Blog Bio Cowboys, Horse, a different Dream

My dad often said as soon as I began to crawl, I’d head toward the nearest horse. When my folks went to the hospital to have my younger brother, I got to stay with a farm family who had a horse. At four years old, I thought I’d gone to heaven when they allowed me to ride. God was good.

In Clitheral Minnesota, we didn’t have a TV set, but I walked across the street to a friend’s house to watch westerns such as Roy Rogers and the Lone Ranger. I even had Roy Rogers paper dolls. (Not for me sissy girl paper dolls.) In Wisconsin, I had a longer walk to watch TV. I prayed for a horse of my own.

When Dad told us he’d taken a church in Wyoming, my older sister groaned. I couldn’t wait to go. The parsonage was across the street from the home of a friend who had his own horse, Rocket. Both Karin and I got to ride the paint horse with our friend. Rocket was a gentle ride unless you tried to force him into a trot when riding double. Then you’d find yourself on the ground—often on one of the many cactus patches. We still did it. (Kids don’t always do the smartest things.) Riding Rocket gave me experience.

Finally, when we moved to a country church in Northwest Kansas, I was able to get a retired show mare through the 4-H program. I took care of the horse. I rode the horse. The deal was that after breeding the chestnut mare, the resulting foal was mine to keep. Finally, in 7th grade, my dream came true. I had my own horse. God was indeed good.

Unfortunately, at about the same time I contracted Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis. I spent the next ten years in a wheelchair rather than on a horse. However, having the horse, and having to plan how to train my foal, kept me motivated to live instead of quitting when I could see no future but pain and limitations. My thought went more to a question. “What are you thinking God?”

Eventually, we no longer lived where I could keep my horse. I agreed to sell my horse as a polo pony out East. I kept my horse interest by reading books—fiction and non-fiction with and about horses. I followed the Triple Crown. Secretariat’s story helped me as I dealt with massive reconstructive surgery and to finally walk again. If Secretariat could become a victor maybe I could as well.

When I began to write and sell books, many historical in nature, I could write with authenticity about horses. Though I really never rode horses after I got sick, my love motivated me, helped me through rough times, and assisted in my chosen career. I may not have become a jockey or a horsemaster, but I learned and grew and walked again, at least partly, because of my obsession with horses. I can’t help but smile. Guess God did know what He was doing after all. God is indeed good.

© 2023 Carolyn R Scheidies

Hub column published 2/22/2023

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Blog Bio Celebrations worth effort to make positive memories

From the time we kids started school, birthdays meant having friends over for games, presents, and cake. There was the year in Wisconsin my older sister Karin was sick on her September birthday and in bed, she couldn’t have her friends over. But Mom still managed to make her birthday special. We all went upstairs to her bedroom. Karin had already gotten her first wish, which she could see out the window--snow. My parents also made sure she got her second wish--ice skates.

In Wisconsin, kids started ice skating at a very young age. Karin didn’t have her friends, but she had good wishes, cake, and skates. Mom saw birthdays as something to be celebrated. As we got older, we got to choose what we wanted for our birthday dinners. By our teens often we opted for a couple of close friends to do something special with as well as dinner and Mom’s delicious cake. In Iowa, we lived out in the country, so I opted for a friend and the family. My choice for dinner was sloppy joes and chips.

Mom loved birthdays but loved Christmas even more. She went all out baking a variety of cookies, etc. not only for our family but for an open house for those from church and from wherever we lived at any given time. She’d also make plates of cookies to give away to those unable to attend the open house. Mom provided positive memories. Once I contracted Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis and was in constant pain for several years, those memories helped me focus on something good. I learned we need milestones of positive memories to look back on when life isn’t always so nice or when we’re dealing with hurt, pain, or loss.

Celebrations bring people together. Sometimes we don’t realize how important those gatherings can be. When my niece Crystal got married the family gathered. It was a great and fun day. Crystal’s Mom Jenni, Jenni’s siblings and families were all there celebrating--making memories. No one had a clue those memories would have to last a lifetime. It wasn’t long before one of her brothers passed away. That time together, eased some of the grief.

When I turned 70 on January 24th, 2020, our kids, Cassie and Chris, threw me a party at the Mitzy Pavilion Center. Family and friends gathered for pizza, cupcakes, gifts, games, and I received a special hug from my grandson Dane--who doesn’t give hugs. (Of course, he made quite a production of it, and I got pictures.) I loved it.

Keith’s Dad Jiggs was also able to attend. It was good to see him. Keith had fallen on ice in early January and had seriously damaged his ankle. He wasn’t supposed to put any weight on it at all. It meant we couldn’t go visit Dad in the home in Minden. So, it was great getting to spend time with him.

