Just Passin' Through

Just Passin' Through

Got an email from an old friend recently. He wanted to talk a bit about this and that, to respond with his views about a few things that I'd been doing and to also tell me that he would be back in our hometown about the beginning of the second week of next month. Now that was some wonderful news! I only got reacquainted with this guy two years ago after a very long absence and am tickled he's going to be back in town for a while. Unfortunately I know that he's not staying long. Couple of weeks, probably. Maybe three.

The truth is that he's just passin' through. From where and to where you might ask? That's the interesting part about him and his wife.

Some background...

First off, he and his wife are retired. That allows them time to do things. And the things that he and his wife like to do most of is travel. They've purchased a humungous (at least to my eyes) humdinger of a motor coach and they travel.

They travel a lot.

They hunker down in one of the warm southwestern states in the wintertime, though. They've a home in the desert down there. But, when the weather warms up they start their annual trek.

Where do they normally go, you might ask?

Well, apparently just about everywhere.

I used to think that I was a half-way well-traveled man. Sorta-kinda. At least in the good ol' U.S.A. I make sure I go on vacation every summer and not always to the same place. I've been to quite a few locations, both as a single man and a married one.

Quite a few places.

Or so I've thought.

But to be brutally honest, I'm a baby, a veritable neophyte, a wet-behind-the-ears tyro in the travel game compared to these two. They are travel monsters! They have two destinations they try to achieve each year, everywhere and almost everywhere. They've consistently attained the latter and are always shooting for the former.

They travel the warm months of the year by motor-home, generally dividing the United States into a couple zones and spending their time moseying around in one or another of them. I guess they might have a strict itinerary, but I'd be a little surprised if they did.

I think the true destination for their yearly travels is probably this: lets stay south a bit this year then head through our old home state. After that, lets see which way the wind blows and follow that for a while.

Or: “I've got a hankering for a Nathan's hot dog. Let's go to Coney Island.”

Or: “I heard that Dean Martin was from Steubenville, Ohio. Let's check it out.”

Or: “I want to see: Little Big Horn, the Grand Canyon, Appomattox Court House, Ground Zero in New York, Stephen King's house in Bangor, the charter boat fleet coming in at Key West, Graceland, the top of Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Half-Dome at Yosemite, a pow-wow in Oklahoma, John Wayne's footprints at Grauman's in Hollywood.”

Or: “I want to spend a month on the beach in South Carolina/Florida/Texas/Alabama.”

Or: “I heard a rumor about the best ribs in the U.S. How they can't decide between ten different places. Let's go find out where they're at, go there and eat at all of them.”

I may have that wrong. They may have more specific itineraries with places to be and times to be there. Maybe. My best guess is that they may have a place or two in mind and a general idea of when they'd like to be there, but they're totally able to change that at a moment's notice.

Their mail address? General delivery, Anywhere, U.S.A.

It's a fascinating lifestyle to contemplate. Oddly enough, it reminds me of an old Western movie or horse opera on TV. The stranger comes into town, goes to the bar, downs a shot or two of “whiskey, neat” and stares at the mirror behind the bar. Someone asks the stranger how long he'll be in town. He answers, “A while.” Then they ask where he's from. He says, “Over yonder.” How long he's been traveling? “A spell.” Where he's going next? “Up the road a piece.” The stranger's a bit road-bedraggled, dusty, thirsty for a bit of red-eye and has a piercing glance that sets all the damsel's hearts a-flutter. Then, after some obligatory gun-play he rides off into the sunset.

Where? No one knows.

And there may be a silver bullet involved. Maybe.

Of course that's not at all the way my friend and his wife look. Not at all.

But if I was to make a logo for that couple it'd look like that stranger. Or maybe just a simple tumbleweed blowing in the wind.

Silly ideas, eh?

Knowing that these wandering friends of mine are setting sail for my neck of the woods and will be here soon has started my mind a-racing. They've been retired for some years now and I am looking at retirement in a year-and-a-half. I try to picture myself living the life they live, traveling, meeting new folks, seeing new sights, being king and queen of the road (thank you Roger Miller).

For week after week, month after month. On the road. A day here, a week there, a month up the road. In the rain and in the sunshine, in the light and in the darkness. Always up the road, always somewhere else to go, somewhere else to see.

And I wonder...

And I try to envision myself in that picture. My wife and I. Road warriors.

And can't.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't want to cast any aspersions to my friend and his wife. They've found an ideal lifestyle for themselves and I'm totally happy for them. Totally! In fact I even envy them insofar as they've decided on a path in life and are following it quite happily.

It's working for them and I surely do wish them well.

