Monday, September 30, 2013

Buffalohair: Growing Old 101: Where Does Buzzard Skin Come From?

Growing Old 101: Where Does ‘Buzzard Skin’ Come From?

120px-SanwitDon’t you just hate growing old? Does not happen over night but there is that one moment in your life you discover; “I’m and old buzzard, Shiza!!”. Was it the mirrors reflection of an old geezer running around in a tattered ‘AIM’ tee shirt, rolling a doobie with ‘Going Up the Country’ (Canned Heat) playing in the back ground? Is my spotted pony, that 53′ ‘Jockey Shift’ Harley Davidson, in the driveway actually just a glorified mobility scooter? And whats the deal with all this ‘extra skin’ under my arms? Oh, Oh yeah……….buzzard skin.

Then the youngsters quip:“Yup gramps, you’re like a bottle of vintage fine wine or aged cheese”, I’d hear. Nothing like being compared to rot gut wine and smelly cheese. Why not throw in a green fuzzy piece of stale fry-bread while you’re at it? Oh boy, I feel a lot better knowing I’m almost ready to be harvested and eaten. Maybe I’ll be made into a wafer like in the movie ‘Soylent Green’. That’s where old buzzards were collected then euthanized and baked into tasty green wafers with nutrients left behind by the former host. Rather than cremated or buried, I can choose, smoked, fried or BBQ, screw a casket, I need carry out.  Don’t laugh, we are already eating genetically mutated farm animals chock full of human DNA. Is that considered cannibalism?

Being put out to pasture at ‘Clonazepam Acres Assisted Living Home’ until I’m harvested and made into pemmican for the Winter Solstice  is not my idea of enjoying the golden years. Well youngster, you look like a zit that needs to be popped you frigging roody-poo condescending sidewalk commando. And no, I don’t have one foot in the grave, this size 13 Redwing Boot is on its way up your keester so hold on.

Administering a royal ass kicking is one of the few joys left my old and decrepit body can deliver these days. Granted, dancing around for 30 minutes in fisticuffs is just out of the question, my oxygen level you know. If I waved my arms to much for to long I might take to flight with all this buzzard skin flapping around. I’d rather disenable agent provocateurs apace, before I have to pee or watch ‘Duck Dynasty’ of course.

I used to get carded at restaurants when I asked for the senior citizen discount, sort of like when I was a kid buying booze and smokes. Short of grabbing a wheelchair or walker, waitresses never question my buzzardness anymore, they just want an Indian name. That sort of sucks, congratulations I am officially an old geezer. Suddenly I feel all warm and fuzzy inside or is it some kind of hot flash or something? Don’t ask me, this is my first time being an old buzzard. I lost my owners manual back in the 60′s but I know it’s this frigging buzzard skin that snitches me off age-wise. Screws up my tattoos real bad to. Dragons and eagles look more like worms & pigeons. Skulls & demons now resemble ‘Howdy Doody & Felix the Cat’, and all the other stuff looks like postage stamps and ‘Garbage Pail Kids’. Gawd it sucks to get old.

My long wavy dark hair is turning platinum blond and frizzy like I put my tongue in a wall socket, whats up with that? One alternative is to use that Grecian stuff but gads it turned my homie’s hair into the color of cat urine. I’ve seen dudes with dyed hair and it reminded me of an Elvis impersonator with an oversized hair piece glued to their head. At least I don’t have to comb from the back of my neck over my forehead with all 18 strands of hair. What about that colored silly string looking stuff guys spray on their melons? Guess I should not be so insensitive about hair and going bald. At least bald guys don’t get beaten to death by buzzard skin when strolling through the park on a windy day or gourd dancing at a Pow Wow or social.

I’ll take up skydiving & base jumping and use my buzzard skin as a built in Wingsuit and soar through the heavens like an eagle in flight. Merrily I will fly past towering peaks gliding through the sky in aeronautical bliss. Am I a bird or a plane I ponder, as the wind rushes past my ears. Suddenly I glide into a thicket of cottonwoods and ceder in one tumultuous crash. Branches and twigs snap as my carcass pirouettes out of control through the treetops and onto the forest floor below. Then, in an epiphanous revelation I realize; I have to either buy or pull a ripcord at Walgreens or was that Homeland? Does my Part D cover ripcords and buzzard skin? And no, I was not a bird after all, just another Dreamliner suffering equipment failure. Maybe I’ll pass on aeronautics as a second hobby.

