FUN TIMES…DARN IT – BY VALERIE HALLA

This week has been a challenge with a capital D, darn it. Seems like as we age, life tries to test our patience and mine has been on pretty thin ice with a capital C, crazy. No matter how you spell it, why is life tough? It’s tough especially in my 70’s it seems.

Here are a few things that have happened to me this week and I’m not admitting to any of these being my fault:

1. After making homemade beef barley soup for my husband, I put the leftovers in a sealed container and put it in the fridge. The next day I grabbed the lid of the container quickly and it opened unexpectedly. All the soup poured out onto the fridge shelf and down the front of the refrigerator and onto the floor. Naturally I didn’t cuss nor yell.
2. After cleaning up the mess, I did chores. (Since my husband has brain cancer, I’ve accepted more responsibility around the house.) Later in the day I took the overflowing compost bucket out to the bin but didn’t think clearly and dumped the stinky vegetable skins, egg shells and organic leftovers into the wrong bin. I threw it all into the recycling one. Darn it. After vocalizing a few more nice words, I turned the compost bin over and cleaned out the rotting compost, rotting juices, smelly waste and used a shovel to throw it into the correct bin. Darn. I was still irritated. Was this challenge the last one?
3. My husband has trouble walking, weak legs being an issue from the radiation he received on his brain tumors, so he uses a wheelchair sometimes. I have trouble lifting it, then throwing it into the car trunk when we go out. One time I must’ve used too much of my overpowering brute strength lifting the wheelchair, after folding it up, I threw it angrily into the trunk. The next time I took it out from the trunk, the wheels were jammed together. Now my husband had to hobble around using a walker because we couldn’t open the wheelchair. Guilt set in. Another challenge. I was fortunate that my brother -in-law met us at the cancer care hospital when my husband had his next treatment. He was able to pull the wheels apart on the wheelchair, but it took a weightlifter’s strength. He fixed the wheelchair. I thanked him profusely. He’s barely 70 which I reassured myself was why he got it open. He was young. Sorta.
4. Also this week, I volunteered with a new program at the SPCA in Monterey. I take one dog out in my car after having gotten training and I signed all the right forms and had an interview. I basically get a date with a dog who needs to get out and about. The dogs can get kennel anxiety. The powers that be at the SPCA asked me to take pictures of my doggy date and what we were doing. I picked up my cute date, a terrier, Corgi mix and went to Star bees and got my date, Lola, a pup cup. I introduced her to some nice customers sitting outside in the sunshine. They loved my date even though she was a bit overweight and short. She was friendly and liked to be petted. I asked one older man to please take my picture with the sweet little dog. I was loving my new volunteer job. This was easy and fun. The man did a nice job snapping several pictures, BUT the man corralled me into talking about my Doggy Day Out then switched to politics. Being a polite person, I listened to him for a bit. I didn’t need to hear about which websites I should check out and what is happening in the netherworld of political games. It was a trap, a trick I hadn’t seen coming. Lola didn’t mind as she lapped up the pup cup, even though she was overweight. Who cares? Woofs and slobbers. She even tore the paper cup to shreds. As the minutes went by, I struggled to be polite to the man with his many conspiracy theories like fleas consuming a dog. Lola seemed to like all the attention. Politics be damned, this was freedom from the kennel! It was time to leave with a capital A, adios! Somehow I got away. Lola seemed just as happy as I was as she wagged her tail and looked up at me. We had a nice long walk together to end our sweet time together.

I know you’re thinking what a complainer and sissy that 70’s gal is. I am. You’re right with a capital W.

However, I had another experience at the end of the week that was a quick reminder of how important it is to count your blessings.

I was leaving the grocery store after shopping. I had dropped my husband off earlier for Physical Therapy. I was offering a senior man a shopping cart as I left the parking lot but he waved it off saying, “Thanks anyway, but I’m heading to the bank,” as he pointed to Wells Fargo. He crossed my path.

“Well, if you don’t need my shopping cart, that’s fine but I sure can’t help you with anything at the bank!”

“Hahaha! I’m fine. At least I have money to live!”

“Yes. And I’m thankful for a roof over my head,” I replied laughing. “We’re gonna be fine.”

“And I have enough food,” he added.

“We’re blessed,” I finished chatting, turning to walk to my car. The man waved goodbye.

