went happily about your life. Last time in your kitchen we laughed, joked, we raised our coffee cups and our spirits, solved a couple of the world’s problems, too.

I took it all for granted. I swear I didn’t know. How could I have known? But I loved you. I most certainly did love you. And I think you always knew that. I hope you always knew that.

* * *

[EDITORIAL NOTE: Reader's stories are welcome. If you have not published here or not recently, please read submission instructions. Only one story per email.]

The Alex and Ronni Show – Posted 19 August 2019

This episode of The Alex and Ronni Show was recorded last Wednesday, 14 August. Since then, Jeffrey Epstein's death, which we discuss about halfway through the video, has been declared a suicide by the medical examiner.

I've never been a conspiracy theorist but I still think it's fishy.

Unrelated to anything Alex and I discussed in this video, I was was watching live TV reports of the protest marches of Proud Boys and Antifa in Portland, Oregon, on Saturday while idly skimming through online news.

I found this lovely story about a former refugee who was given a bicycle by an aid worker in the Holland camp where she lived with her parents for several years when she was a little girl. "My five-year-old heart exploded with joy," she said.

As young as she was then, she never forgot the man's kindness. Twenty-nine years old now and living in London, she took a long shot recently, posting a photo of him on Twitter asking if anyone knows his name or where he lives.

Given how much bad stuff goes on on the internet, this is a refreshing story. Read it at Daily Kos. It's worth your time and you will feel really good when you've finished.

ELDER MUSIC: Classical Predilections 6

Tibbles1SM100x130This Sunday Elder Music column was launched in December of 2008. By May of the following year, one commenter, Peter Tibbles, had added so much knowledge and value to my poor attempts at musical presentations that I asked him to take over the column. He's been here each week ever since delighting us with his astonishing grasp of just about everything musical, his humor and sense of fun. You can read Peter's bio here and find links to all his columns here.

* * *

Here is some more music that has taken my fancy in recent times. Some I heard on the radio, others I played for my own enjoyment and thought I’d share it with you.

JOHANN FASCH was a German violinist and composer.


Jo’s dad died when he was about 12 and the family moved in with his mother’s brother who was a clergyman. It was through him that young Jo became a choir boy and made the acquaintance of several composers who put him on the path to becoming a composer himself.

He wrote cantatas, concertos, symphonies and chamber music. Surprisingly, nothing he wrote was published during his lifetime. One such is his Concerto for two Oboes da caccia, two Violas, two Bassoons and Continuo in G major. The oboe da caccia was a hunting oboe.

I didn’t know that there was such a thing. It’s a bit deeper than the regular oboe and looks like this.

Oboe da caccia1

I’ll play the whole concerto as it’s quite short as was the way of things back then before Vivaldi, Telemann and Bach came along and changed all that.

♫ Fasch - Concerto for 2 Oboes da caccia 2 Violas 2 Bassoons and Continuo in G Major FaWV L_G11

The music of PHILIP GLASS tends to polarise people.

Philip Glass

Nobody seems to be ho hum about it – you usually love it or hate it. You can tell where I stand as I’m including him today. I especially like his piano music and I’ve included a piece today, his Etude No. 2. Listen with an open mind.

♫ Philip Glass - Etude 2

Continuing with contemporary music, ELENA KATS-CHERNIN is easily Australia’s finest living composer.


It might not induce you to listen to this when I say that the text of the piece is made up of mostly nonsense syllables sourced from Russian words to do with sea creatures; those words are then split up and used in reverse.

The composition was first heard at the opening ceremony of the Sydney Olympic Games. It’s performed today by Sally Whitwell playing piano and the Gondwana Voices, a Sydney young people’s choir. Here is Deep Sea Dreaming.

♫ Kats-Chernin - Deep Sea Dreaming

For a complete change of pace, I give you MAX BRUCH.

Max Bruch

Max was a German composer who has a couple of hundred compositions to his name, but is best known for his violin concertos which have become a staple on the concert circuit. That is especially so of his Violin Concerto No 1 in G Minor. Here is the third movement.

♫ Bruch - Violin Concerto No 1 (3)

MAURICE RAVEL is best known (and quite often only known) for Bolero.


