We got a check in the mail today. It doesn't matter who you are, that's a nice way to start the day. Of course we had to put it in the bank, and that made for a great excuse to get out of the house. We bundled up, in hopes we could protect ourselves from the force of the 23 degree, 28MPH wind, hopped into the Guzzler, and drove to the bank.
Before we actually moved here, and while we were still house hunting, my realtor in New Mexico called with great news. He had sold one of our properties and needed us to sign and return a bunch of paperwork. Since I am a world renowned real estate tycoon - Donald Trump is barely able to surf in the wake I create - I knew without being told that our signatures would need to be notarized. When the papers arrived we walked into the closest bank we could find and asked if they could help. Naturally both of their notaries were taking their lunch together but, if we could wait forty-five minutes, they would be happy to assist us. I figured any bank that would allow all their notaries to leave the building at the same time was itself out to lunch and we declined.
We hit the jackpot with the next bank. They notarized our signatures and when I asked how much we owed I was told "Oh, this service is free for all our customers." I explained to her we did not yet live in the area and sadly, were not customers, and again asked what we owed. Her reply was one I did not forget. "Oh, but you are customers. You needed me to notarize a document." When we moved, her bank was where we opened our accounts. That's the place we drove to today. It is filled with happy, caring and courteous tellers and supervisors.
When we got there we were greeted by one of the supervisors, one who's face always lights up as she greets us by name and who I know had an appendix removed Thursday, February 17th. I know this because we missed her greeting when we were last in, on the 18th, and inquired about her absence. We were surprised to see her and I commented to her that having an appendix pulled out was usually good enough excuse for a month off work. Her reply made me cringe for all the folks her age who still have jobs.
"I took a couple of days off but was back in last Tuesday. We get four or five applications everyday and I can't afford to miss work."
Holy Christmas. Her appendix was removed on Thursday and she was back on her feet all day long on Tuesday because she was afraid of losing her job. What has happened to this country?
Thirty-five or forty years ago I had a hernia surgery. I took the six weeks off the Doctor said I needed without worrying about my job. Fifteen years ago I wrenched my back and that left me laying down for the better part of three months. Again, I was not concerned about my job.
I see her, working at a time both of us know she should be resting in bed, and I worry for her. I have another friend who had surgery on her foot and is unable to walk without a lot of help. She is home, only because she can't drive, but her employer needs her to continue working while she lays in bed! She is doing it for much the same reason - can't afford to take the time off.
The Governors of several states in this fine nation of ours are pressing for total control of the working conditions of their employees. Most all the youngsters in this great nation are running scared. Afraid of losing the jobs that pay less and less each year and require more and more of their efforts. How much more will the younger workers in this country have to give? What else will the modern day Simon Legrees' demand of them? Is not their youth and health enough?
If you have not already done so, do this gray haired old coot a favor and read "Uncle Tom's Cabin." You will learn much about evil bosses that care only for themselves. That's what's happening in this country now. I don't even need to work anymore but ya know what?
I'm running scared too.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Where's my Drill? Part 2
I know each of you following this tale of woe is on the edge of your chair, gulping coffee so you can stay awake long enough to learn the outcome of this misadventure. For you, there will be no sleep until there is some kind of resolution. Will I find my drill or will the elusive tool once again scurry by, just out of my field of vision, and survive undetected for another month or two in the Mess That Is The Garage? Read on, Soldiers of the Search, and you will soon know as much about this calamity as I.
The other day I finished building the shelving in the garage and rebuilt the work bench. There's just something entirely wrong about using a bench someone else designed. When I say entirely wrong, I'm talking about something at the molecular level. Like, there should be a separate branch of physics to describe and deal with the phenomenon. Travis, Jeff, Ron, Will, Roger - there's a Nobel Prize in here somewhere - go for it! Or maybe it's just because I'm a lefty in a world full of right handed souls. Nothing fits as it should. My tools wind up where someone else wants them, and I spend the first hour or so of any project looking for them and just getting organized in general. Well, that has been fixed. MY workbench is complete and I can now look through my collection of Popular Mechanics magazines from the 50''s and 60's and pick various cool things to build. All I need is my drill.
I started to get rid of The Mess by hauling the half mile of garden hoses outside to a nearby flowerbed and neatly coiling them behind a large plant of some kind. It was the perfect hiding place. Then, I started filling my brand new shelves with boxes and pretty soon the waist high pile was at knee level. The shelves still had room on them so I continued. Within several minutes enough wall space had been uncovered that I could position my air compressor in it's new home and the special spike that had been pulled from the wall in Los Alamos and carried across several state lines, was pounded into position to hold one hundred feet of air hose in readiness for the next flat tire.
More boxes went on more shelves, and now all that was left was an ankle high collection of odds and ends that will have to be sorted, item by item, and placed in an as yet to be determined spot just for it. So far, so good, but the news is terrible.
You've all seen the commercial where a guy in a crane is trying to tear down a building by using a big overstuffed bunny as a wrecking ball? That's a really big bunny and I feel like it just hit me in the head. I can now see most of the garage floor and there is no sign of the drill. It must be in one of the 56 boxes or 11 five-gallon pails that are now proudly sitting on my new shelves. That means I still have to go through boxes till I locate the dang thing. Shoulda just hired the teens to toss everything and bought a new one.
Stay tuned for the next installment of the continuing saga of the errant drill. There will be good news someday.
The other day I finished building the shelving in the garage and rebuilt the work bench. There's just something entirely wrong about using a bench someone else designed. When I say entirely wrong, I'm talking about something at the molecular level. Like, there should be a separate branch of physics to describe and deal with the phenomenon. Travis, Jeff, Ron, Will, Roger - there's a Nobel Prize in here somewhere - go for it! Or maybe it's just because I'm a lefty in a world full of right handed souls. Nothing fits as it should. My tools wind up where someone else wants them, and I spend the first hour or so of any project looking for them and just getting organized in general. Well, that has been fixed. MY workbench is complete and I can now look through my collection of Popular Mechanics magazines from the 50''s and 60's and pick various cool things to build. All I need is my drill.
I started to get rid of The Mess by hauling the half mile of garden hoses outside to a nearby flowerbed and neatly coiling them behind a large plant of some kind. It was the perfect hiding place. Then, I started filling my brand new shelves with boxes and pretty soon the waist high pile was at knee level. The shelves still had room on them so I continued. Within several minutes enough wall space had been uncovered that I could position my air compressor in it's new home and the special spike that had been pulled from the wall in Los Alamos and carried across several state lines, was pounded into position to hold one hundred feet of air hose in readiness for the next flat tire.
More boxes went on more shelves, and now all that was left was an ankle high collection of odds and ends that will have to be sorted, item by item, and placed in an as yet to be determined spot just for it. So far, so good, but the news is terrible.
You've all seen the commercial where a guy in a crane is trying to tear down a building by using a big overstuffed bunny as a wrecking ball? That's a really big bunny and I feel like it just hit me in the head. I can now see most of the garage floor and there is no sign of the drill. It must be in one of the 56 boxes or 11 five-gallon pails that are now proudly sitting on my new shelves. That means I still have to go through boxes till I locate the dang thing. Shoulda just hired the teens to toss everything and bought a new one.
Stay tuned for the next installment of the continuing saga of the errant drill. There will be good news someday.
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Avon Lady
Carolyn is starting to have a bit of trouble getting around in stores these days. It's becoming more and more difficult for her to get up and down the aisles as her condition worsens unless I'm there to balance and guide her. To make things even worse, there are some stores that make it hard for two people to walk side by side and still allow enough room for someone going in the other direction to pass.
Seems like these places mistakenly figure most folks actually enjoy dodging merchandise piled in the middle of the aisles. I'm sure they do it to stop, or at least slow down, people traveling through in hopes just one more unneeded item will wind up in the cart. That would normally be OK, but it seems the guys who do this the most also have the least regard for the roundness of the wheels on the carts and the wheels ability to properly caster. A shorter way of saying this is "This stinkin' cart won't roll and it won't turn. Go get me some dynamite, I'll fix this sucker." Dodging the piles in the aisles gets to be a real chore, especially when you're trying to shove a stuck-wheel cart with one hand and keep the love of your life upright with the other.
I'm sure this is a minor gripe if you happen to call a country like, for instance, Afghanistan home, but I'm an American and the wheels on MY shopping cart should function normally. We have started to avoid stores that engage in this tactic and in fact, it's becoming apparent that I must do most of the shopping required to keep the house running on my own. Carolyn misses making trips to the store with me but we have an unlikely savior - the Avon Lady!
Several months ago, as I was writing the check to her hair stylist, Carolyn picked up one of several Avon booklets that were stacked on the counter. Over the course of the following days she browsed through it and picked out a couple of things she wanted to buy. She called the phone number that was stamped on the cover of the booklet and the next week Marlene showed up at our door with Carolyn's new treasures. Their relationship has blossomed over the last few weeks. Carolyn and Marlene will sit for a half hour or more looking at girl stuff and discussing its merits. At least I think that's what they're doing, but it doesn't really matter; they're doing whatever it is that girls do to decide what to buy. The next week the process begins anew.
There are certain things I could never pick out for Carolyn, guys just don't have a clue. But, Marlene has all the answers. The transactions that occur between them could probably be done online but the personal touch Carolyn enjoys so much would be missing.
I don't see how Marlene can possibly be making a living selling the stuff but she performs a unique and valuable service to a person like Carolyn who is no longer able to slug it out with the owners of balky shopping carts and crowded aisles. If our government can support ACORN for years and years there should be some way to make sure people like Marlene flourish.
I've never said this to anyone before, but I love the Avon Lady!
Seems like these places mistakenly figure most folks actually enjoy dodging merchandise piled in the middle of the aisles. I'm sure they do it to stop, or at least slow down, people traveling through in hopes just one more unneeded item will wind up in the cart. That would normally be OK, but it seems the guys who do this the most also have the least regard for the roundness of the wheels on the carts and the wheels ability to properly caster. A shorter way of saying this is "This stinkin' cart won't roll and it won't turn. Go get me some dynamite, I'll fix this sucker." Dodging the piles in the aisles gets to be a real chore, especially when you're trying to shove a stuck-wheel cart with one hand and keep the love of your life upright with the other.
I'm sure this is a minor gripe if you happen to call a country like, for instance, Afghanistan home, but I'm an American and the wheels on MY shopping cart should function normally. We have started to avoid stores that engage in this tactic and in fact, it's becoming apparent that I must do most of the shopping required to keep the house running on my own. Carolyn misses making trips to the store with me but we have an unlikely savior - the Avon Lady!
Several months ago, as I was writing the check to her hair stylist, Carolyn picked up one of several Avon booklets that were stacked on the counter. Over the course of the following days she browsed through it and picked out a couple of things she wanted to buy. She called the phone number that was stamped on the cover of the booklet and the next week Marlene showed up at our door with Carolyn's new treasures. Their relationship has blossomed over the last few weeks. Carolyn and Marlene will sit for a half hour or more looking at girl stuff and discussing its merits. At least I think that's what they're doing, but it doesn't really matter; they're doing whatever it is that girls do to decide what to buy. The next week the process begins anew.
There are certain things I could never pick out for Carolyn, guys just don't have a clue. But, Marlene has all the answers. The transactions that occur between them could probably be done online but the personal touch Carolyn enjoys so much would be missing.
I don't see how Marlene can possibly be making a living selling the stuff but she performs a unique and valuable service to a person like Carolyn who is no longer able to slug it out with the owners of balky shopping carts and crowded aisles. If our government can support ACORN for years and years there should be some way to make sure people like Marlene flourish.
I've never said this to anyone before, but I love the Avon Lady!
Friday, February 25, 2011
Another Dawn
Well, we managed to muddle our way through yesterday's emotional crisis only to suffer a plague of Doctors today. I'm certain the only folks who are happy about the aging Boomers are all members of the AMA. I'm mostly glad to contribute my portion towards their retirement and to help to pay off their student loans, but I wish they'd return the favor. It would really be nice if they'd quit fighting to keep the Social Security cap on income in place.... Nope. I guess that's a little much to ask of them.
First up today was a visit to the Doctor that fixed my carpal tunnel. That's not exactly right, it's more like I expected I'd start the day with a visit to the Doc that slit my wrist. Instead I was greeted by a very pleasant and professional nurse. She took a look at the huge bump in the middle of my left palm and ordered a bunch of Physical Therapy sessions to ultrasound the evil scar tissue into submission. Oh goody. Now I get to spend another five or six hours in the Doctors office next month. I suppose I should be glad it's not the morgue. After getting all those appointments lined up so they would not interfere with other Doctor appointments, Tai Chi classes and swimming around the pool, I drove home.
I just barely managed to park the Guzzler and walk through the door before my wife called out. I walked back to the bedroom and she said her eye was giving her trouble. I looked and discovered it was swollen and red. The red eye clashed terribly with her red hair so we had to do something about that at once. Fashion statements still matter to her.
We've only been in town for three months and had no clue where to go to get an eye fixed. I suggested we look in the yellow pages for a taxidermist that could pop hers out and put in a glass one that we could be certain would not give any trouble in the future but she shortened that suggestion. Her version was "Let's just find an eye doctor in the yellow pages." So we did and to my astonishment we were told to come right down - they'd work us into the schedule.
After a short wait we met this guy that could have easily been my grandchild. Turns out he's the doctor and he just happened to be an OUTSTANDING one. He gazed into my wife's eyes (had he not been a professional I'd have kicked his butt) and found some eyelashes that were pointed the wrong way. He plucked them, while I watched the proceedings on a TV monitor, and prescribed medication to help them grow the right way in the future. Everything was explained to us in plain English without condescension. If any of my grandsons were a doctor, I'd want him to be just like this guy.
We came back home, ate an early dinner and discussed just what getting older is all about. We haven't really figured it all out, but we agree doctors play an important role. We also agree that a lot of it is just being able to last long enough for another day to dawn.
First up today was a visit to the Doctor that fixed my carpal tunnel. That's not exactly right, it's more like I expected I'd start the day with a visit to the Doc that slit my wrist. Instead I was greeted by a very pleasant and professional nurse. She took a look at the huge bump in the middle of my left palm and ordered a bunch of Physical Therapy sessions to ultrasound the evil scar tissue into submission. Oh goody. Now I get to spend another five or six hours in the Doctors office next month. I suppose I should be glad it's not the morgue. After getting all those appointments lined up so they would not interfere with other Doctor appointments, Tai Chi classes and swimming around the pool, I drove home.
I just barely managed to park the Guzzler and walk through the door before my wife called out. I walked back to the bedroom and she said her eye was giving her trouble. I looked and discovered it was swollen and red. The red eye clashed terribly with her red hair so we had to do something about that at once. Fashion statements still matter to her.
We've only been in town for three months and had no clue where to go to get an eye fixed. I suggested we look in the yellow pages for a taxidermist that could pop hers out and put in a glass one that we could be certain would not give any trouble in the future but she shortened that suggestion. Her version was "Let's just find an eye doctor in the yellow pages." So we did and to my astonishment we were told to come right down - they'd work us into the schedule.
After a short wait we met this guy that could have easily been my grandchild. Turns out he's the doctor and he just happened to be an OUTSTANDING one. He gazed into my wife's eyes (had he not been a professional I'd have kicked his butt) and found some eyelashes that were pointed the wrong way. He plucked them, while I watched the proceedings on a TV monitor, and prescribed medication to help them grow the right way in the future. Everything was explained to us in plain English without condescension. If any of my grandsons were a doctor, I'd want him to be just like this guy.
