Category: My Life

Irony

Irony

As a follow up to yesterday’s post – Numbers – the little red car with the 188881 odometer reading apparently didn’t care to be written about on this page. It whined in protest nearly all the way to the dealership where we were picking up the car undergoing repairs. At one point, the better half suggested leaving the thing in a parking lot and taking an Uber to the dealership.

Long story short, the little red car was replaced by an even smaller gray car with considerably fewer miles on it. Looks like I might have to monetize my blog to help pay for it.

And that, my friends, is irony.

We are surrounded by irony.

Irony is the stuff of O’Henry stories – for that matter, many short stories make their mark because of irony. Same with some novels.

Sorting through some of my book collection so I can make a donation to a worthy cause (An AAUW Book Sale – proceeds to help sponsor a scholarship for a young woman to attend a women’s college in Missouri) I ran across The End of the Road by Tom Bodett. The book follows people in a small Alaska fishing town at “The end of the road” with a series of vignettes which end up tying together as the reader progresses throught the novel. My favorite scenario in the book has to do with a pair of couples, very good and close friends, who are just out of town enjoying time in a sauna, and then running out of the sauna naked as jaybirds in the snow to cool off before going back in to sweat it out in the sauna again.

One of the friends inadvertently locked the door of the sauna behind them. The sauna burned down and they had no recourse other than to strap on their skis and head to town before hypothermia set in. When they got to the road, they flagged down the first car they saw – driven by the prudish preacher’s wife – piling in when she stopped.

That was, indeed, irony.

Another notable piece of irony popped up in yesterday’s news. Texas’ Attorney General reportedly ran out his back door when a process server came to his front door to deliver a subpoena. The irony there is that the state’s lead attorney would avoid being served a subpoena, seeing as how he has had issued more than his share. Add to that the fact that the same state attorney general has been under indictment for most, if not all of the time he has been the attorney general. And he’s running for reelection.

The irony just oozes. And he’s not the only official with questionable backgrounds or motives. While officials from both parties can lay claim to having been involved in skullduggery, it seems as if most of those officials have a little (R) behind their names.

And from what I have observed over the years, politicians with the little (R) behind their names seem to lack the ability to understand the concept of irony… as do many of their followers.

The January 6th Commission hearings happen live tomorrow. The hearing room will be oozing with irony.

Be Seeing You!

(In another irony, it will now be noted that we have a red, or scarlet vehicle and a gray vehicle. Scarlet and Grey being Ohio State University’s school colors. I attended Ohio University. Green and white. And there was a time when we were first married, that our vehicles were green and white!)

Numbers

Numbers

I have an obsessive/compulsive relationships with numbers.

For instance, this morning, I was almost home from a doctor’s appointment when I saw the odometer on the better half’s car reading 188880. Less than two blocks from the house. I just HAD to take a turn through the neighborhood until the odometer read 188881. Seriously. Now it does. Now I’m happy. The next goal is 199991, followed by 200002. If we can quit playing whack-a-mole with the car’s cooling system, I’ll be as happy as a pig in mud!

As for my car, the odometer read 62622 when I dropped it off at the dealership for some repair work before taking a trip later this week. I’m paying more than enough for the work to be done, and am looking forward to seeing 62626 when I pick it up later today. If the dealership’s service deparment runs it over that magic number, I’ll certainly let them know.

Car odometers aren’t the only numbers I am obsessed with. Take the trip I’m about to take. I have several entertainments lined up.

One of them – “Are we there yet?” – has to do with mileage stickers on Interstate highways. I’ll see a sign saying “East Smorgaswitch – 103”, and then look for one of the mileage stickers posted along the highway. I will then calculate what the sticker will say when I arrive at East Smorgaswitch and for fun, will guesstimate the amount of time it will take me to get there at my current speed.

Oh, and I calculate what the odometer will read when I get there.

When I’m not calculating miles to go in my head, I’m listening to old radio shows on the satellite radio station, keeping up with the body count on the mystery shows.

And as a fan of Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, I know the ultimate answer to the ultimate question about life, the universe and everything is 42. Problem is that no one knows the question, so, 42 remains an interesting enigma.

I suppose my obsession with numbers may have started when I was on the radio. We dealt with minutes and seconds and had to make sure that each message was accurately timed. We also worked it so that we would “hit the post” at the top of the hour to merge into network news. Disc-Jockey jargon. Hope you’ll understand.