But I believe the future that calls more to my wife and I is that of the hearth and home. To venture out from time to time, yes, but to return in due course to the local newspaper, the favorite easy chair, the dog sitting at your feet, the comfort of your own bed and the familiarity of your own four walls.

Besides, where would our gallivanting amigos and amigas have as a destination if we weren't here holding down the fort where we all started?

As Tom Bodet was fond of saying and as I'll repeat for all my wandering friends, “We'll leave the light on for ya.”

The Death and Resurrection of a '98 Honda

The Death and Resurrection of a '98 Honda

I guess I ought to give you a little background before jumping right into my blog for today. It'll help you visualize the playing field I hope.

My wife, my son and I all work different shifts, I work second shift from 4 pm to midnight, my wife works days from 8 am to 5 pm and my son works midnights from midnight (or 1 am, depending on the day) until 8 am. We all have our own cars that we use to get to work and back and for the other miscellaneous stuff you need a car for. And, as things are in the real world, one or another of the cars occasionally needs some maintenance – scheduled or unscheduled.

Since there are three cars, when one is in the shop we can always keep going by shifting cars, driving each others car to work and such as needed. In other words, there's usually a car sitting in the driveway to be used whenever we need one and a key to it hanging on a peg in the house.

That was the situation a few days ago. My car was in the shop for an air conditioning problem. Spring had finally sprung and it was getting warmer around home. Now was definitely the wrong time for the car's a/c to be cutting out and refusing to work.

Pretty much a no-no in hot weather.

So I had taken it to the mechanic's shop and told him to fix it.

As and aside, our mechanic is a gem! He'd been recommended to me by a friend some time ago and I'd noted his name but really didn't need him right then. Not too long afterward I started becoming disenchanted with my present mechanic at that time. He'd not followed through on several problems I'd had and I'd decided I was ready for a change.

I'd give my buddy's recommendation a shot.

We started going to the new guy for our oil changes and other needs and were always handled with courtesy, promptness and excellent prices. He'd even handled some major things well and we were very happy with him. We gave him all our business for all three cars.

So that brings us up to this past week.

My car was sitting in my mechanic's shop getting the a/c work done. I had taken my wife's car to work. I work in a city 25 miles from home, so it wasn't just around the block. I'd finished my shift at midnight and had gotten into the wife's car and headed home. I was just pulling out at a stoplight about 9 miles from work (and 16 miles from home) when the car began to display some, to me, horrifying attributes. It got tremendously loud and started bucking and chugging. Clank, clank, chugga-chugga-chugga, shudder, buck, buck, clank. It also began blinking the engine check light. Blinking, not just on.

I assumed that was worse.

I immediately pulled over into a parking lot, shut it down and starting thinking about my choices. My first thought was, I can call the wife and she can come up here and... Uh-oh! She was in bed, my son had taken the last available car – his – and had driven it to work. So, there was no help coming from her. No need to call and wake her up.

What to do, what to do?

I started the car again and listened. Yes, loud but it ran. I put it in gear and eased out into the street. It shuddered and bucked but kept moving down the street. Chugga-chugga, buck, buck, rumble. I was babying it along through the first of two villages I had to go through on the way home and doing OK. It sounded like the car was dying most of the time, but every minute I headed south I was closer to home.

Just keep going, I thought.

I had just gone through the second village when the flashing blue and red lights caught my attention in my rear view mirror. Great, I thought. Just what I need.

The officer lowered his head, looked in my window and said, “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

I replied, “Probably the loud engine?”

He said, “Nope. Your license plate lights are out.”

“Sweet,” I said. “Just what I need tonight.” I then explained my ongoing predicament. He agreed that it sounded terrible, checked my license, registration and proof of insurance and then set me free with his wish for my good luck with the car. And to fix the license plate lights, of course.

I restarted the engine, gritted my teeth against the noise and vibrations and again headed toward home.

Rumble, rumble, buck, chug-chug-chug. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

I arrived home about a half-hour later than normal. When I got to the bedroom I saw that my wife was mostly awake, so I asked if she'd heard me come in. She replied that she thought it was the neighbor across the street who'd come home on his motorcycle. I told her that no, that unholy racket was her car! I then related the whole story of the trip home. I also mentioned that I was guessing that the car was quite possibly kaput.

The next morning I took her to work as I didn't want her trying to drive the amusement park ride that her car had become. She was also alarmed by it. When I got back home, I popped the hood and looked at the engine.

First off, I'm not a mechanic by any stretch of the imagination. Not at all. Nope, nope, nope. I can add fluids, change oil if I feel the urge, replace plugs, air filters, etc. Nothing major. And I normally would not notice what a problem was. I'd just stare at the engine and wonder, What the hell? But... This morning I could see the problem. The spark plug wire and the insulator doohicky that would normally extend down into the cylinder block and attach to the spark plug was laying on the valve cover. I gulped what I thought was the implication of what I was seeing and looked into the spark plug hole. In that gaping hole there was no spark plug, it was just an empty hole into the engine.

