No, this is not going to be about Steve Jobs. He was a remarkable guy but this is, as usual, about me.
Some time ago, as I was trying to fall asleep, my brain fell upon the subject of jobs. I think it had something to do with the fact that both Pete and Danny were between jobs and seeking that elusive "career".
Men in general seem to be defined by what they do for a living whether it's CEO or HOBO. For most of us, or at least me, finding what that defining job was a very difficult process. I doubt many men know from an early age what they really want to be when they grow up.
My first remunerated employment (one that I got paid for) was as a 7th-grader working on a combine during spud harvest to the tune of 70 cents an hour. I think that had something to do with living in the county in Idaho known as the Potato Capitol of the World. Indeed, over one fourth of the potatoes in the world come from good old Bingham county Idaho.
We didn't live on a farm, thankfully, but they had us completely surrounded. I hauled hay, hoed beets, moved sprinkler pipe, shoveled cow poop, milked cows, harvested spuds, worked in a potato cellar and a potato processing plant. All of which taught me that I didn't want to be a farmer or have anything to do with things that grow from the ground other than to eat them. It was and is far too much like work.
I also worked at a service station. That's what gas stations were called before they became mini-marts and people pumped their own gas. Believe it or not, you would just sit in your car and tell the guy (me) how much gas you wanted and I would pleasantly ask you if you wanted regular or ethel then start the gas a pumping. While that was happening, I would clean your windshield, check your oil and tire pressure. I would automatically put any needed air in your tires (since the air was free) but if you needed oil I was required to show you the dip stick so you would know I wasn't just trying to milk you out of 25 cents that you really didn't need to spend. You would hand me the money and I would go get your change and bring it to you. They even had new-fangled things called gas cards (this was way before Visa or Master Card). They were only good for a single brand of gas so you had to have a separate card for Texaco or Shell or Utoco or whatever. There was no magnetic strip on the back of the card either. That's what those raised numbers and letters on the card were all about. We had a gizmo to put the card in, slap a multi-part form on top of it, set the numbers to the proper dollar amount, then run a roller across the form making a permanent record of the transaction. A return of your receipt, a smile and tip of my hat, and our business was complete and you were on your way. What a country.
I seem to have rambled enough for this installment and have only covered my employment up to high school graduation. I'll have to break this saga into palatable chunks. To quote Mr Jobs' last words, "Wow, oh wow."
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Day of Infamy
December 7th was this past Wednesday marking the 70th anniversary of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. It has been a significant day in my life because it marked America's entrance into WW II.
I was speaking with my uncle Lloyd Wednesday night. He winters in Hawaii and said there was a lot going on there at the time. He told me how he was ten years old at the time of the attack and remembered it like it was yesterday. He said it was fast Sunday and after church he had ridden his bike down to the blacksmith's shop in Arimo, Idaho and was watching the smith do the cool things smiths do, when the guy's wife came from the house and told them Pearl Harbor had been bombed.
When I was a kid WW II was our "play" war. When we weren't playing cowboys and Indians we were shooting down Japanese Zeroes or Throwing grenades(dirt clods) and machine-gunning the Krauts. I don't know if my boys played war or if their boys do, or who they fought or fight.
For me WW II was huge. Eight of my uncles served during that war from Pearl Harbor to Iwo Jima, Battle of the Bulge to bombing missions over Germany. One served in Burma and another spent the whole war in Canada. All of them came home safe.
My mom's brother Francis, was in the Navy and was at Pearl Harbor for the attack. I never heard him speak about it or his other experiences during the war but I do know he was on survivor's leave three different times. That means he was on three ships that were sunk but he managed to get off in time. He told his brother Arthur, who was a machine-gunner in the Army, that he should join the Navy because that gunner job was too dangerous. Francis was killed years after the war while driving a water truck in California.
My father-in-law, Ernie Parkin was also assigned to Pearl Harbor at the time of the attack but he was in Massachusetts attending his brother's funeral. His brother, Joe had gone down when the Ruben James was sunk.
Ernie died 36 years later, on December 7th.
I was speaking with my uncle Lloyd Wednesday night. He winters in Hawaii and said there was a lot going on there at the time. He told me how he was ten years old at the time of the attack and remembered it like it was yesterday. He said it was fast Sunday and after church he had ridden his bike down to the blacksmith's shop in Arimo, Idaho and was watching the smith do the cool things smiths do, when the guy's wife came from the house and told them Pearl Harbor had been bombed.
When I was a kid WW II was our "play" war. When we weren't playing cowboys and Indians we were shooting down Japanese Zeroes or Throwing grenades(dirt clods) and machine-gunning the Krauts. I don't know if my boys played war or if their boys do, or who they fought or fight.
For me WW II was huge. Eight of my uncles served during that war from Pearl Harbor to Iwo Jima, Battle of the Bulge to bombing missions over Germany. One served in Burma and another spent the whole war in Canada. All of them came home safe.
My mom's brother Francis, was in the Navy and was at Pearl Harbor for the attack. I never heard him speak about it or his other experiences during the war but I do know he was on survivor's leave three different times. That means he was on three ships that were sunk but he managed to get off in time. He told his brother Arthur, who was a machine-gunner in the Army, that he should join the Navy because that gunner job was too dangerous. Francis was killed years after the war while driving a water truck in California.
My father-in-law, Ernie Parkin was also assigned to Pearl Harbor at the time of the attack but he was in Massachusetts attending his brother's funeral. His brother, Joe had gone down when the Ruben James was sunk.
Ernie died 36 years later, on December 7th.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Stanley, My Brother
Now that my summer vacation is over and being inspired my Linda's blog, I figured I'd best be getting back at my "memoirs".
My only brother, Stanley, died a few weeks ago (November 4th) so I have been thinking about him quite a bit and wanted to pass on to whomever would be inclined to read my ramblings some of those thoughts.
He was the second child and first boy born to Pete and Ida Howe who were living in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho at the time. They named him Stanley Clarence Howe. Stanley, after the beautiful Stanley Basin area in central Idaho, and Clarence because that was Dad's real first name and it makes a better middle name. I made up the part about Stanley Basin. It is indeed a beautiful place and my sister Lorna, the firstborn and my only living sibling now, had no idea why.
Since he was 13-and -a-half years years older than me (I know that's grammatically incorrect but it sounds better) I have no recollection of him living at home (trailer) with us. My first memory of him is when I was about six years old and we were moving back to Atomic City from living in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana. He was evidently helping with the move. I remember this because we had to share a small bed in the trailer and he pinched me for crowding him too much. I have photographic proof of this (the move, not the pinching) and will make every attempt to attach it to this post.
My next memory of him is when he got married to his first wife, Lila. I had looked up to Stan even when I grew to be taller much larger that he was. He and Lila had three boys and were kind enough to let me stay at their home in Blackfoot when I was in high school and sometimes got caught without a ride back to Atomic City. They added a girl to their family while I was on my mission. He and Lila later divorced and Stan married several times after that, once to a girl who was in the class ahead of me, and twice to a woman named Peggy. My Mom used to say her current news at any given time was that Stanley got married and Ron & Barbara were having another baby.
Stan was one of the few men I have ever known who was without guile. He was genuine in what he said and what he did. I can't remember a single time he spoke poorly of another person or held a grudge against anyone. He was 76 years old when he passed away and had spent the better part of the last six or seven years of his life in nursing homes. Lorna and I visited him when he was in Salmon and in Pocatello, Idaho and took him to the Potter Family Reunion. He had been in a home in Shelly, Idaho for about a month to be closer to his youngest son, Joe when he passed way in the TV room. He was cremated and wished for his ashes to be spread on the Snake River. I feel I am a better man for having had him for my brother.
Lorna and I are all that's left of our family. Bookends...
My only brother, Stanley, died a few weeks ago (November 4th) so I have been thinking about him quite a bit and wanted to pass on to whomever would be inclined to read my ramblings some of those thoughts.