With a growing untapped market filled with old codgers, will the manufacturers of Depends come out with sportier diapers with cool pictures like skulls & cross bones or other spiffy pirate stuff? Flames would be bitchen to sport around in or better yet “David Mann” inspired motorcycle diapers. Indian and Harley Davidson could come out with their own disposable diapers for ‘seasoned’ motorcycle enthusiast. For the elderly art aficionados Van Goug or Rembrandt themed pull-ups and Scrimshaw catheters could be the next rage. Custer and Chivington Depends would be a hot seller on my rez for obvious reasons. Customized Depends could sport pictures of ex spouses, fetid public officials and anyone else who deserves a ‘crap sandwich’. Oh the possibilities…………….

I can see Cabela’s Fall Catalog with sales on camo diapers and buzzardly accessories like balloon tires  and wilderness kits for electric scooters. Prune flavored energy drinks and pureed food stuffs would fill backpacks and camp kitchens. ‘Tanka Bar’ could come out with a delicious buffalo paste treat for the dentally challenged. Possibly toss a few GPS or locator beacons into the mix, just in case one of us old coots forget what we were doing and simply wander off, looking for a place to pee, read the latest issue of Prevention or try to figure out exactly what side ‘AARP’ is on anyway. Ah yes, nothing like spending time in the great out doors. I can almost smell the pine and the cedars as they enjoin the brisk morning air as it intermingles with the sent of fresh coffee brewing,…..and ole Uncle Floyd taking his morning constitutional while arguing with a diaper stealing chipmunk.

The ‘Captain’ might come out with prune flavored spiced rum when it’s obvious there are more of us old geezers then young poop butt sidewalk commandos. Nightclubs will be ‘Rascal Friendly’ and along with a row of motorcycles, a row of mobility scooters will be parked. Tow truck companies should develop a new type of lift when old geezers get buster cruising their scooters, wasted on Gerital shooters. And hopefully in the midst of this senior citizen revival someone will come up with a cure for buzzard skin, gray frizzy hair and bald heads. If we all lived naked there would be no need for diapers, but a pair of rubber boots or moccasins would be in order.

I always drooled profusely, flung feces at passing motorists and embraced dementia so this is not an issue in my case, thank goodness. But coping with buzzard skin has become an ongoing challenge, for vanities sake at the very least. Lifting weights does not seem to cure buzzard skin and running a zillion miles a day only causes turbulence and dust on the mountain trails I traverse. If two buzzard skins pass one another on a trail bystanders can be injured as the buzzards try to avoid slapping each other with their ‘wings of lard’. Bicycles are a particular hazard on mountain trails since buzzard skin has been known to get caught up in the spokes, I hate it when that happens. On the bright side, bears hear you coming way before you get there, “Smokey, Party of three…”, bon appetite.

Ointments, salves, creams, lotions, elixirs and bath salts of every kind did nothing. A dunking in crap smelling volcanic water by some priest dressed in Beavis & Butthead boxers reciting Pee Wee Herman’s, “Mecca Lecca High, Mecca Hiney Ho”, didn’t cure buzzard skin one bit either. To top it all off, out of nowhere hair began to grow on top of my nose and don’t get me started on my new unibrow or the hair that decided to grow in my ears, nose and back. Not just peach fuzz hair but gargantuan monster hair that is all thick, twisted, flat and umm,…..platinum blond. Hell with old age, I’m turning into a frigging Werewolf, or should I say Yeti since the hair is sort of snow colored.

Getting old sucks but there is a cool secret I’ll share. When you see an old timer cruising around, in some cases on a vintage Harley, 9 times out of 10 they are listening to Redbone, The Doors, or Bobby Darin in a cleverly disguised iPod called ‘the brain’. I doubt he or she will pay any attention to you while they are tripping on music and memories, especially if they are reminiscing ‘The Jimmy Hendrix Experience’ in L.A. at the Forum way back in the last century, by cracky. We made it this far so whats the rush? We’ll get back to you after the song is done or our memories disappear, which ever comes first.

