Best Worst Joke Of The Week

I met her at the pool this afternoon. Yes, I'm back pool walking, and enjoying it again because nearly all of us there have had our vaccinations and still are wearing masks - outdoors. We can actually talk to each other again. This joke is how Cathy introduced herself:

Why do mermaids wear seashells? They've outgrown their B shells!

We got to talking. She's down here from Alaska, always a favorite topic of mine. We also discussed funerals and weddings, or not having weddings, and being immersed in a Catholic family she has plenty to say about priests. Mostly good. The not-so-good is about all the politics in the Church and how it can interfere with actually tending to their flocks, though well balanced in her experience with men who really live their faith. In the process of all those wide ranging topics, she learned about our covid wedding, with our first anniversary coming up Thursday. Her covid wedding story concerns a large wedding in Alaska where dozens of guests caught the virus and way too many died. Our 4-person outdoor event garnered her approval.

Before I left, she asked if she could stop by later this evening to drop off some Alaskan halibut for us as a first anniversary present. I had been talking about my most memorable meal being outdoor grilled salmon at Taku Glacier Lodge, and Steve's love of fishing, and it morphed into that. I invited her to follow me into the locker room so I could give her my phone number before I had to leave.

I had wondered if she would be one of those people who follow through with such gestures, but I'd said I'd be home by 7:00, and a very few minutes after that she called and was given directions. She didn't turn up with halibut, however. Instead she brought a package of Alaska salmon they'd caught themselves and had professionally sealed and frozen! Salmon! From Alaska! Oh-h-h-h-h-h! 

I think I have a new friend.

If I Were On The Jury

It's the start of Officer Chauvin's trial in Minneapolis today, better known as the Lloyd George's killer's trial. It's being televised by CBS down here in AZ, as well likely as other networks. This happens to be what we listen to and we haven't searched for who else may be broadcasting the trial.

I've heard the judge's instruction to the jury as well as his ruling to the attorneys about objective vs. subjective testimony, or observable actions rather than reading the minds of the  persons involved. Various legal experts have spoken during breaks in "newsworthy" content to fill in what's required to convict, what different legal rulings mean, what the case of the prosecution and defense will likely be.

Much will be made of the drugs in Mr. Floyd's body, his existing heart condition, his recent covid illness. These will be brought forward as evidence that he would have died anyway very soon. But this is where I balk at the validity of the defense's argument.

Let's frame it slightly differently, something we can all understand, something much discussed. Say your loved one is terminal with a painful disease, such as cancer. They will die in a few days, perhaps even less, in excruciating pain. Medication - legal medication - no longer eases the agony. Should somebody, in an act of mercy, shorten their life, shorten their suffering, by even a few minutes, they are guilty of murder in the eyes of the law.  If it's murder for mercy, should it not be equally murder for anything other than self defense? And of course, a man who's handcuffed, prone on the ground with four men holding him down, unconscious and not breathing, no pulse to be found, can in no way be an excuse for actions against them being self defense. There were simply no actions left to Mr. George long before Chauvin lifted his knee off his neck.

I'd find Chauvin guilty of the highest degree of murder chargeable. Period. May he rot in prison, and give every other cop in this country pause before doing anything similar.

After A Year

I could be talking about Covid, but not really. Although, come to think of it, Steve and I actually ate in a restaurant last weekend , our first time not settling for take-out in well over a year. We still wore masks except while eating, the staff wore them, and tables were well spaced with a light load of customers even more spaced out. The food was as wonderful as ever, and the staff greeted us - and vice versa - like long lost friends.

It's been just over a year since that wind storm went through and messed up the roof a bit. The insurance company long since paid, but the company doing the work put it off... and off... and off... and finally finished the job today. It feels kinda weird, as I've been liking seeing those funds in my savings account for all this time. The whirly-gig shiny things on the roof do seem to be chasing the pigeons away successfully. I'll have more faith if they do not get used to them and return. 

Besides finally getting the job done, we all got a little surprise.  Actually, two little surprises. Both dead. Both pigeons. Both wedged under the solar panels where nothing nudged them loose. After thinking about the options for a fast second, I approved the roofer enclosing them where they are jammed, sealing them in with the mesh he used to enclose the sides of the solar panels with the intent of keeping any other pigeons from wedging themselves underneath. That part was long planned, without any knowledge of any accumulation beyond half a cubic yard of dung. That's all power-washed into the garden next to the house now. I should never have to fertilize that space again! As for the dead birds, in this climate I'm not particularly worried about any kind of contamination. Some year those panels may need to be lifted for an as-yet-unknown reason, and their remains can be more properly disposed of. Meanwhile they won't stink, attract rodents, whatever.

Today marked another change, but one which has taken much more than a single year to take place. Having never been satisfied with the primary care physician who was my then-insurance-company's only actual option, I finally switched. It turned out to be fairly simple after all. Steve has been singing the praises of his primary, and Rich even is seeing him now and likes him. He's closer in both directions than the two offices my former primary uses. Steve had me come in with him for his appointment last week to take notes, and I liked him, his attention to the right details, his knowledge, and his attitude. 

Compare this to, say, my previous guy having to ask me why I would be pool walking as if this were the craziest idea of low impact exercise he'd ever heard of. My pharmacy has already called to inform me I can pick up all the prescriptions I needed to refill, but now under the new Doctor's name, so I won't have to fight with getting refills that the previous office was having more and more clerical problems with filling. (How on earth can they NOT know the coding necessary for Medicare approval for a years' long renewal history of the same medications?  Or fill the quantity of blood sugar test strips for 1 refill but the lancets for 7?)The timing should be perfect for our trip, as we'll be up north and settled when my refills are due, and returned before further lab testing will be due.

Speaking of pool walking, that's been over a year of not happening by now. Time to end that "dry" spell too.

Flunking The "Pencil Test"

You remember that nasty old thing? It is/was where boys/men denigrate girls/women for not having boobs so perky that when they stick a pencil immediately under them, it doesn't drop. Like we'd ever let them get that close, right? Because it was only the real assholes that would ever joke about it. They used to say it meant we were "too old" for them to be attracted to if we flunked the test.

You know what, though? They were right. They just didn't realize it. The only women who flunked that test were very young, barely past puberty, or at least appeared that way. And no, this is not me denigrating women with flatter chests. We come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, maturing at different rates, and we're all normal. Just fine, thank you. All feminine in every real sense of the word.

No, this is me denigrating the guys who used that so-called test to denigrate women, because if you haven't realized it yet, they are all admitting they are only sexually attracted to juveniles. Mature healthy women never "pass" that test. Women who've ever breast fed a baby never pass, or even who've been pregnant but choose to bottle feed. Breasts droop. Fat or skinny, they droop. If guys can't handle that, they're looking for little girls. Think about it. It's the guys' problems, not ours. We're still sexy as we want to be.