He was the second child and first boy born to Pete and Ida Howe who were living in Lava Hot Springs, Idaho at the time. They named him Stanley Clarence Howe. Stanley, after the beautiful Stanley Basin area in central Idaho, and Clarence because that was Dad's real first name and it makes a better middle name. I made up the part about Stanley Basin. It is indeed a beautiful place and my sister Lorna, the firstborn and my only living sibling now, had no idea why.
Since he was 13-and -a-half years years older than me (I know that's grammatically incorrect but it sounds better) I have no recollection of him living at home (trailer) with us. My first memory of him is when I was about six years old and we were moving back to Atomic City from living in Lone Mountain Lodge, Montana. He was evidently helping with the move. I remember this because we had to share a small bed in the trailer and he pinched me for crowding him too much. I have photographic proof of this (the move, not the pinching) and will make every attempt to attach it to this post.
My next memory of him is when he got married to his first wife, Lila. I had looked up to Stan even when I grew to be taller much larger that he was. He and Lila had three boys and were kind enough to let me stay at their home in Blackfoot when I was in high school and sometimes got caught without a ride back to Atomic City. They added a girl to their family while I was on my mission. He and Lila later divorced and Stan married several times after that, once to a girl who was in the class ahead of me, and twice to a woman named Peggy. My Mom used to say her current news at any given time was that Stanley got married and Ron & Barbara were having another baby.
Stan was one of the few men I have ever known who was without guile. He was genuine in what he said and what he did. I can't remember a single time he spoke poorly of another person or held a grudge against anyone. He was 76 years old when he passed away and had spent the better part of the last six or seven years of his life in nursing homes. Lorna and I visited him when he was in Salmon and in Pocatello, Idaho and took him to the Potter Family Reunion. He had been in a home in Shelly, Idaho for about a month to be closer to his youngest son, Joe when he passed way in the TV room. He was cremated and wished for his ashes to be spread on the Snake River. I feel I am a better man for having had him for my brother.
Lorna and I are all that's left of our family. Bookends...
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Olio (not to be confused with Oleo)
It's amazing what a difference one letter can make to a word even without changing the pronunciation. I really don't plan to write about butter substitute.
I'm quite excited to head East for Jeremy Jr's graduation. I have been working far to many hours and will enjoy the vacation. When Babs left for Alabama last Friday she told me to take it easy so I can recover from the pneumonia. I took her advice and wound up watching all 29 episodes of the TV series "Jericho." That's right, ALL 29 episodes. Fortunately I watched them on Netflix so there were no commercials. Still, 44 minutes a whack is still a lot of time to spend in a Lazyboy. I loved every minute.
Sometime Saturday during the Jericho marathon Benjamin called and asked if I would watch their five kids for a couple hours on Sunday morning so he and Lesley could go to separate meetings. No problem. I have had more kids that that of my own to watch at times.
Ok, I forgot that Bekah, Dan and Pete would all be gone. I was on my own. The kids were really rather fine. They picked out a church video to watch and settled down it the family room. All was well until the first video finished and one of them came to ask me to put the next one on.
As I walked into the family room it was like walking into a wall of absolute solid odor. I coulden't believe so much foul stench could come from cute little AJ. I was even more amazed that the other kids were completely unfazed by it. In the Air Force I had been exposed to a room full of tear gas without a mask. It was not as bad as little AJ.
Much water has passed under yon bridge since I changed a "soiled" diaper but I had no qualms of leaping into the breach since Ben ad left some fresh diapers and I remembered that we keep a package of wipers in the hall bathroom.
It turned out to be quite an easy process once I got past the gag reflex and put the offending nappy into the trash outside. I guess it's a like riding a bike. I didn't even have to call in reinforcements. I think I did quite well, thank you.
New subject. I noticed the other day something that I have lived with my whole life but now I feel the need to find out how many of my progeny have been affected by it.
My second toe is longer than my "big" toe. As a kid I remember being confused as to which one was the big toe. Did they mean the short, fat one of the long skinny one? So, I interested in knowing how many ad who of our ten kids have this condition as well as the same information about the 26 grandchildren.
Only Bekah's left foot counts, but it still counts. Pete says it's not that my second toe is long, my big toe is just way short.
Please let me know. It's not earth shattering or anything, I'm just curious.
I'm quite excited to head East for Jeremy Jr's graduation. I have been working far to many hours and will enjoy the vacation. When Babs left for Alabama last Friday she told me to take it easy so I can recover from the pneumonia. I took her advice and wound up watching all 29 episodes of the TV series "Jericho." That's right, ALL 29 episodes. Fortunately I watched them on Netflix so there were no commercials. Still, 44 minutes a whack is still a lot of time to spend in a Lazyboy. I loved every minute.
Sometime Saturday during the Jericho marathon Benjamin called and asked if I would watch their five kids for a couple hours on Sunday morning so he and Lesley could go to separate meetings. No problem. I have had more kids that that of my own to watch at times.
Ok, I forgot that Bekah, Dan and Pete would all be gone. I was on my own. The kids were really rather fine. They picked out a church video to watch and settled down it the family room. All was well until the first video finished and one of them came to ask me to put the next one on.
As I walked into the family room it was like walking into a wall of absolute solid odor. I coulden't believe so much foul stench could come from cute little AJ. I was even more amazed that the other kids were completely unfazed by it. In the Air Force I had been exposed to a room full of tear gas without a mask. It was not as bad as little AJ.
Much water has passed under yon bridge since I changed a "soiled" diaper but I had no qualms of leaping into the breach since Ben ad left some fresh diapers and I remembered that we keep a package of wipers in the hall bathroom.
It turned out to be quite an easy process once I got past the gag reflex and put the offending nappy into the trash outside. I guess it's a like riding a bike. I didn't even have to call in reinforcements. I think I did quite well, thank you.
New subject. I noticed the other day something that I have lived with my whole life but now I feel the need to find out how many of my progeny have been affected by it.
My second toe is longer than my "big" toe. As a kid I remember being confused as to which one was the big toe. Did they mean the short, fat one of the long skinny one? So, I interested in knowing how many ad who of our ten kids have this condition as well as the same information about the 26 grandchildren.
Only Bekah's left foot counts, but it still counts. Pete says it's not that my second toe is long, my big toe is just way short.
Please let me know. It's not earth shattering or anything, I'm just curious.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Pneumonia, Feels Like the Same Old Monia
I still think silent letters in any language are beyond stupid. All they do is make spelling hard.
Last Sunday morning around 2:30 I awoke coughing and with my windpipe on fire. Not just burning but shooting three-foot flames out like some kind of dragon. I tried some Pepto but it just cooled my throat and turned my poop dark. Evidently I had acid reflux and aspirated some. I'd had that happen before but never that bad. It kept me up all night hardly able to breathe.
I spoke with the on-call nurse at the Base and she said to call 911. I thought she was crazy at first but then realized she was right. After all, if an old fat diabetic guy called me about having chest pains I'd have him call 911 too.
It was cool knowing the siren I could hear was actually coming for me. The EMTs wired me for sound (EKG) and found no heart problem (phew) and said I should to the ER. My favorite way to kill a few hours. By this time my shortness of breath was the big problem so off we went to St Josephs Hospital.
If you ever want to be seen quickly at an ER, show up as an old fat guy with shortness of breath and chest pains. It works like a champ. It didn't get me out any sooner, but I did get seen quickly. The nurse must have gone to the Marquis de Sade School of starting IVs. I was way dehydrated so I know it would be harder to find a vein to hydrate me, but sweet Florence Nightingale, that's me under there.
It turned out to be pneumonia in my left lung so they pumped me full on antibiotics and sent us on our way with instructions for me to rest for a few days. I only worked two hours on Monday, six on Tuesday, and seven on Wednesday and Thursday. By then I was so tired of not being able to breathe that I stayed home today (Friday). I'll take it easy for the next two days even though it means missing the fine and pleasant misery of the father and sons camp out.
I do enjoy the time with my sons and grandsons but I really would like to breathe normally again
Last Sunday morning around 2:30 I awoke coughing and with my windpipe on fire. Not just burning but shooting three-foot flames out like some kind of dragon. I tried some Pepto but it just cooled my throat and turned my poop dark. Evidently I had acid reflux and aspirated some. I'd had that happen before but never that bad. It kept me up all night hardly able to breathe.
