K is for Toby Keith—For Writing the Soundtrack of Us

Did you ever have a theme song? I did—for 12½ years. And before that, Don had one from 1993 until the day he died in 2012. Both were born out of Toby Keith’s prolific songwriting, which is why K belongs to him in this month‑long daily A to Z Challenge.

According to Rolling Stone, Keith wrote 45 Top‑20 Billboard hits, “many written entirely on his own,” and who knows how many more he might have pulled out of that magical place where songs come from if stomach cancer hadn’t taken him at age 62. If I could have been a songwriter, I’d want to write in that same slice‑of‑life, down‑to‑earth style. If you liked his brand of testosterone, you couldn’t help liking his honest portrayal of the type—a good‑old boy “looking for love in all the wrong places,” to borrow Johnny Lee’s iconic line from Urban Cowboy.

From Keith’s debut single, Should’ve Been a Cowboy, Don and I became hardcore fans. Anyone who knew Don wasn’t surprised that the song became his theme song. From the time he was a little boy, Don loved western clothes—Stetson hats, Frye boots, boot‑cut Levi’s, Pendleton shirts—none of which were common attire in West Michigan. One of the best gifts I ever made him was a hand‑tooled leather belt and gun holster, his pride and joy on his annual hunting trips to Colorado and Wyoming. When Should’ve Been a Cowboy went into the cassette player, even the dog knew it was time to stop what we were doing and sing along with Toby.

In 2008, Toby starred in Beer for My Horses, the only film he produced and co‑wrote. I wasn’t the only person crazy about the song by the same name from that movie. It was his longest-lasting number one hit—the 2003 version sung with Willie Nelson. Nelson was Don’s favorite country western singer and Keith was mine. But I loved that ong for another reason: it reminded me of one of my dad’s stories about a bar where men occasionally rode their horses inside and the horses got served a pail of beer. My grandfather worked in the coal mines, and my dad—still a kid—would meet him at the mine entrance, grab his tin lunch bucket and run it to the bar, get it filled with cool beer and meet his dad at home. It’s also the same bar where my dad, at ten years old, played piano for a quarter a night. (He was self-taught and played by ear.) Try letting a kid do that today. I’ve often wished I were a cartoonist so I could draw that scene: a grinning little boy at a piano, glancing over his shoulder as a horse comes through the swinging doors.

Keith’s song, I Wanna Talk About Me has a punchy rhythm that begs me to crank it up and sing along when it's on the radio, but that’s not why I adopted it as my theme song. It came out the year after Don’s massive stroke, and as any caregiver of a seriously disabled spouse knows, the first words out of everyone’s mouth are always, “How is he doing?” Don was right‑side paralyzed and had only a 25‑word vocabulary for 12½ years. When the song came out I was falling apart—taking him to therapy appointments four days a week, living in a one‑bedroom apartment while trying to sell our two non‑wheelchair‑friendly houses, incomes gone, the dog was spending too much time alone. And in the middle of all that, I was designing a wheelchair‑friendly house and working with a builder to bring it to life. I’d wanted to be an architect since before my teens, and in a strange twist of fate, Don’s stroke gave me a small taste of that dream.

The first time I heard I Wanna Talk About Me on the radio, I cried, “That’s what I need—someone to ask about me, me, me for a change!” Every time it came on after that, I’d turn the radio up and sing along while Don stared at me like I’d lost my mind. This week, driving home from the sleep lab, the song came on again. I hadn’t heard it in years. And just like that, the universe handed me my muse for the A to Z Challenge.

There are other Toby Keith songs I love, but these three will always have the power to take me back—to the years when I laughed, cried, and lived my life the best way I knew how. Funny, isn’t its, how a few old songs can still tap us on the shoulder and say, “Remember?” ©

 Photo: Don as a little boy 

J is for July Fourth —The Year the Celebration Never Ended

The Fourth of July used to be my all‑time favorite holiday. Family parties with star‑spangled tablecloths and food of every description, parades where half the town’s children marched down Main Street while the other half sprawled along the tree‑lined route—those are pleasant memories now, tucked into the scrapbook of my younger days. Days when Don and I always had someplace special to go. Even before I met him, the Fourth meant a party at my folks’ summer cottage. My good memories of the holiday are endless, including the night I got my very first kiss from a boy—under a fireworks display, no less. Sweet.

Time marches on, and the only thing certain is that nothing stays the same. People move. People die. People divorce. People marry into new family units and spend their holidays elsewhere. The big family parties I loved for so many years petered out decades ago when the ones who organized them left this earth and no one stepped into their shoes. Such is the natural order of things. Whoop‑de‑do. Happy fricking Fourth of July.

If it sounds like I’m feeling sorry for myself, I’m not. I’m gearing up for a walk down Memory Lane to the happiest, biggest Fourth of July of my life—1976, the Bicentennial. Don and I were six years into our relationship then, still acting like kids even though we were in our thirties. I remember that summer as a blur of bluegrass festivals for us and the Ford administration for the nation. It was the year Rocky came out, along with One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, one of our all‑time favorites. Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” topped the singles chart, and Barbara Walters became the first woman to co‑anchor the network news.

And then there was the spectacle: more than 50 tall ships from 20 nations filling the Hudson River for the celebration. A laser beam—via satellite!—cut a star‑spangled ribbon to kick off the nation’s two‑day party. That was a huge technological marvel back then. And for every dignified event, there was something quirky to balance it out—like guys sporting red, white, and blue dyed beards, or the landing pads built for UFOs that never bothered to show up. I was so disappointed!

