I have trouble completing routine tasks
It's 10 p.m. on a Friday and I just finished cleaning bathrooms. Well, almost finished.
When Jackie was diagnosed with MS, we hired someone to come in and clean every other week. On the weeks the person didn't clean, I would give the bathrooms a quick once over.
She decided to stop cleaning, and since we (I) have a lot of time, we (I for the most part) am doing the cleaning ourselves.
So why was I cleaning bathrooms at 10 on a Friday night?
All week I said I was going to get an early start. Up and at em. Get 'em clean.
I also wanted to look for eagles along the Rock by Oregon.
No problem. Up early. Up and at 'em.
Well, at 9:15 I was getting up. Now in my defense, I pulled a rib cage muscle and it hurts when I stretch or lay on it. So I moved to the Lazy Boy (for you perverts, that's a chair) somewhere in the pre-dawn hours. It was not a restful night of sleep.
I ate breakfast. Up and at 'em.
But I was working on a crossword puzzle, and I had a couple of clues I could actually fill in.
10:15.....shower time. Then it's get at the bathrooms.
11:15..... didn't realize how long I had been on spider solitaire, e-mail and Facebook, but it was now time to get at those bathrooms!
So I started at about 11:20....and worked until about 1. By then I was hungry, again, so had some lunch....worked on my crossword and at 1:30 went to let out the dogs.
By then two of the three bathrooms had been cleaned.
But I had made a vow to go look for eagles, so after the dogs enjoyed a romp in the yard, (By the way, her dogs have become recycling machines....do not let them lick you or kiss you. Enough said.) I headed to Oregon.
I sat by the dam for a while, then moved to a rest area where I saw three rather large brownish birds across the river. They may have been immature balds or rough legged hawks. The romantic in me wants me to believe they were eagles.
I drove north on IL 2 and saw a deer carcass in a corn field and perched atop it was a beautiful bald eagle. Yes, they do scavenge carcasses. I got a couple of pictures but the old bird got suspicious and took off. So did I.
When I finally got back home, it was getting dark. I got a lesson in how to operate my computer from Emily, watched a couple of shows we DVRed last night, ate supper and made the decision to almost finish the bathroom tonight and not have to face it in the morning.
So I did.
Tomorrow I tackle the floors. And finish the bathroom.
Friday, February 28, 2014
Thursday, February 27, 2014
It really is Grand
I cried when I saw the Grand Canyon
I just stood on the North Rim, looking out and completely teared up. I was 53 years old and was seeing it for the first time.
Jack and I drove out to Estes Park, Colorado, to visit Rick and Kathy, friends of hers from high school. We all then took a road trip from their Colorado house to the canyon.
When I looked out of the window at the north Rim Lodge and saw the colors, and the depth, it was like a dream come true. For years I had seen pictures, imagined its beauty and hoped I could get there.
And there I was, looking at one of nature's wonders.
That night a ranger led us on a hike out to a point. A bunch of us trooped along with flashlights. We got to the end and he pointed out cities that glittered in the dark like stars in the sky. And the stars were amazing. Quite an experience.
The next day I decided to venture on the same trail in the daytime just to see what it looked like in the light.
I almost cried a second time.
Not for the beauty, but for the sheer terror of looking down and seeing.......well, a hell of a lot of air.
Where were the guard rails? The fences?
I hit a part in the path where there was a rock on one side and nothing on the other.
Understanding my fear of heights, you can appreciate why I put my back against the rock wall and shuffled sideways.
People with little kids and grandmothers were walking past me, staring at me! I could hear the laughter in their minds!!
It's terrible when little kids laugh and point. Lesson learned.
Kathy came past and said, "Terry, are you all right? You look a little pale."
I told her I was fine and said she didn't have to wait for me. Fifteen minutes later when she passed me coming back, she offered to help me.
But I was determined to make it out to the viewing area. On my own.
I made it out to the end. Breathing several deep sighs of relief, I looked out over the canyon for what seemed like a long time.
Then I headed back.
I reached the rock but this time I merely walked close to it, making sure one hand was on the rock wall the whole way.
We were gone 40 minutes at night. I was gone over an hour during the day.
When I got back I was thirsty, shaky, hot, and had to pee.
But I had seen the canyon.
A few days later Jackie had a torn retina and we had to abandon the rest of the vacation and drive straight home.
Not the best way to end a trip, but life happens sometimes.
I just stood on the North Rim, looking out and completely teared up. I was 53 years old and was seeing it for the first time.
Jack and I drove out to Estes Park, Colorado, to visit Rick and Kathy, friends of hers from high school. We all then took a road trip from their Colorado house to the canyon.
When I looked out of the window at the north Rim Lodge and saw the colors, and the depth, it was like a dream come true. For years I had seen pictures, imagined its beauty and hoped I could get there.
And there I was, looking at one of nature's wonders.
That night a ranger led us on a hike out to a point. A bunch of us trooped along with flashlights. We got to the end and he pointed out cities that glittered in the dark like stars in the sky. And the stars were amazing. Quite an experience.
The next day I decided to venture on the same trail in the daytime just to see what it looked like in the light.
I almost cried a second time.
Not for the beauty, but for the sheer terror of looking down and seeing.......well, a hell of a lot of air.
Where were the guard rails? The fences?
I hit a part in the path where there was a rock on one side and nothing on the other.
Understanding my fear of heights, you can appreciate why I put my back against the rock wall and shuffled sideways.
People with little kids and grandmothers were walking past me, staring at me! I could hear the laughter in their minds!!
It's terrible when little kids laugh and point. Lesson learned.
Kathy came past and said, "Terry, are you all right? You look a little pale."
I told her I was fine and said she didn't have to wait for me. Fifteen minutes later when she passed me coming back, she offered to help me.
But I was determined to make it out to the viewing area. On my own.
I made it out to the end. Breathing several deep sighs of relief, I looked out over the canyon for what seemed like a long time.
Then I headed back.
I reached the rock but this time I merely walked close to it, making sure one hand was on the rock wall the whole way.
We were gone 40 minutes at night. I was gone over an hour during the day.
When I got back I was thirsty, shaky, hot, and had to pee.
But I had seen the canyon.
A few days later Jackie had a torn retina and we had to abandon the rest of the vacation and drive straight home.
Not the best way to end a trip, but life happens sometimes.
Wednesday, February 26, 2014
Up on the roof.....
Heights really bother me
I did not realize how much until a shingle or two came loose on our very first house. I put a ladder up on the back porch, climbed on the roof with my hammer in hand and nailed the loose suckers down with roofing nails. Then I sat there for 15 minutes, petrified. I was afraid to move. The smell of food finally lured me down.
Jackie did ask if she needed to call the fire department, but I did not want to expose myself to more ridicule than necessary.
We had a foreign exchange student from France when Emily has in high school. We took her downtown to the Hancock building. As soon as we stepped off the elevator, I glued myself to the wall surrounding the elevator bank and inched my way around the observation deck.
What happens? Glad you asked. I get dizzy. I break out in sweats. I giggle. And I can't shut up.
Which meant while the rest of them were off looking at the gorgeous view from the top, I was blubbering, apparently to myself, and sweating like an idiot. No wonder some people reported me to security.
I try to be brave. I can now climb the wooden observation deck on IL 20 on the way to Galena. For years I would only make it up one landing.
And the last time we camped on Isle Royale, I made it to the top of the fire tower. Don't ask me how. I think my eyes were closed the entire walk up.
I also climbed an observation tower in Door County. I think. I remember looking out and I was on top.
The open grid stairs are the worst. I always have the sensation I am falling.
Julia took us to an area in Switzerland for a walk in a gorge. We had to pay admission and were comforted by the signs that said the property had been inspected for safety. In 1988! Nothing like going15 years without an inspection to instill confidence.
Initially, it was a pleasant climb. There was a family of four...teenage son and daughter, mom and dad..... who passed us like we were standing still. They were bravely tramping up the side of the gorge.
Now, the gorge was pretty steep. The way up was iron open grid stairs that were affixed to the side of the rock. Standing on the stairs, you looked down into the river. We kept climbing, slower and slower, until we reached a particularly steep climb about one fourth of the way up.
The overly confidant, athletic family came steaming past us....ashen faced, shaky, and in a big hurry. I think the kids were crying...but that might have been me.
We continued. We reached a bridge over the gorge and I looked up. Literally, I could hear Zeppelin playing "Stairway to Heaven." These open grid iron stairs last inspected in 1988 kept climbing and climbing and....... we turned around and went back.
Every time I looked down, it was as if the earth was spinning beneath my feet.
I'm OK in an airplane. Three years ago I actually rode a ski gondola in Switzerland and was a bit woozy, but kept taking pictures to keep my mind off of where I actually was.
And then there's the Grand Canyon incident....
Some stories are best left for later.
I did not realize how much until a shingle or two came loose on our very first house. I put a ladder up on the back porch, climbed on the roof with my hammer in hand and nailed the loose suckers down with roofing nails. Then I sat there for 15 minutes, petrified. I was afraid to move. The smell of food finally lured me down.
Jackie did ask if she needed to call the fire department, but I did not want to expose myself to more ridicule than necessary.
We had a foreign exchange student from France when Emily has in high school. We took her downtown to the Hancock building. As soon as we stepped off the elevator, I glued myself to the wall surrounding the elevator bank and inched my way around the observation deck.
What happens? Glad you asked. I get dizzy. I break out in sweats. I giggle. And I can't shut up.
Which meant while the rest of them were off looking at the gorgeous view from the top, I was blubbering, apparently to myself, and sweating like an idiot. No wonder some people reported me to security.
I try to be brave. I can now climb the wooden observation deck on IL 20 on the way to Galena. For years I would only make it up one landing.
And the last time we camped on Isle Royale, I made it to the top of the fire tower. Don't ask me how. I think my eyes were closed the entire walk up.
I also climbed an observation tower in Door County. I think. I remember looking out and I was on top.
The open grid stairs are the worst. I always have the sensation I am falling.
Julia took us to an area in Switzerland for a walk in a gorge. We had to pay admission and were comforted by the signs that said the property had been inspected for safety. In 1988! Nothing like going15 years without an inspection to instill confidence.
Initially, it was a pleasant climb. There was a family of four...teenage son and daughter, mom and dad..... who passed us like we were standing still. They were bravely tramping up the side of the gorge.
Now, the gorge was pretty steep. The way up was iron open grid stairs that were affixed to the side of the rock. Standing on the stairs, you looked down into the river. We kept climbing, slower and slower, until we reached a particularly steep climb about one fourth of the way up.
The overly confidant, athletic family came steaming past us....ashen faced, shaky, and in a big hurry. I think the kids were crying...but that might have been me.
We continued. We reached a bridge over the gorge and I looked up. Literally, I could hear Zeppelin playing "Stairway to Heaven." These open grid iron stairs last inspected in 1988 kept climbing and climbing and....... we turned around and went back.
Every time I looked down, it was as if the earth was spinning beneath my feet.
I'm OK in an airplane. Three years ago I actually rode a ski gondola in Switzerland and was a bit woozy, but kept taking pictures to keep my mind off of where I actually was.
