And Yet Again: "You're On My Neck. I can't Breathe!"

This time it was in Canton, Ohio. It wasn't over a possibly bad twenty-dollar bill. It was a traffic accident that broke a pole and the driver fled the scene, went to a bar, and was belligerent. None of those things carry the death penalty... except possibly when the culprit, Frank Tyson,  is a black man and the arresting cops are white men.

But black men are "scary", doncha know! I guess especially so if they can yell and wave their arms around while you outnumber them and carry guns, eh? Even handcuffed down on the floor but still capable of yelling and thrashing around a bit, amiright? Ooooooooooohhhh!

That is just one thing that is a tragic, and which should be criminal, echo of the murder of George Floyd in Minneapolis. In his case too, it was one black man against white officers over a much too minor offense. Floyd's death was filmed nonstop for over 9 minutes by a determined young girl with a cell phone. This man's was filmed by multiple police body cams, and without the intent to capture every possible second of what transpired, judging by the quality of the video shown on morning news. Once the man was handcuffed with his hands behind him and lying face down on the floor, struggling, saying over and over that they were trying to kill him, they proceeded to do exactly that. Clearly heard are him protesting faintly, "I can't breathe. I can't... I can't...You're on my neck. I can't breathe." and the officer kneeling on him telling him that he was fine. It takes 5 1/2 minutes before the officers check on him, with one saying, "He might be out." Another three minutes pass before somebody starts chest compressions, obviously too late to do any good. 

What will it take for, first, cops all over to realize that there are better ways to restrain somebody that do not involve stopping them breathing by being on top of them?  Or that (black) people don't have to be totally pacified into complete inertness before they are considered restrained? When will we make lethal force for non-lethal acts itself a crime, not just in one set of trials in Minneapolis but all over?

Or are we (still) the kind of country where we have to teach black males to "play dead so you don't become dead" in hopes that it's actually good advice?

How many more George Floyds and Frank Tysons do we need in order to produce change in this country?

Which Way Shall We Go?

Once we complete our anticipated move, we will be roughly between two different shopping areas, each of which includes a Walmart where our prescriptions are filled, per our insurance companies. Today was a weird day where we had to visit both towns for different reasons. 

One has Steve's bank, and an omission by a phone bank employee has left him without the debit card he needs to function while shopping. He needed to identify himself to an on-site bank employee in order to get it straightened out and get some actual cash in hand. This town also has a gas war going on so prices tend to run 30 cents a gallon cheaper, sometimes more.

The other town is across the state border where sales tax was a bit cheaper, at least last year, but I haven't bothered to check this year. Our prescriptions currently are being filled there, and it has a movie theater, should we ever go to a movie again. (Steve says, "NO" because the movies are too loud, and while I agree about the volume, ear plugs are easy, even if just a wadded piece of napkin.) 

We currently live closest to this town. We're moving in the direction of the other one. Today seemed like an excellent day to do mileage checks to each from the new location. Both were marked from where we'd get on the same highway to where we'd get off for either Walmart. Since I got gas at the larger town with the bank, I hit the trip meter there. 

It registered 12.2 miles as we passed the stoplight for our turn to our new home.

I hit the trip meter again, starting it over. Keeping an eye on it as we went to the other town, I noted to Steve that we were at 10 miles just before we crossed the state line. It was going to be close once we climbed the hill to their Walmart. It was a long hill, giving us a chance to watch in suspense as the odometer climbed... climbed... here comes the light where we turn off the highway..... at 12.3 miles!

We were both in stitches as how close it had been and how little it mattered. But, at least now we knew. Once we move, we'll likely hit both towns  the same way we do now, depending on what we need there. The one to the west has more different places to shop, and while their Walmart is harder to find early afternoon parking spots at, especially handicap ones, the store there has items we don't find in the next state.

But the one across state lines will do a better job of filling our eyes and hearts with beautiful scenery as we climb into and out of the river valley.  Yep, both of them is the answer, though the larger town will likely get our prescriptions transferred in a few months. But the other one has truly spectacularly red maple trees  dotting the parking lot in late September!

Gobsmacked: Sorting Through Blogspot Stats

 Perhaps I'm very late to the table, so to speak. I've been crazy busy lately with the move, of course, and overwhelmed much of the time, and basically blowing off steam just by writing. But Blogspot has added some features for those of us who post on it, and I'm just catching up.... gobsmacked! If you bear with me, I promise there's a surprise at the end.

For years now I've been noting how many readers hit the recent posts here. Some take a day to be noticed if I'm not posting regularly. Some get 5 right away, then sit static for a week, maybe picking up two more on a weekend. Yeah, OK, whatever. I still write for me, and you all are welcome to come along for the ride. It seemed like I have been talking to a very few family members or friends over the years. I as writer never know who the readers are, of course, any more than you readers can see how popular any particular post is... or isn't. I've been presuming "isn't."

After a while I dug a little further, looking at longer time scales, see what is still getting visited, or even just the surprise that some are actually still getting visited. One always stood out, and still brings a lot of people to the blog, my post on the Big Job's Daughter's Secret. It got 68 quick visits shortly after being posted. OK. Another time I noted it had a couple hundred. Hmmm. Interesting. Then it was over a thousand, and just kept growing. Right now it's over 13.7 thousand, and no indication that it's losing readers. Nothing else comes close, although there are some that have steady visits from new eyes, like How Many Bubbles In A Bar Of Soap? or How To Pack A Display Cabinet. Some are approaching a thousand hits individually, which I find gratifying. But when I located the all-time number of hits, I was bowled over by 263K (!), with the largest portion of those by far in the last year. The graphs Blogspot has put together are very skewed to the far recent end, so something recently kicked up a bunch of interest. This post will make 1704 on this site. So people come for some particular thing, apparently, and then check around to see what else is here. So...

               How about a fancy daffodil from the front yard?
 

While scouting what's getting attention, I noted that Blogspot made it much easier to scroll down through pages of titles, recent to further in time, which also gave number of hits. Many that I thought fell into an abyss after, say, 7 views, were now sitting over 50 a couple months later. And there are still a regular stream of them which just aren't all that interesting.

Blogspot gives other kinds of information, once you (finally!) happen to notice some red fine print in a corner saying "More about this blog". No clue how long it's been there, but some of the regular format recently changed, making it easy to conclude it all happened at the same time. No, it doesn't show to you, but when I'm writing I see it. New stuff is on the tool bar which I haven't tried out yet. But someday. Frankly, I'm still struggling with posting pictures. Blogspot apparently is fussy about how much text I put ahead of one and how much after, or it just won't load any. Eventually I'll figure out the "rules."

 Is it cheating to pop some eye candy in to keep interest in boring stats?

Anyway, the first section of deep-dive statistics is about referrers. No surprise here, Google is top. The second is the title of the blog, so people must have bookmarked it and go directly there to see what's new. Heck, I have to in order to find it and it's mine! The list following that has some familiar names as well as new-to-me ones, ending with something called www.vampirestat.com. Seriously, folks? Am I supposed to think I'm attracting vampires now? Listen, all you alleged vampires out there: You are NOT welcomed in my house! I refuse to believe in you, just like I think zombies are incredibly silly and the "rules" governing them/you are ridiculously inconsistent. But in case you actually need an invitation to enter, you do not have one! So there! The last referrer on the list, and most popular of all, is "Other", at 245K. I'm kinda glad they quit listing individual ones at that point. What do you think: 287 pages of individual referrers to go through before reaching the next category? More? Yeah, forget it. I'd never get on to the next category of information.

Next comes top referring URLs. Apparently that's different from referrers, even though the top 4 items all are Google, just now printed with the www and a .com at the end. Once again, all of the "Other" ones vastly outnumber the total of all the others put together.

Getting bored yet? Just hang in there a bit longer please. The final category is what totally blew my mind. It does, however, come after Audience, by which they mean a list of browsers used, not who you all are. Then a list of top keywords searched...  Yawnnnnnn......

Oh heck, let's just skip past the rest and get to the last bit: Where are you all from? Without seeing the map and graph, I'd have thought the answer would be the US. Yes, I know the internet is world wide, and there are English speakers/readers all over. But who else would be interested? This is the part that really gobsmacked me. The US is only number 2. Any guesses about number one? Any at all? Was Singapore on your list? Yes, SINGAPORE !!!!! And the list of countries is nowhere near ending there. In order, from 3rd highest, France, Hong Kong, Russia, Indonesia, Germany, Australia, United Kingdom, and finally, Other.

Just for fun, I clicked on Other and got a new list. I mean, why not? It won't get much crazier, will it? Add Canada, Ukraine, Romania, Poland, China, Japan, "Unknown Region" - had to be in there somewhere, right? An admission of ignorance when we think everything is known online... who knew?  - United Arab Emirates, Portugal, Sweden, and not to be forgotten, Other. Yes, another "Other". If that final Other was a single country, it would have been way up on the list right after United States.

So "Hi," all you you scattered readers. Welcome! Have you met your neighbors yet? Are you as gobsmacked as I when I first read all that? I don't know about you all, but it's going to take me a bit to get used to all of you out there. I'm not sure what it takes to entertain you, but we'll see as we go, eh?

That (Figurative) Pocket In My Brain

That's how I think of it when I have occasion to think about it, a little tiny pocket somewhere among all the folds and neurons and blood vessels. One solitary piece of data fits in there. It's a very old piece, and very out of date, having been replaced numerous times by now in my life. But the data can't be kicked out of that spot however many times new data has been offered up, tagged with a huge "SHOULD REPLACE" sign attached. It's wedged in there, zippered shut, and not about to budge however important more recent data is.