We came back home, ate an early dinner and discussed just what getting older is all about. We haven't really figured it all out, but we agree doctors play an important role. We also agree that a lot of it is just being able to last long enough for another day to dawn.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Trying Day
The Lord has given us a lot to digest today.
I have no energy left to write. Please wish us well, and I will try to be back tomorrow.
I have no energy left to write. Please wish us well, and I will try to be back tomorrow.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Where's My Drill?
Tonight's gonna be a three shot night. That's right. Soon as American Idol's over it's either three shots of good ol' Jack Daniels or a couple more pain pills. My back is killing me. Today I started cleaning the garage.
For the last week or so, ever since it took all morning to put air into a flat tire, I've been planning the attack on the mess in that hellish hole. The nuclear option, renting a dumpster and three teens to start chucking stuff into it, was very appealing but I don't know three teenagers in this Burg. So, that plan went into the dumpster instead of the eight tons of whatever that clutters the garage.
Next I had the option of setting fire to it. I looked closely at my insurance policy and the local arson laws. Things on the insurance end would have been OK, so long as I didn't get caught with the match, but the jail time for any tiny miscalculation on my part was something I could not face. As Tony Beretta used to say, long before he might have pulled the trigger, "If you can't do the time, then don't do the crime." I can't do the time so another plan went into the dumpster. I'm glad I thought about renting the thing.
Reality started to set in. I was actually going to have to clean up the mess.
The first part, building the shelves to store the various treasures I've accumulated during my life time, is something I enjoy. Too bad this project is not like a dinner away from home. Instead of coming last, desert comes first when the garage needs straightening out. Today was cherry pie and homemade vanilla ice cream day. I went to Home Depot, bought a bunch of bull nose shelving and mounting brackets and set up my trusty sliding compound miter saw. Seven hours later I had one hundred and four lineal feet of eleven inch shelving on the walls.
Tomorrow I'll rebuild the work bench to my liking and sit down in the middle of the floor and admire my handiwork for the rest of the day. The mess will still be piled around me but progress will have been made. The only problem I can see is that dessert will be gone - nothing left to look forward to. I'll just have to try real hard to eat all my vegetables.
For the last week or so, ever since it took all morning to put air into a flat tire, I've been planning the attack on the mess in that hellish hole. The nuclear option, renting a dumpster and three teens to start chucking stuff into it, was very appealing but I don't know three teenagers in this Burg. So, that plan went into the dumpster instead of the eight tons of whatever that clutters the garage.
Next I had the option of setting fire to it. I looked closely at my insurance policy and the local arson laws. Things on the insurance end would have been OK, so long as I didn't get caught with the match, but the jail time for any tiny miscalculation on my part was something I could not face. As Tony Beretta used to say, long before he might have pulled the trigger, "If you can't do the time, then don't do the crime." I can't do the time so another plan went into the dumpster. I'm glad I thought about renting the thing.
Reality started to set in. I was actually going to have to clean up the mess.
The first part, building the shelves to store the various treasures I've accumulated during my life time, is something I enjoy. Too bad this project is not like a dinner away from home. Instead of coming last, desert comes first when the garage needs straightening out. Today was cherry pie and homemade vanilla ice cream day. I went to Home Depot, bought a bunch of bull nose shelving and mounting brackets and set up my trusty sliding compound miter saw. Seven hours later I had one hundred and four lineal feet of eleven inch shelving on the walls.
Tomorrow I'll rebuild the work bench to my liking and sit down in the middle of the floor and admire my handiwork for the rest of the day. The mess will still be piled around me but progress will have been made. The only problem I can see is that dessert will be gone - nothing left to look forward to. I'll just have to try real hard to eat all my vegetables.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Rock Chucks
Because of their efforts there now is a blended syrah-cabernet wine in this part of the world with a label on the bottle that proudly proclaims the contents to be "Rockchuck Red." A rock chuck appears in the logo of a local business that sells home brewing supplies. There is a grass roots campaign to make it the mascot of the new high school. Plans are being made for the first ever Rock Chuck Festival. Who said this is a small town? With ideas like these in the planning stage New York City had better start cringing in fear and envy. We're gonna become "The Little Apple." Where hospitality goes hand in foot with every glass of Rockchuck Red.
There's another critter close by that also has his own face book page - actually I think it's a tribe of them that own the page. You'll find them if you look for Old Mill District Rock Chucks. They live twenty miles away somewhere by the river in downtown Bend. They don't seem to be as active a bunch as the ones here in Redmond and I think that's probably because Bend gets SO much more snow. Mostly they watch concerts in the amplitheater next to their dens or just hibernate. I doubt they will ever become the superstars of rockchuckdom as I believe their more northerly neighbors in Redmond will. Only time will tell, but I'm sure both local clans will fare better than their cousins in Idaho. The poor things get shot up every year in that part of the country.
The Hannah Bates Memorial Rock Chuck Derby is held every spring in Bliss, Idaho and all the locals compete to see who can shoot the biggest rock chuck! Now the idea is great and all the proceeds from the event are donated to the Hannah Bates Memorial Athletic Fund to help the local high school athletes, but still, how can they? I have no problem with killing and eating animals, but just for the sport of it? I don't think so. And anyway, according to all the rock chuck receipes our Native Americans offer, they need to be cooked outdoors on a very windy day. They stink - on the grill and on the plate. I think I should offer my services to do something to correct this abuse. I'm gonna run for president of the local Rock Chuck Society and I betcha I win. Every one of the marmots will vote for me.
My winning slogan? "Shoot the Shooters in Idaho!" If the Unions can fight the Governor in Wisconsin we Oregonians can start a war with Idaho!
Monday, February 21, 2011
Presidents Day
Today some of us are gonna get a day off to celebrate something called "Presidents Day." I've done an extensive search and have been unable to find which of our presidents, if any, were actually born on this date. Maybe my computer is broken or something. When I worked for a living, we depended on an entire IT Department to make sure nothing worked so I can't really say much about the way the blooming thing is functioning. I just don't know. Anyway, it used to be Washington's Birthday that we celebrated but all that got changed.
In 1800AD Mason Locke Weems made up a tale about George Washington chopping down a cherry tree in an effort to sell more of his books. He correctly imagined such a story would enchant a nation and make more people buy the book he wrote. Eighty years later, the wonderful, hard working congressmen of the time wanted another day off so they declared the date of George Washington's birth, the twenty-second of February, to be a holiday for all the overworked people in the District of Columbia.
Now ya know this kinda situation will never work, not then and not now. If some Federal employees get the day off, the rest of them want it off too. So, five years later ALL the Feds started taking the day off. This happy state of affairs worked for over seventy-five years but you know how people are. Give 'em an inch and pretty soon they want to eat their cake too. Is that the way that saying goes? I'm claiming senility if I got it mixed up.
In the sixties congress had a bright idea. Since there were four holidays that were sort of disorderly, sometimes falling at the front or end of the week and sometimes falling in the middle, why not make them all fall on a Monday? That's what they did and it think it's the first time I can actually point to, in my lifetime, that congress showed itself not only able, but also willing to rewrite history. We all know George Washington was born on a Tuesday but congress says it happened on Monday! The whole world knows Chris Columbus first looked upon the New World on a Friday morning but our hero's in Washington said he did it on a Monday. They did get Veterans Day right, that really did occur on a Monday, and it was impossible to screw up Memorial Day. That poor orphan holiday bounced all over the place, anytime between the first of May and the first of June for a hundred years or so.
The American public was a little touchy back the the sixties and were not in any mood to have congress mix up all their holidays like it had mixed and messed up the rest of their lives. So, congress made darn sure none of what they did would take effect until 1971. By then most of them had found places to hide just in case. Even so, everybody still got upset about Veterans Day and in 1975 it got pulled from the list and went back to the way it was.
Now I believe that old Mr. Weems was onto something, and was way ahead of his time. Just look at the newspapers on Presidents Day. You won't find a lot of stuff about our presidents, but boy will you find a bunch of junk on sale! Instead of trying to buy all that crap, why not just take the day and rest a little. You know you deserve it.
In 1800AD Mason Locke Weems made up a tale about George Washington chopping down a cherry tree in an effort to sell more of his books. He correctly imagined such a story would enchant a nation and make more people buy the book he wrote. Eighty years later, the wonderful, hard working congressmen of the time wanted another day off so they declared the date of George Washington's birth, the twenty-second of February, to be a holiday for all the overworked people in the District of Columbia.
Now ya know this kinda situation will never work, not then and not now. If some Federal employees get the day off, the rest of them want it off too. So, five years later ALL the Feds started taking the day off. This happy state of affairs worked for over seventy-five years but you know how people are. Give 'em an inch and pretty soon they want to eat their cake too. Is that the way that saying goes? I'm claiming senility if I got it mixed up.
In the sixties congress had a bright idea. Since there were four holidays that were sort of disorderly, sometimes falling at the front or end of the week and sometimes falling in the middle, why not make them all fall on a Monday? That's what they did and it think it's the first time I can actually point to, in my lifetime, that congress showed itself not only able, but also willing to rewrite history. We all know George Washington was born on a Tuesday but congress says it happened on Monday! The whole world knows Chris Columbus first looked upon the New World on a Friday morning but our hero's in Washington said he did it on a Monday. They did get Veterans Day right, that really did occur on a Monday, and it was impossible to screw up Memorial Day. That poor orphan holiday bounced all over the place, anytime between the first of May and the first of June for a hundred years or so.
The American public was a little touchy back the the sixties and were not in any mood to have congress mix up all their holidays like it had mixed and messed up the rest of their lives. So, congress made darn sure none of what they did would take effect until 1971. By then most of them had found places to hide just in case. Even so, everybody still got upset about Veterans Day and in 1975 it got pulled from the list and went back to the way it was.
Now I believe that old Mr. Weems was onto something, and was way ahead of his time. Just look at the newspapers on Presidents Day. You won't find a lot of stuff about our presidents, but boy will you find a bunch of junk on sale! Instead of trying to buy all that crap, why not just take the day and rest a little. You know you deserve it.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Starting Time!
We have cold beer on ice, a new flat screen on the wall and lap trays to hold the chips and dip - we're ready in this house so...........Gentlemen, START YOUR ENGINES!
A new season of stock car legends will start the Daytona 500 today and it can't come soon enough for me. I'm tired of quiet and peaceful Sunday afternoons. Give me some engine noise and an announcer with a Southern accent and this Alabama born wanna be moonshiner is in heaven. My Dad and I used to sit together and root for Dale when I was able to make it home for a week or so. Both of them are gone now but the tradition lives on. Dale, Jr. is on the track and Forrest, Jr. is in the armchair. All is right with the world.
I hope I have a little more luck than Dale, Jr. In case you haven't heard, he was the fastest in practice, the fastest qualifier, won the pole position and then was sent to the back of the pack when he crashed the car he used to qualify and had to go to his back up ride. If I follow his lead the chair will be missing an arm and I'll wind up underneath it in the wreck. Maybe I should start rooting for Jimmy if I want Dale to win. I know my undying loyalty to the Oakland Raiders has not helped them to win a Superbowl in the last 27 years. I can still remember the glory days with Daryle or Kenny at the helm, Jim snapping the ball and Fred catching it. George was always around to help out. Al Davis was a pain even back then but he used to know how to put a team together.
No matter who wins this race or the championship, I'm going to enjoy this season more than any in the past. That's because I'm now retired and can afford to spend the three or four hours each week it takes to watch the race. No more rushing around to keep the lawn tended, the cars ready and all the million other things a guy has to do around the house. I won't feel guilty spending that kind of time inside when it's a sunny day. I can play outside on Monday.
The world is in a mess. The wealthy are destroying the country. The bed of the Gulf of Mexico is covered with oily dispersant's. The politicians are mostly crooks. Mexico's flooding us with drugs and terrorists. We're flooding them with assault rifles. The Canadians are saying "eh" way too much and you can bet that means they're up to no good. There's not much more oil left and the temperature is rising. Do we still have to save the whales?
I believe I have time to fix all this stuff and still squeeze in a couple of hours of watching cars and drivers going round and round in circles. Ya know, there's a guy down the street that's working on a '62 Oldsmobile. I've seen it in his garage. I think I'm gonna pound on his door before race time and invite him over. One of these days I may find a problem with this world that I can't fix all by myself and if I play my cards just right he may offer to help!
A new season of stock car legends will start the Daytona 500 today and it can't come soon enough for me. I'm tired of quiet and peaceful Sunday afternoons. Give me some engine noise and an announcer with a Southern accent and this Alabama born wanna be moonshiner is in heaven. My Dad and I used to sit together and root for Dale when I was able to make it home for a week or so. Both of them are gone now but the tradition lives on. Dale, Jr. is on the track and Forrest, Jr. is in the armchair. All is right with the world.
I hope I have a little more luck than Dale, Jr. In case you haven't heard, he was the fastest in practice, the fastest qualifier, won the pole position and then was sent to the back of the pack when he crashed the car he used to qualify and had to go to his back up ride. If I follow his lead the chair will be missing an arm and I'll wind up underneath it in the wreck. Maybe I should start rooting for Jimmy if I want Dale to win. I know my undying loyalty to the Oakland Raiders has not helped them to win a Superbowl in the last 27 years. I can still remember the glory days with Daryle or Kenny at the helm, Jim snapping the ball and Fred catching it. George was always around to help out. Al Davis was a pain even back then but he used to know how to put a team together.
No matter who wins this race or the championship, I'm going to enjoy this season more than any in the past. That's because I'm now retired and can afford to spend the three or four hours each week it takes to watch the race. No more rushing around to keep the lawn tended, the cars ready and all the million other things a guy has to do around the house. I won't feel guilty spending that kind of time inside when it's a sunny day. I can play outside on Monday.
The world is in a mess. The wealthy are destroying the country. The bed of the Gulf of Mexico is covered with oily dispersant's. The politicians are mostly crooks. Mexico's flooding us with drugs and terrorists. We're flooding them with assault rifles. The Canadians are saying "eh" way too much and you can bet that means they're up to no good. There's not much more oil left and the temperature is rising. Do we still have to save the whales?
I believe I have time to fix all this stuff and still squeeze in a couple of hours of watching cars and drivers going round and round in circles. Ya know, there's a guy down the street that's working on a '62 Oldsmobile. I've seen it in his garage. I think I'm gonna pound on his door before race time and invite him over. One of these days I may find a problem with this world that I can't fix all by myself and if I play my cards just right he may offer to help!
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Summer Friends
I heard from an old friend yesterday. It seems she stumbled upon this collection of spelling and grammar errors while deleting emails. A kinda quirky way to find me but I'm used to "quirky" in all things related to her.
Her personalized car license plate read "SQUIRLY" or something very close to that. It described her to a tee. Years and years ago I moved into an apartment complex and became close friends with her and a couple of guys she hung out with. This was before Seinfeld, way before, but the interactions of the characters on that show reminds me a lot of our little circle. We even had a "Newman" who lived in the same complex. The main four culprits, lets call them Terri, Mike, Chris and Forrest (that's really me!) were the ring leaders of a group of people that numbered off and on about ten.
We partied together for only seven or eight months but it was enough to become fast friends. Although three decades have come and gone since that glorious spring, summer and fall, Terri, Chris and I keep pretty close tabs on each other. Every now and again Mike will check in but he mostly just includes us on a long list of people that suffer through one after another joke that gets passed around the Internet. I seldom find these even remotely cute and often just hit the delete button when I get them it the mail. When the mail is from him, I keep hoping he's really saying hi and check it out. Usually I'm disappointed.
