Tag: The Recliner

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The Recliner, by Ray S

The
weekly ritual would begin, by necessity, of dragging two dining room chairs
into the little TV room so there was room for the four of us to watch one of
our host’s DVDs.
As
a rule the wall opposite the big screen sported a slim Modern Danish lounge
chair and ottoman next to a broken-down somewhat ponderous in scale leather
recliner. When its occupant seated himself, it was necessary to force the
chair-back until it slammed the wall in back in order to attain a suitable
viewing position. Mechanically the chair didn’t do what you wanted it to do.
Instead it grabbed you and wouldn’t separate from one without a struggle. Note: nobody sat in this chair but its
owner-victim.
When
we inquired about why the owner and the handicapped recliner had spent so long
tolerating the chair’s posture misadventures, the reply was that the two had
just grown old together.
At
this point our conspiracy bloomed to a planned visit to a Recliner Emporium
when we all paraded through a forest of overstuffed but functioning mechanical
chairs that were guaranteed to obey their masters.
After
some deliberation, a new brown leather model was approved. There was one
remaining question: the tariff that would find a new home for the chair in
question.
Our
“little movie theatre” owner allowed as how he had gone along with our
dream-charade, but was truly not even considering replacing the chair someone
had given him and his partner years ago. It hadn’t crippled him yet.
End
of story? Not quite. We three decided to surprise our friendly movie-mogul on
the occasion of his birthday with the new and approved recliner. It wasn’t
until we had unpacked the new chair on the sidewalk of his home and pushed the
doorbell that he discovered the new arrival. Once the decrepit old chair was
relegated to the alley and the new recliner in place “the show must go on.”
Today
this is all a memory, a happy one at that, but sadly to say our fourth friend
and host (and for all we know) have moved on to some old and maybe some new
movies in the heavenly beyond. A life well lived and many stories well told.
In memory of Stephen F. Krause
© 6 Feb 2017 
About
the Author  
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The Recliner, by Phillip Hoyle

Some years ago when my back started hurting I got a
new swivel chair for my desk at work. Then my wife and I bought a new firm
mattress. These two steps were helpful yet did not solve the problem totally.
Then I bought myself better shoes that gave my arches adequate support. I was
really beginning to feel fine. Then Myrna bought me a recliner, a small one
from La-Z-Boy®. I was not quite sure of the message, but I did find the chair
moderately comfortable. From my point of view the seemed unnecessary, maybe not
a good choice for I had never been able to sit or sleep comfortably in such
chairs. Still, this model seemed okay for me due to the facts it was more firm
than our mattress and it was not one of those monster-size chairs made for
retired football linemen. The recliner sat next to the bed. I got a lamp so I could
read while sitting in it. That was in the days when I was reading five books a
week. Using a pillow, I could read for hours and not hurt my back. My back got
even better—actually stronger—when I added Super Circuit at the gym as well as
my marathon reading in the recliner.
Some people at the church where I worked thought we
would enjoy a new TV. They bought a nice SONY model, a really large one. It was
fine but we didn’t really want nor need a TV to replace the smaller one that
worked just fine. In fact, the new TV required that we buy an entertainment
center large enough to hold it. We found a nice one but realized we had no
place for it in the living room. So it went into our rather large bedroom, and
of course the kids wanted to come and watch the big one. I rarely watched TV.
My space was being eroded. I wondered if I would become a recliner potato, but couldn’t
recline in the new chair to watch the big TV because my new glasses were
bifocal.  
Oh the problems of modern life for the ageing. As you
may suppose I was ageing a long time ago! And the process hasn’t ended. Actually
I’m pleased about that. If I ever start not ageing…. Well I suspect you’ve
already been thinking about such things. Where I live now there two recliners.
I suspect I‘ll be using both of them for even more reclining while my life is
declining, but I do hope that’s a ways off for me.
© 6 Feb 2017 
About the Author 
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his
time writing, painting, and socializing. In general, he keeps busy with groups
of writers and artists. Following thirty-two years in church work and fifteen
in a therapeutic massage practice, he now focuses on creating beauty. He
volunteers at The Center leading the SAGE program “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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The Recliner, by Pat Gourley

Sometime round 1993 my partner who was then suffering significant side effects from advanced HIV disease and near incapacitating peripheral neuropathy purchased two blue recliners. We had them located in our basement right in front of the TV. They brought great comfort and the ability for a modicum of relaxation to him in his final years.

I therefore highly recommend recliners for the terminally ill. If, however, you are not looking imminent death in the face I absolutely do not recommend recliners. If you occasionally feel the need to recline there are sofas, beds or in a pinch even the floor for that and for god-sakes don’t add a nearby TV or computer screen to the mix.

