Sunday, November 1, 2015 I woke up after nursing what had been diagnosed as a torn meniscus. This had been diagnosed by an internal medicine doctor who heard me say OW when she felt my sore knee two days prior. I had spent the time since then doing RICE (Rest, Ice, Compression, and Elevation). I would much rather have spent my Saturday working my usual shift at the Mesa Temple, but lying around all day watching college football wasn't too bad.
Anyway, besides the sore knee, I woke up with other things bothering my old body. I was nauseated and my right arm and hand were all tingley/numb. I went to church but came home after sacrament meeting and took a nap. When Babs came home I was still all pukey so I convinced her to take me to Urgent Care.
The doc there suspected a mini-stroke or something worse so eight EMT folks suddenly showed up, attached wires and each asked me the same questions & compared notes to see if I answered them correctly. Evidently I didn't because they next wanted to give me a not so free ride to the emergency room "just to be sure." I signed papers absolving them of any fault so Babs could drive me.
She dropped me off at the TMC (Tucson Medical Center) emergency room and went to park the car. I walked up to the desk and stated my purpose for being there. The guy said, "You're a neuro red." Before I could reply that I was no communist but a rather patriotic American and took offense at his suggesting otherwise, I had been wheeled to a room and was on a bed wearing one of those spiffy backless evening gowns with a multitude of wires/tubes attached to various and sundry parts of my body. Babs still hadn't finished parking the car.
Still suspecting a mini-stroke or some such evil and needing a new wing added to their complex, they had me get a cat-scan, which was negative (I don't even own a cat). They then wanted an MRI done and to "observe" me overnight.
While waiting for the MRI, the tech asked me what kind of music I wanted to listen to while the machine makes its concrete-mixer sounds. I was quite pleased when he said that, yes indeed, he had Tony Bennett. I could even here his (Tony Bennett's) dulcet tones coming from the MRI room.
A few minutes later the tech returned and said he was having trouble loading my electronic chart and it would be a couple of minutes. FORTY-FIVE minutes later he returned and said he'd have to take me back to the ER because the chart still wouldn't load.
After being back in the ER room for a bit, the nurse came in and said, "Mr. Howe, the computer thinks you're dead." I felt my jugular, found a pulse, pointed to it, and told him, "I don't think so."
"Well, said he, "The computer thinks you are so you can't get an MRI, because you're dead. We can't get you a bed, because you're dead. We can't order food for you...because you're dead.
I saw no white light, no dead loved one dressed in white. Heck, I didn't even get to collect my life insurance. It took FOUR hours and three technician to figure out where the "undo" button was located. Fortunately the ER nurse took pity on me and the fact that my blood sugar was down to 65 so he scrounged up a turkey sandwich and apple sauce for me to keep the computer from being right.
It seems that the guy in the room next to me had died and someone put his information on my chart. My age had become "Deceased."
By the time I became undead the MRI guy was long gone so they scheduled the MRI for first thing the next morning. Evidently their idea of first thing in the morning wasn't even close to mine. At 10:00 the next morning I still hadn't had that MRI even though each of the 27 doctors I'd seen said He'd expedite it.
Babs had figured out what was wrong with me early on in this adventure. Since I had been lying around for the previous two day and had not been drinking my usual rain barrel of diet soda, I was most certainly dehydrated. Perhaps I should have had that bottle of Gatorade and waited for a while before going to Urgent Care. She was kind enough to only remind me of that 167 times.
Finally, a nurse came in and said they'd decided I could do the MRI as an outpatient so I was being released. Hallelujah Brother!
I never did get the MRI.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Friday, December 26, 2014
The Adventure Continues
So, after a 45 minute flight I landed at the Ilopongo International airport on the outskirts of San Salvador. I don't remember what time it was but it was DARK. Like a well-digger's shoe sole dark. Two missionaries met me at the gate and helped me collect my luggage and carry all my worldly goods to a bus stop. They had introduced themselves as the zone leaders one of whom was a short, fat, balding guy who said he was Elder Monroe. After several busses passed by we hauled ourselves and my stuff onto a bus headed for San Salvador Central. We rode forever-and-a-half then got off and got on another bus. More riding forever-and-a-half and switching to yet another bus.
Finally we got off of that bus and began to walk. And walk. And walk. Then walked some more, all the while hulking all of my junk. Eventually we turned down a rather poorly lit street that was lined with one-story buildings that were just one continuous building with doors and windows every so often with a step up to each door. Somewhere in the middle of the block they said, "Here it is" and knocked on the door. It took a bit for someone to open the door, then they took my stuff inside and invited me in.