When our old and blurry eyes gaze into yours we are not jealous of your youth or anything like that, we are only wondering; ‘if anyone is home’. In fact us old buzzards wonder if anyone is home societally speaking for it would appear the new stewards of this planet suffer acute fecal brain syndrome. In a darkly humorous sense I see a grand comedy from my vantage point, a comedy of errors intentional or not that will haunt humanity until nature sets things straight and the elders of my tribe know its coming. In fact old buzzards from all cultures know this era is doomed to failure because of the callousness, ineptitude and greed that earmarks this time we live. If you don’t see what is going on in society you have buzzard skin for eye lids but the joke is on you because us old buzzards will soon be out of here.

Whether we survive to see the conclusion of this dynamic change or not is of no real importance to us but the seeds we planted are. Sadly many of the young don’t listen to ‘sage wisdom’ from lessons learned in human history and are doomed to repeat therm. One day the knowledge of the past will be lost forever when the witnesses from the last generation are finally gone, buzzard skin and all. Only those who heeded the warnings of their elders and adhered to their traditions will survive the future, lock, stock and tomahawk.

And yes, they will eventually have buzzard skin…

Your Devil’s Advocate


© 2013, Buffalohair Productions. All rights reserved.
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Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Buffalohair: As Prophecy Comes To Pass / Plastic People Party

As Prophecy Comes To Pass, Plastic People Party

frank zappa
Government is the Entertainment Division of the               Military-Industrial Complex”                                        –Frank Zappa
‘Ambivalence and Ignorance’ is bliss and nothing proves this more than watching people pray and cheer at the all mighty stock market. Ironically, as they watch with joy while markets climb to new heights they are still loosing their jobs and homes. If you did not notice, the ever achieving stock markets has only benefited an absolute minority of the population while tossing crumbs to the desperate masses by comparison. ‘The Nick of Time’ will never come to those who need it the most no matter how high the market travels. The bitter irony is that profiteering from foreclosures was partially responsible for the market uptick. In essence people are celebrating profits made from their own demise in many cases and not only in real estate. Life on Planet Pavlov…