I spoke with the on-call nurse at the Base and she said to call 911. I thought she was crazy at first but then realized she was right. After all, if an old fat diabetic guy called me about having chest pains I'd have him call 911 too.
It was cool knowing the siren I could hear was actually coming for me. The EMTs wired me for sound (EKG) and found no heart problem (phew) and said I should to the ER. My favorite way to kill a few hours. By this time my shortness of breath was the big problem so off we went to St Josephs Hospital.
If you ever want to be seen quickly at an ER, show up as an old fat guy with shortness of breath and chest pains. It works like a champ. It didn't get me out any sooner, but I did get seen quickly. The nurse must have gone to the Marquis de Sade School of starting IVs. I was way dehydrated so I know it would be harder to find a vein to hydrate me, but sweet Florence Nightingale, that's me under there.
It turned out to be pneumonia in my left lung so they pumped me full on antibiotics and sent us on our way with instructions for me to rest for a few days. I only worked two hours on Monday, six on Tuesday, and seven on Wednesday and Thursday. By then I was so tired of not being able to breathe that I stayed home today (Friday). I'll take it easy for the next two days even though it means missing the fine and pleasant misery of the father and sons camp out.
I do enjoy the time with my sons and grandsons but I really would like to breathe normally again
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Washday
Sunday seems to have become the new Thursday for me. I used to write on Thursday night but found nothing happening two Sundays ago so I wrote then planning on making that a habit. The following Sunday though, Benjamin and family came over and we played a rousing game of Boggle. I would much rather have family over to enjoy whatever we do than write this blog. Besides, even though I lost (Dan won) , it was great to see Pete get his comeuppance by losing to his little brother.
Melissa and kids came over tonight but we menfolk were at our stake general priesthood meeting so we missed them and I now have time (and quiet) to continue my (almost) weekly waste of cyberspace.
Lesley commented on my last bog that I predate Zip-lock bags. Well kiddo, I predate a whole bunch of things not the least of which is permanent-press which brings me to my topic of washday.
When our kids were young and multitudenous every day but Sunday was washday. A daily (except for Sunday) rotating chore for one of them was to fold two baskets of laundry. An eon-and-a-half ago when I was a lad washday happened about every two weeks or whenever I wanted to play ball with my buddies. It was always on Saturday when I was home from school except in the summertime when it could strike at random, unannounced, killing what would have been a fine and pleasant summer day.
We had a washing machine that was state-of the-art with TWO agitators and a wringer that could swing between them and also run in reverse. It was HUGE. You don't know what a wringer is do you?
This was way before the spin cycle was invented so to wring the water out of the clothes, you put them through two horizontal rubberized cylinders that would squeeze the water out. Then they would go into the first tub of rinse water, through the wringer, into a second tub of rinse water, back through the wringer, and into a basket to be taken to the back yard and hung on the clotheslines. Unless they were white clothes or sheets. They went into yet another tub of bluing so they would look even whiter then, you guessed it, back through the wringer. It was quite effective. Tedious, time consuming and a ton of work, but effective.
My sister Bonnie wrote a poem about washday extolling the virtues of the wonderful clean smell of the sheets and clothes as Mom would take them off the line and pile them them up in our arms. All I knew was I was missing out on playing with my friends.
The washing and drying was really only half of the chore. All but the sheets, towels, and my whitie-tighties had to be ironed. What I thought was ironic (wink, wink) at the time was Mom taking clothes that were now quite dry and sprinkling them with water so they could be ironed later. We had a dryer (or wrinkler as my Dad called it) but it was only used in inclement weather.
You've come a long way baby!
Melissa and kids came over tonight but we menfolk were at our stake general priesthood meeting so we missed them and I now have time (and quiet) to continue my (almost) weekly waste of cyberspace.
Lesley commented on my last bog that I predate Zip-lock bags. Well kiddo, I predate a whole bunch of things not the least of which is permanent-press which brings me to my topic of washday.
When our kids were young and multitudenous every day but Sunday was washday. A daily (except for Sunday) rotating chore for one of them was to fold two baskets of laundry. An eon-and-a-half ago when I was a lad washday happened about every two weeks or whenever I wanted to play ball with my buddies. It was always on Saturday when I was home from school except in the summertime when it could strike at random, unannounced, killing what would have been a fine and pleasant summer day.
We had a washing machine that was state-of the-art with TWO agitators and a wringer that could swing between them and also run in reverse. It was HUGE. You don't know what a wringer is do you?
This was way before the spin cycle was invented so to wring the water out of the clothes, you put them through two horizontal rubberized cylinders that would squeeze the water out. Then they would go into the first tub of rinse water, through the wringer, into a second tub of rinse water, back through the wringer, and into a basket to be taken to the back yard and hung on the clotheslines. Unless they were white clothes or sheets. They went into yet another tub of bluing so they would look even whiter then, you guessed it, back through the wringer. It was quite effective. Tedious, time consuming and a ton of work, but effective.
My sister Bonnie wrote a poem about washday extolling the virtues of the wonderful clean smell of the sheets and clothes as Mom would take them off the line and pile them them up in our arms. All I knew was I was missing out on playing with my friends.
The washing and drying was really only half of the chore. All but the sheets, towels, and my whitie-tighties had to be ironed. What I thought was ironic (wink, wink) at the time was Mom taking clothes that were now quite dry and sprinkling them with water so they could be ironed later. We had a dryer (or wrinkler as my Dad called it) but it was only used in inclement weather.
You've come a long way baby!
Sunday, April 3, 2011
More of Frightened Ma
I can't really blame this on my sweet mother because the time I spent as a zygote and ever-expanding young fetus took place from about mid-year 1948 to March of 1949, long before the invention of Zip-Lock bags. Plastic was a newfangled thing back then and not to be trifled with.
You couldn't even buy unused plastic bags then unless you had a bread factory or some other type of factory that made stuff to put into plastic bags. Ok, maybe that would be called a bakery but whatever, you get my point. I remember that Wonder Bread not only would build strong bodies 8 ways (whatever THAT meant), but it came in a plastic bag with multicolored balloons on it (on the bag not the bread).
Mom was way ahead of her time because she would save the bags and use them for her own bread or whatever else she might think of to put in them. My primary use for them was to wrap one around the end of a stick, light it on fire, then drip the flaming plastic onto ants, scorpions or anything else that got in the way. My bare foot did that once and taught me to wear shoes during the process.
Bottom line: plastic bags are good. At least they were until some idiot thought twist-ties weren't modern enough and came up with those stupid plastic tab thingies. Ugh! Just let well enough alone wouldja? I hate those things too. Twist ties are so much easier to deal with, which brings me back to my real subject: Zip-Lock bags.
I despise them. They are odious to the absolute max! I never know if I have sealed the dumb things or not. No matter how hard they try to make it easy for me to tell. Changing colors, making a little zipping sound, a brass band marching through the kitchen playing "Ta-Da!." I still don't know until air starts oozing out and I have to start all over.
Now Babs has paid good money for some that have TWO lines of zipitude! As if I didn't have enough trouble with just one. And the dopey things are made of plastic so thick you could use it for a tarp! A very small tarp, but a tarp none the less. What am I supposed to put in there? Cactus? Used razor blades? Broken glass? Unexploded ordnance? I just want to have a handful of goldfish with my brown bag lunch for Pete's sake.
Don't even get me started on opening them.
You couldn't even buy unused plastic bags then unless you had a bread factory or some other type of factory that made stuff to put into plastic bags. Ok, maybe that would be called a bakery but whatever, you get my point. I remember that Wonder Bread not only would build strong bodies 8 ways (whatever THAT meant), but it came in a plastic bag with multicolored balloons on it (on the bag not the bread).
Mom was way ahead of her time because she would save the bags and use them for her own bread or whatever else she might think of to put in them. My primary use for them was to wrap one around the end of a stick, light it on fire, then drip the flaming plastic onto ants, scorpions or anything else that got in the way. My bare foot did that once and taught me to wear shoes during the process.