One of my greatest personal fears with advancing age is the possibility of debilitating dementia. Being the vain, drama queen I am a loss of cognitive function leads my hit parade of bad things that could go wrong. Living alone and with that reality unlikely to change, the thought of winding up in a near vegetative state in a nursing home really lacks appeal. The reality of course is that HIV will probably do me in first. Or perhaps some nasty side-effect from the meds I take to keep “full-blown” AIDS at bay will be my cause of death long before I have the chance to develop dementia. HIV meds are a strong driver for metabolic syndrome and its possible ramifications like diabetes, heart disease or stroke. Living to a ripe old age does present us with an ever-increasing menu of options for returning to the stardust we all are.

But the at times all consuming drive to postpone the inevitable tends to occupy an inordinate number of my waking hours. I was therefore very interested in a recently published study out of Canada dealing with exercise as a viable intervention for postponing or possibly preventing the development of vascular dementia, Parkinson’s disease or Alzheimer’s disease. Lets face it in this era of Trump all things Canadian have particular appeal.

There is a known genetic mutation that increases the chances of getting dementia. This gene is called the apolipoprotein E (APOE). What this study strongly implied was that even if you didn’t have this APOE that might pre-dispose you to dementia by not exercising you blew the benefit of not having the bad gene. It is an important caveat though to know this study showed association only and not causation. In other words the study did not prove that lack of exercise causes dementia.

People with this APOE gene are believed to have three to four times the risk of developing dementia. However people without the gene who did not exercise had the same risk for dementia as those with it. The amount of exercise needed to decrease risk was modest – brisk walking three times a week.

Remember regular aerobic exercise seems to lower the risk of dementia, Parkinsons and Alzheimers – gene or no gene. The bottom line here is get your ass out of the recliner.

I have included a link to a review article for this study: http://www.cbsnews.com/news/lack-of-exercise-might-invite-dementia/

© February 2017

About the Author

I was born in La Porte, Indiana in 1949, raised on a farm and schooled by Holy Cross nuns. The bulk of my adult life, some 40 plus years, was spent in Denver, Colorado as a nurse, gardener and gay/AIDS activist. I have currently returned to Denver after an extended sabbatical in San Francisco, California.

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The Recliner, by Betsy

I do not own a recliner. In fact I never have owned one. I do not recall ever having one in our house when I was growing up. So I cannot say I really miss having a recliner. But I cannot say I never sit in one either because I have utilized certain recliners throughout my life. At this time in my life I find myself in one twice a year on a rather consistent basis.

I have always been conscientious about taking care of my teeth. Early in life my parents made me do that. So I guess I developed a good habit then which I continued into adulthood.

As a child my visits to the dentist were frequent. Like most children I dreaded them. I regarded them as trips to the torture chamber. The day my baby teeth were all gone and my permanent teeth were in place, my dental problems began and so too my frequent visits to the torture chamber began.

I was never offered the option of fluoride to protect my teeth which teeth were above average in their propensity to decay. In the 1940’s when fluoridation of water was first introduced, it was from the start controversial. In the 1950’s and 60’s fluoridation of the public water supply was regarded by some as a communist plot to undermine the health of the people of the United States. This belief had been especially entrenched on the east coast where I lived. Consequently it was not until I was about 60 years old then I had my first fluoride treatment.

By then, however, I had had most of my molars drilled out to nubbins and filled with amalgam which lasts about 40-50 years. When I came to Colorado in1970 and had my first appointment, every new dentist I had said the same thing. “Now open please. Ohhhh, hmmmm, I see you’re from the east coast. Your teeth seem to be in good repair—mostly repair.” Well, my fillings had been there for 40-50 years and they were beginning to crumble.

Fortunately I had a wonderful dentist when I was in my 50’s and 60’s. I had a good job which provided some kind of dental insurance. My dentist said to me, “ We have to replace all your repaired teeth with crowns.” That meant almost all my molars needed crowns. It took about ten years to accomplish that. It got so that every visit to the dentist when I walked in the door the staff would announce , “Betsy’s here for another coronation!” Dr. Jones said to me once, “I only know one other person who has more crowns in her mouth than you, and that’s my wife.” Anyway those crowns are still serving me well today. I would love to have some of the glue they use to glue them on. Wow, what a glue that is—really strong and never dries out.

They say you can’t remember pain. Maybe you can’t recreate it, but I sure can remember it was painful in that early torture chamber. That was before they used novocain. And the drill was so very slow. Dr Bienville, my childhood dentist, was not my favorite person. He would hold the drill in his hand and say, “This won’t hurt.” I knew good and well it would hurt. The instant the torture devise touched my tooth the nerve would send a searing hot pain down my arm to the ends of my fingernails or leg and toenails depending on the tooth being drilled. Yes, it was torture. And it would go on for what seemed like hours.

My teenage dentist was not much better. By then we had novocain and once that was very painfully injected into my gum, I knew there was a God. Mercifully, no pain while drilling.

Getting the injection was painful, the needles were huge, but the pain of the needle didn’t endure for hours like the drilling.