Now there is one consequence of "flunking" the test. No matter how supposedly well designed the bra, they droop. Get active, sweat a bit, simply live through a full day, and you get skin/salt rubbing on skin. Irritation happens, often compounded by elastic or even underwires which are supposed to negate the issue. You itch, you squirm, you shower, you're still miserable. Powders may seem to help, at least for a few hours. Perfumes, corn starch vs. talc, medicated additives, either don't help at all or never last long enough to make a real difference. And face it, the older we get, the lower they droop, the worse we feel, the worse we're told we should feel.

After decades of irritation and itching, I finally stumbled into a solution. It works for any body part where skin rubs on skin constantly. It came out of using this for a way to cure something else, MYOB. It's good old fashioned Vaseline! Just rub a thin layer over those places where the irritation happens after a shower and/or every couple days, depending on your habits. It generally lasts two days unless vigorously rubbed or removed by soap. It also is simply a great solution for a spot of super dry skin, though it shouldn't be used all over simply because the skin needs to breathe. Besides, you don't want to have to clean oily spots from everything you touch and wear, right? 

Meanwhile, just remind yourself what all those jerks laughing about the pencil test are really saying and go find yourself a mature individual of whatever age for a partner, eh?

Three Phone Calls

These were rare enough these days, but all the more so for coming within 30 hours.

First came the call from my daughter. She's pretty busy these days doing graduate school online. She told me that calling me has been on her "to do list" for a long time. She decided to move it to her "do it now" list. Lotsa news. Yes, everybody is fine, staying in the house, working online. Her husband Ben just got a promotion. I hadn't talked to her since the news was losing their Canadian housemates. One lost his job and the two of them had to return to Canada. So his job hunting was now happening online, and once he scored another job in his field in Minneapolis, applied for another visa. He returned first, and she stayed a bit longer to tie up loose ends including quarantining the dog again for another border crossing. Everybody's doing fine back together again.

A bit hesitantly she informed me that she'd just shaved her head back to about 1/4", part of an event for cancer support for girls. It was getting scraggly after going over a year without cutting due to covid, and she's looking forward to seeing it look fuller and having some curl returning. We discussed family stuff, vacation plans, and our commitment to get together face-to-face at least 3 or 4 times when we're back north for the summer. Altogether we spent about an hour and a quarter on the phone, ending because I had to take Steve someplace.

The next afternoon I was interrupted from spray painting the car (hiding those work decals which absolutely refused to come off) when my son Paul called. This is the guy who never calls, doesn't check his voicemail or his email. He proved it by the reason for his call: I'd ordered dog food to be delivered up there for our dog. Special offer, no actual out-of-pocket, no obligation beyond recycling further mailings, and easier than hauling the extra in the car or looking for it once there. I'd sent him emails letting him know it was to arrive and when. True to form, he was very surprised by the box at his door when he got home from work. Since I'd addressed it to me in care of him, he knew whom to call. 

In 20 minutes we established everything and everybody is fine, when to expect our arrival which he hadn't bothered to read about, our new dog news (ditto), and our official marriage last April (again ditto!). Seriously: !!!!!!  I actually decided it was best to warn him that if our plans changed, when we might let him know, with a strong suggestion that he begin (!) checking his emails around that time for updated ETA.

I'm waiting to see how much of a surprise he claims our actual arrival date is. Not to mention whether or not he's cleaned the bathroom. Ah, the bachelor life.

Early that evening came the third phone call. It had become rare hearing from Joan since her daughter, a retired RN, arrived to help her with all things medical and household after her recent hospitalization. Expecting to stay with her mom for a week, she's well into her third now with no definite departure date. It's making a huge difference, including for me. I'd gotten worried enough about Joan  for months that we'd agreed on a nightly phone call. It was partly a wellness check, partly companionship. A friend since '83, or as long ago as Steve was, we always could easily last an hour or so in conversation on the phone. 

The calls had stopped with her daughter there, combined with Joan's increased time spent sleeping. While I missed the calls, updates are regularly emailed out to a group of people by her daughter, so I knew she has been in good hands. I not only responded to the daughter's emails, we two even spent about an hour on the phone one evening, partly bringing me up to speed, partly venting as any caregiver needs in order to reboot, no serious complaints, just taking a few breaths.

The day before, just after my daughter called, I'd taken Steve to an eye doctor appointment to confirm a cataract. While sitting in the car (no visitors in the doc's waiting room because covid)  listening to the radio, they announced a new shipment of Moderna vaccines had arrived in the county, and were in pharmacies. This is where Joan had gotten her first back in early January, but been unable to find her second dose. I emailed what I'd heard, and the call from Joan was a thank-you. She's now got her appointment from the original pharmacy for Monday. I was delighted for her, as well as for her sounding like her old self. We managed to keep the call this time to about 10 minutes, but in every sense it was just as wonderful as the other two.

Some Good Things, One Very Bad

The news is mixed. I'll start with Wendy's. I love to order their apple pecan salad, but way too often their employees can't seem to count to either two or four. Since I order two salads at a time, there should be two packets of pecans and four of salad dressing in the bag. More than half the time something has been missing. Several time I have called a store manager about the missing items. I've gotten "sympathy". Period. They recognize the problem. It continues. But this one just switched to the Good column. Wendy's is now using larger dressing packets, so only one per salad is needed. Same amount, but now you actually get what you expect. As a bonus, there's less plastic waste per salad.

Given that, I suppose it would be mean-spirited of me to note that they chose this way rather than hiring better employees who can actually count? I'll put this back in the Bad column if their employees still manage to come up short. I check the bags.

The second one made national news, so you've likely heard about it. During tournaments, the Norman, OK high school girls basketball team took a knee during the National Anthem. It's a mixed race team, bringing to people's attention the ongoing racial disparity experienced in this country. I fully agree with the action, and would participate if my knees allowed, but lack of kneecaps make kneeling uncomfortable, and getting up again is a whole other issue. This part of the story is in the Good column. It's not exactly why the story made the news, of course.

What moves it to the Bad column is one of the announcers, Matt Rowan, who on mike referred to the team as "F***ing N******s. Since that wasn't enough, he also broadcast,  "They're kneeling? F*** them" and "F*** them, I hope they lose."  I think that earns 5 Bad column checks, one per word plus an extra for a bad excuse. Rowan blamed his language on his type 1 diabetes. Now even diabetics are ticked off. Blood sugar fluctuations don't account for racism no matter how high or low they get. I have trouble believing it even accounts for bad judgement in saying what he said out loud and on mike. Alcohol? Sure, that goes to bad judgement if he had been using, which there is no claim of for this incident, but again racism is already there. Or not, which is why a whole lot of other drunks don't say things like that.