My body was the oldest by about ten earth years but mentally we were in the same place. Young, unattached, smart and carefree. No one was looking for anything - we just were. We'd barbecue on the postage stamp lawn in front of my place, watch TV at Chris's and Terri's and stay away from Mike's. His unit faced away from the pool so there never was any action we could disrupt if we gathered there - and boy did we disrupt the action around that pool. We were the action, by golly, and if anything was happening it was our gig! And ya know what? We were just enough fun to pull it off. People wanted to join our gig and would stop theirs to do so.
We spent hours outside trying to figure out where we were headed, how we'd get there and just how many flavors of ice cream there were in the universe. Halloween belonged to us. We managed to sneak booze into the movie to watch bicycles fly across the moon. We would spontaneously burst into a full length version of "Maria" in restaurants filled with the 2:30 AM crowd. There was a little booze and just a tiny bit of jail time - don't worry guys, I'll never mention names - but it was all in the name of too much fun. Mike and I even managed to kidnap a girl from the neighborhood 7-11 one night. I tossed her over my shoulder and he held the door. We were crazy enough to get away with it. After she paid the ransom of eating my 3:00AM chili she was released. That happened just before a night that Mike got booted from a nightclub. Chris and I busted a gut as he demonstrated to us he was mad enough and smart enough to shut the whole place down on a busy Saturday night without having to show up in front of a judge later.
But, all things come to an end and so did that happy time. Chris bought a house and moved out. Mike lost his job and moved out. A nasty divorce finally cost me my business and I left town. Terri moved away. And our very own Newman? He junked up Chris' garage by parking his tiny, cheap sailboat in it. Don't quote me on this one, but I think Chris set it on fire. He threatened to do so several times. We lost track of him more than twenty-five years ago. That's what happens to apartment dwellers. One day here, next day who knows.
Here's a quote from the email I received yesterday, in her own hand. "Sometimes when I read [your blog] I feel as if I am sitting on the grass of our apartment complex, beer in hand, with the sun shining on our faces and laughing until we hurt as we talked endlessly about life, and sharing our experiences."
Shared memories really do span a lifetime. And yes, Terri, I'm still the same guy. Can't seem to grow up - wouldn't want to if I could..
Her personalized car license plate read "SQUIRLY" or something very close to that. It described her to a tee. Years and years ago I moved into an apartment complex and became close friends with her and a couple of guys she hung out with. This was before Seinfeld, way before, but the interactions of the characters on that show reminds me a lot of our little circle. We even had a "Newman" who lived in the same complex. The main four culprits, lets call them Terri, Mike, Chris and Forrest (that's really me!) were the ring leaders of a group of people that numbered off and on about ten.
We partied together for only seven or eight months but it was enough to become fast friends. Although three decades have come and gone since that glorious spring, summer and fall, Terri, Chris and I keep pretty close tabs on each other. Every now and again Mike will check in but he mostly just includes us on a long list of people that suffer through one after another joke that gets passed around the Internet. I seldom find these even remotely cute and often just hit the delete button when I get them it the mail. When the mail is from him, I keep hoping he's really saying hi and check it out. Usually I'm disappointed.
My body was the oldest by about ten earth years but mentally we were in the same place. Young, unattached, smart and carefree. No one was looking for anything - we just were. We'd barbecue on the postage stamp lawn in front of my place, watch TV at Chris's and Terri's and stay away from Mike's. His unit faced away from the pool so there never was any action we could disrupt if we gathered there - and boy did we disrupt the action around that pool. We were the action, by golly, and if anything was happening it was our gig! And ya know what? We were just enough fun to pull it off. People wanted to join our gig and would stop theirs to do so.
We spent hours outside trying to figure out where we were headed, how we'd get there and just how many flavors of ice cream there were in the universe. Halloween belonged to us. We managed to sneak booze into the movie to watch bicycles fly across the moon. We would spontaneously burst into a full length version of "Maria" in restaurants filled with the 2:30 AM crowd. There was a little booze and just a tiny bit of jail time - don't worry guys, I'll never mention names - but it was all in the name of too much fun. Mike and I even managed to kidnap a girl from the neighborhood 7-11 one night. I tossed her over my shoulder and he held the door. We were crazy enough to get away with it. After she paid the ransom of eating my 3:00AM chili she was released. That happened just before a night that Mike got booted from a nightclub. Chris and I busted a gut as he demonstrated to us he was mad enough and smart enough to shut the whole place down on a busy Saturday night without having to show up in front of a judge later.
But, all things come to an end and so did that happy time. Chris bought a house and moved out. Mike lost his job and moved out. A nasty divorce finally cost me my business and I left town. Terri moved away. And our very own Newman? He junked up Chris' garage by parking his tiny, cheap sailboat in it. Don't quote me on this one, but I think Chris set it on fire. He threatened to do so several times. We lost track of him more than twenty-five years ago. That's what happens to apartment dwellers. One day here, next day who knows.
Here's a quote from the email I received yesterday, in her own hand. "Sometimes when I read [your blog] I feel as if I am sitting on the grass of our apartment complex, beer in hand, with the sun shining on our faces and laughing until we hurt as we talked endlessly about life, and sharing our experiences."
Shared memories really do span a lifetime. And yes, Terri, I'm still the same guy. Can't seem to grow up - wouldn't want to if I could..
Friday, February 18, 2011
Wet 'N Wild
We were finally able to get to the swimming pool for the first time today. Not knowing what to expect, Carolyn packed something that looked a lot like a reusable supermarket bag.
That thing was bigger than your average staying-away-from-home-for-a-month suitcase and by the time she was finished it weighed about 86 pounds. No, I shouldn't exaggerate. It was closer to 20 pounds but for a guy in my physical condition it may as well have been 86 pounds. But, it is not the duty of a man to question all the paraphernalia a woman takes with her on any journey. It is his duty only to be the pack animal in charge of moving it along as she travels.
I learned this the hard way. Once, on an extended trip, I helped my wife to pack. By that I mean every time she put something in the suitcase I asked if she really needed it. We wound up packing one less suitcase and I was certain I had done both of us and several bellhops a huge favor. Well, at the time the dollar was worth much less in Pounds Sterling than it is today and as we shopped to replace all the items that had been left at home, one after the other, I realized I was not as smart as I had thought. Now I know the rules. She Packs. I Carry.
We got to the pool and I struggled to lift the bag to my shoulder while helping her to balance. We teetered through the automatic door and up to the admission counter. Vickie, whom we met last week, remembered and greeted us by name! How cool is that? She pointed to a door that led to the water and we were off.
Our street clothes went on top of everything that was in the bag, the bag went onto a pool chair that was in plain sight and our bodies went into the water. At first the 84 degree water was a little cool but we soon adjusted to it. We paddled back and forth for about forty-five minutes and then made a bee line for the spa. There were several other oldsters hanging around the spa and we met some of them as we warmed up. All too soon the hour was gone and the time reserved for old fogies at the facility was exhausted. The teens were in a hurry to start splashing and dunking so we got out of the way. I carted the mostly undisturbed contents of the bag back to the car and then back into the house.
I used a bunch of forgotten muscles today, and they are reminding me not to put them away for such long periods. To tell the truth, almost everything is sore. The water is much more enjoyable than the Tai Chi while it's happening, but I'm thinking it'll be a while before we're ready for Olympic competition. The water will help build the muscles and the T-C will improve movement and balance. It's a combination made by the devil himself, but he made it in heaven. Next time we'll spend a little less time in the pool and a little more in the spa. We'll be ready for a marathon sometime around 2037.
And as for the shopping bag? Next time all that will accompany us are dry towels and sweats. Carolyn admits we really didn't need the hand cream, M&M's and orange juice!
That thing was bigger than your average staying-away-from-home-for-a-month suitcase and by the time she was finished it weighed about 86 pounds. No, I shouldn't exaggerate. It was closer to 20 pounds but for a guy in my physical condition it may as well have been 86 pounds. But, it is not the duty of a man to question all the paraphernalia a woman takes with her on any journey. It is his duty only to be the pack animal in charge of moving it along as she travels.
I learned this the hard way. Once, on an extended trip, I helped my wife to pack. By that I mean every time she put something in the suitcase I asked if she really needed it. We wound up packing one less suitcase and I was certain I had done both of us and several bellhops a huge favor. Well, at the time the dollar was worth much less in Pounds Sterling than it is today and as we shopped to replace all the items that had been left at home, one after the other, I realized I was not as smart as I had thought. Now I know the rules. She Packs. I Carry.
We got to the pool and I struggled to lift the bag to my shoulder while helping her to balance. We teetered through the automatic door and up to the admission counter. Vickie, whom we met last week, remembered and greeted us by name! How cool is that? She pointed to a door that led to the water and we were off.
Our street clothes went on top of everything that was in the bag, the bag went onto a pool chair that was in plain sight and our bodies went into the water. At first the 84 degree water was a little cool but we soon adjusted to it. We paddled back and forth for about forty-five minutes and then made a bee line for the spa. There were several other oldsters hanging around the spa and we met some of them as we warmed up. All too soon the hour was gone and the time reserved for old fogies at the facility was exhausted. The teens were in a hurry to start splashing and dunking so we got out of the way. I carted the mostly undisturbed contents of the bag back to the car and then back into the house.
I used a bunch of forgotten muscles today, and they are reminding me not to put them away for such long periods. To tell the truth, almost everything is sore. The water is much more enjoyable than the Tai Chi while it's happening, but I'm thinking it'll be a while before we're ready for Olympic competition. The water will help build the muscles and the T-C will improve movement and balance. It's a combination made by the devil himself, but he made it in heaven. Next time we'll spend a little less time in the pool and a little more in the spa. We'll be ready for a marathon sometime around 2037.
And as for the shopping bag? Next time all that will accompany us are dry towels and sweats. Carolyn admits we really didn't need the hand cream, M&M's and orange juice!
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Steinbeck Said It Best
On February 14, 1929, a bunch of gangsters with machine guns murdered seven people in a Chicago warehouse. On Valentines day this year, in Madison, Wisconsin, only 148 miles from the 1929 massacre, people were assembling to protest an attempt to murder the right of a free people to collectively bargain the rate and conditions of their employment.
The Governor of that state has already called upon the police to detain and kidnap duly elected representatives of the people that choose not to participate in his scheme. They are to be rounded up, bound and forced, against their will, to addend a session of the legislature so that he will have a quorum to approve his agenda. So far all the protests have been peaceful but he has threatened to call out the state’s National Guard to maintain “Public Safety” if his actions result in strikes by the public employee unions. The last time that happened in Kent, Ohio, 431 miles distant and thirty years before the events now occurring in Madison, it resulted in four innocents laying dead in the dirt.
This is just the beginning of the next round in the fight between the middle class and the oligarchs who rule this country. If they are successful in Wisconsin you can be assured the battle will spread to your state and from the public employee unions to the private sector. You will be told over and over until you believe it with every fibre in your being that this is about balancing a budget. Mostly Fox News will be the guys throwing out this line. Don't believe it.
This is about the wealthy trying to keep from paying their fair share of taxes. Most of the problems that have taken such a toll on governments are the direct result of these wealthy individivuals and their corporations refusal to pay a living wage to their employees If the workers in this nation had received a fair portion of the profits accrued from the increased productivity of the last thirty years, our governments - state and local - would be in much better shape. Instead all the profits derived from this increased productivity have gone into already wealthy pockets and now these folks have no desire to clean up the mess they have made of this country. This is a war for that last and most valuable of your possessions, your time. Time is all you can sell to a taskmaster and if you can not bargain for it all is lost.
The oligarchs are students of history and the model they are using to accomplish their end, the destruction of the middle class, was perfected in Germany during the 1930’s. First you start with a small group of people, defeat them and then you move on to another small group and defeat it. Next comes a larger group and before you know it, you’ve won. In this country the first small group targeted for defeat is the union of public employees.
It's easy to turn the public against them. They still have a pension and decent benefits. The oligarchs have gradually, over the course of the last thirty years, taken these things from private employees. Instead of demanding these benefits be returned to them, private employees are incensed that the public sector still has theirs and want to take them away. Reason has been turned on its head by the constant pounding we have received, first on the evening, and now on the twenty-four hour "newscasts" that tell us what to believe. What is more reasonable, to desire a benefit for yourself or to deny that benefit to another because it's been taken from you?
These are the folks who educate your children, make sure water and power are delivered to your homes, maintain the roads upon which you drive and the parks where you recreate. Their research improves everything in your lives from the foodstuffs that are raised on farms to the weaponry that maintains your security. They are everyday people just like you. They go to work, do their jobs and go home to their families - just like you. No matter what the oligarch owned and controlled media have told you for the last several years, these are real people with real jobs that work everyday.
Next will come the public unions and after them it’ll be your turn. The fight starts here. It starts now. If you are willing to see the first group lose their rights, you will lose yours. No question. No doubt. There was money enough to give bonuses to bankers and tax breaks to the wealthiest people in this country but there is not enough to pay a man a decent wage. This is not only a fight against the public employees in Wisconsin, this is a fight against your right to a decent living. It just has not landed on your doorstep yet.
When will the greedy oligarchs learn the surest way to lose their power is to take away a man’s ability to provide food and shelter for his wife and children? They may win all the battles but in the end they will lose the war. And, the longer it takes for them to realize this, the more violent it will become.
John Steinbeck said it best. “And the great owners, who must lose their land in an upheaval, the great owners with access to history, with eyes to read history and to know the great fact: when property accumulates in too few hands it is taken away. And that companion fact: when a majority of the people are hungry and cold they will take by force what they need. And the little screaming fact that sounds through all history: repression works only to strengthen and knit the repressed.”
UPDATE: I'm not alone in this view. Seems a movement that started in the UK targeting corporations that avoid taxes has begun to spread to the US. Thanks, MJ, for sending this http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2011/feb/18/ukuncut-grassroots-movement-grows-us
The Governor of that state has already called upon the police to detain and kidnap duly elected representatives of the people that choose not to participate in his scheme. They are to be rounded up, bound and forced, against their will, to addend a session of the legislature so that he will have a quorum to approve his agenda. So far all the protests have been peaceful but he has threatened to call out the state’s National Guard to maintain “Public Safety” if his actions result in strikes by the public employee unions. The last time that happened in Kent, Ohio, 431 miles distant and thirty years before the events now occurring in Madison, it resulted in four innocents laying dead in the dirt.
This is just the beginning of the next round in the fight between the middle class and the oligarchs who rule this country. If they are successful in Wisconsin you can be assured the battle will spread to your state and from the public employee unions to the private sector. You will be told over and over until you believe it with every fibre in your being that this is about balancing a budget. Mostly Fox News will be the guys throwing out this line. Don't believe it.
This is about the wealthy trying to keep from paying their fair share of taxes. Most of the problems that have taken such a toll on governments are the direct result of these wealthy individivuals and their corporations refusal to pay a living wage to their employees If the workers in this nation had received a fair portion of the profits accrued from the increased productivity of the last thirty years, our governments - state and local - would be in much better shape. Instead all the profits derived from this increased productivity have gone into already wealthy pockets and now these folks have no desire to clean up the mess they have made of this country. This is a war for that last and most valuable of your possessions, your time. Time is all you can sell to a taskmaster and if you can not bargain for it all is lost.