When I walked in this is what I saw: four missionaries (I assumed they were since they were wearing white shirts and ties, this was before name tags) sitting at a table playing poker with lit cigarettes in their hands and drinking what looked like beer. A couple of others were looking at a Playboy magazine and discussing what movies they planed to see that week. They all had several days growth of beard. Elder Monroe showed me to my corner of the room where there was a blanket on the floor for me to sleep on and a bowl of chicken soup with the chicken foot sticking out of it. He said that I was quite lucky because they had saved the foot for me since it was my first day in the mission. I said thanks anyway but I had already eaten chicken at the mission home so I was not hungry.
That was all they could take and they all began to laugh and say it was all an act to welcome me into the district. They thought it was a real hoot and kept asking me if I believed what I saw. Of course I did because I didn't have anything to compare it with. For all I knew that was what missionaries did. It turned out that neither Elder Monroe or the other guy were zone leaders and Monroe had only been in the mission for two months. They had been the top baptizing district in the mission that month and had earned a trip to the Mayan ruins in Copan, Honduras. That was why they hadn't shaved for a week. Imagine how pleased I was to have supplied them with even more entertainment. It turned out that the "Playboy" was just the cover with an Era magazine inside (that was the church magazine before the Ensign).
I believe word got back to President Clark and hazing of new missionaries was forever banned. When I started working in the Mesa temple last January I ran into a guy who was there at my welcome. He is the coordinator of the Spanish session on Saturday. He apologized profusely and was quite happy that I was still active and hadn't been ruined by that experience.
Finally we got off of that bus and began to walk. And walk. And walk. Then walked some more, all the while hulking all of my junk. Eventually we turned down a rather poorly lit street that was lined with one-story buildings that were just one continuous building with doors and windows every so often with a step up to each door. Somewhere in the middle of the block they said, "Here it is" and knocked on the door. It took a bit for someone to open the door, then they took my stuff inside and invited me in.
When I walked in this is what I saw: four missionaries (I assumed they were since they were wearing white shirts and ties, this was before name tags) sitting at a table playing poker with lit cigarettes in their hands and drinking what looked like beer. A couple of others were looking at a Playboy magazine and discussing what movies they planed to see that week. They all had several days growth of beard. Elder Monroe showed me to my corner of the room where there was a blanket on the floor for me to sleep on and a bowl of chicken soup with the chicken foot sticking out of it. He said that I was quite lucky because they had saved the foot for me since it was my first day in the mission. I said thanks anyway but I had already eaten chicken at the mission home so I was not hungry.
That was all they could take and they all began to laugh and say it was all an act to welcome me into the district. They thought it was a real hoot and kept asking me if I believed what I saw. Of course I did because I didn't have anything to compare it with. For all I knew that was what missionaries did. It turned out that neither Elder Monroe or the other guy were zone leaders and Monroe had only been in the mission for two months. They had been the top baptizing district in the mission that month and had earned a trip to the Mayan ruins in Copan, Honduras. That was why they hadn't shaved for a week. Imagine how pleased I was to have supplied them with even more entertainment. It turned out that the "Playboy" was just the cover with an Era magazine inside (that was the church magazine before the Ensign).
I believe word got back to President Clark and hazing of new missionaries was forever banned. When I started working in the Mesa temple last January I ran into a guy who was there at my welcome. He is the coordinator of the Spanish session on Saturday. He apologized profusely and was quite happy that I was still active and hadn't been ruined by that experience.
Monday, October 6, 2014
Welcome to the Mission Field Elder Howe (August 13, 1968)
I left the Language Training Mission in Provo, Utah around 3:00 in the morning (without my plane tickets. Yes, it was a mess) on a bus bound for the SLC airport. I was with several other missionaries including my companion, Elder Babbit, none of whom were going to my mission (Guatemala-El Salvador). This unfortunate circumstance (no companion for the trip) came about because I had finished the 12-week Spanish course in eight weeks and he, being from the Mormon Colonies in Mexico, completed it in six. He was on his way to Mexico City I think. Being way before 9/11 my Mom, my sister Lorna, my girlfriend Jane-the-Older, and Elder Babbit were able to be with me at the gate. I gave him my camera and he snapped a picture of my last kiss with Jane before the two-year famine then he tossed it to me as I walked out to climb up the stair thingie onto the plane. I don't know if the kiss was a no-no or not but I'd seen it happen elsewhere that morning. Carrying all my earthly possessions that didn't fit in my two suitcases, to include three copies of the Book of Mormon in Spanish, several pamphlets, my scriptures, a raincoat, and a bleeding umbrella (this was before the collapsible kind) up those stairs into the waiting Frontier propeller-driven plane I went. Let the adventure begin...