How did the team react? They simply said it was an example of why their protest was still needed. Then they went on to become state champs! Good on you, girls!!! 

The Norman Public Schools has fired the NFHS Network, who will no longer be broadcasting its games.

Ahhh, schadenfruede.

Phun With Fotos

Oy! It's a long haul. i need to transfer 3333 photos from my old computer to my "new" one. They do not communicate. despite both being Macs. The "Photo Stick 2.0" is too advanced for the old tech of the old computer. Forgetting that I had some old barely used thumb drives with lots of capacity kicking around somewhere, I went and ordered a new 16 gig one. Seemed like a plan, right?

First though, I wanted to back up the photos on the new computer. That's why I got the Photo Stick 2.0 for Mac. It doesn't like me. Therefore, understandably, I don't like it very much either. I plugged it in, followed the directions to the point where I actually had a window with a big green "GO" in it to click on, and clicked on it. Logical, right?

It claimed to be working, a counter claiming it had searched about 378 files and found an ever increasing number of photos to copy. This thing comes with its own programming build in, so it's supposed to be one click and let 'er rip. By bedtime the first night I needed to use the computer, and had to exit from the Photo Stick. There's a button to click for that, so it must have been OK, right? Next morning I started it up earlier, considering how long the previous day's session took. 

Press "Go", and the little "I'm working" bar resumed sliding back and forth, and numbers popped up of how many files, how many megs, then gigs, then suddenly everything reset to zero. Weird, right? I watched the numbers start to climb again, and by bedtime it had found more files than the day before, and was reassuring me there was plenty of space left, before suddenly killing my computer. Luckily it was only shut down. Next morning it opened up right away and everything was hunky dory, except....

My personal preferences had reset. I'd worked hard to click on the right things in the magic order that would result in my start-up screen being a lovely blue galaxy, and after that my wallpaper also became my screen saver, at one minute intervals randomly covering the screen with selections from my photo library. It's mostly back in place, but it's added another screen saver on top of that one if I ignore the screen for a while. I'm not thrilled, and still debate whether I should go back in and try another go at the magic needed. I could totally screw it up.

So. Now back to those thumb drives. Photo Stick can just sit until their tech support and my patience can intersect to see if it's actually usable. My new starting point was taking the largest capacity of the other thumb drives and start the one-by-one click and drag routine. Just a couple days work. Alaska first, then, my top priority, long awaited. I still have the photos - all of the ones from Alaska trip in '07 from both my and Jordan's cameras. After all that work, they can be read on that first thumb drive - but only when it's in a port in the old computer. The new one can't read/find them. I decided that drive could sit for a while too. I wanted to be sure I had it right before transferring those hundreds of photos again.

Two down....

Two thumb drives left to go. Both had been lightly used, successfully, and neither had pictures which weren't already on one or the other laptop.  After checking to confirm that, what was on each was deleted.

I put one in and started clicking and dragging photos starting after the trip. (Alaska pics were the first ones on the MacBook, so you know how old it is.) I'd load up a hundred or so photos, then switch the drive to the new computer. Perfect transfer! Since there were two "spare" drives, I decided one would be for all my photos past that point until they were all transferred. The other drive would be all the Alaska pictures, along with everything I noted along the way while loading up the other drive that were of Jordan. The plan is to give that drive to her after I put all the Alaska pics into my new computer, letting her keep it for all those memories. I'll also add - I think there's room - all the photos of her, as well as her daughter, off the new computer as well.

I'm on day three now. Or is it five if we count the Photo Stick? My old laptop needs to rest, cool down and recharge, about a 3 hour process each time, between the two hours or so it can tolerate photo transfers. This means 3 sessions a day.  I've managed to clear the old laptop just to all the keepers from 2007 to early 2013. It covers Alaska to a family wedding and everything between. At least I'd gotten the pics winnowed down from 15,500 to 3,333, along with editing the life into them. I hadn't the 16 megapixel camera yet, so cropping wasn't the option is is today, except for bad margins and such. Once all are on the new computer, I can compare many side by side, such as multiple years and seasons of Crex, or AZ, or the garden, and do more culling. There will still be over 5,000 once done with the transfer.

It's not just the hardware that needs a break periodically. I do too. I work less than optimally under the load of frustration this last week has brought. Besides the photos, Rich is on his 3rd day in the hospital. And CRANKY!! Today has been a repeat of yesterday in not getting fed, only I'm not allowed to bring him any food this time. His phone charger, sure, no problem. But the powers that be are still deciding and  not communicating their plans for him. The planned procedure for this morning was cancelled. Lest you imagine that means food, I've already mentioned he was still NPO. Today is part waiting to see if the stone passes, despite them deciding on not breaking it up with ultrasound, and part deciding if they really want to cut into his side to put in a drain, hoping the stone might decide to exit that way. Saturday means that the few people there who might do any kind of procedure are always elsewhere helping somebody else with different procedures, and never around to be asked the simple question of  ... well, by now I've forgotten just which simple question they need to answer. I just know it leads to whether Rich can get food or not for yet another day. 

I did finally get him to call a nurse to get some painkiller. At least that they were prompt with. This time it was Rich who needed to decide that all that moaning and rolling back in forth on his bed really meant that he should ask for something. It took effect almost immediately, giving me a chance to head home for another session of phun with fotos.

"Best Mom In The World"

Wow! Yep, that's what he called me this afternoon. Of course there was a reason, and let's not bury the lead here. Rich is in the hospital with a 5mm kidney stone.  He'll be spending at least one more night. Beyond that it's just waiting.

Unbeknownst to me, it started about 4 days ago. Rich didn't say anything. Unfortunately for him he decided to research his symptoms online. He came up with dehydration for his self diagnosis, so started bulking up on fluids: water, juice, whatever. 

Oops.

Yesterday morning he was working in the kitchen where I could hear him, and what I heard was loud moaning. It was interrupted a couple times by trips to the bathroom. In this house it's no challenge to hear flushing noises. Vomiting too. After two such episodes, I asked what was going on. My instant motherly been-there-had-that diagnosis was a kidney stone. I told him to get ready for a trip to the ER. (OK, I know they call it ED now, but I've had 72 years of practice with the old title. Give me a few.)

While he collected a few things like ID, insurance, phone, I called the hospital to ask whether visitors were allowed in the ED. The answer now is yes. So I prepped for a visit too.