Like every composer, there’s more to him than a single composition. In 1904, the French musicologist Pierre Aubry was preparing a lecture on Greek folksongs. He enlisted the help of Greek-born fellow musicologist and critic Michel-Dimitri Calvocoressi to provide some examples. He, in turn, asked his friend Maurice to orchestrate some of the chosen songs.

One of those is Chanson des cueilleuses de lentisques (Song of the Pistachio Harvesters). It’s sung by the marvelous soprano SARA MACLIVER.

Sara Macliver

♫ Ravel - Chanson des cueilleuses de lentisques

NICOLA FRANCESCO HAYM was an Italian jack of all trades.


He went to London when he was in his early twenties and stayed there for the rest of his life. He took a job as a theatre manager and also wrote the words for operas by various composers, including Mr Handel.

Besides that he composed music of his own, was an artist and a literary editor who wrote about linguists, art, politics, poetry, geography, mathematics and astronomy.

Nic is the only composer I’ve come across who was a numismatist, being an expert on early Greek and Roman coins. He wrote several trio sonatas, one of which is the Trio Sonata No. 1 in D Minor, Op. 1. This is the fourth movement.

♫ Haym - Trio Sonata No. 1 in D Minor Op. 1 (4)

PYOTR TCHAIKOVSKY has a suite called “The Seasons”, a bit like Haydn, Vivaldi and others.


This is a misnomer as it’s really just the months of the year. These are twelve solo piano compositions and are quite lovely, gentle pieces; a million miles away from his bombastic works. The one I’ve included is June. It’s played by Vladimir Ashkenazy.

♫ Tchaikovsky - The Seasons (June)

CAMILLE SAINT-SAËNS was a French composer, organist and pianist.


He was a child prodigy and performed major works in concert before he was a teenager. He was a bit of a polymath as he excelled in philosophy, literature, Greek and Latin, mathematics, astronomy and archaeology.

Camille is probably best known for rather over the top works like the Organ Symphony (No. 3) and Danse Macabre.

His Cello Concerto No. 1 in A minor, Op. 33 is not in that mold; it’s a lot quieter than those. This is the second movement with Ha-Na Chang playing the cello.

♫ Saint-Saëns - Cello Concerto No. 1 in A Minor Op.33 (2)

There is an oratorio that GEORG HANDEL wrote three times.


Well, he revised it twice would be more accurate. The first time he wrote it in Italy and called it Il trionfo del Tempo e del Disinganno (The Triumph of Time and Disillusion). The next time was when he had moved to London and he called it Il trionfo del Tempo e della Verità (The Triumph of Time and Truth).

The third version was in English and just called The Triumph of Time and Truth. An aria from that is called “One Band Of Pleasures Keeps Watch Over My Thoughts”.

♫ Handel - One Band Of Pleasures Keeps Watch Over My Thoughts

I’ll end with FRANZ DANZI whose name might give away his origins. He was born in Germany to an Italian cello player.


Franz took after his dad and took up the cello himself. He also wrote music and was a conductor of some note at the time. His compositions tended to favour chamber music – duos, quartets, quintets, septets and the like.

What we have today, however, is a bigger work. It’s the Concertante in B-flat major for flute, clarinet & orchestra, Op. 41, the first movement.

♫ Danzi - Sinfonia Concertante in B-flat major for flute clarinet & orchestra Op. 41 (1)

INTERESTING STUFF – 17 August 2019


While it is high summer in the United States and other northern hemisphere countries, it is winter in Australia. One source tells me snow is an uncommon occurrence down under. Another source says it's not so rare.

Either way, here is, to me, a video of an odd occurrence, kangaroos frolicking in the snow.


There is, in physician examining rooms in the U.S., a pain chart asking the patient to choose, on a range of one to ten, how much pain he or she is having that day. I never know what number to choose because I don't know what my upper pain limit is.

This is a much more evocative and useful pain chart (she said, smiling). My friend Frank Paynter was the first of several people to send it.



Keep your eye on the yellow marble as it navigates a puzzle path of contraptions, the YouTube page tells us. The whole thing is set to Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.