The data is one  letter followed by 12 numbers in four groups of three. You'd think that would be easy to forget, replace with something perhaps shorter, maybe more letters and fewer numbers. It doesn't matter. It's been there for over 50 years. It's stuck, entrenched, stubborn, indelible. It's my very first driver's license number. I can still recite it at the drop of a hat: R200 302 and on to the end. You don't need all of it, and I won't give all of it. 

The R200 is apparently because of my last name when it was issued. I got my license at the tender age of 22. I'd had Drivers Ed of course in high school, but afterwards not many chances to drive. Eventually I had access to a stick shift car, making learning to drive smoothly delayed even longer. But I did get it, the second time. (Nevermind how I flunked the first behind-the-wheel driving test.) When the family moved to Georgia for a few years, the license was my social security number (I do presume they changed that policy long ago) but upon returning to Minnesota after the divorce, the original number reclaimed me. 

Once I started driving for a living, there were times I had to check into a government facility and produce my license... just in case. In case of what? I stole something? Got backed over by one of their semis? Had an accident on their property? Criticized the latest war? Nobody ever explained, it was just done. For decades I was R200 302 and so on.

Then Minnesota changed their numbering system. Don't ask me what that was, though something at the end of the alphabet started my new number. Then I moved, got a license in Arizona, and by now knew enough to not even bother to try to memorize that number. I could look it up since that is still in my possession, but why bother? I'll have a new number on a new piece of plastic coming in the mail shortly anyway. With luck it will be the last license number I'll ever have to be unable to learn.

While I was in getting things switched over, the gal on the other side of the counter asked me if I'd ever had a  license in Minnesota. I told her yes, but it was over 12 years ago, and the one number I remembered was even older than that, then proceeded to rattle the old number off like it was my middle name. As I did she actually found that original number in the system. I, in turn, explained to her about the "pocket" in my brain that is the only place allowing a license number to be stored, but it's been full for ages.

She at least was polite enough not to act as if I were crazy. 

Maybe she's got her own pockets like those.

Observations From A Visit To The Social Security Office

Of course my Social Security card was left in the PODS in Arizona with all those other important papers I need to  officially relocate. Once I'd gotten the birth certificate, the (first) marriage license for the name change since birth, the application for the new MN driver's license (with a much better photo, thank you), I still needed two more things. One I haven't bothered with yet. I'll have time to wait for my car's title if it's just to change my car license plate. But in order to apply to live in the (not-so-) mobile home park which the double-wide we want has our deposit on, I need to prove income, and part of that is proving not only am I me, but I have Social Security.

Note that they also need to see a bank statement to show we can afford the bills, and that would show the SS deposits. But now, I have to have the SS card. I used to carry it in my purse many years ago. Now everybody worries about the number getting out to the general public, enabling fraud of multiple kinds, so I took and put it in the home "safe place", which in turn got packed in the POds because that was a "safe place"while we were in the extended process of relocation. Of course, it's way too safe there. Not only is it over 1800 miles away, but I'd have to totally empty it out and open one of half a dozen boxes to locate it. Of course that's if I accurately labeled all the boxes where it could possibly be. There was some chaos going on at the time after all. If you've been following, you already know this. If not, this is context.

Having been through the process of securing one document to get the next document to get the next document, I brought a fat envelope of all that stuff along, in addition to the old driver's license which I still need to drive, and my only photo ID.

Showing up in person is one option. The other is trying to do it either online or over the phone. I opted for in person, at 1811 Chicago Avenue in Minneapolis. Steve chose to stay home and not get his back bounced by every pothole in kingdon come. (Wise choice. Living in Arizona for a dozen years one tends to forget how full of potholes Minnesota is. Arizona isn't. While roads are still bumpy, they're mostly the cutout grooves for water drainage after the very rare rain, in lieu of actual storm drains.)

My many years as a courier means I know where Chicago Avenue is without needing a map, and which several possible freeway exits can bring me to that address from different directions. Still, it has been a long time, and some memories were a bit hazy until I was actually on the streets again, like which pair of one-way streets, like Park and Portland, went which direction for example. Seeing them as I drove refreshed my mental map. All was not lost in my aging brain. Yet, anyway.

I had worried a bit abut parking, being short of change for a meter at the moment, but the building has a large free parking lot and I found a space quickly. Walking in puts you immediately in a security line, filtering people slowly through. Like an airport, there are guards, a place to empty all your pocket contents for hands-on inspection, and a walk-through metal detector for anything you missed. The guards are polite to those who are polite with them, so I asked one if the detector was magnetic, explained my pacemaker cannot do magnets, and was given a workaround path to be wanded. He even had me cover my pacemaker with one hand during that process just to be safe. The wand beeped in all the right places, and I collected my things after their inspection.

Next is a pair of machine where one checks in, answers a few questions the machine has, so you can be sorted by time of arrival and specific needs. Do you need a replacement card? Reason? Type in the number. Do you need your first card? Since I didn't, I have no idea what the other questions were beyond how many people in your group (they need enough chairs at the window you get called to). In starting the process you were given a bunch of choices of language so the machine already knew to assign you to a window where somebody spoke your language.

Once dispensed a ticket with your number/letter combination on it, there were lots of benches to go sit on while you waited. And waited. Once seated you could see the doors to the bathrooms, and then it was a choice between holding it for however long, or going right away and possibly loose your spot. They were very busy, and at any given time there might be five open spaces, mostly scattered in ones or twos, which could be a challenge for larger groups of, say, 4, of which several came through while I was there.

I opted for two things: people watching, and calling my daughter who happens to live 5 blocs away. Lately she mostly is working on her masters from home, so it's not a ridiculous question to find out was she there and had she some time to get together, say for lunch in an hour or more, looking at the lines. She had a couple things to finish at home, then would be walking over. I'd picked a seat facing the door so I could flag her down if she showed up before my number was called.

The people going through the office for their cards were as eclectic a group as I'd ever seen in such a (relatively) small space. There were many I identified as Somali, having worked with many of them back when they were fairly recent immigrants and working for our courier company. There was a pair who could have been Chinese or, upon reflection, more likely Hmong even though that immigration wave peaked in the early 80s if I recall correctly. I pegged the great majority of them as immigrants, new to this country and needing their first Social Security card. Most were dressed as I was, or "to blend". However some looked in African ethnic dress. Several hijabs were worn, although since the Muslim community in Minneapolis is very openly so in their dress, men and women, they could have been like me, needing a duplicate card.  Skin tones varied from my pasty white to very dark brown, and everything in between. Ages ranged from under one to perhaps 90, and languages, while mostly English, were occasionally unidentifiable. Some came with interpreters,  including the 90-year-old, and a group of Russian speakers. One person had to go to the desk where the guards were and somehow communicate she couldn't use the ticket machine because she didn't find her language written there. She got help, though I'm not sure how well she fared if her language wasn't represented. Perhaps it was a reading issue.

I was impressed by how well all the small children behaved, whether with a single parent or two, or even half a community of adult family. Even though it was nearing lunch time, not a one was crabby. One pair of parents had a daughter who wished to explore and they made of game of catching her before she got more than a couple feet away, lifting her up high with laughter and a hug, and setting her down again. Needless to say, that game lasted a while, but nobody was disturbed.

The line went much faster than I expected, so I was out before my daughter showed up. I called her when done, and it turned out she was in the other entrance. Oops! My bad. I forgot to tell her the proper door was on the Elliot side of the building. We met in the parking lot, had a good long hug, and went off to lunch, leaving three cars to jockey for my parking spot. 

One of them finally figured out  they needed to move away so I could get out, traffic could move, and at least one more parking spot opened up for somebody.

Could I Be A Trump Juror?

It may be obvious to all who have followed me that I'd be rejected. However, I'm of two minds on the subject. 

Why? First, I've been at various times a Republican, a Democrat, and an Independent. All those varying choices have been based on a core value system, where I'm still me but the parties have realigned about certain values which came to the fore at various times. My values are not based, therefore, on party lines but on the values - or most of them - that I was raised on by my parents and the humanistic - not theological - ones of the church I was raised in. Feel free to think of that as picking and choosing among the Ten Commandments.

When I say most of my values, I'll give you examples of the exceptions. Mom raised me to be obedient, period. Granted, I was a very independent child, a handful for someone coming out of the recession and with other issues. Today, I follow the laws, with the occasional slipping of vehicular speed into something over the speed limit, a reason I have come to depend on cruise control. If a person says I should/must act in a certain way, I'll personally evaluate the what and why and make my own decision. In terms of religion, my values stem from the humanistic ones universal in most religions, involving honesty, fairness, kindness, integrity, and love. (Yes, it's a process.)  I don't take a Sabbath day. I'm agnostic, so I not only don't worship one god, I don't worship any, including graven images. (Give me a golden calf and I'll promptly sell it for the monetary value, and thank you.) If you insist on any particular theology being the only one in the whole world, the requirement for a certain narrow belief required to enter a heaven which has arisen from the fantasies of living people who've never been there, with or without 76 virgins being part of the package (BORING!),or a limit of 140 people being "raptured", something nowhere written in approved religious scripture, pardon me while I struggle to be polite and not ridicule you. I may well fail to be polite. As far as "end times" is concerned, yes, I believe we're fast approaching those, not for theological reasons but because we have so seriously overpopulated and polluted this planet that too many tipping points have already been passed. We as humans, along with many other life forms, are approaching extinction. In many millions of years, the planet will recover to the point that new life forms will arise. They will mostly be different than this planet holds now, i.e., they won't be us. 