Dr. Young, however, had other means of causing discomfort. He, not so young, loved young women. He was always trying to wipe his hands on my bib, right in the area of……..well you can guess. Yes, he did that. I had been warned about this by my friends, and didn’t think he would try it on me, but sure enough, he did. From then on, I took to sitting with my arms crossed over my chest when his hands were free. He got the message and probably worried that I might tell my mother.

Today I really don’t mind going to the dentist. His cute young always female assistants do all the work and they are gentle and friendly chatting away as I sit there unable to form a word in reply.

I have to say I am a bit intimidated by the exam which entails her probing the edges of my gums and announcing a number from 1-5 depending on how bad the gap between my tooth and the gum is. A quick probe and the number is announced and recorded. I dread hearing “3” as that’s a bad score for any tooth. Several fours and I know I’m in trouble. I always feel like I’m on trial when they do that exam. Will I pass, or will I get scolded for not flossing enough. Flossing, they say, is essential for healthy gums. I must say their strategy is effective. I find myself flossing all the time so I’ll get a good score. They know I like to compete even against my own gums. It works.

Over my lifetime I have not just observed—I have experienced huge strides in the practice of dentistry. A clear journey from the torture chamber to the recliner and pain free application of new techniques and preventive treatments.

I also realize I have been one of the fortunate ones. Even though my teeth were prone to decay easily, I have lived a long life with the same teeth, at least the roots. And the bad parts have been repaired and replaced so that I enjoy a healthy mouthful of efficient chewing machines. This is something for which I am very grateful. Had I not had any dental care I know I would not have any teeth—at least not my own—and along with that I would be having chronic problems with my mouth and who knows, probably problems with my overall health as lack of dental care can cause many general health problems.

So thank you, thank you to all my dentists and their cute young technicians in whose recliners in which I have been fortunate enough to lie.

© 3 February 2017

About the Author

Betsy has been active in the GLBT community including PFLAG, the Denver Women’s Chorus, OLOC (Old Lesbians Organizing for Change), and the GLBT Community Center. She has been retired from the human services field for 20 years. Since her retirement, her major activities have included tennis, camping, traveling, teaching skiing as a volunteer instructor with the National Sports Center for the Disabled, reading, writing, and learning. Betsy came out as a lesbian after 25 years of marriage. She has a close relationship with her three children and four grandchildren. Betsy says her greatest and most meaningful enjoyment comes from sharing her life with her partner of 30 years, Gillian Edwards.

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The Recliner, by Nicholas


Last week I mentioned that my heroes include my parents, whom I strive to emulate in many ways. One of those ways is napping.


When I was a kid, my mother worked so I and my sisters had chores to do in getting dinner ready like cooking a pot of potatoes and setting the table. Mom would come home and put the finishing touches on dinner. We would all gather and share dinner and then Mom would put things away as I or my sisters washed the dishes.


Then Mom would go upstairs and change out of her work clothes and into a nice warm caftan and her slippers for an evening of relaxing.


If it wasn’t my night to wash dishes, right after dinner I’d head to the big recliner in the living room, put my feet up using the wood crank on the side to lift the footrest and read or watch TV. I knew it was my only chance to get into that chair because it was Mom’s chair. She only needed to walk over to the chair, look at whoever was occupying it, and you knew your time was up. My father knew never even to try but we kids would steal a few minutes now and then. We might pretend to resist but just a glance from Mom was enough to enforce her prior right to the recliner. Objections were made only in jest. I would, in grumpy kid fashion, of course yield, put down my feet, slowly rise from the chair, and find somewhere else to sit. She would joke how I’d warmed it up nicely for her.


Mom took to her recliner like it was her nightly throne. Putting her legs up on the raised footrest, she would read the newspaper or watch some TV. Many times she would pull out her favorite rosary and say her prayers, a habit she continued from her mother who prayed many rosaries every day.


Pretty soon, however, the recliner triumphed. Mom’s head would droop forward or to the side, her eyes closed, rosary beads lying still in her hands. After a bit of a snooze, she would awake all refreshed and act like nothing had happened. She joined in any conversation going on and then continued her prayers or watching TV. I marveled at how watching TV did not seem to interfere with her prayers nor vice versa.


I don’t own a recliner but I do have a Morris chair in my living room which can be adjusted to almost recliner levels. After dinner, while Jamie cleans up, I stretch out in my chair. Rarely do I have to chase Jamie out of it. He knows whose chair this is. I don’t say rosaries and there is no TV to watch but I do sometimes wrap myself in a cozy, light wool blanket on a cold evening as I settle in to do some reading. I read until the book starts to droop along with my eyelids which eventually shut as I doze off. After a short time, the book clatters to the floor, rudely waking me up. And then I’m good for a few more chapters.


© January 2017

About the Author

Nicholas grew up in Cleveland, then grew up in San Francisco, and is now growing up in Denver. He retired from work with non-profits in 2009 and now bicycles, gardens, cooks, does yoga, writes stories, and loves to go out for coffee.