The creator says he went through about 300 failed recordings in a month before he got it right.


I'm going to break precedent (and maybe law) by publishing this entire, but very short, story here. No one should need to click around the web and back to read such a fine and funny piece of journalism.

There is no byline. It is an AP story via The Guardian. Your goal is the last sentence but don't spoil it for yourself by skipping down to the bottom. Read the whole thing – you'll appreciate the ending more.

”A patrol car was struck by a falling bear in northern California last weekend, causing the vehicle to crash and explode.

Authorities said a Humboldt county sheriff’s deputy was driving on State Route 96 on 3 August, answering a report of a drug overdose in the community of Orleans, when the bear fell or jumped onto the car, apparently from a steep embankment.

The bear smashed the hood and windshield. The patrol car hit an embankment, rolled onto its side and burst into flames.

The deputy managed to escape without serious injury.

The fire was contained to about half an acre but the car was gutted.

However, the California department of transportation stated: 'Don’t worry, the bear also fled the scene.'”
Photo of the mangled police car at The Guardian.


There is a place in Minnesota that has the feel of small town America, but if they want to get to the Northwest Angle, travelers have to leave the U.S. and go through Canada to get there.

Lee Cowan explains a geographical quirk along the northern border of the U.S. From CBS Sunday Morning.


As YouTube explains,

”Scientists on the Nautilus team ran into a mysterious creature on a recent expedition in Hawaii. The strange fish was found nearly a mile beneath the surface." From National Geographic:


Russian artist Andrey Scherbak creates fanciful “photos” showing what the world around us would be like if house cats were much larger than they are. Here are two:



There are many more at Bored Panda and 150 of Scherbak's images at Instagram.


All I will tell you is what TGB reader Joan McMullen said in an email when she sent a link to this video: “It's not what you think.”

* * *

Interesting Stuff is a weekly listing of short takes and links to web items that have caught my attention; some related to aging and some not, some useful and others just for fun.

You are all encouraged to submit items for inclusion. Just click “Contact” at the top of any Time Goes By page to send them. I'm sorry that I won't have time to acknowledge receipt and there is no guarantee of publication. But when I do include them, you will be credited and I will link to your blog.

Happy 94 Years, Millie Garfield

Actually, Millie's birthday is Sunday so we're a little bit early but when someone is in their tenth decade, several days of celebration do not seem excessive to me. So...


In recent years, Millie has spent less time with her blog, called My Mom's Blog presumably because her son, Steve, helped put it together, and then Millie was up and running on the internet in 2003, a year before I was.

We met soon after I started Time Goes By which means we've known one another for about 15 years. For several of those years, Millie produced an ongoing video series for her blog called “I Can't Open It” - something a lot of us have problems with and which became an internet classic.

Here is one of them. Her son Steve is the videographer:

These days you'll more frequently find Millie on Facebook. Here she is having a beer with Steve and his wife Carol last week at Riverwalk.


Here's another photo from Millie's Facebook page with Steve and his wife, Carol. Have you noticed that this family eats a lot?


As we have done for many years on Millie's birthday, we add up our years. So if you take Millie's 94 and my 78, we get 172. Add yours to this total or the last total in the comments.

Yes, it will probably get all mixed up and not exactly right but that's the fun of a party – just giggle and move on.

Meanwhile, let's all sing Happy Birthday to Millie and her amazing 94 years. I love you, Millie.

The Price of Murder-Suicide and Medical Tourism

On Monday's discussion here about end-of-life choices, the cost of the drugs used for physician-assisted dying - $3,000 to $4,000 in Oregon – was mentioned. (Thank you all who posted ideas about assistance with the price.)

Soon after that story was posted Monday morning, two related stories popped up while I was reading the news of the day.

The first is short and terribly sad. As the Washington Post reported, Brian S. Jones, shot his wife, Patricia A. Whitney-Jones, age 76, in the head then shot himself three times.

”[The] Washington state couple whom authorities believe died by murder-suicide reportedly left several notes expressing worry that they could not afford treatment for the wife’s severe medical issues.