Bottom line: plastic bags are good. At least they were until some idiot thought twist-ties weren't modern enough and came up with those stupid plastic tab thingies. Ugh! Just let well enough alone wouldja? I hate those things too. Twist ties are so much easier to deal with, which brings me back to my real subject: Zip-Lock bags.
I despise them. They are odious to the absolute max! I never know if I have sealed the dumb things or not. No matter how hard they try to make it easy for me to tell. Changing colors, making a little zipping sound, a brass band marching through the kitchen playing "Ta-Da!." I still don't know until air starts oozing out and I have to start all over.
Now Babs has paid good money for some that have TWO lines of zipitude! As if I didn't have enough trouble with just one. And the dopey things are made of plastic so thick you could use it for a tarp! A very small tarp, but a tarp none the less. What am I supposed to put in there? Cactus? Used razor blades? Broken glass? Unexploded ordnance? I just want to have a handful of goldfish with my brown bag lunch for Pete's sake.
Don't even get me started on opening them.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Don't Be Scared Ma
Sometime, somewhere, somehow I was told that if women are frightened by something when they are pregnant it can/will affect the unborn baby that is thoroughly enjoying life (up to that time anyway) in their mama's bulging belly. This I believe to be the absolute truth.
I am quite sure that during the months I spent gestating in the mobile lazy-boy of my mother's womb she must have been scared by a multitude of things. I will mention just a few here.
1. Buttons.
OK, I'm not afraid of buttons. I can touch them, hold them, and have even been known to sew one back on when absolutely necessary. I just hate them. Actually they aren't so bad on their own, but when I have to put them into those little slits in my shirts that they call button holes, I want to vomit. It's too frapping HARD! Even when I was younger and had the nimblest of fingers, it took more time that I was willing to waste just to wear a shirt with a collar. That's why tee-shirts were invented. I still think collared shirts should come with velcro instead. Don't even get me started on those stupid buttons on shirt sleeves that you have to do with one bleeding hand.
2. Peanut Butter.
Why in the world would anyone want to ruin perfectly good and tasty peanuts by turning them into PASTE? Yes, I tried the school paste. It, like peanut butter, smelled so very good but tasted like stuff you would squeeze out of Shaquille's sweat socks. Yuck, no thank you. It's like eating modeling clay and yes, I tried that too.
3. Shoe Laces.
I think this harkens back to the button thing. If they weren't so dorky looking I would wear only velcro shoes.
When I was little and living in Atomic City, Idaho we were about thirty miles from town (Blackfoot). I immensely enjoyed going to town because it meant going to at least one store (or why else would you go) and I could usually whine my Mom into getting me some candy or a toy.
One fine day I got wind of the fact that my brother Stanley was going to be taking my Mom to town as she never learned to drive in her entire 80 years. I immediately began to take up the whiny pleading to be allowed to come along. "Sure!" said Mom. What? Had I wasted my best whining just to have her cave in so soon? "Sure you can come along Ronnie." "As soon as you tie your shoes."
Rats! She had me there. I could no more tie my shoes than I could kiss my own elbow (I tried that too). I was stuck. No town, nor candy, nor toy for young Ronnie. Or so they thought. I trudged off looking as forlorn as I possibly could then ran around to the back of the trailer where the station wagon was parked and hid in the back.
And waited, and waited, and waited. I waited until I could see that we were about to cross the Snake River bridge that has Blackfoot/Camelot waiting on the other side. I jumped up and hollered, "Guess how I tied my shoes?"
At this point Stanley drove into the ditch.
After we got back on the road, Mom finally got her blood pressure down to the point where she could speak once again and asked, "How did you tie your shoes?" "The wind tied them," says I.
They were indeed tied and to this day I have no recollection as to how they got that way.
I am quite sure that during the months I spent gestating in the mobile lazy-boy of my mother's womb she must have been scared by a multitude of things. I will mention just a few here.
1. Buttons.
OK, I'm not afraid of buttons. I can touch them, hold them, and have even been known to sew one back on when absolutely necessary. I just hate them. Actually they aren't so bad on their own, but when I have to put them into those little slits in my shirts that they call button holes, I want to vomit. It's too frapping HARD! Even when I was younger and had the nimblest of fingers, it took more time that I was willing to waste just to wear a shirt with a collar. That's why tee-shirts were invented. I still think collared shirts should come with velcro instead. Don't even get me started on those stupid buttons on shirt sleeves that you have to do with one bleeding hand.
2. Peanut Butter.
Why in the world would anyone want to ruin perfectly good and tasty peanuts by turning them into PASTE? Yes, I tried the school paste. It, like peanut butter, smelled so very good but tasted like stuff you would squeeze out of Shaquille's sweat socks. Yuck, no thank you. It's like eating modeling clay and yes, I tried that too.
3. Shoe Laces.
I think this harkens back to the button thing. If they weren't so dorky looking I would wear only velcro shoes.
When I was little and living in Atomic City, Idaho we were about thirty miles from town (Blackfoot). I immensely enjoyed going to town because it meant going to at least one store (or why else would you go) and I could usually whine my Mom into getting me some candy or a toy.
One fine day I got wind of the fact that my brother Stanley was going to be taking my Mom to town as she never learned to drive in her entire 80 years. I immediately began to take up the whiny pleading to be allowed to come along. "Sure!" said Mom. What? Had I wasted my best whining just to have her cave in so soon? "Sure you can come along Ronnie." "As soon as you tie your shoes."
Rats! She had me there. I could no more tie my shoes than I could kiss my own elbow (I tried that too). I was stuck. No town, nor candy, nor toy for young Ronnie. Or so they thought. I trudged off looking as forlorn as I possibly could then ran around to the back of the trailer where the station wagon was parked and hid in the back.
And waited, and waited, and waited. I waited until I could see that we were about to cross the Snake River bridge that has Blackfoot/Camelot waiting on the other side. I jumped up and hollered, "Guess how I tied my shoes?"
At this point Stanley drove into the ditch.
After we got back on the road, Mom finally got her blood pressure down to the point where she could speak once again and asked, "How did you tie your shoes?" "The wind tied them," says I.
They were indeed tied and to this day I have no recollection as to how they got that way.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Sesenta y Dos
The title is Spanish for sixty-two because I can't remember how to spell it in French. It also coincides with the number of years I've been walking this big blue marble. Well, I guess I was carried for a while then crawled a bit but you get the picture. We had a nice get-together last Sunday evening with the Tucson Howes and the Clarks along with Aunt Lorna and Mia. Per tradition, we had earlier feasted on the meal of my choice which happens to be German pancakes and bacon.
Babs had treated me to "Zinburger's" the previous afternoon before the Wildcats lost to Washington in the PAC-10 championship game. I even whined enough that she got me a blizzard after the game to soothe my sadness.
It's way past weird being sixty-bleeding-two years old. I really didn't see it coming. Senior discounts without lying about my age. It's a good thing I love my job so much or I could collect Social Security and live off of all the taxes we all have paid over over our lifetimes.
I feel much younger of course except when I get up from a chair or am startled when I see that fat bald guy looking at me from the mirror.
The good news is that I see that guy on a regular basis staring back all red-faced while I'm straining away on some of those Spanish Inquisition machined at the "Old Man's" gym on base.
My last few doctor visits have been quite outstanding too. Who'd a thunk that diet and exercise doo doo would actually pay off.
Even at the dentist. I had an exam last Tuesday. Look Ma, no cavities! They still yang at me about flossing but I just smile, nod, and tell them "No thanks." Why mess with success? These pearly-whites have lasted me lo, these 62 years and will probably last however long I need them without putting strings in my mouth. Perhaps my mother was frightened by some dental floss while carrying me.
More on that next week...
Babs had treated me to "Zinburger's" the previous afternoon before the Wildcats lost to Washington in the PAC-10 championship game. I even whined enough that she got me a blizzard after the game to soothe my sadness.
It's way past weird being sixty-bleeding-two years old. I really didn't see it coming. Senior discounts without lying about my age. It's a good thing I love my job so much or I could collect Social Security and live off of all the taxes we all have paid over over our lifetimes.
