2013 - The year I mopped up

I've been so busy that blogs have been few and far between so there must be a ton of stuff to write about regarding the calendar year.  There isn't.  No major highlights really...just a lot of maintenance.

I spent the prior year taking care of an estate, mourning the loss of my mother, dealing with family, training up two creative boys, working a more-than-full-time job and published a book.  I could point to a 'thing' that was accomplished at every highlight last year.  But not in 2013.  This is the year I swept up sawdust, mopped up muddy footprints and knocked down cobwebs.  This was not nearly as fun to write about but this is what life often is in the age of crafting the image of living well.

I worked a lot this year.  I had many 50+ hour weeks working on things and at the end of the year I made a little less than I did the year before.  I made a little less than I did in 2009.  This should be enough evidence for you to imagine at least one thing I'll be doing in 2014.  

I got my reading schedule back with my kids.  It's been a transition now that they occupy the same bedroom and I've struggled to find reading time before bed that will keep their attention.  I decided to read above both of their levels and just let them listen to me destroy great literature with my own poor reading level.  We read The Golden Key by George MacDonald and I was amazed how they sat and listened to 19th Century prose.  We found ourselves discussing the story and unveiling the meaning of seldom used words and expressions.  We read poetry and talked about beautiful words that are used deliberately as if each one was carefully placed.  They listened.  

On my 7 year old son's Spring Break I took him to San Diego.  Why?  He wanted to see great sailing ships and we did.  Lots of them.  We toured the harbor and crawled around every ship we had time to see.

The HMS Surprise from the movie Master and Commander

We went to San Diego Zoo Safari Park and met up with my brother, who lived in Orange County, to celebrate his birthday.  In all, it was a nice time for my son.  I had fun but the kind of fun you have when a seven year old is your travelling partner.  We were gone 5 days but it felt like two weeks.  My wife continued to work so she had one less person to manage.  Not sure who had the better time.

Overcast but warm.  Better than Puget Sound in Spring

The downstairs of my house is painted.  Some kind of red and some kind of buttery cream something or other.  I'm colorblind.

I wanted to run this year and get in better shape.  This is a bit hard to do if you don't like running in the rain...and I don't.  I did run this year.  I ran over 400 miles this year.  I don't have any goals to run more.  I only limited myself based on how much time I had, not how tired I was.  My days are tightly scheduled and it doesn't take much to get something canceled.  I didn't cancel running very often.

I spent more time alone with my 3 year old son.  I did this on purpose because my older son had the benefit of alone time more often...because...well...he was alone.  Every time I could I'd take him places and we'd talk and get to know each other.  He wasn't forced to react to something his brother was doing, he just got to be himself.  I plan to do this a ton more.

Always capable but still needs a drink lid

Oh yeah...I cut about a foot and a half of hair off of my kid's melons.  I had fun sharing these before and after shots.

Rock Monkeys

Civilized Monkeys

I sat and talked one day with an older man I've known for a few years but never knew much about his life story.  His life included running away from home, riding the rails hobo style and finally joining the Marines to go fight in Korea.

While travelling around as a boy, he drew comic books which featured his hero character Tom Baron.  50 years later, his comic books were digitized straight from the pages he drew them on.  Click here to see the list of his comic books and you can click on any of the covers to see them in the digital viewer.

Seriously, sometimes you have to shut up and just listen to people.

During the Summer I was working with my 7 year old on the subject of radio, and in particular old-time-before-television radio.   He thought it sounded boring but I challenged him to write his own radio show...and he did.  He wrote four episodes of "Rory's Old Tyme Radio" which featured some of his first attempts at story telling.  I handled the grunt work of production but he worked hard to direct the structure of the scenes and sounds.  They may show up in a future project I'll be working on.  He plans to do more radio shows, but he also plans to play with his Legos...so ya know.

Podcasting for me has been on hold though I've been seriously toying with the idea of creating a new show.  I have more ideas than I have time or help to achieve anything at this point but it's on my mind.  Contact me if you're interested.

I started writing projects and they are in various degrees of stoppage due to me having enough time to write but only enough energy left to stare blankly at the monitor.  I know now not to be frustrated by this, but instead turn these down times into preparation.

So that's it...I hope you enjoyed my walk down memory lane of the last calendar year.  My wish for you, as you replace your cute kitten calendars, is that you make the most of 2014....do stuff, love those around you and shut up and listen on occasion.