“The husband, 77, called 911 shortly before 8:30 a.m. Wednesday and told the dispatcher that he planned to shoot himself, the Whatcom County Sheriff’s Office said in a statement. The man said he had written a note for the sheriff with information and instructions.

“The dispatcher tried to keep the caller on the phone, according to authorities, but the man said, “We will be in the front bedroom” and hung up.”

Did you notice that first sentence in the quotation, “...worry that they could not afford treatment for the wife's severe medical issues.” We'll get back to that in a moment.

The second story has a happier ending but still leaves one wondering.

According to Kaiser Health News, on a Saturday morning in July this year, 56-year-old Donna Ferguson from Ecru, Mississippi, met Dr. Thomas Parisi, an orthopedist from Madison, Wisconsin, at Galenia Hospital in Cancun, Mexico, where he performed a total knee replacement on one of Ferguson's knees.

A few hours later, while Ms. Ferguson was already working with a physical therapist, Dr. Parisi flew home to Wisconsin. Ferguson stayed another 10 days at a nearby Sheraton hotel for physical therapy at the hospital twice a day.

”Parisi, who spent less than 24 hours in Cancun, was paid $2,700, or three times what he would get from Medicare, the largest single payer of hospital costs in the United States. Private health plans and hospitals often negotiate payment schedules using the Medicare reimbursement rate as a floor...

“In the United States, knee replacement surgery costs an average of about $30,000 — sometimes double or triple that — but at Galenia, it is only $12,000, said Dr. Gabriela Flores Teón, medical director of the facility.

“The standard charge for a night in the hospital is $300 at Galenia, Flores said, compared with $2,000 on average at hospitals in the United States.

“The other big savings is the cost of the medical device — made by a subsidiary of the New Jersey-based Johnson & Johnson — used in Ferguson’s knee replacement surgery.

“The very same implant she would have received at home costs $3,500 at Galenia, compared with nearly $8,000 in the United States, Flores said.”

Ferguson's Mexico surgery was set up by a new-ish organization, North American Specialty Hospital (NASH), based in Denver.

”[NASH] has organized treatment for a couple of dozen American patients at Galenia Hospital since 2017.

“Parisi, a graduate of the Mayo Clinic, is one of about 40 orthopedic surgeons in the United States who have signed up with NASH to travel to Cancun on their days off to treat American patients.”

Two big things jump out at me about these two stories, especially as 20-odd presidential candidates in the U.S. are arguing over their individual flavors of “Medical for all”:

What is wrong with a country that sends its patients AND its physicians to another country for treatment at a reasonable price?


What is wrong with a country in which an aged couple sets up a murder/suicide pact because they cannot afford medical treatment?

Both of these questions fall into the same category as Monday's question about the high price of the drugs in Oregon's physician-assisted death program.

Any of us could find ourselves in these predicaments. Something is very wrong.

A TGB READER STORY: Poutine to Padre, Day 7

A road trip from Montreal to San Padre Island, Texas, by Brenda Henry

Bus number 50 goes straight into the heart of Memphis.

It was on this day we observed one random act of kindness after another.

We board the bus, pay and sit.

Three stops later, a senior man climbs aboard. He has no money but the driver welcomes him. The man takes a side seat. His hair is half matted, half sticking up like he slept rough.

Call him Mister.

His bottom lip protrudes and trembles. He's wearing a faded red sweater with a hole in one elbow, baggy tan pants and worn down work boots without laces.

Mister doesn't look at anyone. He's in his own world.

He mumbles to himself, straightens his body on the seat, looks around.

The bus stops, more passengers enter.

There is something arresting about Mister. I quietly observe him and wonder who he is and what stories he could tell me.

He digs deep into his pocket, pulls out a small stick of deodorant, removes the top and meticulously rolls the deodorant all over the outside of his clothing- arms, chest, armpits and the full length of his pants.

He puts the cap back on the deodorant, places it back in the same pants pocket, removes a tiny tube of toothpaste, uncaps it, squeezes out a blob and uses his index finger to rub it all over the inside of his mouth.

Mister smiles at nobody, stands up, takes a plastic comb out of his other pant pocket, rakes it back and forth through his tangled hair, smiles and moves to a different seat up front as if he's alone.