Good thing this minuet but wealthy population controls the presses and media because reality sucks for the vast majority of us carbon based life forms. Ambivalence and ignorance should actually be called ‘Stupidity and Political Blindness’. The shear magnitude of fraud being perpetrated by trusted  and beloved government officials is ‘In your face’ and their corporate cronies are laughing all the way to the bank. But like starving chickens in a coup, people scramble to gather the scratch and corn from the farmer. And all the while the farmer is selecting the next fat bird to butcher, just like a Banker. Talk about George Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm’ becoming a Reality TV Show. Someone please hand me the ‘clicker’.
Is this the ‘Renaissance’ of the aberrant and repugnant behavior of corporate hooligans that would dine on their young or start a war if it meant corporate profits? Right off the top it is clear that Renaissance is out of the question since vested corporate interests have already ruled the nation untethered since the murder of President John Fitzgerald Kennedy. You remember JFK, the guy who chose to stand against the Military Industrial Complex and planned to stop the Vietnam War. Well they whacked his brother Bobbie to. Oh well, screw that story, so much for a happy ending for it goes down hill from there.
With corporate dolollies, and the suckers who feed on them, at the helm of the socioeconomic pulse of a nation it should be of no surprise that all is not actually well in Lilliput or the EU for that matter. If all is well then why are cities and townships waging war on the rising tide of homeless people by passing legislation to criminalize their poverty? Sad enough China is buying up all the American’s foreclosed homes. The real criminals are walking the streets waging land grabs & wars for natural resources at the expense of innocent people around the world, some call it murder while others call it genocide. Just label villagers and freedom fighters terrorist, Muslim or Al Qaeda, if they oppose your land grab, then its OK to slaughter their families and community they lived in. Screw trials and the cornerstone of liberty and justice, it’s only collateral damage. That is just messed up.
Sadly its the US citizen that must bare the brunt for the crimes against humanity committed by western corporations in their quest for resources or simply a picturesque place to build a resort or casino, screw the villagers who’ve resided there for eons. They wear grass skirts and eat fish so who cares? Haiti should have been a major red flag in exposing non governmental and governmental corruption of donated emergency relief funds. Billions flowed into this disaster stricken nation only to finance the building of 5 star luxury resorts, just ask Bill ‘Monsanto’ Clinton and George War for Profits’ Bush. Ask these corporate stooges where they spent the money donated to their Haitian charity. America and its leadership were supposed to put the nations best foot forward in Haiti’s hour of need, not a pigs cloven hoof covered in feces. And you wonder why we are spate upon by the world. Dodging loogies, the next Great American pastime.
National leaders have chosen to trump the mortal concerns of innocent civilian populations (even their own) on every continent for vested corporate interests, except Antarctica. Give ‘Global Manifest Destiny’ and its architects, the global vermin elite, time and soon the South Pole will be covered in Walmart bags, penguins would be forced to live in ‘colonies or reservations’ if their meat and hides are not marketable. But chances are corporate thugs would simply have them exterminated like their ancestors did to the noble buffalo in America. Come to think of it, they almost exterminated my people. Fortunately I come from the ‘Dog Nation’ and like our brother the coyote, we still returned. “Arf”, I say as I pee on your Gucci Horsebit Loafers.
‘Plastic People’, circa 1965, is a term I adopted from the late great musician ‘Frank Zappa’ and his band, ‘The Mothers of Invention’. Surely you remember The Mothers of Invention. After all, in the 60′s and throughout their career they were harbingers warning us of the encroaching corporate fascist agenda, the destruction of civil society and basic freedom. So did President Dwight D. Eisenhower but he did not have a rock band. Besides, The Mothers of Invention had a Cheyenne drummer/vocalist, Jimmy Carl Black and us Dog People do stick together. Just remember, it was only a few years since JFK was whacked when Zappa coined the phrase ‘Plastic People’. Kennedy stood in the way of massive corporate profits from the Vietnam War. Fortunately Lyndon and Ladybird Johnson took the helm after the horrific assassination. A vise president and wife who were financially invested in the Southeast Asian War only added intrigue to this tale, especially since JFK was in the midst of ending the war or maybe it was all just a coincidence.
Opps! Lyndon escalated the war, contrary to his predecessors intentions, to the chagrin of a nation and the joy of the *’Plastic People’; the folks who profited from the war through stocks and bonds. Was LBJ the father of Plastic People? And the funny part was the fact politicians on both sides of the isle were profiting from the war regardless of their public flatulations, just like today. Frankly speaking, the Plastic People of Zappa fame have taken over and the wars they’ve spawned are carbon copies of the Vietnam War with regard to profiteering from death through frugal investments in the military industrial complex. What pisses me off is that many idealist hippies ended up becoming Plastic People after all. They must have only been into all that protest stuff to score chicks and get free dope, now they rule corporations. Things have not changed since ‘Nam’ other than location and the excuse for a lucrative war for its all about the money, bada bing, bada bang, bada boom, capice?