I feel much younger of course except when I get up from a chair or am startled when I see that fat bald guy looking at me from the mirror.
The good news is that I see that guy on a regular basis staring back all red-faced while I'm straining away on some of those Spanish Inquisition machined at the "Old Man's" gym on base.
My last few doctor visits have been quite outstanding too. Who'd a thunk that diet and exercise doo doo would actually pay off.
Even at the dentist. I had an exam last Tuesday. Look Ma, no cavities! They still yang at me about flossing but I just smile, nod, and tell them "No thanks." Why mess with success? These pearly-whites have lasted me lo, these 62 years and will probably last however long I need them without putting strings in my mouth. Perhaps my mother was frightened by some dental floss while carrying me.
More on that next week...
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Time
It has been some time (more about that later) since I have been able to bore my reader(s?). I have an excuse, lame though it may be. When I was ensconced in my hotel room in Florida listening to a BYU basketball game by tuning my trusty laptop to KSL, I happened to touch the power supply and came back with 3rd degree burns. This is not right, thought I. But even after checking the connection it was still hotter than the shady side of the sun. I tried it again the next day with the same results so I figured it was toast (hee hee).
A while after I got home I had Pete order a new one online. They said it would ship in 5 or 9 weeks so I knew that poor reader would get withdrawal symptoms but, low and behold, it was delivered to our front door the very next day! It was like they had a guy waiting with his engine running just to get it to me. Cool huh?
Some time ago I got an offer in the mail to try Time magazine for $12 for a year. 52 issues for $12 seemed like a great deal to me so we got it. I was sure they would really sock it to me when it came time to renew because I was rather hooked on reading each issue from cover to cover. It seems to be much more evenhanded and not as left-leaning as most of the media.
I got a notice last year that I would need to renew if I wanted to keep getting my news fix. Now it was going to cost me $20 for a year or, get this, $30 for FOUR years. No-brainer. I'd like to think I'm much smarter now too.
February 22 was George Washington's birthday. I don't know how old he would have been since he's quite dead but my sister Bonnie (also dead) would have been 63 years old. She died in 1985, the year after being named the Utah Poet of the the Year. I wondered what she would have been like at 63. How many more poems we would have and how many more beautiful paintings and how many more young people she would have influenced in art and life.
As a tribute to her and my Dad, here is what I consider her best poem:
THE PROVIDER
He gave us all it took to get along.
Including bowls of laughter with our soup
And closets full of teasing till we cried.
He spoke too loud because he couldn't hear
With the ear that was hurt when he picked a fight
With someone twice as big and just as drunk.
I never saw my mom pass his chair
and miss a friendly grab.
Her primness tabled, she would buss him back.
His hair was mostly salted, partly black.
The caterpillar of his eyebrow
Humped above his spangle-damp brown eyes.
And he could almost flap his ears
Like they were hinged next to his head..
And he would flap in church.
Our dignity would suffer, mom's face would furrow.
For work he wore a red-plaid lumber-jacking shirt.
And boots it was mine to lace up.
As it was his to brush and braid my hair.
And he would whisker-burn and sting my cheeks
Bur how I loved that hurt and loved that man.
His rowdy life was like a rowdy day
So busy that you get caught up with it
Forgetting that the night will ever come.
Night was like his undetected fragile heart.
And like the night that came, my father died.
Thank you Bonnie.
A while after I got home I had Pete order a new one online. They said it would ship in 5 or 9 weeks so I knew that poor reader would get withdrawal symptoms but, low and behold, it was delivered to our front door the very next day! It was like they had a guy waiting with his engine running just to get it to me. Cool huh?
Some time ago I got an offer in the mail to try Time magazine for $12 for a year. 52 issues for $12 seemed like a great deal to me so we got it. I was sure they would really sock it to me when it came time to renew because I was rather hooked on reading each issue from cover to cover. It seems to be much more evenhanded and not as left-leaning as most of the media.
I got a notice last year that I would need to renew if I wanted to keep getting my news fix. Now it was going to cost me $20 for a year or, get this, $30 for FOUR years. No-brainer. I'd like to think I'm much smarter now too.
February 22 was George Washington's birthday. I don't know how old he would have been since he's quite dead but my sister Bonnie (also dead) would have been 63 years old. She died in 1985, the year after being named the Utah Poet of the the Year. I wondered what she would have been like at 63. How many more poems we would have and how many more beautiful paintings and how many more young people she would have influenced in art and life.
As a tribute to her and my Dad, here is what I consider her best poem:
THE PROVIDER
He gave us all it took to get along.
Including bowls of laughter with our soup
And closets full of teasing till we cried.
He spoke too loud because he couldn't hear
With the ear that was hurt when he picked a fight
With someone twice as big and just as drunk.
I never saw my mom pass his chair
and miss a friendly grab.
Her primness tabled, she would buss him back.
His hair was mostly salted, partly black.
The caterpillar of his eyebrow
Humped above his spangle-damp brown eyes.
And he could almost flap his ears
Like they were hinged next to his head..
And he would flap in church.
Our dignity would suffer, mom's face would furrow.
For work he wore a red-plaid lumber-jacking shirt.
And boots it was mine to lace up.
As it was his to brush and braid my hair.
And he would whisker-burn and sting my cheeks
Bur how I loved that hurt and loved that man.
His rowdy life was like a rowdy day
So busy that you get caught up with it
Forgetting that the night will ever come.
Night was like his undetected fragile heart.
And like the night that came, my father died.
Thank you Bonnie.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Being Away
Taking a page from Linda's blog, here are eleven things about being away (in no particular order):
1. Being alone. It seems like it should be nice to be alone for a change, but it really bites. When I first walk into the hotel room I think "this is really cool." That feeling lasts for about 35 seconds.
2. Cell Phones. What the heck did we do before cell phones? I know. I either ran up a huge bill, only called once a week, or, if I got lucky, was able to connect with my home base and get them to feel sorry for me and connect me with our home phone. This time I was able to talk to Babs during lunch and again in the evening.
3. Food. Eating out is also cool at first but wears off rather quickly. Thank heaven for Hampton Inn and their wonderful breakfast! Waffles, fresh and canned fruit, yogurt, cereal, eggs, bacon, toast, bagels, pastries and three kinds of juices. No, I didn't eat all of that every morning. The variety was outstanding. I did eat enough that all I wanted for lunch was a salad. Weird though, I spent 12 days on the Gulf Coast and forgot to have seafood.
4. Beds. I had two double ones in my room and no, I didn't switch from one to the other. My butt/back/body has been sleeping in a water bed for so long (years and years and years) that I have difficulty sleeping on anything that doesn't slosh.
5. Sleeping alone. I have had company (Babs, along with various and sundry kids) for almost 40 years now. Yes, it would have been crowded in a double bed but I found I still only used half of it. The best night's sleep I got on the whole trip was the two at Scott & Suzie's home on the futon without folding it down flat. Hampton Inn has the best beds so far.
6. It was wet. I don't like wet. Water is supposed to be pumped from the ground. It's not supposed to fall on your head.
7. It was cold. I don't like cold. That's why I live in Tucson (even tough it got colder there while I was gone).
8. It was wet AND cold. Those terms should be mutually exclusive.
9. Airlines. It is truly a marvelous thing to climb into a metal tube and wind up a couple thousand miles away in just a few hours. It would be nice though is the seats didn't kill my butt.
10. Rental car. They ran out of mid-size models so I had to "suffer" with a full size Mercury Something-or other. It was nice but cost more to make the trip to Birmingham.
11. Coming Home. Always the best part of the trip. The kids didn't come running up and hug my legs like they used to. But then they didn't ask what I brought for them either.
1. Being alone. It seems like it should be nice to be alone for a change, but it really bites. When I first walk into the hotel room I think "this is really cool." That feeling lasts for about 35 seconds.
2. Cell Phones. What the heck did we do before cell phones? I know. I either ran up a huge bill, only called once a week, or, if I got lucky, was able to connect with my home base and get them to feel sorry for me and connect me with our home phone. This time I was able to talk to Babs during lunch and again in the evening.