The bus stops. A well-dressed senior woman climbs in carrying two shopping bags and her large purse. She sits, arranges her bags and looks around.

Call her The Angel.

Her eyes land on Mister.

The Angel doesn't seem to know him but perhaps she sees something in him - a reminder of her own life.

She leans forward and speaks.

"Hey, hey."

She's talking to Mister.

He doesn't hear her.

She tries again.

"Hey, hey."

Mister hears something, turns his head, looks in The Angel's direction. Is she talking to him?

His face says, "Who would even want to acknowledge me?"

That's when The Angel reaches into her purse, takes out some dollar bills, folds them, gets up, walks over to Mister and hands him the money.

Do they know each other?

We are certain they do not.

Mister takes the money as if he can't believe this is happening.

He thanks The Angel.

She goes "uh huh" and walks back to her seat.

Three stops later, he disembarks.

The driver lets us off in the Memphis bus terminal.

We walk the streets.

We walk the streets.

We listen to the blues.

I write.

Memphis is the grandmother of the blues
Her life story transcends time
Her fingers are bent, her playing hands hardened

Every line in her face is a testament
She sings the truth about life
She can make you laugh until you cry

She can make you wail like a baby

Her words force you to take a cold hard look at yourself
She reads your soul like an angel

You can't bull shoot her

She will sit near you on a public bus in Memphis
And hand you her last dollar

And you will take it

Because she knows you better than you know yourself.

* * *

[EDITORIAL NOTE: Reader's stories are welcome. If you have not published here or not recently, please read submission instructions. Only one story per email.]

“Man Plans and God Laughs”

As I mentioned in a post last week, I've been through a lot of pain over the past few weeks. It's much better now but was the worst I had felt during this cancer odyssey since recovery from the Whipple surgery in the summer and fall of 2017.

When I hurt or am sick, my mind wanders to the dark sides of life - in this case, frequent thoughts about when, with a terminal illness, it is time to go. Is it now?

My palliative care physician tells me his patients invariably know when that time arrives - time to stop treatments and for some, to invoke Oregon's Death with Dignity law.

But even with that, my mind was also its usual busy self: things to know, books to read, people to talk with, blog posts to write. Etc.

Stepping back from myself, I could see – if I make it my choice - it was not yet time to die.

When you are healthy and particularly if you are also young, you think you know what you're talking about when in reality, you will come to see one day that you were fooling yourself.

Well, maybe not you, but certainly me. All those big life questions I thought I had so diligently explored over years and, as much as possible, answered? Piffle.

Even with plenty of evidence to the contrary (all but one in my family died of cancer), somehow I believed that I would be healthy and hale until, at an advanced age, I would die quietly in my sleep.

As it turns out, according to a quick trip around the internet, the number of people who do so is hard to calculate and often – especially with elders - the result of underlying disease which may or may not make death while sleeping a “quiet” experience.

Further, until I sat down to make some notes for this post, I had not realized that for many years – decades, to be truthful - I also believed in a contradiction: I had come to see death as life's last great adventure and I wanted to experience it while awake, not in great pain and lucid.

I still do. So what is it? Die in my sleep or die wide awake? You can't have both.

When I moved to Oregon nearly a decade ago, I was pleased to know that along with seven other states and the District of Columbia, physician-assisted dying is allowed by law.

Among other requirements are that the patient be mentally competent, be diagnosed with a disease that will lead to death within six months as confirmed by two physicians, and be capable of administering or ingesting the life-ending drug without assistance.

The drug, I am told by a physician, puts the patient into a coma within a few minutes and death results shortly thereafter.

How is it I didn't realize before that I cannot be awake and lucid enough to experience the main event and also be in a coma? Not that I know what goes on in anyone's mind while in a coma but I doubt I would be aware in the way I want to be during the last moments of my life.

What a dilemma – because I don't want to die in an anonymous bed somewhere in a “facility”, but at home amongst my stuff and one or two or three loved ones. If you let a disease run its course, there is no way to guarantee that.

Which is where I'm stuck.

