The Hill, Trump says he ‘aced’ third cognitive exam in defense of ‘perfect’ health
Trump lauds his ‘PERFECT HEALTH’ after report reveals hearing difficulties, skin and vein conditions
GW Bush is the same age as Donald Trump, 79, but GW has moved up a few notches in my estimation compared to Trump. Bush, in retirement in Texas these days, now seems relatively harmless. He paints portraits popular in some circles and has been staying out of politics. Hail to former president GW Bush!
Here are some portraits that Mr. Bush has painted. He has his own particular style.
‘Beyond a Reasonable Doubt’: Jack Smith Testifies to Congress Trump ‘Engaged in a Criminal Scheme’
A Happy MAGA New Year! Trump and allies party down at Mar-a-Lago as polls plummet and he wishes misery on Republican colleagues
Trump Denies Falling Asleep During White House Meetings: ‘They’ll Take a Picture of Me Blinking’
About 40 people dead and 115 injured in fire at Swiss Alpine bar during New Year's celebration
CNN, Plane carrying Maduro and wife arrives in New York
The Nation, Members of Congress Decry Trump’s Act of War on Venezuela as “Illegal Senators and House members accuse Trump and his aides of disregarding the Constitution and lying to Congress.
I certainly hope to live to see the day when Donald Trump is no longer in office, so I can die in peace. I cannot imagine a worse president. I've been racking my brain to think of even one good deed he might have done as president. But so far, I haven't been able to come up with even one single thing. So I simply try to avoid thinking about him as all.
But whenever I log onto the computer, for example just now to write something here, there he is again, just staring me in the face. Or else I find myself staring at his face while he snoozes in a meeting (or, as he says, while just resting his eyes?). The guy does seems to make news, even when apparently fast asleep, completely dead to the world.
Every year for me now is a bonus, which I'd like to be able to enjoy, but that's very hard to do with Donald Trump as the US president.
Especially now at age 87, I simply want to fully live each day as if it were my last, as well it might be. I've already exceeded the current average lifepan of an American woman. Female average life expectancy in the US is now around 81, plus or minus a year or so, depending on how the measure is calculated. The average for males is closer to 76. The male-female age gap grows with each passing birthday, so that by age 100, there are only 30 men left for every 100 women (and not very many of either).
My mothe died at age 92; Dad was 82. Mother's age at death is only 5 years away from my age right now, so I might even make it that far. But beyond that point, who knows? None of us wants to live too long if that means spending years being seriously disabled or ill, especially if in pain. So we might even prefer to just drop dead one fine day rather than go through something like that. But do we actually have a choice?
It's pretty hard these days for a woman my age (87) to ever find a new male partner, provided she really even wants one. Most American men who are my contemporaries already have a female partner, but if a husband should sadly lose his wife, then single women will flock to his door en masse, bringing homebaked pies and even offering to spend the night so he won't feel lonely. The few older widowers I've known don't seem very attractive to me nor are women my age, including me, particularly attractive to them. Taking on a new relationship with an older man would probably mean that a woman, already challenged by her own aging process, will then end up caring for a dying husband.
Living now with my son, I feel I have enough male companionship already. My son will probably bury me right here in Berkeley Springs, or just scatter my ashes in the areas we usually frequent.
Every life tells a story. I've told this next story before, but some time ago, so will tell it once again. My father, born in Stavely, in Alberta, Canada, then met my mother in architectural school in Minnesota. Of their 3 children, I am the eldest. My younger sister lives with her husband and son in Philadelphia and our only brother has died.
But let's backtrack even further to the wheat farm in southern Alberta where my paternal grandmother grew up. Without her, I wouldn't exist today.
My grandmother Florence, sometimes called Flossy, was the yougest of 12 children. Having seen large families in Honduras living without running wanter or electricity, I can only imagine how my family out in rural Alberta coped, thoguh with a much more challenging climate. I can envision the mother of the family heating up hot water on the wood stove so everyone could take a weekly bath, all being immersed in the very same water.
More now about my Alberta forebears. One day when no one else was home, my great-grandparents rode into town to go shopping in their horse-drawn buggy, returning only to find their house, just recently filled with mail-order Sears furniture, burned down to the ground, apparently due to a stray fireplace coal. That terrible loss reportedly affected my great-grandmother even more than all the hardships she had endured during her entire previous life.
The yougest child of my Alberta famaily, my paternal grandmother Florence, had gotten married by then and moved with her 2 young boys (one my father, Leonard) to California, where her husband Andrew was experimenting with building and flying early airplanes. She had already experienced the death of her only daughter. But more tragedy was yet to come.
Sadly, her husband was killed on a California beach in the crash of his own small plane, built by himself and uninsured. The accident occurred after a student my grandfather was teaching to fly suddenly froze at the wheel, thus causing the plane to plunge, as the student reported after surviving, although Grandad himself was killed. My widowed grandmother then found a job in a California department store as a seamstress adjusting clothes for customers there. Her boys, Robert and Leonard, mostly took care of themselves.
Widow Florence was rather good looking, so she didn't lack for suitors. She finally married a man who was rather well-off who needed daily care due to failing health. She inherited his house and property, so her final years were spent in relative financial comfort at last.
RIP, dear Grandmother Florence.
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