3. Food. Eating out is also cool at first but wears off rather quickly. Thank heaven for Hampton Inn and their wonderful breakfast! Waffles, fresh and canned fruit, yogurt, cereal, eggs, bacon, toast, bagels, pastries and three kinds of juices. No, I didn't eat all of that every morning. The variety was outstanding. I did eat enough that all I wanted for lunch was a salad. Weird though, I spent 12 days on the Gulf Coast and forgot to have seafood.
4. Beds. I had two double ones in my room and no, I didn't switch from one to the other. My butt/back/body has been sleeping in a water bed for so long (years and years and years) that I have difficulty sleeping on anything that doesn't slosh.
5. Sleeping alone. I have had company (Babs, along with various and sundry kids) for almost 40 years now. Yes, it would have been crowded in a double bed but I found I still only used half of it. The best night's sleep I got on the whole trip was the two at Scott & Suzie's home on the futon without folding it down flat. Hampton Inn has the best beds so far.
6. It was wet. I don't like wet. Water is supposed to be pumped from the ground. It's not supposed to fall on your head.
7. It was cold. I don't like cold. That's why I live in Tucson (even tough it got colder there while I was gone).
8. It was wet AND cold. Those terms should be mutually exclusive.
9. Airlines. It is truly a marvelous thing to climb into a metal tube and wind up a couple thousand miles away in just a few hours. It would be nice though is the seats didn't kill my butt.
10. Rental car. They ran out of mid-size models so I had to "suffer" with a full size Mercury Something-or other. It was nice but cost more to make the trip to Birmingham.
11. Coming Home. Always the best part of the trip. The kids didn't come running up and hug my legs like they used to. But then they didn't ask what I brought for them either.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Not So Sweet Home Alabama
First let me say that the time I spent at Scott & Suzie's home in Birmingham was lovely and wonderful. This morning Jared gave Suzie a note from "heaven" that said 6-year-olds did not have to go to church today. She pointed out to him that it really said they HAVE to go to church. He then asked for the note back so "heaven" could make the appropriate change. What a fun kid!
So, Scott & Suzie's = way fun, getting there and back = not so much.
The main trouble with the route between Ft Walton Beach/Eglin AFB, FL and Birmingham is the fact that I-65 heads North somewhere around Mobile, AL much too far to the west of my starting point. Ergo, I was forced to make my ever-so-merry way using the yellow and even red lines on my atlas. Yes, I tried the Google Maps trick (I'm not entirely computer inept, in fact I consider myself to be rather ept). The search yielded a yard-and-a-half long list of rights, lefts, u-turns and enough different road numbers to win several games of Bingo. So I asked directions of a couple of the guys at work who live here.
That was all well and good until I never did see a turn-off for FL 189 North (which turns into AL 137 North when it crosses the border, go figure) 189 South yes, but no 189 North. I wound up going all the way to beautiful downtown Milton, FL where I asked directions (yes, I may be a male but I do ask for them. Perhaps it's the diminished supply of testosterone) at an official county/city building of some sort. The kind lady behind the glass gave me excellent directions and sent me on my way. Too bad they didn't have a public restroom though as I really need that too.I made it from there to Birmingham without incident until I tried to find Scott's exit.
He told me several times and texted me #246. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Oh no. It seems there is much construction being foisted upon the Birminghamians, especially those who have to use I-65. As I felt I was nearing good old number 246, the entire right side of the road was lined with pretty orange and white striped barrels. No signage, just barrels. Not even overhead signs. I finally saw an exit sign but it had a big yellow caution-type sign right in front of it to the point of blocking all but the arrow. As I got even with it (and PAST the actual exit) I could see the number, 246 (of course). I got off at the next one, called Scott, got his directions and, voila, made it to his house.
For the return trip I was determined to correct my previous error and eliminate the extra 30 miles. This entailed leaving the comfort of I-65 much sooner and entering the wilds of yellow/red lines (mostly red ones).
Let me tell you something about rural Alabama. I should have learned from the movie "Deliverance." Evidently no one has ever left their community, EVER! Hence no one knows how to get anywhere else on the planet. I would have settled for the blind kid with three teeth and a banjo if he could have told me how to get to 137/189.
Also, there are NO speed limit signs in rural Alabama. Sure they have reduced speed ahead signs, but absolutely nothing that would give me from what to reduce it. The Po-Po don't take Sunday off either. On three different occasions I was followed by various and sundry gendarmes who pulled very close behind me then backed off. I can only assume they were running my plate number. I had no idea if I was going too fast or not so I decided to err on the side of slowness. I was almost ready to run my speed up to 70 just so I could ask one of them dhow to get to 137. I did notice that 55 was the road number and not necessarily the speed limit. I also noticed that Red Level, AL is neither.
Somewhere semi-close to the Florida line I was confronted with the choice of either turning right toward Pensacola, FL (too far west, I was looking for Crestview) or continuing straight on a road that was now a county road. Straight ahead I went but it felt too wrong so I opted to turn around in an empty (rats!) National Guard parking lot. I really wanted to ask someone, anyone how to get to bleeding Crestview.
The road toward Pensacola took me to US 90 and then close enough to I-10 that I could u-turn, jump on it and find my way back to Ft Walton Beach and my current abode at the Hampton Inn. I didn't get to make the 189 to 137 switch at the border on the way up nor on the way back but I shan't try again. Not on this trip anyway...
So, Scott & Suzie's = way fun, getting there and back = not so much.
The main trouble with the route between Ft Walton Beach/Eglin AFB, FL and Birmingham is the fact that I-65 heads North somewhere around Mobile, AL much too far to the west of my starting point. Ergo, I was forced to make my ever-so-merry way using the yellow and even red lines on my atlas. Yes, I tried the Google Maps trick (I'm not entirely computer inept, in fact I consider myself to be rather ept). The search yielded a yard-and-a-half long list of rights, lefts, u-turns and enough different road numbers to win several games of Bingo. So I asked directions of a couple of the guys at work who live here.
That was all well and good until I never did see a turn-off for FL 189 North (which turns into AL 137 North when it crosses the border, go figure) 189 South yes, but no 189 North. I wound up going all the way to beautiful downtown Milton, FL where I asked directions (yes, I may be a male but I do ask for them. Perhaps it's the diminished supply of testosterone) at an official county/city building of some sort. The kind lady behind the glass gave me excellent directions and sent me on my way. Too bad they didn't have a public restroom though as I really need that too.I made it from there to Birmingham without incident until I tried to find Scott's exit.
He told me several times and texted me #246. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Oh no. It seems there is much construction being foisted upon the Birminghamians, especially those who have to use I-65. As I felt I was nearing good old number 246, the entire right side of the road was lined with pretty orange and white striped barrels. No signage, just barrels. Not even overhead signs. I finally saw an exit sign but it had a big yellow caution-type sign right in front of it to the point of blocking all but the arrow. As I got even with it (and PAST the actual exit) I could see the number, 246 (of course). I got off at the next one, called Scott, got his directions and, voila, made it to his house.
For the return trip I was determined to correct my previous error and eliminate the extra 30 miles. This entailed leaving the comfort of I-65 much sooner and entering the wilds of yellow/red lines (mostly red ones).
Let me tell you something about rural Alabama. I should have learned from the movie "Deliverance." Evidently no one has ever left their community, EVER! Hence no one knows how to get anywhere else on the planet. I would have settled for the blind kid with three teeth and a banjo if he could have told me how to get to 137/189.
Also, there are NO speed limit signs in rural Alabama. Sure they have reduced speed ahead signs, but absolutely nothing that would give me from what to reduce it. The Po-Po don't take Sunday off either. On three different occasions I was followed by various and sundry gendarmes who pulled very close behind me then backed off. I can only assume they were running my plate number. I had no idea if I was going too fast or not so I decided to err on the side of slowness. I was almost ready to run my speed up to 70 just so I could ask one of them dhow to get to 137. I did notice that 55 was the road number and not necessarily the speed limit. I also noticed that Red Level, AL is neither.