Anyway, as I am counting it, I will be taking the dog Filbrix to “Doggie Camp” in 48 hours, 7 minutes and 18 seconds from the time I complete this sentence. (18 is another favorite number which came up while I was in college) When I head to the gym later today, I plan to be on the treadmill for 44 minutes and 44 seconds and/or just go for 45 minutes even. I’ll only be 16 seconds short of that second goal, you see.

Maybe I’ll stretch it out to 45:54 just to make things even!

Be Seeing You!

That’s the Ticket!

That’s the Ticket!

Last night, the better half and I went to pick up a prescription at the local pharmacy. I should have known better than to arrive at around six with the hopes of getting back home in a short amount of time. During the wait, a couple of people came to spend time in the line for their purchase – a small, older woman and an overweight know-it-all who regaled the older woman with fantastic stories about how well connected he was.

Just overhearing the man (he was loud as well as obnoxious – couldn’t help but to overhear him), I came to think that the stories he told should be taken with a pillar of salt. He reminded me of the Jon Lovitz character, the pathological liar. Yeah! That’s the ticket!

I’ve run into the type most of my life. Worked with (or for) a few. Not that I haven’t told a tall tale or two in my life. We all have from time to time. It’s just that sometimes the stories get out of hand.

I recall a snowy day at one place I worked when the boss requested that they let him know when the snow was ten-inches deep so that he could go out and measure it. There was a peer who constantly bragged about what he did before we knew him. After graduation, we never heard from him again except to hear that he had joined the Navy. I’ve always surmised that his shipmates might have grown tired of his constant bragging, saw to it that he took a walk off deck and didn’t bother to report his going overboard until three days later. I doubt that it really happened, but, it make for a good story.

One fellow I really liked listening to was a co-worker from southern Ohio who came up with some fairly credible stories. He was a natural.

One day he started spinning a tale about a neighbor who somehow or another managed to bathe the cat. Instead of going the conventional route of using towels to dry off the creature, they decided to put the cat in the microwave with the predictable, unfortunate ending. No, it didn’t happen. It was one of those “Urban Legends” involving a “Friend of a Friend.” Still, the story was entertaining. Cruel, but entertaining.

Another story he told might be true, as it involves Paul Williams, the singer, actor, and songwriter who recently celebrated a birthday (his 82nd on September 19th). According to the story, Williams’ father worked at a government atomic plant in Piketon Ohio and lived in Portsmouth when the younger Mr. Williams graduated from high school. The story is somewhat credible, considering that construction of the plant required tons of people to build it. Skilled tradesmen were likely in strong demand with not enough local laborers to do the job. It might well be that the senior Mr. Williams would have traveled with his family to live in Portsmouth while working on the project. I’ll leave the story at that.

Perhaps Portsmouth High School has Mr. Williams in its hall of fame. Two of Portsmouth’s more famous sons are celebrated on murals on the floodwall (Branch Rickey and Roy Rogers). Portsmouth’s claim to fame as one of the first NFL teams is evident as Portsmouth Trojans stadium, built for the pro team still stands today… the oldest NFL stadium still standing. The Trojans, by the way, played for just a few seasons before being purchased and moved to Detroit – becoming the Detroit Lions.

Something I’ve maintained is that sometimes stretching the boundaries just a bit for the sake of a good story is acceptable. Just as long as the story isn’t too outlandish!

Happy Trails – er – Be Seeing You!

(Photo taken by the author at the Portsmouth Ohio floodwall. Thanks to Jim Patterson for his company on the day this was taken.)

The Jesus Thing

(Foreword: Some may find this post not to be of their liking. Be advised that I respect all beliefs, although I find some of those beliefs more interesting than others.)

On July 15th, 1838, Ralph Waldo Emerson delivered an address to the Harvard School of Divinity, discounting Biblical miracles and declaring that while Jesus was a great man, but he wasn’t God.

                I’m inclined to believe the same thing.

                I’m also sure that, like Emerson, I might ruffle a few feathers.

I belong to a group which has been on three-year (so far) journey into the “Christian Religion,” I have had my eyes opened to a number of truths which have radically changed my view of the “Christian Religion.”