Don and I threw ourselves 150% into the Bicentennial spirit. We went a little crazy buying ’76 souvenirs, convinced we’d someday get rich off our collection of commemorative coins, china, jewelry, McDonald’s containers, and even dry‑cleaner bags wishing America a happy birthday went into a wooden Anheuser-Busch commemorative beer case. I made myself a long, flowing hippie‑style dress out of Bicentennial fabric, and I loved wearing that thing. When I downsized to move to my CCC, I discovered—duh!—that the souvenirs weren't worth much because everyone had saved them. But remembering our enthusiasm still makes me smile. We even signed a copy of the Declaration of Independence that now sits in a time capsule. That was also the summer several nearby towns opened their 100‑year time capsules, and of course we attended those too. I loved 1976.

I wish we could stay young and carefree forever. I wish people didn’t have to die or move away. I wish our country didn’t feel so fragile right now. But since those wishes can’t come true, I’m grateful for the memories that keep me company. ©

I is for Independent Living—Where Choice Still Matter

I doubt there’s much about living in an Independent Living facility that I haven’t already written about over the past almost five years. But I’m old, and old people are known for repeating ourselves, so if you’re a long‑time reader and have already heard what I have to say today, that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it. 'I' is a hard letter for a lifestyle blogger to work into the A to Z Blog Challenge.

Although now that I think about it, I’m not sure “lifestyle blogger” fits me anyway. AI defines a lifestyle writer as someone who: “...creates engaging content focused on daily living, trends, and personal experiences, covering topics like fashion, wellness, travel, food and home décor. They produce articles, blog posts, and digital content designed to evoke emotions, offer practical advice, and help readers live well.” If that’s the standard, I checked the wrong box when I registered for this challenge. “Memoir Blogger” would have been more accurate. 

If I influence anyone at all, it’s usually about whether (or not) buying into a Continuum Care Community is right for them. It’s a huge decision, and in my opinion it’s one you should make for yourself—not wait until your kids are forced to do it because you shouldn’t be living alone anymore. And since most of these places have waiting lists measured in years, starting early isn’t a bad thing. The sales crew here tell people to begin the process five years before they think they’ll be ready.

So what’s it actually like living in an Independent Living apartment with an Assisted Living and Memory Care building just down the road where you could end up someday? I can tell you what it’s not like. It’s not like the stereotypes in movies such as Queen Bee or The Inside Man. At least not in my experience. And it’s not like high school, despite what one snarky commenter once suggested. I did a lot of soul‑searching after that remark, wondering if I’d been writing about my life here in a way that made us all sound silly or shallow. My reply to her was that the same personality types and situations exist anywhere a large group of people interact—schools, workplaces, neighborhoods. And I gave a silent apology to the residents I’ve never written about: the ones devoted to serious causes, like the man who won a national physics prize for a book he wrote while living here, the woman who teaches OLLI classes at a local college, the woman who founded and works at a church that serves a large immigrant community and the woman who helps out at the humane society's neutering clinic. 

But from that high‑school comment I learned something important: I’m no better than the creators of Queen Bee or The Inside Man. I choose the low‑hanging fruit when I write about my daily activities. Sure, there’s gossip and misunderstandings in my blog. Sure, there are 'portraits' of people I don’t like and people I fan‑girl. But that’s on me—not on the environment I live in. I like using self‑defeating humor where I can and observational humor where I can’t. 

But here’s the bottom line: I love living in an Independent Living facility. I have all the privacy I want, and when I want to be around people, they’re right outside my door. There’s intellectual stimulation—book clubs and serious discussions in my Tuesday night group. And lectures, like the one on Nellie Bly we had this week. We have good food in our restaurant, but when I get a kitchen itch that needs scratching, I have a full kitchen where I can make my own comfort foods. I get to laugh every day. And I love having a maintenance crew and an IT guy as close as my keyboard. 

(Tip: it helps to keep your computer skills up—checking schedules and menus, signing up for events and dinner reservations, ordering take-outs from the dining room, and putting in work orders online keeps you more independent than having to depend on someone else to do these things for you. We do have a concierge who will help with these things BUT my theory is the more independent you are the less likely your family and the management will put their heads together and proclaim it's time to ship you on down the road to Assisted Living or Memory Care.)

Yes, it was hard leaving a house I designed and built, a house full of memories and possessions that were difficult to part with. But I wanted to be the one to make those decisions. I didn’t want to end up like a close friend, who was given less than a week’s notice that her sons were moving her to assisted living. She was so shocked she stayed in her bedroom the whole while they packed her up. When I talked to her last night, she said she was surrounded by things her family thought made her new assisted living space pretty, but few of the things she wanted. 

I’ve heard versions of that story from others here—people whose families strong‑armed them into moving before they were mentally ready, and who had no say in the place chosen for them or the stuff moved along with them. Those are the people who struggle to adjust, who hide in their apartments, who find the transition hard. Finding your tribe and a new rhythm for living in a CCC is so much easier if you do with a free will.

When we’re growing up, when we go off to college, when we get married and move into our own places, we’re generally in control of our own destinies. Moving to an independent living apartment—for me—was just another station along the way. It took several years of visiting places like this before I found one where I wanted to sign on the dotted line. Then another couple of years of purging and downsizing a huge amount of stuff. But I’ve never regretted the decision. Not even once. Independence looks different at every stage of life; this just happens to be the version that fits me now. ©

 Photo: One side of my living area in my Independent Living apartment