The oligarchs are students of history and the model they are using to accomplish their end, the destruction of the middle class, was perfected in Germany during the 1930’s. First you start with a small group of people, defeat them and then you move on to another small group and defeat it. Next comes a larger group and before you know it, you’ve won. In this country the first small group targeted for defeat is the union of public employees.
It's easy to turn the public against them. They still have a pension and decent benefits. The oligarchs have gradually, over the course of the last thirty years, taken these things from private employees. Instead of demanding these benefits be returned to them, private employees are incensed that the public sector still has theirs and want to take them away. Reason has been turned on its head by the constant pounding we have received, first on the evening, and now on the twenty-four hour "newscasts" that tell us what to believe. What is more reasonable, to desire a benefit for yourself or to deny that benefit to another because it's been taken from you?
These are the folks who educate your children, make sure water and power are delivered to your homes, maintain the roads upon which you drive and the parks where you recreate. Their research improves everything in your lives from the foodstuffs that are raised on farms to the weaponry that maintains your security. They are everyday people just like you. They go to work, do their jobs and go home to their families - just like you. No matter what the oligarch owned and controlled media have told you for the last several years, these are real people with real jobs that work everyday.
Next will come the public unions and after them it’ll be your turn. The fight starts here. It starts now. If you are willing to see the first group lose their rights, you will lose yours. No question. No doubt. There was money enough to give bonuses to bankers and tax breaks to the wealthiest people in this country but there is not enough to pay a man a decent wage. This is not only a fight against the public employees in Wisconsin, this is a fight against your right to a decent living. It just has not landed on your doorstep yet.
When will the greedy oligarchs learn the surest way to lose their power is to take away a man’s ability to provide food and shelter for his wife and children? They may win all the battles but in the end they will lose the war. And, the longer it takes for them to realize this, the more violent it will become.
John Steinbeck said it best. “And the great owners, who must lose their land in an upheaval, the great owners with access to history, with eyes to read history and to know the great fact: when property accumulates in too few hands it is taken away. And that companion fact: when a majority of the people are hungry and cold they will take by force what they need. And the little screaming fact that sounds through all history: repression works only to strengthen and knit the repressed.”
UPDATE: I'm not alone in this view. Seems a movement that started in the UK targeting corporations that avoid taxes has begun to spread to the US. Thanks, MJ, for sending this http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2011/feb/18/ukuncut-grassroots-movement-grows-us
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Uncle!
When we were kids we'd wrestle each other till one or the other shouted "Uncle." That was the end of the match. He who shouted was the loser. Fourteen years ago the most I could have done was whisper "uncle." I was a three pack-a-day smoker at that time and a whisper, followed by a rest to catch my breath, was the most I could manage. All that has changed now, thanks to the fact I quit smoking. My lungs survived years of abuse and now are in pretty good shape. Wish I could say the same about my belly. Soon after quitting I started to look a lot like Buddha, and today, since I'm also mostly bald, we could easily be mistaken for twins. I think he smiles a little more.
This morning I thought I'd drive the Guzzler rather than the Guzzler Deluxe. It's been parked in the garage for the last several days and I hate to let a piece of machinery just sit for much more than that. Machines have a nasty habit of getting rusty if they are not used regularly and I don't want that to happen to ours. I opened the garage door for the first time since I parked the beast and the first thing I saw was a flat tire! How did that happen? A closer inspection revealed a nail in the tread.
I just happen to have a genuine certified "very cool" air compressor in the corner of the garage so I was not overly concerned. I'd just crank it up, put enough air in the tire to get me to the Les Schwab place and have it repaired. The first step in that process was moving the compressor close enough to an electrical outlet to plug it in. Well, remember we just moved and my garage is a mess?
I started moving boxes. And moving stuff that had been pulled out of a box while looking for something else that was supposed to be in that box but wasn't. Oh yeah, I also started moving old dog beds - my wife collects them. We get new ones all the time because she thinks it will be more comfortable for the dog but we just can't seem to part with the old one. Can someone help me out with these things? Please?
Finally I got to the point I could roll the compressor to the general vicinity of a wall socket and plug it in. Now, just which box contained the air hose and fittings? That took another half hour of looking in boxes. Thank Goodness the hose is bright yellow. I spied it beneath six garden hoses that were jammed into a very large crate. So, out came the garden hoses so I could get to the air hose. Now I was able to trip over half a mile of coils of green garden hoses while looking for the fittings. That state of affairs will probably remain until my leg is in a cast. Maybe I'll remedy it sooner. Maybe I'll also win the lottery. Forty-five minutes later I had everything in hand and filled the tire with air. Thinking all was well; I hopped in and headed for the tire place.
The guys there were great. The tire was off and on some sort of machine as I walked into the showroom to have a free cup of coffee. Free coffee is quite common around here. It's part of the Pacific Northwest Experience. Ten minutes later a Very Serious looking guy came over to me with some kind of gizmo in his hand that I had never in my life seen before. I learned this weird looking part was a modern version of a valve stem. Ya know, those thingies where the air goes into the tire that have been used for years and years? All of us had them on our very first bicycles and on every other tire that has passed through our lives for the last 60 years or so and any one of them could readily be exchanged for any other one. Well, the new ones have some kind of sensor attached to them so a light comes on your dash to tell you you have a flat tire.
Duh. Can't ya just look anymore? I guess not. The Very Serious guy told me mine was corroded and the valve stem would not come apart. I needed a new one.
Now, I remember when things like valve stems cost ten cents. That was before people got too dumb to be able to tell a tire is flat by looking at it. The new version that is smart enough to let you know the tire is flat costs sixty bucks! Not only does Chrysler management think we're too dumb to look at a flat tire and say "Gee - the tire's flat," they also think we're dumb enough to pay sixty bucks for a ten cent part. I guess they're right. I paid it and was on my way home.
When I pulled into the drive I started thinking about my morning. I am so very glad I quit smoking in plenty of time for my lungs to recover. UNCLE!!!!!
This morning I thought I'd drive the Guzzler rather than the Guzzler Deluxe. It's been parked in the garage for the last several days and I hate to let a piece of machinery just sit for much more than that. Machines have a nasty habit of getting rusty if they are not used regularly and I don't want that to happen to ours. I opened the garage door for the first time since I parked the beast and the first thing I saw was a flat tire! How did that happen? A closer inspection revealed a nail in the tread.
I just happen to have a genuine certified "very cool" air compressor in the corner of the garage so I was not overly concerned. I'd just crank it up, put enough air in the tire to get me to the Les Schwab place and have it repaired. The first step in that process was moving the compressor close enough to an electrical outlet to plug it in. Well, remember we just moved and my garage is a mess?
I started moving boxes. And moving stuff that had been pulled out of a box while looking for something else that was supposed to be in that box but wasn't. Oh yeah, I also started moving old dog beds - my wife collects them. We get new ones all the time because she thinks it will be more comfortable for the dog but we just can't seem to part with the old one. Can someone help me out with these things? Please?
Finally I got to the point I could roll the compressor to the general vicinity of a wall socket and plug it in. Now, just which box contained the air hose and fittings? That took another half hour of looking in boxes. Thank Goodness the hose is bright yellow. I spied it beneath six garden hoses that were jammed into a very large crate. So, out came the garden hoses so I could get to the air hose. Now I was able to trip over half a mile of coils of green garden hoses while looking for the fittings. That state of affairs will probably remain until my leg is in a cast. Maybe I'll remedy it sooner. Maybe I'll also win the lottery. Forty-five minutes later I had everything in hand and filled the tire with air. Thinking all was well; I hopped in and headed for the tire place.
The guys there were great. The tire was off and on some sort of machine as I walked into the showroom to have a free cup of coffee. Free coffee is quite common around here. It's part of the Pacific Northwest Experience. Ten minutes later a Very Serious looking guy came over to me with some kind of gizmo in his hand that I had never in my life seen before. I learned this weird looking part was a modern version of a valve stem. Ya know, those thingies where the air goes into the tire that have been used for years and years? All of us had them on our very first bicycles and on every other tire that has passed through our lives for the last 60 years or so and any one of them could readily be exchanged for any other one. Well, the new ones have some kind of sensor attached to them so a light comes on your dash to tell you you have a flat tire.
Duh. Can't ya just look anymore? I guess not. The Very Serious guy told me mine was corroded and the valve stem would not come apart. I needed a new one.
Now, I remember when things like valve stems cost ten cents. That was before people got too dumb to be able to tell a tire is flat by looking at it. The new version that is smart enough to let you know the tire is flat costs sixty bucks! Not only does Chrysler management think we're too dumb to look at a flat tire and say "Gee - the tire's flat," they also think we're dumb enough to pay sixty bucks for a ten cent part. I guess they're right. I paid it and was on my way home.
When I pulled into the drive I started thinking about my morning. I am so very glad I quit smoking in plenty of time for my lungs to recover. UNCLE!!!!!
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
A Lesson in Life
Every time the Salvation Army mails a letter asking for funds I send a check. Other than that one outfit, I do not give my hard earned money to any organization. It's easy for me to say "No, thank you." and continue on my way without even one teenie tiny bit of feeling guilty. That's because I know a huge percentage of the money that is donated goes for overhead and salaries instead of to the needy. Lot's of salaries. Care to guess what the head of the United Way or Red Cross makes? I won't say earns, because they don't earn anything. If they did, the overhead and salaries would not be so large. Put a little effort in and look it up. Then look up the Salvation Army. You'll discover why my money goes there.
Even though I have no trouble saying no to organizations, I'm an easy mark for someone standing in front of me who asks for help. Con artists have always loved people like me. People with a hard luck story pray for the day I walk into their life. And, although I expect to keep my end of the deal, I cut a lot of slack to folks with whom I enter into agreements. I do not drive a very hard bargain.
I'm not a very good salesman. All my friends at the place I used to work everyday will verify this. When it came time for a new chapter in our lives, one which would require us to move to a town more than a thousand miles distant, the chapter began with a fire sale. I sold everything including our airplane, my '54 Chevy pickup, the house and several parcels of land for half price. I do better when I use an agent to handle my stuff, but we needed to get it done in a hurry and I have mixed emotions about owning stuff anyway. Some days I'm fiercely protective of the things we have but most of the time I feel the only thing anyone actually possesses is located somewhere between the ears. We're just renting the rest of the baggage that comes with our lives and when we're done with it someone else should be able to use it for a while. At half price. It is, after all, used stuff after we're done with it, right? It is not surprising, therefore, that I came out on the losing side of a Craigslist deal again yesterday. Too bad I can never find someone like me when I buy things.
We were looking for some sort of low bench that would fit our entry area so Carolyn could sit while I changed her shoes to either go out or come in. After several weeks of searching Craigslist the perfect bench finally showed up. It was made of a gnarled and twisted log, the ends of which had been cut more or less square. A pair of two-by-ten boards had been attached to the ends much the same as the end of a pew at your favorite place of worship. It was a very unusual bench and worthy of resting in our unusual home.
I went to take a look and loved it. I knew Carolyn would also enjoy having it around but was a bit concerned that she, with her balance problems, could not manage to sit easily on the twisted piece of wood. I expressed my concerns to the seller and asked if I could take it home for my wife to try. I was told there would be no problem. If it didn't work out I could just bring it right back for a prompt refund. My fears were justified. Carolyn could not manage to balance on it so I loaded it up and took it right back.
Now, here comes the part where you shake your head in amazement at my trusting nature and stupidity. No one was home when I arrived so I left the bench on the porch. I ran some errands and returned. Still no answer. I went home and called. My call was returned and I was told I could come back in the morning and get the refund. This morning the bench was gone, there was no answer and the messages I left on the phone have not been returned. She has the bench, the money and another little piece of the faith I have in my fellow man. The conditions I was able to see of her life make me believe she needs all these things more than I so I'll probably just let it go.
I may send a card thanking her for allowing me to help, but the irony would probably not be detected. I just hope I have not enabled an addict. This lesson in life is one that has been presented to me many times and I have never learned it. I hope I never learn to doubt fellow souls on this journey, but I wish the lessons weren't so darned expensive.
Even though I have no trouble saying no to organizations, I'm an easy mark for someone standing in front of me who asks for help. Con artists have always loved people like me. People with a hard luck story pray for the day I walk into their life. And, although I expect to keep my end of the deal, I cut a lot of slack to folks with whom I enter into agreements. I do not drive a very hard bargain.
I'm not a very good salesman. All my friends at the place I used to work everyday will verify this. When it came time for a new chapter in our lives, one which would require us to move to a town more than a thousand miles distant, the chapter began with a fire sale. I sold everything including our airplane, my '54 Chevy pickup, the house and several parcels of land for half price. I do better when I use an agent to handle my stuff, but we needed to get it done in a hurry and I have mixed emotions about owning stuff anyway. Some days I'm fiercely protective of the things we have but most of the time I feel the only thing anyone actually possesses is located somewhere between the ears. We're just renting the rest of the baggage that comes with our lives and when we're done with it someone else should be able to use it for a while. At half price. It is, after all, used stuff after we're done with it, right? It is not surprising, therefore, that I came out on the losing side of a Craigslist deal again yesterday. Too bad I can never find someone like me when I buy things.
We were looking for some sort of low bench that would fit our entry area so Carolyn could sit while I changed her shoes to either go out or come in. After several weeks of searching Craigslist the perfect bench finally showed up. It was made of a gnarled and twisted log, the ends of which had been cut more or less square. A pair of two-by-ten boards had been attached to the ends much the same as the end of a pew at your favorite place of worship. It was a very unusual bench and worthy of resting in our unusual home.
I went to take a look and loved it. I knew Carolyn would also enjoy having it around but was a bit concerned that she, with her balance problems, could not manage to sit easily on the twisted piece of wood. I expressed my concerns to the seller and asked if I could take it home for my wife to try. I was told there would be no problem. If it didn't work out I could just bring it right back for a prompt refund. My fears were justified. Carolyn could not manage to balance on it so I loaded it up and took it right back.
Now, here comes the part where you shake your head in amazement at my trusting nature and stupidity. No one was home when I arrived so I left the bench on the porch. I ran some errands and returned. Still no answer. I went home and called. My call was returned and I was told I could come back in the morning and get the refund. This morning the bench was gone, there was no answer and the messages I left on the phone have not been returned. She has the bench, the money and another little piece of the faith I have in my fellow man. The conditions I was able to see of her life make me believe she needs all these things more than I so I'll probably just let it go.
I may send a card thanking her for allowing me to help, but the irony would probably not be detected. I just hope I have not enabled an addict. This lesson in life is one that has been presented to me many times and I have never learned it. I hope I never learn to doubt fellow souls on this journey, but I wish the lessons weren't so darned expensive.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Good Times
Neil Sedaka almost got it right when he sang "Breaking up is hard to do." The correct version, the one he did not record, is "Getting old is hard to do." After a while, life really does turn into a comedy if you let it. If you don't let it, ya better reach for your gun, point it at your head and pull the trigger. Twice.
Take, for instance, a guy I know who lives a few miles down the road. Talk about having a starring roll in a comedy series, this guy should win an Emmy. Or whatever they hand out these days. An Oscar?
He lives in his humble abode with his mother, his wife's mother and now a wife who has one of her legs in a cast. It's a good thing he's younger than everyone else in that joint. He needs to be younger to survive. The bad part is he just quit smoking and if you ask anyone who just quit, they'll tell you life is not good. Even with a houseful of straightmen to your standup routine.