                Let me state from the outset that I believe in God. The presence of something greater than we are is evident in the observable universe and in the universe we cannot see with our human eyes. I see God not as a person, but as more of a spirit which lives in each of us, envelopes each of us, and envelops all that we can observe.

                God is universal. There is but one God. Although different cultures appear to have different Gods, those Gods are the same God (the one God) seen through different lenses or different filters.

It was in the third year of this journey that a few things began to click in my mind, dealing mostly with the pre-history of Christianity – that is, the build up of the religion prior to the birth of “Jesus (Joshua) of Nazareth.” The pieces, including the ethos of Christianity were all present prior to Jesus’ birth, but the pieces were not all tied together (so to speak) until roughly 50 years after his death. Some pieces were added in later to “Seal the deal.”

                What I have extrapolated from my readings is that Jesus/Joshua was likely a charismatic preacher familiar with the teachings of Hillel the Elder (110 BCE – 10 CE). Jesus/Joshua was likely a thorn in the side of the establishment and was handed over to death in the hands of the Romans.

                Tales of miracles done in Jesus/Joshua’s name were lifted from previous sources in other traditions – including stories of resurrection and ascension. While I doubt the veracity of the miracle/ascension stories (no matter which group tells it), I do see them as important to spreading the basic message of Christianity: “Love God, Love your neighbor.”

                Somewhere along the line, though, things got messed up. Looking through some of last year’s notes, I came across some of the musings from our reading of The Dream of God. It was noted that the big problem has been with the institutional church as opposed to the teachings of Jesus or Hillel (take yer pick). The institutional church loves to moralize – a direct contradiction to the teachings of both rabbis. Doesn’t matter the church… the hand-wringing over the new figurehead of the Anglican communion, Charles the Third is an excellent, and recent example.

                But the basic message is the same. “Love God, Love your neighbor.” This year’s group theme, Living in a Multicultural World, will hopefully pull the “Love your neighbor” part into sharp focus… giving us direction as to how we are to live from this point forward.

                I started this essay as part of a class exercise. I may have strayed from the intent of the exercise. From my point of view, though, what I see as important going forward is not who we believe, but what we believe. How do we lead our lives to have a positive impact on the people around us. Jesus may not be God… but he sure did give us a lot to live up to.

Be Seeing You!

Treadmill

Treadmill

Well, it had to happen sometime. The better half and I finally decided that laying around and avoiding the heat all summer had to stop, so, we joined a gym. We are in the second week of going to a small gym in Princeton three times a week to hit the treadmill and one or two similar machines to improve our stamina, lose some weight and do something about our heart health.

To the point at which we started getting three digit temperatures, I would get out at least three times a day with the dog Filbrix on walks varying from one to five miles, depending on a number of factors. Obviously, three digit temperatures led to two walks per day of around a mile each, before sunrise and after sunset.

The local walks with the dog Filbrix led to a familiarity with certain features along the route. There are people who notice me and my canine companion; one of them stopped me at the local grocery store – hailing me as “The dog walker.” There’s a gentleman I’ve seen before who has had problems with his knees – he walks a Pitty (much to the dog Filbrix’s interest) on a regular basis. He gets around much better these days.

Other people on the route include the Asian woman with the two “Yappy Dogs” who somehow manage to be out at the same time as we are – the truck driver up the street who has the grown daughter who visits and rollerskates when she is visiting – the waver who always tells me to have a blessed day (and blesses the “doggy” while he’s at it – and Joe, the work at home guy who is good for a general conversation now and then.

Filbrix’s doggy pals include a trio I’ve nicknamed Larry, Curly and Moe, a dog I refer to as “Snarly” because all she used to do was snarl as we went by, and another “Yappy Dog” I’ve nicknamed as “Lit-tle Flearanch.” Dad always referred to unfamiliar dogs as “Flearanch.” If the people living with me at the time the dog Filbrix came to live with us had a slightly different sense of humour, I might have named her Flearanch. Just to be different.

Hmmm… strayed a bit from the theme I began with. No matter. Walking a treadmill is different than walking around a block or on a rail to trail, trail. The scenery doesn’t change much. There’s a gas station across the street. There’s some entertainment value in checking out the price of gasoline on the markee. Not much, but some. Since we go to the gym at rush hour (we get there by going the back way), I get to watch traffic get jammed up on US 380. Seen one traffic jam, you’ve seen them all. And then there are the occasional younger women who turn my head – but just a little, since the better half is usually on one of the adjacent machines.