I'm pretty sure I've always been a spaz

At dinner tonight I was talking to my older son.  He didn't finish a timed math assignment at school.  I asked him why.  He shrugged his shoulders and offered a lazy "I don't know."

Like a lot of parents, I asked the question but I already knew the answer.  I see his papers.  His mind wanders, he gets stuck on problems and can't move on.  He draws on his papers.  I know this because he's kind of a spaz.  I know what a spaz looks like.

Tonight I started going through the last remaining part of the odds and ends from my mom's house.  It wasn't her stuff, it was mine.  Stuff I just left at her house after I moved out.  Stuff I didn't have much interest in going through.

In what was once my old toy box, I found a collection of papers from high school.  Obviously for me to keep these school items for so long they must have represented my highest academic achievements up to that point.  I knew one day I would want to look back on them and see the foundational building blocks of my intellect within the College ruled lines.  Yeah, fat chance.

Most of my papers contained smatterings of completed work along side vast side margin murals.  I drew stuff...scary stuff. I wrote poems, and song lyrics.  If my work involved several pages they would include a flip-the-page animation.

My side margins were often dark and if analyzed through the filter of the 21st Century, my high school would've been in lock down with television news helicopters flying over until the day I graduated.

I was never dangerous though, I was just a spaz.

Like a time capsule, the evidence of my youth has preserved the very essence of my most awkward phases and with it I'm able to look a part of myself straight in the eye.  These papers were the true result of me moving on and leaving my nonsense behind for someone else to deal with.  Now they are my problem.

But these relics of my past are less of a problem and more of a gift.  They reminded me of who I was, what was once important to me and how I processed information.  They will help me relate more to my sons who are spazzes in their own way.  I will recognize it and have more compassion as they work it out.

I'm sure the world will be ready for my two little spazzes....but just in case, get those news helicopters ready.

Three is a magic number

Years ago I learned to juggle two round objects.  Apples, oranges, baseballs…if I had two of them I could juggle them easily with one hand.

When a third round object is added that is the point where juggling stops being juggling and turns into something else.  Sometimes it results in chasing a round object or two, other times it’s cleaning up a mess or a visit to the emergency room.  Three is a magic number for disaster.

I like to be efficient and I love the opportunity to do several things at once.  I have come to discover that like juggling, I’m probably limited to just two things.

In the evenings I get my kids ready for bed and I read to them.  After that I head down to my garage and spend whatever available time I have on the treadmill.  I take my smart phone because I can do things like listen to music, listen to podcasts, or watch Netflix buffer.  Sometimes I’ll return a text message using the voice recognition.  While on the treadmill my reply of “I’m on the treadmill, what are you doing?”  becomes “I’m cleaning a red spill, but our dune.”  I send it anyway.  Sure it doesn’t make sense but I’m multi-tasking, deal with it.  This is me doing two things like a boss.

Last night while on the treadmill I returned a phone call that I had missed while putting my boys to bed.  I plugged my smart phone into the treadmill’s speaker system and listened as the phone rang.  My brother answered and immediately tore into the middle of a conversation.  I assumed he didn’t know who he was talking to.

Me:	What are you talking about?
Brother:	Didn’t you listen to my voicemail?
Me:	No.  (whiiiir of treadmill in background)
Brother:	<he continues>

While listening to him continue I heard the door open behind me from the house and my three year old had escaped his bedroom, snuck downstairs and had come down.  He begins talking to me.  

Brother:	So anyway I was wondering if you could…..
Me:	Go back to bed!
3 Year Old:	Dad, <indistinguishable rationale for being out of bed follows>
Brother:	Are you talking to me?
Me:	No, just a second.  What are you doing behind the car?  Go back to bed please.
3 Year Old	Dad, <can’t hear over the treadmill>
Me:	I can’t hear you.  Go in the house.
Brother	<louder> What are you doing?

While trying to talk to my brother and my young son at the same time as covering miles on the treadmill I had now allowed a third round object to enter into my juggling routine.  I set the phone down on the console and then whipped my hand back and knocked the “emergency stop” for the treadmill off its mount and listened as I heard it bounce and roll under my car while the treadmill motor slowly came a stop. 

My son was suddenly in amazement at the object that flew off the treadmill and became silent.  All I could hear was my brother coming over the treadmill speakers. 

“Hello? Are you there?”

My three year old son has the ability to recognize dangerous tension.  He voluntarily retreated into the house.