His wife's mother, bless her heart, is stone deaf and can't remember that she has a hearing aid much less remember where she left it. My buddy's in charge of finding it. His mom is going deaf and is trying to get used to her new hearing aids. She hates them and loses them on purpose. He's is in charge of finding them. To keep both moms occupied they've turned the pool table into a more or less permanent jig-saw puzzle platform. It's kinda fun to watch his mom and his wife locate pieces that fit together and as soon as their backs are turned, to see his wife's mom try to help by pulling them apart, accidentally dropping some of the pieces on the floor as she tries to fit them elsewhere, and once on the floor, to take note of just which one of the three dogs grabed and started to chew them. Did I tell you he's in charge of recovering the pieces from the dog and ironing them straight?
He also is in charge of getting the bills in the mail on time but if he puts the mail out too early Mom will beat the mailman to it. She is happy to retrieve it for him and put it where she knows it belongs, on the kitchen table. That way he'll be sure to see it - after the mailman has come and gone - in plenty of time to put out for pick up the next day. Of course, Mom will bring it back tomorrow too.
Don't forget the vacuuming. He gets lots of help from Mom with that chore. She loves cookies but deals with the crumbs that wind up mostly in her lap by standing up where ever she happens to be and dusting them off onto the freshly vacuumed floor. It would drive a lesser man to drink.
He feeds the dogs every morning and night. But, for the last several months they have been passing something back and forth which leaves them with loose stools. To combat this he cooks and mixes rice with the food. Of course the Labradoodle is picky and won't eat at dinner time. She's on her own schedule so he feeds the dogs at separate times.
His wife is a gem. She works all day and even now, injured foot and all, she's on the laptop trying to keep up with the unending workload. Her company was nice enough to give her a LAN connection so she could use that laptop at home. I think it's supposed to help her foot recover. I can't think of any other reason they'd do that for her, can you?
She also has a starring role in the theater company. Her sense of humor is helping everyone in the house get through this difficult time. She keeps everyone in good spirits and is the lubricant that allows most of the stuff that happens to just slide on by.
They found the spiffiest little scooter she rests her leg on to get around and she uses her good foot to zip from one room to another. You should see her go as she chases one of the other dogs that loves to chew up slippers, blankets and EVERYTHING else that manages to wind up on the floor.
The other day Mom wanted to watch a movie so my buddy's wife put it in the DVD player. About ten minutes into the movie Mom asked if she could watch a movie. Go figure. Mom's an adorable little lady and keeps us all on our toes.
There's lots of love and laughter around that place. If I knew a producer or even a stage hand that could help with a new reality show we'd all be filthy rich. Seinfeld has nothing on this crew. It would have to be a daily show, there's too much action for a once a week kinda thing. For now, we have all the entertainment to ourselves and don't have to share with anyone. One of these days, if we live long enough, we're gonna look back at this and remember these were good times
Most of the folks our age I know are having to deal with similar problems. We're just not equipped to handle life's trials at our age if we leave out the humor. I always thought it got easier when retirement rolled around but I'm finding even sitting on the toilet is harder. Prune juice rocks!
UPDATE: My buddy informs me that if it is a "3D" puzzle piece it can't be ironed after the dog tries to fit it. It must be glued and clamped. American inovation in action folks!
Take, for instance, a guy I know who lives a few miles down the road. Talk about having a starring roll in a comedy series, this guy should win an Emmy. Or whatever they hand out these days. An Oscar?
He lives in his humble abode with his mother, his wife's mother and now a wife who has one of her legs in a cast. It's a good thing he's younger than everyone else in that joint. He needs to be younger to survive. The bad part is he just quit smoking and if you ask anyone who just quit, they'll tell you life is not good. Even with a houseful of straightmen to your standup routine.
His wife's mother, bless her heart, is stone deaf and can't remember that she has a hearing aid much less remember where she left it. My buddy's in charge of finding it. His mom is going deaf and is trying to get used to her new hearing aids. She hates them and loses them on purpose. He's is in charge of finding them. To keep both moms occupied they've turned the pool table into a more or less permanent jig-saw puzzle platform. It's kinda fun to watch his mom and his wife locate pieces that fit together and as soon as their backs are turned, to see his wife's mom try to help by pulling them apart, accidentally dropping some of the pieces on the floor as she tries to fit them elsewhere, and once on the floor, to take note of just which one of the three dogs grabed and started to chew them. Did I tell you he's in charge of recovering the pieces from the dog and ironing them straight?
He also is in charge of getting the bills in the mail on time but if he puts the mail out too early Mom will beat the mailman to it. She is happy to retrieve it for him and put it where she knows it belongs, on the kitchen table. That way he'll be sure to see it - after the mailman has come and gone - in plenty of time to put out for pick up the next day. Of course, Mom will bring it back tomorrow too.
Don't forget the vacuuming. He gets lots of help from Mom with that chore. She loves cookies but deals with the crumbs that wind up mostly in her lap by standing up where ever she happens to be and dusting them off onto the freshly vacuumed floor. It would drive a lesser man to drink.
He feeds the dogs every morning and night. But, for the last several months they have been passing something back and forth which leaves them with loose stools. To combat this he cooks and mixes rice with the food. Of course the Labradoodle is picky and won't eat at dinner time. She's on her own schedule so he feeds the dogs at separate times.
His wife is a gem. She works all day and even now, injured foot and all, she's on the laptop trying to keep up with the unending workload. Her company was nice enough to give her a LAN connection so she could use that laptop at home. I think it's supposed to help her foot recover. I can't think of any other reason they'd do that for her, can you?
She also has a starring role in the theater company. Her sense of humor is helping everyone in the house get through this difficult time. She keeps everyone in good spirits and is the lubricant that allows most of the stuff that happens to just slide on by.
They found the spiffiest little scooter she rests her leg on to get around and she uses her good foot to zip from one room to another. You should see her go as she chases one of the other dogs that loves to chew up slippers, blankets and EVERYTHING else that manages to wind up on the floor.
The other day Mom wanted to watch a movie so my buddy's wife put it in the DVD player. About ten minutes into the movie Mom asked if she could watch a movie. Go figure. Mom's an adorable little lady and keeps us all on our toes.
There's lots of love and laughter around that place. If I knew a producer or even a stage hand that could help with a new reality show we'd all be filthy rich. Seinfeld has nothing on this crew. It would have to be a daily show, there's too much action for a once a week kinda thing. For now, we have all the entertainment to ourselves and don't have to share with anyone. One of these days, if we live long enough, we're gonna look back at this and remember these were good times
Most of the folks our age I know are having to deal with similar problems. We're just not equipped to handle life's trials at our age if we leave out the humor. I always thought it got easier when retirement rolled around but I'm finding even sitting on the toilet is harder. Prune juice rocks!
UPDATE: My buddy informs me that if it is a "3D" puzzle piece it can't be ironed after the dog tries to fit it. It must be glued and clamped. American inovation in action folks!
Sunday, February 13, 2011
The Watch
A little more than thirty-five years ago I released the clasp of a very expensive watch that was on my wrist, pulled it off and heaved that devil's device across the street. I hope it landed in a grassy area along the curb because it was in perfect operating condition when I tried to launch it into orbit. If it survived the landing, maybe someone that knew how to use it put it on his wrist and is happy with his find to this day.
At one time, when I first bought the thing, I knew how it should be used. Unfortunately, as time passed, I lost that knowledge. Instead of allowing it to advise me of the time of day, I started to depend on it to tell me how much longer I had until IT was due.
Little by little that watch took over my life. I started to hurry. Faster and faster I went because as everyone that has held a corporate position knows, the more you do, the more work is given. I have never had a boss who rewarded fast, accurate completion of a project with anything other than another project, usually with less time to complete. Sure, sometimes a pat on the back was given and occasionally a promotion with a REAL raise came along. But usually the "raise" was just a longer job title and a pittance - and more work.
The hurry at work was transmitted to hurry in my life away from the job. After a few years my whole temperament was affected and I was in a rush from the moment I woke til I dropped into bed exhausted at night. I was hospitalized at an early age from the effects of high blood pressure. Mostly I slept for the three days I was there and my body calmed down. But, after those three days, I was right back at it, picking up exactly where I had crashed, only now I was three days farther behind. That watch was a relentless taskmaster. Then one day not long after that hospitalization, for the first time ever, something about the act of looking at that watch caught my attention.
I was in a hurry and looked at the watch. I had only two minutes left til the presentation was due and I was not yet in the building! That's when it hit me. The world would not end if I was a minute late - half the people that were to be present would probably not be ready for me. In fact, I had the rest of my life - not just two minutes. That's when the watch came off and I have not worn one since.
It took a while but I started to plan a little better. The deadlines still came and I still managed to meet them but the watch no longer pushed me. I am seldom late for any appointment or fail to complete a project in a timely manner to this day, and the pressure cooker that was my life during that era completely disappeared after the watch was removed.
One of these days I may buy another watch but not for the reason you might think. Mechanical things fascinate me, and Peter Henlein created a thing of beauty. I'd like to take one apart and put it back together again. I'd like to see if I can adjust it so there are twenty-seven hours in a day. Ya know, I just might put it on my arm and when someone asked the time I'd look closely at the watch. Then I'd hold it up for them to see and announce "Why, it's four minutes to twenty-six."
At one time, when I first bought the thing, I knew how it should be used. Unfortunately, as time passed, I lost that knowledge. Instead of allowing it to advise me of the time of day, I started to depend on it to tell me how much longer I had until IT was due.
Little by little that watch took over my life. I started to hurry. Faster and faster I went because as everyone that has held a corporate position knows, the more you do, the more work is given. I have never had a boss who rewarded fast, accurate completion of a project with anything other than another project, usually with less time to complete. Sure, sometimes a pat on the back was given and occasionally a promotion with a REAL raise came along. But usually the "raise" was just a longer job title and a pittance - and more work.
The hurry at work was transmitted to hurry in my life away from the job. After a few years my whole temperament was affected and I was in a rush from the moment I woke til I dropped into bed exhausted at night. I was hospitalized at an early age from the effects of high blood pressure. Mostly I slept for the three days I was there and my body calmed down. But, after those three days, I was right back at it, picking up exactly where I had crashed, only now I was three days farther behind. That watch was a relentless taskmaster. Then one day not long after that hospitalization, for the first time ever, something about the act of looking at that watch caught my attention.
I was in a hurry and looked at the watch. I had only two minutes left til the presentation was due and I was not yet in the building! That's when it hit me. The world would not end if I was a minute late - half the people that were to be present would probably not be ready for me. In fact, I had the rest of my life - not just two minutes. That's when the watch came off and I have not worn one since.
It took a while but I started to plan a little better. The deadlines still came and I still managed to meet them but the watch no longer pushed me. I am seldom late for any appointment or fail to complete a project in a timely manner to this day, and the pressure cooker that was my life during that era completely disappeared after the watch was removed.
One of these days I may buy another watch but not for the reason you might think. Mechanical things fascinate me, and Peter Henlein created a thing of beauty. I'd like to take one apart and put it back together again. I'd like to see if I can adjust it so there are twenty-seven hours in a day. Ya know, I just might put it on my arm and when someone asked the time I'd look closely at the watch. Then I'd hold it up for them to see and announce "Why, it's four minutes to twenty-six."
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Glamorous Guzzlers
The temperature climbed into the sixty's today I'm not sure if it matched the all time record of sixty-five for this day in this part of the planet but I'll find out when the local weatherman announces it at 6:16 PM. I can trust the weatherman more than I trust the rusty thermometer that hangs in the shaded area under the eaves. It can be seen from the kitchen window (as long as you raise the blinds-Yea!) but in that location it probably is affected by radiation that flows from the wall when the sun is shining on it.
I've never really understood where a thermometer should be placed so it will read 64 degrees when the temperature actually is 64 degrees. Our out door thermometer will vaguely indicate the difference between 45 and 55 degrees but you'll never catch me betting real money on what it says. I've learned better. The one inside the house performs much more accurately. I wonder why that is? It's one of those mysteries of life that I think about every now and again, and at times it makes me believe what Plato had to say about "Forms." Ya know, the thermometer hanging from my eave is just a shadow of the "Form" of a thermometer and cannot, therefore, ever be a real one. If what he said is true, I should never expect it to tell me what the temperature is. And, just maybe, the one inside the house is a darker shadow of the true form? I feel better already.
None the less, it was warm today and the Guzzlers needed to be cleaned. That, if ever I heard one, is the perfect excuse to get out and play in the sun. I said to Carolyn, with anguish in my voice, "Sweetheart, the cars need to be cleaned. I better go out and take care of it while it's not too cold." Now you and I know I wanted to play in the sun anyway, but with that preamble she thinks I'm actually working! Sweet!
So I spent the better part of two hours removing all the litter that comes from somewhere and makes it into our cars. We never leave trash in the car. We remove and toss the trash into the proper recycling receptacle soon as we exit. I don't know where the stuff I'm always finding in the beasts comes from. Another of life's mysteries that makes me think of something Plato........never mind.
After removing the chunkier whatever-they-were pieces of trash I vacuumed and then wiped the interiors of both of them. Then off to the automated car wash where for 6 bucks apiece a robot washed and wiped the exterior. What ever happened to the places where you'd drive in, turn the keys over to whoever had the clipboard, walk inside and have a free cup of coffee while you watched an ARMY of guys armed with towels, brushes and squeeze bottles of soap solution attack the dirt on your car? That was a lot more fun than just sitting in the car while a monster machine squirts and wheezes. Anyway, after it's all over, even though a robot performed the duties, it feels good to drive a clean Guzzler. Makes me want to sweep the sidewalk or something.
If tomorrow is as nice as today was, I just might tackle that job. With real anguish in my voice I'll tell Carolyn, "Sweetheart, there's dirt on the sidewalk." Ya think I'll get away with it two days in a row?
I've never really understood where a thermometer should be placed so it will read 64 degrees when the temperature actually is 64 degrees. Our out door thermometer will vaguely indicate the difference between 45 and 55 degrees but you'll never catch me betting real money on what it says. I've learned better. The one inside the house performs much more accurately. I wonder why that is? It's one of those mysteries of life that I think about every now and again, and at times it makes me believe what Plato had to say about "Forms." Ya know, the thermometer hanging from my eave is just a shadow of the "Form" of a thermometer and cannot, therefore, ever be a real one. If what he said is true, I should never expect it to tell me what the temperature is. And, just maybe, the one inside the house is a darker shadow of the true form? I feel better already.
None the less, it was warm today and the Guzzlers needed to be cleaned. That, if ever I heard one, is the perfect excuse to get out and play in the sun. I said to Carolyn, with anguish in my voice, "Sweetheart, the cars need to be cleaned. I better go out and take care of it while it's not too cold." Now you and I know I wanted to play in the sun anyway, but with that preamble she thinks I'm actually working! Sweet!
So I spent the better part of two hours removing all the litter that comes from somewhere and makes it into our cars. We never leave trash in the car. We remove and toss the trash into the proper recycling receptacle soon as we exit. I don't know where the stuff I'm always finding in the beasts comes from. Another of life's mysteries that makes me think of something Plato........never mind.
After removing the chunkier whatever-they-were pieces of trash I vacuumed and then wiped the interiors of both of them. Then off to the automated car wash where for 6 bucks apiece a robot washed and wiped the exterior. What ever happened to the places where you'd drive in, turn the keys over to whoever had the clipboard, walk inside and have a free cup of coffee while you watched an ARMY of guys armed with towels, brushes and squeeze bottles of soap solution attack the dirt on your car? That was a lot more fun than just sitting in the car while a monster machine squirts and wheezes. Anyway, after it's all over, even though a robot performed the duties, it feels good to drive a clean Guzzler. Makes me want to sweep the sidewalk or something.
