We've been having some work done on Carolyn's teeth. It really feels like when one thing goes wrong, something else will also fail. Carolyn is certainly getting her share of misery.
Being new to the area, we had to pick from a dozen or so Dentists here in our new town. Carolyn settled on one who's sign in his parking lot proclaimed he practiced "Dentistry for Cowards". It was a fortunate choice.
We set up an appointment for new x-rays and a consult several weeks ago. Now it's not just everyone who can handle a person with Carolyn's needs, but these folks did a great job of it. They were caring, attentive and welcomed her to the practice. After the consult, we were told she needed a good cleaning and a couple of crowns. Fillings on two prior root canals had loosened. Or something. I'm not a dentist......
Anyway, we had one of the crowns done last week and the first thing Carolyn did was bite her cheek. The sore cheek bothered her a bunch so we tried to get an emergency appointment to have it looked at. Our new dentist was unavailable, but he had a colleague who would see her in his absence. Right. Being the cynical kind of guy I am, I had visions of him and his family cruising on a serene lake in their big, fast boat while Carolyn suffered.
I always manage to imagine things in a much worse light than they actually are. I ascribe ulterior motives to anything at all that goes against my own personal needs. Yeah, that makes me a prime believer in all things having the word "Conspiracy" at the front, or at the end, of it. It's kinda cool to believe the aliens came from Venus just as it was getting a little too warm to live there, and in a fit of jealousy over our beautiful green planet, gave us fire and gasoline with which we could totally wreck our world. All this mess is not our fault - it's the aliens that made us do it. This here is 'Merica, and we're all good 'Mericans. No way we'd mess up the place on our own. You betcha.
So, we went to another new Dentist's office to have him look at Carolyn's cheek. He smoothed a rough place on the temporary crown so it would not further aggravate the cheek, and gave her some kind of healing cream for her mouth. As he was working on her, he casually mentioned the reason her real Dentist was unavailable was because his wife was having brain surgery. Wow. Was I ever wrong - unless somebody's gotten good enough to do that stuff on a boat while it's bobbing around in a lake.
Anyway, this week we went in to have the permanent crown put on. Carolyn was lead into the Room With The Chair and I went in search of a quiet place where I could read my airplane magazine. There were several kids in the waiting room with a youngster, who acted a whole lot like their father, trying to keep them entertained. He turned to me and started a conversation.
This kid, the one entertaining the kids, was Carolyn's Dentist! He had heard Carolyn's distinctive slur, realized I was her sorrier half, and wanted to apologize for not being able to see her when things had gone awry.
I inquired about his wife, and told him I completely understood him putting her ahead of mundane stuff like making a living. We talked awhile during the time Carolyn was being prepared for her ordeal, and I learned his wife suffered from seizures. A neurologist had pinpointed the area of her brain that was causing the problem, and as far as anyone could tell, the operation had been successful.
The Dental Assistant came to let him know Carolyn was ready, we said goodbye and wished each other luck caring for our disabled spouses. Leaving his children to the care of a nanny, he went to treat my wife.
Of all the Dentists we could have chosen, we picked one who also has a disabled wife. No wonder Carolyn is receiving such special and wonderful care. He understands.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
More Fire
I know what he and his wife are feeling, and do not envy them. They are wondering if they will have to leave their home of many years. And, if they do, will it still be there when the fire Gods have run their course.
The fire will have it's way. All those bright red fire engines and young men donned in gear that would help them survive outer space will have no say in the outcome. The Fire is king of it's world. We can flail away with all our might, but it will do as it wishes. Until it rains.
Our fire engines and young men can tell the little flames that try to destroy our world one building at a time to go away and for the most part, the fire will do as they wish. But, if it finds a toehold in the wilderness, and if there is a stiff wind to push in into our world, it will rule. Floods rule the rivers and flat lands. Fires are king in the dry mountains of the Southwest.
Believe it, get out of the way. Be thankful if the fire allows you to return to your belongings. It will never allow you to return to your world. That will have changed. From now on, the old timers will say, "You remember ol' Jessie's son getting his tonsils removed? That was just before the fire. Remember?"
The calendar is mentally marked BC/AD by all who experience it. Before it Came. After it was Done.
The evacuation of my friends from their homes has begun. I pray they will return and have beds upon which to sleep. They will need the rest to rebuild.
Fire
Los Alamos seems to be in for it again. The last time this happened, in May of 2000, we lost ten percent of the homes in the town.
Cerra Grande Fire, 2000
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At first, everyone watched the smoke become more dense as the fire grew. We went about our business, work, shopping, the usual. But, as the smoke became thicker, we started to worry. Then the fire crested a ridge of the Jemez Mountains, a little Southwest of town. It was still 12 miles away, but conversation turned from pleasant "Hi, how are you guys these days?" to "Have you heard anything new about the fire"
Box Pack Mail ran out of boxes. Empty boxes also disappeared from behind all the local stores. People were starting to pack their belongings. We did that, and I moved my '54 Chevy pickup truck to the center of a barren field, drained all the gas from the tank and covered it with shinny insulating space blankets. I moved our airplane to Santa Fe, and we loaded the cars with our photos and important papers.
The fire came closer. We were evacuated. Then, we were allowed to come back. The fire had been contained, we were told. The next day, my wife and I went to work as usual, but I looked out the window, not at my computer. Finally, I told my co-workers and my boss I was leaving. I called my wife, told her to leave work NOW and meet me at our home. We finished packing everything we could fit into our cars and as we finished, a sheriff's car came through the subdivision telling everyone to leave at once.
Go to White Rock, the megaphone advised, if you have friends there. Stay with them. That's what we did. Friends, who also had been watching for the last four days, opened their home to us. We unloaded our clothes, went to the store for groceries and settled in on their patio to watch the fire as we ate.
As we prepared for bed, the sheriff's megaphone brought us the news. We could no longer remain in White Rock. It was unsafe there, and all residents needed to leave the county. For the second time that day we were under orders to evacuate. We went to Abuquiu, forty miles distant, and remained there for the next two weeks.
We returned to a town that had been devastated by fire. Fully ten percent of all the houses had burned to the ground. It's a small community, and everyone knew friends who had lost everything. It took years, but we all pitched in and Los Alamos re-emerged from the fire, re-energized and stronger. Now, it may happen again.
There's a new fire growing just outside the town. Voluntary evacuation orders have already been given. Please remember Los Alamos in your prayers today. It's a beautiful place in the mountains, filled with brilliant and kind people. I hope they do not burn again.
Video of the Las Conchas fire on 6-26-11 from a distance of 25 miles.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99iL60QUBKQ
Cerra Grande Fire, 2000
Box Pack Mail ran out of boxes. Empty boxes also disappeared from behind all the local stores. People were starting to pack their belongings. We did that, and I moved my '54 Chevy pickup truck to the center of a barren field, drained all the gas from the tank and covered it with shinny insulating space blankets. I moved our airplane to Santa Fe, and we loaded the cars with our photos and important papers.
The fire came closer. We were evacuated. Then, we were allowed to come back. The fire had been contained, we were told. The next day, my wife and I went to work as usual, but I looked out the window, not at my computer. Finally, I told my co-workers and my boss I was leaving. I called my wife, told her to leave work NOW and meet me at our home. We finished packing everything we could fit into our cars and as we finished, a sheriff's car came through the subdivision telling everyone to leave at once.
Go to White Rock, the megaphone advised, if you have friends there. Stay with them. That's what we did. Friends, who also had been watching for the last four days, opened their home to us. We unloaded our clothes, went to the store for groceries and settled in on their patio to watch the fire as we ate.
As we prepared for bed, the sheriff's megaphone brought us the news. We could no longer remain in White Rock. It was unsafe there, and all residents needed to leave the county. For the second time that day we were under orders to evacuate. We went to Abuquiu, forty miles distant, and remained there for the next two weeks.
We returned to a town that had been devastated by fire. Fully ten percent of all the houses had burned to the ground. It's a small community, and everyone knew friends who had lost everything. It took years, but we all pitched in and Los Alamos re-emerged from the fire, re-energized and stronger. Now, it may happen again.
There's a new fire growing just outside the town. Voluntary evacuation orders have already been given. Please remember Los Alamos in your prayers today. It's a beautiful place in the mountains, filled with brilliant and kind people. I hope they do not burn again.
Video of the Las Conchas fire on 6-26-11 from a distance of 25 miles.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=99iL60QUBKQ
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Lilacs
Evey time I use the gate that goes from my back yard to the front, next to the garage, I walk by a couple of the ugliest, dirtiest pallets you'd ever want to see. They have been leaning against the side of my house for the last few weeks, ever since I finished destroying my already broken and severely abused back unloading the sod that filled them when it was delivered almost to where it was needed.
Forklifts are way too big - they don't go through the average gate. Why is that? Poor pallet design is my guess. They make the things much bigger than they need to be, so the forklifts need to be too big. And, I'm guessing that has something to do with the standard width of the lanes on all our roads and the cost of labor. I know, sounds pretty crazy, but think about it for a while.
These days semi trailers are allowed by our good ol' Dept. of Transportation to be 102 inches wide so they can comfortably fit in a lane on the highway. That means a smart guy can build walls and a roof on top of the thing and wind up with an interior width of 96 inches. Most pallets are 48X40 inches, and that means it's real easy to load a truck with a forklift or pallet jack by alternating the 40 inch side and 48 inch side.
This arrangement of pallets is 88 inches in width, which leaves a gap of two inches between each of the pallets and between them and the walls of the trailer, a total of six inches of gap. A gap this size allows a good fork lift driver to go flat out fast while he's loading the trailer, and still makes use of most of the available space.
If you followed all that, you now know why forklifts don't fit through my gate, and it's not my fault at all. Why is it I'm the guy who gets to chew through a whole bottle of Ibuprofen every time I need anything at all in my back yard? If I make my gate bigger, it'll sag. I'm tellin' ya, the whole world's screwed up, and this is just one example of that fact. Lord knows a guy can't win these days.
I know how to fix it, but it'll take a ton of paint to remark all the lanes in the country, and then, of course, we'll have to redesign all the cars, trucks, forklifts and pallets to fit my gate. No politician will ever agree with my solution - it'll create too many jobs, and the smaller vehicles will be more economical to drive. Can't have that these days...guess I'll just have to keep carrying stuff around from the front driveway, where it gets delivered, to the back, where it's needed.