And here is another thing I hadn't considered: The drugs, acquired via doctor's prescription, cost between $3,000 and $4,000 – and I doubt Medicare Part D pays for them. That pretty well guarantees physician-assisted death is a privilege reserved for the middle and upper classes.

Do the inequities in American life actually follow some people to the grave?

An old Yiddish saying tells us, “Man plans and god laughs.” No kidding.

ELDER MUSIC: Felice and Boudleaux Bryant

Tibbles1SM100x130This Sunday Elder Music column was launched in December of 2008. By May of the following year, one commenter, Peter Tibbles, had added so much knowledge and value to my poor attempts at musical presentations that I asked him to take over the column. He's been here each week ever since delighting us with his astonishing grasp of just about everything musical, his humor and sense of fun. You can read Peter's bio here and find links to all his columns here.

* * *


FELICE AND BOUDLEAUX BRYANT wrote several thousand songs, somewhere between three and seven, depending on who’s counting. Here are a few of them that you might recognise.

People of a certain age (that is, round about mine) tend to associate them with the Everly Brothers, as they wrote a bunch of songs for them, most of which were big sellers. There’ll be a few of those today.

The Oxford American Magazine summed up their writing style best...

”If you’re drawn to musicians who salvage their art from tragic romance, addiction, and other personal wreckage, you may as well turn elsewhere now.

“The lives and joint career of Felice and Boudleaux Bryant, Nashville’s first full-time, non-performing songwriters, offer few attractions for the rubbernecker. By all accounts, their 42-year marital and creative partnership was nearly idyllic, as Boudleaux acknowledged when asked to explain the optimism of many of their songs: 'I suppose it’s because we’ve had such a very wonderful relationship.'”

Felice said,

“'We started writing for the hell of it, for fun,' Boudleaux said, 'and after about 80 songs we thought, this looks like it could be a good thing. But we originally wrote them for our own amusement.'”

I’ll start, appropriately, with the EVERLY BROTHERS and one of their big hits.


As mentioned above, they wrote a lot for the Everlys, and this will not be the only song of theirs. It’s Wake Up Little Susie.

♫ Everly Brothers - Wake Up Little Susie

By 1960 there was a fad for teenage tragedy songs. Not just the teenagers (Tell Laura I love Her, Teen Angel and so on) but others as well (by Marty Robbins, Patti Page etc).

The Bryants wrote a song to send up this phenomenon, called Let’s Think About Living and BOB LUMAN was the singer who turned it into a considerable hit.


Bob was from Texas and lived in some wonderfully named towns early on – he was born in Blackjack, grew up in Nacogdoches and went to high school in Kilgore. His father was a good amateur musician and encouraged young Bob.

His first band included the great guitarist James Burton, before he played with Ricky Nelson, Elvis, Emmylou Harris and anyone else who wanted the very best. Anyway, here’s Bob with the song.

♫ Bob Luman - Let's Think About Living

BUDDY HOLLY mostly performed his own songs.


However, now and then he’d have a go at someone else’s. This one turned out to be quite a hit for Buddy, Raining in My Heart.

♫ Buddy Holly - Raining In My Heart

Here is our second dose of the EVERLY BROTHERS.


Their song is Sleepless Nights. This was also performed by the Flying Burrito Brothers, a group that contained Chris Hillman, founder member of The Byrds, and Gram Parsons, himself a member of The Byrds for a short time.

♫ Everly Brothers - Sleepless Nights

A few people have recorded the song, She Wears My Ring, but the version I like is by JOHNNY O'KEEFE.


Johnny was the first and best of Australia’s early rock and rollers. He started out as a wild one (a song he wrote and recorded) but like many from that time, mellowed over the years.

This song is on the mellower end of his output, but it’s still evident he’s a rocker when you listen to his voice.

♫ Johnny O'Keefe - She Wears My Ring

Love Hurts was originally recorded by the Everly Brothers. It was later covered really well by Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris. Emmy also did her own version, as have several other performers. One of those is LEO SAYER.


Leo was a bit of a chameleon, changing styles depending on what was popular at the time. However, he always brought a little extra to everything he performed. This one is a little heavy on the celestial choirs and strings but he does a good job.