I had never been on an airliner before and all I knew was my itinerary said: Frontier Airlines to Los Angeles, 2-hour layover there, Pan American Airways to Guatemala City then on to San Salvador if necessary. No problem getting to LAX. No idea how to find Pan American Airways once I got there. Every time I asked where the PanAM desk was, I was told over there. So I would go over there, ask the location of the PanAm desk and again be told, over there. I went through several iterations of this without locating the aforementioned desk when a kind gentleman came out from behind the evidently wrong desk in front of me and led me out the door, pointed across the parking lot that was the size of New Hampshire, and said, "see that little blue dot on the horizon?" "That's the PanAM sign.
Off I trudge across miles of steaming pavement in my dark blue three-piece, non-vented suit carrying 87 lbs of paraphernalia when, indeed inside was the PanAm desk! I checked in and the nice lady said, "You need to hurry to your gate." "Where's that?" I ask. "Over there" she says. Same as before I keep going "over there" until someone says "There you are!" "We've held the plane for you, go right on board." Perspiring rather profusely, I made it to my seat, shed the raincoat and such, then settled in for the trip. We took off out over the ocean and it was quite pretty and way joyous to be on my way at last. So much for the 2-hour "layover".
We had been in the air for quite some time and had been given lunch (this was back when they actually fed you real food) when the captain announced that we were over El Paso, Texas. EL PASO BLEEDING TEXAS?!! I'm on the wrong plane! I should be flying down the coast of Mexico! What the heck are we doing over El Paso? I had my sweaty fist on the stewardess' call button so I could have them turn around or throw me out the window or something when I heard the captain continue that we would be turning South to fly over the Gulf of Mexico on our way to Guatemala City. Phew! Crisis averted. In reality, which had little to do with my young geographically challenged brain, Guatemala City lies due South of New Orleans, Louisiana.
I had struck up a conversation with my seat-mate who was a monk on his way to serve in a monastery in Costa Rica. We had a fine discussion about the gospel and I gave him one of my Spanish Books of Mormon. We traded addresses and corresponded a few time then lost contact with each other. It made for a pleasant trip once my heart started beating again after the El Paso scare.
We landed well in Guatemala City where I was met by the APs and whisked off to the mission home to meet the president, David G. Clark. We had a nice interview then a very good chicken dinner. In the interview he saw that my ticket was good all the way to San Salvador so he said that's where I'd begin my mission; San Salvador 4th Branch with Elder Bruce Blaser from Boise, Idaho. Back to the airport I go and, once again I'm leavin' on a jet plane all by myself headed for the great unknown.
To be continued...
I had never been on an airliner before and all I knew was my itinerary said: Frontier Airlines to Los Angeles, 2-hour layover there, Pan American Airways to Guatemala City then on to San Salvador if necessary. No problem getting to LAX. No idea how to find Pan American Airways once I got there. Every time I asked where the PanAM desk was, I was told over there. So I would go over there, ask the location of the PanAm desk and again be told, over there. I went through several iterations of this without locating the aforementioned desk when a kind gentleman came out from behind the evidently wrong desk in front of me and led me out the door, pointed across the parking lot that was the size of New Hampshire, and said, "see that little blue dot on the horizon?" "That's the PanAM sign.
Off I trudge across miles of steaming pavement in my dark blue three-piece, non-vented suit carrying 87 lbs of paraphernalia when, indeed inside was the PanAm desk! I checked in and the nice lady said, "You need to hurry to your gate." "Where's that?" I ask. "Over there" she says. Same as before I keep going "over there" until someone says "There you are!" "We've held the plane for you, go right on board." Perspiring rather profusely, I made it to my seat, shed the raincoat and such, then settled in for the trip. We took off out over the ocean and it was quite pretty and way joyous to be on my way at last. So much for the 2-hour "layover".