Cockroaches, maybe. I hear they are pretty tough.

But in general, in judging any person or action, I would do my best to be fair and hear all the evidence presented before making a decision. I pride myself on that. No person is a single thing, all good or all bad. Onlookers often judge an action from their own experiences. Is stealing food still worthy of prison when one's children can't eat? Is it different when done as a game or challenge, proof of one's skills at theft, or as a way towards personal enrichment? Can I believe what person A says? Or should I believe person B who claims the opposite? Can this particular evidence be manipulated, or misinterpreted? Are prejudices like race a factor or a coincidence... this time? These questions are why we need juries. With that mindset going in, I believe I could be a fair juror in general.

Donald Trump is a different case. First, there is hardly a person in this country who has no opinion of him. I'm not sure we could even find a jury based only on that. So can we find a jury of people who can set aside their existing opinions and examine the evidence, treat him as Mr. Anybody, and judge the evidence? Can we find jurors who don't fear the lunacy of some of his followers who take his denigration of somebody as an excuse to intimidate them or cause harm to them? He continually defies gag orders meant to protect people who oppose him in any way, so one must know that going in, accept it, look past it to the evidence being presented, and judge his actions fairly and courageously, even knowing his followers threaten harm to your loved ones as well. Could you try to be completely fair if finally chosen, or would you be weighing the possible harm to, say, your child, your mother, your spouse?

Yesterday 96 Americans were grilled as potential jurors and not one was seated. Imagine that in any other trial. Remember, you can self-select as being unfair, and simply walk  out. How many days will it take to select a jury?

Would you, like me, hope to never be put in that position, fascinating as such a case might be to hear all the way through without the editing of the press? 

Would you serve anyway if chosen?

Cryosurgery

It's a big name for a tiny procedure. Today was my visit to a new dermatologist, one of those full body skin exams. It's that time in my life where it gets to be done yearly, or should anyway. My last visit was ten years ago. 

Skin cancer runs in the family. Both my parents had it, tiny splotches on their skin which needed to be removed. I don't know whether back then they had them frozen or cut out, but something must have been removed for a pathologist to examine because they had a name for which of the three kinds they had. I believe they said squamous cell, but for sure neither had melanoma. It kind of surprised me because neither went out sunbathing, the way kids tended to do in my generation to get that desirable tan. They were blaming skin cancers on sun exposure, not something we'd heard about until then. It also wasn't something Mom warned us kids about till then. After that, she never let up with the warnings.

I hated sunbathing. Deliberate exposure to the sun always made me feel slightly ill. That doesn't mean I never did it, because every once in a while I forgot how it made me feel and laid out for a bit again. It was a good reminder for another year or so. I'm "blessed" with fair skin which never really tans, just one more way I never fit in with whatever was popular, like having unrelentingly curly hair when straight was popular.

That doesn't mean I avoided sun exposure. But mostly it happened on my left side, when the sun came in the car windows for the 29 years I was a courier, racking up over 2 million miles behind the wheel. If it's going to happen anywhere, I'll likely get skin cancer on my face. I thought I had some ten years back. There was a small bump on the tip of my nose, the left side of course. It was colorless, but it would grow, get picked off, regrow, and keep recurring. My then-doc sent me to the dermatologist's office down the hall. They looked at it, pronounced it benign, but cryosprayed it anyway. It hurt. The spray made no difference, the cycle continuing for another couple years but now with bumpy scabs that never quite healed, but came off with a washcloth. Then suddenly there was just a little white divot.

I never bothered going back. I was not impressed by them.

I noted a pigment change on the side of my jaw - left, of course. It was/is a light tan. It would easily be covered by makeup, but I don't use that. Several months ago a spot in the middle of that started to rise, and the texture of the skin felt different, rougher, something not quite a scab, but not going away. While I couldn't see it, my finger could always find it. I mentioned it to my new northern doc last week, and she recommended the dermatologist check it out. In fact, I should get the whole body check, given my parent's history and my work history. So I made the appointment, surprisingly quickly after she recommended it. Perhaps it had something to do with her description of it as "highly vascularized".

About the same time I read about a study where they appeared to be finding more fast growth in existing cancers after patients had covid, particular when it became long covid. More study is needed of course, but getting covid twice despite vaccinations got me moving to make the appointment. Today was the day.

Their office is in a wing adjacent to the hospital about 17 miles away, one very familiar from  early cardiology and allergy visits before I retired and moved south. I used to park in handicap parking back then, before knee replacements. Now it's a hike from a far corner of the parking lot. It's not all that's changed. They used to have a concierge desk where some actual human could direct you to which floor and how far your appointment was. Now they have signs, most in fairly small letters at each department, so you have to walk around to find your department the first time. (I was informed later that there is a small TV screen you can fight with to locate a map of the area. Of course you have to find the TV and know why it's there first....)

I'd also been informed that it would be a 90 minute appointment. OK, bring a book then. Check. I was the only patient in the waiting room when I arrived, no paperwork to fill out because it's all in their computerized system which had just been brought up to date the week before, no changes. I made it through two pages of the book before being called in, and once undressed and gowned as directed, had no more time for reading. They were very prompt, very thorough, and explained as they went why this kind of spot was harmless (a result of aging, get used to it) and why this other thing should get the cryospray on it.

If I was willing, of course. 

Of course I was. It was why I went in the first place. Why make another appointment when this one would just take three minutes longer? And it was, literally, three minutes longer. There were three spots treated for being suspicious, one particularly so but not the one I'd gone in for. The first spot was the one I pointed out to them. Zap zap zap from a little aerosol can. She called what it would feel like as a "cold burn." OK, not so bad, not like I remember from my first spray ten years earlier. Maybe the nose is just more sensitive. A second spot  was a couple inches away on the same jaw, one that was labeled with a "pre..." as she checked it, and was quickly treated. That hurt a bit more, zap zap zap, but was quickly over. A third one was located, hiding up in my left eyebrow. Again zap zap zap. I was given a sheet on wound care (like I never had to do that before!) but this time it was mostly using vaseline to keep stuff off the healing skin to prevent infection. I have some of that. A lot of my places benefit from that kind of moisturizing these days. I'd packed it where it was reachable.

It was over and done in 15 minutes. So of course I mentioned I'd been told to plan on 90 minutes.  They have no idea why the schedulers in their central office keep telling patients that. Their own schedule has them with a new patient every 15 minutes. Before they left me to get dressed, I was told to make a new appointment on my way out for a year from now. I didn't have to make it today, but be sure to make it at least 6 months ahead. 

Hmmm, and I got in for this one in just over a week? My doc must have been more concerned than she let on.  It sure beats the nearly year long wait just for an appointment after a positive Cologard test requiring a cclonoscopy, and the 8 months wait for a reschedule after it had to be repeated to get a complete result. I think I like when my possible problems get taken seriously, especially when one possible concern is cancer.

On my way out I hit the restroom out along the hall. When washing my hands I checked the mirror and found the new red spots from the treatment. I also noted that the water from the tap emerged yellow. SAY WHAT? Did somebody connect the pipes the wrong way? Didn't I just flushed that? So I popped into the pharmacy where there was an actual human to talk to and mentioned that they might have a problem, and where. They knew all about it. Yesterday they'd flushed out the entire plumbing system, as has to be done in all plumbing systems on a regular basis. Spring is a good time for it, once there is no threat of getting ice of the roads. When you see water spraying out from a hydrant when there are no fire fighters around, and no vandalism, it likely will be city maintenance crews flushing the system. Of course it knocks a lot of minerals off the inside of the clean water pipes, and it can take a day or so for it to run clear again. If not flushed out through the hydrants it can eventually block the pipes. This particular sink must not get a lot of use.

As soon as I heard the explanation I knew exactly what they were talking about. When I was on the city council we had to deal with that each year. As I drove through town while leaving there were two hydrants getting flushed out along the main drag, and cars driving through getting a free undercarriage flush while also splashing everything within 10 feet. Almost too bad the kids were in school, but it's still too cool for them to get soaked. It's barely spring here, with the snow finally melted. The earliest flowers are celebrating:

But Oh, The Paperwork!

 I've  moved between AZ and MN for 12 years now, as a "snowbird". Only one of those times involved a whole stack of paperwork, the time we established our change of state of residency. We knew Arizona would be tough, with all their issues with their border, and even more so with my last name sounding Hispanic. (By the way, it's an anglicization of the French name Rouseau, and according to "legend" in the family I first married into, done because people couldn't spell all those vowels correctly. That means the Canadian officials way back when, not the original immigrant. Or who knows, maybe the immigrant as well.)

Knowing the potential hassles, we arrived at the AZ license bureau with half a ton of paperwork, or so it seemed. We sailed right through unquestioned: new drivers licenses, car license plate (rear only), voter registration. AZ was even among the first states to adopt the "real ID".

It's a bit more complicated returning to MN. But even worse for Steve. This is my home state: born here, changed my last name here, learned to drive here, bought my last car here, though that last doesn't help much, yet. Steve was born in Colorado. At least he didn't have a name change to complicate things.