“I’ll let you go; you sound busy” I heard my brother say while I was crawling under my car looking for the treadmill’s emergency stop device.

While under the car I discovered some takeaways from this experience:

1. I can do two things, not three.
2. Have an escape route for one of the first two things in case a third thing suddenly plots to ruin your juggling.
3. The only thing I had the complete control to stop (the treadmill) was the one thing I refused to stop and it ended up stopping anyway.
4. Poopy pants pizza party.  I’m multi-tasking, deal with it.

Apparently I'm supposed to be disappointed

We just had our local Summer festival in the Seattle area.  It's a rather large celebration called Seafair.  I can't think of an August in my life that didn't have something to do with Seafair.  Whether it was parades, hydroplane races on the lake or the Blue Angels...it's always a good time.  I'd like to add that it is the ONLY festival held in Seattle where you can almost always count on good weather.

Then we had the budget sequestration.  You know, those crazy and irresponsible cuts that stopped funding to all of your favorite things.  In the case of Seafair the community was rocked that the Blue Angels were not coming. 

Everyone cursed the budget cuts.  How can they cut the Blue Angels and ruin our Seafair celebration?  The media almost begged the community to make attendance low so that everyone knew just how disappointed we were.

The Seafair organizers needed to arrange a replacement.  They learned from a mistake from year's past that we love our jet planes and while we're impressed that Canadians know how to fly...they're just too polite when it comes to our hunger for the roar of American fighter jets.

So Seafair brought in the Patriots Flying Team to entertain the crowd that gathered to watch the Unlimited Hydroplane races on Lake Washington.  Nobody seemed that happy about it.  Were they not as talented as the beloved Blue Angels?  Well according to their bio, many of their pilots are former Blue Angels.

So if I'm to understand my local media...I'm supposed to be unhappy that a private jet team with its own sponsors entertained us for a fee paid by Seafair...and nobody else in the country had to pay the Navy to entertain Seattleites on a sunny afternoon...all while trying to convince us that joining the US Navy is cool.

I'm not sure why the notion of paying for your own stuff is so scandalous.

But now that Seafair 2013 is over the Seattle Times is upset that there is funding for free and reduced lunches but there just aren't enough kids taking advantage of it.  Seattle is certainly not where the term TANSTAAFL came from.

You got off lucky this year America.  We'll be back for your money next year and don't expect a thank you from us while we're gazing up at the sky in amazement of raw American war power.  We are entitled.

Return to Viet Nam: One Veteran’s Journey of Healing

I’ve had the pleasure of knowing a wonderful travel writer, Linda Myers for several years.  When our paths crossed recently we talked about our different writing projects and she made me aware of a book she recently completed with her husband Art.  I always want to read (or try to read) the books of people I know so I asked her to make a copy available for me.  In a couple of weeks, a signed copy was hand delivered in exchange for a small picture of Andrew Jackson. The book itself is exactly what the title promises:  The journey of healing for a Vietnam Veteran.  The veteran in this case is her husband Art who talks about his one official day of combat and how it has impacted every day of his life to this present day.  The telling of this story is gripping for a number of reasons.

The story is told in several voices.  Linda narrates the journey and allows other voices to slip in and support her accounting of what happened.  Linda’s chops as a writer who is experienced with telling travel stories shows. And because of this, the book is a fascinating and quick read. Linda and Art returned to Vietnam with historian Dr. Steven Leibo and Dr. Ed Tick, a specialist in PTSD. If you’re wanting to read about the horrors of war you may be disappointed.  Though there are descriptions of battle, this doesn’t read like a documentary on the History Channel’s greatest battles of Vietnam.

Instead this book tells the real horrors of war that live on for years long after the bullets have stopped flying.  The real horrors of war are less sexy.  There are no medals, no tales of bravery, no giving one’s all for freedom and definitely no flag waving.  Instead this book talks about unexplainable anxiety, alcoholism, destroyed relationships, and feelings of hopelessness that come with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder If you know a hurting Veteran, I really want you to buy this book.  This is far more than a recommendation of a friend’s writing.  You may know a veteran (Vietnam or more recent) that has had a difficult time dealing with what happened while they were deployed.  This book may be a realization that there is hope beyond the meager resources of the local VA Hospital.  I’m not sure those we elect to be in power will ever stop sending our young men and women into war, but it’s about time we realize that, for many, the war continues long after the so-called peace is declared.