No matter how angry I get over the small issues in my life: spilling soup, jamming a wheelchair, crazy aggressive people- that short exchange with a stranger made me feel calmer, happier and more confident and connected with a good life. Sure it had been a tough week, but sharing another person’s thoughts helped me feel that I’m not alone. Things aren’t so bad.

Lola was tired and happy to get back to her temporary home at the SPCA. The attendant who helped me return her noticed how Lola looked at me. She said, “Looks like Lola really had fun and grew attached to you!”

“Yeah, we had a great date and it made me happy to help an innocent and incredible creature who appreciated me. She gave me more than I gave her today though. Thanks.”

Sometimes it just takes a dog, a pup cup and short chats with strangers to make us realize what’s important in life. Wonder what next week will be like.

“I’M MELTING, MELTING, MELTING” By Valerie Halla

I like the old Judy Garland movie THE WIZARD OF OZ because it’s iconic, especially the part where the wicked witch has water thrown on her and melts away. Don’t you wish our troubles and problems could be that easy to eliminate? I feel like I, too, am gradually melting away. Sometimes I feel like a slew of problems hit me all at once. My plate is full and I can’t eat fast enough, however, don’t throw water on me yet.

I know at 70ish my brain is definitely diminishing. I forget stuff you may have mentioned to me, but I still like hearing old stories from family members and sharing in memories that pop up once in a while. I don’t forget those, the old things. The present isn’t as much fun. Some memories play over and over again in my shrinking brain. I love them. Maybe I have dementia or beginnings of the dreaded “A” word disease. It’s all right though, because my cousin says you meet the nicest people if you get altzheimers. “What did you say your name was ?”

Recently I couldn’t recall the name of the Sanderson Family dog when they lived on the farm outside Murdo in the 1920’s and ‘30’s. My Mom used to talk about that dog getting bit by a rattlesnake and suffering. The poor dog was ill and swollen with the venom. This sad suffering canine creature was lying under their farmhouse porch for days, then eventually recovered miraculously. So that thought led to another thought like cards placed one after the other, in order when playing solitaire. It brought me to my next card, through a feeble fading memory. I recalled the letters my Aunt Helen wrote religiously to my Mom. She would write long letters in her utterly beautiful artistic cursive to my mom. They were loving sisters. They wrote lots of them. Letters were a big deal to their generation. They cherished each written word.

I was lucky to get to read some of the sister’s letters when my Mother lived with us for the last five years of her life. Aunt Helen would always ask my mom in her letters if she remembered the name of the mule their brother, Uncle Wayne, rode into town from the farm to school. We answered every time that we couldn’t think of that dang mule’s name, but Aunt Helen would continue to ask in each subsequent lovely letter. That reminded me that I couldn’t remember their family dog’s name either! I was in the same boat as Aunt Helen and it was maybe named the Titanic. I was sinking fast. Simple animal names escaped us both. Did we ever discover the mule’s name? I don’t think so.

I’m fortunate to have some cousins who follow our Sanderson family history and know the farm dog’s name. I guessed it was Shep. I’ll have to see if I’m right. That card hasn’t been turned over yet.

Letters play a big part in our family past. I remember Grandma Sanderson writing letters to my mom and asking how I was doing as a child. My name was long and so Grandma simply wrote, “How is VJ doing?” She always kept us abreast of what was happening in Murdo during her time there.

Each of my aunts had their own styles of writing. Aunt Loretta usually typed her letters which were short and oftentimes written on postcards and small scraps of paper. My mom and Aunt Loretta would also swap letters they had received from other family members. These were like jewels to them and pictures that were enclosed were like diamonds. They would send these letters and photos back and forth although I think Aunt Loretta preferred the telephone.

Aunt Elna wrote in a small hand cramped style cursive. She wrote in cards mostly. She would cram as much as she could into the message even writing along the edges of the text. She might write on the backs of the cards also using every space available. She reported exactly where she had gone, maybe shopping, or uptown to stop in Mack’s Cafe or maybe out to the Hills for a quick vacation with Uncle Jerry. You knew who went and what they did in detail. You got the full scoop as if you were there. She should’ve been a reporter for the Murdo Coyote. “A good time was had by all.”

Looking back, maybe I’m not diminishing at all. Maybe though the people who shaped my childhood and memories are gone, my life is still growing. I keep moving forward. No one has thrown water on me yet. But then Halloween is right around the corner.