We had been in the air for quite some time and had been given lunch (this was back when they actually fed you real food) when the captain announced that we were over El Paso, Texas. EL PASO BLEEDING TEXAS?!! I'm on the wrong plane! I should be flying down the coast of Mexico! What the heck are we doing over El Paso? I had my sweaty fist on the stewardess' call button so I could have them turn around or throw me out the window or something when I heard the captain continue that we would be turning South to fly over the Gulf of Mexico on our way to Guatemala City. Phew! Crisis averted. In reality, which had little to do with my young geographically challenged brain, Guatemala City lies due South of New Orleans, Louisiana.
I had struck up a conversation with my seat-mate who was a monk on his way to serve in a monastery in Costa Rica. We had a fine discussion about the gospel and I gave him one of my Spanish Books of Mormon. We traded addresses and corresponded a few time then lost contact with each other. It made for a pleasant trip once my heart started beating again after the El Paso scare.
We landed well in Guatemala City where I was met by the APs and whisked off to the mission home to meet the president, David G. Clark. We had a nice interview then a very good chicken dinner. In the interview he saw that my ticket was good all the way to San Salvador so he said that's where I'd begin my mission; San Salvador 4th Branch with Elder Bruce Blaser from Boise, Idaho. Back to the airport I go and, once again I'm leavin' on a jet plane all by myself headed for the great unknown.
To be continued...
Thursday, August 14, 2014
Three Days Before My 18th Birthday
March 10, 1967. It was my Dad's first day back to work as a diesel shovel mechanic. He had spent most of the previous year working in Australia for more money than we'd ever seen before. He had made so much money he couldn't afford to work without it all going to taxes so he didn't.
It was a Friday and we were going to Pocatello that evening for a neighbor girl's wedding. I was a Senior at Snake River High School, some 30 miles from Atomic City where we lived. I was sitting in our living room watching for the school bus to go by a block away so I could catch it when it came back around in front of our house. The next thing I knew, it had gone by us and I had missed it.
My Mom was not to pleased because that meant I'd have to drive to school, but there was no other choice since she had never driven a car in her life.
I went to school but felt quite blah around 1:00 so I decided to ditch the rest of school and go pick up my girlfriend from her school. I was on my way there when I found myself 30 miles away and about a mile from my home. Weird, I thought, but figured I must have been daydreaming or something.
I went in the house and my Mom said she was so glad to see me because she had had a bad feeling all afternoon and thought that I'd been in a car wreck. I told her she was looney and I was just fine.
Less than 15 minutes later two men drove up to the house and asked to come in. Then they told us to sit down because they had bad news. My Dad had died of a massive heart attack at work around 1:00. My Mother would have been all alone if I hadn't felt "blah" and then come home instead going to see my girlfriend.
My sister, Bonnie, was a Freshman at Idaho State university in Pocatello and we were supposed to pick her up for the wedding. We didn't want to tell her over the phone so we decided to tell her when we got to her apartment.
When we got there we asked her how she was doing and she said she was fine except that she started feeling bad around 1:00 and ditched her afternoon classes to go home. Then she asked where Dad was...
Dad was 57 years old when he died. He had smoked unfiltered Camel cigarettes since he was 15 and drank more than his share of beer. He drank EVERY day. He seldom was drunk but he drank beer every day.
One of the best things I have ever done was to go to the temple the following May and be proxy for his endowment and sealing to my Mother. Then I was sealed to them.
Almost two years later I was serving the Lord in Guatemala when President McKay died. He had been the prophet for as long as I could remember and I always knew he was a prophet. I knew I needed to know for myself that Joseph Fielding Smith was a prophet so I fasted and prayed to find out.
One night I had a dream. In it I was seated in the Salt Lake Tabernacle for General Priesthood meeting. President Smith was conducting and was doing something that they don't do in that meeting. He was naming individuals who had been found worthy to receive the Melchizedek priesthood and having them stand for sustaining. As soon as he spoke I was filled with the absolute knowledge that he was a prophet of God. After a couple of names, he said Clarence Joseph Howe, my Dad's name. When Dad stood he was right in front of me. We embraced and wept.
I learned two things from this dream. President Smith was a prophet and that after someone dies and has the necessary temple work done for him, it still takes time for him to overcome the addictions that kept him from temple blessings while living.
It's all true.