Uh-oh, I thought. This baby's toast!

And I believed it with all my heart.

I called my wife at work and related what I'd seen and asked her if she was ready for a new car. I really thought it was a goner.

I then called my mechanic and asked if he had my other car ready yet as I needed another car to go to work that coming night. When he asked why, I told him the evolving story. He said uh-huh at the appropriate times and then, when I thought he'd recommend my call to a junk yard, he said, “why don't you bring that booger over right now and I'll take a peek.”

He didn't even seem too upset!

I was still expecting the worst when I pulled into his driveway.

He came out and took a look under the hood. He nodded and hummed a bit. He then looked down and said, “Oh, there's your spark plug.” It was laying on one of the motor mounts. He examined it. It was broken. He said, “Broken spark plug. Hmm...”

I still was thinking doom and gloom.

He then did a quick tap of the spark plug hole to make sure the threads were still OK, slipped in a new plug, attached new spark plug wires for that plug and the other 3 and told me to fire it up.

I turned the key and... it worked! It worked fine! The car was still OK!

I thought I heard triumphal orchestral music and angelic voices singing hosannas for a moment, but I might have been mistaken.

I actually just shook my head and gave thanks that I had a good mechanic and he knew what he was doing. I shook his hand and acted the fool for a minute or two with my gratitude at his knowledge versus my ignorance, then headed back home. I called my wife and told her the good news and hoped she hadn't picked out a new car yet!

So it's now been a couple days and the D.O.A. car is still running as good as ever. And I'm still amazed at my complete ignorance of things automotive.

I've heard that there are only two things in life you can't escape. Death and taxes. I agree, of course. But I'd also like to add another adage for your existence on this planet.

Get yourself the following three things in life and you'll never have any problems.

A good doctor.

A good money manager.

And a good mechanic.

I'm lucky to have all three.

So, if you're looking for a good wrench man, give me a holler. He's a goooooood one!

I Get It!

I Get It!

“Like and share if you love Jesus.” “Keep scrolling if you love Satan.”

“Obama is a Muslim, non-American and only wants to destroy this country.”

“Obama is the answer to America's prayers and has done more for the country than the past x number of presidents combined.”

“Share if you love your wife or husband or sister or brother or aunt or uncle or cousin.”

“Share if you know religion is a farce and anyone who's religious is a throwback or a naive ignoramus.”

“Guns are GOOD!” “Guns are BAD!” “Ban guns!” “Require guns!”

“Democrats stink.” “Republicans stink.”

“Ship all the rotten illegal aliens back to wherever they came from.”

“Make all the illegal aliens American citizens.”

“Christians against Obama”. “Christians for Obama.” “non-Christians for/against Obama.”

“Share this if you're a REAL American. If you don't, pack up and move out!”

Do you recognize any of the above statements from Facebook or your emails? Or possibly a variant of one of them? Do they prompt you to forward or share the message or do they make you want to unfriend the sender? Do you agree 110% with the sentiment of some of them or are you vehement about your opposition to them?

I get it.

I got it back a few years ago during the political campaigns when you expressed your preferences. And then did it again. And again. And numerous times daily. And continually since the elections. I figured out your allegiance after checking out the first couple of them. Here's a question back at ya. Did you think you were going to change my mind by your postings? Did you think you'd steer me away from the “error of my ways” by your sharing all the vitriol on the Internet that was available for sharing? Even the ones that had been proven incorrect a LONG time ago? Or were you just venting, just expressing your rights by belittling the “worthy” opposition?

I hate to burst your bubble, my friend, but your continual haranguing on the negative aspects of the running candidates did absolutely nothing to change my mind insofar as the support of my candidate. I picked my man quite a while ago and ended up voting for him no matter how virulent your pronouncements were.

Now don't get me wrong. You ARE my friend. You may have diametrically opposing ideas on a bunch of things from what I do, but you are STILL my friend. You wouldn't be on my friends list otherwise. I do NOT friend anyone who I don't consider a friend. With maybe a couple exceptions, folks that I friended in a weak moment. Or to maybe just keep tabs on someone. But the vast majority of my friends on Facebook ARE my friends.