Anyway, besides having to unload those suckers all by myself, I also had to pay a ten dollar "Pallet Deposit" on a bunch of boards that had seen their best days sometime during disco's reign. Them and John Travolta. Well, two pallets at ten dollars apiece can not be taken lightly, so instead of toting them over to my neighbor's fire pit where, after a hard life, they could be given a decent funeral, I leaned them against my garage. And, I had to look at them each time I passed that way.
It was a pleasant 74 degrees today, so Carolyn and I sat out on our deck for awhile. It's nice to do that every now and again, so we can often be found out there in the mornings. It's warmed considerably the last several weeks and plants are starting to show their appreciation of the springlike weather. They're starting to bloom in a major way.
There was a slight breeze from the East this morning, normally it is from the West. These two things, blooming and breezing, occurring simultaneously, made Carolyn comment on the lilac bushes in our neighbors yard. "I love the smell of those lilac bushes this time of year", she said. " It reminds me of our first place. You remember, the one with all the flowerbeds?"
I remembered. And, what's more, I remembered the pallets that needed to be returned. And I remembered seeing about a billion lilacs at the nursery where the pallets lived.
"How would you like to have a couple of lilacs again? We can take the pallets back and pick up a couple of bushes." I asked her.
So we went. And now, after I dug some holes, she can smell OUR lilacs, which are in full bloom, anytime she ventures, with my help, into our backyard.
How's that thing about two birds and stones go?
Forklifts are way too big - they don't go through the average gate. Why is that? Poor pallet design is my guess. They make the things much bigger than they need to be, so the forklifts need to be too big. And, I'm guessing that has something to do with the standard width of the lanes on all our roads and the cost of labor. I know, sounds pretty crazy, but think about it for a while.
These days semi trailers are allowed by our good ol' Dept. of Transportation to be 102 inches wide so they can comfortably fit in a lane on the highway. That means a smart guy can build walls and a roof on top of the thing and wind up with an interior width of 96 inches. Most pallets are 48X40 inches, and that means it's real easy to load a truck with a forklift or pallet jack by alternating the 40 inch side and 48 inch side.
This arrangement of pallets is 88 inches in width, which leaves a gap of two inches between each of the pallets and between them and the walls of the trailer, a total of six inches of gap. A gap this size allows a good fork lift driver to go flat out fast while he's loading the trailer, and still makes use of most of the available space.
If you followed all that, you now know why forklifts don't fit through my gate, and it's not my fault at all. Why is it I'm the guy who gets to chew through a whole bottle of Ibuprofen every time I need anything at all in my back yard? If I make my gate bigger, it'll sag. I'm tellin' ya, the whole world's screwed up, and this is just one example of that fact. Lord knows a guy can't win these days.
I know how to fix it, but it'll take a ton of paint to remark all the lanes in the country, and then, of course, we'll have to redesign all the cars, trucks, forklifts and pallets to fit my gate. No politician will ever agree with my solution - it'll create too many jobs, and the smaller vehicles will be more economical to drive. Can't have that these days...guess I'll just have to keep carrying stuff around from the front driveway, where it gets delivered, to the back, where it's needed.
Anyway, besides having to unload those suckers all by myself, I also had to pay a ten dollar "Pallet Deposit" on a bunch of boards that had seen their best days sometime during disco's reign. Them and John Travolta. Well, two pallets at ten dollars apiece can not be taken lightly, so instead of toting them over to my neighbor's fire pit where, after a hard life, they could be given a decent funeral, I leaned them against my garage. And, I had to look at them each time I passed that way.
It was a pleasant 74 degrees today, so Carolyn and I sat out on our deck for awhile. It's nice to do that every now and again, so we can often be found out there in the mornings. It's warmed considerably the last several weeks and plants are starting to show their appreciation of the springlike weather. They're starting to bloom in a major way.
There was a slight breeze from the East this morning, normally it is from the West. These two things, blooming and breezing, occurring simultaneously, made Carolyn comment on the lilac bushes in our neighbors yard. "I love the smell of those lilac bushes this time of year", she said. " It reminds me of our first place. You remember, the one with all the flowerbeds?"
I remembered. And, what's more, I remembered the pallets that needed to be returned. And I remembered seeing about a billion lilacs at the nursery where the pallets lived.
"How would you like to have a couple of lilacs again? We can take the pallets back and pick up a couple of bushes." I asked her.
So we went. And now, after I dug some holes, she can smell OUR lilacs, which are in full bloom, anytime she ventures, with my help, into our backyard.
How's that thing about two birds and stones go?
Friday, June 24, 2011
Summer Friends, Part 2
I heard from Chris today. Regular readers will remember "Summer Friends", which I posted on Feb. 19th. Chris was a member of the pack back in 1982. We talked for a while, and the longer we talked, the younger we became.
Time is a really strange thing. How is it that when old friends meet, or just talk to each other, the years go away? Several years after the magic summer of '82, Chris brought his bride to be, whom he had met in Minnesota after moving there, with him to see California.
Somehow, he managed to find me while I was living on a boat in Ventura and sharing a public phone with about twenty other guys living aboard their vessels. That's not real hard to do these days, but back then, before cell phones and the Internet, it took a lot of brains, will power and persistence to round up a stray. Chris has all three of those items in spades.
He wanted me to meet Marylee, to whom he is still married. One of us, probably him, suggested McClintock's, a steakhouse on the beach somewhere close to Paso Robles. MGB's don't burn a lot of gas, it was cheap back then anyway, and a drive along the California coast is always pleasant. Even if you start with a couple for the road. I met them there.
Poor Marylee, she wound up babysitting a couple of buddies who hadn't seen each other in a while. The dinner was great, and the Rocky Mountain Oysters that followed, six or eight plates full, were even better. After conning her into eating a bunch of them and sorta getting kicked out of the place by a fuddy-duddy manager who didn't like noise and the lit cigarette in the mouth of the mounted moose head above our table, we stopped at a nearby package store and adjourned to the beach.
We spent a couple of hours there, took some pictures that are still in one or another of the unpacked boxes in my garage, and then tried to find our separate ways home. Neither of us made it that night - motel stops were in order, and although separated, both of us were smart enough to realize it.
The years melted away as we talked about that meal tonight, and it was 1985 again. My body felt 55 pounds lighter as we spoke, and the wrinkles on my brow disappeared - the only creases in my face were the lines created by the constant smile and laughter of my younger days.
Yes, time is something we create as we pass through this world. Some things can make us older than our years, and three minutes later, another thing will take away the years and the newest concerns. I've found that in my case, the best way to go on a time-diet (shed years instead of pounds) is to talk with an old friend.
I try to treat every person I met these days in a manner that will make them want to become an old friend. Hopefully several of the folks I meet today will still be in my life thirty years from now.
I'll be able to shed the years then, if I lay the foundation now.
Time is a really strange thing. How is it that when old friends meet, or just talk to each other, the years go away? Several years after the magic summer of '82, Chris brought his bride to be, whom he had met in Minnesota after moving there, with him to see California.
Somehow, he managed to find me while I was living on a boat in Ventura and sharing a public phone with about twenty other guys living aboard their vessels. That's not real hard to do these days, but back then, before cell phones and the Internet, it took a lot of brains, will power and persistence to round up a stray. Chris has all three of those items in spades.
He wanted me to meet Marylee, to whom he is still married. One of us, probably him, suggested McClintock's, a steakhouse on the beach somewhere close to Paso Robles. MGB's don't burn a lot of gas, it was cheap back then anyway, and a drive along the California coast is always pleasant. Even if you start with a couple for the road. I met them there.
Poor Marylee, she wound up babysitting a couple of buddies who hadn't seen each other in a while. The dinner was great, and the Rocky Mountain Oysters that followed, six or eight plates full, were even better. After conning her into eating a bunch of them and sorta getting kicked out of the place by a fuddy-duddy manager who didn't like noise and the lit cigarette in the mouth of the mounted moose head above our table, we stopped at a nearby package store and adjourned to the beach.
We spent a couple of hours there, took some pictures that are still in one or another of the unpacked boxes in my garage, and then tried to find our separate ways home. Neither of us made it that night - motel stops were in order, and although separated, both of us were smart enough to realize it.
The years melted away as we talked about that meal tonight, and it was 1985 again. My body felt 55 pounds lighter as we spoke, and the wrinkles on my brow disappeared - the only creases in my face were the lines created by the constant smile and laughter of my younger days.
Yes, time is something we create as we pass through this world. Some things can make us older than our years, and three minutes later, another thing will take away the years and the newest concerns. I've found that in my case, the best way to go on a time-diet (shed years instead of pounds) is to talk with an old friend.
I try to treat every person I met these days in a manner that will make them want to become an old friend. Hopefully several of the folks I meet today will still be in my life thirty years from now.
I'll be able to shed the years then, if I lay the foundation now.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Even Keel
It's taken a couple of days, but things around this joint are once again running like a poorly oiled thrashing machine. Not to worry, that's a normal state of affairs and I'm happy with it. A well oiled, smooth riding machine is indicative of a whole lot more maintenance than I'm ready to perform. Besides, bumpy roads and jalopies are always more interesting than freeways and luxury sedans.
Speaking of bumps, I've had a few lately, and learned a lesson from one of them - don't ever tell your Doctor a little lie. He'll catch it and get even.
My old Doctor knew everything about me; he should have, it was his job, and he had almost two decades to figure it out. My new guy doesn't know me at all, but I have a feeling that's gonna change real soon. He started right off by asking me stuff like "When was your latest ________?" He kept asking that question, in one iteration or another, for, I guess, three hundred times. I sorta lost the count after eighteen. Don't ever let me go to Las Vegas. It's a sure thing I can't count cards if I can't count questions.
Well, I answered as best I could, but it's hard to remember about stuff that happened twenty years ago. Even if it's important stuff like "What year did you say you cut off your little finger and they reattached it?" Seriously. I mean, who keeps track? Ask me instead who won Super Bowl XXIV. I know the answer to that one. I'm not really dumb, just inconsistent.
So, when the blank in the question was filled with the word "colonoscopy", I answered "Oh, let's say a year and a half." Well, I know better - NOBODY forgets when that little invasion of personal space occurs. But, I also know I'm 'sposed to look the other way every five years as some well intentioned guy in a white coat and chemical resistant, splash proof apron does some really obnoxious things behind my back. And, it has been well over six years since a Doctor, whom I claimed as a friend, did his job and caused me to "unfriend" him.
We'd still show up at the same parties, but I'd never turn my back on him, especially if his anesthesiologist buddy was across the room - ya know what I mean? Don't take it wrong. The good Doctor did his job, did it well, but still, I hated it. What man in his right mind actually decides to become a proctologist? Of his own free will? Ya gotta wonder.......