Peace

"Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God."

I'm new to peace and it's embarassing to admit. I don't know if that statement even makes sense.

Throughout my life I've never been shy about violence. I've thrown punches in anger and in defense of myself and other people. Sometimes it was justified but in every time I have eventually hated myself for doing it. Even while having so much of my life renewed by the message of the Gospel, thoughts of real peace lagged behind, frustratingly.

While it's possible to point to a number of factors in my life that may have contributed to it, the only person responsible was me.

It wasn't just personal peace that I had problems with, I had problems with peaceniks in general. I can and do point to my own father for this influence. My Goldwater Republican father hated hippies but for some reason found himself choosing the VW Microbus as our family transportation. Sure, it was practical for a family of 5 for sure but our ride also attracted plenty of "peace signs" from hippies thoughout the Western United States and Canada on our long road trip vacations. My dad would wave his fist at them while they flashed two fingers thinking we were with them. I can assure you that we were not.

Later when confronted with the prospects of joining the Libertarian Party back about 20 years ago, all that was required was signing a statement that "I certify that I oppose the initiation of force to achieve political or social goals." It was enough to not sign it. I'm still not a member.

Every "Imagine World Peace" or "Free Tibet" bumpersticker made me roll my eyes at how naive pacifism was in general...and sometimes still does. I never once considered what was achieved through peaceful civil disobedience. I look back and can see that I took a lot of things for granted.

It wasn't long before I began to see movements like the entire Civil Rights Movement and other great demonstrations of civil disobedience for what they really were. The rest of our society watched while deciding that even if we didn't agree with someone else, we weren't willing to subject them to violence to stop them. What first results from peaceful demonstrations is that peaceful people, who have hurt no one, are locked in a cage for simply not consenting to be governed in a certain way. Nothing is more American in my view.

Libertarians are often accused of over simplifying problems with easy bake non-aggression principles. I think the same type of accusation could (and often should) be made of those who reach for faceless intervention (force) before anything else. But peace is one area that I think does not need to be complicated much.

I follow videographer, Dave Ridley who films in public spaces and is often confronted by law enforcement and told to turn off his camera. He often responds "Will you hurt me if I don't?" Almost always the law enforcement deescalates the situation because they understand that he's not doing anything that deserves violence. Requests to stop filming typically end also.

So what do I make of peace now? I desire it even when my own failings don't allow for it or when my demeanor is imperfect and I'm being a jackass. I'm growing in peace a little more every day. That, I'm not embarassed to admit.

An Open Letter to my old Landlords

Hi!
You don't remember me? I lived in unit 204. Still nothing? I had the black car and lived there oh about eleven years. Oh you remember now?

Do you remember when I moved out? You said my eleven year old deposit didn't cover the cost to refurbish the apartment and then you charged me an additional $700.

I tried to talk with you openly and explain that while my neighbors were moving in and out on an annual basis I was there, year after year. While you brought in painters and rolls of carpeting I was usually there to help hold a door or move a welcome mat while materials were dragged in...into those units.

Boy, were you mad. You sent me the angry letter explaining how my carpet was trashed, especially in the high traffic areas. The paint on the walls was worn and you went on to explain that the place was pretty filthy. You made it clear that the $175 I had left as a deposit would not begin to cover all of the work you would have to do to make my apartment livable for another human being.

You were right too. The place looked really lived in. I mean, nothing was broken but it simply wasn't all that clean. The original carpet color was no longer knowable but it matched the walls in some places. The dining room had a smell...I remember noticing it some time in 2003, but like anything...I got used to it.

Don't get me wrong, I never doubted you had to spend a little extra to get it livable for someone else...but I gotta remind you that you never spent a dime helping make it livable for me. I thought we had an understanding: I was poor and you kept the rent fairly low.

I never abused this understanding. I didn't trash the apartment. It just looked like 600 square feet that someone had lived in for eleven years while the landlord never repaired or replaced anything. Do you remember now?

We couldn't work it out. You promised to take me to collections. You promised to try to make it hard on me if I didn't pay you. You reported me to three major credit bureaus. You said I'd regret ignoring your invoice. I called more to work it out but you didn't care. You kept your promise and that was that.

I kept my promise too though. So while I didn't pay you we both have our honor. The blemish you put on my credit is now gone and we're both forced to look back and consider the damage we did to each other.