And to all my devoutly religious friends and family: Thank you for your concern about my well-being and my immortal soul. Seriously. Your thoughts and prayers ARE much appreciated. I may or may not share your particular beliefs but I'm very pleased that you're a believer, whatever the flavor of that belief may be. My only complaint, if you may call it that, is the absolute choice some of you like to give me on your FB postings. Some of you like to give me the old “you're either with me or agin me” choice. And, in your mind I'm sure you believe that there actually IS only that single choice, only that specific flavor of belief. Only black or white. And I'm sorry if I offend you, but I see LOTS of shades of gray in LOTS of areas of life. That may be a curse or a blessing, but it's me and that's where I'm at now.

Back to the politics. I honestly do try to examine most of the examples you might put forward to explain a stance or position. Sometimes I see your point and on others I draw a blank. To be honest, I don't mind those postings. They generally require some study and some reflection and I'm usually willing to do that. But I do want to tell you I'm not very fond of what I call the “straight hate” postings; the ones that say “I hate so-and-so, now and forever, in every aspect of his life, for every thing he's done and for everything he wants to do.” Excuse me, but I'm going to skip over those posting and try my hardest to not dislike you for them. They trouble me and I don't need to be troubled.

Also understand, my friends, that there are issues that we will never see eye to eye on and which I'll never agree with you. That's just the way it is. I will probably always be pro-this and anti-that. If that's in opposition to your stance, so be it. Badgering me for my beliefs is an exercise in futility. Better to let it go and agree to disagree.

Or post some funny cat pictures.

Please also look up the definition of jingoism if you don't know it already and understand that there are ALL KINDS of Americans. All colors, all religions, all kinds of backgrounds with all kinds of beliefs. And the VAST majority of them are GOOD Americans, from the Navajo woman on her reservation hand crafting a silver ring to the turbaned Sikh in Detroit praying to his elephant god. From the rabid liberal newscaster to the rabid conservative newscaster (you fill in the names). From the demonstrating hippie in 1969 carrying the anti-war sign to the begrimed Marine close to the Vietnam DMZ during the same year. From my close friend “A” to my close friend “B”.

All good Americans.

Please also note that fervency is not a necessary requirement for citizenship or emblematic of your patriotism. There are a lot of laid-back souls who don't jump up and down when the patriotic music starts or who don't carry signs at demonstrations. Lots who show their patriotism and their love of country in quiet, unobtrusive ways. Doing this or that “under the radar”, quietly serving in the military and then not strutting about their patriotism, patiently supporting a candidate with time or money, thanking veterans for their service, flying the flag.

Be aware that I see your Facebook posts and I know where you stand. I see who you like and, way TOO often, who you hate.

I get it.

You know, I originally intended this blog to be one where I would scream and carry on about the dumb postings and closed-minded pronouncements of the folks on my friends list. I planned to holler about their shallow meanness, their blank-minded membership in whatever organization that they professed involvement in. I'd lambast them for not checking Snopes out before posting an item that was totally wrong and proved so. I planned to express my mild to profound distaste for most of their mindless postings. I really did.

But then I decided that wasn't right.

Why couldn't they post those messages? Why couldn't they believe what they believe? Why couldn't they shout their mottoes and their credos and their passion in high fidelity and living color? What made me the arbiter of what they could or could not say?

What made me sure they were wrong?

As a matter of fact, I'm sure there were a LOT of people who read those self-same articles and pronouncements and said, “Right on, brother!”

So, if you carry anything away from this blog, from this small rant of mine, carry this. If I don't forward your messages, if I don't comment my approval, if I don't profess my undying support of your brand of faith, don't believe for a minute that I don't support it. Or that I do.

If I don't profess my undying love for whatever item you've put forward for my perusal or don't forward same, don't think I'm not for it. Or against it.

If you absolutely need to believe something about me, believe this:

Some things I'm for and some things I'm against, but for the vast majority of things that go floating through my Facebook pages I'm far more likely to be simply ambivalent. And I'm just not very demonstrative. And I'm truly sorry if that offends you.

But if you want to know a secret, I'll tell ya one! If you want me to share one of your postings, if you want me to comment on it or tell all my friends, just make me laugh. Just be clever or just make me think.

I'll share those in a flash with a great comment!

But for the rest?

I get it!

Doggie Dentistry

Doggie Dentistry

So... I decided to grit my teeth, face this empty piece of paper tonight and try to put a few words on it that don't sound too much like drivel and dreck. Of course I'll probably be OK with them, but it'll be up to you to decide the drivel-ness and dreck-ness of what ends up here. So get your grading pencils sharpened and lets go!

March, in these precincts, is always an iffy go. It's what could be called, if you're a generous soul, a transitional month, a period of time when the iron grip of winter is supposed to begin to loosen and the warmer blessings of the springtime begin to show with more clement temperatures and the earliest flowers beginning to poke out of the warming earth. The maxim “in like a lion, out like a lamb” as a description of March is unfortunately a generality, not a specific. Some Marches follow the old adage, others are contrary and gleefully allow Old Man Winter some extra weeks to strut and fret upon this particular stage. So, with a week and a couple more days to go, is the Lamb gonna make his appearance? Or is the Lion gonna keep growling for a bit longer. Guess we'll find out 'fore too long.