Let's insert a definition here: "safe place". You put something in a "safe place" in order to be able to find it again when it's needed or wanted. Said "safe place" turns out to be somewhere you yourself invariably can never find it when you need/want it again. So you are successful in creating a place that is safe from you. Congratulations!

I have created several such places over the years. Not all have stayed safe, including from the hands of others. I do know where the safe place for all my paperwork is, and for now it is truly safe from everybody, or so the PODS people assure us. Steve and I have the only two special keys for the unique lock on the unit our stuff is sitting in back in Arizona. The papers I need, like birth certificate, marriage licenses, car title, all are in a smaller container inside a packing box labeled "Heather's closet" or something like that, one of several identically labeled, buried somewhere in the 8' x 8' x 16 ' Pods that won't be here until a few days after we call for it to be hauled up here. Meanwhile it's collecting storage fees in Arizona.

I wouldn't worry much about exactly when we switch our paperwork over from Arizona to Minnesota, except for one thing. After all, we've been up here for months each summer with an AZ license on the car, and an AZ handicap hanger for parking when Steve is in the car. We both have AZ driving licenses and it doesn't matter when we're driving around up here until we head back down. But this year is different. It's an election year, and we both want our votes to be counted. That means in Minnesota. Which means new driver's licenses, which leads to new car licenses, and new voter registrations. All of it means lots of paperwork.

Take a drivers license. We've been out of state for long enough that we have to start over from scratch. We have to prove all over again who we are. They can't just take our AZ license, copy everything but with a new address and number, updated vision checks and photos, and so forth. Start with a birth certificate. Now, I have the original one, fairly small, with all kinds of info on it that they don't collect any more, like my birth weight (who cares any more?), the time of day, and even whether or not I was "legitimate". If you're so young you don't understand how a person can be legitimate, it means your parents were married at the time of your birth. It used to be important for social standing, inheriting, and the church's concept of sin, all falling on the new babe's shoulders and determining its life course.

For replacing that, any records office will do, in any county, as long as you picked the right state, know the date, and can spell your parents' names correctly. I had a question there. My dad hated his middle name and used his initial only. He even swore to the military that his middle name as "initial only". So did I put down his full name  or just the initial? It's not like I can go dig either of my parents up, literally, and ask. So I chose his full name. Then there was Mom's middle name. Muriel or Murial? I can pronounce it but not spell it, so I guessed. Apparently it was close enough since I got the new large blue bordered form of my birth certificate, just another $28 out of my finances, thank you.

But wait! My name now is not my name then. I have to locate documents proving we are the same person. In my case, it's a marriage license. Now I'm restricted to the county we were married in. That meant a drive to St. Paul, a wait in line, and another 20 minute wait at the desk while that clerk disappeared into a back room, found the record, and printed off a certified copy of that too, just like that birth certificate had to be certified, only this time it was only a $9 fee.

But wait! The names don't quite match. It's the middle name thing again. I always hated my middle name too. Must be a family thing because nobody seems to like theirs. Anyway, after marriage I now had 4 names and only needed 3, so I picked my maiden name as my middle name and have used it ever since. I just never went through an official name change to do so. My names, my choice, no intent to defraud, so no problem, right? Except now, apparently.

My documentation allows me to drive with a regular MN license, fork over another $47.15 please. I just can't get a "real ID" license. A flight to anywhere might be a problem. I am not planning one, but you never know.  So now what? It doesn't matter that Arizona gave me a "Real ID" star on my drivers license. No document of the name change from 55 years back, no real ID.  No time machine for fixing things, no real ID. The woman at this counter - my 4th so far - asked why Social Security didn't raise a fuss? I don't know. I just worked under that combination of 3 names, and they took my money and are now paying it back, no arguments. But....  When I asked how I can fix the problem, she suggested I apply for a passport. I've never had one, never wanted one, never needed one back when I was crossing into Canada or Mexico. So... now what kinds of paperwork did I need? Everything I already had, plus proof of whatever address I had at the time I applied (so wait till after the permanent move), and dig out that Social Security card once the PODS lands because I'll need that too.

Uffda!

You want to know what I'm going to need for the car license? There's the car registration, which I keep in the car by law, next to insurance proof in the form of a cab card, and a few other gems for "just because", like records of repairs or oil changes. It seems that those are not enough, because I need the title. Guess which box in the PODs that is in? It will be a bonanza when that comes up for air. If I find a need to get the title before then, I'll have to try to figure out which state issued that. Did I pay the car off while we were in MN? Or AZ? I was assured that it would be from AZ because I should have needed it to get my AZ license plates (1 commercial, one regular, sequentially). Really? I have no memory of needing it down there. So I get to wait or start calling around.  It was paid off so long ago I have no memory of even who financed the car in the first place, but one or the other state must have information. I really only need it if I sell the car (heaven forbid!) or decide to get a state parks sticker for the year. Being a resident is a huge savings. There has to be some savings somewhere, right?

All this documentation and need for some benefit from it holds for Steve as well. He thought all his vital papers were in one of his two briefcases, where they always are. It seems only one of them got in the car. The other - we most sincerely hope - must be in the PODS. He needs his Colorado birth certificate, and he informs me that the running around I've been doing is nothing compared to what he'll have to do. It's not as simple as going to his county recorder. Apparently it's a huge problem from out-of-state, with terrible online software to fight through. (Or  maybe he's just like me, hating all the various forms with different procedures and requirements and ways to get from A to B to....Z.) I didn't have the heart to ask him what his cost was going to be. He was hoping to have his new drivers license and his new handicap parking hanger as soon as possible after moving back up here. In his case it's for a special reason: free fishing! Years ago he already qualified for handicap status. One of the perks at the time in MN was a free fishing license - a permanent one! When we left the state but returned for summers he couldn't use it, but had to pay over $50 per season to fish here as a non-resident. He still kept the free license, and as soon as he reestablishes state residence he can legally fish free again. But that  doggone birth certificate.......

You Don't Have A Due Date Yet

 Years ago that only meant one thing. Either I wasn't pregnant or it was too soon in the pregnancy to establish when the baby was due. 

Well, first, I'm 75. Need I go on? Seriously? OK then: I had my tubes successfully tied around age 40. There was a long period of time afterwards while I was taking care of my own head and healing from my own history that there was absolutely no cause to be suspicious of a pregnancy even without a tubal. When I finally "got back in the game" it was after having all the rest of my baby-making parts removed for medical reasons. I still joke with my doctors that if I'm pregnant you'll have to change my name to Mary.

I'm confident I'm sticking with Heather.

So no, I'll never have that kind of a due date again. Even were it physically possible, those due dates were all off by a month. My kids were all 10 month babies. No, not counting errors, long gestations. Still, when I see that phrase, my mind inevitably pops over into that meaning of it.

This time it's about my electric bill. In Arizona of course. I'm legally required to keep all the utilities on and paid for while the house is empty and on the market. Potential customers need to know that the water runs clear, the lights and climate control work, the stove cooks, etc. There's just one little problem: the house isn't empty. Therefore it hasn't been put on the market yet. And yes, Steve and I are both pissed off about it. And yes, we're in the process of a legal eviction, at the recommendation and with the assistance of our realtor. She's been a real source of information, assistance,  and strength during this time. She's the one who served the initial papers. She'll be talking to the judge this week. She keeps us informed, sends photos of "progress" on a regular basis. She also provides transportation of boxes of - let's face it: junk - to a storage unit, which she's also paid for, even though I'd already shelled out the money to do so. It just never made it to its destination. Yep, something else we're pissed off about.

She insists that her extra costs will be getting paid in the realtor pay split upon sale of the house. She will, because of her extra expenses, change the 50-50 split to something closer to 60-40, keeping track of all her extra expenses to justify that of course. I have assured her that any larger expenses will get covered upon the sale should something be needed, say, to cover damage. In such a case, of course, our "pissed off" meter will climb accordingly. I already shelled out over 12 grand for a bathroom repair/remodel, long overdue and reducing us before the repair to a single usable bathroom. Can't sell a house when the plumbing doesn't work, or at least not without a severe financial penalty, and since color choice was the same price regardless of what was chosen, I made it beautiful! Not plain white, but white/grey/turquoise! Very Arizona! And hopefully a major selling point.

            Shower floor piece leaning against wall.                                 
 

 So where does that influence the electric bill? With solar on the roof, I should be getting money back for all the time we're not in the house. With our unwelcome tenant in the house, I have a bill due each month instead. I presume he's using lights, the refrigerator/freezer, and the AC, which means, since we turned off the thermostat and the fridge when we left, and left the lights off, he's turned them back on. I can go to my account page online and follow the daily changes in the electric bill. They're all increases, of course. As somebody who likes to be sure what the budget has extra room for after the bills are paid, especially on a fixed income, it's good to know what's going on.

The bill for last month will be final in a couple more days. Meanwhile, each time I check its "progress", when I log in the first words to catch my eye are: "You don't have a due date yet" ...in any sense.

A Clump Of Hair Looking For A Dog

The contest:

I was cleaning up before company was due to arrive. While there hasn't been a dog in this place since last October, there were still clumps of black dog hair all over the floors. I could sweep the hall, for example, a long narrow place with no furniture to hide under, and ten minutes later, if it even took that long, there would be clumps of hair back where I'd just been. I don't bother a whole lot of air when I sweep, unlike my sons for example, so there should be very few little eddies along the way as I go by to drag out more hair from nonexistent hiding places to line the hall again. 