You finally had to pay for the wear and tear to refurbish an apartment you had ignored for a decade...and me...how did it go for me? I bought a house and two cars and then refinanced that house and well...I guess nothing really happened to me at all.

Looking back I guess it seems silly we couldn't work it out.

Oh by the way, that smell was cat pee.   The cat died a few years ago so it's best we all move on...I just wanted to uh...clear the air.

All the best in your future endeavors,
-tracy

My seven year old future arms dealer

While shopping for a Mother's Day gift with my two young boys we found ourselves in the parking lot of a store with the younger son temporarily shutdown and fast asleep in his seat.  I decided that we'd wait awhile in the car to avoid hauling around a squirmy armload of snoring.

This is when my seven year unveiled his idea for a business venture.

Son:  Dad, I want to start a company that makes laser guns.

Me:  Who would you sell laser guns to?

Son:  I'd sell them to anyone who wants one.

Then he thought a minute.

Son:  What are those papers we had to show the people at the border?

Me:  You mean our passports?

Son: Yeah, I'll have to check their passports to make sure they didn't escape from jail or something.

Me:  You mean you'll do background checks on your customers?

Son:  Yeah

Me:  What if they turn out to be a bad guy?

Son:  I'll just lie about the price and charge them more.

Send in those Father of the Year nominations now.  

The music the kids are listening to sucks

This is true today and it was true when I was a kid. At least according to my dad.

My dad was a jazz band leader in the heyday of the big band movement. He was a drummer who could count many famous jazz musicians as friends and acquaintances. It did no good to drop names to me since I didn't know who any of them were, but I was able to meet several of them in person. It impressed me even more when we'd be watching the Tonight Show orchestra or some awful PBS special on big band jazz and he'd point them out.

My dad had a great appreciation for music but no appreciation for anything I listened to. Now granted I can understand that he'd leave the room whenever I played KISS on my tiny tape player but he would shake his head at anything I played and dismissed it simply noise...even the Beach Boys.

I would go through my dad's extensive LP collection and look at all the album covers. Everyone just looked old. Even the Four Freshmen released albums as young men but still appeared old. They wore sweaters that just looked like they smelled like an old person's house.

In 1976, my older brother bought the Beach Boys album, Spirit of America. I played it all Summer. My dad preferred that I would not play it when he was home or inside the house. I ended up having to record it to tape through a small condenser microphone so that I could listen to it quietly.

All the while on Saturdays my dad would listen to his albums on the stereo console. You could hear it in every room of the house. I'd roll my eyes when the group with the sweaters came on...fuddy duddy old men...big whoop.

The Fuddy Duddy Sweater Quartet	Awful shirts but they pretend to surf.

I became rather shocked one day while listening to music from the other room that I thought my dad had put on the Beach Boys album. I thought for maybe a second he was extending an olive branch to help span the impossible chasm that the world of music had introduced to our lives. He hadn't though. What had come on the stereo was the song Graduation Day by the Four Freshmen. I knew the song well because my brother's Beach Boys album had a live version of the very same song. How could this be?

As I grew older and began listening to them both I can't believe how blind my ears were to the fact that they were more similar than either my dad or I were ever willing to admit. One packaged in the style of my dad's youth and the other packaged in the carefree girls and hot rod themes of the 60's surf music scene.

Over the years, even up until yesterday I discovered another Beach Boys / Four Freshmen connection. While listening to the Four Freshmen at dinner (yes, I slowly have become my own father) I heard the song Their Hearts Were Full of Spring. I knew the tune very well as the Beach Boys had rewritten the words to the same tune in an ode to James Dean (A Young Man is Gone).

Below is an example that demonstrates how any substantive difference between the two groups was probably just in the packaging.

The crusty old-fashioned harmonies of the Four Freshmen

The youthful tones of the Beach Boys

I have realized that the music was never the issue. My dad loved the music of his youth because he loved his own youth. He saw my youth everyday because I was still living in it. What could I have possibly known about music? I had to be reminded not to leave my bike outside, not to wipe my nose with my sleeve, and to forever pick up my stuff. He was sick of my youth and wished for his back. The Beach Boys no matter how similar were not his youth and therefore they sucked. Period.

My kids love music and they're at an age where we listen to all kinds of things. I know at some point they will settle in on something I hate. I will hate it not because it lacks any listening value necessarily but because kids are stupid...like I was stupid...and the days where I can freely be stupid too have long since passed.