Somewhere semi-close to the Florida line I was confronted with the choice of either turning right toward Pensacola, FL (too far west, I was looking for Crestview) or continuing straight on a road that was now a county road. Straight ahead I went but it felt too wrong so I opted to turn around in an empty (rats!) National Guard parking lot. I really wanted to ask someone, anyone how to get to bleeding Crestview.
The road toward Pensacola took me to US 90 and then close enough to I-10 that I could u-turn, jump on it and find my way back to Ft Walton Beach and my current abode at the Hampton Inn. I didn't get to make the 189 to 137 switch at the border on the way up nor on the way back but I shan't try again. Not on this trip anyway...
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Sunny? Florida
Yes boys and girls, sports fans of all ages, I am writing this from Florida. Not the warm Miami, Key Westish part but the LA (Lower Alabama) part. True there is plenty of beautiful beach to be had but what good is wearing my speedo if it's under a parka?
This is a short-notice temporary duty (TDY) trip that dropped into my lap last week. This is only the second time I've gone TDY since I started working as a scheduler over 7 years ago. Oddly enough it's to the very same base (Eglin AFB). This time is much different though in that it's to test a software system and not to attend training. The best part is that the Air Force, not my company is paying for it. The good news is I'll get per diem and make some money. The best news is that I'll be able to drive up to Birmingham for the weekend to visit Scott, Suzie and their kids.
I flew here yesterday (Wednesday) and go back to Tucson Saturday the 5th. I will miss some birthdays as my sister Lorna, son Benjamin, and granddaughter Rose all have birthdays 1 FEB. How cool is that? I do get back in time for Melissa's on Sunday.
So far, since I left, the left tail light on the Altima went out and Danny says my car is going chug, chug, chug. How sweet it isn't. Move over Pauline. There is light at the end of the tunnel though. January 2011 will soon be history and we can only hope February will be much better to us.
I did receive quite the tender mercy on my way here though. I didn't notice until just before we left for the airport that I only had 45 minutes between flights in Dallas, making it impossible for me to get some lunch. 10:00 is way too early for me to eat so rather than have Babs make me a sandwich or buy one on the way or at the airport, we decided I could make do with the rice crackers she had bagged for me.
She dropped me off and as I was at the self-service kiosk, an American Airlines guy asked if I was on the 11:35 flight. I said yes an he said it was running late (really?) and if I hurried he could get me on the 10:30 flight. I did and he did so there was plenty of time for me to eat in Dallas. Hope springs eternal...
This is a short-notice temporary duty (TDY) trip that dropped into my lap last week. This is only the second time I've gone TDY since I started working as a scheduler over 7 years ago. Oddly enough it's to the very same base (Eglin AFB). This time is much different though in that it's to test a software system and not to attend training. The best part is that the Air Force, not my company is paying for it. The good news is I'll get per diem and make some money. The best news is that I'll be able to drive up to Birmingham for the weekend to visit Scott, Suzie and their kids.
I flew here yesterday (Wednesday) and go back to Tucson Saturday the 5th. I will miss some birthdays as my sister Lorna, son Benjamin, and granddaughter Rose all have birthdays 1 FEB. How cool is that? I do get back in time for Melissa's on Sunday.
So far, since I left, the left tail light on the Altima went out and Danny says my car is going chug, chug, chug. How sweet it isn't. Move over Pauline. There is light at the end of the tunnel though. January 2011 will soon be history and we can only hope February will be much better to us.
I did receive quite the tender mercy on my way here though. I didn't notice until just before we left for the airport that I only had 45 minutes between flights in Dallas, making it impossible for me to get some lunch. 10:00 is way too early for me to eat so rather than have Babs make me a sandwich or buy one on the way or at the airport, we decided I could make do with the rice crackers she had bagged for me.
She dropped me off and as I was at the self-service kiosk, an American Airlines guy asked if I was on the 11:35 flight. I said yes an he said it was running late (really?) and if I hurried he could get me on the 10:30 flight. I did and he did so there was plenty of time for me to eat in Dallas. Hope springs eternal...
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Beat Goes On
Linda suggested a sacrifice to the plumbing gods to help the situation from my last blog but it turned out that the water was coming from the refrigerator so I made a blood sacrifice to the appliance gods along with $82 dollars to replace the leaky solenoid that feeds water to the ice maker. Problem solved.
We enjoyed a whole three days with nothing breaking down or leaking then came Tuesday morning. I was barely out of bed when Babs said, "The dryer quit." "Oh, and your Lazy Boy is broken." Really? Do I have my own personal rain cloud following me around?
It turns out that the dryer had been beeping for some time and the only way to make the beeping stop was to unplug it. Then it started beeping while it was drying. The fix for that was to give it a whack. It seems the whacks were so effective that it stopped working altogether.
I couldn't dissuade Babs from dismantling the thing so she did it while I was at work. Re-assembly didn't fix it so we had Benjamin come take a look at it since it used to belong to him. He said the beeps meant something was wrong (go figure). A quick peek on the internet proved him correct. In fact it said that eventually the dryer would stop working (duh). Problem? The controller board.
Summoning my paltry internet skills, I was able to find a replacement board for $121 directly from Sears. Since I didn't know how long it would take to ship it here or what the charges would be, I reverted to old school and went to a parts place that Benjamin suggested. They had a board in their Tempe store but it cost $132. I said I'd just get the one on line but she (the clerk) said I could have theirs for $117. Sold, to the man in the yellow hat. As I write this itt should be somewhere between Tempe and Tucson so we may be drying clothes by the weekend.
The Lazy Boy news is not as good. They guaranty them forever so all we have to pay for is labor, $60 worth of labor. That's bearable but the kicker is that the part to fix it could take EIGHT weeks to get here. It must be custom made in Tibet by 117 year old blind monks and shipped by asthmatic yaks.
So here I sit, on a camp chair with my feet propped up on a folding chair from the dining room. It could be a long eight weeks.
We enjoyed a whole three days with nothing breaking down or leaking then came Tuesday morning. I was barely out of bed when Babs said, "The dryer quit." "Oh, and your Lazy Boy is broken." Really? Do I have my own personal rain cloud following me around?
It turns out that the dryer had been beeping for some time and the only way to make the beeping stop was to unplug it. Then it started beeping while it was drying. The fix for that was to give it a whack. It seems the whacks were so effective that it stopped working altogether.
I couldn't dissuade Babs from dismantling the thing so she did it while I was at work. Re-assembly didn't fix it so we had Benjamin come take a look at it since it used to belong to him. He said the beeps meant something was wrong (go figure). A quick peek on the internet proved him correct. In fact it said that eventually the dryer would stop working (duh). Problem? The controller board.
Summoning my paltry internet skills, I was able to find a replacement board for $121 directly from Sears. Since I didn't know how long it would take to ship it here or what the charges would be, I reverted to old school and went to a parts place that Benjamin suggested. They had a board in their Tempe store but it cost $132. I said I'd just get the one on line but she (the clerk) said I could have theirs for $117. Sold, to the man in the yellow hat. As I write this itt should be somewhere between Tempe and Tucson so we may be drying clothes by the weekend.
The Lazy Boy news is not as good. They guaranty them forever so all we have to pay for is labor, $60 worth of labor. That's bearable but the kicker is that the part to fix it could take EIGHT weeks to get here. It must be custom made in Tibet by 117 year old blind monks and shipped by asthmatic yaks.
So here I sit, on a camp chair with my feet propped up on a folding chair from the dining room. It could be a long eight weeks.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
2011? Not So Great So Far
The first two days of 2011 were wonderful. Granddaughter Olivia was baptized on day one then granddaughter Charlotte was blessed on day two. It went straight downhill from there.
Day three was spent busier than heck at work trying to get three days of work done because I was going to be off the next two.
Day four was colonoscopy prep. That's not a college prep school. It consists of completely cleaning out your digestive tract by consuming only clear liquids for 24 hours and downing industrial strength laxative pills. This cleans the system like a white tornado. Or in my case, a blue one. I made the grand mistake of using blue jello as part of my clear liquid diet. I felt like Grandpa Smurf. Put as delicately as possible, poo should NOT be blue!
