Senior Scribbles Unearthed

By Chuck Thurston

They started out as series of “tall tales” shared with a co-worker. These vignettes proved so engaging, enjoyable and insightful that their author was encouraged to find a place to publish them. Soon afterward a newspaper in the mountains of North Carolina began to beguile its readers with the Senior Scribbles of Chuck Thurston. Intended first simply for senior adults in the region, the appeal of the stories spread across the state and among many generations of readers.
Chuck has referred to these marvelous tales as “reminiscences and lighthearted views of life, from one who has spent some time in it.” They are, he confesses, mostly true—embellished only “when the facts as observed needed some more zip.” Though keenly insightful about human nature, history and the vicissitudes of American culture in the last half century, Chuck has no idealistic political agenda or philosophy in his writing. His tales are witty and warm, nostalgic and honest, and above all delightful to read.
What began as a brief series of beguiling stories eventually became several volumes of Scribbles. Senior Scribbles Unearthed is the just the first!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Indigo Sea Press
• Release date: Jun 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781938101557

Book preview

INTRODUCTION

Once upon a slow day in corporate America, my cubical mate and I were discussing tall tales, and he liked a couple of mine well enough to suggest I look for someplace to publish them.

As it turned out, my cellmate was familiar with a small mountain newspaper in Brevard, North Carolina—The Transylvania Times. Who could resist a publishing venue with a name like that? I soon left a message for the co-publisher, Mrs. Stella Trapp, to see if they might be interested.

They were, and for the next 3 or 4 years I sent them what I called my Senior Scribbles. They were published in the For Seniors Only section of the Times and I originally envisioned them as appealing mostly to that audience. They did, however, seem to resonate a little wider.

My writings are stories, reminiscences and lighthearted views of life, from one who has spent some time in it. They are as true and accurate as I remember them to be—which is not to say I haven’t embellished some of them a bit when the facts as observed needed some more zip. A very few are mostly concocted from my imagination, but they have been powerfully influenced by actual events. I am not smart enough to make up stuff like this.

I am not pushing any political, religious or philosophical agenda in these pieces. That is not to say I don’t have opinions on all of those topics. Just ask my close acquaintances. But I ruffle my own and others’ feathers elsewhere.

I want those sneaking up on my age, or growing apace with me, to read and say Gee—I have been through that too...I know just how he felt! If I evoke a knowing chuckle—great. If I can impart a modest bit of wisdom, it’s a bonus I probably don’t deserve, but will gratefully accept.

If you like my stuff, drop me a line! If you don’t—keep it to yourself!

—Chuck Thurston, 2014

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Senior Scribbles Unearthed

This Whole Thing Has Sure Been A Lesson To Me

What’s Going On Here?

Life is a Cabernet

I had my personal doctor for over 30 years before he retired a few months ago. I hooked up with him very early in his career, and late in our relationship, told him I feel a little bit responsible for your education. I should get some credit—perhaps a rebate, of sorts—toward my office visits, since you learned a good deal of your medical expertise working with me!

Always tactful, he replied, That’s true, but I also worked out most of my first mistakes on you, too! That was a sobering thought. I had never looked at it that way.

He was aware of my history of cardiac problems, and said during one check-up, You know, a couple of ounces of red wine every night can be quite beneficial for someone with your medical history. I didn’t need to be told twice.

I had, in fact, noticed a disturbing trend in the past few years, when my wife and I met with other folks our age. Sooner or later the topic turned to our individual health, and particularly, our medicines—what we were taking, how it was working, the expense, the effects good and bad, etc.

It might be a dinner with some pals at a fish house, or a dress up party. Sooner or later, these people would carry on about the things that ailed them, and what they were doing about it.

The people who market our potions know this too. They never sell their products on MTV, for heaven’s sake. Oh no—they want that wrinkled audience watching the evening news. THERE is the place to push your remedies for arthritis, incontinence, and ED—that dreaded affliction of aging Lotharios.

Furthermore, if the advertisers are explicit about what the drug is supposed to cure or alleviate, they are obligated to tell you what the possible side effects are. Here’s where you find out that the elixir that keeps you from having to make four bathroom visits during the night may also make you lose your remaining hair—or something worse. There doesn’t seem to be any justice.

Why isn’t there? Why don’t we get prescriptions for things that we like; for things that leave us feeling cozy and full and comfortable? I realized that I had been waiting for years for my doctor to put down his stethoscope, scan his notes, look at me thoughtfully and say something like:

You are not eating nearly enough strawberry shortcake. I’d up that if I were you, and make sure you get plenty of whipped cream to go with it!

Hmmm...I am going to put you on a bratwurst diet and write a prescription for the new ‘NFL Cheerleaders’ DVD, but I warn you—you may find that it increases your...um...ah...libido to levels you haven’t had in a while!

You will be in real trouble unless you cut out the exercise and start taking a nap every afternoon. And stop that yucky high fiber stuff while you’re at it.

Your lager level is dangerously low. You’ve got to do better to save your hearing. In fact, my office hours are up in a half hour. Why don’t you hang around in the waiting room and you and I will hit the Happy Hour Tavern when I get out of here. I’ll buy!

As I said, I had been waiting for advice like this—and my doctor’s sanction of red wine gave me new hope that medicine had, at last, turned a very promising corner.

I went home, got out my wife’s graduated measuring cup and poured two ounces of red wine in a wine glass. Hmm...kinda wimpy. Well, if two were beneficial, gee—six would be...

About that time a popular commercial was airing on TV. Some heartburn-challenged fellow was announcing to his friends My doctor says Mylanta!

Big deal. I poured a healthy six ounces into my wine glass and hoisted it toward the TV: My doctor says merlot!

By the Numbers Now

Not long ago, I went to the hospital for a routine (always our hope, at least) examination. My wife went along to drive me back from this probing, and they proudly showed us their new patient monitoring system in the waiting room.

Every patient has an assigned number, and those friends and relatives waiting for him can refer to it, to determine his status. Think of the Arriving Flights screen at the airport, where you can tell if Uncle Harry’s flight from Memphis is cancelled, delayed, has arrived—or diverted to Bangor, because of bad weather or worse.

The hospital system had color-coded bars alongside the patient number. Blue meant still waiting—likely shivering in a thin hospital gown in a room cool enough to hang meat. Orange meant that the procedure was underway, and the beloved was likely deep in the arms of Morpheus. Green indicated that the patient was in recovery, and his or her groggy self would soon be released to you.

As I was wheeled in for my turn, I asked the nurse if there was a black bar to let my wife know if I flat-lined during the procedure. The nurse did not laugh and I got dirty looks from the other staff in the area. Evidently this contingency was not planned for.

The staff told us that the number and color bars were put in place for privacy’s sake. No longer would there be the possibility of someone going up to the Missus in the crowded waiting room and announce—not so discretely—that Henry was now out of hemorrhoid surgery. Well, really.

Nowadays, there isn’t much that isn’t covered by some number or code. In fact, Thomas Watson Sr., and IBM got their first big break during the middle of the depression when FDR instituted the Social Security program.

Suddenly, millions of Americans had to be assigned a unique number, and ‘Ol Tom was at the ready with punch card equipment that could record, tabulate and sort all of that data.

The process has never stopped. Where once your street address, home phone number and SSN pretty much defined you, a deluge of identifying digits is now associated with almost every life transaction you are involved in.

Credit card numbers, cell phones, account numbers for every bill you pay…to say nothing of the various pass words and security codes you have to punch in to