POTATO CHIPS IN BED by Valerie Halla

I was taking a nap in the guest room and remembered that I had hidden a small bag of potato chips under the quilt in there. I was ecstatic, downright giddy because potato chips are my favorite high calorie, overly salty, very bad for me and sinful. . I’m happy to close my eyes to their evil pleasures as I crunch away on my potato chips forgetting all my promises to myself that these are disrupting a healthy diet. Candy, chocolate, nuts and other delightful treats don’t do it. I become in love with potato chips torn from my normal life, into salty spud heaven.

Throwing caution and common sense to the wind I help my dog up onto the bed to relax with me in bed. Then I notice about 50 million burrs in her long, fluffy tail. I start to gently remove the little brown prickly buggers from her tail fur. It takes time. Then I gently crawl across the bed to retrieve my precious potato chips.

“Rustle, crunch, shift”. The creaky old bed and quilt strewn bedding make me stop and pause briefly. I finally dig out the bright yellow bag from under the covers but I have inadvertently rolled over onto the bag. I smashed those lovey dovey chips to smithereens. Do I care? No way.

“It’s okay, the chips will be smaller but still scrumptious,” I told myself. I pick up my treasure and holding the bag, upside down, all the tiny crushed pieces of potato chips fall everywhere onto the bed. I frantically start transferring chips into the bag alternating between that and cramming pieces into my mouth. I’m like a pig or wild boar rooting out chips from between the seams of the quilts. Snort, oink, grrrreat!

If the PCP – potato chip police – had come by my house, they would have reported an insane suburban housewife gone salty mad. If they had put me in a straight jacket, I’d have licked the tiny morsels off the bed. It wouldn’t have been pretty, maybe crunchy but not pretty. My dog looked at me furiously eating crumbs as though I had eaten any old food even a dog wouldn’t stop to scarf up. I’d gloomily gone lower than a hungry canine.

As you scoff at me and maybe even shake your head in disgust, remember I know you’re not perfect and neither is your dog. If you don’t own a dog, I understand.

Oops – gotta go walk my dog and stop by the local market for some Lays- you know what.

THE INSANITY OF FOOTBALL EXPLAINED BY LAV– REALLY?

Plays, tackles, drives, touchdowns, extra points, safeties, sideline?

A little knowledge is a dangerous thing but Lav jumps in with her own take on football…with little knowledge. Go Lav:

I am sure you understand much more than I do about American football and the NFL, which for me stands for “Not Football Literate.”

So I watch it on TV now and then, but I am not wholeheartedly involved. I see the huge buildup before the game starts. You see a bunch of old guys as TV football commentators who have laptops in front of them and wear suits and ties that probably cost more than my car. (The tie probably costs more actually.) They have probably played on teams like the Jackrabbits, the Seagulls, the Bluefooted Boobies or some other big teams. They talk about the specifics of the game like neuro surgeons discussing delicate brain surgery. And they get paid a lot, better than minimum wage. I bet they’ve never worked at Taco Bell or Burger King. Maybe not even at Macy’s . However, they have played football or coached or both. They know the game.

The game finally starts after they’ve endlessly discussed who they think will win and what they think will happen. (Then also we have seen about half a lifetime of commercials.) They have something called a “coin toss” which is where two players watch a referee or official throw up a coin. No he doesn’t vomit. He tosses this thing way up but does not catch it. He lets it fall onto the ground and the two players intently watch it. I guess one of them calls heads or tails. I never hear them nor see the coin. The coin must be a quarter because the next four quarters are important. One quarter is not enough. Plus, to make it more exciting, this player who gets most all the attention is called a QUARTERBACK. He’s furiously trying to get that darn quarter back. And both teams have a quarterback. Maybe he bet a dollar that his team would win. I assume he’s trying to get through this long long time period also which is easily longer than a quarter of an hour – officials also keep stopping the clock which just keeps prolonging the game- not to mention the multiple commercials, and he calls out numbers called plays and seems to be the boss guy. Oh, and he does not want to get “sacked,” meaning knocked down. This player avoids that like the flu. He wears a fancy wide flippy bracelet on his wrist which is maybe from Tiffany’s because it’s valuable to the players obviously. They look at it a lot.

This strange shaped ball is also super important. I’m sure it cost more than my last vacation. It gets thrown around and kicked and passed til it must be pretty battered. The ball might be from Tiffany’s also since it’s important as all get out. There are also posts at each end of the field which no one could climb onto. They’re just too high.

