On another tack entirely, I went shooting today with The Minions (all four of them!) and we had a ball!  The two Senior Minions ran me out of practice ammo for my 1911s, and we're ready for cooler weather, when the hogs are moving during the day,  the new one (with the Marlin .30-30) is on her second 50-round box of FTXs, and the youngest one tried (once more) to sneak my bird's head Vaquero into her gun case when she thought I wasn't looking.  Of course, this was after she ran through 50 rounds of the "Jenny" loads. 

Gonna hafta get her gun finished, just so I can keep mine!  (People say that I spoil them, but that's not true!  I'm just being nice to them because they'll be the ones to choose my nursing home.)

Thank you!!!!

I always have a great time hanging out with these kids, there's never a dull moment, and they keep me on my toes as far as shooting is concerned.

We've determined that the "second aiming point" on the Burris scopes is pretty much spot-on for a 300 yard zero (we're hitting about three inches high, using the fat part of the duplex reticle , at 300 yards).  It's more a gee-whiz thing than anything practical, since we don't normally see shots on live targets out past 200 yards.  But it's fun to stretch the capabilities of the rifles!

I'm just being nice to them because they'll be the ones to choose my nursing home.)

Or, if your really nice to them, one of them may just decide to spoon feed you and change your diapers themselves.  Beats the heck out of any nursing facility that I've ever been in.   

Or even kinder, bring you a silver pill box with the ticket to a more graceful exit when the time comes and you make the call.   
At least that's what I hope for...

 

Hey, if the day comes that you're reliant on someone else to ensure you change your depends, you can't remember what year it is, and generally are past your "best by" date, I think it's totally acceptable to decide that it's time to get off the merry-go-round if you so choose, hopefully with a little dignity and style.   

I agree.  I also find it telling how a person's 'best if used by' date is often years or decades before their actual expiration date.

Hopefully, I'll have enough grace and wit to punch my own ticket before I reach the point of being spoon-fed and having someone change my Depends.

But the line makes a good counterpoint to people who tell me that I spoil my Minions.

Or even kinder, bring you a silver pill box with the ticket to a more graceful exit when the time comes and you make the call.   
At least that's what I hope for...

If your decedents are decent enough to do that last favor,  you raised em right.

I've got the Smith and Wesson plan as backup, but I'm not keen on someone else having to clean that up.  Still beats rotting slowly from some terminal illness.

I didn't realise suicide was such a celebrated and encouraged action here on WTA.

I'm afraid that I'm not able to support such things.

I don't want people to be in pain or misery, but I still advocate a natural death. I want it to be neither artificially cut short, nor unnaturally prolonged if that prolonging will cause pain, misery, or trauma to the individual.

It's a matter of independence.  When I can't do the things I want to do, when I don't recognize family members, when I can't control my bodily functions or feed myself, it's time to pull the pin.  I don't want my loved ones to have to deal with all the stress and trouble that comes from watching someone you love dissolve into a breathing meat sack.  That's not living, that's just existing.

It's not so much the physical frailty that scares me, it's the indignities that are heaped on you when you get to that point.  I've watched one grandmother and several uncles and aunts go out that way, and I'm sorry, I'm not doing that to my family.

JMHO, YMMV, IRDDU.

And I'm not saying that you're wrong (like the Irishman said, "If I knew where I was going to die, I'd never go near the place!") I'm not ready to check out yet, I figure I've got 20-30 more years left.  But I'd like to leave with a modicum of dignity.

I understand wanting to die with dignity, and I appreciate the emphasis on the lack of being 'ready' to pull the plug  .

It's a rough deal all the way around. Whether they want to go, have stayed with us too long, or failed their attempt, I guess I have a different perspective on the matter seeing as I am fortunate enough to have multiple perspectives that not many get to see.

My grandfather used to lay down a pony keg of apple cider every fall.  It wasn't very big, probably five or six gallons at most.  But he'd tend it carefully, and when it was ready, he'd occasionally get himself a mug full of it, to ease the pains of the day.  My grandmother, on the other hand, was a devout Baptist, and did not hold with anything resembling demon rum.  (Half her Anglo ancestors were ministers, the other half moonshiners.  Guess which side she took after.)

Grandpa would get himself a wee tipple, and she'd start in: "You're gonna wind up just like my Uncle Elton, drank himself to death, he did!"  Grandpa would try to ignore it, heaving heartfelt sighs the while.

One day, he'd been having trouble with a set of cabinets he was building, and nothing was going according to plan or design.  He decided to quit before he really screwed something up, and toodled off to the cellar for a bit of nerve medicine.  Back up in the kitchen, drink in hand, he sat down at the table, and Grandma started in:  "Just like my Uncle Elton, drank himself to death!"

