December 15, 1997
The excelsior of life I enjoy
by Oscar Roloff
It was in Feb. of 1996 that my cancer doctor called in relation to my third bout with cancer. In the conversation I asked, "How much time do I have left?" He replied, "Possibly to December of 1996." Astonished, I asked again. Same answer.
Greatly downhearted, I decided to apply some of my magic of believing philosophy to allow me to linger longer above ground. I grabbed my two books on "The Power of Positive Thinking" and "The Magic of Believing." Years ago they'd been given to me by the two authors in exchange for some of my military feature articles they had liked. I've applied the two books' contents and they've worked to my advantage. So far, that is. Both stressed nature's cure. Mother Nature is a healer.
Years ago on the hill above the late Elmer Carlberg's place, I created a $300,000 rural home. Very astonishing. When my wife Elaine and I decided to move into Kingsgate, I gave the house, free and clear, to my daughter Riana. When my wife's daughter (Colleen) and her family bought a wooded Woodinville home site, an idea emerged. The land was nearly overrun with ivy, blackberry vines and wooded debris. Knowing that rural work cures many an ill, I asked if I could tackle the task of clearing the land--for free, of course. They nodded, and ever since I've been spending 3 or 4 hours a day reclaiming that land for them to use. I drop trees, climb 40-50 foot trees to slash off branches, saw wood, stack it, plant vegetable gardens, hoe, rake and widen roads.
Of course, I tire and The Man Upstairs looks down, smiles and suggests rest. At 80, I sit down and chew on a carrot or spud. I am looking forward to the new year. I'll make it. Dang it! Nearly forgot. I forgot to mention that what you read of mine in the Woodinville Weekly, I offer to you for free. I feel I must give of myself. I won't charge for my gift of writing. Often I laugh and chuckle when writing. I get a kick too, of what I conjure up from my military or civilian endeavors. Hope you do too. Often when typing a sad story I drop a tear or even cry. Good writers hide that fault, but I don't care. I have letters 15 to 20 years old from readers who write that certain articles of mine caused them to cry. Join the crowd. I'm one of them. After all, we are all human beings.