It's seemed like a long, long winter this year and everyone is antsy for spring.

We had a fairly stressful go of it this past week, faithful reader, but I'm hoping the stressful part of it is over now. This time the author of our family's anxiety was our half-pint Schnauzer Barney.

It started one morning recently when my wife was playing with our dog and noticed some dried blood on his whiskers. She did some eyeballing of the pooch, peering here and there, and couldn't find any source of the blood. She washed it off his muzzle and, before leaving for work, mentioned it to me. I woke up enough to notice that there was a bloody spot on the carpeting next to the bed where the dog usually sleeps. It was about the size of a large grapefruit, so there had to have been a decent quantity of blood that would cause it. I checked out the dog also and didn't see any problem although it was a bit unnerving. I cleaned the spot from the carpet.

I discussed it with my wife and we decided he probably got a sharp piece of a rawhide chew and had cut the inside of his mouth. Odd but hey, it could happen. So we removed all the bones and pieces of rawhide that were laying here and there around the house. He wouldn't get cut again.

The next morning my wife had the dog on her lap when he started bleeding again. She took him to the sink in the kitchen and, seeing the blood was coming from his mouth, put a paper towel in there with some pressure and soon the flow stopped. That was enough of that, so I bundled him off to the vet that morning. She did an exam and after a long look finally found that he apparently had a bad tooth. Since it was a large canine molar and she didn't do extractions of that magnitude, she had me schedule a dental x-ray and extraction with another vet in town who specialized in doggie dentistry.

Yesterday I dropped him off at the pet hospital for this procedure. I received a call a couple hours later from the vet. He had Barney under anesthesia and had removed two teeth at that point in time. He had called to tell me that the dog had several more quite bad teeth and wanted my OK to continue with his extractions. I asked for the dog's prognosis after the extractions and he said it was excellent. I asked for a ballpark dollar amount and he gave it to me. It was expensive but less so than I'd feared. Since the prognosis was so good, I said to go ahead.

We got a call a bit later after the procedure was complete and the vet said he'd came through “with flying colors” and we could come get him later that day. He also said he expected Barney to be much better insofar as his general health was concerned as he would not be fighting the infections from those doggone bad teeth any more. He also said that, unlike a person who had gone through six tooth extractions and could be expected to be a while recovering, dogs usually were back up and raring to go in about 2 days.

Good news.

My wife picked him up after she got off work yesterday afternoon, and the vet was quite right. The dog was pretty active when he got home along with being very thirsty and hungry. We had to limit his intake for a while to make sure he was OK, but he's actually acting much better than he had for maybe the month or two before. We didn't know it, but he'd been hurting for a while.

He'll be on soft food for a week or two, but I don't think he'll be much the worse for wear and it'll be really nice to have a healthy dog back! Of course he's still sightless and a diabetic, but you'd be surprised at how little that bothers him. And as a possible bonus of this procedure he went through, the vet thought his diabetes might be much better also. We'll see about that in the days to come.

I feel really bad we didn't catch this problem earlier, but Barney's a pretty stoic little mutt and it's difficult to catch the signals of him hurting if he doesn't display much. In hindsight we can remember certain mannerisms over the past month or two that we should have equated with a problem, but we just missed 'em.

So now we have doggie toothpaste and a doggie toothbrush as a parting gift from his dentist. My question is this: how's he supposed to brush his teeth if he can't hold the toothbrush?

Wait a minute. You don't suppose that we're supposed to...

Oh lord, that ain't gonna be fun...

It's About Time

It's About Time

It seems like a really, really simple thing. I mean, really! At certain times of the year you go to your clocks and watches and chronometers and other timepieces and set the hour forward or backward one unit. If you're performing this task at midnight, you set your clock to either eleven pm or to one am the next day, depending on whether it's spring or fall.

I mean, really, really simple, eh?

And what possible difference would one hour make? How could this adjustment to your clocks make any difference in the world?

I find myself repeating that mantra twice every year and every time I do, my words turn to ashes in my mouth because it makes a lot of difference.

At least it seems to and I'm still not really sure why?

I guess the difficulties are all based on the human diurnal rhythms or our internal clocks. Or the way the sunshine ebbs and flows throughout the year. But it really does seem to be built into us on a sub-conscious level. We always hope that it won't bother us this time, but on the spring morning when you wake up after resetting your clock one hour ahead, your body will disagree with the clock. He will not be happy about your messing with the time.