I could understand it happening in the living room, with lots of furniture legs, and cords scattered around at floor level to hide dog hair from my broom or create swirls of air to tease more air currents to carry new clumps out from hiding spots to suddenly appear where I'd just cleaned. But this was just a bare hall. Doors line it but they'd either had the spaces on their other sides swept out as I passed moments earlier, or had stayed undisturbed with higher carpeting on the other side blocking anything from reentering the space just swept.

It was a puzzle, where the clumps had all come from, some endless supply depot touching this space from a hidden dimension, bringing dog hair with it. It's predictable, happening regularly in this house when brooms were utilized, no quarter given for the length of time since the last dog inhabited the spaces. I expect it will continue happening here. For that matter, I expect it will happen in the new house, despite no dog or other furry creature having lived in it during its history, or at least not one visible to normal human eyes. I didn't see any during our two trips to go through the place. But then I hardly ever witness them moving into place behind me, since, contrary to what parents tell their mischievous children, there truly are no eyes in the backs of our heads.

But still they appear, popping from some nowhere out into our somewhere, once again some new clump of hair out looking for a dog.

I made that comment to Steve as I swept. It must have sunk in because five minutes later he said it back to me, talking about a clump of hair out looking for a dog. Perhaps he found a hidden truth in it, though I don't credit him with sweeping floors enough to have made the observation himself, in just that way. I observed it might be worth a title for a blog post. He agreed. So now we're both to come up with our own fill in piece for our own blogs, and see who can do it the best.

I'll let you know.

Meanwhile, he's gone down a different hall for a nap, and I'm heading back down that swept hall because I've been sitting too long after finishing a beverage and wish to avoid the worst consequences of that bad habit. On my way I'll scout for more clumps. If nobody hears from me....

Come armed with a broom.

Brain Teasing

I've noted before in this blog that the brain can be a tricky thing. It was just brought home to me again this week. Screeeeech! Full skidding STOP!  W-T-F !!!!!!!

We went to the new home-to-be for the second time on Tuesday. Our purpose was two-fold. First we got accepted with our bid conditions on purchasing it, beating  the competition. So we were there to drop off a check for earnest money and sign a contract.

Second, while there we had more questions about the place. It seems we were so excited by the features and space of the thing, that even though I took my trusty camera along I neglected to take a single picture of the place! Me! Not one picture! Can you imagine that? Had I done so I could have answered simple questions like which room is in this direction from the front door, what's that  flat thing on top of the stove, is there an ice maker. which closets are where, what windows are where, where is the thermostat, or heat vents, is there AC, and so on. That is just a tiny sample of our questions for our second visit, most of which got answered very patiently.

And this time, of course, I did come back with dozens of photos, like the inside of the one walk-in shower to show where and how many safety bars actually are inside it, rather than simply noting it had at least one ... somewhere. (There are two. Plus a built in bench. Plus two short shelves for shampoos, etc.) Which bathroom has the skylight? Are there just mirrors on the bathroom walls above the sinks or are there medicine chests? (Mirrors only, but lots of storage at different levels. Reminder: get small organizers.) How far does wall X come out from the outside wall into the room to separate the space from the adjoining room? Is there a door in X location? Y? Z?

By the way, I can confirm that the fireplace, for all you doubters out there, is wood burning!

But the teasing part of that first visit is not about how much of what I just "remembered" was wrong after that first visit, but how wrong I "saw" parts of the interior that first time. I could swear the huge room the front door opens up to has a far end that curves into an oval at the far wall, despite knowing the walls are straight with 90 degree corners. I know, weird, huh. Optical illusion, since it's big enough to totally cross the double width, is my most reasonable explanation for that one. I "remembered" a closet inside that front door for coats. It isn't there. I'm thinking we might go out looking for a "tree" to hang coats on in cool months.  Or maybe learn new habits for putting things away.

Because that will happen, right?

I knowingly skipped noting certain features, like in the spa bathtub in the master bathroom, knowing the difficulty both of us would  have using it with our knees. So I still don't know whether it actually has a small ledge/seat on one end or my brain invented it, deep into the wee hours in the dark when I can't sleep because my brain is busy busy busy arranging the furniture. Even the second try with the camera doesn't aim into the tub. Can't-use-it-so-it-doesn't-exist. Unless maybe we can..... with planning, safety bars, some kind of seat, etc.

The windows impressed me on our first go-through with how huge they were and how well decorated. Well, not necessarily that huge, or at least they don't come as low or stretch so wide as I recalled. I'm knocking that one off to white sturdy blinds on all of them, and the lace valences on the tops only cover two windows in actuality. Still beautiful, just not universal, and leaving more room to put furniture and other decorations like pictures up on the walls.

But that last brain trick is one I'm still trying to figure out. Was it the snow falling that day, and a different quality of light? Something else? I know the place wasn't painted a different color in the few days between the two tours. But I swear, and I mean really, really swear, that the two living room areas not only had white trim and window coverings (true), but that between those white features, the walls were painted a light spruce green! It was one of the things I fell in love with the place for, the green and white colors. I commented on it at the time and nobody corrected me. But those walls are a very pale grey!  No green. Grey! Even knowing that, my brain's memory still shouts "GREEN!"

My bedroom is an off-pinkish-tan, a pale version of a color my first husband used to call - from institutional over-usage -"peach barf pink". It was everywhere in the 50s and 60s. I'm thinking back to what I had in Arizona, teal and turquoise. The bedroom carpets are white, not the darker colors I insist were there. And the "well-stretched" parts in the bedrooms are not so stretched but full of bumpy lines which means they will have to be replaced so Steve doesn't trip, especially in the middle of the night. The other two bedroom/pantry walls are more creamy tan than pink or grey. We already planned on painting Steve's walls a darker color, just because he often sleeps in the day and requires a darker space. He wants room darkening curtains as well, likely all a bit lighter than navy. (Yeah, try to find a black cell phone in that room every third day when it goes missing!)

I have no idea why my brain insisted on seeing green. It still does even with photographic proof to the contrary. So I think the only solution, once we sell the Arizona house and have funds to work with, before beds go in, is to go paint shopping, carpet shopping for where tripping could be an issue, and hire some work done before we actually move in! 

Starting with the right shade of green!

What Was Our Easter Like?

We received a bunch of grand-kids pictures from their mom. The girls were busy dying eggs, and later sorting out the goodies from their baskets.  They looked to be having a great time. Their mom closed her email with a question: What had our holiday been like?

Well, to start with, this pair of geezers did NOT dye any eggs. In fact, there were a whole lot of things we didn't do to celebrate the holiday. My son, the one we're staying with until we can move into our new home, headed out to a movie late in the morning. Upon his return he said he enjoyed it. We didn't ask the title, as movies in theaters these days are, to us, little more than a chance to watch actors we don't recognize by either name or face, doing improbable things for unlikely "reasons", and in the process ourselves risk rupture of the eardrums and covid, flu, or whatever else is currently circulating, despite our up-to-date vaccinations. If a must-see movie does come along, say once every two years, we'll be sure to go the the first Tuesday matinee when the price for our age level drops and attendance is still sparse, like two weeks after it opens and the kids are in school. Popcorn prices, naturally, never drop, so we plan to eat first. (I will never admit to smuggling food in. Never.)

Somehow a list of "didn'ts" just wasn't the proper response to a daughter-in-law. So I sent back this, which Steve agreed was a perfect description of our day:

"What did we do? Let's see: discussed the new home and how to arrange the furniture, watched TV, fixed food, ate food, make phone calls, discussed the new home, planned different furniture arrangements, decided to label the two living rooms as 1 and 2 so we know which we're talking about, made phone calls, tried to decided which bedroom Steve will choose, watched more TV, read both online and analog (aka a book),  discussed what we don't know about new home like where the thermostat is because (my son) keeps this place cold, discussed where/how to put a ramp in, watched more TV, wrote emails, discussed what furniture we need to replace, like Steve's lift chair, a sofa, etc., did more discussions of where the furniture will go, promised to actually take pictures of the home on Tuesday when we drop off the escrow check, rather than being so overwhelmed with the place it got totally spaced!  ........ (oops).... watched more TV, checked weather reports, read my son's latest funny T-shirt ("I paused my game to be here"), discussed needing to turn in more paperwork to the park management to get approved there....

"Busy day! Yep. sure was! (yawwnnnnn)"

 

I could try to claim we took a nap somewhere in the middle or even after all that, but it would be a lie. Even bedtime proved as frustrating as most nights recently, with all the needed plans and appointments required for a state change (doctors, car stuff like dealing with a recent recall, licenses, insurance, voting registration, address notifications, etc.) floating around in our heads. We're just too wired these days. It'll settle down, eventually, but likely not until we're moved AND unpacked.

 

I'll let you know.

"We Can't Return Your Card"

I had a list of errands the other day, plus a timetable. I gave plenty of time from leaving the house to making the one I really had to be on time for. But things change. 

I needed to deposit some checks I had. My credit union's "sister" in Arizona was fairly close, but a run there still took more time than I had while in the middle of the mad scramble to pack up the house in the final few days. I had decided to just bring the checks north with me. I ran into them in my pocketbook a few days back and made a mental note to deposit them some day soon when it was convenient.