Win, loose or draw, select investors always win with a stacked deck of cards as stocks soar and portfolios grow with every high tech multi million dollar rocket volley or shipment of vehicles to replace the ones destroyed by IEDs. The Plastic People party on the bones of their fellow countrymen & women who were in the military using expensive hardware, munitions and ultimately loosing their lives so elitists can have platinum toilet seats, eat GMO free food and frolic in blood money they acquired from crimes against humanity. The smell of absolute greed has become the stench that fills hallways where the sweet fragrance of liberty once wafted. In reality the Plastic People are nothing more than lemmings who will purposely march to their own demise for the corporate bottom line. They will follow their false G*D as he lures them along with a chunk of funny yellow metal, like a rat to cheese.
The cool part is the fact this is also a part of prophecy from dogmas and ideological principals from around the world. Its just a real suck time to be a good person and a frigging nice guy, gads! (Grits Teeth) If you had your ducks in a row spiritually speaking and comfortable with our true spiritual reality then all this stuff is ‘nothing but a meatball’ since you already know the deal. What deal? Surely if you’re spiritually inclined and already made that crucial spiritual connection with good guys and did not pee all over yourself praying to that cretin false G*D, you would know what I am talking about. Global vermin are supposed to have their heyday and languish in their ill gotten goods, blood money and stolen land for it is also a sign that their days, including the days of their false G*D, ‘Mork’ are numbered and there is nothing they can do to alter their destiny. Pay attention boys and girls for our technological Achilles tendon will soon be severed dealing a fatal blow to technocrats everywhere, including Mork and his merry band of buttheads.
Corporatist thugs watched in loathsome glee as innocent people were killed while being used as human shields in wars spawned by them but soon their false G*D will use them as shields when his mortality is reveled. Butt Cracker Mork and his paranormal chums are not G*Ds, just pseudo terrestrial douche bags who bedazzled some very ignorant people a zillion years ago. These dummies have been killing in the name of their false G*D ever since, how far beyond stupid is that eh? Don’t matter, who, what, when, where, how and why, their days are numbered and it will manifest itself in absolutely every aspect of life we all enjoin. We have blood on our hands and are guilty of complacency at the very least, and I sure was no cherry during my ‘goon’ years. So don’t feel like the ‘Lone Ranger’ writhe with guilt & ‘Original Sin’ and I don’t mean that lame movie, holay! What were you thinking John? Tonto means ‘moron and fool’ in Spanish. Or was it your intent to berate natives for your corporate handlers? Jump through the hoop Johnny, jump through the hoop, gads.
Everyone will get a taste of the crap sandwich retribution will muster as nature flexes her might in ways yet to be discovered or ignored by our collective of alchemists and politically motivated fraudsters with pocket protectors. Agenda based environmental shenanigans by all parties, good and bad, will disappear as survival takes center stage in our daily activities while we scrounge for food and warmth just to stay alive. Nature will reign supreme over all of life like a dominatrix with a dungeon full of slaves. The measure of pain we endure will be reflective of the pain we’ve distributed in our lifetime. Gads, that’s going to leave a mark, in my case anyway. Yup, like they say on the streets, “What comes around, goes around”. Mans existence will be known for what it actually is, a tiny hemorrhoid but a royal pain in the ass none the less.
There is no way man or false G*D can physically prepare enough for what is in store for them and their lack of a positive spiritual connection or conduit to the spirit world is their death nil regardless of all the toys money can buy and gizmos Mork and his team try to conger to line their underground habitat. Funny how ‘False G*D Mork’ needs technological devices, advanced as it is, to putter around and stuff. He and his fat head chums are just as screwed as us when it is all said and done. Hmm, funny how prophecies foretell of these boneheads and how they would be diametrically opposed to spirituality, prophecy and its ultimate conclusion. Guess they have issues foretelling their demise for some reason. The Plastic People will know in their hearts my words are all poppycock and their Frisbee Flying, B.S. Artist, False G*D, ‘Mork’, is ‘Da Man’, how far beyond stupid is that? Actually it’s not stupid, it’s prophecy…
For all you spiritual types who walk your talk with absolute faith within your respective dogmas and ideological principals, yup it’s all happening and its not your imagination. You know, spirits buzzing around, but just remember they were always there, only now some people are beginning to see them. Others will follow and eventually spirits will be hard to ignore. So don’t get your panties in a bunch because some plastic spirits are talking smack in your ear. They are just pissed that you are aware of their lameness and the fact they are all mouth who needs fear to control spiritually challenged humans.
Absolute faith within your respective dogma or ideological principal is the impenetrable bond between you and what ever you call the creator. Its a spiritual 911 x 10 since you don’t need to dial when an emergency occurs. You’ll get used to the whole spiritual being deal in a practical sense provided you don’t pee all over the furniture in the process and actually follow the tenets of your respective dogma or ideological principal. If not, buy some plastic furniture protectors and get over it or you’ll end up with the Plastic People.
For all you Plastic People and your Plastic Galactic Chums; enjoying your plastic party while you still can but watch out where the huskies go, and don’t you eat that yellow snow.
*Plastic People Lyrics