Not at all.

Of course this phenomenon is really just jet lag hiding in its vernal or autumnal equinox disguise. It is indistinguishable from flying east or west to another time zone.

So, at least in my case, you end up walking around a bit tired and groggy and bumfuzzled for a week or so after the change. Bedtime seems to come too early (or late) and the morning dawns long before you're ready for it or strangely later.

I know there are places here and there that don't fiddle with their clocks twice a year. According to what I read on the internet, Arizona (with the exception of the Navaho Nation), Hawaii and the territories of Puerto Rico, Guam and American Samoa do not participate in this bi-annual procedure, but stay on “standard time” the year round.

I'm not terribly interested in exactly why they chose not to fiddle with their clocks although it's probably a fascinating story. My real question to folks living in those places is this: how do you know when to change the batteries on your smoke detectors? I always use the time change to remind myself to get another pair of nine-volts at the store and stick 'em in the detectors. I'm sure I'd be at a loss in Arizona. Maybe they use Christmas and Independence Day as their reminders. I'll have to ask the next time I see an Arizonan. Or is it Arizonian?

And then there's the question on how do you remember which way to move the hands of the clock? I guess the most memorable mnemonic is the old adage “spring forward and fall back”. Pretty straight forward, eh? But a little adversarial voice inside my noggin always tries to mess me up. He says stuff like, “how about you springing back and falling forward?” I try to ignore that crazy little voice, but he can cause me to second guess myself from time to time.

Another concern with this fun time of year: we have a lot of timepieces around my house. Yes, some of them do the twice-yearly jump all by themselves – the computers and cell phones and the televisions seem to take care of this task with commendable alacrity. Even one of our bedroom alarm clocks also does it. But there always seems to be a lot of battery clocks that require your physical attention and they always seem to be hung just a wee bit higher on the wall than you remembered them being. Or the timepiece needs some complicated pressing of buttons to achieve the desired hour. I had a wristwatch like that. After a couple years of swearing at the darn thing twice a year and trying to reread the instructions with its tiny print and oddly-phrased English, I finally gave up on it and relegated it to a drawer. The learning curve on the beast was sadly more than I wanted to attempt and a lot of the functions that the 873-page instruction manual said would do this or that, wouldn't. Or maybe this feeble-minded button pusher missed one of the manipulations that were required. Whatever the reason, off to the drawer it went. So I backslid to an analog watch a year or so ago with a stem that I could twist and turn and hands that would move to those manipulations. Easy-peasy.

Once in a while I'm guilty of forgetting to reset the clock on the thermostat. Missing that one results in some icy cold mornings when getting out of bed because the setback programs still think you're living on the “other” time. I usually get yelled at by my wife when I miss that one – she's the one that gets up early. And, of course, resetting the time on that isn't exactly easy either.

Even with all the downsides and hassles of changing the clocks, it is kind of nice in the spring to have that extra hour of daylight in the evenings. To do things with the family, to go outside and enjoy the daylight after toiling all day at work.

Except for the sad fact that I work second shift and the extra daylight in the evening is only a tease outside my office windows.

So I trudge along in my acclimation week, sleepy and a bit grumpy, glancing at the clock, mumbling to myself a bit and waiting for my slow-ass body to catch up with the new rhythms of the world.

Should be good to go in about a week. That'd be about time.

A Tale of Two Sisters

A Tale of Two Sisters

          ---Sometimes it feels like simply saying thank you just isn't enough.---

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After living these past six-and-a-half decades and watching how things work in the world and trying to understand what I've seen, I've discovered something. Most families seem to always have at least one member that's become the go-to person or the rallying point for the family. It might not even be the oldest or the smartest or the richest one, but there is always one that is accepted as the one you go to to get things done. They're the ones that the other family members defer to and ask to spearhead social occasions, to host and celebrate family happenings, the birthdays, the anniversaries, the weddings and the graduations.

They become the hosts, for many reasons, of the gatherings that provide the glue for the family and, in many instances, the extended family. They're the ones that know who's got a major birthday or anniversary coming up, the ones who always have a smile for your accomplishments and a cake to celebrate them. They seem to genuinely enjoy having family in for the holidays and to always be there to help out when times require a helping hand.

I am delighted to say I have two sisters who are magnificent in those positions.

My sister Kathy came into my family when my father remarried in 1976. My birth mother had passed away several years before and my father was lucky enough to find a wonderful woman with which to share the rest of his life. She had four children from her previous marriage and the oldest was named Kathy. Our blended family worked well together for quite a few years, with my father and her mom being the “go to” folks during that time period as is usually the case with parents. But when my father passed away in '92 and Kathy's mom began to grow infirm from age some years ago, the mantel of family “go to” person easily evolved onto her.