And then there's the Grand Canyon incident....
Some stories are best left for later.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Ah sleep...perchance to dream
I am having trouble getting enough sleep
I stay up to late. I am sleeping in too late.
Even when I was in high school, I liked staying up late. I loved watching Jack Parr and Johnny Carson...then when they were over I frequently would turn on the radio.
I think it was Franklin McCormack, I know that is not how it was spelled. He used to do a show on WGN late at night and into the morning. He would play jazz, read poetry, his sonorous voice keeping me company in the wee hours of the day.
I did go to school, but lots of times I was a tired guy.
I have the same problem now. I usually don't get to bed until midnight or later. The last few mornings I have been up early (ok, 8 may not seem early to you working people). Now you would think I am getting enough sleep, but with the nightmares, trips to the bathroom (thank you, God, for inventing prostates), and worrying about not getting enough sleep, I find myself tired.
I need to break the habit.
In the past month I have slept in several times. The whole day is screwed up when you roll out of bed at 10 a.m. and eat breakfast. That means lunch is mid afternoon and dinner is way late....all because I wanted to play one more game of solitaire, or finish a show, or read the news, or visit Facebook.
So starting tonight, I am going to bed a little earlier each night. Then maybe I can awaken at a decent hour and be a little more productive.
But I have to check Facebook and play one more game before I go.
I stay up to late. I am sleeping in too late.
Even when I was in high school, I liked staying up late. I loved watching Jack Parr and Johnny Carson...then when they were over I frequently would turn on the radio.
I think it was Franklin McCormack, I know that is not how it was spelled. He used to do a show on WGN late at night and into the morning. He would play jazz, read poetry, his sonorous voice keeping me company in the wee hours of the day.
I did go to school, but lots of times I was a tired guy.
I have the same problem now. I usually don't get to bed until midnight or later. The last few mornings I have been up early (ok, 8 may not seem early to you working people). Now you would think I am getting enough sleep, but with the nightmares, trips to the bathroom (thank you, God, for inventing prostates), and worrying about not getting enough sleep, I find myself tired.
I need to break the habit.
In the past month I have slept in several times. The whole day is screwed up when you roll out of bed at 10 a.m. and eat breakfast. That means lunch is mid afternoon and dinner is way late....all because I wanted to play one more game of solitaire, or finish a show, or read the news, or visit Facebook.
So starting tonight, I am going to bed a little earlier each night. Then maybe I can awaken at a decent hour and be a little more productive.
But I have to check Facebook and play one more game before I go.
Monday, February 24, 2014
It's a hot time in the old town tonight
I am not always successful at first impressions
I know, my rapier like wit and general charm are usually overwhelming, but I was reminded today that I sometimes can rank a little low on first impression.
Years ago, friend John came out to visit. He brought a girl with him. This girl was special to him and he wanted her to meet us.
Big mistake.
I suggested we go out to dinner, a romantic little country restaurant near Clare. I think the name was George's Manor....but I could be wrong.
I drove, which has nothing to do with the story except I forgot there was a no passing zone just west of Creston and I passed, going up hill, scaring the bejeebers out of everyone, but we didn't have an accident.
The restaurant was nice, from what I remember. Small, intimate, old fashioned....like dining in someone's living room, which it may have been. Wood paneling on the walls....very rural.
We were making conversation. John was on one side of me, Jackie on the other and Kathy across.
Each table had a candle in the center and ours was blazing away. We continued to talk and meals appeared. There was also a bread basket on the table, near me. It was a wicker basket with paper towels hanging over the side and it was filled with warm, delicious bread.
Being the nice person I am, I passed the bread basket over to Kathy.
That's when the fun began.
I guess I got a little too close to the candle because the basket suddenly erupted into a ball of flame.
I dropped it. The blazing basket was now between Kathy and me. Flames leaped off the table, dancing over our heads. (OK, maybe that is an embellishment.)
So I did what any quick thinking person would do: I tried to blow out the flames.
Ashes from the burning paper towels proceeded to cover Kathy's dinner. I blew again. The flames didn't seem to die down and people were starting to stare. (There may also have been some screaming...I think from me.)
John very calmly picked up his water glass and poured it on the burning basket.
The hostess saw this from the other side of the room and came rushing over.
"Is everything alright?" she asked, staring incredulously at the soggy mess of burned paper towels and ash that now cluttered the table.
"Yes, yes," I answered. "But our buns seem to be a bit soggy."
We never made it back to that restaurant. The food was good. It wasn't the embarrassment of setting fire to the bread.
George's Manor burned down just a few months later.
I had nothing to do with that, but I suspect a bread basket was involved.
And despite me, she stayed. We still go out to eat, but she always keeps an eye out for bread baskets and open flames, just to be safe.
I know, my rapier like wit and general charm are usually overwhelming, but I was reminded today that I sometimes can rank a little low on first impression.
Years ago, friend John came out to visit. He brought a girl with him. This girl was special to him and he wanted her to meet us.
Big mistake.
I suggested we go out to dinner, a romantic little country restaurant near Clare. I think the name was George's Manor....but I could be wrong.
I drove, which has nothing to do with the story except I forgot there was a no passing zone just west of Creston and I passed, going up hill, scaring the bejeebers out of everyone, but we didn't have an accident.
The restaurant was nice, from what I remember. Small, intimate, old fashioned....like dining in someone's living room, which it may have been. Wood paneling on the walls....very rural.
We were making conversation. John was on one side of me, Jackie on the other and Kathy across.
Each table had a candle in the center and ours was blazing away. We continued to talk and meals appeared. There was also a bread basket on the table, near me. It was a wicker basket with paper towels hanging over the side and it was filled with warm, delicious bread.
Being the nice person I am, I passed the bread basket over to Kathy.
That's when the fun began.
I guess I got a little too close to the candle because the basket suddenly erupted into a ball of flame.
I dropped it. The blazing basket was now between Kathy and me. Flames leaped off the table, dancing over our heads. (OK, maybe that is an embellishment.)
So I did what any quick thinking person would do: I tried to blow out the flames.
Ashes from the burning paper towels proceeded to cover Kathy's dinner. I blew again. The flames didn't seem to die down and people were starting to stare. (There may also have been some screaming...I think from me.)
John very calmly picked up his water glass and poured it on the burning basket.
The hostess saw this from the other side of the room and came rushing over.
"Is everything alright?" she asked, staring incredulously at the soggy mess of burned paper towels and ash that now cluttered the table.
"Yes, yes," I answered. "But our buns seem to be a bit soggy."
We never made it back to that restaurant. The food was good. It wasn't the embarrassment of setting fire to the bread.
George's Manor burned down just a few months later.
I had nothing to do with that, but I suspect a bread basket was involved.
And despite me, she stayed. We still go out to eat, but she always keeps an eye out for bread baskets and open flames, just to be safe.
Sunday, February 23, 2014
I think I'm getting emotional, again
I hate Olympic closing ceremonies
I love watching the Olympics. especially the winter ones. I tune in the summer games, but the winter games really capture my attention.
I love the features they do during the coverage: The Russian hockey team members who died in a plane crash, and the Jessica Gold adoption adventure were my favorites. I love the skiing, the snowboarding, the speed racing, the biathlon, the curling the ..... well, I think you get it. I love the winter games.
And these games were so amazing. A 15 year old skater capturing the world's attention, while a 17 year old countryman captures the gold. A mother of two, encouraged by her family to shoot for a medal one more time, this time succeeding in skeleton. The effort of the cross country skiers as they crossed the finish line in first or 27th, falling to the ground exhausted and elated at the same time. Teenagers from every country, competing on a world stage...and winning medals of every color. The frustration of Shani Davis and other US speed skaters as medals eluded them in every race.
And the floor of the stage for the opening and closing ceremonies....amazing technology.
I love the hope and optimism reflected in the games. Nations competing without violence.. The hundreds of young children taking part in the opening and closing ceremonies. All the bonds and friendships the athletes formed. The fellowship of nations on display as we all wish it would be everywhere, everyday.
All those reasons, and more, is why I hate the closing ceremonies. It signifies an end.
I also realize I will almost be 70 when the next winter games begin in South Korea. 70. To even type that is depressing as hell.
The closing spectacular...and I mean that in a good way...it was spectacular....is over.
The flame is out, on its way to South Korea. The stadium is empty. The announcers quiet. The athletes are returning home, some to begin training for another shot at the gold. Some will be retiring, never having achieved the gold they have worked so hard to hang around their necks, but not quite making it.
In four years the youth of the world will be assembling in South Korea. They will once again pursue their dreams. Some will win, some will fall.
They will once again deliver the message of a society of peace, tolerance and respect. Someday, we will listen.
Like Misha the bear, I too am sad...and maybe a little teary.
I love watching the Olympics. especially the winter ones. I tune in the summer games, but the winter games really capture my attention.
I love the features they do during the coverage: The Russian hockey team members who died in a plane crash, and the Jessica Gold adoption adventure were my favorites. I love the skiing, the snowboarding, the speed racing, the biathlon, the curling the ..... well, I think you get it. I love the winter games.
And these games were so amazing. A 15 year old skater capturing the world's attention, while a 17 year old countryman captures the gold. A mother of two, encouraged by her family to shoot for a medal one more time, this time succeeding in skeleton. The effort of the cross country skiers as they crossed the finish line in first or 27th, falling to the ground exhausted and elated at the same time. Teenagers from every country, competing on a world stage...and winning medals of every color. The frustration of Shani Davis and other US speed skaters as medals eluded them in every race.
And the floor of the stage for the opening and closing ceremonies....amazing technology.
I love the hope and optimism reflected in the games. Nations competing without violence.. The hundreds of young children taking part in the opening and closing ceremonies. All the bonds and friendships the athletes formed. The fellowship of nations on display as we all wish it would be everywhere, everyday.
All those reasons, and more, is why I hate the closing ceremonies. It signifies an end.
I also realize I will almost be 70 when the next winter games begin in South Korea. 70. To even type that is depressing as hell.
The closing spectacular...and I mean that in a good way...it was spectacular....is over.
The flame is out, on its way to South Korea. The stadium is empty. The announcers quiet. The athletes are returning home, some to begin training for another shot at the gold. Some will be retiring, never having achieved the gold they have worked so hard to hang around their necks, but not quite making it.
In four years the youth of the world will be assembling in South Korea. They will once again pursue their dreams. Some will win, some will fall.
They will once again deliver the message of a society of peace, tolerance and respect. Someday, we will listen.
Like Misha the bear, I too am sad...and maybe a little teary.
Saturday, February 22, 2014
If at first you don't succeed
My dad sold the family car weeks before my 16th birthday. I think that was an omen. He didn't like to drive, and my mother could not, so the car was sold.
I think he did it to prevent me from driving, or to avoid taking me driving.
I took driver's ed in high school and did very well. But when my 16th birthday rolled around, I had no car to take a driver's test.
All was well .... I rode the bus and double dated. Who am I kidding, I never really dated. But when I did, we rode the bus. Usually, I only had one date with a girl. I blame it on the bus and not my stellar personality.
When I was 17, my sister in law to be took me for my license. She had an Olds, if I remember, and it had power brakes.