Turns out my new Doctor must be pretty good. It seems he read the sixty-five hundred pages of medical history sent to him from Los Alamos, and compared the stuff in it to the "When Was" questions I had answered several weeks earlier in his office. No wonder Doctors are well paid. They must spend night after night wadding through all this stuff while the rest of us are fiddling with our toenails and screaming at the moronic news readers on TV.
The call came out of the blue. "Hello....... Forrest?" The question mark at the end was almost pronounced.
"Yes." I said.
That was a mistake. I should know to hang up anytime I answer the phone and the person on the other end does not recognize my distinctive voice. It always leads to disaster if I allow the conversation to continue.
"This is Dr. You Shouldn'thavelied. I'm calling to get even. Your overdue colonoscopy is scheduled for the 23rd.. Be there. Don't ever lie to me again 'cause I'm more anal than you."
Today was the 23rd, I was there, and I'll never lie to him again.
Speaking of bumps, I've had a few lately, and learned a lesson from one of them - don't ever tell your Doctor a little lie. He'll catch it and get even.
My old Doctor knew everything about me; he should have, it was his job, and he had almost two decades to figure it out. My new guy doesn't know me at all, but I have a feeling that's gonna change real soon. He started right off by asking me stuff like "When was your latest ________?" He kept asking that question, in one iteration or another, for, I guess, three hundred times. I sorta lost the count after eighteen. Don't ever let me go to Las Vegas. It's a sure thing I can't count cards if I can't count questions.
Well, I answered as best I could, but it's hard to remember about stuff that happened twenty years ago. Even if it's important stuff like "What year did you say you cut off your little finger and they reattached it?" Seriously. I mean, who keeps track? Ask me instead who won Super Bowl XXIV. I know the answer to that one. I'm not really dumb, just inconsistent.
So, when the blank in the question was filled with the word "colonoscopy", I answered "Oh, let's say a year and a half." Well, I know better - NOBODY forgets when that little invasion of personal space occurs. But, I also know I'm 'sposed to look the other way every five years as some well intentioned guy in a white coat and chemical resistant, splash proof apron does some really obnoxious things behind my back. And, it has been well over six years since a Doctor, whom I claimed as a friend, did his job and caused me to "unfriend" him.
We'd still show up at the same parties, but I'd never turn my back on him, especially if his anesthesiologist buddy was across the room - ya know what I mean? Don't take it wrong. The good Doctor did his job, did it well, but still, I hated it. What man in his right mind actually decides to become a proctologist? Of his own free will? Ya gotta wonder.......
Turns out my new Doctor must be pretty good. It seems he read the sixty-five hundred pages of medical history sent to him from Los Alamos, and compared the stuff in it to the "When Was" questions I had answered several weeks earlier in his office. No wonder Doctors are well paid. They must spend night after night wadding through all this stuff while the rest of us are fiddling with our toenails and screaming at the moronic news readers on TV.
The call came out of the blue. "Hello....... Forrest?" The question mark at the end was almost pronounced.
"Yes." I said.
That was a mistake. I should know to hang up anytime I answer the phone and the person on the other end does not recognize my distinctive voice. It always leads to disaster if I allow the conversation to continue.
"This is Dr. You Shouldn'thavelied. I'm calling to get even. Your overdue colonoscopy is scheduled for the 23rd.. Be there. Don't ever lie to me again 'cause I'm more anal than you."
Today was the 23rd, I was there, and I'll never lie to him again.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Bad Blood
Although yesterday's bad news has been assimilated, it's adverse effect on Carolyn and her family is still building. Yesterday, Carolyn's 102 year old Mom was put into a hospice program.
A blood test revealed an infection and a LOW white blood cell count. This is not a normal state of affairs - an infection usually results in a high white blood cell count. More tests were performed, and they confirmed her bone marrow was not producing enough of the white cells. At her advanced age, her body will not tolerate treatment of the condition. The prognosis is bleak, and hospice was determined to be the best course of action.
On one hand, it is good that Mom will not have to witness Carolyn's increasing deterioration. And, Mom's condition will worsen fairly rapidly so she will not suffer as some do. On the other side of the ledger is it's effect on my already suffering wife. It is almost more than I can bear to watch as she is buffeted by yet another blow. Has God no mercy at all?
Why?
That's all I can ask. Crooks rob and enjoy life. Saints suffer.
Why?
A blood test revealed an infection and a LOW white blood cell count. This is not a normal state of affairs - an infection usually results in a high white blood cell count. More tests were performed, and they confirmed her bone marrow was not producing enough of the white cells. At her advanced age, her body will not tolerate treatment of the condition. The prognosis is bleak, and hospice was determined to be the best course of action.
On one hand, it is good that Mom will not have to witness Carolyn's increasing deterioration. And, Mom's condition will worsen fairly rapidly so she will not suffer as some do. On the other side of the ledger is it's effect on my already suffering wife. It is almost more than I can bear to watch as she is buffeted by yet another blow. Has God no mercy at all?
Why?
That's all I can ask. Crooks rob and enjoy life. Saints suffer.
Why?
Monday
Before I retired, I used to count the Mondays that were left in my life. I started counting when there were four hundred of them, and my co-workers, who were at first amused and then quickly bored by the count, finally started joining in the fun when I got into the low ninety's.
"How many Mondays till it's all Saturday?" they'd ask, and I'd give the newest tally. The time passed fairly quickly, and before very long the four hundred Mondays I started with had dwindled to less than sixty. That's when we got the news about Carolyn, and I realized I'd never make my original goal of retiring at age sixty-six. I don't know what was so special about that age, we were secure enough to have retired at any time after our mid fifty's.
Going to work everyday had been expected of me from the time I was in my early teens, and I had been told over and over during my whole life one works until he's sixty-five, and then he can retire. Some A-hole, I can no longer remember who it was, (maybe Alan Greenspan?) changed that to age sixty-six when I was in my early fifty's and like a well behaved stupid twit, I believed him.
Shame on me. I've since come to understand most of the people who tell us to work all our lives want us to do it to support them. Like the good sheep we are trained to be from the time we enter school until we die, we believe the teachers. Anyway, back to the current topic, Mondays.
Had I been able to reach my goal of four hundred Mondays before every day in my life was Saturday, my last Monday would have been on March, 7, 2011. Well, our circumstances did not allow me to complete that goal and my official retirement date was December 31, 2010. I left work long before that; a combination of accrued but unused vacation and sick leave, along with an understanding boss who was appreciative of my years of effort and dedication, allowed me to forgo several months of Mondays.
The actual date I quit going to work was October 26, 2010. Now, if you just happen to have a calendar handy, you'll discover I owe someone, or something, exactly nineteen more Mondays to fulfill my commitment of four hundred, which was where I started the count. I cheated the destiny I had determined, and loudly proclaimed to all my friends and co-workers for years, was mine. I did not realize it, but when I retired, I still had nineteen more Mondays in my life.
Well, today was Monday. I'm not going into the gory details, but just believe me when I tell you that. I now owe the universe eighteen more. After that, every day will be Saturday. Whoever is in charge, please do not give an old man more than one a year. They're terrible.
"How many Mondays till it's all Saturday?" they'd ask, and I'd give the newest tally. The time passed fairly quickly, and before very long the four hundred Mondays I started with had dwindled to less than sixty. That's when we got the news about Carolyn, and I realized I'd never make my original goal of retiring at age sixty-six. I don't know what was so special about that age, we were secure enough to have retired at any time after our mid fifty's.
Going to work everyday had been expected of me from the time I was in my early teens, and I had been told over and over during my whole life one works until he's sixty-five, and then he can retire. Some A-hole, I can no longer remember who it was, (maybe Alan Greenspan?) changed that to age sixty-six when I was in my early fifty's and like a well behaved stupid twit, I believed him.
Shame on me. I've since come to understand most of the people who tell us to work all our lives want us to do it to support them. Like the good sheep we are trained to be from the time we enter school until we die, we believe the teachers. Anyway, back to the current topic, Mondays.
Had I been able to reach my goal of four hundred Mondays before every day in my life was Saturday, my last Monday would have been on March, 7, 2011. Well, our circumstances did not allow me to complete that goal and my official retirement date was December 31, 2010. I left work long before that; a combination of accrued but unused vacation and sick leave, along with an understanding boss who was appreciative of my years of effort and dedication, allowed me to forgo several months of Mondays.
The actual date I quit going to work was October 26, 2010. Now, if you just happen to have a calendar handy, you'll discover I owe someone, or something, exactly nineteen more Mondays to fulfill my commitment of four hundred, which was where I started the count. I cheated the destiny I had determined, and loudly proclaimed to all my friends and co-workers for years, was mine. I did not realize it, but when I retired, I still had nineteen more Mondays in my life.
Well, today was Monday. I'm not going into the gory details, but just believe me when I tell you that. I now owe the universe eighteen more. After that, every day will be Saturday. Whoever is in charge, please do not give an old man more than one a year. They're terrible.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Dad
This was a strange Father's Day for me. We, my two brothers, sister and I, buried our Father a little over a year ago. We spent Fathers Day last year without him, but because the loss was so very recent, the day passed almost unnoticed.
This year is different. As all of you who have lost Fathers you have loved know, it's a day to spend remembering your "special" dad. And, all good dad's are special - each in his own way.
I remember my Dad as the guy who bought me my first BB gun, and after I had shown him I could be trusted to use it correctly, he replaced it with a shotgun and a .22 rifle. He taught me to ride the bike he brought back from England, and showed me how to repaint it eight years later. As I grew up he explained the rules. If I wanted a car, I better get some sort of job. I worked as a newspaper delivery boy for four years, saved my pay, and he helped to pick out the '56 Ford Vicky that was my very first car.
Sunday morning papers were delivered way too early in the morning, and on cold or rainy days he'd get up with me and instead of sleeping in on his day off, he'd load my papers in the car and we'd deliver them together. Then we'd go home and he'd fix breakfast for his whole family.
The Ford was followed by an English sports car - yeah, Lucas electronics made in hell and guaranteed to crap out in 3 days or less - and he taught me how to keep it running. All too soon, I tired of following his rules and left the loving home he had provided. That happens to most sons, it's how the world works.
A few years later, he morphed into a wise old friend. He still knew the ropes, and was happy to share the knowledge. I had grown up enough to value his love, friendship and wisdom. Around that time, I caught myself teaching his rules to my children. There were a few differences, but overall, his values were passed to his grand kids. They too loved him - his lap was reserved for them during this time.