And I really don’t mind talking with my wife. We exchange notes, figure out what we’ll eat once we get home, and discuss other topics which need to be discussed without my being on the computer keeping up with the peeps, writing on my latest project(s) or working on other non-writing projects.

Results? Well, it’s really too early to tell if this habit I’m trying to establish is doing me any good. Other than the occasional twinge, the routine hasn’t been detrimental. If the doctor is impressed with my efforts, he will let me know next month. I hope that the cholesterol numbers will be down (again), as well as the weight (which has been slowly creeping up due to the inaction caused by the triple digit temperatures).

Time will tell.

During the meanwhilst, I have an appointment with a treadmill three times a week.

Be Seeing You!

Grape Gum

Grape Gum

It was noted on my internet feed this morning that today marks 34 years since the Chicago Cubs played their first night game at Wrigley Stadium. Twenty years prior to the lights going on at Wrigley Field, I had an English teacher who declared herself as a baseball fan who was mad at the Cubs because Mr. Wrigley did not see fit to lighting the baseball field named in his honor. Because of that, she declared that there was to be no gum chewing in her class. Doing so would support Mr. Wrigley.

To say that Mrs. Fair disliked her English students chewing gum in her class would be a fair statement (note the play on words). While she was intolerant of all chewing gum, she was particularly intolerant of grape-flavored bubble gum.

When it came to grape gum, the woman had a nose like a hawk. If she even thought that you had grape gum on your person, you would be sent to the restroom to spit out the offending gum and then were told to rinse out your mouth before coming back to class.

There were other rules, too. I’ve forgotten most of them because, as I came to the discovery in my early days as part of that class, I sat in what I would consider to be the “Teacher’s Pet” seat. I got away with a thing or two because of my position in Mrs. Fair’s seating chart – and no, I didn’t test the limits by chewing gum, much less grape gum the entire school year. Came close, but never caught.

Why I was put into the “Teacher’s Pet” seat was likely because I was new to the school and/or new to the school system. I was in the position of having to find a whole new set of friends. Seated where I was didn’t help things, especially when the word was out that the front seat in the center row of Mrs. Fair’s classroom was… shall we say, special.

A couple of side notes having to do with my time in Mrs. Fair’s English class.

For one, we spent a few weeks studying Charles Dickens’ Great Expectations. There was an extra credit assignment which found me writing a “Musical.” I did a “Weird Al” thing of setting several plot points to already existing tunes. Mrs. Fair loved it. One of the easiest projects I ever did.

For the other, Mrs. Fair announced one day that one day, when she retired, she would sit in her rocking chair and listen to me on the radio. She retired in June, 1972. I started working at the local radio station in December of that year. (I would mention that Mrs. Fair’s husband and the owner of the radio station where I first worked were former mayors of the town, bookending a short-lived experiment of having a Council-Manager form of government. The better half found it amusing.)

At any rate, I believe that night baseball in Wrigley Field came well after Mrs. Fair expired, so she never got to take back her vendetta against poor Mr. Wrigley. And despite having the temptation of being able to chew any gum I wanted to chew in my lifetime, I never developed a taste for grape gum.

Be Seeing You!

The Perils of Publishing

The Perils of Publishing

I was recently reminded of the anniversary of a milestone – the pending publication of The Secret of Possum Hollow, the third of five published novels revolving around the fictional town of Magnolia Ohio. There were only a handful of readers of what I consider to be one of my two best “Magnolia” stories, making the enterprise less than renumerative. The artwork on the cover was purchased from an outfit offering pre-made book covers; the inside layout done by an outfit named BookFuel. Despite the cost of the services, I was quite pleased with the job done by BookFuel, so I decided to contact them again in conjunction with my latest project, Still Life.

When I went to contact BookFuel, I found that they were AWOL. Gone. Vamoosed.

My first contact with BookFuel was with its founder. He had read an early draft of the book which became Saving Magnolia and offered to publish it gratis. As I still had work to do on the novel, I politely declined – promising to contact him when I felt the book was finished. I eventually finished Saving Magnolia and trusted BookFuel to format the interior and provide the spine and back cover.