These huge players are dressed up in Bermuda shorts which are tight and jerseys which show big pads and protective gear underneath . The helmets are worn like giant plastic Easter eggs with bars over their mouths and builtin sunglasses. You cannot tell who the players are so they’re given them numbers which can be zero or double zero plus names are printed on back . To make matters more confusing, , these numbers are not consecutive. Then too, these uniforms which probably cost more than a year’s worth of groceries, are bright colors which match their teams colors. but their shoes do not match. Now if I were buying a uniform or a new outfit, I’d make sure my shoes matched something in my style choice.

During these plays down the field, another announcer reports periodically on injured players who have gotten hit, battered, pushed and thrown down (now I get why they wear pads and giant helmets). They have a personal nurse or doctor care for these players with owies! Their medical care and concern is something you or I will never get. This professional sports medicine attention for football players costs more than any copay or medical insurance I have, I’d bet.

Don’t get me started on the fans, some of whom dress up like animals or people from feudal times.

If I’ve helped you understand the game better, then I feel sorry for you.

DRESSING UP OR DRESSING DOWN BY VALERIE HALLA

When you get older, you don’t always feel like dressing up to go to weddings or parties or just out.

I had the distinct privilege to get away for two days from caregiving for my husband who has cancer. This was around Mother’s Day, so my second son said he would stay with his ill Dad and I could fly to LA to visit my oldest son and have fun. Besides I had wanted to see the new Motion Picture Museum. I needed a break. I would fly down in the morning and back the next late afternoon.

When you go on a trip, there’s always the packing to tackle. My clothes were pretty much faded, washed a gazillion times and trampled, rumpled, old and just plain sad. Luckily, before my trip, my husband wanted to buy some of the newly advertised shoes you just step into so we headed to the outlets and went clunking into the shoe store with his walker. He sat on the bench as I carried multiple shoe boxes to him which he thought might fit . He can’t walk well but shoes with good support would help.

As he tried on shoes, I spotted the women’s clothing section and started veering over. I grabbed two tops and a stylish white jacket with bronze zipper and trim topped off with a high collar. I scooped them all up and as the shoes were finalized, we headed to the checkout counter. I was breaking out in a smile as I considered wearing actual new clothes on my two day getaway. This was a game changer.

I bought a few new things and it lifted my spirits, drained some of my bank account, but made me feel better dressed. Plus my husband liked his new shoes which were easy to slip into.!I took the new clothes to LA to visit and I even flew first class which I had never done. It subtracted more from my bank account and it was 100% worth it. The bright white jacket with the high collar covered my double chin and covered me just fine..A world of doubt on the inside disappeared. I felt a ton of confidence on the outside. Clothes might make the man yet they also work for women jazzing up our beautiful exterior.

As I wore the new sharp stark white jacket everywhere my son Matt took me, I felt younger and happier and full of life. How could new clothes do this? It was a miracle. All these things relieved me temporarily from my caregiving duties for two days and one night thanks to my other son volunteering to watch his dad. And thanks to my oldest son for driving me all over LA and getting me out to have fun and eat great food.

I had a dream of a trip and we took lots of pictures to prove it. It was funny how just the other day I flashed back on my Grandpa SANDERSON wearing a new 1970’s style green suit someone in the family had bought him on his trip to LA and Orange County California long ago to visit his daughter, my mother and other relatives . He wore it everywhere even later in his trip to Michigan to visit another daughter and her family. It was like me wearing my new jacket everywhere and in lots of pictures he has on his high collared new suit, and I have on my new white jacket.

MY NEW JACKET AT BREAKFAST IN LA.

It might appear superficial, but an avalanche of self confidence rains down when you’re out strutting in new duds. I would recommend it.

If you want to cheer up and have a good day, buy some new clothes.

ONCE A JOKESTER ALWAYS A JOKESTER

Valerie Halla

When I was teaching elementary school, about 16 years ago, a couple great teachers had playground duty with me each Friday at 8:00 am sharp. We were always excited because the weekend was coming and we got a break from the routine. The two teachers and I came up with a joke plan. We decided we would each share a new joke every Friday. We even had another teacher who we liked, come out onto the yard to tell us a joke now and then and he did not even have an 8:00 am scheduled recess duty. He just liked us because we were laughing so much. So our joke challenge started. It would be an end of week challenge to make the other two laugh. Sometimes we would retell jokes, but that was all right with us because we had forgotten the joke and it would seem fresh enough to laugh again like mad.