I was lucky in this life. Lucky to have had him for my Dad, and lucky to have had him for the first sixty-five years of my life. Most folks don't have their father that long - he didn't. I watched him as he passed, with his whole family at his side, and again he taught me a lesson. Success in this life is measured by the amount of love you receive from your family.
I was glad his suffering and pain had ended, he was in bad shape at the end of his days, but I really miss being able to pick up the phone and say to him "Hey, Pop - What's up?"
This year is different. As all of you who have lost Fathers you have loved know, it's a day to spend remembering your "special" dad. And, all good dad's are special - each in his own way.
I remember my Dad as the guy who bought me my first BB gun, and after I had shown him I could be trusted to use it correctly, he replaced it with a shotgun and a .22 rifle. He taught me to ride the bike he brought back from England, and showed me how to repaint it eight years later. As I grew up he explained the rules. If I wanted a car, I better get some sort of job. I worked as a newspaper delivery boy for four years, saved my pay, and he helped to pick out the '56 Ford Vicky that was my very first car.
Sunday morning papers were delivered way too early in the morning, and on cold or rainy days he'd get up with me and instead of sleeping in on his day off, he'd load my papers in the car and we'd deliver them together. Then we'd go home and he'd fix breakfast for his whole family.
The Ford was followed by an English sports car - yeah, Lucas electronics made in hell and guaranteed to crap out in 3 days or less - and he taught me how to keep it running. All too soon, I tired of following his rules and left the loving home he had provided. That happens to most sons, it's how the world works.
A few years later, he morphed into a wise old friend. He still knew the ropes, and was happy to share the knowledge. I had grown up enough to value his love, friendship and wisdom. Around that time, I caught myself teaching his rules to my children. There were a few differences, but overall, his values were passed to his grand kids. They too loved him - his lap was reserved for them during this time.
I was lucky in this life. Lucky to have had him for my Dad, and lucky to have had him for the first sixty-five years of my life. Most folks don't have their father that long - he didn't. I watched him as he passed, with his whole family at his side, and again he taught me a lesson. Success in this life is measured by the amount of love you receive from your family.
I was glad his suffering and pain had ended, he was in bad shape at the end of his days, but I really miss being able to pick up the phone and say to him "Hey, Pop - What's up?"
Friday, June 17, 2011
Roger's Tri-Pacer
Not to be outdone, after reading the post about Jeff's Grizzly Cub, another friend of mine sent a ton of pictures of a Piper Tri-Pacer he's rebuilding. I used to own one of these Pipers, and can tell you it's a kick in the tail to fly. They're not as fast as some folks might like, but they can be made to drop from the sky like a rock, only to land without even noticing you've touched the ground. An experienced Tri-Pacer pilot can make it dance.
Los Alamos experienced a hail storm during the summer of 2009 that put gaping holes in every fabric covered airplane that was out of it's hanger. Roger's Tri-Pacer was one of those unfortunate birds, and Roger was even more unfortunate than the other aircraft owners who went to the airport that day and found their precious magic carpets full of holes. You see, he had finished a complete restoration of the wings on his plane only two months earlier. He had labored an entire winter and spring and had made them as good as the day they left the Piper factory 50 years earlier. Now, the job would have to be redone.
The insurance company totaled the airplane, and wrote Roger a check. He used a portion of the check to buy it back from the insurance company as salvage, and started the long process of unbolting everything, sandblasting, and then rebuilding the entire airframe. The photo on the left still sort of looks like an airplane, but he was only half way through the strip down portion of the project when it was taken, soon after he started in February of 2010. He's worked for over one and a half years so far, and although it's still in a couple of hundred pieces, he's well on the way to getting it back in the air.
Here's what the fuselage looks like now, after he has cut out and rewelded corroded portions of the frame, sandblasted and repainted the tubing, replaced all the electrical wiring and control cables, and installed a new interior. He has also installed all new flight instruments and is ready to install new navigation and communication radios. After that, he recovered and painted the new fabric that covers the frame.
The wings have again been recovered and painted, and this time it was a lot easier for him than the last time. He had refurbished the spars and ribs just last winter, so they were already in factory new condition. And, having done it so recently, he had all the jigs and was familiar with the techniques of stitching the fabric to the ribs. Every now and again something goes right. There's still a ton of work to do - complete the interior, attach the wings, hook up controls and fit the cowling. I've asked him for a date he expects to have it back in the air, but he's built other aircraft before and knows not to get in a hurry. "It'll fly when it's ready" is about all he'll say for now.
I have some amazing friends; what they are capable of doing with their hands and minds is astonishing. And, yes, I've also built an airplane with my own two hands. I did not complete it, the designer killed himself in his and afterward my wife at the time gave me a choice - her or the plane. She could not be made to understand it was not the airplane, but pilot error that caused the crash. I made the wrong choice and sold four years of hard work. She was gone anyway about two years after the guy who bought it from me flew it for the first time.
As soon as Roger gets a web page detailing the complete construction, I'll revisit this project and pass along information about where it can be found. I expect it'll take awhile. Right now, Roger's busy building an airplane. The first flight will probably come before the chronicle.
Alone Again
The last of our guests are winging their way back to Los Alamos, NM. No, on second thought, I'm certain they are snug in their own beds by now. We enjoyed having them, and having our Canadian friends from Montreal the couple of days before. But, it's good to be home alone.
Carolyn's wiped out, and I'm not far behind. We traversed central Oregon twice, once with each pair of friends. Barely There, Clines Falls, the Crooked River Gorge, and Lake Billy Chinook were among the sights we showed our guests. And, at long last, we were able to find Tumalo Falls while traveling with the folks from NM.
It is absolutely beautiful this time of year; snow melt has added to the already copious amounts of water falling 97 feet to the rocks below. Tumalo Creek splashes and churns around the ten thousand boulders at it's base and transforms thousands of gallons of water into screaming veils of moisture every minute. Although it's not the equal of Yosemite Falls, it's well worth searching for. Do it if you ever get to this piece of Heaven - eventually you'll find it.
Gilbert O'Sullivan (I love that name for a song writer and singer. His real name is Raymond Edward O'Sullivan - it takes real guts to claim oneself the whole team of Gilbert and Sullivan) penned a particularly dark song about being alone, "Alone Again, Naturally". Maybe he's right because he was talking about being without a mate. But, if one does have a partner with whom to be alone, it's a very pleasurable way to spend time.
Friends are great, and our lives would be much less fulfilling without them. But, if one is traveling this life with a partner who fits, friends are spice. The partner is nourishment.
After a week of wonderfully spicy food, Carolyn and I are now being nourished.
Carolyn's wiped out, and I'm not far behind. We traversed central Oregon twice, once with each pair of friends. Barely There, Clines Falls, the Crooked River Gorge, and Lake Billy Chinook were among the sights we showed our guests. And, at long last, we were able to find Tumalo Falls while traveling with the folks from NM.
It is absolutely beautiful this time of year; snow melt has added to the already copious amounts of water falling 97 feet to the rocks below. Tumalo Creek splashes and churns around the ten thousand boulders at it's base and transforms thousands of gallons of water into screaming veils of moisture every minute. Although it's not the equal of Yosemite Falls, it's well worth searching for. Do it if you ever get to this piece of Heaven - eventually you'll find it.
Gilbert O'Sullivan (I love that name for a song writer and singer. His real name is Raymond Edward O'Sullivan - it takes real guts to claim oneself the whole team of Gilbert and Sullivan) penned a particularly dark song about being alone, "Alone Again, Naturally". Maybe he's right because he was talking about being without a mate. But, if one does have a partner with whom to be alone, it's a very pleasurable way to spend time.
Friends are great, and our lives would be much less fulfilling without them. But, if one is traveling this life with a partner who fits, friends are spice. The partner is nourishment.
After a week of wonderfully spicy food, Carolyn and I are now being nourished.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Tied Up
Just a quick note to readers - I have not actually died, but we have had a house full of guests for the last week.
One of these days that situation will resolve itself and I will have more time to spend with you guys. For now, though, I anticipate another couple of days away from the blog. This will be a good time to catch up on earlier posts you may have missed. Please enjoy the library of a hundred and forty some odd missives while I'm occupied elsewhere.
See ya soon!
One of these days that situation will resolve itself and I will have more time to spend with you guys. For now, though, I anticipate another couple of days away from the blog. This will be a good time to catch up on earlier posts you may have missed. Please enjoy the library of a hundred and forty some odd missives while I'm occupied elsewhere.
See ya soon!
Monday, June 13, 2011
102 and Counting
Carolyn's mom just celebrated her one hundred and second birthday. First time in my short life I've been able to sing happy birthday to a 102 year old person of any gender.
I know, you're gonna tell me that's not so much, and you're right. I've sang Happy Birthday to a 100 year old and to a 101 year old lady. And, from the way it looks, I'll be able to claim a 103 year old this time next year. There's no giving up in the old girl, no end in sight.
Twelve of us helped her get through the dinner, including two much younger friends who flew in from Montreal, Quebec, Canada. We've known and visited them for years. The only place a guy can eat smoked meat from Schwartz's is on Rue Saint-Laurent in Montreal, and it only makes sense to hop on the Metro, transfer from the Orange line to the Green at Berri-Uqam and walk the block and a half from the Jolicquer station to their home in Verdun for a cup of tea and a wonderful afternoon watching folks prance in the park across the street after grabbing a sandwich there. If you ever find yourself in Montreal, stop at Schwartz's for a bite - trust me. Just don't eat the fries.
We managed to find a table for twelve at the Aspen Ridge country club just outside Sisters, OR. and they did a pretty good job of putting up with us. The food in no way approached the fare at Schwartz's, but the menu was much more varied. I'm a simple guy, so I ordered the Steak Sandwich off the bar menu. Others tasted Salmon, Chicken fixed some special way, and some sort of fancy scallops. I personally never eat anything that swims in it's toilet, so I have no way to comment on it's quality. I'm a leftneck, remember?
We did encounter one small problem. The wine glasses hold about 12 ounces of the Red stuff, and one of the waiters filled her glass almost completely full. At least she didn't snore as the rest of us ate the last course, the chocolate birthday cake.
Birthdays and old friends from afar always make for pleasant days. Even though it was a long day for Carolyn, she enjoyed herself. That means I enjoyed the day as well. Later this week, other old friends from New Mexico will arrive. They are on the way as I write this.
Old friends, family, special times. That's really what it's all about. Oh yeah, heat and food count for something, but who needs much more?