Several things are different these days. Hand sanitizers greet you upon entering. Enough time has passed since the last family emergency that the hospital's brand new wing containing the emergency entrance is now open. It's waiting room is significantly larger, so we had no issue with social distancing, even to the point where as we sat after checking in Rich insisted I sit two seats away. When checking in, both of us had our temperatures taken, on the wrist now. After answering a few questions, I was given a dated sticker to wear allowing me in the ED.

Nothing has changed in the length of waiting done there. The one quick part was getting into the triage room. Their big concern for what was going on with Rich was that his pulse was pretty low, about 40 bpm. While on me that meant I needed a pacemaker, for Rich it meant just an EKG. Its results, along with his explanation that he's always been athletic and this last year has been doing a lot of bicycling, got him put back down on the list of urgency. 

We waited long enough that I had ample chance to check out the new "state of the art" restrooms. A wave of the hand opens the door and works going in and out. Presumably it keeps one from spreading ...any guesses? The towel dispensers also required only a wave per towel, and if you wished two, a quick second wave produced another, no waiting. So I am left to wonder why, exactly, the toilets still require one to pull down the lever to flush? If they're hoping to reduce disease spread, epic fail there.

Over an hour's wait after triage, we both decided I could head home and wait for news. Being pretty sure what he likely had, I figured he'd be admitted anyway. He had his phone to call for anything, and he and Steve texted briefly several times on his status. Yep, it was a kidney stone. They would try to break it up by ultrasound this morning. Everybody got some sleep.

About 1:30 this afternoon Rich texted Steve again. Could I please please please bring him some food? Now when this started, Rich was in the kitchen making a huge pot of soup. This involves saving up chicken carcasses after eating all the good parts, throwing them in the freezer, and collecting them until there’s enough for a large pot. What you get is a minimum of meat, along with bones, gristle, and skin. After several hours, the broth is quite rich. Once boiled, any meat remaining is tender enough to remove with fingertips, and the gets rest sent out with the garbage. More chopped chicken gets added to the strained broth, along with boullion, all  kinds of finely chopped vegetables (so you barely notice them!), seasonings, rice, canned corn, tomatoes and tomato juice. Simmer a few more hours, and eat. Mmmmm, it made a great supper. Breakfast too.

 Before leaving the ED I’d asked Rich what his plans for the soup were and where in the process he was. I finished it once home, and other than what I ate - somebody had to taste it! - put over 5 pints of it in the refrigerator.

When he called this afternoon, his thoughts were on getting some of that soup brought to him in the hospital. He’d gotten the OK for food at 11:30. None came. He hadn't eaten since Wednesday night. This late in the day, he figured he wasn’t getting lunch so could I bring food for a starving son? And visit too?

It took a couple of calls to the hospital to find out that yes, I could do both. Big change since Steve was last in when I couldn’t visit, just drop off and pick up, send up a bag of needed items which were checked by security and sealed before going to his room. I put in one of the pints of soup and 2 snack-pack containers of strawberry-apple sauce, adding napkins and plastic spoons.

He called just as I was pulling in to the hospital parking ramp.  Before he could ask, I let him know what I was bringing him and how close I was. That’s when I heard, “You’re the best Mom in the world!” I joked back that I’d been waiting my whole life to hear that! He tried to give me his room number. I already had it written on the palm of my hand, getting it when I called the hospital, also knowing that as I passed the front desk for my mandatory check-up before visiting clearance, I could get it there as well. Rich apparently hasn’t been to visit people in the hospital enough to know or remember that’s where the info is available. Turned out to be a good thing,  because the hand sanitizer at the door erased the room number right off my palm.

Once at his room, the first thing I saw was the bright yellow card taped next to his door with a warning to not give foods! I called staff attention to it, and they rushed to check that my contrary information was correct. In fact, they were so speedy in coming in with the removed yellow card in hand and their OK that he’d only gotten one full bite out of the soup first!

I have to wonder if service has always been that bad, or whether the pandemic has simply exhausted everybody so much that they just can’t stir with their usual care and diligence.

He loved the soup, and finished half and one of the cups of fruit sauce before somebody else came to take him to x-ray. We were assured it would be a short visit, so his soup wouldn’t spoil before he got back. Since everybody’s on isolation, there was no refrigeration available should he be delayed a couple hours. I fully expect he’s wolfed the rest of his meal down and is waiting for whatever comes from the cafeteria around 5:30, stocking up for his next round of nothing-after-midnight for whatever tomorrow’s plans for him are.

Death And Life In The Desert

Too broad a topic? How about in this one particular yard? OK, I can narrow it down further to just a few plants.

Death first: there's been a bit too much of that, predictable considering we just finished our second year of severe drought. When your average yearly rainfall is 8", and two summers in a row are "nonsoons" instead of monsoons, it tends to get critical. None of that is news to those of you who follow this. Or live here.

We've had agave deaths in the yard, desert-hardy as they are, and not just after blooming which is normal for them. The little octopus agave babies I plucked off the parent stalk last year and raised have gotten enough attention that all in the yard have both survived and added a few more leaves.

A few of the fancier short aloes, supposed to be rabbit proof after a year or two, have died. Not from lack of watering this time, but likely from watering, making them tempting targets for hungry bunnies. Protective cages that had been removed were replaced in those instances where I noticed the damage while the plants still had some there there.  When newer aloe replacements were planted this last year, they were instantly caged, just like every other new planting. I'm determined to win the rabbit battle! It doesn't matter whether I went to a garden center and bought / split a couple clumps from pots, or adopted a box-full of drying plants removed from the side of her house by a friend to widen her driveway: TLC all around. Of course, the drying out freebies don't have cages, but they aren't the fancy kind either, and coming from poor local soil, rabbits actually avoid them. 

The dead plants which broke my heart this year were mail ordered, from Benson, AZ it turns out. When we bought the house in 2012, it came with a Mexican Bird of Paradise. The orange kind. It's well established and is thriving despite our typical level of care. While I'd like to claim credit, much of its care came from ignorance. It's sturdy. Plus, I certainly wasn't watering it those first semi-normal years. In the meantime, out and about the wider neighborhood with my eyes and camera, I spied a blooming plant I fell in love with, a yellow Mexican Bird of Paradise, one of at least three varieties of the genus which are used in landscaping around here. This one has large yellow blooms with long red stamens. I researched, made phone calls, and finally found a local nursery which supplied what I wanted.

Or so they said. It's blooming right now, but all the blossoms are about the size of nickels, only yellow, and nothing to fall in love with. Lest you wonder, yes, I'm taking care of it properly, and as soon as the current crop of flowers have finished, or just before we head north, whichever is first, it will get pruned and shaped better. Right now branches poke out in varying directions, but that's where the blooms are. When I purchased it, there was a single flower bud on it, well hidden for a couple weeks, finally opening into disappointment. This was not the plant I wanted.