♫ Leo Sayer - Love Hurts



It seems they were naughty and got banged up in the slammer. However, they don’t want Mary to know about this. It should become obvious to her when they don’t come home for quite some time, or ever, according to the song. Take a Message to Mary.

♫ Everly Brothers - Take a Message to Mary

When SUE THOMPSON had several hits in the early sixties - she sounded to us as if she were a teenager just starting out. We were wrong as she was was well into her thirties at the time.


This isn’t one of the songs of hers I remember from then, but it was written by our pair today, so it’s included. The song is Have a Good Time.

♫ Sue Thompson - Have A Good Time

Doug Dillard, of The Dillards, and Gene Clark, from The Byrds, teamed up to record a couple of fine albums under the name DILLARD AND CLARK.


Doug was a virtuoso banjo player, which will be demonstrated on the song Rocky Top. Donna Washburn is also prominent singing along with them.

♫ Dillard & Clark - Rocky Top

Okay, it’s approaching the last dance of the evening, so grab your sweetie for that last dance. Here are the EVERLY BROTHERS to do the honors.


This is what we used to call a “clutcher hugger”, and we blokes really liked these. I don’t what the gals thought about them. The song is Devoted to You.

♫ Everly Brothers - Devoted to You

FELICE AND BOUDLEAUX may have claimed to be non-performing songwriters, but they did make a couple of albums, so we’ll finish with them.


They’re better than they give themselves credit for as they demonstrate on All I Have to Do is Dream, originally a hit for (guess who?) the Everly Brothers.

Felice & Boudleaux Bryant - All I Have to Do is Dream

INTERESTING STUFF – 10 August 2019


The Museum of Modern Art in New York City owns the footage in the video below and reminds us that in the late 1800s, when moving pictures were new, they were amazing to see:

“'[Today], We live in an environment where there are moving images constantly around us. But in 1897, this was startling and new and completely revolutionary”...Curator Dave Kehr joins the discussion to help us look at the early film with the same awe-inspired, expanded view of the world of its first audiences,” the YouTube page tells us.

Thank TGB reader Chuck Nyren for this.


TGB reader Joan McMullen, who sent this video, says this happens on the Skokomish River near Shelton, Washington, USA. When the river floods, the salmon take short cuts swimming across the road to go upstream to spawn. It happens almost every year.

A commenter on the YouTube page tell us there are signs on the road to warn people: "Danger, Drive Slowly & Carefully, Fish Crossing the Road".


Nothing is more satisfying when I've banged my toe into something hard than a string of invective aimed at the gods who cause these things to happen.

As The Atlantic magazine explains on the YouTube page:

”Swear words are an important part of all languages. In English, words like 'shit', 'cock' and 'bastard' can be used as a curse or an insult and, let's face it, saying them can feel good. Scientists believe swearing has a special place in our brains. This film contains strong language. Obviously."


According to Vice,

”Prior to 1964, books had a 28-year copyright term. Extending it required authors or publishers to send in a separate form, and lots of people didn’t end up doing that. Thanks to the efforts of the New York Public Library, many of those public domain books are now free online.”

You can download these books at websites like Hathi, Project Gutenberg, Standard Ebooks and, often, your local public library. And you can read more about those millions of free, public domain Ebooks at Vice.


Here is what the YouTube page tells us about this bridge. (Inka is the same as the spelling we are more accustomed to in the U.S., Inca.

”Every year, local communities on either side of the Apurimac River Canyon use traditional Inka engineering techniques to rebuild the Q'eswachaka Bridge. The old bridge is taken down and the new bridge is built in only three days. The bridge has been rebuilt in this same location continually since the time of the Inka.

“This video is narrated by John Ochsendorf, professor of civil engineering, Massachusetts Institute of Technology, and produced by Noonday Films.”

Can you imagine doing all that every damned year?


From The Atlantic:

”Sleep is universal in the animal kingdom, but each species slumbers in a different — and often mysterious — way. Some animals snooze with half their brain, while others only sleep for two hours a day (without even suffering sleep deprivation!).