If tomorrow is as nice as today was, I just might tackle that job. With real anguish in my voice I'll tell Carolyn, "Sweetheart, there's dirt on the sidewalk." Ya think I'll get away with it two days in a row?
Friday, February 11, 2011
Civilized Behavior
The televised events that have occurred in Northern Africa since the beginning of the year are remarkable. In two instances a dictator has lost his grip on a nation and the minimal loss of life astounds me. The civility and patience shown by the protesters are a credit to them, their society and to the way they look at life. My praise of their deportment is beyond my ability to put into words. This civilized behavior is the hallmark of a great people.
Compare this to what has happened in other areas of the world when peoples found the will to topple an oppressor and battled to toss their shackles aside. Revolts and uprisings in Central and South American countries during the last decade would have filled several Arlington's if the dead had been transported there for burial. When it last happened in Europe, during the 1930's and 40's, mostly the shackles were exchanged for newer models and still millions died.
I vividly recall the last time people in our country took to the streets during the Civil Rights and Free Speech Movements of the mid 1960's, and can remember when those outbursts morphed into the antiwar protests of the later 60's and early 70's. The very vocal, but mostly peaceful, protesters were met with police batons across our country from Selma, Alabama to Chicago, Illinois. Every night there was TV footage of bandaged heads and broken bodies. The bodies and heads had been broken by the force of their own government. In Ohio the protesters were dealt a salvo of bullets that left four students dead on the ground. I also lived through Ruby Ridge and Waco. The dead had to be picked up off the ground in those places too.
I know how our government deals with protesters. I have witnessed it in real time and it's not pretty. If we compare the tactics I have seen our government use on it's citizens to those Mubarak used on his citizens.......well, you figure it out.
I wonder if our leaders have learned anything since those times. Have our leaders become any more civilized? What would be their behavior in a comparable situation? Would they leave peacefully, as they advised Mubarak to do, if the people of this country were to again take to the streets? If, after allowing the take over of this nation by monied interests and gutting the middle class, would our leaders bow to the will of the people and walk away from power if the people rose up to protest? Would our leaders give food and shelter to the hungry and homeless or would the starving be treated to bullets and bayonets? Would the people again be met by military force instead of fairness and compassion?
Just which leaders are more civilized, ours or theirs?
Compare this to what has happened in other areas of the world when peoples found the will to topple an oppressor and battled to toss their shackles aside. Revolts and uprisings in Central and South American countries during the last decade would have filled several Arlington's if the dead had been transported there for burial. When it last happened in Europe, during the 1930's and 40's, mostly the shackles were exchanged for newer models and still millions died.
I vividly recall the last time people in our country took to the streets during the Civil Rights and Free Speech Movements of the mid 1960's, and can remember when those outbursts morphed into the antiwar protests of the later 60's and early 70's. The very vocal, but mostly peaceful, protesters were met with police batons across our country from Selma, Alabama to Chicago, Illinois. Every night there was TV footage of bandaged heads and broken bodies. The bodies and heads had been broken by the force of their own government. In Ohio the protesters were dealt a salvo of bullets that left four students dead on the ground. I also lived through Ruby Ridge and Waco. The dead had to be picked up off the ground in those places too.
I know how our government deals with protesters. I have witnessed it in real time and it's not pretty. If we compare the tactics I have seen our government use on it's citizens to those Mubarak used on his citizens.......well, you figure it out.
I wonder if our leaders have learned anything since those times. Have our leaders become any more civilized? What would be their behavior in a comparable situation? Would they leave peacefully, as they advised Mubarak to do, if the people of this country were to again take to the streets? If, after allowing the take over of this nation by monied interests and gutting the middle class, would our leaders bow to the will of the people and walk away from power if the people rose up to protest? Would our leaders give food and shelter to the hungry and homeless or would the starving be treated to bullets and bayonets? Would the people again be met by military force instead of fairness and compassion?
Just which leaders are more civilized, ours or theirs?
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Privacy, Please
The people who owned this house before we bought it loved their drapes and blinds. I have no idea what they looked like because our predecessors absconded with them long before we first peeked through the windows. But I can tell you the blinds were not the everyday el cheapo Wal*Mart flimsies. How do I know this? Because one of the valances was overlooked and left in the garage. It was off the overhead bar of a genuine 2 1/2 inch Levelor real wood blind. Thank goodness! There are no Wal*Mart cooties in this place that were not brought here by anyone other than us! All the Wal*Mart cooties that reside in this house are our own personal pets.
We were spared the necessity of removing and tossing about 2800 dollars worth of blinds and an untold fortune in draperies that probably did not match our early farmhouse junk decor anyway, but our benefactors did leave the holes in the walls caused by the various devices that kept them in place. Filling and texturing those holes honed my already substantial skills to the highest level imaginable. In other words, I gooped in a bunch of spackle, painted over the mess and started looking for more "window treatments" to cover the paint that covered the mess I made filling the holes. Kinda like putting gloves on over mittens. I just might get away with it.
After the paint had dried, our first window treatments were an assortment of spare sheets, blankets and bedspreads that were hung with the greatest of care and with eyes that were blind to the different hues. It worked. I have continued my efforts to remedy the disaster and today can report the End Of The Job. The last blind, a folding vertical fabric one that fits the slider which leads to the patio, came in today and I finished hanging it after dinner! We now have our privacy just by twirling sticks or releasing strings. No more getting up on tip toe to re-hang the sheet that came off the nail. I have a feeling, though, the hard part is yet to come. Blinds are easy. They're either in a box in the store or they're hanging in the window casing. Same with cooking, washing, vacuuming, shopping and other mundane household chores. Either they're done or they need to be done. Drapes are different.
I'm in way over my head whenever fabrics enter the equation. I know some kind of rod is needed from which the drapes are, well, draped. Some other gizzmo is needed to gather them to one side, maybe you need something to pull them back and forth? I'm not sure. And, all of it should match something. The floor? The ceiling? The furniture? Again, I'm not sure.
It'll all get worked out somehow. I always depended on Carolyn to know this kinda stuff.
I'm really, really starting to miss her. And we have so much farther to go.
We were spared the necessity of removing and tossing about 2800 dollars worth of blinds and an untold fortune in draperies that probably did not match our early farmhouse junk decor anyway, but our benefactors did leave the holes in the walls caused by the various devices that kept them in place. Filling and texturing those holes honed my already substantial skills to the highest level imaginable. In other words, I gooped in a bunch of spackle, painted over the mess and started looking for more "window treatments" to cover the paint that covered the mess I made filling the holes. Kinda like putting gloves on over mittens. I just might get away with it.
After the paint had dried, our first window treatments were an assortment of spare sheets, blankets and bedspreads that were hung with the greatest of care and with eyes that were blind to the different hues. It worked. I have continued my efforts to remedy the disaster and today can report the End Of The Job. The last blind, a folding vertical fabric one that fits the slider which leads to the patio, came in today and I finished hanging it after dinner! We now have our privacy just by twirling sticks or releasing strings. No more getting up on tip toe to re-hang the sheet that came off the nail. I have a feeling, though, the hard part is yet to come. Blinds are easy. They're either in a box in the store or they're hanging in the window casing. Same with cooking, washing, vacuuming, shopping and other mundane household chores. Either they're done or they need to be done. Drapes are different.
I'm in way over my head whenever fabrics enter the equation. I know some kind of rod is needed from which the drapes are, well, draped. Some other gizzmo is needed to gather them to one side, maybe you need something to pull them back and forth? I'm not sure. And, all of it should match something. The floor? The ceiling? The furniture? Again, I'm not sure.
It'll all get worked out somehow. I always depended on Carolyn to know this kinda stuff.
I'm really, really starting to miss her. And we have so much farther to go.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Swimmin' Hole
Carolyn and I have been doing our stumble through version of tag team Tai-Chi for a couple of weeks now and the exercise is helping to keep her spirits high and my back in pain. Oh well, that's what Vicodin's for and I'm a tough old bird who's used to a bad back. I'd rather see her smile and deal with the backache - mostly because I can't see my own smile anyway. What I can do is feel my grin when I see hers. The problem with Tai-Chi is that it happens only on Mondays and Wednesdays. We aren't all that old, and we want to abuse our bodies a little more often than that. Bruises go well with liver spots, and I didn't even have to pay a professional colour coordinator for that opinion. I can see it for myself.
What we needed was something on Friday for sure, and if whatever it was we chose didn't cripple us too badly, maybe one more day a week every once in a while. I was pondering our options as I drove home from out latest Tai-Chi class when I noticed a green sign that read "Swimming Pool" with an arrow that directed one to turn left. Well, I had just left a Chinese Torture class and my brain works in a very quirky manner. I had no control over the images that in a heartbeat flashed through my slowly aging gray matter. What I saw was Carolyn and me in the swimming pool and a big neon sign above us that read "Chinese Water Torture." And in smaller letters below that, "Waterboarding Upon Request. Talk to Dick"
"Quick, Martha, grab the kids and hide em! Ol' Forrest just got an idea an' it'll prolly killus all." My Uncle Joe would have said that. But, since he wasn't around, and hasn't been around for the last decade or so, what actually happened was a little different. I turned left and asked Carolyn what she thought about taking a swim every now and again. She loved the idea - See, Uncle Joe, not all my ideas are bad.
We pulled into the parking lot and, still feeling the effects of the T-C class, hobbled in. The pool is managed by the Parks Department and is open every day of the week. There is a special time for folks our age to walk around in the shallow end so we can exercise without having to dodge unruly and disgustingly healthy teenagers. Don't worry, I'm just jealous. Teenagers are 'sposed to be unruly. God put them on the planet to remind us of the way we were back in the day. It costs only a buck for old fogies like us and it's heated to 84 degrees! When the Good Lord made this town I think He had people like us in mind. It just gets better and better!
From now on if you want to find us between 11:00 and noon on a Friday we'll be at the pool.
What we needed was something on Friday for sure, and if whatever it was we chose didn't cripple us too badly, maybe one more day a week every once in a while. I was pondering our options as I drove home from out latest Tai-Chi class when I noticed a green sign that read "Swimming Pool" with an arrow that directed one to turn left. Well, I had just left a Chinese Torture class and my brain works in a very quirky manner. I had no control over the images that in a heartbeat flashed through my slowly aging gray matter. What I saw was Carolyn and me in the swimming pool and a big neon sign above us that read "Chinese Water Torture." And in smaller letters below that, "Waterboarding Upon Request. Talk to Dick"
"Quick, Martha, grab the kids and hide em! Ol' Forrest just got an idea an' it'll prolly killus all." My Uncle Joe would have said that. But, since he wasn't around, and hasn't been around for the last decade or so, what actually happened was a little different. I turned left and asked Carolyn what she thought about taking a swim every now and again. She loved the idea - See, Uncle Joe, not all my ideas are bad.
We pulled into the parking lot and, still feeling the effects of the T-C class, hobbled in. The pool is managed by the Parks Department and is open every day of the week. There is a special time for folks our age to walk around in the shallow end so we can exercise without having to dodge unruly and disgustingly healthy teenagers. Don't worry, I'm just jealous. Teenagers are 'sposed to be unruly. God put them on the planet to remind us of the way we were back in the day. It costs only a buck for old fogies like us and it's heated to 84 degrees! When the Good Lord made this town I think He had people like us in mind. It just gets better and better!
From now on if you want to find us between 11:00 and noon on a Friday we'll be at the pool.
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Yesterdays Wheels
We were stopped at one of the several traffic lights in town this morning and a 1964 Chevy Bel Air came to a halt in the lane beside us. Freshly painted in two colors, red and beige, it looked better than the day it left the factory. The guy driving it appeared to be about our age but you could tell by the expression on his face that he was in his mid to late teens. Old cars will do that to old geezers.
My first car was a 1956 Ford Crown Victoria. I bought it when I was fifteen with money I had saved by delivering newspapers and TV guides for the previous three years, and I still have the ignition key that started the car and hundreds of teenage adventures. Things are a little different these days, I don't think anyone actually works and saves up to buy anything. Mostly folks rush out to get their hands on whatever they desire at that moment and worry about paying for it later. That's OK, I guess, but the anticipation that used to be such a huge part of a purchase is lost in the modern transaction. It's just one more pleasure we've given up.
Next came a Triumph TR-3. A Chevy Impala killed it by running a light in 1965. I still remember Bruce Fladmark yelling "We're hit!" from the passengers side as the monster Chevy bore down on us. The Triumph kindled a love of sports cars that stayed with me off and on for thirty years. The last sports car I owned was an MGB that I retired in 1993. I'd still have one but I have literally outgrown them. Maybe, if I stop eating for a month or two, I'll get another one. The tiny Mazda's sure look zippy and some days that's the way I feel. But if it happens, it better happen soon because those zippy feeling days are getting farther and farther apart.
The TR was followed by the only two cars I ever wished I had kept. After having one kill the TR, I bought a 1963 Chevy Impala SS Convertible which I traded in, after three years, for my first brand new car, a 1968 Dodge Charger. The Chevy was a baby blue color with a blue and white interior, had a 327ci-300hp engine and came complete with several girlfriends. The Charger was a deep, deep green, and was really fast off the line. It didn't turn very well and took some time to stop, but overall it was a great performer. Those two were the prettiest cars I have ever owned and I just wish I had been smart enough to realize it at the time.
There have been many cars since then that sort of blur together, one after the other, mostly because I was a believer in America and during the 70's, 80's and 90's bought what I now realize were very inferior American brands that needed to be replaced way too often. GM, Ford and Chrysler repaid that loyalty by moving parts production to somewhere in the general neighborhood of Mars. I think it has to do with Little Green Men not needing a living wage. So much for patriotism. But, I'll bet we're gonna get back at the Big 3 for eliminating jobs here - since nobody's working, we'll just quit buying. Let'em go broke like we did!
Cars aren't as important to me these days as they were when I was younger. Now it's more about getting from one place to another, safely and surely, than it is about a lifestyle. There may be twenty or thirty different manufacturers making cars today but I'm pretty sure there are only four different cars on the road. There are tiny ones, little ones, crossovers and pickups. To me they all look pretty much the same and it's hard to get excited about any of them. For any of you who remember when MTV was about music and not about child pornography, here's an idea for a Buggles comeback, "Aerodynamics killed the Automobile." Harley Earl lies a-moldering in his grave.
Even though what I now drive has lost the magic that came with my earliest rides, I'll never forget those first four cars. They are a part of who I am and where I've been. If I were to sit behind the wheel of any of those four today, I'd look like the guy who was driving the '64 Bel Air next to me at the light - a teenager. It's a guy thing.
UPDATE: I got to thinking about Bruce going through the wooden floorboard of the TR and winding up getting his bottom scratched without even using his hands and did a facebook search for him. Heard back today and now, 46 years later, he's alive and well in Montana! Ya just gotta love facebook!
My first car was a 1956 Ford Crown Victoria. I bought it when I was fifteen with money I had saved by delivering newspapers and TV guides for the previous three years, and I still have the ignition key that started the car and hundreds of teenage adventures. Things are a little different these days, I don't think anyone actually works and saves up to buy anything. Mostly folks rush out to get their hands on whatever they desire at that moment and worry about paying for it later. That's OK, I guess, but the anticipation that used to be such a huge part of a purchase is lost in the modern transaction. It's just one more pleasure we've given up.