Not to be deterred, I did some online shopping, now that local possibilities were exhausted. That's where the Benson plants came from, and by now I was so frustrated that I ordered two, just in case. They got planted in the same spot. Are you familiar with the term "failure to thrive"? They were getting watered regularly, the ground had been well prepared for them, but still. They bravely sent up a few small  branches each, say about an inch long with very teenie leaves. What started red became an indifferent green, fading to brown before whisking away in the smallest breeze. 

I kept watering them anyway, just as if. My heart was really into having these particular plants, and by now I was into watering in general, hitting the big pine tree in small segments, with a detour over to the fence where two short grey thready twigs remained, about 4" tall. I'd thought their spot along the fenceline was open enough to provide adequate near-full sunlight, until actually studying how long the shadows of surrounding plants and trees reached in winter. Had they been a foot taller, no problem, but these were still hugging the ground. With some help from Rich, pruning back one tree and several flowering bushes opened up the pathway for the sun to reach. But it was too late. No leaves left.

Since it was past the window for any new plants to get established before summer, I went back to online research of suppliers for possible planting next fall. Two of them are still on my eBay watchlist. All that emotion turned into energy for continuing to get the yard into shape in other ways. 

I was surprised a couple weeks ago to see the large - this time blue and very spikey - agave next in line from the one which had supplied babies last year was now sending up its own flower stalk. Since another one right down the line from it wasn't doing anything but  making another leaf, this one must have benefited from the extra water the octopus was given last year, all other growing conditions being equal. I've been watching that one stalk stretch up, finally today pulling it out from where it was trying to invade a space between pieces of the roof. Being in the same planting line with the other ones, it was therefore also coming up too close to the house. That part is fixed now, and I'm waiting to see what kind of flowers it produces. Will it be a straight stalk surrounded all over with single blossoms? Or one of those which branch out above 10 feet or so in a giant version of an asparagus pattern?

The camera has been busy, of course. This is the kind of aloe where each leaf holds the imprint design of the one(s) it was wrapped around, giving a white ziz-zag down the center length of the blue leaf. Sometimes there's a double zig-zag. Like all agave plants, once the stalk started growing the parent plant started dying. In this case it doesn't mean turning brown yet. But the leaf tips lost their blue and added green, yellow and red, very subtly, reminiscent of fall foliage. The stalk, as it outgrew each small leaf which formerly enclosed where the tip had been, left behind unique patterns in those leaves as well, mostly yellow-green with whiter striations, not always in the same design. Now that it's reached roof height, those bottom leaf colors are changing to brown on their edges. Watching it has cheered me up considerably, nearly making up for losing those two yellow Mexican birds of paradise along the back fence.

A big decision awaits however. Once this plant reproduces, whether by seed or plantlet, do I want to try to grow some more? Yes, it is beautiful. But it's also so damn spikey, not just along the leaf tips but all up and down their edges. If I try to grow more, life is going to be literally quite painful for months. There will not be a poke-free spot on me anywhere. But, sigh, beautiful. We'll see. If it produces seeds, my information says they are often sterile. So maybe no decision.

Meanwhile, my previously mentioned friend delivered that box of aloes. I decided to plant them all along the fence where those two little plants died. There is plenty of sun there now, and as the surrounding bushes and tree fill back in over the next few years, there would still be enough sunlight to keep them growing and blooming in season. They can do shade. Their cousins grow and flower on the north side of the house. Rich got to do the planting since that was when my back was complaining. I had him leave the area open where I'd done all the ground prep earlier, in hopes of getting a second attempt, more successful this time. I could still tell where that had been, just because I was so familiar with the spot, even though after giving up I'd removed the cage protecting them.

In order to mark the spot I brought the cage back and Rich put tent nails around to hold it in place. We had been plagued recently by disappearing cages around the baby octopus agave plants, and found that once away from their protectees, despite each bearing a neon green fabric tie on their tops to shout "I'm here, don't step on me!" to the world, it took days of hunting to track them down again for replacement. This is even knowing they were confined inside a 6' chain link fence! They had to be somewhere! While looking at the spot now, cleaning debris from scattered dead leaves out of the area, I thought I saw a bit, just a very tiny bit, of red on one of the twigs I hadn't quite brought myself to pull out yet.

The red had fooled me before, holding on for weeks before turning brown. I kept watching it, hoping against hope, taking a close up shot with the camera and cropping it beyond reason to enlarge whatever was there. It turned into two teensy leaves! Since I'm out there watering nearly daily making sure those aloes get established, that spot in the line gets well provided for as well. Today I looked down again, and it wasn't two leaves any longer. It was three! And the new one was green!

Now I'm sitting out on the patio writing this, the sun just down and still 80 out, and today is also the first day of orange blossom perfume giving its own blessing to spring. I almost wonder if it's too soon to start celebrating the symbolism of Easter. 

However, there is no way I'm going to go around hiding dyed eggs! None!

Fussy Dog

I've never known a dog who eats like this before, or rather, often doesn't eat. We're still trying to figure out her cues.

When I got her I was determined not to  make some of the mistakes - in hindsight - that we made with previous dogs. Self-feeders with a huge load of food in them worked well... for my busy schedule. Not necessarily for their waistlines. Cheap worked with the budget. I didn't go with just any old food, but couldn't afford those specialty foods. Purina worked well enough, and every so often I switched flavors. It seemed to work.

Then we started to hear about corn and gluten in foods, how bad they were for dogs, never a part of their natural diet. Makes sense, then, that they aren't very digestible. Or something. However, dogs scrounge garbage and chew poopy diapers! Table food is "bad" but it's what they steal while you aren't looking. What do you do?

We're trying to do our best. Before selecting our "rescuehuahua", I hit the grocery store and studied labels. I wound up paying for a 10 lb. bag what I used to pay for a 20 lb. one. She eats so little I'm still paying about what I used to per day. But no grains, no gluten, not much in the way of animal by-products - though wild dogs eat everything they can toss down their gullets and don't care if it's been dead a week.  I picked up dental chews for both teeth and breath. (Note to self: schedule her teeth cleaning! Yikes!)

Obviously, I'm trying to do everything right. What's the hitch? The dog. 

As a stray, who can tell what she ate? Was it snatch-what-you-can? Was she fussy then? We presume it was whatever, whenever to survive on her own. Her recent vet exam showed her gaining over 2 pounds, putting her in healthy range now. But we have no idea how long she was at large. For that matter, we don't know her starting weight either. All we have is now.