I did a practice run, and every time I stopped everything on the seats or rear deck would become air born. But I felt confident. Positive. I knew I could do this.
In Chicago, you take the road test on a little specially designed set up. The road is about 10 feet wide, but it has crosswalks, stop signs, curbs, the whole ball of wax.
I got in the car, checked the mirrors, and looked all directions, then put it in drive. As we rocketed up to 10 miles per hour, I approached a stop sign. So I hit the brakes.
The examiner almost went through the windshield. It did not get any better. Bad turns, rough stops, and a no passing grade from the examiner.
Fast forward one year. I still don't have a car to practice, so my brother Carl takes me out in his...no power brakes, which was fine with me. I drive a little, getting the feel of the car. Felt fine, confident, and ready to go.
Head up to Elston Avenue to the DL bureau, take the written test, take the road test...but not in Carl's car. I used a friend of the family's car, and I was not familiar with it. And the guy would not let me drive to the DL. But I gave it a go.
Stop at the stop sign. Nicely done. Move into traffic. Fine. Make a left turn. Excellent.
Do a three point turn.
No problem. Pull in, back up, pull out and bump over a curb.
"Oops," I say with a nervous laugh as the examiner makes a note.
Time for a right turn. Bump over another curb.
"You know you just went over a curb," he says, as if I'm an idiot and can't tell the car just bounced eight inches in the air.
"Well, we're both pretty damn lucky it wasn't a pedestrian," I joke. He makes notes.
At age 18, I didn't even try. As a matter of fact, I did not drive a car again until my sophomore year in college. Jackie let me drive her dad's car and even took me for the test. But we did it in DeKalb, on a weekday when she convinced her dad to let her borrow the car and bring it to school for some reason.
Being on a real street made all the difference. At 21, I finally had a license.
So, what's the fact?
I flunked my driver's license test. Twice.
I think he did it to prevent me from driving, or to avoid taking me driving.
I took driver's ed in high school and did very well. But when my 16th birthday rolled around, I had no car to take a driver's test.
All was well .... I rode the bus and double dated. Who am I kidding, I never really dated. But when I did, we rode the bus. Usually, I only had one date with a girl. I blame it on the bus and not my stellar personality.
When I was 17, my sister in law to be took me for my license. She had an Olds, if I remember, and it had power brakes.
I did a practice run, and every time I stopped everything on the seats or rear deck would become air born. But I felt confident. Positive. I knew I could do this.
In Chicago, you take the road test on a little specially designed set up. The road is about 10 feet wide, but it has crosswalks, stop signs, curbs, the whole ball of wax.
I got in the car, checked the mirrors, and looked all directions, then put it in drive. As we rocketed up to 10 miles per hour, I approached a stop sign. So I hit the brakes.
The examiner almost went through the windshield. It did not get any better. Bad turns, rough stops, and a no passing grade from the examiner.
Fast forward one year. I still don't have a car to practice, so my brother Carl takes me out in his...no power brakes, which was fine with me. I drive a little, getting the feel of the car. Felt fine, confident, and ready to go.
Head up to Elston Avenue to the DL bureau, take the written test, take the road test...but not in Carl's car. I used a friend of the family's car, and I was not familiar with it. And the guy would not let me drive to the DL. But I gave it a go.
Stop at the stop sign. Nicely done. Move into traffic. Fine. Make a left turn. Excellent.
Do a three point turn.
No problem. Pull in, back up, pull out and bump over a curb.
"Oops," I say with a nervous laugh as the examiner makes a note.
Time for a right turn. Bump over another curb.
"You know you just went over a curb," he says, as if I'm an idiot and can't tell the car just bounced eight inches in the air.
"Well, we're both pretty damn lucky it wasn't a pedestrian," I joke. He makes notes.
At age 18, I didn't even try. As a matter of fact, I did not drive a car again until my sophomore year in college. Jackie let me drive her dad's car and even took me for the test. But we did it in DeKalb, on a weekday when she convinced her dad to let her borrow the car and bring it to school for some reason.
Being on a real street made all the difference. At 21, I finally had a license.
So, what's the fact?
I flunked my driver's license test. Twice.
Friday, February 21, 2014
I didn't mean it
I was ticketed for making an illegal left turn
It was a hot summer day. I was on Ashland Avenue at Lawrence in Chicago. We had a 63 Chevy Impala and Jackie was 8 months pregnant.
I was in the intersection and the light turned red, so I completed my turn.
An officer turned on his lights and pulled me over.
I turned to Jackie and said, "Quick, get out and stretch...like you're in labor."
The officer was not impressed. I was hoping she would moan a little, because she was very big.
As he was writing stuff down, I said, "Did you notice I was already in the intersection?"
He said yes.
I was trying to be logical. "Well, if I wasn't supposed to make the turn, what should I have done?"
Without looking up he said, "Back up."
I pointed out there was a car there, but that had no effect.
His parting words were, "Pay it or go to court."
I paid it.
Now, I admit I was an inexperienced driver. If in that situation again, maybe I might do something different.
But a column in the Tribune about a week ago clearly pointed out -- 40 plus years later-- that I was in the wrong.
In Illinois, you are not supposed to enter an intersection to make a left turn until you are sure you can turn safely. That's why they put the white line on the road....drivers are supposed to wait there for a clear path.
One reason is safety..in an intersection you are exposed to traffic from four different directions while at the white line only two directions have you in their sights.
So I have begun paying attention to where people are when they are making left turns....and it seems to me more people wait in the intersection than at the white line. At some intersections that means they are still there when the light turns red and the other traffic gets a green but can't go because people are blocking the road waiting to complete a left turn.
So I chalk that first ticket up to a lack of experience.
And tomorrow I'll tell why I was an inexperienced driver.
It was a hot summer day. I was on Ashland Avenue at Lawrence in Chicago. We had a 63 Chevy Impala and Jackie was 8 months pregnant.
I was in the intersection and the light turned red, so I completed my turn.
An officer turned on his lights and pulled me over.
I turned to Jackie and said, "Quick, get out and stretch...like you're in labor."
The officer was not impressed. I was hoping she would moan a little, because she was very big.
As he was writing stuff down, I said, "Did you notice I was already in the intersection?"
He said yes.
I was trying to be logical. "Well, if I wasn't supposed to make the turn, what should I have done?"
Without looking up he said, "Back up."
I pointed out there was a car there, but that had no effect.
His parting words were, "Pay it or go to court."
I paid it.
Now, I admit I was an inexperienced driver. If in that situation again, maybe I might do something different.
But a column in the Tribune about a week ago clearly pointed out -- 40 plus years later-- that I was in the wrong.
In Illinois, you are not supposed to enter an intersection to make a left turn until you are sure you can turn safely. That's why they put the white line on the road....drivers are supposed to wait there for a clear path.
One reason is safety..in an intersection you are exposed to traffic from four different directions while at the white line only two directions have you in their sights.
So I have begun paying attention to where people are when they are making left turns....and it seems to me more people wait in the intersection than at the white line. At some intersections that means they are still there when the light turns red and the other traffic gets a green but can't go because people are blocking the road waiting to complete a left turn.
So I chalk that first ticket up to a lack of experience.
And tomorrow I'll tell why I was an inexperienced driver.
Thursday, February 20, 2014
The call the wind Mariah
I don't like high winds
Especially at night. High winds give me nightmares. They howl and I don't sleep. The screens flap and I don't sleep. They rattle the house and I don't sleep.
It's going to be a long night. I am drinking some Sleepy Time tea to settle me down and hopefully allow me to sleep.
What was that????
Never mind, just the wind.
I don't like high winds!!!!!!!
Especially at night. High winds give me nightmares. They howl and I don't sleep. The screens flap and I don't sleep. They rattle the house and I don't sleep.
It's going to be a long night. I am drinking some Sleepy Time tea to settle me down and hopefully allow me to sleep.
What was that????
Never mind, just the wind.
I don't like high winds!!!!!!!
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Merci, Danka, and a few other phrases
I try to learn phrases for the countries I visit
I always try to learn a phrase or two that may be helpful in the countries I visit when going to Julia's.
I can say a few phrases in French, enough to order pastries and wine. Essentials. I can say hello, good night, thank you in German, Italian and English, which is very similar to American.
One year, I took a bike tour in the Netherlands. I memorized the phrase "Nien sprechen zhe deutsch," which I thought would come in handy in Holland.
I rode about 20 miles a day, some days I rode about 30. It was a great trip. I got along fine, language wise, until the next to last day.
I stopped for a break at a little museum. An inviting picnic table and shade trees made for a great place to stop for a drink and a little rest and contemplation.
As I was quietly sitting there, minding my own business, a man came out of the museum and saw me. He called and waved me over.
I walked over and said my phrase, "Nein sprechen zhe deutsch."
He nodded and said, "Ya, Ya........."
And then he proceeded to give me a tour of the museum.
The funny thing was, the more he talked, the more I understood. He wasn't speaking English, but there were a lot of English sounding words.
He showed a crown, some armament, a model of the castle in its heyday...we got along fine for about 15 minutes. He picked up a mug and said something...then he asked me a question.
And he waited for my response.
So I repeated my phrase.
He repeated the question, slower this time.
I repeated my phrase.
He repeated the question.
In frustration, I said, in English, " I don't speak Dutch."
He looked at me like I had horns and four eyes, and possibly just arrived from outer space.
"You shpeak English? Vell, dat makes it a little easier now, doesn't it."
He then explained the significance of the mug, which in English made a lot of sense.
I'd like to do that ride again. This time I'll just speak English ... it will make thinks a little easier.
I always try to learn a phrase or two that may be helpful in the countries I visit when going to Julia's.
I can say a few phrases in French, enough to order pastries and wine. Essentials. I can say hello, good night, thank you in German, Italian and English, which is very similar to American.
One year, I took a bike tour in the Netherlands. I memorized the phrase "Nien sprechen zhe deutsch," which I thought would come in handy in Holland.
I rode about 20 miles a day, some days I rode about 30. It was a great trip. I got along fine, language wise, until the next to last day.
I stopped for a break at a little museum. An inviting picnic table and shade trees made for a great place to stop for a drink and a little rest and contemplation.
As I was quietly sitting there, minding my own business, a man came out of the museum and saw me. He called and waved me over.
I walked over and said my phrase, "Nein sprechen zhe deutsch."
He nodded and said, "Ya, Ya........."
And then he proceeded to give me a tour of the museum.
The funny thing was, the more he talked, the more I understood. He wasn't speaking English, but there were a lot of English sounding words.
He showed a crown, some armament, a model of the castle in its heyday...we got along fine for about 15 minutes. He picked up a mug and said something...then he asked me a question.
And he waited for my response.
So I repeated my phrase.
He repeated the question, slower this time.
I repeated my phrase.
He repeated the question.
In frustration, I said, in English, " I don't speak Dutch."
He looked at me like I had horns and four eyes, and possibly just arrived from outer space.
"You shpeak English? Vell, dat makes it a little easier now, doesn't it."
He then explained the significance of the mug, which in English made a lot of sense.
I'd like to do that ride again. This time I'll just speak English ... it will make thinks a little easier.