We - my son Paul and I - used to be able to deposit into our credit union from a local US Bank since we live well out of the metro and the credit union doesn't. When I was working it wasn't an issue. As a courier I was all over, so one was always convenient. Paul is still working and for him it still isn't an issue. Before heading out I asked him, not needing to know for years, whether that local US Bank still worked with the credit union for deposits (and free ATM withdrawals). He said it did.

I endorsed my checks, popped  my card into their ATM, followed by the checks, answered the questions about how I wanted my receipt, and waited. At no point did the ATM say "you can't do that here". Finally I got my paper receipt. I looked at it and it had no numbers on it. What???? Then my first check came back out. A full minute later my next check came out. I waited for my card. 

And waited.

And waited.

Finally figuring out that my card wasn't coming back, I headed inside. I explained to the teller what had happened. Why didn't I get my card? It wasn't like it was stolen, or I'd been declined for a withdrawal for insufficient funds. So WTF???? She asked me to wait a second while she tended to the drive up window, never mind that she'd called me up to her window. Once she finally returned, she asked me what credit union I was working with. I answered and she informed me that they no longer worked with my credit union. (Since when?)

But what about my card? The machine "ate" it. I've never seen a machine do that to a rejected card. Either they won't take it in the first place, or they spit it back out at you once your business was completed, and apparently mine was completed.

According to them. But why no card?

There was no apology, no explanation of stupid or bad programming, no "It's a glitch we're working on", or anything of the sort. All I got was, "We don't service that machine so we can't get your card back." No suggestion that there was a fix if I talk to ________. Nothing. 

I began to remember why I stopped doing business with US Bank a couple decades ago, the lack of service plus their need to gouge their customers for every possible penny in every situation. I guessed they weren't going to get any money from me here so... So Long!

I checked the clock. I had just over an hour to deal with this if I dropped the rest of my errands and headed straight to the metro's nearest credit union branch. It was doable if the inside business didn't take too long. I had not only to complete the deposit but deal with my missing card. Cancelling the old one might negate a PayPal purchase I'd made the evening before, and I didn't want to do that.

I walked  in and made my deposit, also explaining about the "eaten" card and my concern about yesterday's purchase.  First, I was reassured that my purchase would go through. Then she asked me for the 4-digit code I wanted for using the replacement at an ATM. I wrote that down, and she whisked my checks away and went to a different station. I figured she was working on my card's paper work, and wondered how many days the new one would take to arrive. I almost never use it, but still. Most transactions are online these days, and I don't do much with cash anyway.

Oops, that reminded me. I needed to swap a $10 bill for a roll of quarters when she got back. We're using laundromats much of the time as Paul's machines are in the basement, and each year that gets harder. My back still hurts from straining it with a huge basket of laundry after we arrived.

I expected to see a handful of paperwork in her hands when she finished. Instead of that, she handed me my new card! And yes, it does have a new number. Whoever has the old one can use it for a mini window scraper! I was in and out in plenty of time to make the timetable for the most important errand left to complete, and so much happier with my credit union even than I'd ever been before, over nearly 40 years!

Tracks

So we got snow over the weekend. Over 7 inches the first wave, and I lost track after that, due to some rain and melting, and, frankly, lack of caring to head out to clear any and start fresh when I didn't have to.

Yesterday, I'd had to. We'd had a family birthday party postponed due to weather, and we couldn't disappoint a 4-year-old. Especially since we hadn't met him yet, nor his 5 week old brother! So packages got shopped for a week before the party date got changed, wrapped yesterday morning, finally, and taken out to the car just a "little" bit ahead of leaving. 

I had to clear a whole lot of snow and ice off the car before taking off. We don't have a winter snow brush, not after 12 winters in the Phoenix area, just a scraper with a short handle, and one side rubber and the  other hard plastic. It's good for the little stuff that doesn't require a long reach, like rain and dust. Otherwise there's a broom, no longer the smooth bristled version of itself when we bought it. Especially after yesterday.

It was during a pause in pushing the broom across the car roof when I saw them. First there were rabbit tracks. Huge ones. Must be that escaped semi-tame one I'd seen a few days earlier, huge, fat, and splotches of brown and white fur. Behind those tracks were deer tracks. Apparently they're still not afraid of heading into town despite two full blocks of houses on this end of it after 30-some years, at least at night when we are sleeping. 

Looking a bit further down the driveway, there were large dog tracks. Since none were widely spaced, I am guessing each came through at its own individual time. Nothing looked like a wild chase. Finally there were small splayed toe tracks with a thin tail print behind them. I'm guessing large mouse or small rat. Other rodents around here, chipmunks and squirrels, have bushy tails.

This morning we had more errands to run early. Fresh tracks greeted us without erasing the old ones in the snow. Two sizes of birds had checked out the driveway before I'd headed out to start the car. I'm guessing one set was robin tracks, if only because I'd seen and gotten photos of them at different times in the driveway, picking up the tiny apples from the Pink Spires Crabapple overhanging it and busy dropping fruit now before its next flowering. I do love the way those start deep pink and over the course of a couple weeks get paler and paler until they are almost white when the petals drop. It's nice to see the birds love them too, now that the highbush cranberries are no longer bearing and bringing them to the yard. I've cut them back to get rid of dead wood in hope of their coming back from their bases. 

But looking at this morning's tracks, I have no idea whether the robins had left the larger or smaller of the two sets of tracks, nor what bird made the others. Once back from our errands, enough melting had happened from the strengthening sunlight that almost no tracks at all remained except our own.

Incompetence Of Biblical Proportions

 I sent some stuff to an AZ auction house, selected because they were close and had staff experienced in dealing with collections, like Native American pottery and Asian (Chinese) art. Much of it sold, more to come, partial payments dished out. They sent me - or rather my credit union in an ACH payment - the payment from the first partial sale. Yes, there was a problem. I am so used to working with an out-of-state "sister" credit union when I make deposits of checks, that I automatically added the last three digits delineating the account number as going into checking as that credit union asks each time I go in.

Oops.

Yes, my mistake. No question about that. I told the auction company so.

I got two letters the same day early this week from my credit union letting me know that they were charging me $10 for that mistake. Plus if it happened again, they'd both charge me and refuse the check. They were doing me a favor the first time by taking the trouble to figure out the problem and put the deposit in the right account.

Two letters? Never mind, that's not the issue. I'd also just heard from the auction company that another payment was forthcoming.

I both called the auction house (voicemail) and sent them an email about the problem.  I gotta fix this ASAP, right?

I got an email back from the auction house claiming they would be emailing me paperwork to fix the account number, OR offering me a choice to have a check mailed to me to deposit myself.

Nothing arrived... until today when I got an email letting me know they'd just actually sent another ACH deposit... to the wrong number again. No acknowledgement it was the wrong number, just a final 4 digits which showed me they had done nothing to change anything. So it will bounce, I'll get charged again, and we could be doing this in an endless circle.

Imagine my joy. Really, just try. Try harder. Not working yet?

Me neither.

I went back to that email they had sent out claiming they were on the ball and going to fix the issue. I wanted both to send another follow-up email  as well as make another phone call, aka leave voicemail again because they do not seem to answer their phones. Yes, I mean during business hours, and that's taking into account the now 2-hour difference in time zones. I was looking for not just that information but looking for whoever sent out that email "response".

I had noted when it first arrived in my e-mailbox that it wasn't really signed, or at least not with a name, but it was so weird that I dismissed it and went on to other things, making a note to myself to look for their paperwork. What it was "signed" with was "John 3:16".

Say what? Yes I know the verse, have some strong feelings and thoughts about the verse, can quote it in King James version at the drop of an eyelash. But just what does that have to do with the workings of a business handling my money? Especially when it's not doing a prompt job of handling my money per my request after bringing the error to their attention.

I did get a reply... of sorts. "signed" again by John 3:16, simply pointing out that the original error was mine, not theirs.  Yeah, I get that. DUH! Never argued that point. If they listened or read previous communications, it's there. But they've had a couple days to react, to help fix it. More money was (supposedly) coming my way and I pointed out that I was aware of that too in my original messages. 

This time they got three communications. One was voicemail on the company's listed number as a follow up from the first communication voicemail, two were emails to two different companies, since the auction company uses either a different company or at least a different name to handle the financial end of things. The voicemail started out, "Don't you guys talk to each other?" Yeah, it had some "tone" to it. I'd have thought they had plenty of time to react and act in two business days, whoever had to contact whom. I don't swear on the phone. I mostly don't in emails either, unless you count a rare "shit" or Damn", neither of which were used in these communications, though I will admit to emphasizing my point by using full caps and extra !!! and ??? in places.

They decided to react, finally. This time with another statement that they WILL do something, making sure I can have the documents I need to either change the numbers or opt out of ACH and wait for mail. The latter was firmly recommended. Apparently they don't wish to deal with what they determined to be "rude" communications.

Oh, and the John 3:16 is "just how they do things at that office."  As it's used, it impresses me as an arrogant way to let everybody else know that despite not performing their job in a timely manner they are certainly superior to any "rude" customers because they are "saved". It also conveniently omits naming a person to be responsible for sending out the email but not following through.

I'm tempted to suggest they "save it" for church, and strive for some superior competency on the job. I'm sure they'd find that rude too, and send me another reminder of where they believe superiority matters. I don't care what you believe, whether you believe, how you worship or don't. When I contract with you for work to be done, I expect the work to be done. When adjustments need to be made and I inform you of them, I don't expect days of inaction when the correction is both easy and time sensitive, I expect action. You want to be superior? Do your job, do it promptly, do it well. If you can't, let me know, and explain. Somebody went home sick, I can understand. First day on the job - oops, I can understand. Reminding me it's my error with no further explanation for nothing happening after I contact you trying to fix it, when I already told you it's my error - THAT's rude. 