It didn't take long to disabuse her of the notion that anything she could reach was fair game - at least when she was first adopted, not quite used to how we would treat her. Now she's more secure, she's going for whatever has been abandoned on a plate - so there's some people-training going on. (Yeah, wish us luck with that!) Wastebaskets which collect food scraps are either behind doors or have their own lids, so they aren't a problem once the food gets there. 

Training began when I instantly, instinctively, developed a kind of loud grunt "eh" sound that stops her in her tracks, literally. It popped out when she first moved past the corner of the house and out of my sight toward the backyard gate which I wasn't positive had been closed. Immediate return! It's used now to communicate any kind of a scold or stop. This includes her attempts to pull a treat out of her bowl and take it up onto the couch and under the blanket there. I'm not sure if she's trying to eat it immediately without being hassled by remembered competing dogs, or store it, though we've never seen any kind of a cache of food.

What I'm still trying to figure out is how to encourage her to eat on command. It's not that I need her to do that now, but it will come in handy when we're traveling and need to pack up and be on the road within a very short time, whether it's to our next destination or just for early morning photography. Either way, uneaten food won't get a second chance. She obviously understands "go pee" when she's outside, and instantly heads out into the yard to seek the spot de jour, no matter what newly fascinating thing she was exploring on the patio. So why not food?

I put a fistful in her bowl early in the morning, as soon as we both come back in, and another around suppertime. Sometimes she scarfs it right up. Many times she waits until I take a nap in my recliner. WTF? Does she think she has to sneak her own food? Other times she's into it within seconds of it hitting the bowl. Am I missing the proper command? I've heard of dogs not allowed to eat anything their master hasn't given them. Was that how she was trained originally, and perhaps thinks she has to wait now until I can't see her because I'm missing the right command? I do praise her when she starts, and once started, the bowl is empty within a minute. It always starts with her taking the first tiny piece in her mouth out onto the rug, then crunching. At this point, she may take one more out or not, but after that she sticks with her bowl until it's empty. Her doggy brain baffles me.

I have started one thing new, and she seems to respond to it. This started after I noticed her recently trimmed toenails were cracking and splitting. A little internet research indicated she may very well be lacking enough of certain things in her diet. Her nail trimmer agreed. (I am willing to pay rather than try to fight with her over them.) Mindful of the upcoming trip, I researched treats to see which contained at least some of those foods. Every return to the kenned is rewarded with a small treat when traveling, and we already trained her to go to her kennel after getting half a "dental chew". (Full sized small ones are still too big.) She adores those. Now I have a variety of treats which contain either liver or sweet potatoes and carrots. Once the evening supper is poured into her bowl, one or the other is set on top.

First, the liver: her reactions were hilarious. First, there was the distrustful sniff. Then she'd go away for a while, but not far. Upon returning, she'd take the treat in her mouth and try to carry it to the couch. Problem is, it propped her little mouth open which she never does on her own, so I knew what was up right away. Nix! Still with it in her mouth, she'd slink to her kennel, where she got a "Good Girl!" for eating it. About a minute later, her appetite apparently stimulated, she'd return to her bowl for a rapid cleanup. The treat with the sweet potatoes in the mix gets a much more enthusiastic welcome than the liver one. With that one, she tends to run into her kennel the moment the package starts to rustle, and waits for me to bring the treat. Once finished, it's still over to the bowl for dinner, though the first couple of times, she'd slink out of the kennel, keeping one eye on me the whole time to make sure what she was doing was OK. Too often going in to the kennel means staying in the kennel.

It's going to be an interesting trip with her.

A Different Kind Of Driveway Moment

Minnesota Public Radio, aka MPR, uses that term a lot, particularly during pledge drives when reminding us how valuable their programming is to us. It refers to our hearing something so worthwhile to us that we sit in our driveways until it finishes, rather than leaving the car. I've had a few of those myself.

This is a different kind of driveway moment, and while I personally haven't had one of these, I fully understand the need.

I have several women I spend time emailing back and forth with. More than one of them are or have been stuck in a situation where they are a primary caregiver for somebody they love who needs nearly round-the-clock care. Their own needs come last, of course, affording them precious few for themselves, for private time, refresh and renew time, vent time.  Add in covid's further isolation, even the worry for another loved one battling its serious effects, and life becomes overwhelming.

This particular excerpt comes from an email conversation with a friend who's in both situations right now, caregiver for one, worried frantic about another. She found her own driveway moment yesterday.

"______ is still on all the machines, but responding, tired, is now in a bed tilted at 45 degrees & can sit up?.....couldn't tell from text if he has yet talked or is "awake" at times, or still sedated.....so we don't ask....just accept what we can find out and grateful to be informed.

But after shopping Costco, had another little errand to get stuff at Walmart without _____ because he hampers my routine when uses the stroller and he was tired from the earlier Costco thing. ANYHOW, when I was in the car by myself......I just screamed out loud and swore and banged on the steering wheel, kept screaming & crying & swearing & cussing everyone I think is evil and corrupt and liars & shouting at _______ to hear me and get well, you have lots to do ..........I never did that before.....it felt good."       

My response was simply to let her know how glad I was that she could find that moment for herself and encourage her to find more. Sometimes it's all one can do, and hope for a moment it's enough.

Fighting With The Corporations, Part 2

I hadn't realized when I started this pairing that both posts involve an insurance company. It's the same insurance company since both my house and car are insured by the same one. The fight part is with separate companies, however. Last time it was the roofer. Now it's the insurance company.

It started three years ago. No, not the insurance issue, the issue causing the claim. I just never reported it and that's most of the problem.

I have full windshield replacement coverage. Arizona turns out to be full of rocks - who knew? - a decent percentage of which manage to creep out on roadways and wait for passing vehicles to pick them up and carefully aim them at the windshields of following ones. I have this reluctance to actually use my insurance coverage in the firm belief that even unavoidable claims tend to increase my premiums. You know, experience. Plus, back when this started, I'd already just had a claim in to the company after a piece of tire tread from a semi flew off and hit my bumper, mandating a replacement. That was in Minnesota, apparently home to more rubber pieces than rocks.

This time we were returning from Kartchner Caverns down by Benson, AZ. Highly recommended, by the way. But it was winter by the calendar, and snow surprised us as we emerged from the cave. By the time I got back on the freeway, heat was blasting along the inside of the windshield to help maintain visibility. The contrast in temperature with freezing air outside meant that when the rock took aim, it didn't just star the windshield, but left long lines trailing off in both directions horizontally. No chance of just a star patch. I'd need a new windshield.

I postponed doing anything. By the time we passed Tucson, the crack hadn't advanced from where it first appeared, all on the passenger side. Drove Steve nutty, but no problem at all from the driver's viewpoint. I was also petty sure that as soon as I fixed it I'd get another rock, and off we'd go again. 