Mental Floss tells us that Walter Chandoha, who died in January at age 98, spent a lifetime, 75 years, photographing domestic cats. Here is my favorite from 1955:


You can see more of Chandoha's cat photographs at Mental Floss. A book of his cat photos, Cats: Photographs 1942-2018, will be published on Monday, 12 August.


TGB Reader Joan McMullen sent this video of Keller Laros removing a fish hook and line from a dolphin who apparently sought out the diver for help.


It's an oldie but goodie from TGB reader Darlene Costner who says she thought she knew how to tell time just fine until watching this video from comedian Dave Allen explaining clocks and time to a young boy.

* * *

Interesting Stuff is a weekly listing of short takes and links to web items that have caught my attention; some related to aging and some not, some useful and others just for fun.

You are all encouraged to submit items for inclusion. Just click “Contact” at the top of any Time Goes By page to send them. I'm sorry that I won't have time to acknowledge receipt and there is no guarantee of publication. But when I do include them, you will be credited and I will link to your blog.

Old Age Really is Not for Sissies

For the past five or six weeks, I've been in a great deal of pain. It's been weird. My joints and various parts of my body ached – often enough to keep me from moving around much.

Getting out of bed and up from a chair was problematic. Not to mention funny if your humor, like mine, leans toward the grim and grotesque: I walked a lot like a crab for 10 to 15 minutes and was grateful there was no one here to see me.

A couple of times the pain was so awful the only comfort was to curl up in bed and weep.

The weird part is that the pain moved around my body. One day my ankles, knees, wrists and upper arms would hurt. The next day it would be my calves, neck, left knee and right wrist. And so on.

Even weirder, until one of my doctors asked me if I'd tried ibuprofen, a pain killer had not occurred to me. Okay, for a majority of my 78 years – 76, in fact, before my cancer was diagnosed - any painkillers in my cupboard were likely to have expired; I hardly ever needed them. Still, how stupid can one old woman be.

The painkillers worked in reducing the pain but not nearly enough to call it a solution. Anyone who's been where I was knows how exhausting constant pain is.

The reason we have such phrases as “one in a million” is that most of the time what happens to me, to you, to others is not singular. In a large number of areas of life, we can relate to one another because our own experiences (good and, in this case, not so good) parallel other people's.

That is the reason I feel okay writing about this – that and the large number of times I have read in the comments here that it helps to know “it” happens to others.

Young and old alike rag on old people for their “organ recitals”. As I think we have have discussed here in the past, there is value in doing this with people in our own circumstance, even when there is not a handy fix.

If we live long enough, there is a constellation of maladies that can afflict us. Pick one. Or two. Or more.

Mine, currently, are cancer and COPD. A couple of weeks ago, one of my physicians thought the drug in the inhaler I was using to help the COPD might be the pain culprit. He ordered an inhaler that uses a different class of drugs.

After a week of bureaucratic chitchat among my insurance provider, the pharmacy and doctor's office that was time-consuming for me and is mind-numbing to recount (so I won't), I finally got the new inhaler. It's a finicky little bugger that refuses to emit the medication sometimes (says the brochure) even if the user seems to have correctly followed the seven steps involved.

So far “sometimes” is an understatement since it happened on only the third day I used it. Printed in minute text, the instructions are nearly unreadable but I did find further notes and the final admonition to “Call your doctor for instructions” if this happens.

As I write this, I am awaiting a return call.

Here's the good news. Although I am still taking an over-the-counter painkiller, I can tell that the pain is diminishing by the day. I can get out of bed and up from a chair with only about 15 seconds of “crab walking” instead of 15 minutes.

As of two days ago, I can raise my arms above my head – important when reheating coffee in the microwave – for the first time in a month or more. What pains remain are not as fierce as in the past weeks.

It appears the doctor, who mentioned that he had never seen the pain side effect from that first inhaler before, pulled a Dr. House out of his hat for me.

It was decades ago that the actor Bette Davis who, in the space of less than a year was diagnosed with and underwent surgery for breast cancer followed in quick succession by several strokes, uttered her famous quip, “Old age ain't for sissies.”

As cogent as it is, it is way overused and I'm tired of hearing it for every hangnail. But these days, I sure do get the point.