Next came a Triumph TR-3. A Chevy Impala killed it by running a light in 1965. I still remember Bruce Fladmark yelling "We're hit!" from the passengers side as the monster Chevy bore down on us. The Triumph kindled a love of sports cars that stayed with me off and on for thirty years. The last sports car I owned was an MGB that I retired in 1993. I'd still have one but I have literally outgrown them. Maybe, if I stop eating for a month or two, I'll get another one. The tiny Mazda's sure look zippy and some days that's the way I feel. But if it happens, it better happen soon because those zippy feeling days are getting farther and farther apart.
The TR was followed by the only two cars I ever wished I had kept. After having one kill the TR, I bought a 1963 Chevy Impala SS Convertible which I traded in, after three years, for my first brand new car, a 1968 Dodge Charger. The Chevy was a baby blue color with a blue and white interior, had a 327ci-300hp engine and came complete with several girlfriends. The Charger was a deep, deep green, and was really fast off the line. It didn't turn very well and took some time to stop, but overall it was a great performer. Those two were the prettiest cars I have ever owned and I just wish I had been smart enough to realize it at the time.
There have been many cars since then that sort of blur together, one after the other, mostly because I was a believer in America and during the 70's, 80's and 90's bought what I now realize were very inferior American brands that needed to be replaced way too often. GM, Ford and Chrysler repaid that loyalty by moving parts production to somewhere in the general neighborhood of Mars. I think it has to do with Little Green Men not needing a living wage. So much for patriotism. But, I'll bet we're gonna get back at the Big 3 for eliminating jobs here - since nobody's working, we'll just quit buying. Let'em go broke like we did!
Cars aren't as important to me these days as they were when I was younger. Now it's more about getting from one place to another, safely and surely, than it is about a lifestyle. There may be twenty or thirty different manufacturers making cars today but I'm pretty sure there are only four different cars on the road. There are tiny ones, little ones, crossovers and pickups. To me they all look pretty much the same and it's hard to get excited about any of them. For any of you who remember when MTV was about music and not about child pornography, here's an idea for a Buggles comeback, "Aerodynamics killed the Automobile." Harley Earl lies a-moldering in his grave.
Even though what I now drive has lost the magic that came with my earliest rides, I'll never forget those first four cars. They are a part of who I am and where I've been. If I were to sit behind the wheel of any of those four today, I'd look like the guy who was driving the '64 Bel Air next to me at the light - a teenager. It's a guy thing.
UPDATE: I got to thinking about Bruce going through the wooden floorboard of the TR and winding up getting his bottom scratched without even using his hands and did a facebook search for him. Heard back today and now, 46 years later, he's alive and well in Montana! Ya just gotta love facebook!
Monday, February 7, 2011
Foreign Dishes
"Roly Poly, Daddy's little fatty. Bet he's gonna be a man some day" Bob Wills and the Texas Playboys sang that song on the radio and my Dad sang it to me when I was a little boy. That was more than sixty years ago and I remember it as if it happened yesterday. The song described a baby boy who eats everything from corn to hay. It pretty well describes my diet from the time I was tiny til I was in my late teens. I'd eat anything that could be put on a plate or in a bowl and still I was as skinny as a marathon winner.
At least I thought I'd eat pretty much anything. Sometime around my eighteenth birthday I was exposed to tacos, chow mein and pizza. That's when I found out my tastes in food were a lot narrower than I had previously thought. All I wanted was food that tasted like the stuff my Alabama born and raised mom feed me. Meat and potatoes, sausage and biscuits, ham and eggs, chicken and dumplings - you know, Real American Food. Anything else was yuckky and belonged in the hog trough. When I went out for food I stayed away from anything that had a foreign sounding name. Depending on the time of day I'd head for Little Black Sambos, Bob's Big Boy or HoJo's. For a truly fancy outing, I'd head for the Red Coach. None of the weird tasting and foul smelling food from another part of the world would pass from my mouth to my stomach. Nosireebob - American or nothin'. Then it happened.
We had an all nighter at work. You've lived through them - They start at 8:00 AM one morning and go all day, through the night and if it's really bad, until noon the next day. At the end of a really bad one, when I was in my mid twenties, somebody said "Let's go get a bite." I thought it sounded good so I followed in line. We parked in the lot of some place painted red and gold with a big winged dragon over the door. I was too tired to object so I let the guys who were familiar with the joint order. My life was changed in an instant. Ya know, it was a great change from beef. It gave me the courage to try Mexican, Italian, and other new flavors. I enjoyed them all. Well, not all - I still don't like Escargot, it seems to push back when I try to bite into it. Also, chocolate covered grasshoppers are not to my liking. But, Carolyn and I both are absolutely crazy about Chinese food and the first restaurant we try to locate in a new town will have a Dragon on its menu.
Redmond has three such places and we've tried them all. We recommend Chan's. It's on the main drag in a building that sixty years ago sheltered a growing family and has been painted an ugly shade of pink.. Maybe it was red at some time, but that's faded now. It's not San Francisco, but neither are the prices and it's clean and neat. The food is good and as I write this there's about a pound and a half of it in my belly. One other thing - I noticed some cats about half a block down the road and they were alive with all body parts intact. I've been told that's a good sign so close to a Chinese kitchen.
I'm hoping that in another hour or so the food below the lower end of my gullet will disappear, as Chinese food has a tendency to do, and I can go for the seconds we brought home with us in two big, flat styrofoam boxes. Carolyn will have to wait til next time for another bite.
At least I thought I'd eat pretty much anything. Sometime around my eighteenth birthday I was exposed to tacos, chow mein and pizza. That's when I found out my tastes in food were a lot narrower than I had previously thought. All I wanted was food that tasted like the stuff my Alabama born and raised mom feed me. Meat and potatoes, sausage and biscuits, ham and eggs, chicken and dumplings - you know, Real American Food. Anything else was yuckky and belonged in the hog trough. When I went out for food I stayed away from anything that had a foreign sounding name. Depending on the time of day I'd head for Little Black Sambos, Bob's Big Boy or HoJo's. For a truly fancy outing, I'd head for the Red Coach. None of the weird tasting and foul smelling food from another part of the world would pass from my mouth to my stomach. Nosireebob - American or nothin'. Then it happened.
We had an all nighter at work. You've lived through them - They start at 8:00 AM one morning and go all day, through the night and if it's really bad, until noon the next day. At the end of a really bad one, when I was in my mid twenties, somebody said "Let's go get a bite." I thought it sounded good so I followed in line. We parked in the lot of some place painted red and gold with a big winged dragon over the door. I was too tired to object so I let the guys who were familiar with the joint order. My life was changed in an instant. Ya know, it was a great change from beef. It gave me the courage to try Mexican, Italian, and other new flavors. I enjoyed them all. Well, not all - I still don't like Escargot, it seems to push back when I try to bite into it. Also, chocolate covered grasshoppers are not to my liking. But, Carolyn and I both are absolutely crazy about Chinese food and the first restaurant we try to locate in a new town will have a Dragon on its menu.
Redmond has three such places and we've tried them all. We recommend Chan's. It's on the main drag in a building that sixty years ago sheltered a growing family and has been painted an ugly shade of pink.. Maybe it was red at some time, but that's faded now. It's not San Francisco, but neither are the prices and it's clean and neat. The food is good and as I write this there's about a pound and a half of it in my belly. One other thing - I noticed some cats about half a block down the road and they were alive with all body parts intact. I've been told that's a good sign so close to a Chinese kitchen.
I'm hoping that in another hour or so the food below the lower end of my gullet will disappear, as Chinese food has a tendency to do, and I can go for the seconds we brought home with us in two big, flat styrofoam boxes. Carolyn will have to wait til next time for another bite.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Double Letters
As Willie Nelson and then Dandy Don used to sing, "Turn out the lights, the party's over." Football, 2010-2011, is history and the Green Bay Packers are the champs!
I'm sure you've heard all about it by now, the scores, the catches , the misses and the half time show. But I'm gonna let you in on a secret. It's a secret statistic that none of the bookies in the entire world knew about, and I'm gonna let you in on it..
We again made the 40 mile round trip to Sisters, OR where strangely enough, Carolyn's sister lives. Deanne is Carolyn's sister in Sisters. Try telling that to someone who is not familiar with Oregon and I guarantee you'll get a quizzical look. I know it happens to me every time.
Since Deanne is recovering from foot surgery, her husband Richard took over the kitchen duties while I took the day off from kitchen chores in our joint. He did a great job with the turkey. We ate and then settled in for an afternoon of mindless football with just enough money on the line to make it interesting.
Disclaimer: We are not betting - that's illegal. We rate the merits of the players, stuff like how well they are dressed, what good sports they are and how nice they appear to be to their team mates. That sort of thing. Then we decide which of us did the better job of chosing the good attributes and that person is declared the winner. The winner is paid by the loser for doing such an excellent job picking the nicest and best behaved guys on the field. By NO means is the score EVER mentioned. This needs to be made perfectly clear because I never know who reads this stuff and my freedom is important to me.
It was a great game, Green Bay all the way with the Steelers staying right on their heels, but in my mind the outcome was never in doubt. I knew the secret.
Green Bay has had a football team for a very long time. Over its history there have been forty-four starting quarterbacks who's combined effors have produced fourteen Superbowl appearances. That's a remarkable record for such a small place. Now, are you ready for the secret?
Of the forty-four quarterbacks, three have double letters in their names and those three are Bart Starr, Brett Favre, and Aaron Rodgers. What do all three of these quarterbacks have in common besides the double letters? They're all Superbowl winners!
I should have flown to Vegas with my entire bank account the day I heard Aaron Rodgers was gonna play for Green Bay in the Superbowl. The Green Bay victory was assured.
I'm sure you've heard all about it by now, the scores, the catches , the misses and the half time show. But I'm gonna let you in on a secret. It's a secret statistic that none of the bookies in the entire world knew about, and I'm gonna let you in on it..
We again made the 40 mile round trip to Sisters, OR where strangely enough, Carolyn's sister lives. Deanne is Carolyn's sister in Sisters. Try telling that to someone who is not familiar with Oregon and I guarantee you'll get a quizzical look. I know it happens to me every time.
Since Deanne is recovering from foot surgery, her husband Richard took over the kitchen duties while I took the day off from kitchen chores in our joint. He did a great job with the turkey. We ate and then settled in for an afternoon of mindless football with just enough money on the line to make it interesting.
Disclaimer: We are not betting - that's illegal. We rate the merits of the players, stuff like how well they are dressed, what good sports they are and how nice they appear to be to their team mates. That sort of thing. Then we decide which of us did the better job of chosing the good attributes and that person is declared the winner. The winner is paid by the loser for doing such an excellent job picking the nicest and best behaved guys on the field. By NO means is the score EVER mentioned. This needs to be made perfectly clear because I never know who reads this stuff and my freedom is important to me.
It was a great game, Green Bay all the way with the Steelers staying right on their heels, but in my mind the outcome was never in doubt. I knew the secret.
Green Bay has had a football team for a very long time. Over its history there have been forty-four starting quarterbacks who's combined effors have produced fourteen Superbowl appearances. That's a remarkable record for such a small place. Now, are you ready for the secret?
Of the forty-four quarterbacks, three have double letters in their names and those three are Bart Starr, Brett Favre, and Aaron Rodgers. What do all three of these quarterbacks have in common besides the double letters? They're all Superbowl winners!
I should have flown to Vegas with my entire bank account the day I heard Aaron Rodgers was gonna play for Green Bay in the Superbowl. The Green Bay victory was assured.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Signing a Cast
We went to Carolyn's sisters' place again today. Deanne had surgery on her foot last Thursday and Carolyn wanted to see how she was feeling. Sometimes the telephone is just not adequate, the only way to know for sure is to be there in person.
I see TV ads telling me how my company (OK, your company 'cause I don't have one) can save a million bucks by telemeeting. Or whatever it's called. I can't remember 'cause I'm a dinosaur in a young persons world. Sue me.
What I can remember are the days long ago when I thought I needed to be in "Management" to be an "Important Guy" and I spent more time in airports and in meetings all across the country than I did watching the kids grow up. If I were to average the hours I spent away from home, all the travel time and hotel rooms, and divide those hours into my HUGE salary I'm sure the hourly rate was less than that of the cleaning crew that came in after closing time. I was luckier than most and learned quickly there was more to life. But that's a different post all by itself. I'm sure there are still as many young bucks who want to make the big bucks and who are willing to sacrifice their family to be an "Important Guy" as there were in my younger days. It's a pity but some things just have to be lived before they can be learned.
The ads I'm talking about stress the cost of travel and tell you that meeting in person isn't all that important. They claim you can get the same information and accomplish the same task by talking to a TV that some other group of people in fifty-three different parts of the country are watching as you could get by having all the folks in one room. I'm old enough that I beg to differ. Most stuff needs to be done in person. Press the flesh, look into the eyes, smell the reaction to what was said and you've just participated in a human interaction that will probably get better results than if all you did was talk to a TV.
Of course, like I have already said, I'm old fashioned. I'd rather read a book that I hold in my hand and feel the weight of the words as I weigh them than read it on a monitor. I'd rather dodge the actual rock than cower in front of a 3D movie screen. Wii just doesn't provoke the WHEE! I feel after throwing a strike in a bowling alley.
Something's missing these days. We don't talk anymore. We don't interact as much. We're more alone.
And that's why Carolyn and I took the time to drive forty miles on a cloudy day to say "Hi" and ask "How ya doin'?" The card and plant we took with us could have been delivered by mail or a service but it would not have been the same.
Besides that, how would Deanne have felt if some stranger had brought those things to her home and then signed her cast?
I see TV ads telling me how my company (OK, your company 'cause I don't have one) can save a million bucks by telemeeting. Or whatever it's called. I can't remember 'cause I'm a dinosaur in a young persons world. Sue me.
What I can remember are the days long ago when I thought I needed to be in "Management" to be an "Important Guy" and I spent more time in airports and in meetings all across the country than I did watching the kids grow up. If I were to average the hours I spent away from home, all the travel time and hotel rooms, and divide those hours into my HUGE salary I'm sure the hourly rate was less than that of the cleaning crew that came in after closing time. I was luckier than most and learned quickly there was more to life. But that's a different post all by itself. I'm sure there are still as many young bucks who want to make the big bucks and who are willing to sacrifice their family to be an "Important Guy" as there were in my younger days. It's a pity but some things just have to be lived before they can be learned.
The ads I'm talking about stress the cost of travel and tell you that meeting in person isn't all that important. They claim you can get the same information and accomplish the same task by talking to a TV that some other group of people in fifty-three different parts of the country are watching as you could get by having all the folks in one room. I'm old enough that I beg to differ. Most stuff needs to be done in person. Press the flesh, look into the eyes, smell the reaction to what was said and you've just participated in a human interaction that will probably get better results than if all you did was talk to a TV.
Of course, like I have already said, I'm old fashioned. I'd rather read a book that I hold in my hand and feel the weight of the words as I weigh them than read it on a monitor. I'd rather dodge the actual rock than cower in front of a 3D movie screen. Wii just doesn't provoke the WHEE! I feel after throwing a strike in a bowling alley.
Something's missing these days. We don't talk anymore. We don't interact as much. We're more alone.