I know, you're gonna tell me that's not so much, and you're right. I've sang Happy Birthday to a 100 year old and to a 101 year old lady. And, from the way it looks, I'll be able to claim a 103 year old this time next year. There's no giving up in the old girl, no end in sight.
Twelve of us helped her get through the dinner, including two much younger friends who flew in from Montreal, Quebec, Canada. We've known and visited them for years. The only place a guy can eat smoked meat from Schwartz's is on Rue Saint-Laurent in Montreal, and it only makes sense to hop on the Metro, transfer from the Orange line to the Green at Berri-Uqam and walk the block and a half from the Jolicquer station to their home in Verdun for a cup of tea and a wonderful afternoon watching folks prance in the park across the street after grabbing a sandwich there. If you ever find yourself in Montreal, stop at Schwartz's for a bite - trust me. Just don't eat the fries.
We managed to find a table for twelve at the Aspen Ridge country club just outside Sisters, OR. and they did a pretty good job of putting up with us. The food in no way approached the fare at Schwartz's, but the menu was much more varied. I'm a simple guy, so I ordered the Steak Sandwich off the bar menu. Others tasted Salmon, Chicken fixed some special way, and some sort of fancy scallops. I personally never eat anything that swims in it's toilet, so I have no way to comment on it's quality. I'm a leftneck, remember?
We did encounter one small problem. The wine glasses hold about 12 ounces of the Red stuff, and one of the waiters filled her glass almost completely full. At least she didn't snore as the rest of us ate the last course, the chocolate birthday cake.
Birthdays and old friends from afar always make for pleasant days. Even though it was a long day for Carolyn, she enjoyed herself. That means I enjoyed the day as well. Later this week, other old friends from New Mexico will arrive. They are on the way as I write this.
Old friends, family, special times. That's really what it's all about. Oh yeah, heat and food count for something, but who needs much more?
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Summer of '63
High school was just barely behind me in the summer of '63, and I was on my own for the first time in my life. My buddy Danny and I packed a tent and some sleeping bags and headed for our favorite stomping grounds, Yosemite. We lived only 90 miles away and spent most of our warm weather weekends there anyway. But, this time it was for real. We had graduated, and now were expected to find our way in a bigger, for real world.
Yosemite was the logical place to start. We set up the tent and then went over to the employment office of the Yosemite Park and Curry Company. "You've got to be at least 18 years old to work here," the guy behind the desk told us, "but right now we're full up. Don't need anybody. Check back later."
Well, that dashed Danny's hopes. He would not turn 18 until the middle of summer - but, having turned 18 in March of that year, I was good to go. I spent the first week and a half on the steps leading to the employment office, Danny spent the time on the beach by Stoneman Bridge, which spanned the Merced River. One day, the "Guy Who Hires" came back outside about an hour after he had greeted me while opening the office for the day, and told me there was an opening.
I was reminded of this because PBS was running the John Sebastian hosted Folk Song send-us-your-money show tonight. I know every one of the songs they were airing, and picked up my dusty guitar and started playing along as my heroes of that era sang. It brought back memories of nightly campfires by Steamboat Rock where several dozen of us would gather. My fingers would massage the guitar and cause it to produce all the songs being aired again tonight, 48 years later. Everyone else would sing to the rhythms I strummed.
The world was so much simpler back then. We were going to save it by singing. Lori Bercy. Susie Michaels - that was her stage name, the real one was Susan White. Karen Lipski. Gary Frye. We played and sang well together, along with a host of different folks who came and went as the summer wore on.
Gary and I were in the only authorized park band. That means we were the only ones allowed to rent auditoriums and charge admission on the National Park grounds that summer. There were four of us in the band, but I remember only Gary. We hung out together for several years.
The summer of 1963. Folk was still king, but the future was on it's way. The Four Seasons came along with "Sherry" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myIG9PEwXZw and the direction of the music changed. We still sang on the beach that summer, and my world changed. I transitioned from the almost shunned dufus I was in high school to the "guitar man" everyone wanted for a friend. Tonight, my fingers remembered the songs, and I played them note for note as they were presented on my TV.
A young man lives, and an old man remembers. But what memories those old songs stir! I grew up that summer.
Yosemite was the logical place to start. We set up the tent and then went over to the employment office of the Yosemite Park and Curry Company. "You've got to be at least 18 years old to work here," the guy behind the desk told us, "but right now we're full up. Don't need anybody. Check back later."
Well, that dashed Danny's hopes. He would not turn 18 until the middle of summer - but, having turned 18 in March of that year, I was good to go. I spent the first week and a half on the steps leading to the employment office, Danny spent the time on the beach by Stoneman Bridge, which spanned the Merced River. One day, the "Guy Who Hires" came back outside about an hour after he had greeted me while opening the office for the day, and told me there was an opening.
I was reminded of this because PBS was running the John Sebastian hosted Folk Song send-us-your-money show tonight. I know every one of the songs they were airing, and picked up my dusty guitar and started playing along as my heroes of that era sang. It brought back memories of nightly campfires by Steamboat Rock where several dozen of us would gather. My fingers would massage the guitar and cause it to produce all the songs being aired again tonight, 48 years later. Everyone else would sing to the rhythms I strummed.
The world was so much simpler back then. We were going to save it by singing. Lori Bercy. Susie Michaels - that was her stage name, the real one was Susan White. Karen Lipski. Gary Frye. We played and sang well together, along with a host of different folks who came and went as the summer wore on.
Gary and I were in the only authorized park band. That means we were the only ones allowed to rent auditoriums and charge admission on the National Park grounds that summer. There were four of us in the band, but I remember only Gary. We hung out together for several years.
The summer of 1963. Folk was still king, but the future was on it's way. The Four Seasons came along with "Sherry" http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=myIG9PEwXZw and the direction of the music changed. We still sang on the beach that summer, and my world changed. I transitioned from the almost shunned dufus I was in high school to the "guitar man" everyone wanted for a friend. Tonight, my fingers remembered the songs, and I played them note for note as they were presented on my TV.
A young man lives, and an old man remembers. But what memories those old songs stir! I grew up that summer.
Friday, June 10, 2011
Escape Artist
Our combination burglar alarm/pile producer has done it again. And, his timing could not have been better. These things could only happen in real life, never during the entire life cycle of a civilization could an author make up such stuff.
For several months I have been promising our friendly and very helpful neighbors a "Victory Celebration and Dinner" to be held at a date of my choosing, as soon as I was certain the war with my dog Muffy had been won by the smarter and larger of the warriors.
In one corner was the obvious winner - at 236 pounds and an IQ surpassing that of even the most intelligent of orangutans. In the far corner, a mere mongrel dog, weighing 8 pounds and possessed of an IQ of, well, a cur. No contest, right? Well, for the first several months, he put up a great fight. Overcoming one after another obstacle placed in his path to freedom by none other than the larger of the contestants, Muffy gained his freedom to roam at every opportunity.
Ever certain of the latest barrier, Carolyn and I would leave for a well deserved break from tossing balls and picking up poop only to return to a note from a neighbor. "I have Muffy. He can be ransomed by calling 541-316-XXXX and the promise of a ticket for a seat at the Victory Celebration." Yes, sadly the entire neighborhood was aware of the battle, and all of them knew who was losing. I was in danger of becoming a laughingstock. The butt of the joke. The guy you claimed not to know because he was not as smart as his dog.
Finally, I tired of using rocks, bricks and earthen berms to imprison him. I called upon Thor, the God of lightning and electricity. With His aid, I charged a wire and ran it around the outer boundary of the space Muffy, in my opinion, is allowed to inhabit. The wire was set to deliver a friendly reminder to him that he had reached his limit every time he came in contact with it. It worked.
For two months we would leave the house and return to a very happy, tail wagging bundle of energy. I started to swagger a little. Well, actually I started to strut. Anyone watching as I passed would turn to their companion and whisper, "There goes a winner. You can tell it in his walk." Charlie Sheen, eat your heart out!
I was, in fact, such a winner, I really needed to have a better looking back yard in which I could host "The Dinner". That required me to lay a bunch of sod, which just happened to bring ME into contact with Thor's handiwork. I managed to touch that stinkin' wire several times - and it was not very pleasant at all. "Muffy's learned where he belongs," I said to myself, "I stand a much better chance of living through this latest project if I disconnect the wire."
I did. Yeah, I did both. I disconnected the wire and I lived the see the end of the project. The invitations went out Tuesday and everyone responded in the affirmative. All the neighbors would be here today, Friday, at 5:30, for the Victory Celebration.
Carolyn wanted to get her hair done for the doings, and I needed to shop for steaks, potatoes and corn. You should try my Mexican corn on the cob sometime, but that has nothing to do with this. We left the house this morning, Carolyn to the beauty shop and me to Fred Meyers, and returned a little less than two hours later.
You guessed it. I had forgotten to plug Thor back in and there was a note on the door. "I have Muffy. I'll bring him over to the celebration."
Of course the escape was mentioned to all the attendees, and everyone decided Muffy had won. At least the food was good.
For several months I have been promising our friendly and very helpful neighbors a "Victory Celebration and Dinner" to be held at a date of my choosing, as soon as I was certain the war with my dog Muffy had been won by the smarter and larger of the warriors.
In one corner was the obvious winner - at 236 pounds and an IQ surpassing that of even the most intelligent of orangutans. In the far corner, a mere mongrel dog, weighing 8 pounds and possessed of an IQ of, well, a cur. No contest, right? Well, for the first several months, he put up a great fight. Overcoming one after another obstacle placed in his path to freedom by none other than the larger of the contestants, Muffy gained his freedom to roam at every opportunity.
Ever certain of the latest barrier, Carolyn and I would leave for a well deserved break from tossing balls and picking up poop only to return to a note from a neighbor. "I have Muffy. He can be ransomed by calling 541-316-XXXX and the promise of a ticket for a seat at the Victory Celebration." Yes, sadly the entire neighborhood was aware of the battle, and all of them knew who was losing. I was in danger of becoming a laughingstock. The butt of the joke. The guy you claimed not to know because he was not as smart as his dog.
Finally, I tired of using rocks, bricks and earthen berms to imprison him. I called upon Thor, the God of lightning and electricity. With His aid, I charged a wire and ran it around the outer boundary of the space Muffy, in my opinion, is allowed to inhabit. The wire was set to deliver a friendly reminder to him that he had reached his limit every time he came in contact with it. It worked.