I’m still close friends to this day with these now retired teachers and we are all in our 70’s, and we still tell jokes, silly ones, short ones, long winded complicated jokes, you name it.

As I care for my husband who has brain cancer, I am realizing how powerful and helpful laughter can be although it’s not a cure. Jokes, humor and giggles are a stress reliever. They can get his mind off his health. A sense of humor goes a long way in taking him to a fun place even temporarily. Relief from pain, anxiety and stress can come in the form of a belly laugh and sharing silliness. I got the idea to have him join the elderly jokesters.

In fact, I set up coffee or lunch meetups with these two friends and my husband often goes with us using his walker to get around . He starts smiling as soon as the joking and goofy stuff starts. He is lifted up and away from the depression, isolation and stress of his cancer and the immunotherapy treatments, blood tests, doctor appointments, medical advice, and all that. They are gone while we tell jokes and laugh.

It’s a laugh fest with a group of 70ish old timers telling jokes and sharing funny stories like this:

“Where does a bad rainbow go?” One friend starts after greetings and coffee orders are placed.

“I don’t know! Where?”

“To the prism so it can reflect on what it’s done.”

…Laughs and coffee all around.

“Hey, my first therapist said I am too vindictive! Well,” punching my one fist into the palm of my other hand, “we will see about that.” My friends burst out in laughter, knowing I’m just making this all up as I go.

Take another shot of coffee.

Then I continue, “My new therapist says I am overly condescending.” Then I turn and look down my nose at everyone seated around the table. “That means I talk down to people.”

We also tell true funny stories about our lives which are even better than a made up joke. Our good pal, whose wife passed away about a year ago, gave us his recollections of driving a rented camper through New Zealand on a trip with his wife many years ago. She was driving and naturally the driver’s seat is on the opposite side of the vehicle from American vehicles. They came to a one way bridge over a deep ravine. In New Zealand on a one way bridge, you allow the car which arrives first to cross. His wife looked then drove over the narrow bridge, but she could not find the brake as they were speeding along. She drove up one side of the bridges edge then criss-crossed over driving up onto the other side. They were careening all around the edges of this bridge. His wife had on big boots and she was flailing in the oversized boots screaming out: “WHERES THE BRAKE PEDAL? HELP!”

He said he just thought to himself : we are going to die right here on this one lane bridge. He was speechless. He tried not to look.

Finally his wife found the brake pedal and slowed down. She just looked over at him and calmly said, “Everything is under control” as she kept on driving.

He told us in conclusion, “I drove the entire rest of that trip.” We knew he held that special time deep in his heart because it was a memory of a trip with his wife of 54 years. He laughed as he told it.

“Why can’t you hear a pterodactyl go potty in the middle of the forest?“

“Why?”

“Because the pee is silent.”

The jokes roll on.

“I’ve been frustrated shopping for a camouflage jacket. I can’t find one anywhere.”

This one is kinda mean:

“What does DNA stand for?”

“I dunno!“

“National Association for Dyslexia.”

~~ So if you’re having a down day or someone you know is sad and needs help, tell them a joke or ask them their favorite joke. Best of all, get out for a meetup with friends. They say, “Laughter is the best medicine.” I think that’s true. Socializing also helps.

By the way, I am running out of jokes, so please send me some or let’s meet soon for a jokester chat.

BREAKING DOWN LITTLE BY LITTLE

By Valerie Halla

Being older and having challenges thrown at us more and more, I’ve been thinking about how that can be a good thing. I am talking about physical and mental challenges.

First of all, these aches, pains, health and mental problems often can come at us over time and gradually. That’s a positive thing, because when they all get dumped on us at once, it’s just too much, as my Aunts used to say, just TOO. much. We can take one negative thing and deal with it maybe before another comes along. Humans can bounce back. When you are 70ish, it’s harder.

Secondly, it could be worse. I overheard- (of course I wasn’t eavesdropping) – someone say, “Oh no. She’s looking stooped and older. Sad.”

I’d rather be stooped than stupid.

My Mom and her sisters, when they were 70ish and older, were surprised when a good friend became hunched over in old age. They were sad at how she looked, but true friends stick by one another. They were close and communicated with Sugar, her nickname, til the end. That’s a plus, kind of, being stooped, but if you’re stupid you might not know it. That is a positive thing also. You can go gleefully through life and be oblivious to the consequences. When you’re stooped you can look down at your path forward. When you’re stupid, you don’t really know what the path is.

