It’s about time the subject came out of the WC

Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Sincerely Media on Unsplash

Poop is gross. Ain’t nobody gonna deny that. But it’s a part of everyday life, if we’re lucky — and talking about it should not be so taboo.

Recently, I had to poop in a bucket. Then I had to add a bottle of liquid to it, box it up, and send it to the lab. I was not looking forward to doing this — and avoided it, until I could put it off no longer.

I mean, in the natural order of things, we poop into the toilet, and flush it away, and we have no further interaction with it. But I had to engage with the poop, then package it up properly, then trot the hermetically-sealed box to the UPS store. …

And keeping this weight OFF

Image for post
Image for post
Photo from

At 59 years old, I just lost 23 pounds. Again. The last time I lost this much weight was about 6 years ago — and it took me that long to put it all back on.

Oh, I could’ve gained it back much faster than that, but I do try to stay on top of these things. Let’s see — 23 pounds divided by 6 years — that’s less than four pounds a year. No big whoop. As it’s happening, it’s barely noticeable.

Then all of a sudden none of my clothes fit, and I can barely squeeze into my “fat jeans”. I’m back to wearing sweats, or those stretchy leggings with a giant top that covers all the flab. …

Take it from me

Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

At the beginning of 2020, I weighed 170 pounds. I was a lethargic couch potato with a desk job, prone to eating big bags of chips and/or pints of Ben & Jerry’s in one sitting. Many evenings, I also enjoyed drinking several high alcohol content beers along with said chips.

Going way back, I was a chubby, introverted kid, who discovered cigarettes and alcohol around age 12. I liked both things very much, and continued to (ab)use both for the next 35+ years.

I put down the smokes around 50, but continued to enjoy my brewskis, or wine, or whatever. But now in my late 50's, even drinking in moderation results in mild to debilitating hangovers. …

And other pleasant surprises

Image for post
Image for post

Warren Zevon, one of my favorite musical artists, died of lung cancer in 2003. I watched David Letterman interview him, just a few weeks before he passed. He admittedly never went to a doctor — and by the time his symptoms of lung cancer manifested, it was too late.

This stuck with me, because I am also a bit doctor-phobic. And as an ex-smoker, lung cancer has been my biggest fear — especially since I am in the high-risk “30-Pack-Years” category (meaning I smoked a pack a day for 30 years).

So when I was told to get a lung scan at 55 years old, naturally I avoided it. And again brushed it off when a different doctor gave me the same advice, a year or two later. …

Now kindly unfriend me, please

Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Ehimetalor Akhere Unuabona on Unsplash

A while back, I “unfriended” someone on Facebook because of his blatantly racist posts. At first I just “unfollowed” him — meaning we were still friends, but now I would not see his vitriol pop up on my feed. But then I thought, oh Hell naw, why do I want to have any association with this person at all? I don’t. So bye.

For some reason, I decided to take a look at his page yesterday, and it did not disappoint. He is still a fire-breathing racist, evidenced by a meme showing the Kenosha shooter, with some “funny” text on it — basically praising the actions of the 17-year-old murderer. Ex-friend’s comment on the meme was “My hero!”. …

Image for post
Image for post
Susanne Jutzeler on

How will you be remembered?

As Covid-19 continues to prevent working with hospice patients, we volunteers have been gathering virtually. The topic of this week’s meeting was all about our individual legacies, and what object represents our unique existence. What will we leave? How will we be remembered? What are we known for now?

Our legacies are as unique as our fingerprints. And that was evidenced as we each took our turn showing or describing our “object”. …

Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Krishnam Moosaddee on Unsplash

My father was a gentle giant, and despite enduring many hardships that would make some bitter, he spoke softly, and was a kind soul. A little rough around the edges — despite my mother’s attempts to polish him — he was not to be changed.

Apparently, my mom was drawn to him because he was a bad boy. Unlike the other guys, who took her out for ice cream sodas — this older and more worldly suitor, took her to taverns, for beers and dancing.

They were married for 57 years when they died, within weeks of each other.

Growing up in poverty on a farm in Idaho, he didn’t talk much about his childhood. He was one of six kids — seven, if you count the baby who was attacked by a wild boar while left unattended on the porch. That is one thing Dad did mention —and how he remembers his mother’s screams that day, upon finding her mauled newborn. …

And we are all survivors

Image for post
Image for post
T-shirt designed by lindalu designs

Recently, I resurrected one of my countless side hustles — my online T-shirt shop. In my down time, I’m always looking for a way to blow off some creative steam, and I started this little enterprise a few years back, but never followed up with it. Until now. Because, well, there’s a lot of extra time on the books these days, and I could use a few extra bucks. Thanks, Coronavirus.

I posted a picture of me wearing this shirt on Instagram, along with this quote:

“There is a crack in everything, That’s how the light gets in.” …

A Photo Essay

Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Linda Horton

Taking pictures is not just something I like to do — it’s something I need to do. But all my photo gigs have canceled, and I haven’t left the house except to walk the dog, and go grocery shopping.

I’m stuck inside, and grateful for all this stuff, so I took pictures of it. And other than almost being out of paper towels, life is good.

Who knew something so ordinary could become so scary.

Image for post
Image for post
Photo by Matthew T Rader on Unsplash

I had to go. I really did. The cupboard was getting bare, and I was a bit worried that if I didn’t go now, the entire city would be on lockdown, and then I’d have nothing. Chicago pretty much is on lockdown already, but we are allowed to go to the grocery store.

It’s cold and rainy today — typical March weather around here. But the other day it was sunny, warm, and beautiful. Everyone was outside — biking, running, walking their dogs — and otherwise enjoying a gorgeous spring day.

And the mayor was pissed. Our little badass of a leader, Lori Lightfoot, climbed up on the podium and yelled “STAY INSIDE.” Police cars were now stationed all along the lakefront, and if people were seen gathering, they were quickly dispersed. An occasional jogger would be let past, but all were given a stern a warning to GO HOME. …


Linda Horton

Born a photographer, but prone to writing haiku on public transportation, or baking things. Death Doula in training.

Get the Medium app

A button that says 'Download on the App Store', and if clicked it will lead you to the iOS App store
A button that says 'Get it on, Google Play', and if clicked it will lead you to the Google Play store