For two months we would leave the house and return to a very happy, tail wagging bundle of energy. I started to swagger a little. Well, actually I started to strut. Anyone watching as I passed would turn to their companion and whisper, "There goes a winner. You can tell it in his walk." Charlie Sheen, eat your heart out!
I was, in fact, such a winner, I really needed to have a better looking back yard in which I could host "The Dinner". That required me to lay a bunch of sod, which just happened to bring ME into contact with Thor's handiwork. I managed to touch that stinkin' wire several times - and it was not very pleasant at all. "Muffy's learned where he belongs," I said to myself, "I stand a much better chance of living through this latest project if I disconnect the wire."
I did. Yeah, I did both. I disconnected the wire and I lived the see the end of the project. The invitations went out Tuesday and everyone responded in the affirmative. All the neighbors would be here today, Friday, at 5:30, for the Victory Celebration.
Carolyn wanted to get her hair done for the doings, and I needed to shop for steaks, potatoes and corn. You should try my Mexican corn on the cob sometime, but that has nothing to do with this. We left the house this morning, Carolyn to the beauty shop and me to Fred Meyers, and returned a little less than two hours later.
You guessed it. I had forgotten to plug Thor back in and there was a note on the door. "I have Muffy. I'll bring him over to the celebration."
Of course the escape was mentioned to all the attendees, and everyone decided Muffy had won. At least the food was good.
Thursday, June 9, 2011
Interesting Read
I ran across this in my reading today. I felt it was worth a read so instead just putting a link to it on my humble page, I thought I'd save you the trouble of clicking and just copy the whole thing. Kurt Vonnegut, by the way, is the author of several wonderful "thinking man's" books, but probably most folks remember him as the writer of "Slaughterhouse 5", which was made into a movie many years ago.
More of Dr. Schwartz's work can be found on his web page, http://www.commondreams.org/view/2011/06/05-1
Published on Sunday, June 5, 2011 by CommonDreams.org
The Rise of the Second-String Psychopaths
The great writer Kurt Vonnegut titled his final book A Man without a Country. He was the man; the country was the United States of America. Vonnegut felt that his country had disappeared right under his – and the Constitution’s – feet, through what he called “the sleaziest, low-comedy Keystone Cops-style coup d’état imaginable.” He was talking about the Bush administration. Were Vonnegut still alive in the post-Bush era, he would not have felt that his country had returned.
How had our country disappeared? Vonnegut proposed that among the contributing factors was that it had been invaded – as if by the Martians – by people with a particularly frightening mental illness. People with this illness were termed psychopaths. (The term nowadays is anti-social personality disorder.) These are terms for people who are smart, personable, and engaging, but who have no consciences. They are not guided by a sense of right or wrong. They seem to be unaffected by the feelings of others, including feelings of distress caused by their actions. Straying from a decent way of treating people, or violating ethical codes causes no anxiety, the anxiety which is what causes the rest of us to moderate our more greedy impulses. If most children feel anxiety when they are pilfering the forbidden cookie jar, psychopaths feel just fine. They can devour the cookies, shatter the jar as evidence and stuff it in the trash can. When accused, they can argue with apparent sincerity that the cookie jar has been missing for at least a week. There suffer no remorse, no guilt, no shame. They are free to do anything, no matter how harmful.Psychopaths can be very tricky to recognize. As psychiatrist Dr. Hervey Cleckly wrote in his classic The Mask of Sanity in 1941, psychopaths are not technically insane. They don’t have a psychosis, like schizophrenia. They are experts in appearing normal. They can act the role of a caring, concerned executive, even though they actually do not seem to experience such feelings. If they hurt somebody, they don’t modify their behavior.
The United States corporate and government spheres have become, Vonnegut suggested, a perfect habitat for psychopaths. What has allowed so many psychopaths to rise so high in corporations, and then government, he wrote,
“is that they are so decisive. They are going to do something every fuckin’ day and they are not afraid. Unlike normal people, they are never filled with doubts, for the simple reason that they don’t give a fuck what happens next. Simply can’t. Do this! Do that! Mobilize the reserves! Privatize the public schools! Attack Iraq! Cut health care! Tap everybody’s telephone! Cut taxes on the rich!"
In a country in which much of human culture has been rendered into machines for the manufacture of money, psychopaths are the ideal leaders. They are very focused. They are outcome oriented. They are frequently charming, and usually very bright and able. They can lay off thousands of people, or deny people health care, or have them waterboarded, and it does not disturb their sleep. They can be impressively confident. Psychopaths can be dynamic leaders of enterprises, but are handicapped by their lack of feelings for relationships. They may be accomplished captains of industry, or senators, or surgeons, but their families are frequently abused and miserable. Most psychotherapists have seen the wives or husband or children of such accomplished people.Since psychopaths are usually very smart, they can be quite competent at impersonating regular human beings in positions of power. Since they don’t care how their actions affect people, they can rise to great height in enterprises dealing with power and money. They can manufacture bombs or run hospitals. Whatever the undertaking, it is all the same to them. It’s just business.
The economic system that remains after the destruction of American local cultures has created an excellent employment picture for psychopaths. But the opportunities open to them are now so vast that there is apparently now an actual labor shortage. At least that is the only explanation I can find for the rise of a cadre of psychopathic leaders who resemble the usual type in all ways but one: they’re simply not that smart. One has only to look at right-wing not-so-Christian fundamentalists to see the peculiar emergence of a second-string of psychopaths.
The US has been endowed with abundant resources, and there have always been a more than sufficient supply of psychopaths of the first intellectual grade to supply corporate suites and their subsidiary, the Congress. Why is there now a downgrade to the dumb ones, like the lowering of standards for military recruits to deal with a shortage of cannon fodder?
It is no secret that the Koch brothers and others of the super-rich seem to have undertaken a final push to consolidate control through the conversion of a marginally democratic to an essentially fascist state; extreme right-wing, authoritarian, and demagogic. This kind of government is ideal for control of a populace by the moneyed elite. To carry this out requires the employment of many ‘kept’ politicians to excite and misdirect scared and angry – and ignorant – voters. Lest the citizenry realize who stole their money and storm their castles with torches, the rapacious elite need politicians who will carry out the work of re-directing anger at teachers, or labor unions, or the poor. I can only conclude that the people who now own the country couldn’t find any first-rate psychopaths to carry out their work. Or maybe the smart ones were all occupied. So they had to go to second-stringers, people who could actually believe what they were told to say.
We are a country who has become second-best, even in the quality of our psychopaths.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Wilding
| "wilding" - a slang term that refers to the practice of marauding in bands to terrorize strangers - to swagger and bully. - Urban Dictionary. That we even have a word to describe this behavior makes me wonder what the Devil has gone wrong with the people in this nation. I was asked to be an eyewitness to one of these events by the TV that hangs on my wall. A group of teens - twenty or thirty of them - stormed a convenience store and went on a rampage. Security cameras caught the whole thing on tape, and it was broadcast into law abiding homes across the nation during the "News at Nine". Naturally, not a one of the youngsters involved exited the store with empty hands. Actually seeing the behavior caused me to inquire about a concealed carry permit in this state, and this time next month I'm gonna be LEGALLY armed whenever I leave the comparative safety of my home. Before you chalk it up to me being a nut case, gun toting, mouth breathing jerk, consider a few facts. Chicago - tourists and residents have been beset by roving gangs - they were beaten and robbed. Public beaches in the better parts of town have been closed because of these crimes Boston - gangs are using face book to plan violence on Carson Beach. Rochester - more than 100 gang members involved in fighting and intimidation tactics at Ontario Beach Park Atlanta - several passengers were beaten and robbed by a gang of twenty teens while on a MARTA train Ya know, there are just too many of these incidents to list. Google "wilding incidence" yourself. There are accounts of THOUSANDS of these happenings. I'll give you a head start - here's a blog written by a cop in Chicago - he's been at it for six years. tp://www.secondcitycop.blogspot.com/ I am at a loss when it comes to placing blame. Ya know, if I were in the situation of being unable to feed my family after trying every means available to me, I'd probably be third or fourth through the smashed window. I've come really close to that situation and it was only luck that saved me from lawless action. It's easy to claim the teens engaging in these acts of lawlessness are merely hoodlums. Just lazy hoods who want nothing more than easy money. And, the person claiming that is probably right. BUT, it's not gonna be much longer before the 16 or 20 percent of the newly unemployed will start to join ranks with them. Are these folks, who have worked all their lives, to be considered criminals because they want to eat? The middle class has been gutted, the lower class is now starving, and we all see the bankers giving themselves multimillion dollar bonuses. You do the math. All that is left to the economically lower fifth of the population is just what they can take from someone else with their own hands. The younger members of this economic group are smarter than their parents who used to steal from each other. The kids, more often than not, are stealing from higher income areas. And, they're smart enough to realize people in middle class homes are not in much better shape than they are. They're starting to hit the wealthy areas. I've used this quote in an earlier post, but it's become one of my favorites and fits here really well. John Steinbeck was talking about the disparity between the wealthy and the poor in his masterpiece, "The Grapes of Wrath." He had already pointed out how the poor had lost all they had, stolen from them by persons of wealth and power. It was a warning, back in the 30's, to that economic class to be careful. It applies today as well. “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.” John Steinbeck We are now a country at war. It's not a race war, it's a class war. The starving are banding together to take what they need to survive. Most of it is not being reported in the news, and what is getting air time is being treated as an aberration, not another battle in a nationwide urban war. Again, the mainstream news media is letting us down. The reporters must know what is going on, I guess they have been told not to tell us. We're at war, alright, and it's gonna be out of the urban cities and on our doorsteps soon enough. There are not enough cops in any town in this nation to subdue masses of hungry people, and all the charitable networks in the world will not placate people without hope. We're gonna have to take care of ourselves. I guess that means shooting the takers. I hope I'm man enough to share with the hungry. | ||
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Sod
One excuse after another. Lately there have been a lot of them which is kinda strange considering I've been telling them to myself. First, it was too cold. A little later I told myself I'd need a new star bit for the drill so I could remove some really weird screws the last owner used to keep several pieces of wood attached to each other.
They just kept coming. The chainsaw needs a new chain. That gate on the cross fence that needs to be torn down is too heavy for one guy to handle. It's raining. It's snowing. It's too hot. My foot hurts. Does any of this sound familiar?
I've never engaged in this behavior before; I've always been ready to tackle the most difficult of tasks with the enthusiasm of a man half my age. I know this because at one time I was half my age. Well, I almost know it because I ALMOST remember being half-aged. But, I got old on April 21, 2001. That's the day I picked up a three hundred pound valve and wrecked my back. I've been fighting it for a decade, but now, since I've retired and no longer force myself to keep going, I find myself hoping the hard-work jobs will just go away if I put them off. That is some serious foolishness. It doesn't work that way.