If I hire you for spiritual reasons, you'll know it and so will I. 

Hold your breath. Wait for it....

Still holding it? 

How about now?

You Can't Fix It

 You can’t fix it. Truly. I get where you’re coming from, a caring place, wanting to help, thinking something in your many years of experience will fit the bill. It just won’t. It’s not yours to fix. It really isn’t mine, either, or at least not more than I have already, but now it’s a waiting game. Yes, it’s frustrating. Everything is off balance. Life and dreams are on hold. I’m getting downright cranky. But we all just have to be patient, and that’s hard. So how about just changing the topic?

Maybe you saw the tee shirt. Steve and I thought it was funny when we first saw it, enough to buy one for each of us. There’s a big bull bison on it, black on white background. He’s saying, “You can’t fix stupid. I can. It’ll hurt.”

You know he’s right. Think of all the stupid people in the national parks who think bison are tame like milking cows. They either try to get nice and close for that selfie, or even send junior in to get close, because wouldn’t that be a photo, eh? They never stop to think, much less to recall how often it doesn’t end well.

This isn’t that kind of a situation. It’s not about stupidity, or lack of information, or needing new advice, or even needing emotional support. It’s about an unexpected legal situation. Advice has been given from one with experience and knowledge of the law in this specific situation. Paperwork has been filed. A clock is ticking. Assistance has been given to one who needs it but probably won’t heed it. It’s time to step back, let the clock tick away, and then swoop in and cut all the ties before moving on, making progress.

But people who care keep asking how it’s going, keep offering advice as if nobody had thought of those things long ago. It’s beginning to sound like there is fault involved, or withholding of resources, or stupidity, or all of the above. Do you even realize that doesn't help? Or worse, that it hurts?

How come nobody can just say, “Gee, that’s tough. It must be difficult to wait through it. Let me know if there’s a way I can help, but just know I’m here if you need something”? Because everybody seems to need to step in and fix it. And you can’t. I can’t. Steve can’t. The law takes its time before we can pounce, and pounce we will, when and if it comes to that. Because we’re not patient either, even though we are forced to be. There is a plan. There are people to implement the plan. There are resources to deal with it as soon as the clock runs out.

Now can we please just change the topic?

Outside The House, Visitors Too Early?

It's pretty cool for us yet, though extra warm for this part of MN this early. So while we haven't spent much time out of the house, aside from going to the store for groceries and stuff, we're still noticing what is there.  For example, first blades (singular and sparse) of grass are greening up in extra warm locations, like along the big boulder next to the driveway out in the sun. No typical first spring flowers are emerging yet however, like the scilla which normally turn the lawn blue, so thick are they. After those come crocus, daffodils, violets and dandelions paired with tulips, and on we go, marching through the blooming calendar. For now, a few blades of grass.

No snow. It has fallen a few times, we're told. It's melted within a couple days, instead of keeping the soil cold and moist. There are not huge piles like most years which have been plowed back into distant corners of big box store parking lots. Not even detritus piles from snow sit there, having been collected but melting fast, the kind kids like to march around looking for dropped pennies or - hopefully - better treasures.

Today and yesterday the highs are in the low 60s. Where usually there are ice pockets along the edges of the roads where a bit of thawing and refreezing have happened underneath, leaving white ice ready to crunch under every step of even the smallest children on their way by, now it's plain pavement. I clearly recall going out of my way in spring mornings to jump on those and break the ice surfaces with satisfying noises before school, or even as an adult where jumping gave way to plain old trodding across the surfaces. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

No such opportunities exist this spring. What will our grandchildren tell their kids about early springs' delights?

Those are replaced this year by new sounds. I don't have to step outside the house to hear and identify them, so plain and unique are they. Sandhill cranes are flying overhead, have now for several days. Normally they come in early April. I timed it one year because the local fire department was having a training exercise with the fire department of a neighboring town. An abandoned house was "donated" for use to them for starting fires and  using their equipment to put them out quickly and safely. It was done three separate times that day. Later a development would be built there, but this day it was just firemen, and city government folks.

That's how I was there, on that particular April 4th Saturday, when all the fire department volunteers arranged to be off their regular jobs for the event. Our assistant clerk was the wife of the other town's fire department's operator of their brand new 104 foot tall high ladder bucket. With their blessing both she and I rode up in it and observed the proceedings. I was there with a camera, taking pictures of the action, chatting, having a great time overall, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I also happened to be our town's Mayor, one special day out of my 8 years of service in that position. The camera belonged to the city, and all the pictures went to them and the other town to be shared and evaluated from this higher perspective. 

At one quiet point in the activities, a sandhill crane flew overhead, making it's primordial croaking  sound. It didn't appear to be one of the pair which had recently (the previous year? Two?) which had started nesting next to the city's sewer ponds, raising chicks, or rather "colts". This one was heading in a pretty straight line towards a Wisconsin nature center 30 driving miles away called Crex, soon to become a favorite getaway for me with a camera and occasionally a friend. I'd just begun to identify what they were at that time, and was informed they also nested in our city and this was their usual spring appearance time.

I knew in future years to look for them near April 1st. This year I'm hearing them much earlier. Considering what little I can observe in the environment right now, I worry for them. What is there for them to eat this early? They are omnivores, eating plants and critters. But they stay in the fall until they've pretty well cleaned up all the farmer-dropped grains in fields, and insects and small reptiles and amphibians have settled in for their winder snooze. What might be emerging this early? Yes, temperatures are higher, but even the bugs aren't out yet so what's a hungry frog to eat so it can stick around to feed a crane?

The problem is climate change, and the mis-match of living things that end their winters either by calendar dates or by temperatures. They have evolved to match their emergence to that of their pollinators -in the case of plants - or their food supply in the case of animals. Bees are missing their pollen producers but we're trying to make up for it by getting communities to go along with "No Mow Mays" so flowers are around as long as possible in early spring. That's great but it's March now. Monarch butterflies are missing their marks in recent years, with milkweed plants flowering - in our yard at least, where they are encouraged - early in summer or late spring, with no butterflies sighted until July. By then the flowers have all gone to seed, pods are formed and fattening, and no nectar awaits the butterflies' arrivals to tell them this is the place to rest, eat, and lay their eggs where tender new leaves will greet the new caterpillars. Tough old leaves are in place instead.

We drove through Nebraska a week ago. Flocks of sandhills were airborne, though I didn't want to credit their presence this early. When I finally caught a solid view of several circling flocks and identified them, my heart sank. Normally late March is when the people gather to watch them en masse, take pictures, and see them lift for northern destinations. I'd hoped the cranes would stick around the Platte for a couple more weeks at least. It seems my wishes have no effect on crane flights. Now I can only hope they can find the nourishment they need to lay eggs and raise colts for this coming year.

And that in the long run, it will still matter.

Truly "Comfort" Inn

 We've traveled a lot over the years, from camping trips to snowbirding travels between Minnesota and Arizona. The major travels are probably over now. But our last stay was arguably the best of all of them. We hit a Comfort Inn in Omaha on J street right off I-80 our last night on the road.

There have been a lot of mediocre places, plus some very unpleasant and a few pretty good. Our last stay is memorable however, for all the right reasons. Steve's cousin Lee recommended it. He travels some for his business, while we travel just to get somewhere. Money is usually an issue for us, though we have spent the bucks to enjoy Discovery Lodge in Estes Park, outside Rocky Mountain National Park so we could enter the park while enjoying Estes with its wandering elk population, as well as early arrival in the park before the timed entry program would keep us out without reservations. Even that did not equal our night in the Comfort Inn.

It started with a phone call. Obviously they had a call center out of the country, judging by strong accents making communication "interesting". Challenging is a bit more like it, but I paid close attention to make sure our needs were met and questions answered. Steve needs handicap accessible accommodations these days, and my requests have been met with a variety of results. It might be a long hike from the parking spot to our room, even including stairs on occasion. It might be a lack of places to sit aside from on top of the bed. Most often it is a complete lack of understanding of what is needed in bathroom facilities, between low toilets, to bathtubs one has to climb into with slick bottoms and no safety bars. So I asked the woman on the phone to describe their toilet and shower facilities.

She went away with my questions and came back with detailed answers. Their toilet was both higher and wider than standard motel toilets and had a very strong grab bar along the side. The shower was roll-in, no lip, with drains both in the shower bottom and the bathroom floor bottom.

(Note to self: do not drop PJs on the bathroom floor outside of the shower and expect them to stay dry. Otherwise do expect to need to remove one of the wastebasket liner bags to tuck your PJs into so they can go in your suitcase while keeping its other contents dry.)

The shower was truly roll-in, no lip. There was a sturdy safety bar on all three wall sides, a hand-held shower head easily reachable and returnable, and a nice height for the temperature control on/off water handle, which was quickly responsive to desired changes. It also had a sturdy seat inside, movable for your own idea of its best placement, and strong instead of wobbly like the ones you can order online for home use. A soap dish at waist height standing off to the corner was well placed for use by somebody sitting or standing, and a heavy terry mat for the floor outside for when the water got splashed outside of the shower kept the floor slip-free. (OK, the PJs served the same purpose, but that wasn't exactly planned.) The towels provided were oversized by standard motel standards, which was a great boon, and very soft and absorbent, instead of the usual motel ones which are just scratchy.

