Moor or less: Of moms, grandkids and, yep, colonoscopies

I sat around with two buddies the other day and instead of discussing our aches and pains, our lousy golf swings and our wives’ (adorable) quirks, we talked a lot about our mothers.

One is 96, one is 95 and one is 94.

My mom is the middle one of those three and still drives to the hairdresser and store (which is a story for another time) and always tries to walk 5,000 steps a day even if those steps are from circles around her basement.

One of my buddies worries about his mom using the basement stairs. My other buddy’s mom recently moved into an assisted living facility, which is no small undertaking for any family.

All three mothers have lived fruitful lives and did a great job of raising their families (even if the three of us might not be their best examples). But in their mid-90s, age is catching up with them. It’s sometimes tough to talk about — with them or with others. But then again, there are several things that we can find inspirational about their journeys, too.

My mom is determined to make it to 100. I hope I have been able to wrestle her car keys away from her by that time. Who knows, she might outlive me.

Watching someone you love get old isn’t always easy. It sometimes even makes me mad. But my two buddies and I agreed on how fortunate we are that our moms are still with us  in their mid-90s.


I never thought I would be a soft touch with grandchildren. I was a fairly strict dad and I thought I would be the same with my kids’ kids.

Ha, ha. What a pushover I was when my wife and I babysat three of our grandsons — 16, 14 and 12 — in Evansville last week.

Maybe to avoid looking like a bad granddad, I let them play video games on a weeknight (a no-no with their parents) …. didn’t argue with them about what they ate … and turned a blind eye while passing their messy — I mean, really messy — rooms.

They are good kids, fun kids. They love their Grammy and even sort of like me. But it seems they look at us as if we are some kindly, old couple right out of a nursery rhyme and too deaf and daft to be any kind of enforcers.

Maybe they are right.

I decided to let my wife do the rounding up for school, music lessons and meals. I turned my attention to trying to keep their two dogs, white Labs named Mabel and Millie, from barking at every passerby, squirrel and falling leaf.

The dogs have learned to ring an inside doorbell with their noses when nature calls — or when they just wanted to annoy me.

I survived the week — and I did sort of even up the score with my grandkids. On the morning we left, I ate the whole big bowl of vanilla pudding in the refrigerator before they got home from school.


A few days before our adventure in Evansville, I had a colonoscopy. All clear but you should see the pictures. (Don’t worry, I won’t post them.)

Actually, the pictures of a cleaned-out colon look a little like a cavern-themed water slide at an amusement park. Or is that just me?

A colonoscopy itself is no big deal. It’s the day before that stinks when you have to drink that magnesium citrate solution a couple of times and then sit on the porcelain throne for much of the day.

And all you can have for nourishment is chicken broth, clear liquids (Gatorade, Ginger-Ale, etc.) and popsicles as long as they aren’t purple or red.

My first colonoscopy was done by a physician they called the Rear Admiral. OK, I’ll stop talking about this now except to say that colon cancer is no laughing matter. So if you’re 45 or over, you need to go for it.

Getting to eat a half dozen orange popsicles can almost make up for the inconvenience.

Contact Bill at [email protected]