My son-in-law came to visit a couple of weeks ago and his offer of help encouraged me to start the project I've been putting off since it warmed up around this place. I wanted to get rid of 700 square feet of dog run in my back yard and turn that area into beautiful, lush, green grass. Shane got me started, and together we managed to get just about half way through the project before it was time for him to leave.
We managed to rid the yard of all unneeded structures and plants, then planted new trees and leveled the area. Since his departure I've been defining flowerbeds by laying pavers and have hauled off all the trash. Today, though, was the Day Of Dread. The newly ordered sod arrived, all 700 square feet of it. This was the day of reckoning, the one I had been putting off.
As I write this, all the sod has been placed and irrigated. The ugly beyond belief dog run has been transformed - it now is a manicured lawn, and my back's screaming in agony. The hard part is over, and the addition of flowering plants will be pleasurable.
Not a bad day's work for an old fart.
They just kept coming. The chainsaw needs a new chain. That gate on the cross fence that needs to be torn down is too heavy for one guy to handle. It's raining. It's snowing. It's too hot. My foot hurts. Does any of this sound familiar?
I've never engaged in this behavior before; I've always been ready to tackle the most difficult of tasks with the enthusiasm of a man half my age. I know this because at one time I was half my age. Well, I almost know it because I ALMOST remember being half-aged. But, I got old on April 21, 2001. That's the day I picked up a three hundred pound valve and wrecked my back. I've been fighting it for a decade, but now, since I've retired and no longer force myself to keep going, I find myself hoping the hard-work jobs will just go away if I put them off. That is some serious foolishness. It doesn't work that way.
My son-in-law came to visit a couple of weeks ago and his offer of help encouraged me to start the project I've been putting off since it warmed up around this place. I wanted to get rid of 700 square feet of dog run in my back yard and turn that area into beautiful, lush, green grass. Shane got me started, and together we managed to get just about half way through the project before it was time for him to leave.
We managed to rid the yard of all unneeded structures and plants, then planted new trees and leveled the area. Since his departure I've been defining flowerbeds by laying pavers and have hauled off all the trash. Today, though, was the Day Of Dread. The newly ordered sod arrived, all 700 square feet of it. This was the day of reckoning, the one I had been putting off.
As I write this, all the sod has been placed and irrigated. The ugly beyond belief dog run has been transformed - it now is a manicured lawn, and my back's screaming in agony. The hard part is over, and the addition of flowering plants will be pleasurable.
Not a bad day's work for an old fart.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Clowns
The circus would come to town every year when I was a young boy. One day every Spring or Summer I'd get out of bed, bound out the door and start running three directions at once. Then I'd suddenly stop in front of a telephone pole. The poster fairy had come sometime during the night and tacked up the Ringling Bros. sign. The circus was coming in two weeks! We did not have a TV in those days, and our Internet connection was really slow - it took another half century for the first page to load - so the circus was a big deal.
Three rings of excitement - that's what the circus brought to town - and each ring was filled with different acts. Elephants on the right, Clowns in the center ring, and Donkeys on the left. The best entertainment money could buy back then, and boy could they put on a show. My brother and I would marvel at all the tricks they could do. They'd pull money out of thin air or out from behind someones ear. Some were ventriloquists, capable of speaking out of both sides of their mouths.
There were acrobats who could bounce from one side to another, still others could balance on a wire. You could tell the old timers from the newbies. The old guys were more confident of their abilities and surer of themselves. These older, bolder guys were the ones who occasionally would trip up and fall; waiting for the disaster kept you riveted to the action.
I'm all grown up now, and things have changed. A lot. Today I woke up and instead of bounding from my bed, I gingerly placed one foot on the floor and tested to make sure it would still bear my current excessive weight. Instead of running in all directions, I hobbled to the TV remote and tuned to the news channel.
The poster fairy had come during the night! Congressman Weiner's circus was coming to my TV in only an hour.
Some things have not changed. Elephants and Donkeys entertain us these days like they did in my youth. But, these days they have become the clowns who used to be in a ring of their own. They still bounce from one side of an issue to another, pull money out of thin air, and take both sides of an argument, depending on the audience they face.
Humans used to control the circus beasts, but now they run amok, trampling and kicking our lives and the Constitution of our country. The best of the clowns who now provide our entertainment are brainless innocents, filled with lofty airheaded purpose; the worst are amoral, cunning thieves, interested only in fattening their wallets and being re-elected at our expense. Ol' Weiner is just the latest in a long line of overconfident wire-walkers who has lost his balance.
Even now he supposes the laws of gravity do not apply to him. He refuses to resign, still sure the voters want a lying sack of crap to be the "Honorable Representative from New York". It's the height of arrogance - someone should tell him he's falling.
He's too stupid to notice.
Three rings of excitement - that's what the circus brought to town - and each ring was filled with different acts. Elephants on the right, Clowns in the center ring, and Donkeys on the left. The best entertainment money could buy back then, and boy could they put on a show. My brother and I would marvel at all the tricks they could do. They'd pull money out of thin air or out from behind someones ear. Some were ventriloquists, capable of speaking out of both sides of their mouths.
There were acrobats who could bounce from one side to another, still others could balance on a wire. You could tell the old timers from the newbies. The old guys were more confident of their abilities and surer of themselves. These older, bolder guys were the ones who occasionally would trip up and fall; waiting for the disaster kept you riveted to the action.
I'm all grown up now, and things have changed. A lot. Today I woke up and instead of bounding from my bed, I gingerly placed one foot on the floor and tested to make sure it would still bear my current excessive weight. Instead of running in all directions, I hobbled to the TV remote and tuned to the news channel.
The poster fairy had come during the night! Congressman Weiner's circus was coming to my TV in only an hour.
Some things have not changed. Elephants and Donkeys entertain us these days like they did in my youth. But, these days they have become the clowns who used to be in a ring of their own. They still bounce from one side of an issue to another, pull money out of thin air, and take both sides of an argument, depending on the audience they face.
Humans used to control the circus beasts, but now they run amok, trampling and kicking our lives and the Constitution of our country. The best of the clowns who now provide our entertainment are brainless innocents, filled with lofty airheaded purpose; the worst are amoral, cunning thieves, interested only in fattening their wallets and being re-elected at our expense. Ol' Weiner is just the latest in a long line of overconfident wire-walkers who has lost his balance.
Even now he supposes the laws of gravity do not apply to him. He refuses to resign, still sure the voters want a lying sack of crap to be the "Honorable Representative from New York". It's the height of arrogance - someone should tell him he's falling.
He's too stupid to notice.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Maiden Voyage!
That's Jeff. No, not the guy in the plane, the whole picture is Jeff. These are the wings he built himself and he has now spread his new wings and flown.
Ya want to know how it feels to fly? Check out the smile after the first landing.
Well done, old friend. Well done indeed.
Friday, June 3, 2011
New Airplane
There's a brand new airplane flying in the skies over New Mexico, and soon it will be cleared to fly anywhere Jeff darn well pleases. Readers who have been here for awhile, and who have stopped to read the comments, will recognize the name "Jeff" as a regular commenter. He's quite a guy.
During the day, he works at the Los Alamos National Laboratory. Yeah, that makes him one of the "best and brightest" in America, even if all he did after his day job was go home to his wonderful wife, Becky. But, Jeff's not happy doing just one thing.
You'll find him at the airport on weekends, building and repairing airplanes or teaching others how it's done. Jeff's hanger is always open to friends and newcomers - he was the first pilot I met when I showed up in Los Alamos one day - and the coffee's always on. There's also time in his life to be the President of Experimental Aircraft Association Chapter 691.
I was the chapter Vice-President several years ago when the President at that time was killed in an automobile accident. The job of President should have fallen on my shoulders, but the chapter was in decline, and I felt I was not capable enough to revive it. Because of my lack of credentials, I declined the office and Jeff stepped up to the plate. I like to tell anyone who will listen that the best thing to ever happen to the Green Chili Chapter was me declining office. Under Jeff's knowledgeable leadership, the chapter has grown and blossomed into one of the strongest in the state.
This is a picture of the airplane loaded on a truck headed for Los Alamos, along with the son of the deceased pilot who started building it, when Jeff bought it. Jeff drove it to it's new home in New Mexico and started by disassembling what he bought. It took him a little more than a year, working evenings and week ends, to tear it apart, rebuild all that did not meet his high standards, and complete the project. The toughest part of the job, according to him, was having to chase off all the well wishers and kibitzers so he could work! All the local EAAers have been on a steep learning curve during the build. Monthly meetings have included hands on updates as the plane went through successive stages on it's way into the air.
The airport just hasn't been the same since he started this project - Jeff's hanger has been a flurry of work instead of the social focal point of the airport. But, all that is about to change. Tomorrow, Jeff's "Grizzly Cub" takes to the air for it's maiden flight.
This is what will find it's way to heaven tomorrow, with Jeff at the controls. It's a far cry from what was in the back of the truck he drove home in the middle of January, 2010. The plane is finished. It has been inspected by an FAA official and found to be airworthy. The paperwork has been completed and the last item to complete before it takes to the skies is the start up checklist. For those of you who would like to see a little more of just what it is he has accomplished, here's his web page. Look under "The Cub Project". You'll find out just what it takes to build an airplane. It's all there. http://jscott.comlu.com/I am proud to have spent many, many hours in the hanger at Jeff's side, and wing to wing in the air as we traveled the Southwestern skies in search of adventure. Good luck to you Saturday morning, Jeff. There is no better builder in America and I know all will go well. Happy Landings, my old and dear friend.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Golf
Yesterday a neighbor asked if I played golf. That's an innocent enough question and I gave him an honest answer. "Yes, I used to play golf, a long time ago. I quit after playing for a year or so - it took that long for me to figure out it's called "golf" because all the other four letter words were taken."
That brought to mind a bunch of things that were going on in my life during the early seventies - that's when I owned a complete set of left handed clubs, purchased at a place called White Front for about fifty bucks, and a really fancy putter. Can't remember much about it these days, but back then EVERYONE wanted to try it out. There were four of us that tried to teach each other the game, and three in the group actually managed to break 90 before I gave up.