The only thing I could have asked for was a bidet. We have put attachments on toilets at either end of our regular travels and both of us appreciate them greatly. They will be installed in our new home once we decide what that is.

The TV controls were simple, though the program we wanted to watch was a rerun and we fell asleep partway through it. The bed was a good height to get both in and out for both of us, the mattress a compromise between too soft and too hard. Both of us slept well.  We could have used the mini fridge and microwave, but we didn't pack for that and tiredness took over anyway. A desk had a rolling chair, lights were logically operated rather than hunting for the right combination of switches to operate, a coffee set-up had 4 cups instead of a limit of two because the room was for just two people. Everything was clean, and the heating unit at the window was responsive to our needs. We never heard other guests in the hall or over our heads.

Continental breakfast was a huge step up from our usual experiences. Typically these have been so miserly, all carbs of two or three varieties, that we normally skip motel breakfasts and hit a McDonald's on our way out of town. This had about seven varieties of carbs if we chose, including making fresh waffles, several juices, regular and decalf coffees, yogurt and milk. But both of us stuck with sausage patties, scrambled eggs, and fried sliced potatoes with onions and peppers in them. Delicious!

Entering and leaving was assisted by the presence of valet carts which held luggage and could have carried garment bags if we traveled that way. I easily pulled mine from the car to inside the room, and replaced it between the front doors for the next guests, saving a very tired me from way too many trips with much too heavy luggage by then. (Funny, they weren't so heavy when I put them in the car at the start. Maybe the dirt accumulated? LOL )

Checking in was a breeze, just half a minute in the line while the previous customer asked a final question. All of mine were attended to quickly, directions down a very short hall to our handicap room were clear, and a senior discount applied so this was very comparable to our usual price at much less wonderful motels. Checking out was as easy in the morning, with the addition of simple directions to the freeway entrance. It was fully dark when we arrived and heavy traffic had prevented a safe direct path to the motel, so I wanted to check the best way back.

Comfort Inn, while we do not expect to do any major traveling in our future, if we do, we'll plan to be back!

Dear Nikki Haley...

 Part of me is saddened that you have pulled out of the run for President from the Republican Party. Trump needs opposition, and an actual challenge to show how qualified he might or might not currently be at actually running and/or serving should he win the election. Cult status is not a qualification. He should be required to debate, to speak to a national audience, to allow the country to evaluate him as a candidate in a field of contenders. 

However, I wish you to know that you would never have been the chosen candidate in your party, with the make-up of our your party as it is today. The Republicans have gone so far to extremes that they would have rejected you for a pair of reasons. First, you are a woman. Personally, I think that is fine. But your party is busy taking rights away from women lately, and aside from a minority of individuals in your party, would never have accepted you, however qualified you may or may not be. The second thing is, and again I don't personally find this a disqualification, you are not "white". The Republican party on the whole has become proudly white nationalist, with plenty of encouragement from Trump. 

It is  my assessment that your run was born out of stupidity in not evaluating who your party is  made up of these days. You made the mistake of adding to that stupidity by trying to pander to some of the worst members of your party when you claimed that the Civil War was not about slavery. Yes, I have heard that claim through the years. The defenders of that position claim is was fought over "states' rights".

What kinds of rights were they fighting over that none of the other (winning) states would allow them? That would be the right of those states to declare that their white citizens had the right to actually OWN other humans because of the amount of melanin in their skin, also known as referring to as their race as Negro. If the legal ability of white skinned individuals to OWN darker skinned individuals for no reason other than color is not the very definition of slavery, I have no idea what is. 

Let's not pile on the stupidity, eh? Or at least don't pretend that we haven't noticed.

Why Do They Call White Ice Black?

 I've seen black ice. The real thing. The kind that forms at temperatures well below zero. What you get at 20 degrees above, whatever else the weather is producing, is not black ice!

The day called for hitting I-80 in Utah, crossing Wyoming, and sliding down the front range of the Rockies in Colorado to Steve’s cousin’s house. She promised to throw a party with other cousins in attendance, all believing that this would be the last time all reunited. Since Steve at least, as the oldest surviving one, is not planning travel there again, it seems logical.

It started well, getting all packed up and leaving his brother’s home before the kids were up and out. There was just enough light for us to see the nearby mountain tops with their recent covering of snow. Alternate routes had been looked at, seeking the best, safest, and fasted way to get where we needed. Unfortunately in having to cross mountains, few options were available. This was at least the shortest in mileage, as the next one involved backtracking down I-15 to I-70 and going across to Denver, then north. Many more miles that way with no guarantee of better roads in upper altitudes. So  even if I had to drive more slowly on the northern route with its guarantee of bad roads at the beginning, it was mostly the best.

We hit snow in two miles. We weren’t even on the freeway yet. Once we were, signs in abundance warned of black ice, a “truck stalled”, and road construction. So far it was just snow on the road, but no idea of what lay beneath or how soon it would change, so I was one of the slower vehicles on the road. I’m always amazed at the cars which get away with driving dry-road speeds over snow-covered routes. I could tell you stories of some who didn’t get away with it. No matter, I took the safe way.

Ice did indeed appear, and the sky had lightened enough by then for us to see it, hard packed, dirty white, no evidence of salt having been applied, and bumpy, irregularly worn such that the car was kicking sideways as it crossed the unevenness. I stayed in the right lane for about the first 80 miles of our trip, until we came out from under the light snow and hit dry pavement.There still had been warning signs along the way, warning of construction (none), black ice (wrong color), and a semi stalled inside of that distance, so take the left lane. Yeah, no thanks. Not until necessary.

Any stalled semi had long since vanished, either removed or un-stalled on its own. These must have been yesterday’s warnings and nobody had come into work to change them yet? But miles past where the signs claimed its presence to be, we did pass a semi with an issue. It had rolled off the pavement onto its side in the right side ditch! No other vehicles were in attendance, so we presumed whatever happened was long since dealt with aside from recovery of the vehicle. We joked as we passed about how it certainly had found a bad way to stall. Miles later we passed another one, with a double trailer, this time in the center median, jackknifed in three different directions. The weird thing about both of these is that the ice had long since made way for clear, dry pavement. No evidence it had snowed for days. Why now? Or here? The road was straight, lane markings were plainly visible, unlike miles earlier. Do we blame the drivers? Or maybe idiots in front of them requiring abrupt reactions?

By now we were past the falling snow, speed limits were 80 in most places, occasionally dropping to 75 for brief distances, but smooth driving all the way to Colorado. We saw clouds dumping snow and blocking sight of the mountains in the distance for much of the rest of the drive, but wound up after the start of our journey with no more snow on our path.

Still, we had lots of salt spray on our windshield. When I’d had the oil change just before leaving, I’d forgotten that they have no clue in Phoenix about mixing water and the blue washer fluid for driving in cold weather. My reservoir froze, the only thing in or on the car except for some exterior ice patches which had. Pop or water bottles left in the car? Just fine, thank you. Clean my windshield for better visibility than peeking between white dots? Dream on. It wasn’t until we hit Laramie that I tried the washers again, just to keep doing it. SUCCESS! I had a clear windshield again, rear one too since they now worked. Just to keep making room for a mix of fluids needed for dependable results, I kept flushing the system of water. (Haven’t bought the blue stuff yet however.)

Dinner was great food in abundance, lots of amiable conversation, sangria for most there, and nothing remarkable until after dessert. A couple people left for more comfortable chairs (old age you know), and talk turned to politics. It turned out I was the only non-extreme Republican there, except Steve, and he’d left the table for a comfy lift chair.. I was polite, and kept my mouth shut, more in amazement than anything else. Where do these seemingly nice people come from?

Abortion “facts” took over the conversation, with alleged pre-birth abortion procedures getting spelled out, such as a killing injection into the brain as the baby starts to emerge at 9 months. All but one person opposed all abortions. I might have mentioned ectopic pregnancies, which when left in place kill the mother with never hope of a viable baby, or most idiotic, a uterine relocation. I might have mentioned incomplete miscarriages or dead fetuses decomposing inside the mother causing infection and threatening her life. But now, I just listened. They all “knew what they knew”. And “God makes no mistakes” so I guess their deity likes to kill women despite safe medical practices allowing her another chance at a wanted family.

Anyway, there will be some kind of a prayer service at the state capitol in the morning.

Conversation changed when our hostess brought out large bunches of old photos of people in the family, many of cousins, aunts, uncles and grandparent to those there. This group of people people were all the last remaining of their generation of cousins except two of us who were wives to them, and of the group Steve is the oldest survivor. The issue was identifying the people in them as the photos came from different sources, such as cleaning out a house after somebody died, so nobody to ask, no identifying names on their back side, so who were they and which of these cousins should take which photos home to their families? Steve identified many of them, although how somebody with a face smaller than the head of a sewing pin was identified is beyond me. Still, his parents and grandparents were in many of them, and babies were identified by who was holding them. Almost everybody identified someone in a few photos when nobody else could. Few photos were left unclaimed when the table was cleared.

Conversation relocated to the living room, but after my long day I had to excuse myself “early” to get some sleep. We’ll still be here for another night, at which time I’ll need the information to decide whether all is under control at the house in Sun City, or I have to fly Steve to MN for somebody to pick up at the airport and take to Paul’s while I head back to the house and kick some butt!