I was pleased enough with the job that I went ahead and had BookFuel do the cover and interior formatting for The Magnolia Chronicles. By then I had spent the better part of a thousand dollars to publish a couple of books with less than 50 sales, total.

I’m not whining by any stretch of the imagination. I had taken a course in “Novel Writing” which included a section covering “Vanity Publishers.” A vanity publisher, of which Vantage Press is likely the best known, offers complete services starting at a mere five figures. My dealings with BookFuel cost considerably less, allowing me to pursue a dream without breaking the bank… an important consideration since I was looking at investing five figures as a down payment of a home of my own. For my money, I got professional looking books which made me proud without the hassle of finding an agent who might find me a publisher and/or a professional editor.

BookFuel was one of several smaller companies catering to people like me. They’re still out there. I get regular emails from at least two service providers for independent or self-publishers. A recent check on pricing shows that pricing is up. Understandable. The demand is there. From what I understand, there are upwards of 300,000 people just here in the United States writing books of one sort or another. Granted, many of those authors are in academia – but not as many as you would believe. Just in the past few years, my mother-in-law, her husband, and my wife’s brother have all written books of one sort or another. Granted, there are three memoires included (the father-in-law wrote two and edited another book just to be on the safe side) in that count, but still, a book is a book.

Anyhoo, in my case, I have at least four books on “hold,” pending the question of how I should market my product. Obviously, it would be nice to have a publisher other than me, doing the lifting while I don’t do much more than write. A friend here in the DFW Metromess has a publisher, but that publisher won’t touch the types of stories I’m writing (think Lake Wobegon with an attitude). An acquaintance about a thousand miles north and east of my little corner of the DFW Metromess is self-published – but he spends a great deal of time on social media essentially promoting his books for free.

What should I be doing, other than throwing out this question on my blog?

I’m going to keep rolling that question around in my head for a little bit. In the meantime, I believe I shall just keep on writing.

Be Seeing You!

ERCOT – You’re Welcome – NOT!!!

ERCOT – You’re Welcome – NOT!!!

This morning we recieved notice from our electric provider and the Electricity Reliability Council of Texas (ERCOT) that we are going to be in a pickle this afternoon because of the expected high demand for electricity due to our overly hot weather. Sorry to hear that, ERCOT, but there’s an old saying out there which states, “Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.” I have done some prior planning by having an array of solar panels installed on my house. Doing my part, you see. Heck, I even “donated” 846 Kilowatts into the system between May 15th and June 15th. “Donated” is not quite what happened – I was not given credit for what I generated above and beyond my own needs during that billing cycle.

It’s a long story. The short and skinny is that I have done ERCOT a favor by generating excess electricity and sending it into the grid at what amounts to my expense.

And it ain’t the first time it happened.

Before the power grid fiasco in February, 2021, the better half and I contracted to have solar panels put on top of the house. We got the go-ahead and had a start date which incidentally came in the middle of the time ERCOT had their power hiccup. Not a problem. We waited another fortnight for the installation and had everything up and running by the first part of March.

When the panels were up, I called Reliant to get on a solar buyback program. It is important to know that Reliant is nothing more than a billing agent – a middleman. The electricity we use comes from an entity known as Texas New Mexico Power (TNMP). Reliant gave me the information on a solar buy-back program. I told them I’d go for it. They came back and told me that I needed to pay a contract termination fee before they would switch me over to the new plan.

Uh, no.

It took me several phone calls and the better part of an hour in hold hell to finally convince someone that I was not terminating service, but moving on to a new plan. That was the good news. The bad news was that it took them one (if not two) billing cycles for Reliant to catch up to the fact that I was sending them (and by extension TNMP) electricity at no cost.

After that, no problem – at least until last February.

I got a notice from Reliant that the solar plan was going away and that I would be slammed onto a month-to-month plan in the very near future. I called Reliant to ask what was going on. They told me that TNMP was no longer buying electricity from those of us with solar panels. After scratching my head for a short while, I called Reliant again, specifically asking if I was going to be credited for the power I was sending back in the grid. Their answer was that I most assuredly would be credited for the power I was sending into the system under the plan I was being slammed onto.

That assurance went away on June 24th when I opened my electric bill and noted that the line item crediting me for the electricity sent into the grid was missing.