I lived a little less than two years in a place between Tacoma and Seattle during the time it took me to quit playing golf. That's the only reason, living in the Seattle area, I tried to learn that stinking game at all. The Sun, you see, in that part of the universe, is a tease. It peeks out from behind the clouds about every tenth day, if you're lucky, at odd and totally unexpected times. When it decides to bathe you in it's radiance, you better have an good excuse so you can tell the boss you're gonna go out and play for awhile. Golf works.
We'd all be sitting around depressed and contemplating suicide, blinds drawn to reveal nothing but a dark gray, overcast and drizzling world outside, when all at once, there would be a break in the clouds. The Sun would shine!
Papers would find homes in cabinets, phones would be unplugged (back then there were no answering machines nor call forwarding), and off we'd go. Last one to the clubhouse rented the cart. And, we needed a cart, cause six or eight sixpacks get pretty heavy after four holes no matter how much gets consumed. Ya just can't drink it fast enough to carry around in your bag. My car always had clubs and the ice chest. Tommy always had a bunch of Slim Jim's - and clubs. Don and Pete carried clubs in their cars, and the knowledge gained from hanging out in front of the TV during televised weekend matches in their heads. They were the instructors for the bunch of us.
We played on most of the public courses within a sixty mile radius, but my favorite was in Olympia, just across the Highway from the Olympia Brewery. The iced sixpacks never lasted eighteen holes, and the Brewery offered free tours. The tours ended up in the tasting rooms where you were welcome to "sample" all you wanted. Connoisseurs, like the four of us, knew to ask for the "short tour". That tour went directly from the starting gate to the samples, nothing in between.
Now before everyone gets all knotted up about spending a day on the links with buddies and beer and then driving home, it didn't used to be the way it is now. Here are some statistics for Pierce County, WA. Population in 1970 = 154.000. Population 2010 = 797,000. I-5 is the same road now that it was then. If we got into a wreck, it was going to be a single car accident and besides, we were young, dumb, and invincible. We had powers.
Folks in the NW still feel the need to recreate is just as important as the need to work. The sun shines on a more regular basis here in central Oregon so, unlike the Seattle area, people actually work most days during the year. No Sun days off during the week. But, my brother in law assures me that everything grinds to a halt during hunting season around here. This is not New York nor is it DC. A sizable percentage of folks here still believe they work to live, not the other way around.
Me? I haven't done an honest days work in six months!
That brought to mind a bunch of things that were going on in my life during the early seventies - that's when I owned a complete set of left handed clubs, purchased at a place called White Front for about fifty bucks, and a really fancy putter. Can't remember much about it these days, but back then EVERYONE wanted to try it out. There were four of us that tried to teach each other the game, and three in the group actually managed to break 90 before I gave up.
I lived a little less than two years in a place between Tacoma and Seattle during the time it took me to quit playing golf. That's the only reason, living in the Seattle area, I tried to learn that stinking game at all. The Sun, you see, in that part of the universe, is a tease. It peeks out from behind the clouds about every tenth day, if you're lucky, at odd and totally unexpected times. When it decides to bathe you in it's radiance, you better have an good excuse so you can tell the boss you're gonna go out and play for awhile. Golf works.
We'd all be sitting around depressed and contemplating suicide, blinds drawn to reveal nothing but a dark gray, overcast and drizzling world outside, when all at once, there would be a break in the clouds. The Sun would shine!
Papers would find homes in cabinets, phones would be unplugged (back then there were no answering machines nor call forwarding), and off we'd go. Last one to the clubhouse rented the cart. And, we needed a cart, cause six or eight sixpacks get pretty heavy after four holes no matter how much gets consumed. Ya just can't drink it fast enough to carry around in your bag. My car always had clubs and the ice chest. Tommy always had a bunch of Slim Jim's - and clubs. Don and Pete carried clubs in their cars, and the knowledge gained from hanging out in front of the TV during televised weekend matches in their heads. They were the instructors for the bunch of us.
We played on most of the public courses within a sixty mile radius, but my favorite was in Olympia, just across the Highway from the Olympia Brewery. The iced sixpacks never lasted eighteen holes, and the Brewery offered free tours. The tours ended up in the tasting rooms where you were welcome to "sample" all you wanted. Connoisseurs, like the four of us, knew to ask for the "short tour". That tour went directly from the starting gate to the samples, nothing in between.
Now before everyone gets all knotted up about spending a day on the links with buddies and beer and then driving home, it didn't used to be the way it is now. Here are some statistics for Pierce County, WA. Population in 1970 = 154.000. Population 2010 = 797,000. I-5 is the same road now that it was then. If we got into a wreck, it was going to be a single car accident and besides, we were young, dumb, and invincible. We had powers.
Folks in the NW still feel the need to recreate is just as important as the need to work. The sun shines on a more regular basis here in central Oregon so, unlike the Seattle area, people actually work most days during the year. No Sun days off during the week. But, my brother in law assures me that everything grinds to a halt during hunting season around here. This is not New York nor is it DC. A sizable percentage of folks here still believe they work to live, not the other way around.
Me? I haven't done an honest days work in six months!
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Tribalism
I am a member of a face book group which was started by a classmate of my younger brother. The group's aim, as stated by Don, is to keep people in our age group, who grew up together in the small town, in touch with each other. It was meant to be a space for friends to connect and share their lives with each other, and negativity was not allowed.
There was little meaningful work in the small town, and high school seniors rapidly scattered in search of higher education and broader employment opportunities. Don has done a wonderful job creating his vision and even though we live in all parts of the country, a couple of hundred of us are now able to communicate with each other. The group has become large enough to display a problem we also face as a species.
Our nation celebrated Memorial Day last week, and there was a general outpouring of support for Fathers, Sons, and Comrades in Arms on the site during this time. Even though I personally believe there has not been a reason for this country to engage in ANY of the wars that have been fought since and including Vietnam, I happen to be in favor of these feelings of thanks and remembrances. I am the proud son of a life long Military Man.
I do believe we were correct to fight the folks who bombed the Twin Towers, but we reacted to that punch with exactly the skill of a skunk that stinks up every animal and plant within half a mile of the villain who upsets it. There has to have been a better way. But, back to Don's page.
A couple of people in the group objected to all the patriotism and asked to be removed. Don publicly granted their wishes, and another score of folks applauded him for ridding us of the "not us" dissenters. There was only one, a female classmate of mine, and one whom I much admire, who stood up to defend their right to say what they felt, and she correctly pointed out the place to say it was on their own page, not Don's: he had already stated the purpose of HIS page, and one of the rules was political arguments were to be left at the door.
The fracture we experienced on this page, a page of friends and acquaintances, is the same one we are experiencing in this country and more broadly, as a species. Tribalism. Us against Them.
While the species was in it's infancy, Tribalism was a good thing. Thousands of years ago, while we were staying warm next to the fire in a cave, tribal loyalty was the glue that held the group together. Later, it fostered the trust that made sociable behavior and division of labor possible. Because of Tribalism, some hunted, others gathered, and still others reared the young. The group and the species prospered.
On the other hand, as we have come to dominate our planet, distrust of those outside "Our" tribe by Tribalism has led to one after another war so that "Our" Tribe could grow larger and stronger. Soon we had nations and "spheres of influence". As we have prospered, we've managed to smooth some of the behavior, and now Tribalism mostly causes us problems with things like nationalism (yes, sadly that means patriotism), race and religion. We still find ourselves forming two groups, Us and Them. After that, we come to hate and fear them, and from there, they must be eliminated.
The only answer is tolerance. Without tolerance mankind is doomed. All of us need to learn to listen to what we consider "wrongheaded" views, and agree that it's OK for people to have these views. That means we need not force others to share our beliefs, and we allow them the keep theirs. Likewise, others must allow our viewpoint. I have no clue how we attain this enlightened stage, and therein lies my fear for the human race. If we allow differences and others do not, they will gain strength and we will be vanquished.
If a group of friends, who shared the same town and schools while growing up can not tolerate each others view, just what are the odds we can overcome the curse as a species?
There was little meaningful work in the small town, and high school seniors rapidly scattered in search of higher education and broader employment opportunities. Don has done a wonderful job creating his vision and even though we live in all parts of the country, a couple of hundred of us are now able to communicate with each other. The group has become large enough to display a problem we also face as a species.
Our nation celebrated Memorial Day last week, and there was a general outpouring of support for Fathers, Sons, and Comrades in Arms on the site during this time. Even though I personally believe there has not been a reason for this country to engage in ANY of the wars that have been fought since and including Vietnam, I happen to be in favor of these feelings of thanks and remembrances. I am the proud son of a life long Military Man.
I do believe we were correct to fight the folks who bombed the Twin Towers, but we reacted to that punch with exactly the skill of a skunk that stinks up every animal and plant within half a mile of the villain who upsets it. There has to have been a better way. But, back to Don's page.
A couple of people in the group objected to all the patriotism and asked to be removed. Don publicly granted their wishes, and another score of folks applauded him for ridding us of the "not us" dissenters. There was only one, a female classmate of mine, and one whom I much admire, who stood up to defend their right to say what they felt, and she correctly pointed out the place to say it was on their own page, not Don's: he had already stated the purpose of HIS page, and one of the rules was political arguments were to be left at the door.
The fracture we experienced on this page, a page of friends and acquaintances, is the same one we are experiencing in this country and more broadly, as a species. Tribalism. Us against Them.
While the species was in it's infancy, Tribalism was a good thing. Thousands of years ago, while we were staying warm next to the fire in a cave, tribal loyalty was the glue that held the group together. Later, it fostered the trust that made sociable behavior and division of labor possible. Because of Tribalism, some hunted, others gathered, and still others reared the young. The group and the species prospered.
On the other hand, as we have come to dominate our planet, distrust of those outside "Our" tribe by Tribalism has led to one after another war so that "Our" Tribe could grow larger and stronger. Soon we had nations and "spheres of influence". As we have prospered, we've managed to smooth some of the behavior, and now Tribalism mostly causes us problems with things like nationalism (yes, sadly that means patriotism), race and religion. We still find ourselves forming two groups, Us and Them. After that, we come to hate and fear them, and from there, they must be eliminated.
The only answer is tolerance. Without tolerance mankind is doomed. All of us need to learn to listen to what we consider "wrongheaded" views, and agree that it's OK for people to have these views. That means we need not force others to share our beliefs, and we allow them the keep theirs. Likewise, others must allow our viewpoint. I have no clue how we attain this enlightened stage, and therein lies my fear for the human race. If we allow differences and others do not, they will gain strength and we will be vanquished.
If a group of friends, who shared the same town and schools while growing up can not tolerate each others view, just what are the odds we can overcome the curse as a species?
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