Tuesday, February 18, 2014
give me a 4.5 for style, please
I was about 17. I had just gotten a new three speed thin tired racing bike. Well, it was actually a used bike, but it was new to me.
All bad stories start with the phrase, "I was trying to impress this girl."
That's because guys do stupid things when trying to impress a girl. It doesn't matter if they are 17 or 71, guys don't always think it through.
So there I was, minding my own business, riding my bike along the lakefront in Chicago.
I was near Montrose harbor, not real far from my house. I rode there a lot because it was good exercise and it was a beautiful setting.
I was crossing the parking lot when I saw The Girl I Was Trying To Impress. She was in a car, taking driving lessons from a friend of mine, who also liked her.
I debated about what to do.
Ride up to them and talk about the weather? Compliment her on her driving ability? Thank him for teaching her to drive? Pretend I did not see them and continue riding?
Unfortunately, I chose none of the above.
The lot had those concrete blocks that separated parking spaces....the ones about 6 inches high and four inches wide.
I decided I would jump one on my bike.
I watched where they were practicing, saw a concrete block and started pedaling.
I was pedalling, furiously. My legs were churning, pumping, the bike was gaining speed.
Sure I had jumped with my old bike, I would yank hard on the handlebars and the bike would fly over with ease, if I had enough speed.
I know they were watching as I zoomed past them. When I approached the curb I pulled up on the handle bars with all my strength.
This was the first bike I had with hand brakes.
As I yanked up, I pushed down hard on the brakes and the bike skidded to a stop. Almost.
I hit the concrete block straight on and was propelled over the handle bars, because I was standing up for the jump. Let me correct that: partially over the handle bars.
As I lay on the ground they rushed up to me and asked if I was alright. I could not tell them exactly where I hurt, and I sure as hell could not rub it in public.
I got up, dusted myself off and walked my bike slowly away. I hurt for a few days, but eventually I could pee straight again.
So, something you may not know about me:
I would be a lousy motocross bike racer
All bad stories start with the phrase, "I was trying to impress this girl."
That's because guys do stupid things when trying to impress a girl. It doesn't matter if they are 17 or 71, guys don't always think it through.
So there I was, minding my own business, riding my bike along the lakefront in Chicago.
I was near Montrose harbor, not real far from my house. I rode there a lot because it was good exercise and it was a beautiful setting.
I was crossing the parking lot when I saw The Girl I Was Trying To Impress. She was in a car, taking driving lessons from a friend of mine, who also liked her.
I debated about what to do.
Ride up to them and talk about the weather? Compliment her on her driving ability? Thank him for teaching her to drive? Pretend I did not see them and continue riding?
Unfortunately, I chose none of the above.
The lot had those concrete blocks that separated parking spaces....the ones about 6 inches high and four inches wide.
I decided I would jump one on my bike.
I watched where they were practicing, saw a concrete block and started pedaling.
I was pedalling, furiously. My legs were churning, pumping, the bike was gaining speed.
Sure I had jumped with my old bike, I would yank hard on the handlebars and the bike would fly over with ease, if I had enough speed.
I know they were watching as I zoomed past them. When I approached the curb I pulled up on the handle bars with all my strength.
This was the first bike I had with hand brakes.
As I yanked up, I pushed down hard on the brakes and the bike skidded to a stop. Almost.
I hit the concrete block straight on and was propelled over the handle bars, because I was standing up for the jump. Let me correct that: partially over the handle bars.
As I lay on the ground they rushed up to me and asked if I was alright. I could not tell them exactly where I hurt, and I sure as hell could not rub it in public.
I got up, dusted myself off and walked my bike slowly away. I hurt for a few days, but eventually I could pee straight again.
So, something you may not know about me:
I would be a lousy motocross bike racer
Monday, February 17, 2014
OK, I admit it.....
I told Jackie last Friday that "snowplows were done...we won't have another snow when the plows run."
Sometimes I am wrong...and I admit it.
I was wrong when I thought the Bears would be contenders.
I have been wrong for 55 years about the Cubs. Well, maybe 53...there were two years they almost made a run to the pennant.
I was wrong about Blago.
I was also wrong about Quinn.
I was wrong not to buy Apple stock at $6 a share.
I was wrong about curling being boring.
I was wrong when I said this would be easy.
Now, that is a start. But we really don't have time to read all the times I have been wrong, let's just say that number is more than the stars in the night sky.
Unfortunately, I don't think I am wrong about that.
Sometimes I am wrong...and I admit it.
I was wrong when I thought the Bears would be contenders.
I have been wrong for 55 years about the Cubs. Well, maybe 53...there were two years they almost made a run to the pennant.
I was wrong about Blago.
I was also wrong about Quinn.
I was wrong not to buy Apple stock at $6 a share.
I was wrong about curling being boring.
I was wrong when I said this would be easy.
Now, that is a start. But we really don't have time to read all the times I have been wrong, let's just say that number is more than the stars in the night sky.
Unfortunately, I don't think I am wrong about that.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
I have proven Newton correct
I have learned to hire professionals
Emily mentioned recently she was thinking of repainting rooms in her house. I said we could do it in a couple of days. She wants to hire a professional.
Huh. I was insulted. I have experience painting.
When our current house was being built, we hired a professional. I came in one night and picked up a can of peach to see how much was left. The can slipped out of my hands, hit the floor, and the lid flew off.
Paint was splattered everywhere.
I thought I could just leave and blame vandals, but Jackie said I had to fess up. So I called the painter and told him what I had done.
He was not amused.
We decided to repaint a room because the color was not what we wanted (think bright blue...then put a sunlamp in it to make it even brighter).
When I asked how long it would take him to redo, he asked me if I was helping. Seems if I helped, he would plan on twice as long and another gallon.
I have painted before.
I even painted the exterior of our house on Mill Pond. There was a peak, and I made Jackie go up on the ladder to do that. But I painted the rest of the house.
This was a tri-level, and I could not quite reach the top on the backside with my short ladder, and my long ladder was.....too long.
I mulled over the situation. Unlike the last time I had this quandary, when I put the picnic table in the back end of the pick up truck and put a ladder on top of the table, I knew I had to be more careful.
So I took this 16 foot wooden ladder (yes, it was 16 feet and it was not an extension ladder) and moved it to the back of the house. Putting it up, I could not reach the wall because the ladder rested on the gutter, which was about 2 feet out.
So I did what any normal red blooded American man would do: I angled the ladder.; about 45 degrees.
I got on it and bounced a couple of times. It held.
I gingerly climbed up to rung 14, then wiggled my legs through the rungs so I could sit and paint.
I think it was the wiggling that did it.
That ladder spit out the bottom and went straight down at about 200 miles an hour.
I hit the ground and crumpled over, fearing I broke both legs, my knee caps, my ankles and my back.
But everything seemed to work.
I crawled/limped/shuffled to the back door and pounded for someone to help me.
In those circumstances a guy doesn't want to hear, "What were you thinking", but we always do.
You also don't want to hear, "Are you crazy or just plain stupid?" but we always do.
And years later it may seem funny, but in fact it was not, despite the laughter that came when I explained what happened.
I did leave one streak about 4 inches wide going down the wall, and it looked good.
And eventually I got the right sized ladder for the job and finished painting.
Emily has an open stairwell. She said it would be hard to paint. But I told her we could take some boards, make a platform, and I could angle my 14 foot extension ladder up so we could paint the stairway top.
She looked at me as if I was crazy.
We decided that maybe calling a professional would be a good idea.
So Dane, if you are reading this....we will be giving you a call.
And I won't touch the paint or help in any way.
Emily mentioned recently she was thinking of repainting rooms in her house. I said we could do it in a couple of days. She wants to hire a professional.
Huh. I was insulted. I have experience painting.
When our current house was being built, we hired a professional. I came in one night and picked up a can of peach to see how much was left. The can slipped out of my hands, hit the floor, and the lid flew off.
Paint was splattered everywhere.
I thought I could just leave and blame vandals, but Jackie said I had to fess up. So I called the painter and told him what I had done.
He was not amused.
We decided to repaint a room because the color was not what we wanted (think bright blue...then put a sunlamp in it to make it even brighter).
When I asked how long it would take him to redo, he asked me if I was helping. Seems if I helped, he would plan on twice as long and another gallon.
I have painted before.
I even painted the exterior of our house on Mill Pond. There was a peak, and I made Jackie go up on the ladder to do that. But I painted the rest of the house.
This was a tri-level, and I could not quite reach the top on the backside with my short ladder, and my long ladder was.....too long.
I mulled over the situation. Unlike the last time I had this quandary, when I put the picnic table in the back end of the pick up truck and put a ladder on top of the table, I knew I had to be more careful.
So I took this 16 foot wooden ladder (yes, it was 16 feet and it was not an extension ladder) and moved it to the back of the house. Putting it up, I could not reach the wall because the ladder rested on the gutter, which was about 2 feet out.
So I did what any normal red blooded American man would do: I angled the ladder.; about 45 degrees.
I got on it and bounced a couple of times. It held.
I gingerly climbed up to rung 14, then wiggled my legs through the rungs so I could sit and paint.
I think it was the wiggling that did it.
That ladder spit out the bottom and went straight down at about 200 miles an hour.
I hit the ground and crumpled over, fearing I broke both legs, my knee caps, my ankles and my back.
But everything seemed to work.
I crawled/limped/shuffled to the back door and pounded for someone to help me.
In those circumstances a guy doesn't want to hear, "What were you thinking", but we always do.
You also don't want to hear, "Are you crazy or just plain stupid?" but we always do.
And years later it may seem funny, but in fact it was not, despite the laughter that came when I explained what happened.
I did leave one streak about 4 inches wide going down the wall, and it looked good.
And eventually I got the right sized ladder for the job and finished painting.
Emily has an open stairwell. She said it would be hard to paint. But I told her we could take some boards, make a platform, and I could angle my 14 foot extension ladder up so we could paint the stairway top.
She looked at me as if I was crazy.
We decided that maybe calling a professional would be a good idea.
So Dane, if you are reading this....we will be giving you a call.
And I won't touch the paint or help in any way.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
I swear, I can cook
I set fire to my popcorn popper
I have a Whirley Pop popcorn maker. It sits on the stovetop and when the oil gets hot, you put in the popcorn and turn a crank. The lid is two parts....one side is fixed and the other side opens. It is really a great popcorn maker.
Using it is a fairly easy procedure. I have done it hundreds of times.
Sometimes I get a little lax on procedures.
I put the oil and one kernel in the pan. You put one kernel in to test the heat of the oil. When the one kernel pops, you put about one half cup of popcorn into the Whirley Pop.
But I went off to talk to Ross for a second....just a second.
The flame was on high.
I smelled burning oil. I hurried back into the kitchen and opened one side of the container.
Opening the one side introduced oxygen to the mix. The flames leaped out of the Whirley Pop, almost scoring the range hood. I quickly put the lid back on and removed it from the burner.
We have a saying in our house...when the smoke detectors start buzzing, dinner's done.
Well, the smoke detectors started buzzing. I opened a window (it was about 7 outside) and turned on all the fans. I put the smoking, spitting Whirley Pop out into the garage.
The house had a thin haze through the air. And a terrible smell.
I finally washed out the Whirley Pop tonight. It still smells. I cleaned it as well as I could, and I hope it is enough to wipe away the odor of the burning oil.
I just hope it produces popcorn the way it used to!
I have a Whirley Pop popcorn maker. It sits on the stovetop and when the oil gets hot, you put in the popcorn and turn a crank. The lid is two parts....one side is fixed and the other side opens. It is really a great popcorn maker.
Using it is a fairly easy procedure. I have done it hundreds of times.
Sometimes I get a little lax on procedures.
I put the oil and one kernel in the pan. You put one kernel in to test the heat of the oil. When the one kernel pops, you put about one half cup of popcorn into the Whirley Pop.
But I went off to talk to Ross for a second....just a second.
The flame was on high.
I smelled burning oil. I hurried back into the kitchen and opened one side of the container.
Opening the one side introduced oxygen to the mix. The flames leaped out of the Whirley Pop, almost scoring the range hood. I quickly put the lid back on and removed it from the burner.
We have a saying in our house...when the smoke detectors start buzzing, dinner's done.
Well, the smoke detectors started buzzing. I opened a window (it was about 7 outside) and turned on all the fans. I put the smoking, spitting Whirley Pop out into the garage.
The house had a thin haze through the air. And a terrible smell.
I finally washed out the Whirley Pop tonight. It still smells. I cleaned it as well as I could, and I hope it is enough to wipe away the odor of the burning oil.
I just hope it produces popcorn the way it used to!
Friday, February 14, 2014
This is harder than I thought
I am having a hard time telling about me
I honestly thought I could tell a thing about me every day, but I am getting a little nervous. I may have to start revealing the darker side of me...I think the statutes of limitation have run out on some of the events.
In any case, today is just a tough one.
On the positive side, this blog has had over 2,000 hits. That means a lot to me. It means people care about me. It also means they are incredibly bored and don't have anything better to do than read my sometimes nonsensical ramblings.
And my audience is in several different countries. Obviously the bulk of he readers are from the US. Switzerland is second (Hi Julia, Craig, Yvonne, Kevin, Christina.....if you are reading this) but Germany is just one behind Switzerland in terms of where the readers live.
And the fourth highest is..... Ukraine! With 20 visits. I can understand finding it once, but 20 times.....
Other countries are Malaysia, France, Japan, Russia (Vlady is reading them between Olympic events) Armenia and Spain.
So here is a challenge: If you don't live in the United States, type a little comment about how you found this site. I am just a little curious.
Of course, it could also be an automated program that runs checks on every blog site to see what is new.... but I'd rather think a human, not a computer, has been reading this.
That's it.
I honestly thought I could tell a thing about me every day, but I am getting a little nervous. I may have to start revealing the darker side of me...I think the statutes of limitation have run out on some of the events.
In any case, today is just a tough one.
On the positive side, this blog has had over 2,000 hits. That means a lot to me. It means people care about me. It also means they are incredibly bored and don't have anything better to do than read my sometimes nonsensical ramblings.
And my audience is in several different countries. Obviously the bulk of he readers are from the US. Switzerland is second (Hi Julia, Craig, Yvonne, Kevin, Christina.....if you are reading this) but Germany is just one behind Switzerland in terms of where the readers live.
And the fourth highest is..... Ukraine! With 20 visits. I can understand finding it once, but 20 times.....
Other countries are Malaysia, France, Japan, Russia (Vlady is reading them between Olympic events) Armenia and Spain.
So here is a challenge: If you don't live in the United States, type a little comment about how you found this site. I am just a little curious.
Of course, it could also be an automated program that runs checks on every blog site to see what is new.... but I'd rather think a human, not a computer, has been reading this.
That's it.
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Where is the grass greener?
I am never happy about something
I always wonder what it would be like to live somewhere else. Actually, I would love to live in a different country. Maybe someplace warmer. With a language I would have to learn. And a new culture with new traditions and challenges.
But where?
Then I found Ifitweremyhome.com.
Try it. You'll be amazed.
For example, say I want to live in Chad in Africa. If I lived there, the infant mortality rate is 15 times higher than in the US. And the rate of AIDS/HIV is almost 5 times higher. I would use less electricity, less oil, earn less and die 30 years earlier than in the US.
Maybe not a good example.
How about Russia. They have the Olympics, but how does their overall life compare to mine? Well, I would make less money but spend less on medical bills. I would have an 83 percent higher chance of getting HIV/AIDS and a 68 percent higher chance that my children would die in childbirth. My life expectancy would be 12 years less, I expect because people can't find any other way out of the country.
Maybe France. France is smaller than Texas. I would make less money but have more free time. There would be 46 percent less of a chance of a child dying in infancy and I would live almost 3 years longer. That doesn't sound too bad. Like Jimmy Buffet said, warm summer breezes and French wine and cheeses kind of makes life drift past quickly there.
But Switzerland....that has to be a great place. Let's see....a better chance at being employed, but I would make less money. I'd spend less on health care. Less of a risk of an infant dying, but the birth rate is down. And I would live almost 3 years longer. Probably due to the chocolates and rosti.
If I was younger, living abroad might be something I would pursue.
But of course, I would then be sitting at a computer comparing life there with life here, because I wouldn't be happy.
I just can't seem to find the greenest grass, but I keep looking.
I always wonder what it would be like to live somewhere else. Actually, I would love to live in a different country. Maybe someplace warmer. With a language I would have to learn. And a new culture with new traditions and challenges.
But where?
Then I found Ifitweremyhome.com.
Try it. You'll be amazed.
For example, say I want to live in Chad in Africa. If I lived there, the infant mortality rate is 15 times higher than in the US. And the rate of AIDS/HIV is almost 5 times higher. I would use less electricity, less oil, earn less and die 30 years earlier than in the US.
Maybe not a good example.
How about Russia. They have the Olympics, but how does their overall life compare to mine? Well, I would make less money but spend less on medical bills. I would have an 83 percent higher chance of getting HIV/AIDS and a 68 percent higher chance that my children would die in childbirth. My life expectancy would be 12 years less, I expect because people can't find any other way out of the country.
Maybe France. France is smaller than Texas. I would make less money but have more free time. There would be 46 percent less of a chance of a child dying in infancy and I would live almost 3 years longer. That doesn't sound too bad. Like Jimmy Buffet said, warm summer breezes and French wine and cheeses kind of makes life drift past quickly there.
But Switzerland....that has to be a great place. Let's see....a better chance at being employed, but I would make less money. I'd spend less on health care. Less of a risk of an infant dying, but the birth rate is down. And I would live almost 3 years longer. Probably due to the chocolates and rosti.
If I was younger, living abroad might be something I would pursue.
But of course, I would then be sitting at a computer comparing life there with life here, because I wouldn't be happy.
I just can't seem to find the greenest grass, but I keep looking.
Wednesday, February 12, 2014
Eww....it's melting
I grew up in Chicago. We didn't have snow blowers, we cleared sidewalks with an old shovel. My folks did not have a driveway.....actually, they didn't even have a car. I got a lot of exercise shoveling the sidewalk, which we always did.
Moving to the boonies was a challenge. I had a yard to mow. Gardens to weed. I discovered dog poop is not a good fertilizer for new trees. I got a driveway.
Sure, in our younger years I could get help shoveling the driveway. The two of us could work outside and get the job done fairly quickly.
When we moved to Mill Pond, it was time to get a snow blower. Our driveway was bigger...wider and longer....and it snowed a lot more in the country. Plus, it was a gravel driveway which made using a shovel difficult.
So I bought a snow blower.
It was fine as long as I did not actually clear all the snow, because the pebbles and rock shards would fly out.
I don't remember the year, but we had a lot of snow. So much snow, that our mutt Snooty could follow the path to the driveway and do his thing in the driveway. I would scoop if possible, but sometimes it snowed over the poop.
Remember the expression out of sight out of mind?
For some reason, I was blowing snow toward the garage. It was going up onto the roof of the garage. I thought that was OK....there was a lot of snow.
This pattern continued for several snows....blow it toward the garage, and not hit the gravel to cause bits to fly.
I did not realize the problem until spring. I pulled into the driveway and looked at the roof.
There were at least 15 piles of brown.....oozy, runny, brown that looked like it was either a frozen Tootsie Roll (don't laugh....I once had a daughter who found some Tootsie Rolls in the back yard. Jackie and I looked at each other and at the same time said, "Tootsie Rolls? Where did she get.....Eww...drop that now!")
So, the fact you may not know about me.
I once blew dog shit onto the garage roof
Sometimes it may be out of sight, and out of mind, but it can come back to haunt you in very unsightly ways. It took several rains for that roof to come clean.
Moving to the boonies was a challenge. I had a yard to mow. Gardens to weed. I discovered dog poop is not a good fertilizer for new trees. I got a driveway.
Sure, in our younger years I could get help shoveling the driveway. The two of us could work outside and get the job done fairly quickly.
When we moved to Mill Pond, it was time to get a snow blower. Our driveway was bigger...wider and longer....and it snowed a lot more in the country. Plus, it was a gravel driveway which made using a shovel difficult.
So I bought a snow blower.
It was fine as long as I did not actually clear all the snow, because the pebbles and rock shards would fly out.
I don't remember the year, but we had a lot of snow. So much snow, that our mutt Snooty could follow the path to the driveway and do his thing in the driveway. I would scoop if possible, but sometimes it snowed over the poop.
Remember the expression out of sight out of mind?
For some reason, I was blowing snow toward the garage. It was going up onto the roof of the garage. I thought that was OK....there was a lot of snow.
This pattern continued for several snows....blow it toward the garage, and not hit the gravel to cause bits to fly.
I did not realize the problem until spring. I pulled into the driveway and looked at the roof.
There were at least 15 piles of brown.....oozy, runny, brown that looked like it was either a frozen Tootsie Roll (don't laugh....I once had a daughter who found some Tootsie Rolls in the back yard. Jackie and I looked at each other and at the same time said, "Tootsie Rolls? Where did she get.....Eww...drop that now!")
So, the fact you may not know about me.
I once blew dog shit onto the garage roof
Sometimes it may be out of sight, and out of mind, but it can come back to haunt you in very unsightly ways. It took several rains for that roof to come clean.
Tuesday, February 11, 2014
It's a jar of....what the helll!!!
I used to use a regular razor.....but I had some moles on my chin and it was always hard to drag that stainless steel razor over them. Plus, it took some care and effort to put on shaving cream and to make sure the razor was sharp and not too rusty. And applying the aftershave always gave me that burning clean sensation.
So years ago I switched to an electric razor.
Unlike a blade, an electric razor can catch the whisker stubble. Frequently one has to clean out the shaving head to make sure the razor gives a clean cut.
Does anyone know when Peter Pan peanut butter sold for 78 cents a jar?
I am curious, for at that time I started doing something I guarantee none of your friends or family members do. Or at least will admit to doing.
I have a peanut butter jar of facial hair shavings
I keep it under my side of the sink. When I clean out the razor, I empty the head into the jar.
I never thought it was strange until one night during an Exit 99 session, I brought it out and showed it to my peeps.
They thought it was odd and slightly disgusting. To be honest, I did bring that out after I proudly displayed the two 10 inch tinfoil barb aquarium fish I had stored in a Norton Security box in our freezer. And yes, beer was involved.
I think the jar of shavings is kind of neat.
The bottom part of the jar is filled with tiny brown shavings....and they get progressively lighter as the layers build up. The top layer is not quite gray, but it certainly is a light color.
At some point......at some point......I will have to get rid of it. Well, actually, maybe not me. It'll be another one of those "What the hell was wrong with him" moments for one of my children.
I suggest they put it on e-bay. It could be used in a scientific study, or an art project, or scattered outside for the wind to carry to places I can't travel.
And I will gladly show it to you should you show up with wine.
So years ago I switched to an electric razor.
Unlike a blade, an electric razor can catch the whisker stubble. Frequently one has to clean out the shaving head to make sure the razor gives a clean cut.
Does anyone know when Peter Pan peanut butter sold for 78 cents a jar?
I am curious, for at that time I started doing something I guarantee none of your friends or family members do. Or at least will admit to doing.
I have a peanut butter jar of facial hair shavings
I keep it under my side of the sink. When I clean out the razor, I empty the head into the jar.
I never thought it was strange until one night during an Exit 99 session, I brought it out and showed it to my peeps.
They thought it was odd and slightly disgusting. To be honest, I did bring that out after I proudly displayed the two 10 inch tinfoil barb aquarium fish I had stored in a Norton Security box in our freezer. And yes, beer was involved.
I think the jar of shavings is kind of neat.
The bottom part of the jar is filled with tiny brown shavings....and they get progressively lighter as the layers build up. The top layer is not quite gray, but it certainly is a light color.
At some point......at some point......I will have to get rid of it. Well, actually, maybe not me. It'll be another one of those "What the hell was wrong with him" moments for one of my children.
I suggest they put it on e-bay. It could be used in a scientific study, or an art project, or scattered outside for the wind to carry to places I can't travel.
And I will gladly show it to you should you show up with wine.
Monday, February 10, 2014
Why are my teeth chattering?
I just looked at the current temperature. It is -19 outside. Negative. Below 0.
I always had a hard time explaining this concept to fifth graders.
Try telling a kid that when the temperature hits zero it can still get colder and go below zero. So when it hits zero, which is no value, you still have value because it can still go down.
Anyway, what you may not know about me:
I am sick of below zero temperatures!!
My only hope: pitchers and catchers report this week. Spring is on the way.
I always had a hard time explaining this concept to fifth graders.
Try telling a kid that when the temperature hits zero it can still get colder and go below zero. So when it hits zero, which is no value, you still have value because it can still go down.
Anyway, what you may not know about me:
I am sick of below zero temperatures!!
My only hope: pitchers and catchers report this week. Spring is on the way.
Sunday, February 9, 2014
Maybe it's time to weed through stuff
It is no secret I love to think environmentally. If there is a way to recycle, or reuse, or reduce, I will try it.
For example, on holidays someone likes to buy napkins. If we don't use all of them, we put them in a tub for future use.
I went through a tub and look what I found:
Yes, that is me holding a napkin from a box we recently went through.
Notice anything strange?
I am 65!!! Jackie is almost 65!!!
This napkin is older than Facebook, bordering on the stage of when we began using the Internet for communication!
Bill Clinton was president, but he spent most of the year denying he had sex with "that woman." On the positive side, the US had its first budget surplus in 30 years!!
Stamps were only 32 cents and a gallon of gas was only $1.15.
The Titanic was sailing again on the movie screen. Google was founded. Viagra was approved for men and Spice Girl Doll sets were being sold.
And I turned 50 in 1998.
So the fact, which actually is pretty well known to family:
I don't toss anything that can be eventually used
Now that may be because I am concerned about the environment. Or I'm cheap. Or maybe I am just one of many people in my family's history who won't toss out anything valuable.
For now, I am using my 50th birthday napkins...because they are there.
And who knows, maybe I'll even think I am that young again!
For example, on holidays someone likes to buy napkins. If we don't use all of them, we put them in a tub for future use.
I went through a tub and look what I found:
Yes, that is me holding a napkin from a box we recently went through.
Notice anything strange?
I am 65!!! Jackie is almost 65!!!
This napkin is older than Facebook, bordering on the stage of when we began using the Internet for communication!
Bill Clinton was president, but he spent most of the year denying he had sex with "that woman." On the positive side, the US had its first budget surplus in 30 years!!
Stamps were only 32 cents and a gallon of gas was only $1.15.
The Titanic was sailing again on the movie screen. Google was founded. Viagra was approved for men and Spice Girl Doll sets were being sold.
And I turned 50 in 1998.
So the fact, which actually is pretty well known to family:
I don't toss anything that can be eventually used
Now that may be because I am concerned about the environment. Or I'm cheap. Or maybe I am just one of many people in my family's history who won't toss out anything valuable.
For now, I am using my 50th birthday napkins...because they are there.
And who knows, maybe I'll even think I am that young again!
Saturday, February 8, 2014
I believe in yesterday
One of the biggest regrets I have in life happened about 50 years ago.
It was 1965. The US had been invaded by a bunch of long haired guys from England and I was not impressed.
I didn't like The Beatles. When they were on the Ed Sullivan show, I watched, but I admit I was not an instant fan. That was Feb. 9, 1964, in case you live in a cave and did not know that.
Yeah, some of the guys at school started wearing their hair like the Beatles.
Yes, the more I heard the music, the more I liked it.
It was fast. Catchy. Singable. And they annoyed my parents.
But I didn't run out and buy any records....it wasn't until Norwegian Wood and Rubber Soul in December of 65 that I became a Beatles nut. But it was too late.
My cousin Sally went to the same high school I did, although she had already graduated when tickets went on sale for The Beatles at Comiskey Park in September of 1965.
She called me and said she had an extra ticket....someone couldn't go....and would I go with her.
I turned down a chance to see The Beatles
I didn't go. I don't know why, to this day I can' t explain it.
The boys would only play together in public a few times after that, I don't remember if they came back to Chicago. Th greatest rock group ever imploded in 1970.
I have seen the Rolling Stones....and they are awesome in their own way. If they do an outdoor show in the area again, I'll probably go. And Buffet. And Kenny Rogers. And Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. (What was I thinking?)
But not The Beatles.
A few months ago I saw Rain, a Beatles tribute band, and I sang, and moved a little to their music.
I even closed my eyes and imagined I was 17 and outside on a warm September night on the south side of Chicago listening to the greatest rock band ever performing live.
But when I opened them, it was 2013 again.
And it didn't erase the regret.
It was 1965. The US had been invaded by a bunch of long haired guys from England and I was not impressed.
I didn't like The Beatles. When they were on the Ed Sullivan show, I watched, but I admit I was not an instant fan. That was Feb. 9, 1964, in case you live in a cave and did not know that.
Yeah, some of the guys at school started wearing their hair like the Beatles.
Yes, the more I heard the music, the more I liked it.
It was fast. Catchy. Singable. And they annoyed my parents.
But I didn't run out and buy any records....it wasn't until Norwegian Wood and Rubber Soul in December of 65 that I became a Beatles nut. But it was too late.
My cousin Sally went to the same high school I did, although she had already graduated when tickets went on sale for The Beatles at Comiskey Park in September of 1965.
She called me and said she had an extra ticket....someone couldn't go....and would I go with her.
I turned down a chance to see The Beatles
I didn't go. I don't know why, to this day I can' t explain it.
The boys would only play together in public a few times after that, I don't remember if they came back to Chicago. Th greatest rock group ever imploded in 1970.
I have seen the Rolling Stones....and they are awesome in their own way. If they do an outdoor show in the area again, I'll probably go. And Buffet. And Kenny Rogers. And Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass. (What was I thinking?)
But not The Beatles.
A few months ago I saw Rain, a Beatles tribute band, and I sang, and moved a little to their music.
I even closed my eyes and imagined I was 17 and outside on a warm September night on the south side of Chicago listening to the greatest rock band ever performing live.
But when I opened them, it was 2013 again.
And it didn't erase the regret.
Friday, February 7, 2014
I can only dream about the games
I would love to be in the Olympics
Surely, there has to be an event I can do.
Anything on skates or skies is out.....and I am not to thrilled about a bobsled ride. And people who do the skeleton are one nut short of a bolt set.
So maybe I can concentrate on curling.
If I can sweep, I can do it.
If I can toss a stone using a handle, I could do curling.
If I can yell and scream things like go go go go, or slow slow slow or fast fast fast .... you get the picture....I could do it.
I am sure it takes more than just that. Maybe I'll look for a curling club around here.
Every time I watch the winter Olympics, I want to be there. I want to watch the skiers go down the slopes, using their graceful turns and lithe bodies to roar down a mountainside. I love to watch the luge teams as they race downhill and 80 or 90 miles and hour.
Remember that one Olympian, from Great Britain, Eddie the Flying Eagle? He did not win, but he was there. And to fly through the air like that must be a thrill that would cause me to wet myself.....but I'd be there.
Tonight there was a cross country skier who said he had no hopes of winning, but he was there.
The businessman from Long Island who made the Dominican Republic team because he gave lots of money to charities....he and his wife were there.
They are all competing on the biggest sports stage of the winter.
Too old? Laugh if you will, but there was a man from Mexico who was 55.....sure he didn't have a huge pot belly and he actually looked like he could walk 15 minutes without puffing... but he was older than the normal athlete. And he was there.
So I am going to start a training regime. Early to bed, oatmeal for breakfast, brisk 5 mile walks every day, arm weights to build up my stone throwing arm.
You never know.
When the next winter games come, I will be 70. Hell, I just hope I am here!
Surely, there has to be an event I can do.
Anything on skates or skies is out.....and I am not to thrilled about a bobsled ride. And people who do the skeleton are one nut short of a bolt set.
So maybe I can concentrate on curling.
If I can sweep, I can do it.
If I can toss a stone using a handle, I could do curling.
If I can yell and scream things like go go go go, or slow slow slow or fast fast fast .... you get the picture....I could do it.
I am sure it takes more than just that. Maybe I'll look for a curling club around here.
Every time I watch the winter Olympics, I want to be there. I want to watch the skiers go down the slopes, using their graceful turns and lithe bodies to roar down a mountainside. I love to watch the luge teams as they race downhill and 80 or 90 miles and hour.
Remember that one Olympian, from Great Britain, Eddie the Flying Eagle? He did not win, but he was there. And to fly through the air like that must be a thrill that would cause me to wet myself.....but I'd be there.
Tonight there was a cross country skier who said he had no hopes of winning, but he was there.
The businessman from Long Island who made the Dominican Republic team because he gave lots of money to charities....he and his wife were there.
They are all competing on the biggest sports stage of the winter.
Too old? Laugh if you will, but there was a man from Mexico who was 55.....sure he didn't have a huge pot belly and he actually looked like he could walk 15 minutes without puffing... but he was older than the normal athlete. And he was there.
So I am going to start a training regime. Early to bed, oatmeal for breakfast, brisk 5 mile walks every day, arm weights to build up my stone throwing arm.
You never know.
When the next winter games come, I will be 70. Hell, I just hope I am here!
Thursday, February 6, 2014
My compass can't find north
A lack of knowledge never prevented me from doing something
This is a continuation from yesterday.
Once the soffit was up, it was time for drywall.
I was young. I was not knowledgeable. I bought drywall.
There was a knee wall of about 56 inches in the basement. Drywall comes in 4 x 8 sheets, so no matter how I cut it, I would be wasting a lot of drywall.
So I cut, and nailed, and cut, and nailed. I thought I did a good job.
Ok, so I had one piece over the window that did not lay flat. I put some extra nails in it.
I only had two walls to go....full size walls, no cutting needed.
I called my brother in law and mentioned I had accomplished much, but it took a long time to nail.
He said it should not be that hard.....I only needed nails about every 16 inches. That hit me like a slap from a pretty girl that I just pinched.
I put nails every two inches. Carefully measured out. Two inches. Except above the window. That 12 x 24 section had 46 nails.
There was so much iron in the walls, a compass would spin around, totally confused about which way was north.
I finished the rest of the drywall, nailing every 16 inches...or so.
Then I called a drywall guy for an estimate on taping and mudding.
He stood in the basement, and just kept turning around, as if he had never seen a drywall job like this before.
I used every scrap. And every nail I could get.
After what seemed like an hour, he said the obvious.
"I have never seen a drywall job like this before," and he spun slowly around again.
"You can't really afford me to mud and tape this. There are too many nails," he said, still spinning in wonderment.
"This wall over here I can do..and that one over there. That will be fine. But these other walls......" his voice trailed off, I would like to think in appreciation of my devotion to detail.
I asked what I should do.
"Paneling. Paneling.......that is the only thing you can do," and he made one more turn.
So panel it we did. On the "good" wall we hung wallpaper that resembled an abstract forest. The room had a homey, funky kind of appeal.
We ended up with a family room and two bedrooms in the lower level. It took us some time, and we did it in phases, and I learned from my mistake.
But compasses never worked down in the family room....like the drywall guy, they would just spin in circles.
I asked what I should do.
"Paneling. Paneling.......that is the only thing you can do," and he made one more turn.
So panel it we did. On the "good" wall we hung wallpaper that resembled an abstract forest. The room had a homey, funky kind of appeal.
We ended up with a family room and two bedrooms in the lower level. It took us some time, and we did it in phases, and I learned from my mistake.
But compasses never worked down in the family room....like the drywall guy, they would just spin in circles.
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
If I were a carpenter, and you were a lady......
I forgot, I am not a carpenter
That was a painful lesson to learn in life.
Jackie and I were going to finish the lower level of our first house, a bi level. Jackie's brother was training to be a carpenter and he came out to build a soffit around the heat ducts so we could drywall that part of the basement.
We had a system. He would put the framing in place and I would finish nailing while he continued working in other areas.
I was hammering 2 X 2s together. I managed to do fine on the first three, but I hit a knot on the fourth.
The nail bent.
I did not want a bent nail, so I started to pull it out......but it would not budge.
I pulled harder. It would not budge.
I figured it was a matter of leverage. So I stood underneath it, grabbed hold of the hammer and yanked.
At first I thought I broke my nose. Then I checked my teeth and lips. All seemed intact, but very painful. And my vision was watery.
"Problem Terry? came a voice from the other room.
Through the tears I managed to say no problem, just a bent nail.
He was quiet for a few seconds, then he said.
"You didn't hit yourself in the face with the hammer, did you?"
It's hard to say no to that when you are checking for loose teeth and blotting blood from your nose.
While I repaired myself, he repaired my area.
After a few minutes I was ready to tackle it again.
"What can I do? "I asked.
"I need some stuff from the lumber yard...you can go get it," he answered.
"What do you need?"
"About 25 minutes," he replied.
So, I left and spent time wandering around Rochelle. When I got home he was done and my teeth were still intact.
But my lesson was far from over.
That was a painful lesson to learn in life.
Jackie and I were going to finish the lower level of our first house, a bi level. Jackie's brother was training to be a carpenter and he came out to build a soffit around the heat ducts so we could drywall that part of the basement.
We had a system. He would put the framing in place and I would finish nailing while he continued working in other areas.
I was hammering 2 X 2s together. I managed to do fine on the first three, but I hit a knot on the fourth.
The nail bent.
I did not want a bent nail, so I started to pull it out......but it would not budge.
I pulled harder. It would not budge.
I figured it was a matter of leverage. So I stood underneath it, grabbed hold of the hammer and yanked.
At first I thought I broke my nose. Then I checked my teeth and lips. All seemed intact, but very painful. And my vision was watery.
"Problem Terry? came a voice from the other room.
Through the tears I managed to say no problem, just a bent nail.
He was quiet for a few seconds, then he said.
"You didn't hit yourself in the face with the hammer, did you?"
It's hard to say no to that when you are checking for loose teeth and blotting blood from your nose.
While I repaired myself, he repaired my area.
After a few minutes I was ready to tackle it again.
"What can I do? "I asked.
"I need some stuff from the lumber yard...you can go get it," he answered.
"What do you need?"
"About 25 minutes," he replied.
So, I left and spent time wandering around Rochelle. When I got home he was done and my teeth were still intact.
But my lesson was far from over.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
'Twas a biting wind blowin' from the west
It was cold, and the west wind was blowing through the patio doors of our house on Mill Pond.
Before winter came, I had covered the outside of the doors with Visqueen, a think plastic, hoping to cut down the breeze.
But it was January. And cold....at least 60 below, or so it felt. We could feel the wind and cold through the door.
I examined the door and found the Visqueen had come off the bottom left corner.
It was cold. It was windy. The wind was howling. It was cold.
Too cold for anyone else in the house to go out an repair the Visqueen. So I donned boots, gloves, hat, scarf, long underwear, hot pants......well, not hot pants. I bundled up like a bluish Pillsbury Doughboy. I grabbed the scissors, duct tape, and a hammer to nail the molding back on that was supposed to hold the Visqueen.
I got out there and found the molding was nowhere to be found. The wind was now roaring.....I believe it was called Maria.......and the temperature had dropped. Looking inside, I saw all the family safe and warm while my teeth were chattering and parts of my body I never thought could get cold were partially frozen.
I tried holding the plastic and cutting the tape. Now if I had four hands, that would have been possible. But with two, and in gloves, it was not.
So I improvised.
Sometimes I don't think things through when I improvise
I took my gloves off, cut the duct tape and then put one end in my mouth so I could put the plastic in place with both hands, hold it in down with one hand, and take the duct tape and put it on the plastic.
All went well until I tried to take the tape. The damn stuff was frozen to my lips.
It was freaking cold and there was a strong wind. The wind chill must have been 90 below.
Sometimes I don't think things through when I improvise
That bears repeating.
My fingers were numb, the wind was howling, I was freezing and the tape would not come off my bottom lip. I tried again, gently tugging as my ears began to burn. I tried a third time and the tape was stuck fast to my bottom lip.
Sometimes I don't think things through when I improvise
So I gave it a good yank. It came off, and for a few seconds, I felt like I had a really dry bottom lip.
I put the tape on the plastic and door frame, added some extra tape and made sure it was good and stuck. By now I had been out there about 20 minutes (and nobody had checked on me) including the last 10 with the burned lip.
People don't seem to bleed very much when they are out in subzero temperatures.
But when they hit the heat, Lordy does the hemoglobin flow.
You might have thought I was in a fight with a slasher.
And it hurt. Try ripping skin off you lip sometime, it is not very pleasant.
Strangely, cold compresses and plenty of Vaseline helped a lot.
And the plastic stayed....so in the end, I did accomplish my goal.
I just lost a little lip skin doing it.
Before winter came, I had covered the outside of the doors with Visqueen, a think plastic, hoping to cut down the breeze.
But it was January. And cold....at least 60 below, or so it felt. We could feel the wind and cold through the door.
I examined the door and found the Visqueen had come off the bottom left corner.
It was cold. It was windy. The wind was howling. It was cold.
Too cold for anyone else in the house to go out an repair the Visqueen. So I donned boots, gloves, hat, scarf, long underwear, hot pants......well, not hot pants. I bundled up like a bluish Pillsbury Doughboy. I grabbed the scissors, duct tape, and a hammer to nail the molding back on that was supposed to hold the Visqueen.
I got out there and found the molding was nowhere to be found. The wind was now roaring.....I believe it was called Maria.......and the temperature had dropped. Looking inside, I saw all the family safe and warm while my teeth were chattering and parts of my body I never thought could get cold were partially frozen.
I tried holding the plastic and cutting the tape. Now if I had four hands, that would have been possible. But with two, and in gloves, it was not.
So I improvised.
Sometimes I don't think things through when I improvise
I took my gloves off, cut the duct tape and then put one end in my mouth so I could put the plastic in place with both hands, hold it in down with one hand, and take the duct tape and put it on the plastic.
All went well until I tried to take the tape. The damn stuff was frozen to my lips.
It was freaking cold and there was a strong wind. The wind chill must have been 90 below.
Sometimes I don't think things through when I improvise
That bears repeating.
My fingers were numb, the wind was howling, I was freezing and the tape would not come off my bottom lip. I tried again, gently tugging as my ears began to burn. I tried a third time and the tape was stuck fast to my bottom lip.
Sometimes I don't think things through when I improvise
So I gave it a good yank. It came off, and for a few seconds, I felt like I had a really dry bottom lip.
I put the tape on the plastic and door frame, added some extra tape and made sure it was good and stuck. By now I had been out there about 20 minutes (and nobody had checked on me) including the last 10 with the burned lip.
People don't seem to bleed very much when they are out in subzero temperatures.
But when they hit the heat, Lordy does the hemoglobin flow.
You might have thought I was in a fight with a slasher.
And it hurt. Try ripping skin off you lip sometime, it is not very pleasant.
Strangely, cold compresses and plenty of Vaseline helped a lot.
And the plastic stayed....so in the end, I did accomplish my goal.
I just lost a little lip skin doing it.
Monday, February 3, 2014
I fought the law, and the law won
My cuckoo clock stopped working. And Ernie's ball fell off its base. Small ripples in the pond of life, which led to this small fact.
I got a parking ticket in Sycamore today
I have a cuckoo clock from Germany. I love listening to it chime the hours and to watch the little chimney cleaner pop up ever time the little bird goes cuckoo. Twice a day I yank its chains, but Friday night I yanked too hard and the cuckoo went quiet. So I had to take it to the clock shop in Sycamore.
Saturday night I bought a shadow box at From the Heart. The box is about 8 x 11 and can be hung on the wall or set on a shelf. In it is a picture of Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks, and a real major league baseball autographed by Mr. Cub sitting on a little cup like platform. Unfortunately, if you pick the shadow box up and hold it upside down, the ball falls off the holder..... and you can't see the signature at all. So, I took that to Michael's in DeKalb, the people who created the box and could easily fix it.
Now I hate having change in my pocket. I always throw it into a container in the closet and at some point I will take it into the bank and put it in my vacation account.
So when I drove into Sycamore, I realized I had no change and they had parking meters.
I looked for an unexpired meter....but found none. Since my clock was in a box, I decided I could park in front of the shop (or shoppe), run in, run out and hop in the car. I was living on the edge, baby!!
Lovely Rita, meter maid, may I enquire discretely, were you just waiting for me? I couldn't have been in there two minutes....I can't believe you wrote the ticket and put it under my wiper in such a short time!
The fine? $1 if paid right away. I had a dollar bill, so I slipped it into the fine envelope and put it in one of the convenient drop boxes thoughtfully located on the post next to where I parked.
When I got home, I found a couple of pill containers and put some change in them to keep in the car....they won't get my dollar again unless they pry it out of my cold, stiff hands.
So you see, I do have a rebel side to me....but you can't beat the man!! Or in this case, the meter maid.
I got a parking ticket in Sycamore today
I have a cuckoo clock from Germany. I love listening to it chime the hours and to watch the little chimney cleaner pop up ever time the little bird goes cuckoo. Twice a day I yank its chains, but Friday night I yanked too hard and the cuckoo went quiet. So I had to take it to the clock shop in Sycamore.
Saturday night I bought a shadow box at From the Heart. The box is about 8 x 11 and can be hung on the wall or set on a shelf. In it is a picture of Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks, and a real major league baseball autographed by Mr. Cub sitting on a little cup like platform. Unfortunately, if you pick the shadow box up and hold it upside down, the ball falls off the holder..... and you can't see the signature at all. So, I took that to Michael's in DeKalb, the people who created the box and could easily fix it.
Now I hate having change in my pocket. I always throw it into a container in the closet and at some point I will take it into the bank and put it in my vacation account.
So when I drove into Sycamore, I realized I had no change and they had parking meters.
I looked for an unexpired meter....but found none. Since my clock was in a box, I decided I could park in front of the shop (or shoppe), run in, run out and hop in the car. I was living on the edge, baby!!
Lovely Rita, meter maid, may I enquire discretely, were you just waiting for me? I couldn't have been in there two minutes....I can't believe you wrote the ticket and put it under my wiper in such a short time!
The fine? $1 if paid right away. I had a dollar bill, so I slipped it into the fine envelope and put it in one of the convenient drop boxes thoughtfully located on the post next to where I parked.
When I got home, I found a couple of pill containers and put some change in them to keep in the car....they won't get my dollar again unless they pry it out of my cold, stiff hands.
So you see, I do have a rebel side to me....but you can't beat the man!! Or in this case, the meter maid.
Sunday, February 2, 2014
Little D, how about a big D??
A professor and I drank beer on campus, in a car
I was a journalism major at Northern. I was also going to be the next Bob Woodward, the award winning reporter from the Washington Post.
One of my instructors was a veteran newsman turned professor, name of Roy Campbell.
Mr. C was irreverent, droll, smart, and a good teacher and newspaperman.
We had classes in what was called Reavis, maybe Reavis West, a stout, red bricked building almost in the center of campus.
One night I was passing through the building and stopped off at the lab to see who was around. Now we had a group of people who frequented the Shamrock in downtown DeKalb. Mr. C called them seminars, and he presided over them regularly.
Jackie went, and Julia even went once.....but as a one year old, she created quite a stir when she knocked over a been into the lap of one of the many under age drinkers discussing journalism.
But I digress.
I was passing through and noticed his office door was open, the light was on, and he was sitting at his desk, reading something.
"Hey Mr. C," I said. "How are you doing?"
"Terry.....come in." So I did, and we talked for about 10 minutes then he said, "Little D, how about a Big D?" he asked.
He liked Drewrys beer, his Big D.
I told him I had to head home, and didn't have time or money to head to the Shamrock.
"Follow me," he ordered.
We went to his car, parked illegally behind the building, and he said, "Get in."
He then proceeded to pull out two cans of ice cold Drewry's Beer from a cooler on the back seat.
He popped one, gave it to me, popped another, and took a big sip.
I must have looked like a deer in the headlights! Here I was drinking in a car, on campus, at night, with a professor.......nothing spelled academic dismissal any better than that.
He noticed my hesitancy, then said, "Relax. I do this all the time. All the cops no me. They won't blink an eye."
So we sat there, drinking our Big Ds.....talking about the world, class, school, the future. It was a moment when the man made me feel special, important, someone who mattered in the department and in the world.
It was a moment I'll always cherish.
I know he is gone, and I think Drewrys is too, although there was a story that it was being revived as a nostalgia brand.
As I remember that night, it was one of the best beers I ever had.
I was a journalism major at Northern. I was also going to be the next Bob Woodward, the award winning reporter from the Washington Post.
One of my instructors was a veteran newsman turned professor, name of Roy Campbell.
Mr. C was irreverent, droll, smart, and a good teacher and newspaperman.
We had classes in what was called Reavis, maybe Reavis West, a stout, red bricked building almost in the center of campus.
One night I was passing through the building and stopped off at the lab to see who was around. Now we had a group of people who frequented the Shamrock in downtown DeKalb. Mr. C called them seminars, and he presided over them regularly.
Jackie went, and Julia even went once.....but as a one year old, she created quite a stir when she knocked over a been into the lap of one of the many under age drinkers discussing journalism.
But I digress.
I was passing through and noticed his office door was open, the light was on, and he was sitting at his desk, reading something.
"Hey Mr. C," I said. "How are you doing?"
"Terry.....come in." So I did, and we talked for about 10 minutes then he said, "Little D, how about a Big D?" he asked.
He liked Drewrys beer, his Big D.
I told him I had to head home, and didn't have time or money to head to the Shamrock.
"Follow me," he ordered.
We went to his car, parked illegally behind the building, and he said, "Get in."
He then proceeded to pull out two cans of ice cold Drewry's Beer from a cooler on the back seat.
He popped one, gave it to me, popped another, and took a big sip.
I must have looked like a deer in the headlights! Here I was drinking in a car, on campus, at night, with a professor.......nothing spelled academic dismissal any better than that.
He noticed my hesitancy, then said, "Relax. I do this all the time. All the cops no me. They won't blink an eye."
So we sat there, drinking our Big Ds.....talking about the world, class, school, the future. It was a moment when the man made me feel special, important, someone who mattered in the department and in the world.
It was a moment I'll always cherish.
I know he is gone, and I think Drewrys is too, although there was a story that it was being revived as a nostalgia brand.
As I remember that night, it was one of the best beers I ever had.
Saturday, February 1, 2014
I generally don't speed, but.....
I usually obey the speed limit
That being said, the winter of 78 or 79 had a lot of snow. Roads were constantly closed and I felt like we were going to be trapped until spring sprung in Rochelle.
One weekend, like a miracle, the skies turned blue, the wind stopped blowing, and the roads were actually clean.
We headed to DeKalb and coming out of Creston, I was doing about 70 when I saw the state trooper sitting in a little dip just east of town. I immediately slowed down, but his lights went on.
I pulled over before he could even get on the road.
"Do you know how fast you were going?" he asked.
"Yes sir, I was at 70."
"I clocked you at 67," he replied.
"Well, I saw you first."
"Are you in a hurry? Late for an appointment? Need to be someplace?"
"No sir."
"Then why were you going so fast?"
I looked him straight in the eye and told the truth: "It felt good. We haven't driven on a clean road in months. I just got carried away."
He gave me a warning. I don't know if it was my honesty or the fact his first name was also Terry that left me with a written warning instead of a ticket.
Five months later, in Iowa, coming down a hill I hit 65 and an Iowa trooper pulled me over. He gave me a written warning and said to slow down.
That August, driving a dealer loaner car because mine was in the shop, I got stopped on bypass 20 near Freeport. My speedometer went on the 0s....50, 60, 70....this car showed the fives 55, 65,75. I thought I was doing 60 when I was doing 65.
When he ran the plates, he discovered the dealer car had an invalid registration plus some other issues....so he gave me a warning.
"This is a written warning.....do you know what to do with this?" he asked.
And without thinking I replied, "Yes sir, stick it in the glove box with all the other ones."
Within an eight month period, I had three warning tickets. Three strangers, policemen I had never met, had graciously given me a second chance.
Alas, my luck finally ran out. I was on my way to the doctor, had a case of strep throat, could barely talk, overslept and was late for my appointment. On Il. 38 in front of May Mart, I was doing 35 in a 30 when flashing lights appeared.
I was working at the newspaper then, and knew most of the policemen in town, including the officer who pulled me over. I breathed out a sigh of relief.
He did not get out of his car right away, but when he did, he said "Hello Terry. You were doing 35 in a 30, and I am giving you a ticket for that."
To this day it irks me that total strangers let me off, but guy I knew gave me a ticket.
And yes, I deserved it....I deserved all of them.
But I haven't had one since......because now I watch the speed limit very carefully,
That being said, the winter of 78 or 79 had a lot of snow. Roads were constantly closed and I felt like we were going to be trapped until spring sprung in Rochelle.
One weekend, like a miracle, the skies turned blue, the wind stopped blowing, and the roads were actually clean.
We headed to DeKalb and coming out of Creston, I was doing about 70 when I saw the state trooper sitting in a little dip just east of town. I immediately slowed down, but his lights went on.
I pulled over before he could even get on the road.
"Do you know how fast you were going?" he asked.
"Yes sir, I was at 70."
"I clocked you at 67," he replied.
"Well, I saw you first."
"Are you in a hurry? Late for an appointment? Need to be someplace?"
"No sir."
"Then why were you going so fast?"
I looked him straight in the eye and told the truth: "It felt good. We haven't driven on a clean road in months. I just got carried away."
He gave me a warning. I don't know if it was my honesty or the fact his first name was also Terry that left me with a written warning instead of a ticket.
Five months later, in Iowa, coming down a hill I hit 65 and an Iowa trooper pulled me over. He gave me a written warning and said to slow down.
That August, driving a dealer loaner car because mine was in the shop, I got stopped on bypass 20 near Freeport. My speedometer went on the 0s....50, 60, 70....this car showed the fives 55, 65,75. I thought I was doing 60 when I was doing 65.
When he ran the plates, he discovered the dealer car had an invalid registration plus some other issues....so he gave me a warning.
"This is a written warning.....do you know what to do with this?" he asked.
And without thinking I replied, "Yes sir, stick it in the glove box with all the other ones."
Within an eight month period, I had three warning tickets. Three strangers, policemen I had never met, had graciously given me a second chance.
Alas, my luck finally ran out. I was on my way to the doctor, had a case of strep throat, could barely talk, overslept and was late for my appointment. On Il. 38 in front of May Mart, I was doing 35 in a 30 when flashing lights appeared.
I was working at the newspaper then, and knew most of the policemen in town, including the officer who pulled me over. I breathed out a sigh of relief.
He did not get out of his car right away, but when he did, he said "Hello Terry. You were doing 35 in a 30, and I am giving you a ticket for that."
To this day it irks me that total strangers let me off, but guy I knew gave me a ticket.
And yes, I deserved it....I deserved all of them.
But I haven't had one since......because now I watch the speed limit very carefully,
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