Kathy was always a stand-up gal. She was probably the one child of the blended family who had their head screwed on the best and who always demonstrated wisdom far beyond her years. She made a good marriage and had two great kids. She was the one that we all gravitated toward when tragedy struck; when dad passed away, when her sisters passed away long before their time, during the tough divorces and other life-altering circumstances she was there. She always had something for you to eat, a shoulder that you could cry on, a hanky to wipe away your tears.

She was our rock.

She took a job at a large church near where she lived and gained more and more responsibilities as her tenure there grew. She recently pleased all of us by answering a call and becoming an ordained minister, a position that seems to suit her well.

She was and is a tough, fair and deep-down nice lady who I'm proud to call sister.

On my wife's side of the family I'm extremely pleased to say I have another super sister! I'm not sure how I got so lucky, but I seemed to have hit a home run in wonderful women in the family.

Maenar became a member of the family some years ago when she married my brother-in-law Roy. Maenar and her family own and operate the most successful Chinese restaurant in the city in which she and Roy reside. You can probably understand why I was pleased and intrigued by that union. Suddenly I had a restaurant in the family! And, to top it off, a Chinese sister-in-law! How utterly exotic was that for this semi-naive Ohioan of German/English/Italian heritage. I had a cousin who had married a Thai girl during the Vietnam war and I always enjoyed visits with them. She was also a wonderful lady and a marvelous cook. And now, another Asian-American in the family. With a well-loved restaurant coming along for the ride!

How cool was that!

Maenar is about five foot nothing and her weight is barely in the triple digits. She has a world-class smile and is quite possibly, all kidding aside, one of the most intelligent people I've ever met, man or woman. Besides all that, she has a work ethic that would shame most people. She is an exemplary example of the “treat your customers right and they'll always come back” school of business owners. As is the norm for people like that, her workdays are always long. She is the front person in the restaurant and is the “face of the place”. People come from many miles around to eat there and do so over and over again.

And they always look for Maenar when they step in the door.

They know they'll get treated wonderfully and their meals will be superb. (Her brothers are the cooks and they're great!) The turnover at the restaurant is minimal. Her wait staff simply adore her. She's been known to close the restaurant, grab her “girls” and take them to New York for a weekend on the town to say thanks for work well done.

She is the one on that side of the family that everyone gravitates toward. She can plan a celebration and host it, spearhead a charity, support her husband in his business endeavors, lavish untold attention to her husband's children and their myriad of activities, and still be sure to ask you what you've been doing and how the world's been treating you. And really listen to your answers.

She's one of those folks who would rather stand than sit, walk than stand and run than walk. I'm constantly amazed at her energy and her joie de vivre.

Maenar is an absolute joy to be around and I am, again, also proud to call her sister.

My little immediate family, the three of us here in my small home town, have often been the recipients of my sister's invitations to their places, to sup with them, to celebrate the accomplishments of the family, to commiserate with them during down times. We've gathered together with the rest of the family at their homes and businesses to commemorate the holidays, to rejoice in engagements, children, marriages and noteworthy accomplishments, to join in the ongoing song of family and of solidarity.

And when the festivities are over, when the handshakes and hugs are concluded, when the promises to get together again “real soon” are spoken, how do you say thank you? How do you express your joy and happiness at being a part of this strange and wondrous thing, this amalgamation of disparate people with wildly differing lives who constitute the members of this family, this totally unique thing?

You say thank you Kathy and you say thank you Maenar.

But it never, ever seems to be enough.

So you sit down and maybe try to express the thank you in written form, trying to say the words differently. Maybe if you said them in another language they might be more eloquent. Gracias. Danke. M goi. Dank je. Grazie. Domo arigato. Xie xie. Merci. Spasibo.

But, in the end, it's always thanks Maenar and thanks Kath.

And it still just doesn't seem like enough...

Broken Cruise and Fireballs in the Sky

Broken Cruise and Fireballs from the Sky

So let's take a peek and see what's been happening recently in the news, shall we?

First, I guess, and the item that concerned my wife and I more directly than a lot of what's been going on, was the saga of the good ship Carnival Triumph and its fire and engine problems of last week. I know that I, along with many others, surely watched with interest as the multimillion dollar ship with over 4,000 souls on board spent the better part of four days bobbing around in and eventually being towed halfway across the Gulf of Mexico. The stories reaching us from the ship after the power failure were sketchy early on and seemed to be of the panicky-sounding variety. Little power. Sanitation almost non-existent. Pooping in bags and peeing in showers. Bread and ketchup sandwiches. Horrible smells. Sewage on the floor and running down the walls. Ship listing. Sleeping on deck chairs and on the casino floor. Slot machines were too tight. Moby Dick attacking the ship almost hourly! (Naw, not really the case in the last two examples.)