About a year later I did get that next rock. That peculiarly loud CRACK! is unmistakable. I looked all over the windshield and couldn't find a thing. I was in the habit of tracking the original crack by running my finger across the end of the crack and seeing if the crack passed the line my finger left. It never moved. Nothing else started. Until....

Something like a year ago, but in the heat of summer, I took the car into the dealer for some maintenance. They "rewarded" my patronage with a free carwash. It must have sat out in the sun for a while between finishing the work and getting the wash, because the cold water on the hot windshield helped me locate where that second rock hit. All I had to do was follow the two new long curly cracks back to their one starting point, way down on the bottom, behind black shadow and a wiper blade. Now it was time to get that windshield fixed.

Of course, inertia, covid, lack of need, avoidance of everything and everybody, all yielded a predictable result: it's not yet fixed. Rich and Steve now have both been nagging me about replacing it, including a recitation of how serious various states take that kind of thing, even though I promise you those cracks do not interfere with my vision. 

The final impetus was the coupon. It's on the back of my Fry's grocery receipt... and Steve's receipts and Rich's receipts. It may surprise you but none of those places are things I actually look at. But it's a coupon for $75 in a cash card for any windshield replacement fully paid for by the insurance company. OK, I'm finally sold.

However, it's gotten hard to schedule where my car is going to be a few days into the future. I mean, there were shots, doctor visits, club obligations, a whole lot of which are "maybes", depending upon things we couldn't predict. With most of those resolved, we're down to simple procrastination, finally ended this morning when I'm pretty sure the calendar entries are what's what for a week. By now I had a completely different question for the insurance company as well, so it really was time to make that call.

So far, so good. I'd prepared by going out to the car to get the insurance card with the policy number on it, as well as all those extra letters at the end of my model that apparently mean something about my car being a little different from those other Hyunday Accent hatchbacks as far as the windshield (or every other bleeding part like tires, battery, fuel filter, wiper blades... with nobody able to tell me why.) Anyway, armed with all the needed info, or so I thought, I hit the phone for their auto insurance division.

"This number is out of service. Google will be recording this call..." Instant hang up on my part. WTF? OK, I called the homeowners branch and got transferred to the right person with little hassle by what is usually an idiotic and incomprehensible voicemail program in any other company. Smooth as our sweet dog's ears this time, sent to the correct person in short order.

So why is this a "fight"?

I got transferred to the person who would start my claim file for me. She asked the exact date of the claim.  OK, so after three years, who has that? I probably blogged about it, but right then this wasn't handy and the research would take a bit. Steve and I guessed the month, threw in a day, with the explanation of how the crack had happened, etc., adding at the end we weren't trying to do any insurance fraud, we/I just hadn't reported it until now because reasons.

What was our policy number? I had that, gave it. She repeated it back to me, incorrectly. How about our address? I started wondering if I had suddenly started speaking Mandarin without somehow realizing it, because I would give a name or a number and it would be repeated back clearly, but wrong. How does an 8 sound like a 6, or Arizona sound like Missouri?

Once that got straightened out, she started looking at how far back I'd carried their insurance. Way back before this first rock, I knew. Had they maybe changed my policy number? If so, nobody told me. She warned me I might have to pay for the whole windshield. I decided to look for proof, heading to the back of the house where tax documents are stored. Those files have shrunk every year since I retired, but I still keep any 1099s, all my bank statements, credit card receipts, etc. I hoped the insurance information with policy number had gotten filed, but no. However, insurance payments are on auto-deduct from the bank, always on the 15th, so all I needed was the year in question's tax file and any month's statement. There they both were, house and car payments. Before the rock. Would that help? 

Not really. But let's go ahead with other information. Did I have a (...jargon...) windshield? I decided I needed to head outside and take an actual look at it. I've only looked through it for 125,000 miles so what did I know? I look down or straight when I drive. Not much pavement as a rule up in the sky. Did she mean there across the top where there was a 4" band of color shading? You know, usually behind the lowered visors and rear view mirror, that part of the windshield? Because if that was what she meant, yup, I did. (I guess this means I get that shading again.)

What kind of hatchback do I have?  Two door? Four door? Does it have a trunk (aka couldn't I tell a hatchback from a sedan? Grrrrr.) I thought for half a second and informed her it is a 5 door! Another question sent me to another part of the house for information, and on and on, back and forth enough so that we were finally both laughing at how I was at least getting my exercise this morning.

Since the only issue in her mind was whether their company was actually responsible for this claim, I was instructed to write down a couple numbers, prompting yet another walkabout to locate pen and paper along with place to sit where I could write while on the phone. Did I want to use their own company for replacement? She could cite my benefits in doing so. I declined. Was I sure, because.... No. Well, then what's the phone number of who I'd chosen? Back to the coupon, different part of the house than the last question had taken me. She called it. Wait a minute. Wrong number, not their main office: did they have another number on the coupon? Sure did. She called and this time verified information with them. (Now that first number was at least a contractor for the company. Couldn't she have asked them for that office number? Too easy? Yeah, I know.)

Now I was told to wait for two different emails to come through before I was the one to actually call the window company. The first would verify that they were working with my insurance company but couldn't verify my deductible, aka $0. but it would have one of the numbers she'd had me write down, proof that they were the real deal. The second would have both a second number I'd written down but also show my deductible, aka proof that the insurance company had actually verified I was insured with them for the incident in question. I would be able to set up an appointment to get my new windshield only after that second one came through, or risk paying the whole bill myself. She also warned me that most of these companies were booking two or three weeks out from getting their first call.

Once done, my paranoia was prodded enough to go back into old tax returns to prove for my own satisfaction  as well as be armed in case the insurance company tried to deny coverage that I'd actually been paying them well before that first rock attack. The first packet I grabbed was 2016, and right there on top of the stack it was. The real shock was noting that my premiums back then were a third of what I'm paying now!

I turned the computer back on to check my email. Both emails were there. I called and set up an appointment for Thursday. Yes, this week. They had several openings to pick from that day.

If I collect another rock on Friday I'm calling the insurance company right that day. Or maybe Monday. Or....

Fighting With The Corporations, Part 1

Apparently, my back isn't hurting enough to prevent me from taking on two different battles, one nearly a year old, the other postponed for three.

First, the roof. Skye Builders is the company which reached out to me about loose/missing/folded shingles after a March 18 windstorm. It turned out they were hoping for a full roof replacement for this house. My insurance company took a look and authorized replacing 11 shingles, some of the hail-damaged turbines which bleed hot air from the attic, and the highest buck item, removing and later replacing properly the solar panels in order to do the shingle work. They sent the check. To me. 

Good thing.