At that point, for the only time in my life, I heard my grandpa raise his voice to his bride of 50+ years.

He slammed the glass down on the table, and said, "Dammit, Chelsea, the man was 93 when he died!"

(After she stormed out of the kitchen, he looked at me, shook his head and said, "Of course, if he'd been sober, he wouldn't have tried to ride that horse in the first place.")

So, yeah, if I can check out like Uncle Elton, I figure I'm doing pretty doggone good!

  Thanks for the story.

My grandfather was a farmer and I think he made it a life goal to make sure that when he passed, it was while he was working. That man never stayed still. Ever. It was quite the fight from the kids to get them to transition to a nursing home and the changes that happened in his physique was startling. Many homes have a wheelchair only rule, to prevent falls, and without the physical labour and pastures to roam it wasn't long before both of my grandparents lost the ability to walk. Very sad. I still kick myself for not being able to attend his funeral. I was a teenager at the time and with joint custody, I was far up north with my dad at the time. We were visiting that side of the family for a week or so.

As far as my Grandfather and drinking go, he always was given a handle of whiskey once a year from the gentleman who knew him at the cotton gin. I don't know what the payment was for or what my grandfather did for him, seeing as the cotton gin was doing a service for him by weighing his lot. When he died, we found a cupboard full of whiskey that had been untouched. Grandpa never drank it, but saved it. There must have been over 30 bottles there. The only alcohol he did consume was one beer a week. I believe it was lonestar brand and he drank it Saturday night at the late hour of 9 or 10 when the whole house was asleep, so he could watch wrestling  .

On Dad's side, ever single man was an alcoholic. Full stop. My Dad is the one who broke that chain and when I truthfully tell my Grandmother that I do drink whiskey, she tells me that that is how you become an alcoholic. At my worst I think I drank one shot a day, so... 7 drinks over the course of one week is pretty piss poor performance for a college student. To my drinking peers, that is in fact, a disgrace  .

Have an old service buddy, who's coming up on 70 years old.  He runs a marathon a month, without fail.  He's not going to set any speed records, and he really doesn't care, he's just having fun.

He says "You don't quit moving because you get old.  You get old because you quit moving."

Sounds like proof of that, to me. 

You have my sympathies.  I missed Grandpa's funeral because of my Southeast Asian Vacation.  And missed Grandma's because I was in Korea at the time (during the Great Tree Cutting Incident of 1976).

I'm sorry to hear that.

I was lucky enough to attend Grandma's on my mom's side. They were quiet people (so we didn't talk much), and I was still fairly young, but I was glad I got to see them every weekend growing up.

The grandmother on my dad's side is still up and kicking. Her health worries me, but her and I are pretty close. In some ways I might even say closer than I am with my parents. Not sure how it happened, but my personality really resembles hers instead of my parents. She grew up in a man's world and carried both her mother and my dad, who was just a boy, financially. Her husband died by alcoholism and I think that was also the case with my great grandma's husband. Like I said, the men in my family were expert elbow benders. She did factory work up north and her life journey gave her a very tough abrasive shell, but beneath that is a heart of gold. I kind of feel sorry for the other women in my life, because if my grandmother is the standard by which I judge them, they're in trouble. She somehow managed to have grit, work ethic, character, and femininity all wrapped into one.

My grandmother once drove a Model T through a barn.  Three times.  The first time, the back doors were closed.  But after Grandpa died, I had to show her how to open a car door, because she'd never had to open one for herself, Grandpa always did it for her. 

Of course, these were the people who raised me, so it might explain why I'm a bit... off?

Got kicked out of third grade because the teacher was determined that I would be right handed.  After several attempts at moving the pencil to the right hand, she started cracking me across the left-hand knuckles with a ruler, to get her point across.  About the third time she attempted that, I grabbed her arm, and bit a chunk out of it!  (I'm not kidding, it took six stitches to close the hole I made!)  Lots of backing-and-forthing, and they finally decided to move me to the "other" third grade, the teacher of which said "I don't care if he writes with his feet, as long as it's neat and legible."

Thus, after all my other homework, I had 30 minutes of penmanship practice, before I could go out and raise H**l! (May explain why people say "My, you have such nice handwriting for a left hander.") Grandpa told them, "I've seen the boy write, and I've seen him shoot, and it might be easier to persuade a mule to be baptized than to make him be right-handed."

Of all the truly amazing people I've ever met, my grandfather is still my hero.

 

I would like to add that I envy your penmanship! I have been cursed with Dr.'s handwriting. We tried to fix me, but at this age it seems that I am doomed  .