Day five, colonoscopy. Docs put me out (thankfully) and a camera where the sun don't shine. The procedure was tons better than the prep because I had a wonderful nap while it was happening. A&D Ointment became my best friend. The only redeeming social value of the day was when a Mexican (from Hermosillo) came by the house while I was recuperating and wanted to know if the yard ornament Prizm was for sale. I sold it to him for $100 and 3 dozen tortillas. It is now living a happy life in Mexico.
Day six, back at work. In my absence they pushed a new version of our database (PEX). I am the PEX administrator for my squadron. Nothing works. For anyone. RATS! I spend all day fixing and fixing and fixing. Very little scheduling, just fixing.
Day seven. Get to work at 6:30AM to try to get some scheduling done. Work until 6:00PM, still can't print out the schedule. Give up and go home for a late start on date night.
Day eight. Awake from a good night's rest with an improved attitude and ready to get something (anything) done. Decide to find/fix water leak that has caused a $92 bill followed by a $162 one. I had previously sent Pete out to check the meter when we had nothing using water in the house to see if it was still turning and he said "No." I thought it best to check for myself and found that it was indeed still turning. It turns out he had checked the gas meter.
Upon searching for the leak I find an oasis in the middle of the yard under the swing set. Eureka! Broken pipe between the house and the faucet at the back of the yard. Easy fix. We don't need to use that faucet anyway. Benjamin comes over and in less than an hour and less than $10 the problem is solved, the meter is no longer turning, Benjamin is back at his home and I am watching football. God is in His heaven. All is right with the world.
Ten minutes later Bekah informs me that there is no water in her bathroom. Great. I dig up the pipe to find that we have cut the water supply to that entire addition to the house. Benjamin comes back and he, Danny, and Joshua spend until 10:30PM digging a trench around the house so we can replace ancient paper-thin steel piping the the idiot previous owner snaked all over who knows where.
It is now day 13. The guys have successfully cut through the concrete slab and have the new lines run. We may have water to the washer and Bekah's room by tomorrow. I was off work yesterday having an endoscopy. It's much like the procedure last Wednesday but from the other end (ENDoscopy?) and without all the nasty prep. At work, we still can't print the schedule.
I can hardly wait to see what the rest of the year brings.
Addendum: Day 14. Woke up to water soaked carpet in the hall by the furnace room. Oh joy.
Day three was spent busier than heck at work trying to get three days of work done because I was going to be off the next two.
Day four was colonoscopy prep. That's not a college prep school. It consists of completely cleaning out your digestive tract by consuming only clear liquids for 24 hours and downing industrial strength laxative pills. This cleans the system like a white tornado. Or in my case, a blue one. I made the grand mistake of using blue jello as part of my clear liquid diet. I felt like Grandpa Smurf. Put as delicately as possible, poo should NOT be blue!
Day five, colonoscopy. Docs put me out (thankfully) and a camera where the sun don't shine. The procedure was tons better than the prep because I had a wonderful nap while it was happening. A&D Ointment became my best friend. The only redeeming social value of the day was when a Mexican (from Hermosillo) came by the house while I was recuperating and wanted to know if the yard ornament Prizm was for sale. I sold it to him for $100 and 3 dozen tortillas. It is now living a happy life in Mexico.
Day six, back at work. In my absence they pushed a new version of our database (PEX). I am the PEX administrator for my squadron. Nothing works. For anyone. RATS! I spend all day fixing and fixing and fixing. Very little scheduling, just fixing.
Day seven. Get to work at 6:30AM to try to get some scheduling done. Work until 6:00PM, still can't print out the schedule. Give up and go home for a late start on date night.
Day eight. Awake from a good night's rest with an improved attitude and ready to get something (anything) done. Decide to find/fix water leak that has caused a $92 bill followed by a $162 one. I had previously sent Pete out to check the meter when we had nothing using water in the house to see if it was still turning and he said "No." I thought it best to check for myself and found that it was indeed still turning. It turns out he had checked the gas meter.
Upon searching for the leak I find an oasis in the middle of the yard under the swing set. Eureka! Broken pipe between the house and the faucet at the back of the yard. Easy fix. We don't need to use that faucet anyway. Benjamin comes over and in less than an hour and less than $10 the problem is solved, the meter is no longer turning, Benjamin is back at his home and I am watching football. God is in His heaven. All is right with the world.
Ten minutes later Bekah informs me that there is no water in her bathroom. Great. I dig up the pipe to find that we have cut the water supply to that entire addition to the house. Benjamin comes back and he, Danny, and Joshua spend until 10:30PM digging a trench around the house so we can replace ancient paper-thin steel piping the the idiot previous owner snaked all over who knows where.
It is now day 13. The guys have successfully cut through the concrete slab and have the new lines run. We may have water to the washer and Bekah's room by tomorrow. I was off work yesterday having an endoscopy. It's much like the procedure last Wednesday but from the other end (ENDoscopy?) and without all the nasty prep. At work, we still can't print the schedule.
I can hardly wait to see what the rest of the year brings.
Addendum: Day 14. Woke up to water soaked carpet in the hall by the furnace room. Oh joy.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
Sick, and Tired of It
I suppose it's just a part of "maturing" but it's driving me nuts. When I was a kid and for most of my life I seldom got sick. Measles and chicken pox were no fun but I missed the mumps even though two of my sisters had them at the same time. I thought they looked pretty funny with their fat faces. I didn't think much about it until I was on my mission in Guatemala and holding this cute chubby-faced kid on my lap. I commented to his mom about how cute he was with his fat cheeks when she she said he was sick with something called "paperas." I had no idea what that word meant so I asked my companion and he said mumps. I all but threw the kid back to his mom and ran out the door. I had heard what happens when young men get mumps and they (the mumps) drop. I later saw it first hand when both Scott and Jer had exactly that happen when they were teenagers.
Anyway, I managed to have some kind of creeping crud stomach ailment over Christmas then again the following Monday and Tuesday. It was bad enough Tuesday that I missed going to Zinburger with the rest of the family here for Amy's birthday. They make the best burger I have ever put into my face. I was so sad to not be there. It was pathetic. I felt like I had spent the night in a concrete mixer with a load of river rock. My gas had gas. My eyeballs hurt.
The redeeming social value was that it didn't last long and I got to come home from work early.
I'm reminded of some of the home remedies my Mom would use. Vick's Vapo Rub was the absolute best part of having a cold. That stuff smeared on my chest in the winter was better than an electric blanket. My Mom kept a Vick's Inhaler with her all winter long. It was a plastic tube about the same size as a lip balm tube and had that eucalyptus smelling stuff inside it. She kept it in her cleavage where it stayed nice and warm and would all but knock me on my backside when she gave me a whiff of it.
Hot toddies weren't too bad either. They were some kind of mixture of lemon juice, water, whiskey, and who knows what else. They may or may not have had any medicinal qualities but they made us feel nice and warm and not care whether we were sick.
Anyway, I managed to have some kind of creeping crud stomach ailment over Christmas then again the following Monday and Tuesday. It was bad enough Tuesday that I missed going to Zinburger with the rest of the family here for Amy's birthday. They make the best burger I have ever put into my face. I was so sad to not be there. It was pathetic. I felt like I had spent the night in a concrete mixer with a load of river rock. My gas had gas. My eyeballs hurt.
The redeeming social value was that it didn't last long and I got to come home from work early.
I'm reminded of some of the home remedies my Mom would use. Vick's Vapo Rub was the absolute best part of having a cold. That stuff smeared on my chest in the winter was better than an electric blanket. My Mom kept a Vick's Inhaler with her all winter long. It was a plastic tube about the same size as a lip balm tube and had that eucalyptus smelling stuff inside it. She kept it in her cleavage where it stayed nice and warm and would all but knock me on my backside when she gave me a whiff of it.
Hot toddies weren't too bad either. They were some kind of mixture of lemon juice, water, whiskey, and who knows what else. They may or may not have had any medicinal qualities but they made us feel nice and warm and not care whether we were sick.
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