arthritis For as long as I knew her, my Grandma Cope suffered terribly with arthritis. It attacked her whole body. She'd shuffle around because of the stiffness in her hips, knees, and ankles. Her fingers were almost rendered useless. And yet, she decided not to let it stop her. Her constant cooking and sewing just worked around those little inconveniences--like not being able to use her fingers. (Note: In one of the comments two days ago about dessert, someone darted in to leave an anonymous comment about the sugar cookies on Jefferson Street. That was Grandma Cope's address--the world's best sugar cookies.) My dad's arthritis hasn't been nearly as severe, thankfully. But several times he's gotten one of those good old cortisone shots in his ankle. Unless he's just teasing, they apparently hurt. Enough said. So yesterday, Dr. Butch, a friend from Highland and an orthopedic surgeon, is checking out my x-rays and preparing to tell me that I have a torn meniscus and should probably have orthroscopic surgery. But then he said, "And there seems to be some arthritis, too." For some reason, I can deal with the torn meniscus. I've been a pretty active person. Maybe it was one too many marathon . . . or throwing batting practice without stretching . . . or . . . well, who knows? (Actually, I'm afraid it happened last fall when I decided that I could unload a piece of furniture by myself. I couldn't wait the extra two minutes it would take to call Dickie next door.) But arthritis in my knee? Isn't that for old guys?