Your Devil’s Advocate
© 2013, Buffalohair Productions. All rights reserved.
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Thursday, September 12, 2013


shared March Against Monsanto's photo.


How about another slap in the face to the American public?

The controversial rider known as the "Monsanto Protection Act" has been included in a House appropriations bill that would fund the government through December."

Laymen terms: The Monsanto Protection act has been quietly extended!!! WTF?

"To date, no court has ever held that a biotechnology crop presents a risk to health, safety or the environment," Jon Entine, executive director of the Genetic Literacy Project, wrote in an April 2 article for Forbes.


We have to inform the public. We have to use this internet technology to our benefit and spread this information so that people start waking up.

The only way we will hold GMO accountable for ailments rising in our human population is if enough human beings know what it is, and what it is capable of.

Yet another blow to our cause, but we promise if nothing else, the controversial film Santo is and has been making waves in the community and its pledge to us is that it will expose the criminal minds behind the technology of GMO and the power of our government protecting them.

We applaud Santo team for its continued efforts in exposing the truth through its research and ask you to help support the film we know will bring great awareness to this devilish GMO landscape.

This is a situation where knowledge truly is the power.

With only 20 days left in this dyer important campaign we ask all of you Please visit this page now and Join the team of dedicated investigative film makers making a difference for us all:

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

Buffalohair: Caring For The Elderly: An Inside Story / pt 2.


Caring For The Elderly: An Inside Story, pt 2.

Norman with his wife Ramona in the background, their last photo together

I was well aware of my step-dad’s issues such as his diaper deal and pissing in bed but I was more concerned with his bi-polar disorder or what ever the politically correct term is these days. The last 2 years were writhe with incidents where the ole boy would call the ambulance ‘for a ride’ or complain because he thought his bowel movement was not sufficient. The list of antics was beyond limits and harmless for the most part but 911 authorities were less than amused.  If being a senior citizen with a loaded diaper in public were a crime, I guess he would have been a wanton criminal but to us he was just Stormy Normy or Bam-Pa to the grand kids.

Other than being razzle dazzled from staying at the nursing home for a couple weeks and the absents of his bride of 54 years, ole Norm was none the worse for wear. Well he did have a score card at the home and failed miserably to conform to their regulations. Frankly the old Scotsman was never much on authority anyway so it was of no surprise to learn of his antics whilst I was away. In any event the old bird was more than ready to be liberated and made a bee line for the car, before anyone changed their minds…lol.

Once at home we established a schedule likened to mom’s routine. This is when I noticed my mom’s complex time table to follow whence Norm woke up in the morning. If she planned to get his bed clothing washed and ready for the following evening as well as wash down the bed everything hinged on the day beginning promptly at 6 am, Ten hut! Norm would be up and chipper demanding to get out of his urine soaked bed.  He would be hollering down the hall way, “Ahoy, Ahoy, I’m taking water mid-ship”. In land lubbers terms: “Yar, I pissed me bloody bed aye”. Of course, a morning shower was always in order, and that needed to be done before 7- ish. After all, breakfast was the order of the day whence Norm was out of the shower and all ‘shiny’.

Yup, Ole Norm was our ‘Incontinental Human Sprinkler/Manure Spreader’ and needed to wear a diaper 24/7 for at least the last 3 years. The Ka Ka Drill: For my mom and I, it was an occupational hazard since we chose to keep our Norman rather than send him away. So he crapped his britches, he owned the pants he was wearing as well as the carpet he crapped on. Surely working ¾ of a century bought him a little slack in life where he could crap himself once in a while without being sent to a nursing home. Granted, he also had emotional issues that dated back to his childhood where English/Saxon boarding schools used to deliberately beat the devil out of Scottish & Irish kids as a ‘Rule of thumb’ with a ‘cat of nine tails’, holay!

The ole boy was still haunted by the absolute prejudice the Brits bestowed the Scots back in the early 20th century. This made a lasting impression that haunted him his entire life, and the tales he told reflected the barbarity and racial hatred back then in Jolly Old England. Norm was not a fan of the ‘Royal Boils’ as he called them. Apparently the Crown has and always will be an equal opportunity hater and now the Crown has turned on the Saxons, “Hey Liz, your Teutonic is beginning to show”, I should yell when I see Frau Queen Elizabeth’s royal entourage. Course feces laden projectiles also comes to mind eh. I lovingly call them ‘Maggie Pies” for dubious reasons, but that’s another story, “Tiocfaidh Ar La!”, eh…

Norman’s family was summarily tossed off their ancient island homeland by the British Crown decimating families, destroying their way of life, culture and erasing them from the annals of history. “Alba gu bràth!” (Scotland Forever), Norm would say whenever Scotland was mentioned. He was a walking time machine & witness since you could ask him about anything that occured on any specific day for the last 80 years. In a moment, for instance, you would be whisked back to 1937 and he will tell you what gruel he was eating at a boarding school or the news of the day and the general public opinion. His uncanny ability to have total recall of events a bazillion years ago made him a priceless resource and a wealth of knowledge indeed.