Skye was only very intermittently in communication with me over the next many months. What was going to be done in two weeks is... still waiting. There were excuses. The assessor was over-booked. They found a new issue justifying a full roof replacement (which happened to be a second roof under the first, which to me simply meant the very rare rain would have twice the trouble wending its way down to where it could cause any damage to the house.) They simply went away for months, waiting for the insurance company to change their mind. That was fine with me. It's not like we'd had any rain, right? The money sat in my savings account earning, uh, a whopping $.38. Whoopee! Profit! I mulled over having a handyman with some roofing cement secure or replace the shingles and calling it a day, but never pursued that thought. 

Last week they called again. Apparently my insurance company's adjuster was standing firm on the 11 shingles bit. I was relieved, since I'm on the hook for a quarter of the replacement, and a whole roof would be a big pinch. Did I still want Skye to do the work? (What, are you that desperate? Having problems getting customers?)

I invited them over for a chat. The owner himself showed up this time. There were new issues in the past year. Pigeons, primarily. My roof held enough fertilizer to feed every tree and plant in my yard for the next decade. No problem, they'd just power wash before they started. (Mental note made to get Rich to move everything our from under that gap over the patio where its roof was added after the house was built, and which for the last few years has been leaking onto the patio and running across its floor and on to the ground beyond: it won't be just water coming down this time. Also get things sitting on the floor up and off it. All of which he promptly did.)

OK, then how about that roof join? One of their guys promised as their apology for the delay about half a year ago to run a fat bead of silicone along that gap to seal it and prevent dripping. Nope, I heard now, that wasn't me who said that, and no-can-do. Wouldn't work anyway, he decided after a new walk on the roof, because jargon-jargon-jargon somebody had done something weird in previous incarnations of roof construction and repairs, so a new flange would need to be shoved up under what was sitting there to bridge the gap and shuttle water out far enough on to the patio roof to drain further outward. Plus now that he'd looked closely at it, 12" wasn't going to do it. It needed 24".

By the way, I should really get some kind of a vertical jargon thingy on the far edge of that patio roof to keep the pine straw from collecting there. Well, I liked the flange part for that gaping joint, but don't care about the pine straw: it's kind of amusing to watch the baby cacti work to grow up in that crack, rooted in air and a few pieces of pine straw every year after we've removed their predecessors. 

How about the turbines? After another roof trip, he declared replacing them was going to require going down through both sets of shingles and a wide area around the current mounts. Or they could leave the old ones in place and just put up dormer vents. He never explained how those wouldn't need to do the same things, since they had to reach attic air as well. I chose not to ask. This last summer was the only one we plan to spend here again. No new or repaired venting is in the contract. Perhaps in the future....

He explained the difficulties of getting shingles to stick to older shingles because they'd been painted, and I had to bite my tongue to keep from asking whether he ever heard of roofing nails. Might take a few extra whacks each...

Returning the conversation to the pigeon problem, as the wind picked up a bit and a few pellets were hitting just over our heads on their way earthward, I inquired how, once the project was done, we could keep the pigeons from returning. He came up with two things, both of which I approved. One was installing a pair of a kind of a whirly-gig contraption mounted near the roof peak. Each has a short vertical stem, then three side branches off the top which each hold a chromed rounded half cup. Any bit of a breeze sets them moving, the shininess accentuates that movement, thus making the birds very uneasy. Others people's roofs are suddenly found to be much more agreeable. Then he would wrap the sides of the solar panels with a metal mesh which would keep the birds from thinking they could snuggle under them for nesting. This of course would be very difficult because jargon too short jargon clamps jargon.

We'd discussed prices for each part of what needed to be done, including those initial 11 shingles without removing and replacing those solar panels.  He promised to start Saturday, if I would respond to his emailed estimate listing job details and the prices we'd discussed. My reply to the one covering those details would be considered my legal signature, he'd stop for the first half payment, second upon completion. We shook on it. There was a little glitch - of course, right? - where he forgot to include the part about wrapping around the solar panels in his proposal so it had to be amended, but I carefully worded my reply each time to make sure all knew what I was agreeing to. 

The crew would start 8:00 AM Saturday.

Uh huh. 

About 10:00 AM he called. They were still finishing a job from yesterday that ran long but would be there in about half an hour. Ahem, cough cough, the whirly gigs were not, in fact, available anywhere locally. He'd had to order them online, and wait for their delivery. I settled for suggesting that it was really good it wasn't Christmas right now, so I could expect they wouldn't take weeks to arrive. I'm not sure if his chuckle was because he found that funny or was uneasy about meeting my implied deadline. You know, track record and all that.

The crew was two men. The pressure washer turned out to be only a blower. There was a lot of banging for a while, which I determined to be the flange going in, as attested to by the jagged cut off piece on the ground next to the patio. By this time I was outside in the back yard, kinda faking yard work, watching their progress. So far as I can see, no shingles have been replaced. It's a shallow roof, so I had to step back to the farthest corner to see even part of the bottom of the rear solar panels. There was a big mound of "stuff" under the end, a combination of pine straw and pigeon poop.

It was still there when they came to the front door to (try to) inform me that their part of the job was finished. After inviting one of them into the back corner of the back yard and pointing to it, both returned to the roof for another 15 minutes of work. While I'm not sure where it went, the pile disappeared from where it was. I was positive for a bit that, while one fellow was on the topside of the panels using a broom or something to sweep  crap off to the side of the panel and down off the roof,  clearly landing on the ground, the other was aiming his blower up under the bottom of the panels, hiding the crap as if the panel were a rug where it would never be found again, nor leach nasty brown stains down the shingles, possibly back flowing under the flange as well, in the event it ever rains here again. He seemed to notice me staying there, and eventually a small bunch of stuff was blown sideways, off the roof on the other side. I wasn't too impressed, but not ready to argue when they left. I hadn't proof. Rich was unavailable, and I don't do ladders.

I had Rich take a good close up look via ladder today to see what exactly was done in back. He reported that my suspicions are correct, crap is piled under the bottom of that section of solar panels. After cooling off a bit, and incidentally having a late lunch while I did, I called the owner of Skye. I started with letting him know we had a problem, that his crew was cheating both him and me. He asked a couple questions, then thanked me for the feedback. It he's not there, he doesn't know how the job is being done. He added once the mail brings his package, he personally will be out here to finish the job... correctly! This time it will include a washer, so long as I have no problem with his using our water.

Nope, no problem at all. I'd already figured that into the project. It comes with a bonus, since all water falling off the patio roof hits the dripline roots of the pine tree, still thirsty after last summer's punishment. Better, it comes with fertilizer this time! Yummy. I bet this incarnation of our roof cactus approves too.

Now I'm just waiting.