And that's why Carolyn and I took the time to drive forty miles on a cloudy day to say "Hi" and ask "How ya doin'?" The card and plant we took with us could have been delivered by mail or a service but it would not have been the same.
Besides that, how would Deanne have felt if some stranger had brought those things to her home and then signed her cast?
Friday, February 4, 2011
Flashing Lights
"May I see your driver's license and proof of insurance?"
This, coming from a cherubic faced, very sincere youngster, wearing a blue uniform and standing next to my window, made me pause and ask myself "What's up? Why is this happening? Who is this person, why is he questioning me? I'm sure there's a criminal not two miles from where he's standing who needs to be arrested for something. Why is he doing this to ME???"
We were on our way home from an appointment that had unsettled us but not to the point that I would consider myself "impaired." I'm a pilot, remember? I've been trained to think about my physical and mental state before cranking the engine, any engine, and lettinerrip. I was good to go when I got behind the wheel and fired up the Guzzler Deluxe.
We made it through the stop and go traffic that is the norm for Bend, Oregon and as soon as we were on the highway we made like Stepphenwolf and headed out. The speed limit was 55 MPH on the four lane highway and that's where the cruise control was set. The fluids were at the correct levels and all the lights were working when the beast was last serviced one week/forty-six miles ago. All the tires have around 12,000 miles on them. I'm telling you this so you can understand my amazement at being pulled over.
The traffic was fairly heavy and most folks were in a hurry to get where it was they were going. For that reason we were in the slow lane and the fast lane was full of cars that were passing us when we ourselves passed a cop who was on the side of the road handing out a ticket to one of those in-a-hurry types who was unfortunate enough to be pulled over. The cop handing out the ticket had a buddy sitting in another cruiser behind him and that was the guy who pulled out, turned on his flashing lights and now was standing beside my door.
The conversation went something like this:
"What's the deal - why didn't you grab one of the speeders? I was only doing 55."
"I stopped you because you didn't move into the far lane when you passed a stopped emergency vehicle."
"What? There wasn't any room. The lane was full of people passing me"
"I have videotape of what happened, and you didn't move into the other lane."
"Well, go check the video and let me know just where I was supposed to go."
This went on for several more you didn'ts and I couldn'ts but finally he went back to his car for a few minutes and then returned.
"I'm just gonna give you a verbal warning this time, but next time move into the other lane."
Wow, Rodney King and I - both saved by the video camera.
What in the world is happening in our country that a citizen who is obeying all the laws can't even go down the highway without being questioned? How did this happen to us? When did it happen? Ya know, I have a theory about this kinda thing.
The cops are afraid of the bad guys so they leave them alone. Can't say that I blame them; they're out gunned and out manned. We ordinary, honest, tax paying everyday good guys are much easier marks, so they go for us. And, it makes perfect economic sense for them to do this. If, God forbid, they arrest an honest to goodness criminal he goes to jail and that costs money. On the other hand, if they hand one of us mostly law abiding citizens a ticket, it provides money to pay their salaries.
Anybody else have a better explanation? I'm listening.
.
This, coming from a cherubic faced, very sincere youngster, wearing a blue uniform and standing next to my window, made me pause and ask myself "What's up? Why is this happening? Who is this person, why is he questioning me? I'm sure there's a criminal not two miles from where he's standing who needs to be arrested for something. Why is he doing this to ME???"
We were on our way home from an appointment that had unsettled us but not to the point that I would consider myself "impaired." I'm a pilot, remember? I've been trained to think about my physical and mental state before cranking the engine, any engine, and lettinerrip. I was good to go when I got behind the wheel and fired up the Guzzler Deluxe.
We made it through the stop and go traffic that is the norm for Bend, Oregon and as soon as we were on the highway we made like Stepphenwolf and headed out. The speed limit was 55 MPH on the four lane highway and that's where the cruise control was set. The fluids were at the correct levels and all the lights were working when the beast was last serviced one week/forty-six miles ago. All the tires have around 12,000 miles on them. I'm telling you this so you can understand my amazement at being pulled over.
The traffic was fairly heavy and most folks were in a hurry to get where it was they were going. For that reason we were in the slow lane and the fast lane was full of cars that were passing us when we ourselves passed a cop who was on the side of the road handing out a ticket to one of those in-a-hurry types who was unfortunate enough to be pulled over. The cop handing out the ticket had a buddy sitting in another cruiser behind him and that was the guy who pulled out, turned on his flashing lights and now was standing beside my door.
The conversation went something like this:
"What's the deal - why didn't you grab one of the speeders? I was only doing 55."
"I stopped you because you didn't move into the far lane when you passed a stopped emergency vehicle."
"What? There wasn't any room. The lane was full of people passing me"
"I have videotape of what happened, and you didn't move into the other lane."
"Well, go check the video and let me know just where I was supposed to go."
This went on for several more you didn'ts and I couldn'ts but finally he went back to his car for a few minutes and then returned.
"I'm just gonna give you a verbal warning this time, but next time move into the other lane."
Wow, Rodney King and I - both saved by the video camera.
What in the world is happening in our country that a citizen who is obeying all the laws can't even go down the highway without being questioned? How did this happen to us? When did it happen? Ya know, I have a theory about this kinda thing.
The cops are afraid of the bad guys so they leave them alone. Can't say that I blame them; they're out gunned and out manned. We ordinary, honest, tax paying everyday good guys are much easier marks, so they go for us. And, it makes perfect economic sense for them to do this. If, God forbid, they arrest an honest to goodness criminal he goes to jail and that costs money. On the other hand, if they hand one of us mostly law abiding citizens a ticket, it provides money to pay their salaries.
Anybody else have a better explanation? I'm listening.
.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Chocolate Fudge
The particular stage of life a man is experiencing, at least in America, can easily be determined by the cash register receipts on his kitchen counters and in his pants pockets. When I was younger, a lot younger, there were tons of receipts from sporting goods and auto parts stores. A little later in my life the receipts were mostly from hardware and lumber places. Now, I seem to collect receipts from pharmacy chains.
Oh yeah, I also have a bunch of receipts from grocery stores. I'm not sure if they are of any value in determining the stage I'm currently experiencing but I can tell you one thing I've learned from them - it takes a lot fewer grocery receipts to equal one pound of body weight these days than it used to.
I collected another receipt from Walgreen's today because Carolyn and I went there to pick up a couple more bottles of pills. If you've ever been to a Walgreen Pharmacy you'll remember the pills are way, way in back in the farthest corner from the entrance. It's an old retailers trick that everybody knows about but still falls for, and they do it so you have to walk by all the Valentines candy. You know, the three or four teeny tiny pieces of the cheapest possible candy surrounded by the largest, reddest box they can find and actually sell for between three and thirty bucks. I'm starting to think Valentines Day has turned into a bigger disaster than Christmas.
Never mind, I just thought about it a little more and Christmas is worse. I guess it's just that I've had a month to forget how badly that holiday has fared. Anyway, I'll try to get back to the subject. I promise.
Carolyn almost made it down the aisle with me, past the Valentine candy, and to the pill place. Almost. Instead of walking by those pretty red boxes, she stopped. And grabbed one. I pretended not to notice, even when I paid for it and the miracle pills that promise to give me long life for just 145 bucks a month. Thank goodness for Part D insurance, the hundred-an-a-half is the just the deductible I must pay. Heaven knows how much the druggies are charging my insurance company. She opened the red box on the way home and started in. Being one of the smallest boxes, it wound up empty before dinner.
Like the good girl she is, she ate all the dinner I had prepared so I decided to make her some fudge. If my wife wants candy, by golly, I'm gonna see she has it. So, off to the grocery store (remember I collect grocery receipts too?) for some ingredients. Then an hour at the stove, mixing and stirring, and out pops the best darn chocolate fudge in the county.
We have enough to share with the neighbors, who have been feeding sweets to us since we moved in, and our portion will last for a week. All for just an hour at the stove and less than the price of the red box.
Oh yeah, I also have a bunch of receipts from grocery stores. I'm not sure if they are of any value in determining the stage I'm currently experiencing but I can tell you one thing I've learned from them - it takes a lot fewer grocery receipts to equal one pound of body weight these days than it used to.
I collected another receipt from Walgreen's today because Carolyn and I went there to pick up a couple more bottles of pills. If you've ever been to a Walgreen Pharmacy you'll remember the pills are way, way in back in the farthest corner from the entrance. It's an old retailers trick that everybody knows about but still falls for, and they do it so you have to walk by all the Valentines candy. You know, the three or four teeny tiny pieces of the cheapest possible candy surrounded by the largest, reddest box they can find and actually sell for between three and thirty bucks. I'm starting to think Valentines Day has turned into a bigger disaster than Christmas.
Never mind, I just thought about it a little more and Christmas is worse. I guess it's just that I've had a month to forget how badly that holiday has fared. Anyway, I'll try to get back to the subject. I promise.
Carolyn almost made it down the aisle with me, past the Valentine candy, and to the pill place. Almost. Instead of walking by those pretty red boxes, she stopped. And grabbed one. I pretended not to notice, even when I paid for it and the miracle pills that promise to give me long life for just 145 bucks a month. Thank goodness for Part D insurance, the hundred-an-a-half is the just the deductible I must pay. Heaven knows how much the druggies are charging my insurance company. She opened the red box on the way home and started in. Being one of the smallest boxes, it wound up empty before dinner.
Like the good girl she is, she ate all the dinner I had prepared so I decided to make her some fudge. If my wife wants candy, by golly, I'm gonna see she has it. So, off to the grocery store (remember I collect grocery receipts too?) for some ingredients. Then an hour at the stove, mixing and stirring, and out pops the best darn chocolate fudge in the county.
We have enough to share with the neighbors, who have been feeding sweets to us since we moved in, and our portion will last for a week. All for just an hour at the stove and less than the price of the red box.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Tai Chi
Redmond has a wonderful Senior Center for a town of it's size and the other day we drove by to check it out. We parked the Guzzler Deluxe in one of the handicap spaces right in front and walked in to an early 70's YMCA decor. There were hallways that lead to the left and right and an older person was seated at the desk in the office that divided the halls. We inquired about the activities and were given a pamphlet with several pages listing classes, instruction and outings they sponsored. Carolyn's eyes sparkled when I read "Tai Chi."
In another lifetime, before Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, Carolyn was a dancer. She loved to dance and people loved to watch her graceful movements as she performed on stage, in the streets and on ballroom floors. Not only that, Carolyn taught others to dance, she brought joy to people who came to her for instruction for many years. It was a delight to watch her twirl, leap and skip to the music, any music, that was in the air. She was hopeful that Tai Chi, with its slow deliberate movements, was a form of dance she was still capable of doing. We found a day and time that would work for us and when that time arrived, so did we.
We greeted the instructor and explained a little about her condition. I told him I would stand behind her and hold her upright as she tried the movements and he was willing to continue. After the first couple of minutes he had second thoughts. He said he was certain she could benefit from the exercise but wanted to be sure of her medical abilities. He asked for her Doctor to approve the class. We got that approval from her Neurologist last week and were back in class for the full session today.
What a team we made! I held tight as she wiggled and squirmed. I could feel the pounds melt off as she climbed the psyhic ladder of Oriental music. Higher and higher she went and the movements became easier for her. I struggeled less and less as she took more of her weight. The effort was a lot for her and toward the end of the hour she became tired. We rested while the others continued. Although seated and worn out, she glowed. Even the instructor was smiling. He could see the positive effect the exercise had on her.
We will go back and continue to learn this ancient Chinese dance. I love holding on to her as she moves. It reminds me of the time we met. I walked across the room and, saying nothing, reached for her hand. She followed me and we started to dance. The very first words I spoke to her were "We've danced before. I recognize your waist." Those words were spoken so many wonderful years ago as we glided across a dancehall floor.
In another lifetime, before Progressive Supranuclear Palsy, Carolyn was a dancer. She loved to dance and people loved to watch her graceful movements as she performed on stage, in the streets and on ballroom floors. Not only that, Carolyn taught others to dance, she brought joy to people who came to her for instruction for many years. It was a delight to watch her twirl, leap and skip to the music, any music, that was in the air. She was hopeful that Tai Chi, with its slow deliberate movements, was a form of dance she was still capable of doing. We found a day and time that would work for us and when that time arrived, so did we.
We greeted the instructor and explained a little about her condition. I told him I would stand behind her and hold her upright as she tried the movements and he was willing to continue. After the first couple of minutes he had second thoughts. He said he was certain she could benefit from the exercise but wanted to be sure of her medical abilities. He asked for her Doctor to approve the class. We got that approval from her Neurologist last week and were back in class for the full session today.
What a team we made! I held tight as she wiggled and squirmed. I could feel the pounds melt off as she climbed the psyhic ladder of Oriental music. Higher and higher she went and the movements became easier for her. I struggeled less and less as she took more of her weight. The effort was a lot for her and toward the end of the hour she became tired. We rested while the others continued. Although seated and worn out, she glowed. Even the instructor was smiling. He could see the positive effect the exercise had on her.
We will go back and continue to learn this ancient Chinese dance. I love holding on to her as she moves. It reminds me of the time we met. I walked across the room and, saying nothing, reached for her hand. She followed me and we started to dance. The very first words I spoke to her were "We've danced before. I recognize your waist." Those words were spoken so many wonderful years ago as we glided across a dancehall floor.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Best Wishes
What he said:
"I will use the remaining months of my term in office to fill the peoples' demands," A direct quote from Mr. Hosni Mubarak.
What I heard:
"Leave me alone. I need a little more time to steal the gold and get it out of the country." A direct quote from yours truly.
In any case, the Egyptian peoples are to be congratulated on the success of their first baby steps toward democracy. It's the first time in history these folks have been able to voice their wishes and have their leader listen. And, Egyptian history goes back a long way. I think Charlton Heston was the last guy to tell the boss in Egypt to kiss off and that happened several thousand years ago.
My hope is that you realize your hope. I want for you a free nation, one that allows you to do as you please so long as you harm no one and do not impose your beliefs on anyone else. A nation that will provide meaningful work and a comfortable life to everyone that is willing to do a days work. A nation that allows freedom of thought AND worship.
Here's your chance. Don't let anyone take it from you. The military, one of the finest in the world, has said they're on your side. Let them protect you from those that would take away the freedom that has taken you thousands of years to aquire. But protect yourselves from them.
One other thing - Don't stop until Mubarak is gone and be careful your gold does not leave with him.
"I will use the remaining months of my term in office to fill the peoples' demands," A direct quote from Mr. Hosni Mubarak.
What I heard:
"Leave me alone. I need a little more time to steal the gold and get it out of the country." A direct quote from yours truly.
In any case, the Egyptian peoples are to be congratulated on the success of their first baby steps toward democracy. It's the first time in history these folks have been able to voice their wishes and have their leader listen. And, Egyptian history goes back a long way. I think Charlton Heston was the last guy to tell the boss in Egypt to kiss off and that happened several thousand years ago.
My hope is that you realize your hope. I want for you a free nation, one that allows you to do as you please so long as you harm no one and do not impose your beliefs on anyone else. A nation that will provide meaningful work and a comfortable life to everyone that is willing to do a days work. A nation that allows freedom of thought AND worship.
Here's your chance. Don't let anyone take it from you. The military, one of the finest in the world, has said they're on your side. Let them protect you from those that would take away the freedom that has taken you thousands of years to aquire. But protect yourselves from them.
One other thing - Don't stop until Mubarak is gone and be careful your gold does not leave with him.
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