By and large Norm was a good egg, went to semenary school back in the 50′s and I found it quite refreshing to discover that the biblical teachings of his era were of love and honesty, not of hating Muslims and killing for God and Corporation. Norm spoke of the ‘era we live today’ many times in the past and I know he was eager to see the next round of events as prophesid within his dogma. We shared many visions and core moral & spiritual concepts. His knowledge of the Bible and Christianity as a whole was equally unsurpassed. He could resite passages as they pertain to global events with a clear and uncontaminated perspective that is simple to grasp, no decoder ring needed here boys and girls. His idea of Christianity was to emulate and walk in Jesus’s foot steps, not cast them in gold then kill in the name of his father for more gold. We both agreed we are living the time of his ‘Anti-Christ’ and my ‘Time of Change’.

So here we are several weeks along and Norm is getting up and washing himself, with a little assistance. It’s more like a Burmese Buddhist Water Festival since he is trying to scrub one way and I’m trying to blast all the big chunks off, ew ew ew. It’s no biggy since I dress in a homemade slicker to get wet in so it all works out. He gets showered, all Spic & Span shiny and clean then it’s to the livingroom and HIS coveted chair. I get breakfast done, bathroom washed down and get all the laundry washed then hung out to dry, two loads. Dryers use way to much energy for us and the sun is still free. Then at 11am I get a break, my mom did not tell me that part. Gads, in about an hour I will need to start preparing supper, gather and fold cloths, make the bed then ‘Check & Change’ ole Norm for ‘seepage’, hopefully by 2 pm or so, then the cycle begins for the evening meal, C&C and the whole nine yards till bedtime and hopefully Norm had a pleasant and dignified day.

I even became a ‘Messenger of Romance’ between these two elderly love birds. Yeah, yeah, yeah it’s all sweet and special but gawd, I have to relay all these special and private words of endearment since I commute to my mom’s hospital. Just glad they were not exchanging ‘photos’ or ‘sexting’, gads. Norman truly missed his wife and It was quite moving to see how strong their bond of love was after 54 years of marriage. He would stare at her portrait and weep, followed by prayer then he would read from his Bible then sing from his old song book. I would join him in the prayer since I was also tied up in knots with worry about my ma ma. After all, she was the one who was ‘officially’ dying from a witches brew of toxic meds and had to be rushed to a hospital. One family crisis at a time boys and girls and someone please turn the channel because there is way to much drama on this channel, holay!

During the days I would call my mom and let her chat with Norman. He would get the biggest kick out of this and they would chat for hours on the telly. When I would hang up the phone Norm always had tears in his eyes because of worry for his bride. He proclaimed when they both were out of ‘this mess’ they would go back to Scotland and this time he would even take my mom in the Chunnel then onto Paris. My mom cared little about being under the English Channel last time, “Me, underwater? No, I don’t think so” she said.

Norm was studying the atlas and plotting their next ‘Grand Vacation’ as he called it. For him, his dream was to take one last ocean journey with my mom to see Paris maybe Rome then stay the remainder of their lives in Scotland since he was still a British subject. The mailbox was filling with pamphlets and package deals from travel agencies all over Europe and USA. For every sight or attraction he discovered in the mailer he had a story. Merry misadventures in Paris and antics in England, Norm had stories from around the world and when my mom got out of the hospital he was going to take her on ‘The trip of a lifetime’. After all, their Passports were current and so were Norman’s dreams.

Weeks roll around to months and I notice Norman is begining to loose motor skills, ever so slightly though, but his appetite was still good and I didn’t have any issue with him drinking enough fluids. Fact is, I think I need a floatation device. One morning after a shower I was dressing him when he acidentally crapped on my head, oh boy. At least it was confirmed he did not need a stool softener and the fecal cream rinse did make my hair more managable, just did not have that fresh clean smell. Personally, I’ll stick to Suave. 

The next week found our Norman deteriorating even further. I had to carry him around the house because he lost the ability to walk. His hands and feet were turning dark red, his toes and fingers were getting contorted to the point he could no longer hold his ‘sippy cup’. His face was getting gaunt and the sparkle was disapearing from his eyes. I really had to consentrate hard when he tried to speak for his speach was very labored and hard to understand. With all the effort he could muster, he thanked me for assisting and caring for him. I told him that I loved him and it was my duty to care for him until mom got back, then he would get back to normal and take that ocean voyage he was planning. At that point I was struggling to hold back the tears because I knew in my heart he would never see his beloved Scotland again in this lifetime.