Saturday, September 1, 2012
Seminary...Rhymes with Cemetary
I'm three weeks into being a seminary teacher and haven't died yet, though I came pretty close. Early morning really is EARLY. There are rather beautiful sunrises here...who knew. Pretty soon they'll be happening on my way home. I'm a very old dog and this is an exceptionally new trick. I don't know how long it's going to take my body to get used to this but I do hope it's soon. Now and then they expect me to be awake work.
My feeling of absolute inadequacy caused a melt-down the evening of my second Tuesday teaching. I was DONE, FINISHED, KAPUT. I was certain they had called the wrong guy. It's not that the kids are bad or anything like that because they are amazing. There's no way I would have gotten up that early for seminary when I was their age. Not on a big bet. I was just overwhelmed by the enormity of the calling.
After much convincing by Babs that I could indeed do the job, she suggested I get a blessing from Bishop Ben. She is such a smart woman. I hated to bother him because I know I wouldn't have called our old bishop under the same circumstances, I would have called Ben.
Of course the blessing made me feel much better and I realized that I needed to quit trying to be like the other teachers and be Brother Howe. I still feel like I'm doing tons of stuff wrong, but it gets better every day and I may even miss having class on Monday since there's no school or seminary because of Labor Day.
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Olympic Dreams
The XXX Olympics are almost over now so here are a few of my musings about them and Olympics in general.
For me, the only redeeming social value of the opening exercises was the torch at the end. So what that it can't be seen from outside the arena. Wah, wah, give it up. The last Olympics in China will forever be the standard by which all other opening ceremonies will be measured...and they will come up short.
There were outstanding examples of true Olympic sportsmanship, especially the kid that traded his name bib with the guy from South Africa with no feet. The runner from Granada who won gold is the epitome of class. Not so much for the gringa vaulter who should have won gold but landed on her butt and didn't have the class to congratulate the winner. She was embarrassing.
Ussain Bolt is not human.
The biggest drawback of the Olympics is the fact that I'm so distracted by shiny objects. Every night when I came home from work with every intention to do the million things I need to do in order to be ready for seminary next week I'd park my fat butt in front of the TV to watch "just a couple minutes". Blink, blink. It's midnight and time to go to bed. Those poor, poor seminary students.
Another good thing is that I /we watch things we'd absolutely never pay to see unless we are related to a participant. Ping pong, badminton, gymnastics, track, water polo, rowing and anything else in the water, volley ball, etc. OK, maybe beach volleyball.
Rhythmic gymnastics is as much a sport as poker or checkers or breathing.
Probably the very best is that there are winners and losers. You don't, as an editorial writer in the Tucson paper suggested, get a medal for participating.
I'm as happy as the rest of us gringos that we won the most medals, but I'm a bit happier for those countries that one their first. Especially Guatemala. Way to walk fast buddy! You should have won gold because the Chinese guy was JOGGING! I'm just saying...
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Shakespeare Saved My Life
Back in the Paleozoic era when I was in high school, there was this thing called the draft. No, it wasn't a pleasant little breeze wafting along to keep you cool. Oh no, it was the way Uncle Sam maintained canon fodder for the rather unpopular war in Vietnam. They could actually force a young man like me into the army. That left us Mormon boys who wanted to go on a mission with a year of jeopardy since we were draft able at 18 but had to be 19 to serve a mission. We had four choices after graduation, go to Vietnam, go to college, go to Canada, or go to jail.
I had seen both Canada and jail and wasn't much impressed with either one but really couldn't afford college since my dad had died that Spring and my grades, though adequate, were less than stellar. My seminary teacher, Brother Empty, rode to my rescue.
He had seen my performance as Nick Bottom, the weaver, in Shakespeare's "A Mid-Summer Night's Dream" and wangled a drama scholarship for me at Ricks College in the frozen tundra of Rexburg, Idaho. That scholarship, coupled with $115 a month from Social Security allowed me to major in draft-evasion and minor in girls until I got my call to the Guatemala-El Salvador Mission. The scholarship was for $200 a semester which covered tuition and most of my fees and books.
While in Guatemala, they came up with the lottery system for the draft. They put all 366 possible birthdates in a big fish bowl then pulled them out one at a time. When they drew the one with your birth date on it, that became your draft number. They drafted numbers 100 to 150 each year. My number was 256. They would draft women and children before me.
Don't get me wrong, I'm no grand peace nick. I wound up joining the Air Force later and served for more than twenty years. I just wanted to serve as a missionary first. Thanks to Mr. Shakespeare and Brother Empty I was able to do just that.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Remembering Jobs
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."
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."
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...
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