A dear friend I have known for decades and who knows that Ken and I are going through tough times with his melanoma brain cancer diagnosis, last August, texted me lately:

—-“Valerie- Just a reminder to you to take care of yourself through this. Sleep, exercise, social life, relaxation techniques…I know you know all this but stress is insidious…love you .”

I had to look up that word, insidious. It means:

So beware if you are a caregiver or just seeing yourself stressed out over and over. All this stress or effects from aging might not seem to be dangerous or harmful, but they’re INSIDIOUS. My longtime friend opened my eyes to my situation as a caregiver. My time caring for my husband can break me down maybe before he even gets worse. This could be harmful. The caregiver can pass away before the patient. That’s why taking breaks, going to the gym, or for walks and socializing often can ease the harm of caregivers and aging. Take care of yourself.

Changes can be gradual. Decline can be gradual. Pain and mental fatigue can creep up. Take care of yourself so you can take care of others you love.

Getting old is a challenge. Keep fighting it little by little.

WHEN YOU GOTTA TAKE THE KEYS AWAY by Valerie Halla

It’s inevitable and most likely that a cancer patient will have his/her driving privileges taken away. My husband had seizures a few months after being diagnosed with metastatic brain cancer so the doctor had to let the DMV know and they suspended his license. We never questioned this nor followed up to check if his license was intact or revoked permanently or temporarily. We were just glad medication was prescribed that halted the frightening crippling seizures. Driving wasn’t important.

However, being the nice person I am, I never took away my husband’s car key fob. It sat on the counter and once when I was out with friends, my husband took the fob and escaped and drove to the larger town 10 miles away. He got lectured by me when he returned. He could’ve gotten in an accident and killed someone. Our insurance costs could sky rocket. I thought it was over. He wouldn’t cheat again. Then a few weeks ago he really started to improve his walking and talking abilities. We attributed it to the steroids he had started. I was having a colonoscopy and foolishly didn’t set up any friend or neighbor to drive me home. You guessed it. I had Ken drive me home. He did well. But after admitting to my daughter, since she asked who drove me home, I got the totally royal, “you are guilty, Mom, this is your adult-kid-lecture and you should be ashamed treatment”. WOW. ZOW. POW.

All three of our adult kids told me to hide his key fob so I finally did. It’s in the cupboard in Great Grandma’s gravy boat. I don’t think my husband will be making gravy in the near future and find it.

Other people have been telling me stories of how they had to take charge and hide a loved one’s keys. My Grandpa Sanderson was in his nineties when his two sons talked to him first and then had to take his car away. He was reasonable. They put his car in the driveway of one of their homes. He knew it was safe. He took it well. He told us that he was driving the interstate once and fell asleep at the wheel of his white Ford. He woke up to find himself on the shoulder of the busy highway. He often drove up one side of the burm of a road and down the other side pretty recklessly . It had been apparent to many of us that he shouldn’t be driving for a long time, but someone had to make the final decision. It’s for the best. Some people take it calmly and others fight it. No matter; it far surpasses the alternative of killing yourself or someone else in an accident.

Aunt Loretta knew, too. She had not driven much in Southern California having been a country gal and used to the more tame roads and highways of South Dakota. Moving to California was a big change. She went to get donuts one morning and accidentally drove onto a ramp heading onto one of the busiest Southern California freeways in the state. It was rush hour. It was crazy. She was ill prepared to say the least. She got in one lane and tried to maneuver into a slower lane but California drivers don’t know slow. She panicked and tried using the blinker to get over to the right and exit. Drivers don’t always let you get over and you’re often stuck in a lane going insane. (There are about a thousand lanes on CA freeways.)She swore to herself that if she got off the freeway and back home again, she would never drive again. And she didn’t. No one had to take her keys. She surrendered them gladly.

If you know someone maybe close to you who shouldn’t be driving, please talk to them. Follow the little voice inside you which might give you advice or a warning to take the responsibility of making your community safe by making an unsafe driver stop driving – at least temporarily. The unsafe driver may not even realize they aren’t capable of driving. Or maybe you can talk it over with a friend, your pastor or a relative who can give you counsel on taking the keys away. It’s also done with drinking and driving situations. Take the keys and take an unsafe driver off our streets.