What we didn’t realize was that Covid 19 was about to hit, and we’d all be isolated. I never got to see Jiggs alive in person again. In the summer he fell, was taken to the hospital in Kearney, and, for a time, it appeared he was improving. Then he lost ground and we ended up with a funeral. I am so glad I can look back and remember him smiling and enjoying himself at my birthday.

Don’t let opportunities for celebration go by. We need the encouragement of celebrations. Since we can’t see the future, we also don’t know how important those times may turn out to be. So, take the time, to lift someone up with a celebration.

© 2022 Carolyn R Scheidies

Hub column published 5/16/22 titled “Celebrations put exclamation point on life”

Blog It Makes Me Sad My Peers are Catching up

I was a perfectly healthy child. In fact, while my brother and sister contracted the usual childhood illnesses, I never got sick. My mom even found I’d climbed into bed with my sister when she was recovering from chickenpox so we could play games. Mom freaked. I never got it. However, when I was 13, I contracted juvenile rheumatoid arthritis (JRA).

Within a short time, I was unable to walk, my joints drew up and I was in constant pain. I went from running to a wheelchair. I remained in that wheelchair for almost ten years. While God, eventually, provided a healing from the constant pain, the results of the disease left me depending on others and unable to walk. One rehab center helped me learn to take back some control, by helping me find ways to manage some care for myself—like dressing and pulling on socks. That assistance sparked my imagination, so I begin thinking of other ways to help myself.

Eventually, I had massive reconstructive surgery and relearned to walk, Still, my limitations meant many normal activities required new ways of doing things. My friends and family accepted me as I was, letting me do what I could and stepped in when I required assistance. I was thankful I could walk and do so many things, often with the aid of utensils, some of which I created myself or asked others to help me create.

I accepted who I was. I did not envy my friends for their health and had no wish for them to deal with my limitations. But time goes by. We’re older now. I don’t like to face the truth. Members of my family and friends now find themselves dealing with things I’ve dealt with most of my life. Some have had joint replacements. Many can’t walk as easily, don’t bend well, and worry about falling.

I can’t bend or stoop, can’t reach my hair, I have limitations with dexterity and strength. Early on I was given two sticks the physical therapist called “dressing sticks.” They had a large hook on one side and fashioners on the other end to help me pull up socks. The hooks helped me dress and pick things up. I took the idea further. I lengthened the sticks to three feet. Made sticks with different sizes of hooks. To everything not easy to pick up, including electronics, I added loops to make it easier to pick up with my utility stick hooks. (I drop things easily.) Those long sticks help me zip up boots—they, too, have added loops.

Before such things were available in stores, I added handles to dustpans. I could push things I dropped into the dustpan and pick them up. I bought grippers, the long-handled pinchers, in several different styles and have one in almost every room. I bought a super-duper one for Keith. I also have long-handled tongs and even use a back scratcher to pull things toward me.  

I’ve learned that often I can figure out a way to do something by using implements I already have on hand. All it takes is thinking outside the box. I wish those I know weren’t catching up to me in developing physical disabilities but am glad I can share what I’ve learned to do with what I have. I can also encourage them—regardless of our physical limitations, to appreciate each day and give thanks.

© 2022 Carolyn R Scheidies 

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Blog My Special Radio

I was an active child. I loved wandering the hills behind the parsonage in Wyoming. I loved riding horses. I loved reading, but also loved being outside working on one project or another. Six months after we moved to a rural church in northern Kansas, I contracted juvenile rheumatoid arthritis—though I wasn’t diagnosed for several months. JRA was something new to the doctors and they didn’t really know how to treat the disease in young people.

My parents took me to different rehab centers. Some helped me in different ways. Some not so much. One left me with nightmares for months after I got home again. When my folks took me down to Hot Springs Arkansas to an outpatient clinic for treatments, I was in pain and in a wheelchair. I could not walk, could not even wheel my chair.

My folks had little money, but my dad felt so bad for me. As we wondered in downtown stores before an appointment, I must have indicated my liking for a small transistor radio. It was small, blue, and cool. I didn’t expect anything to come of my checking it out. Small radios like that weren’t in our budget. Nevertheless, dad bought it for me. I could hardly believe it. I wanted to cry. I knew he sacrificed to get me that radio.

For the next few years that radio helped make time go faster and engage my attention when I wasn’t reading or otherwise engaged. I could be outside and listen to the Triple Crown races that held my attention in the spring.

Most of all that radio stayed with me long after I had massive surgery to get me up and walking, long after I grew up and married. How could I let go of what reminded me of something so important, especially when I needed encouragement during those years of frustration and pain--my father’s love?  

© 2022 Carolyn R Scheidies

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