Tried contacting their chat and had a totally unsatisfactory “conversation” with an agent who told me that I needed to call their “Solar Solutions” team. While the “Solar Solutions” agent got the issue resolved (I’m back on a solar program retroactive to June 16th), I am still more than a bit miffed that Reliant led me to believe that there would be no change in the way I would be compensated for sending power into the grid. I am also miffed that the agent told me that if I was to terminate the two-year contract I was about to enter into, there would be a termination fee attached to that termination.

So here I am. Sitting at the computer on a Monday afternoon, wondering if there will be rolling blackouts because of a lack of electricity in the grid here in the Lone Star State. On their part, they have an emergency. Still should not be counted as an emergency on my part.

Thanks for letting me unload. I feel a little better now. I’ll feel a lot better when I get my 846 kilowatt hours back.

Be Seeing You!

Shave and a Haircut…

Shave and a Haircut…

Most of us know what two words come after “Shave and a haircut.” The words are a piece of Americana, etched into most of our memories. Like the part played by actor Howard McNear for a bunch of years as “Floyd the Barber.” Andy and Barney and everyone else in Mayberry went to see Floyd on a regular basis so that they could look good for Helen and Thelma-Lou.

Someone got smart and is cashing in on Floyd, these days. I have seen at least two places recently where one can go in and visit “Floyd’s Barber Shop.” That’s not counting the “Floyd’s” seen at a Missouri rest stop shown here at the top of the page. (It was one of several “storefronts” serving as shelters for picnic tables along a walkway marked as “Route 66”) I would be happy to say that actor McNear would feel quite good about the proliferation of his character’s name, but he’s been gone for over 50 years. Maybe his heirs are getting royalties.

No matter.

I was reminded of Floyd and several other barbers a couple of days after my last post when I decided that it was too darn hot to continue to keep the mop on top of my head. I took out the clippers, spread newspapers over the bathroom sink and proceeded to give myself a buzz cut. I did that despite having deep discount coupons from a place called “Sports Clips,” and some other competing hair styling salon within spitting distance of “Sports Clips.” I’ve taken advantage of both places, but the last time I was in either was years ago. Not that I disliked either. It’s just more convenient for me to pull out the clippers every three to five months.

I grew up on haircuts done in a barber shop. Actually, I have frequented several shops over the years and have fond memories of some of the barbers.

My first haircuts were done at a small shop in Fairview West Virginia – my mother’s home town. Mom told a story about one of my early haircuts where I stood in the barber’s chair and announced my name, her name and a few other details which weren’t really appropriate (like her age).

When I was ten, or so, Dad took me to “Midpark Barbers” on Pearl Road in Middleburg Heights Ohio. It was a busy shop – not too personal, but friendly enough. The shop sponsored the little league baseball team I played on, with the promise that if we won a game, they would give my team-mates and me a free sucker. We won exactly once.

When we moved to Chillicothe Ohio, Dad took me and my brothers to Gall’s Barber Shop downtown. Four chairs, two aging barbers and lots of stories. According to one of the barbers, there was a time when, on Saturday afternoons, the shop was busy – not only cutting and shaving, but for another quarter, a customer could go into the back room to take a bath. (See Clint Eastwood in High Plains Drifter)

The shops in that era didn’t do too bad for themselves, either. The person from Gall’s who normally did my hair owned a house across the street and up the block from us – a grand Victorian with an ample yard, kept ever so neat and tidy. One of my high school classmate’s father had a shop a few blocks away from Gall’s – she posted that the family house had recently been offered for sale. Again, another large, well-appointed house built to last the ages.

Bets that Floyd’s home would have been just as grand.

After Gall’s went away, I went to several places, finally settling on a shop run by a fellow who painted Civil War scenes as a hobby. Nearly thirty years later, I doubt he’s still in the business.

I never really settled on a place here in Texas. I visited a shop in Allen, finding out later that one of the barbers there was named Roy Rogers. The shop is frequented by a friend named Gene Autrey. Think about it for a moment.

There came a time when I decided that the best thing for me to do was to buy a set of clippers to cut my and my son’s hair. A $25 investment which has paid for itself many times over. Of course, that means I am stuck with a buzz cut every three to five months.

Maybe next time, I’ll try Floyd’s, for the nostalgia if nothing else.

Be Seeing You!