Pretty much the antitheses of a cruise vacation.

Communications with the passengers from the shore was limited to quick cell phone contacts when other ships were close enough that their telephone connections could be used. Obviously there are no cell towers in the center of the Gulf and few, if any of the passengers had sat-phones.

As the situation deteriorated there were eventually two tugboats dispatched which eventually arrived and slowly towed the ship to Mobile, Alabama. It was originally intended for them to haul the boat to Progresso, Mexico, but the ship had drifted so far north by the time the tugs got there it was smarter to pull it north to the U.S.

Besides, the Gulf current ran in that direction.

And there was also the fact that around 900 of the cruise passengers did not have U. S. Passports. Docking in Mexico would have entailed mucho paperwork for those passengers to return to the U. S. by air or in some fashion other than that of the ship they had been cruising in. The cruise line does not require you to have a passport for a cruise that is returning to the same port it left, but it strongly recommends that you do so, specifically for situations like that. It would have been a total nightmare for those non-passport folks trying to return home from Mexico.

The cruise left Galveston on Thursday for a 4-day cruise to Cozumel, Mexico. It should have returned there Monday, but, instead, ended up late on the following Thursday docking in Mobile, Alabama. I found myself, for some reason, humming the chorus from the theme song of Gilligan's Island: “...three hour cruise.”

It was not a “fun” cruise on one of Carnival's “Fun” ships. Not even close.

But in every report I've heard, the crew of the ship was praised for their incredible dedication in doing their best for their passengers and for their above-and-beyond work ethics. I've heard NO negative reports on the crew's performance of their duties. None. And, after having cruised and seen how hard the staff worked on a normal cruise, I expected to see none. Obviously, gigantic kudos to each and every one of them!

So, taking all this excitement in consideration, I ask myself, “Will I cruise again?”

Perhaps the question ought to be, “What are the odds that something of this sort will happen on our cruise, should we elect to take one?”

The answer, of course, is a number so small as to be almost insignificant. Probably in the ballpark of getting hit by lightning at the same time as getting hit by a car.

Definitely worth the “gamble”.

But would I ride on the Triumph?

Ah, another interesting question. The answer is probably not if there were another option available. Not that I believe that the Triumph will have a similar problem in the foreseeable future, but... Hell. Why take even that chance?

But, when all is said and done, life is a gamble that you'll never win. You just try to pick the circumstances that'll give you the best odds for the longest run.

So expect to see another cruise blog from yours truly and his esposa sometime down the road.

Aren't you excited? I am!

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Looking at another piece of news that occurred recently, did you get a chance to check out the stories about the meteor bombardment that happened over in Russia? Wasn't that interesting. And did you happen to view some of the videos on Youtube that were taken of the event?

Holy crap-in-your-pants-and-call-your-mama-Sheera, Batman! That was some of the most terrifying footage that was NOT done by CG I've ever seen! You'd have SWORN those videos were hacked together by some sci-fi-loving computer geeks or were trailers for some upcoming end-of-the-world horror movie.

They were absolutely incredible!

But maybe the most fascinating part of those videos was the reactions of the Russians who were filming them. Or should I say non-reactions? I do not speak Russian, so I can't positively state what was said during and after the fireballs tore through their sky, the sonic booms burst windows for miles and miles around and the rocks themselves thundered into the ground just down the road, but it seemed like they didn't seem too terribly concerned.

Not even a little!

Either they were pretty drunk from too much vodka, or they just didn't give a damn!

A lot of the videos were taken from dash cams on cars, so you can actually see those immense fiery trails from the howling incoming meteors, then the white-hot fireball screamed overhead and the video flashed a solid white as the camera was overloaded with the glare. Then the doggone thing shrieked to a thunderous landing somewhere just out of sight. A few seconds later the tremendous sonic boom shakes the car and landscape all around them like an earthquake.

And the Russians in their cars keep yammering on and on as if the cataclysmic event happening just over their heads were something inconsequential that they experienced every day!

I can just imagine what some of my friends and fellow countrymen might have done in that situation! How poorly we'd have handled it. How quickly the conspiracy theorists would have grabbed onto the event and started pointing fingers at the government. Or to the aliens that just had to have something to do with it.

And I thought about how the Russians just continued on with their conversations as to where they were going to eat lunch, whether it would be blintz's or borscht and black bread that day and wasn't that last bottle of vodka we drank a bit more watered down than usual?

They probably thought it was just Putin screwing around.

It's certainly a wild and crazy world.