Previously I bought all of Norman’s favorite foods and made sure to have ample supplies at his disposal. I even got him a bottle of his favorite wine; ‘Ruby Port’. Sadly, he began to reject some food in the begining. Then in relatively quick succession he started rejecting some fluids . He would mumble something about ‘the angels’ and shake his head no. Fortunately a hospice provided critical medical input as well as nurses and doctors 24/7 so I was not completely alone to cope with the growing medical concerns I had. I must have read 30 books on the elderly and all the finite details in caring for them under a host of adverse situations and conditions over the last few years. But nowhere did I find a chapter that taught me how to stop Norman from dying.
As Norm slid deeper into the abyss of transition, he was monitored by professionals, not just me. I made sure to schedule doctors & nurses visits to staggar visits by technicians and other hospice people. Then one day he stopped eating and drinking no matter what I did or prepare for him, he simply stopped and turn to me with his teary eyes then lipped; “I love Ramona”, his wife. I finally got him to eat a few tablespoons full of food and a half sippy-cup of juice. He appeared to be drinking his water bottle a little better than the day before so I saw a glimmer of hope.

The next morning I woke up eager to see how Norm might have progressed. Since he was eating a little and taking some fluids I hoped he would take more food and beverages, then I would not need to call the doc for an intravenus fluid and food fix before the weekend. That was my plan of action for the day if Norm was to weak to rehydrate and eat or at least I thought. As I turned the corner towards Normans bedroom I could hear his labored breathing and he was shaking his head ‘no’. I came to his side and tried to communicate with him but he was not lucid. Suddenly he looked towards me and made a gesture with his atrophic hands towards the ceiling and tried to form words but his lips were quivering so much I could not make out his words.
I went to the livingroom to chat with the nurse on the telly. The nurse was made aware of Norman’s situation and we were in the process of charting the days events when I heard Norman arguing illegibly so I hung up the phone and ran to his side. As I approached his room I could see Norman with both hands out stretched towards the ceiling as if people had a hold of his arms. He was also way up in the bed but in a flash his arms and body flopped back down onto the bed just as I caught him. As I held him I heard his very last breath and his body fell limp. I looked into his eyes and I saw the fire go out in the boiler, as that old Scotsman Norman would say. I kissed his forehead and closed his eyes then I made a prayer within my tradition and within his for his journey back home.

Then as I got up to get his Bible I looked around and told Norman to remember what we talked about when I discussed my near death experience. I saw my body laying on the ground when I almost kicked the bucket so I wager ole Norm was still hanging out with his chums when I was speaking to him. Its not every day a loved one drops dead in my arms so I made every effort to make sure his journey was a good one just in case some douche bag spirit tried to pull some smack on my loved one. You only have one crack at this stuff so I did what I was taught within my tribe when someone crosses over, I pray for their journey & protection and burn some cedar provided there is no oxygen in use. If you don’t check for oxygen, your smudge stick will be more like a sparkler on the 4th of July.

What the @#*&%# was I going to tell my ailing mom in the hospital??  It’s not like I ate the last piece of fry-bread, her husband of 54 years, the love of her life, died on my shift. What a sad ending to their 54 year love affair. The last time Norman saw my mum was a couple months back, he was in his chair watching the news when her and I left for the clinic. Little did I know this would be the last time I would see them both together and little did Norman know that this was the last time he would ever see his wife. The last words he spoke to his wife in person were; “I love you Ramona and please get me some chocolate when you get back”. But sadly, Ramona never returned and now I must inform her that she is a widow.

As for me, I’m dodging the emotional bullet because my job is far from over. I still must make some command decisions about the estate, Norman’s remains as well as some hard decisions about my mom’s grave medical condition. For my mom, her epic struggle for survival has only just begun.

‘Alba gu bràth Norman and forever your memory will reign in the hearts of those who love you’

Your Devil’s Advocate


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Posted by Ann on September 11, 2013 at 11:15 am
Filed under Buffalohair Stories and News, Buffalohair Universe, Buffalohair-Jage Press, Elderly, Health, The Future, The Now  |  Tags:
September 11, 2013
Categories: A good Cause / Showing Love, Our Life, Your Life . Tags: