GOOD FOOD

I’m excited. I finished another J. A. Jance book. I’m convinced I like the books because of the setting. I’m only vaguely familiar with Seattle, but for some reason I trying to figure out where they are. The main thing that confuses me is that they seem to get from downtown to Mercer Island in 15-20 minutes. Maybe that’s possible, in my days of traveling the area I could rarely get from south to north in that about of time. Not to complain. The book is fiction and the travel time is definitely fiction.

Every Thursday we start the BBQ and people bring whatever they want to grill. They also bring something to share. Tonight was great. The whole meal was perfect. I did fish sandwiches in some Pita Bread that for some reason refused to separate in the middle so I could fill it. I hade never seen this kind before. It was square and perforated to split in two. But it refused to open and be stuffed. Must have been trained by a cat.

From the best I could tell, the split was off to the side. It would not pop open no matter how much the directions said it was easy. They were wrong. Two of us tried to cut it open. But because the apparent cut line was near the edge, one side had so many cuts and tears in it that I had to use the two thicker halves from two different slices to make one sandwich. At least the bread tasted good.

The watermelon was great. Soooo sweet. The lemon pie was just the right amount of sour. We had a choice of three different baked beans. Combining them was a great idea. There was a pile more dishes. Our next one is set for July 4. We will get a big attendance at that one and it may even be the first time we can actually eat outside. It's predicted to be 74. That will be a shock.

WHERE DID THEY GO?

The blogger gods hated me yesterday. I could not get on the site to post my insignificant writings. I don't know what happened, or why my computer turned against me. Woe is me. All is against me. Oh well, I'll get over it but I still don;t like it.

It’s been a few days since I wrote. Feels like the days just flew by. Where did the time go?

I did not sleep well in Saturday night. That tends to ruin my Sunday. Besides, needed to be there at 9:00 for greeting. I enjoy it, but it was tough to get up. I know this is a rotten thing to say, but I really like waiting until morning to decide what I’m going to do. If I hadn’t had a responsibility, I would have rolled over and went back to sleep.

It was a beautiful day so I walked to church, but by the time I got back home I had t nap. It was one of those weird days. I slept way to long (3 hours). I was woken up to come upstairs for strawberry cake with real whipped cream. I know this maybe should not happen to but my body does break down from time to time. One of the neighbors made the cake and it was yummy. Glad I didn’t stay in my room. I was up so late in Saturday reading a book that grabbed me I just has to finish it.

Monday was back to the book and I did finish it, but it was all day. When a book grabs me, I have go to know how it ends. Of course, that meant I was exhausted by Tuesday and nearly slept the day away. Wednesday was getting things back in line. I spent much of the day with two of my grand kids. I was very happy. Part of the time was spent seeing the Yogi Bear movie. A good time was hard by all.

Residents are upset. The new dishwasher washed was installed yesterday while we were promised new washing machines on June 13^th and are still waiting with no date announced. The kitchen dishwasher was never requested. Many have asked for our washing machine to be replaced often. Only one works and there is always a line up. Thanks for listening to out needs guys.

What I don’t understand is why the switch is taking so long. When I managed apartments, the company servicing us was always there the next day even if we needed a replacement. We are switching from company owed machines to a service that will care for them and collect the money. Sounds good. Why had it taken three weeks with no delivery date in sight? Everyone wants to know.

DO WE NEED POSTMEN?

Canada Post strike: Residents ask if they really need a postman

I had the gall to bring this up in a discussion today and felt like the messenger was about to be stoned. There have been rumblings down here as well. They have talked about a number of things, but most common is no more Saturday delivery. However, Canada is getting even more creative in their considerations.

“When Canadian letter carriers went on strike three weeks ago they hoped to force the National postal service, Canada Post, to back down from a cost-cutting proposal to dramatically reduce wages.

Three weeks later, lawmakers are preparing to legislate them back to work, but Canadians are asking just how much a modern cyber-connected society needs the post office anyway.”

I have lost track of how many postal strikes I suffered through while living in Canada. It was annoying. For that reason I am not surprised that Canadians are asking if we really need postmen. The citizens are finding that they can survive with them. That’s a shock.

I would assume the feeling is mutual south of their border. That is, if you do not canvas senior citizens. We still have people who will not put money in the bank because of the ’20’s stock market crash. Those alive then were infants at the time.

There are many who resist any change. I understand change can be hard. It is confusing when you cannot even turn on your TV without help. They cannot turn the little red light out and are annoyed by the flashing 12:00. How do you stop the confounded thing? Not many even have cell phones. The ones that do have cell phones find many of the functions a waste of time. All they want is to make phone calls and save the numbers of family and friends. That one is helpful. Some do not return messages because they do not know how to get to the message. The instruction books make no sense at all.

“A worldwide trend toward e-mail, online banking, electronic bill payments, and communication through social media is causing a dramatic drop in revenue for the postal services around the world.”

I will never use a computer. I will never bank on line. I will never give up the post office. But what if they take it away from you. They can’t do that. Yes they can. I’ll fight it to the bitter end. That may come sooner than you think. Put your armor on and practice your sword fighting.

How do you expect to send your letters, your checks, your little notes to friends and family if there is no system to handle mail. They can’t take that away from me. They can, but probably won’t, at least not completely.

It makes sense to combine postal service in a number of convenience stores or pharmacies. Create many more outlets in smaller places. Why not drop first class mail. Statics indicate that there is very little first class mail. I for one would not care if the junk mail stops. Yes, I know. Many people will be out of jobs. Jobs change. The job I trained for no longer exists. I helped teach people how to do that job. They are out of work in that specific area. I have some mourning for the loss, but care more about the work getting done, not the title. That continues to happen.

Things do not stay the same. I genuinely ache for my friends. The coming changes are terrifying. But we, like nearly everyone else, have a number of these “modern conveniences”. We just do not have or use those things in the next wave of loss. I remind them that almost none of the things that frighten them the most will change over night. They will be just fine.

One lady is panic stricken about how we will pay our rent beginning in August. Our main office has been next door, but they will move to the next city over in July. At present we drop our checks in a box. Since there will no longer be regular traffic between our places, the box will be removed. The word on the street is that we will have to mail our rent. What? Mail? We can’t put it in the box any more? Well, I’m going to deduct the cost of my stamp from my rent. Yeah, right! Try it! This is an insignificant change but the natives are in turmoil. They mail all their other bills. Why is this a problem? I mentioned that they could set up an automated payment with the company or with their bank.

I had no idea there were so many who do not have a bank and run around to all these places to pay their bills each month. Convenience does not seem to be an issue.

SHUTOUT SEASON

I am sick and tired of the rich owners of National Football League teams whining about money. On the other hand, I feel the same way about the multimillion players. The real people who pay the bills are never asked about what they want to or can spend. The whole thing is just annoying and I wouldn’t be disappointed if it all just went away — and I’m a fan. I’m not the greatest fan, but I like to watch the games, but only on TV. I couldn’t afford to attend a game and can no longer stand through a game at the cheapest price.

I feel the same way about the young snippy little (maybe I should say giant) pro-basketball player multimillionaire kids with no self-control or restraint. Both sports are out of control maybe baseball also, but I’m not into baseball so don’t know. Everybody wants more and more and WE are always left with the bill. It would be nice if WE were treated with a little respect. Just some consideration would be nice. It’s getting to be that only the millionaires can go to a game to watch other millionaires give their millionaire performance. If feels like it has become an exclusive club for the rich. Maybe that’s OK. It does appear that thousands have the money to do it. The stadiums always seem to be filled. I don’t think the stands are full of cut out cardboard silhouettes of fake people.

It looks like we are headed to another season of stubbornness in football. The best thing about that is that I will watch less TV will never be tempted to skip church because of a game and I will nap more on Sunday afternoons. That doesn’t sound too bad. Missing church is rarely a problem in the Pacific Time Zone. If you go to first service it will be over before the game starts.

I know it doesn’t take being rich to be a spoiled brat. I live in an independent living apartment for seniors and we have our share of spoiled brats. The lady who took over picking up bread for us had to be away the past two weeks. She asked many who take the free bread if they could go. The no’s were deafening. Strangely, a lady who never does anything and would never eat day old bread picked up a few loaves the first week. I think she bought them. I don’t know why she did that. I will likely never know why. The second week a man (our male master gardener) went to get bread. He did great! I guess we should be thankful people finally rose to the challenge. I told the head lady that once they missed the bread someone would come forward to help. I just love being right.

Back to the missing games. Head out to some high school and/or college games. There is real excitement and joy watching those kids. Yes they make more mistakes and screw up in bigger ways, but they are amateurs and not being paid $1.2 million to have a temper tantrum for all to enjoy.

Now, if we can only get the spectators to act like reasonable unspoiled rotten no good very bad people and lay off the alcohol, foul language and terrible condemning yells, sports might be fun again. That may be too much to ask. Come to think of it, I think I’m better off watching these on TV. The line up to the bathroom is much shorter.

TO DRAW OR NOT TO DRAW

I’m inspired to draw again. I have a shaky left hand since my heart attack and I confess to being afraid to even try and draw. I enjoy it so much it just seemed like I would rather not know if I could hold my hand steady. It seemed easier not to try than to try and find out that I can’t do it, a little fear of being disappointed. This is some sort of reverse or backward thinking I suppose, but I thought I could just quit and be happy with what I have done.

But I went to get my hair cut today and Stephanie (my barber) asked if I was ready for another show. She has some extra space in her shop and has always used it as a gallery. She never charges and if you sell something, you keep at the money. It’s a good deal. We got talking about a series I want to do. I have one Washington picture I have done. That’s of a ferry. I sell a lot of prints of that one. I have a beautiful drawing called “Above The Falls” of Silver Creek Falls in Oregon and several think it is a stream in Washington. They lose interest when I mention that it’s of Oregon. Maybe I should just tell them it’s the place they think it is. Naw! Can’t do that.

I would like to do a series of drawings of Old Town. There are quit a few historic building that are very interesting. Back in January, before my heart attack, I took a number of photos of the places that interest me. I have since thought about it a great deal and especially while getting my haircut. She is so enthusiastic about my dream that she wants to advertise and have a big opening just for me. I have never had an opening of my own. She then proceeded to tell me what buildings I should definitely include, as they would be the ones most likely to buy the originals. I haven’t sold any originals in years and would love to do that. She wants to have a note card collection of Old Town. Frankly, that is the easiest to do.

So I came home and pick up some pencils (I draw with colored pencil) and learned I can keep my hand steady if I keep it on the table. Also the longer I draw the steadier I become. This may sound strange, but I was excited. Not enough to get started, but enough to know I can try and see what happens. They won’t be awful. The best thing about my talk with Stephanie is that she suggested little things that should be included to make them special for the potential client. All were great ideas.

I ‘m finding aging very interesting. I’m not bothered or shocked by the process. I do wish I had the wisdom I have now back when it would have been more helpful. I would like to have more energy, but I am beginning to enjoy my occasional afternoon. I am no longer being pushed to try things I never wanted to try. If I say no, I am immediately left alone. I like that. I have thought about having better health, but the process of living includes deterioration. I know this sounds gross, but we really do start to fall apart. It can’t be stopped, and I’m not sure I want it to.

I would like to be a happy rotting apple leaving my seeds planted and turn the present work over to the next generation. It has always been that way. I do not understand my fellow aging apples that resist the leadership of the next generation and want to keep everything the way they like it. Things change, things that stay the same die. The biggest issue for seniors in churches is still the music. It’s OK not to like the louder music of this generation, but don’t try to stop it. Turn your hearing aid down or come to the service after the music. You can always listen to your old records, or 8 Tracks. If you have updated to CD’s or ipods you can buy the exact kind of music you like.

There I did it again. Wandered back into the church. What I see are things I would do differently. That is nothing that needs addressing. Remember the churches that feel alive have kids and youth. The glorious generational mix is a wonderfully healthy mix. On the other hand, I am tired of moving chairs, setting up tables, painting, building, cleaning, decorating. I am extremely happy to bequeath my church to the strong and mighty. They still need me. They may not always know that, but they do. I am not just a prayer warrior as we often encourage old people to do. I have the same gifts and talents I have always had and as long as I don’t lift and climb I can still do them. I’m the head greeter showing some of these kids how to be warm, friendly and start a conversation. I can do much more, but I’m going to take it one step at a time. I know I never want to sit on another committee as long as I live. I am committeed out and have added an eleventh commandment — THOU SHALT NOT COMMITTEE. Now if you want a benevolent dictator — I’m your man.

LEARNING TO BE POOR

Not everyone needs to learn to be poor. It is those who had money but no longer have it. I see myself in a combination situation. I grew up poor, struggled had an average life moved to the lower upper middle class and am dirt poor once again. But I have had to learn to be poor. Let me explain.

My childhood could have been better than it was. I don’t look back with regret at all. I have some great stories of life and survival as a result. But I did think we had it a little more difficult than our neighbors — Financially that is.

I had loving parents. I was an after thought (read accidental) child so my conception was a surprise. Mom was 40 and loved children so she was reasonably happy. My parents already had five kids and dad was tired and getting very close to having them all move out.

I can’t remember exactly when I realized we lived differently. Ours was a middle class neighborhood. The homes were nice. A few were built with servants in mind, back stairs, separate quarters. The people living there during my childhood did not have servants. There were three I knew with the narrow, steep back stairs that ended in the kitchen. The fourth is the biggest house in our area. In all my years I never saw any resident. Kids thought the mansion housed a witch or a devil or both. Never even had a glimpse inside. The windows always looked covered and the house felt dark.

Ours was the most rundown house in the neighborhood. The exterior was very old white shale with several plates broken. The house was small. Fewer than 900 square feet. The porch planks needed to be replaced. Our porch was never painted. The bulk of the front and side yard had no grass. The maple tree in the middle of the yard saw to that.

We didn’t dress any differently than the others kids, or seem to have lesser toys. Mom usually has a part-time job that went exclusively to benefit my younger brother and I (Dean was so I would have a playmate). It was just the house and the fact that the entire back yard was a vegetable garden with one corner reserved for the rabbit cages. This became more and more clear as my interest in architecture grew. By my high school days I felt poor and neglected and confused. My dad had a very good unionized railroad job, yet we seemed to never have money. He seemed to have one of the better paying jobs in the neighborhood. He was not spending it on any vices. He was a non-smoking non-drinking stay at home man. I found out our problem after he passed away. Mom asked me to help her by writing letters to a few Christian ministries he cared about and telling them he was deceased. She did not want the requests for money to come any longer. I was shocked at how many and even who he supported. Half his income was given away.

As a young adult I married on a shoestring and survived those early years because my wife was a great bargain hunter. I remember when I was hoping that someday I might even make $5,000 a year. You have to laugh. Times changed.

I moved into the average paycheck in my second ministry. But I gave that all up after one year, moved on to seminar and my wife and I barely kept our noses above water for two years. I had plans to teach at my alma mater when my master’s degree was completed. The pay was significantly less that average. I actually chose to be poor. Again my wife led the way to survival. In my third year teaching the salaries began to rise, and each of my remaining years we had a major increase. We had a new chairman of the board who believed we should be paid like university professors. I love that man. During those years I moved into the lower end of upper middle class (whatever that means).

From there I went on to 13 years of excellent pay in a district position. That got me through those teen years when kids cost the most. That lasted another six years before poverty struck. I struggled for five of the next six years just to pay my bills (pre-retirement training). I did whatever I could to pay the bills. In 2008 my body began giving out and I could no longer handle the physical side of my job. I began receiving social security at 62. Whew! That helped. That on top of some small income jobs meant I lived just fine. Then I moved on to full retirement.

Before I go on, both my wife and I were as generous, or close to it, as my father. The difference for us was we did it on a personal level with individuals we knew needed help. Never once did we except to be repaid.

Our generosity replaced retirement planning. I wasn’t worried. I had Social Security and Medicare. That was certainly planning to be poor. I have also learned I need more help than that. Thank God for the food bank.

I’m not recommending my retirement plan unless you really do want to be poor, or unless you have no choice. But I don’t need much and don’t want much. In fact, I am still trying to get rid of things. I am happy and contented. And since I planned for my retirement, I have nothing to worry about — do I?

I have learned to be content with what I have.

THE NEW FAD

Today was the last day of school in our area. I could sit at my computer and observe all the latest youth styles and trends from the comfort of my living room.

The largest church in the area organized a citywide community Party at the Pier event for all Junior and Senior High students. We are four blocks from the pier and the traffic has been steady all day. Since the hosts commandeered the parks parking lot for various activities parking has pushed out past The Home.

My daughter warned me about the event on Saturday. The church she attends is the big push behind the event. They gathered the support of many area businesses so the event would be free. They had five area bands, three on three-basketball tournament, break dancing competition and dozens of other activities. The events were to run from noon until 5:00. Kids are mostly leaving as I write.

I was out this morning picking up prescriptions and drove by the park on my return to The Home. That was about 11:15. The police were out in force with piles of volunteer security to keep everything under control. There was already a crowd a block long waiting to get in. We were expecting window shaking noise from the bands, but my upstairs neighbor said she never hear them at all. I did hear them, but it was soft.

I was thrilled with the event. What a cool thing for a church to do. They already have over 300 teens to begin the crowd of 2,000. My oldest granddaughter is part of their group and no doubt was there all day. She never misses anything they do. I know my son-in-law was there, I saw him pullout out of the parking lot across the street from my window. I should be ticked off. He never looked this way, never stopped in, never knocked on my window or even honked. He must hate me. I’m joking. He teaches at one of the local high schools and attends the sponsoring church. He must have been involved.

Anyway, back to the styles I noticed. On the whole, they were just typical kids with a very normal look. Boys dressed in jeans and a T-shirt with most wearing a baseball cap. Girls were much the same. Several had shorts.

We actually had the sun today. It is suppose to be the first warm day of five or six more. Some guys were in shorts. The funky shorts were the basketball shorts hanging below the calves. That was paired with a lovely pair of long knee length socks – usually black – so their leg was completely covered. The black socks seemed to always have a stripe near the top that clashed with the strip in the black shorts. The nylon shorts were whapped around their lower body and appeared to be a sarong hung below their butts so all could see the beauty of their plaid boxers. Most often the shirt of choice was a very oversized sleeveless nylon with a number or name that could have mated the shorts. They never did. The combination of what they wore looked like they were borrowed from their 300-pound 4 ft. tall uncle Squatty. The hairstyle was long, scraggly and hung below their dirty cap and helped to push their ears out like Dumbo.

Mostly pants were no longer under their butts. The guys were just sloppy and dirty looking. I would call it the homeless look. Girls who were strangely dressed were still mostly dressed in black Goth - like death warmed over. I guess this is still popular somewhere. You know the type – all dressed in black with pins in their ears and lips. I thought that look was over. There was no brightly colored hair. Yeah! There was also the layered look. Clashing colors of socks, leotards, short skirts, lacy blouses under various torn, ragged jackets and always some funky hat. One could not help laughing at this sight. All reminded me of Carol Burnett’s washerwoman.

The newer accessory was a pipe. The favored look was a copy of the Sherlock Holmes Pipe. There were still lots of cigarettes smokers, more smoking girls than boys. But pipes were new to me. Not lots of them, but enough to take notice.

These are all fads. This too will pass. Clothes will change hair will be restyled. None of it will last – except the tattoos. Since so much changes with teens I do wonder all long it takes before they hate the skin adornment they choose. I’m tired of them already.

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY

Happy Fathers Day! We will celebrate Father’s Day on another day. Because I traveled so much the only special days you could guarantee I would be home was Thanksgiving and Christmas. We always fit celebrations in when we could. Besides we would like to BBQ and today is not a good BBQ day. Looks like rain again.

Church attendance has always amazed me. That is especially true of the first morning service of multiple service churches. I often wonder —where are the people? I do not attend a very large church to begin with, but this morning was very strange. If you count everyone on the platform, the soundman, the video man, the two greeter/ushers and the two women in the nursery there were 14 people with responsibilities. When the worship team began there were six sitting in the congregation. By the midpoint, there were 50 in the audience. Go figure. 9:30 a.m. does not seem too early to me.

There was a young couple sitting a couple of rows ahead of me with the most adorable, affectionate and loving 3-year-old boy. He was a strawberry blond wearing a blue jacket with a stripe down each arm that almost matched his hair. He smiled through the entire service. But because of his age, he was not still for a single moment. Had I my camera with me, I would have taken a hundred shots.

He was sitting on the aisle chair with his arm entwined around his father when I first noticed him. He went from there to hanging off dads shoulder, to being held in dad’s arms to stretching across dad to hug his baby sister in mom’s arms. He was back and forth to standing on his chair, holding hands with dad, hanging on his should being in his arms, off his chair on his chair and repeating the process multiple times in multiple variations. He then moved between mom and dad, pushed them apart and stood holding their arms. He reached to try and hold his little sister. Mom sat down beside him and put little sis in his lap but never let go of her. He hugged her, kissed her and smiled at her all the time lovingly caressing her like he was the parent.

After giving her back to mom, he stood, took an arm of each parent and smiled at them both. Dad picked him up and he gave dad several nose-to-nose rubs and kissed him on the nose. When he got down he went behind mom to three empty chairs beside her and stretched out putting his head on his arms. Both parents looked at him and a moment or two later he was on the floor under the chairs and moving forward. Dad saw him and reached behind mom, caught him by the leg and pulled him back. Dad held him again and the boy caressed dad’s face, smiled at him, hugged him and rested his head on dad’s shoulder. He moved back and forth with these actions through the entire service.

All the time he was doing this he whispered to his dad occasionally. He was never loud, never annoying, but adorably distracting. I was afraid that if I took my eyes off him I would miss something. He was worthy of many photos. I may start taking my camera to church. I’m missing some great shots.

NATIONAL PICNIC DAY

Today was National Picnic Day. Did you celebrate? We at The Home did. We scheduled a picnic at Waterfront Park. I would never miss a national celebration. Last Sunday (June 12) was the day Baseball was invented in 1837. Monday was “Weed Your Garden Day” (I escaped that one – I have no garden), Tuesday was “Flag Day,” Friday was National Fudge Day” I would have celebrated that one but no one made any fudge. I did miss all the other celebrations this past week, but I was determined not to miss Picnic Day.

We have a slight participation problem at The Home. I really don’t understand. Many comment that there is nothing to do, but when we schedule something, they don’t come — it is not what they want to do. They could come and tell me what they would like, they could go to the activities director to express their desires or they could drop a suggestion in the suggestion box. None of that has ever happened. But they are bored and there is nothing to do. Go figure!

That comment about boredom was made to one of our picnic participants, as they were getting ready to walk down to the park. She invited the complainer to come along to the picnic. Guess what she was told? I don’t want to do that. Well, go ahead and sit down and pout.

I understand the turn out today. It was cool. It was cloudy. It was threatening rain. I was actually hoping I would be the only one to go, and that it would pour. I wanted to take a picture of the “crowd” for the next newsletter.

It was slightly cool, but a sweatshirt was enough. There were sure a lot of small children and their parents on the playground. There were a seven other groups having picnics and several animal rescue dogs being trained On the grounds. It was nice. We picked a table in the shade (just incase the sun came out), where we would watch the kids. I grabbed a passerby to take our picture. I wanted people to see what they missed. I doubt it will work.

Well, happy National Picnic Day. I hope you enjoyed the not as yet National Holiday.

A GOOD BOOK

I love getting immersed in a good book. I can lose myself completely. Ultimately I enjoy a book more than a movie and I am a movie addict. A book does not end so fast and consumes me with detail.

I got hooked so bad last night I finally gave up about 2:00 a.m. All that meant was that I slept rather late this morning, than after a couple of chapters this morning I fell asleep in my chair. Isn’t retirement wonderful?

J. A. Jance is a Seattle based writer specializing in detective novels. While I do not live in Seattle, I have moved around the area enough to recognize almost every landmark she mentions. In addition, Birds of Prey is about a mystery on the Inland Passage to Alaska, a wonderful cruise I took a few years back. So I recognize all the ports and side tours that were taken. I love the feeling of connection. Maybe that’s why I like the book so much.

J.A. Jance has many fans at “The Home” but I had never read her before. I had some extra time a few say ago and was in St. Vincent DePaul’s Thrift Shop. I seem to always look for books in thrift stores. I usually look for history or mystery books. I spotted two of her books and at 95¢ each thought I would take a chance. I think I’m addicted already and have not quit finished the first book.

When I got them home I discovered that Without Due Process is an autographed edition. Never had one before. Always wanted a John Grisham autographed edition. He’s my favorite.

There are two supposed murders in Birds of Prey, one off the back of the cruise ship and another off the back of the White Pass train. That kind of ruined the train ride for me. That was the most fun side trip I took. Having lived in Canada for 15 years, and visited nine of the ten provinces (sorry I missed PEI), I was anxious to get into the Yukon. It was early June when I made the trip and it was hot. It was 84º I believe. I was hoping we would get all the way to Yellowknife, but only went as far as Caribou Crossing where we had a chuck wagon meal and ate in a covered wagon. This place had a large taxidermy museum and sent their work to museums around the world. Who knew?

On the return we stopped at Carcross, which has the oldest continuously operating grocery store in North America. It’s been going since 1897 and appears to have no end in site. Of course every tour buss in the area stops for the tourists. I’m sure that helps sales. After that we got on the White Pass train for the trip down the mountain. Spectacular. Of course, I was a fan of Jack London, The Alaska Gold Rush and anything about the Wild West even before this. Even took a trip through California gold rush territory.

Enough about my travel log! I guess now I will have to look at your vacation pictures. OK, I owe you that much. I’m glad it’s a cool day. I wrapped myself up in my toasty warm robe, poured myself a couple cups of coffee and read away. I’m going to go back and finish that book now. Dreams of the Alaska cruise.

ITS FUN TO DESTROY

Don’t you love it when you see people being their perverted selves? I’m sure love is the wrong word. Shocked, dismayed, disappointed, discouraged, horrified, angered, furious seem to come to mind more quickly.

The human condition has always intrigued me. When angry: why do we yell? Is it to be heard? Is it to clarify our communication? Not really. History should tell us yelling does not work. When upset, why do we throw things? If it is in our house, we pay for the damage or must replace the items. Why burn things? Our insurance will not pay when we are the arsonist.

I guess the thought of having to do all the work or put out all that money is just too painful for me. Also, I’m rather cheap.

Still being part Canadian (in my heart at least), I shared the pain of many Canadians as they watched idiots attempt to destroy Vancouver. I lived there and love that city and can see in my mind all the places that were damaged, looted and burned. But to what avail?

I would love to provide some great insight or deep psychological explanation. But I agree with Dr. Laura when she says. “Some people are just evil.” That also fits my theological bent.

I accept that explanation. Liquor and drugs add to the loss of control. There is a mob mentality that drives people to do what they would normally not do. For some it is pure fun. That I do not understand, but I know it’s true. That is the primeval sinful, destructive growl of a very small minority. The followers are idiots who have no mind of their own. Lock ‘em all up. I’m sure there was not enough jail space for them all.

In case you missed the news, Vancouver Cunucks fans chose to destroy their downtown because they lost the Stanley Cup. I know hockey is important to Canadians, but it is not just hockey fans who are crazy, but they might be at the top of the heap. Win or lose in nearly every city where a championship is played, there is damage. It seems like people hate winning and hate losing. They are supposedly so happy their team won they must destroy something. They feel the same way when their team loses. I don’t understand why any city would want to host one of these games. It seems to mean trouble. This is one of sports more bizarre responses.

Andrés Escobar Saldarriaga (13 March 1967 – 2 July 1994) was a Colombian footballer (soccer star) who was shot and killed in Medellín. It is widely believed that he was murdered due to his own goal in the 1994 FIFA World Cup, which supposedly would have caused gambling losses to several powerful drug lords. Andrés Escobar is still held in the highest regard by Colombian fans, and is especially mourned and remembered by Atlético Nacional's fans. Andres was the most beloved Colombian player in his country's history.

The above is a purely evil response. If you don’t give me what I want, I’ll…(fill in the blank). I do not understand why we think everything should go our way or that we all always right. Have we always got our way? Maybe some have, but if that’s the case it’s time to grow up, wake up and experience real life. Any person worth their salt already knows they are not always right. So act like it and accept the consequences.

If you are going to destroy things or set fires, why not burn you own cars or smash your own windows. These people are not making mistakes, they are not just getting carried away, they are not just caught up in the moment. They are total idiots bend on raising prices for the customers who will now pay for the clean up and repairs.

TO EAT OR NOT TO EAT

I’m confused. No, it’s not the first time and it won’t be the last time. The confusion leads to frustration. I don’t know who to trust or what to trust. Maybe you feel the same way.

It has everything to do with contradictions — the contradictions about what will kill me if I eat it and what used to kill me if I eat it and now I can eat it and will not die. Do you ever get the feeling that even the experts do not know what they are talking about?

Today it is chocolate milk. Remember the old saying “I’d rather my kids drink chocolate milk than no milk at all.” Brian Williams told me tonight that drinking chocolate milk might not be a good idea (sugar). I can’t even begin to tell you how many things I have eaten that might not be a good idea.

I took the slippery slope route to fat in milk. I went from whole milk to 2% to 1% and then fat free only to learn that I am lactose intolerant. I can use all the milk substitutes on or in things, but I cannot longer drink what is called milk. Yuck! It’s the taste! While I am surviving, I cheat by having no sugar added ice cream. I am a little tired of the five available flavors, because I like variety. OK, I like cookie dough, or Butterfinger or anything with nuts, and I indulge from time to time.

I can avoid candy. Not much temptation — that is unless it’s rich homemade fudge. Yummm. I love freshly baked “anything.” I am not so tempted by the mass produced and prepackaged cookies in the grocery stores. I am a little tempted by the bakeries, but I cannot resist homemade baking. I try (maybe not very hard), but I’m addicted.

I have avoided many of the major addictions of Americans. I don’t drink (maybe a little one on a rare occasion). I have never smoked — anything. I don’t gamble. I don’t shop away my depression. I don’t participate in any of the major “sinful” activities. All I do is overeat or eat unhealthy things. The church taught me to do this with their frequent potlucks. They don’t do that so much any more. It has nothing to do with a healthy movement and everything to do with size. It has not been given up completely they still do it in their home groups. So I can still do it through the church but not as conspicuously.

Now I have no intention of launching a campaign to eat better (so sue me). I attend a weekly Bible Study where the hostess makes the most wonderful baked goods. Her — I want to encourage her to keep up the good work.

I have little doubt that people will gasp or at least frown at my horrid bad habits, nor will they like my life motto “We all die of something.” Well don’t you want to live longer? Sure, why not. I’m enjoying life. But I do not want to live on rice cakes and water. I want to enjoy the wonderful joys of food. You may now throw rotten tomatoes.

TIME FOR CHANGE

It’s time for a change. I have slowed down the stories about “The Home.” Not because noting is happening, but because it sounds so repetitious. I still find it all very funny and I roll my eyes at the antics, but because I think I should write about the things I talk about at coffee. Besides laughing at “The Home,” I like laughing at our culture.

Today someone mentioned that the popularity of comic book hero’s in movies is related to the lack of real life hero’s. Maybe? I wonder it is that many have grown up with these characters and seeing them brought to life is cool.

My blog is going to see a gradual turn in focus. It has already begun. I am going to talk less about “The Home” and will write more about aging, change, growing old and the stupidity of the government. There is so much material there. Lest you fear I am going to take a major stand for one point of view and condemn another, I am not Russ Limbaugh. I am an equal opportunity offender. Since the presidential campaign for 2012 in fully underway, it is time I get underway telling you the truth.

I hope yo0u stay with me and even write me more often. I love your comments. I love you helpful hints. I love your experiences. Come-on lets face it. I’m old and I just sit around waiting for something of interest to happen — NOT!

CELL PHONES

It seems like nothing ever stays the same. I don’t drive around just to drive around, but when I go down the main street some store seems to have always replaced some other store or the old one was bought out and the name has changed.

Our area phone company is changing its name from Quest to Century Link. I don’t know if they were bought out or the ones doing the buying. I remember when AT&T was broke up because it was considered a monopoly. It broke into so many little companies that all I really remember is the price went up.

I had nothing against the old AT&T. You could get any phone you wanted, as long it was black and a rotary. It was tied to a specific spot. You could not put it in you pocket and carry it around with you unless you had an exceptionally long cord. Neither could you get in an accident because you were driving and talking on the phone. No one ever needed to text anyone. No one seemed to know they needed to do that. Phones used to be for talking — not typing. Come to think of it, no one seemed to know how important it was to have a phone implanted in his or her ear. In fact, it seemed nice to get away from the phone at times. Who knew we would stop talking on phones and use them to write (text). Weird, I think.

We may have thought it would be nice to have a phone we could carry around, but I doubt anyone considered that would mean everyone in the family would need their own phone or that the phone bill would be around $100 a month. It never occurred to us that one could get killed talking on the phone, and we certainly didn’t know we would need games on our phone to wile away our boredom while waiting for the one we were talking to talked on a another line to another person. I remember waiting for someone to return from a potty break, but now we just take the phone with us. Who knew we needed to talk on the phone while doing our business.

I’m not saying all these features are not fun or even nice. I kind of like knowing who is calling. It is hard to get me if you are not already in my phone. I rarely answer the phone when it is someone I don’t know by number. I love having the number of those I call often stored in my phone. I do wish it were easier to get those numbers in my phone (let’s not go into that).

There seem to be more and more features on my phone or whatever the name of the current electronic device will be that I will soon believe I cannot live without. All these things may be fun, but to we “need” them. They certainly make for one very expensive machine that will be outdated in six months and will absolutely have to be upgraded or replaced. I don’t know how I could live without the latest and greatest.

Thinking of phone companies changing names do we really carry phones any more? Are we not carrying Androids, Droids, or whatever else is the hottest thing since sliced bread? I suppose that expression is also passé, but I don’t know the expression that has replaced that. However there should be a new expression. There are only a few people left who remember that sliced bread was something you did to bread when it came out of the oven.

Its not just Quest that is changing names, I have noticed that A&T has been gradually buying back all these little companies that spewed from their bosom. I suspect it will not be long until they own everything they once lost and the government will have to break them all up. Pretty small little guys if you think about it. Break them up into many smaller companies, let them develop new technology and then buy them back. I won’t mind if they make the phone a phone again and go back to affordable prices.

WHAT DO YOU WANT TO DO WHEN YOU GROW UP

I knew what I wanted to be when I rather young. It wasn’t the typical kids thing: a policeman or a fireman. I definitely didn’t want to be a soldier. Nothing against soldiers but World War II was over and I was sure there would never need another soldier. They were calling it the war to end all wars. If I had a kids’ type dream it was to be a cowboy.

I watched all the Saturday morning westerns especially Hop-along-Cassidy, Gene Autry, and my favorite — Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. Did you know he never killed anyone? He could shoot any gun out of anybody’s hand. He also had Bullitt (his dog) and Trigger (his now stuffed horse). I don’t know why I wanted to be a cowboy. Maybe it was because we played cowboys all the time. I even hat a white cowboy hat.

The only thing I knew about cowboys was that they punched cattle (what’s that?) and protected good people from bad people. I did have dreams about living on a ranch. The dream was silly. I never really liked being on a farm and when I heard how much poop you had to shovel. Well, lets just say the glamour was gone.

My real more adult dreams came about at age 10 or 11. My first and highly practiced dream was to be a Hollywood stunt man. That’s because Austin (my best friend) and I wanted to fake fight and fall off tall buildings. I did not give a single thought to breaking bones. Neither did Austin. He proved it by jumping out of the second story window of our classroom. He limped for a long time.

My big dream, my secret dream was to be an architect, weird for grade school. The first time I looked at a house plans book I was hooked. While my friends were buying or stealing comic books most of my allowance was spent on house design books.

Most of the kids in my grade school went to Tech after eight-grade graduation. It was closer and consider easier. I chose Central, a pre-university school. I nearly died trying to get through the school listed as one of the top high schools in America. I should have gone to Tech. But I held on to my dream and went on to the University of Nebraska to reach my dream. I got exceptional grades in design. Not so much in math. My professor took me for coffee one day and told me straight out. Your math skills are so weak you will never be able to design anything over two stories. There are so many trying to get in the architectural field at that time that he doubted I would ever make it.

I was at a loss. What would I do? I was selling shoes part-time and my boss wanted me to quit school and come work full time. He did not know I was being encouraged to give up my dream. I parlayed the offer into the highest salary I could and settled to be a shoe salesman. I knew the company was expanding and they wanted to put me inline for managerial position in any part of the country I wanted.

Several months later I was coming out of church and told my best friend I was offered a managerial position in any state I wanted. I asked him to move to California with mw. He said he couldn’t, he was going to Canada to Bible School. Why don’t you come with me? On the spur of the moment I decided to go with him and had to get everything together in two weeks. I now had dreams of Canada. I was disillusioned. There were no mountains. The wind howled constantly. The land was flat enough to see my home back in Nebraska. The school was old and falling apart, and I had more students in my university classes than they had in the entire school.

None-the-less, it was what God wanted. I graduated and spent 37 years doing what I loved. I just didn’t know I loved it until I got found it. I did get to fulfill my dreams. They just changed.

Did you end up doing what you dreamed you would do as a child?

GROCERIES, BBQ'S, CLEANUP

GROCERIES

I swear there are times I should be hit over the head or at least slapped. Everyone here at The Home all talks about Alzheimer’s and almost every time any one of us forgets something, or can’t remember some minor issue — it comes to mind. The question I have is — does someone who has Alzheimer’s know it? Maybe one or more of you nurses will help me here.

The fact is that I have struggled to find a word, a name or an object most of my life. It just seems worse now. Many of us cannot remember something but someone nearby always finishes the end of the sentence. It’s almost like a game. I may trademark the game. I’ll keep it simple and call it “Finish My Sentence” (cleaver, right!). It could be fun. I doubt anyone here would buy the game as we play it everyday without a game board or sentence cards.

A couple of friends of mine found a great grocery store with excellent prices. They waited to go after I got my monthly allotment of food stamps. That way I could save a little on the total bill. As I paid the bill and started to leave, Gail asked if I used my EBT card. I gasped, hit my head and said, “I forgot.” Gail hit me with a paper. The whole point of going when we did was to help me save money. Duh!

SUMMER BBQ’s

We began our summer BBQ’s last night. It was a little cool so we actually ate inside. Rocky had moved the grill to a new spot and I could not get it out. A car was parked to close to a wall and the grill would not pass through the space. It took time, but I found the driver and the car was moved.

When I got the grill out of the narrow space I nearly blew a gasket. It was filthy. They have a new policy granting anyone the right to use the grill whenever they like. They need permission from Rick. Whoever used it last did not clean it up. Neither did they get permission to use it. I’m interested in a lynching. That’s probably not acceptable. Cleaning that grill is hard work. The exterior was actually the worst. There was grease on the side shelves that was caked on. The grate was also caked. I hate that. I refuse to clean it up for others to use if they will not clean it up for me. Of course, how to make that happen is — well I don’t know! Maybe I’ll try to figure out a way to lock it up. If that doesn’t work, I might try revenge. Any ideas!

CLEAN-UP

Everyone seems to be angry about our “cleaner-upper.” This woman is a personally a hoarder. I’m not kidding. There is no place to sit in her living room. She can get to her bed and there is a chair there. Her kitchen is still useable. But outside her apartment she complains about plants that she thought were not being cared for correctly. She eventually threw them away. She is upset about a corner where our unused puzzles are stacked. They are neat and not very obvious until you are almost on top of them. She never does puzzles and I want her to mind her own business. She keeps getting worse. Her way is the only way. How do you break that kind of habit?

She announces on a regular basis that she knows all about plants since she is a master gardener. On the way back from the grocery store we found a hill that needs color. I suggested we turn it over Nancy. She could walk to it from here and the hill extends for nearly a mile. That should tie her up for a long time.

RESPONSE

I love hearing from your who read my blog. I have had helpful ideas, fun comments and great observations. Thanks. I hope to hear from more as the blog progresses. You can argue with me, encourage me. You can agree or disagree. I respond to most comments so be sure to check back on the comments you have made.

MY BIKE

I had a not so bright red Schwinn bike that once belonged to who knows who. It was in good physical shape but had some scrapes and bruises from some hard riding. Some how it got passed down to me. No doubt it had belonged to some relative I have long ago forgotten. We lived in this funky old house of about 1000 sq. feet and the first room as you approached the house had been a convenience store at one time in ancient history. When I inherited my bike I had that front room as a bedroom. It was the largest room in the house. I had to share the room with a number of stored items. There was an old baby blue highchair without a tray. It looked like every kid in the family used it at one time. There were plenty of boxes filled with — I don’t know. Don’t think I ever looked in them. The nice thing about the room was that I also got to store my bike in my room and it was easy to get it in and out. It was right beside my bed.

I learned to ride on the hill on our front street. I was taken to the top, put on the bike and released to try and find a soft spot to fall. It took awhile to get the brakes to work right. You reversed the pedal to stop. Push too hard and you flew over the handlebars. The Schwinn was the only bike I ever owned. I barely fit on it when I learned to ride, but it became my freedom to the world.

By the eighth grade I was riding all over the town. I never went south. I really didn’t know that part of town. My oldest sister lived there and it seemed like a long way. Besides, I didn’t really want to ride by the stockyard’s. My small gang of guys often rode downtown, or out to Elmwood Park (by the university) and sometimes north to a place called Devils Slide. That wasn’t an official name, but that’s what we called it. It was a steep dirt hill and many slid down and tried not to crash when they hit the bottom. It looked frightening at the top, and sometimes was frightening coming down. But there was an overwhelming sense of pride when you made it to the bottom on your feet.

These were the pre-helmet days before the government thought it necessary to protect us from growing up. Cuts, bruises and scrapes were a sign of an adventurer. We wore those marks proudly. It was also before the boys wore shorts so we always had our heavy Levi’s to somewhat protect our legs. Of course you either rolled your right pant leg up or had a band around it to keep it from being caught in the chain. Getting it caught could throw you for a loop.

There were about eight of us who played hide and seek on our bikes. Both hiders and seekers could keep moving. We set street boundaries and away we went. Besides the streets there were paved alleys and people’s yards. Very little seemed to be off limits. There were four empty lots in our area and each had some cool places to hide. I liked to hide off an alley behind some apartments. They had garages off the alley and a small space between the garages and a storage shed. It was a tight fit, but very hard to see anyone when riding by.

My favorite place was Elmwood Park. There were trails, sidewalks, a cool tunnel and neat drinking fountains. I usually only did this with Glen. It was a long ways from home, but most of us had only one rule when riding out bikes. Be home before the street lights when on. That was a lot of time on a warm summer day. Besides riding was one of the ways to keep cool. We had no swimming hole near us.

The neighborhood racing spot was the sidewalk around the grade school. There was no room for two bikes side by side so this was always done with Bobby Cummings stopwatch. We were run off the property only once. Tony, the school janitor, was coming up out of the basement and almost got run over by Glen. He was so mad he told us never to come on the school property again or he would @$&!?#*%> us. We were back two day later and he even came out to watched at times.

So what kind of bike did you have as a youth? Did you do any fun things?

MY FIRST JOB

Several of us were talking about our first jobs today. Most were fairly typical. Almost all the women began as baby sitters. One was a papergirl. The other fellow worked on the family farm and did that for several years. I had two jobs before the one I consider my first job. I never got paid for the other two.

I began “working” with my brother-in-law at his donut shop. He ran a small corner coffee shop, convenience store and made fresh donuts. He also delivered his donuts to a number of stores. This is before the days of the big donut making machines. He mixed his cake donuts by hand and I learned to hand dip them into the various frostings and top with sprinkles or nuts or candies (just one of those which I made for me). I spend the night at their place and worked for an hour or two on Saturday morning. I helped my sister run the shop while her husband was making deliveries. In retrospect I have no idea how they got me up so early. There was no money, but I could eat all the donuts I wanted. I eventually learned to hate donuts. My mother told me this is what you do to help family. That comment was meant to replace money.

The second job was going door-to-door selling Watkins and Fuller Brush products. My neighbor was the regional distributor for both products. He and my mother talked me into it. I was an exceptionally shy kid and knew I could not do the job. I hated initiating conversations; I never knew what to say. I knocked on about a dozen doors and walked on past two-dozen houses. I sold nothing and got paid nothing and no one turned me away. They didn’t want anything, and I did take no for an answer. These were the days when housewives were at home. I was petrified and no one bit me.

At the beginning of my junior year in high I decided it was time to get a paying job. I searched the paper for jobs I thought I could handle. After a few days of seeing the same ad appear everyday I walked down the hill after school for three days in a row, sat on the bus bench across the street from the shoe store trying to get up the nerve to go in and ask for a job. They were advertising for a part time salesman. I have no idea what made me think I could be a salesman; I reasoned that people were coming in to buy shoes. I was not going to their door to convince them to buy something I was already convinced they did not want.

On day four I went into the store and was a nervous wreck. I was lead to the back and up a narrow staircase to a room that ran the width of the store and had a ceiling that was only five feet high. I walked in with my head bowed and sat next the managers desk. What can I do to help you? I have come to apply for the part-time salesman’s job. He looked at me and smiled then laughed. I doubt you could sell anything. I thought the same thing, but didn’t want to admit it.

Well I do have one job where you might fit in. I need a stock boy two to three times a week. You would be responsible to run stock and unpack the arriving shoes. Are you interested? Yes, very much. I had no idea what it meant to run stock, but I assumed I would be hiding in the back some place. Come back on Monday right after school and we will see if you work out.

I did not breath easy until I got out of the store and was a block away. I was ecstatic. I arrived on Monday and there were two other boys there for the same job. He was going to try us all out before he hired only one of us. I was panic-stricken. The other two were relaxed. They were friends and seemed to handle being there with ease.

We were told to go through all the shelving and take out all the empty boxes and flatten them, then move all the full boxes closer together so there are no spaces. Keep all the remaining shoes in order by size and identification number so they can be found. That is what he meant by running the stock.

We were sent to three different parts of the store and told he would check back with us in two hours. I learned something about shoeboxes from the 50’s. They all had a string embedded around the rim of the box. Every one I tore cut into my hand. I was bleeding slightly by the time I was done. I finished my section in just a little over an hour and didn’t know what to do. I was told it would take two hours. I went back over everything to see if I missed something or moved the boxes wrong. Everything was right. I returned to the back stacks and bumped into the manager. Are you done? Yes sir. He walked through my area told me I did a good job and to come back on Thursday to begin working. I got the job.

I went out and walked a half a block away to the bus stop. I must have just missed the bus because I waited nearly twenty minutes. I saw the other two guys coming out just before I got on the bus. They were clearly unhappy. They gave me a dirty look and I jumped on the bus hoping the driver would close the doors and move immediately. You never know.

HOME OWNER FORECLOSES ON BANK

THIS IS A REPRINT OF A NEWS ARTICLE. I HAVE ALWAYS WANTED TO HEAR OF SOMETHING LIKE THIS!

By TARA-NICHOLLE NELSON – Mon Jun 6, 4:50 pm ET

In a modern-day evocation of David's slingshot triumph over Goliath, a couple of foreclosed homeowners in Naples, Florida reportedly foreclosed on a Bank of America branch last week, their attorney actually having moving trucks pull up in front of a Naples branch to execute a foreclosure judgment against the bank.

What must have seemed to observers like a scene out of a parallel universe was actually the fair and logical conclusion to a situation which, the court had ruled, had an unfair and illogical start. In 2009, retired police officer Warren Nyerges and his wife, Maureen Collier, paid $165,000 cash for their 2,700 square foot home in the Golden Gate Estates subdivision, and never took a mortgage out on it. So imagine their surprise when, in Februrary of 2010, Bank of America initiated foreclosure proceedings against them. The Nyerges hired an attorney, Todd Allen, to defend them against the wrongful foreclosure, and the Bank eventually abandoned the matter.

But not before the Nyerges incurred $2,534 in attorney's fees, which they requested informally from Bank of America multiple times before resorting to the courts, which ordered the bank to make the couple whole. When B of A still had not paid the judgment after five months of phone calls and letter writing by Allen and the Nyerges to the bank insisting that the court order be obeyed, Allen took the next step in the legal collection process, obtaining an order of foreclosure against the bank.

"They've ignored our calls, ignored our letters, legally this is the next step to get my clients compensated," Allen stated during an interview with CBS News.

Allen then reported to a local branch of the bank with sheriff's deputies, who he instructed to remove cash from the tellers' drawers, furniture, computers and other property. Approximately one hour later, the Naples News reports, the bank manager produced a check for $5,772.88 to satisfy Allen's fees and additional costs.

"We apologize to Mr. Nyerges that there was a delay in receiving the funds," read the bank's written statement to the Naples News. "The original request went to an outside attorney who is no longer in business."

Some might say all's well that ends well in this scenario, seeing as the Nyerges got their home, Allen got his fees and the bank got its come-uppance.

While one or even several of the Nyerges' efforts to get B of A to pay the court judgment might have gone to the defunct lawyer's office, the Nyerges say they actually submitted their pleas directly to the bank, multiple times, to no avail: "I talked to branch managers, I called anyone who would listen to me," the couple told the Naples News. "And I wrote a certified letter to the president (of the bank). No response, nothing." Enough said? We'll see.

RETURN TO NORMAL

Well everything is back to normal at The Home. I knew this quiet and apparent peace could not last forever, and it hasn’t.

Let’s start with Garden Wars. The powers that be finally enforced a statement in our lease by making everyone remove all the junk stored in front of their cars. It didn’t affect me so I really didn’t care. Some had so much stuff there was little room for their car. Two of our residents had so many garden tools they could have opened a garden supply store. They convinced the Housing Authority to install two sheds for the tools. Today, they wanted locks on the sheds (which are stored in the garage). No one doubts that they want locks so they can each have a shed just for their things. However, they were told if locks were put on they would have to distribute keys to all the gardeners. That issue is quieted for the moment but with the gardening season well underway there are still six spots not being used. Our two master gardeners want them for themselves. No one knows how this will turn out. The next fight will be the limited room in the tool sheds. Haven’t heard anything yet, but it’s coming.

Chas has already been under attack. They have four garden boxes that are raised for use by those in wheelchairs or those who cannot bend over. The dirt did not arrive when it was promised and the female master gardener demanded that he move his plants as they were in her way. I don’t know how much more out of the way they could get. They were all sitting in their pots under his box. Of course, Chas has a hair trigger mouth that snaps and bits in a slit second. I don’t know what he said, but they are not speaking. May that continue throughout the summer!

There is a small group who want the right to use the BBQ grill whenever they want. They will not come to the regular Thursday night BBQ’s. That’s because they don’t care for the people who come to that one. The powers that be struggle with allowing them that privilege as they will have to purchase more propane We may also run out of propane for the regularly scheduled times. The battle goes on.

We had a reconciliation counselor speak at the monthly meeting today. I regret missing the meeting but had no choice — the meeting interfered with my regularly schedule nap. Yes, I could have had a nap later, but I have problems with this counselors. I do not like his method (yes singular). He does not know how to bring things to an end. He does not know when to stop. I benefited by missing the meeting.

It’s so good to be back to normal. I missed the manipulation, the behind the scenes plotting, the gossip, the anger and hostility. It is so nice to see the place back to all the same old shenanigans. Life is good.

WHERE DO I PARK?

There’s a scramble for parking at The Home. While a few are finding new spots today, most will begin the search tomorrow. We have all been asked to remove our cars from the garage between 10-4 on Saturday. They plan to blow the dust and dirt out of the space.

First, I cannot imagine it taking that long. I had a larger parking lot in St, Helens and even with breaks could get it done in about three hors. Who knows, they may do a better job than I ever did.

Second, parking around and near The Home is almost impossible to find. Most cars are in the garage. We have eight outside on site parking spots. Three are taken by residents for whom there is no room inside. There is no on street parking anywhere hear The Home. There are businesses directly across the street from us that all have parking lots. Each has posted specific signs directed specific at people who may park in their lot and walk across the street to The Home. The word is “Don’t you dare park here.”

There is a parking lot we are permitted to use at the north end of our buildings. It is owned by the local public schools. It is used for a ball field that has games or practice nearly everyday after school and several games on Saturdays. When the crowds come for the games, they fill that parking lot.

There will be a game tomorrow morning and people will begin arriving between 8:30 and 8:45 for a 9:00 game. We are no required to have out cars our of the garage until 10:00. See the problem. If residents wait till close to 10:00, there will be no parking close to The Home left. They will be pushed out 2-4 blocks away.

I can hear the howling now. This will not be a happy time. I decided to get a jump on the problem and have already moved my car to one of the on site spots. I plan to spend much of the day with my family tomorrow so will be leaving, but is it unlikely I will go before 10:00. I’m glad about that. I am excited about watching the fireworks and hearing the explosions. If you can drive, you can walk, but that won’t stop the screaming.

I just love a good action scene.

IT HURTS

There is sadness at The Home tonight. The reasons are minor in light of tragedies throughout our world, but they are painful here. I’ve always said that the worst pain in the world is the one I am currently experiencing. While that’s not true, it feels like it. We are pretty self-focused. It really is all about us.

Beth got exceptionally bad news about her inability to swallow solid foods and as a result has great difficulty eating. They cannot repair the problem. I know she told me why it cannot be done, but I focused on her loss. She will function predominately on a liquid diet. They will continue to monitor her situation and I am praying for the best.

Margaret has had some seizures at night and they do not know why. She left today for a three-day stay (hopefully) in a hospital where they will induce the seizure to try and figure it out. She is very frightened. Two friends accompanied her since she must be watched all the time.

Chas went to visit his sister today. She lives about 150 miles away. Because he is wheelchair bound he finds transportation – economical transportation – a challenge. He has a buddy with a van who took him. It is a cargo van and has no windows. While the chair was strapped down, his body was rocked back and forth. He could see out the front a bit, but got nauseated and had to lay down as soon as he returned. His sister works for a nursery and he went to pick up flowers for his garden.

Anna is my upstairs neighbor. She is a dog. She was taken out at about 11:00 this morning for a regular walk and drop. However, while coming down the stairs she fell and broke one of her front legs in two places. Gail rushed her to the vet where she was given the sad news and asked what she wanted to do. Anna is sixteen-years-old. Her bones are brittle. He could cast the leg but with her problems the vet could not promise the leg would heal. Gail asked if it was time to make the difficult decision. He said it was. Anna went to doggie heaven. Gail had Anna all sixteen-years. She was a wonderful companion and a terrific dog. She enjoyed people and she was very friendly always looking forward to seeing the other residents. I will miss her running up to see me when we are in the hall. She has suffered from something the past three weeks. This normally quiet dog began barking the minute Gail left and would not stop until her returned.

All these pains are very real to the ones experiencing them. They are not the worse pains one can face, but they are the present pains. We all share in their sense of loss. Beth will struggle, but she will function. We still do not know about Margaret and will not know for a few days. Many are frightened with her. Chas, well, he’ll get over his tiredness. Gail and her family will heal. Anna is out of her pain.

Rejoice with those who rejoice. Weep with those who weep. We care. That is we care about everyone except Chas. I have one thing to say to him: GET OVER IT!

WHY IS IT SO DIFFICULT TO CARE

One of the great mysteries in life is why we treat some people the way we do. I for one think I treat people reasonably well. Of course, what I think and what I do is not necessarily the same thing. That makes it easy to assume I do it right. I’m fair, considerate and understanding — most of the time — I think.

Because we are all human (don’t you hate that expression) we screw up. I do it far to often. So the subject I plan to discuss today cannot be directed at others, but at myself as well.

We have two gentlemen and two women that are the butt of many jokes. The are mocked, made fun of, and generally rejected.

The men I’ll call A and B. The women will be C and D. “A” has been here the longest. He is mentally challenged. He has been hit by cars twice and walks with pain. As he ages he gets more confused and extremely repetitious. He spends a great deal of time talking about his high school and college education. His late teens and early 20’s seem the strongest in his mind. The ridicule “A” suffers is usually anger. Many cannot stand his repetitious stories. It’s true. Most of us could tell his stories for him. What we miss is that his does feel the pain of rejection.

Mr. “B” is also mentally challenged but in a different way. He does not seem to take offense or even seem to be aware that he is the joke. He does not understand the basics of daily living. While he is clean, he is sloppy. His clothes need repair, ironing, hemming. We do not offer to help. He has a caregiver who should care for these things. She does not. He cannot remember to care for routine daily items like taking his medication, remembering his appointments. He is more fun than Mr. “A” because he seem to go along with the jokes made about him. He comes to potlucks and fills his plate 3-4 times. This offends many. He reminds me of the kind of person who has suffered many days without sufficient food and eats as much as he can when it is available just in case there is no next time. He also takes as much as he can to his rooms after the dinner. He has been harangued by several to not just come and eat, but also bring something to share. He now does that, but shouldn’t. He cannot cook and does not keep food stored properly. Most of what he brings is thrown away. Any woman who is kind to Mr. “B” is in danger of being perceived as his girlfriend. It’s scary.

Mrs. “C” as some mental disorder, but it is combined with rocking, invading personal space and coming from behind you and leaning over your shoulder to look you in the face. That is startling. She tends to make people nervous. She is extremely active: involved in square dancing and assisting in a local kindergarten and daycare. She cannot seem to sit still very long. It is her social skills that draw attention and annoyance.

Lady “D” seems to be just socially inept. She struggles with deep depression. It shows and hurts her and others. People stay away from her and speak to her in angry tones. She sat next to me at a recent potluck and can really put the food away. She is hated for this. She started with three dinner plates piled high with food. One is main dishes, the second is salads and the third is desserts. She repeats this for seconds. I worked hard to get to know her. She knows she is a misfit and does not make getting to know her easy. He gives little and feels alone.

The men should be in care facilities. However, unless they become a danger to others, no one here as the right to remove them. They may be a danger to themselves (as Mr. “B” is) but nothing can be done until they hurt themselves, or so we are told.

The women both function at a higher level. They get their share of ridicule, but not like the men.

These four are pretty much despised and rejected. Three of them can do very little to change what they are and how they act. They need compassion and understanding. Why is it so hard to give them a little respect, a little compassion, and a little understanding?

There are a handful of residents who try. Most wish they were out of sight to be out of mind. We might all want the world peopled with only “our kind of people.” It will never happen. Lord teach me to care for the least of these.