Now excuse me I have to remind my kids to pick up their stuff.

Let me introduce you to two of my friends

I have two friends who started a Kickstarter project.  

It seems like everything is being funded by Kickstarter these days.  I even heard about a movie studio using it to generate interest in a film that they probably already have money to produce.  It's become a trendy way to cause some buzz about projects.  Aside from a few Open Source software projects,  I've largely stayed away from Kickstarter projects.

We live in an age where art is now considered free...and it should be free!  But not like "free beer" but more like "free speech."  I actively support musical acts, independent films, stage productions and scores of other nonsense out there so that artists have the chance to add color to our lives.

I saw one Kickstarter project started by a guy who was writing a book and wanted support.   He hadn't even started it yet.  I didn't want to donate but I wanted to give him a tip:  Dude, just write your book.  Kickstarter is filled with great people with awesome ideas and also a host of lazy people...

...and then there's my friends.

Let me introduce you to two of my friends, Mollie and Emily.  These two gals are sweet people.  I understand that just me calling them friends may cause you to question my claim. Trust me, they're too nice to know better.

These two sisters together are the Douglas County Daughters.  When they perform together what results is an audible form of pixie dust.  Sincerity, simplicity and lovely remnants of our American musical culture are heard in every note.  While it may be easy to use Americana as a gimmick, they have somehow managed to use this approach to connect with their own roots.  This is more than a retrospective approach to art, it's become a journey to strengthen their own roots and sense of family.

Seriously, that's not just a bunch of flowery words.  Their dedication to this project is seen in how they've carried on despite the fact that they don't even live in the same town.  They don't even live in the same STATE.  They compose and arrange through the magic of the Internet and book gigs at coffee houses and festivals between the two metro areas where they live -- Seattle and Eugene, Oregon.  They are both talented, hard working musicians that can boast involvement in many different bands and musical projects in their own background.

They want to record an album together.   They have asked for a humble amount and have promised to do great things with only a little bit of scratch. 

They are SOOO close to meeting their Kickstarter goal. 

I'm completely behind Mollie and Emily and have given to their campaign and may give again.  If you like giving to projects like these then join me!  Even $5 or $10 goes a ways toward helping them reach their goal and gives them encouragement.

Winter Blogging

In my mind I blog year around.  Now it's early March and you probably know my last post was on New Year's Eve.  I promise you that I did blog in January and February...I just stopped myself from clicking the "Publish" button.  We should all be thankful.

I have a tough time during the winter.  The reasons vary from living in an awful weather climate, a very busy work schedule, and of course the awful weather climate.  Of all these it's the weather I hate the most.  Get the picture?

I got email and messages asking me when I was going to blog again.  I didn't know what to say honestly.  It's a common situation to this blog in January and February.  I work a lot and my attempts at blogging are miserable and sad.

It's not just blogging, it's just the outlook your life has when you live under constant cloud cover and drizzly rain.  Without even knowing why friends and strangers would approach me and ask "What's wrong?"  There's nothing wrong really, nothing a few months of sunshine won't solve.  Every March we get what is called a Spring Tease.  On a single day it will be sunny and 52 degrees.  You'll hear birds and the smell of freshly cut grass almost gives you a narcotic reaction.   This rush of optimism floods over you and suddenly you can't stop thinking about how awesome the day and your life is.  The next day is foggy and rainy and it is all you can do to put on your socks.  Stupid, dumb socks.

So during the winter I type out my blog post and then sit back and quickly read over the highlights.  Two or three sentences in I just close the browser and it remains an unpublished draft with about a dozen other attempts.  Are they that bad you ask?  They're worse than you can imagine.

Even this post is nothing special or interesting and I'm surprised you've read this far.  Why did you read this far?  Anyway...it's starting again...March will have some posts...the weather will be better...it had better.

2012 - The stupid year in review

I had planned to do this anyway but after reading the year in review of my wildly talented friend, Dave Johnson...I had to take account of what happened somehow.  So here it goes.

My year was filled with stuff I had to do, not stuff I wanted to do.  What King Solomon put to words and what the great Pete Seeger put to music is true:  There is a time for every purpose under heaven.  My purpose was to just get stuff done.

I began 2012 with working every day of the year for the first six weeks without a day off.  I ended up traveling for work about every day and on weekends I'd come home and get my other work done.  By the middle of March I was exhausted, discouraged and I wasn't feeling well.

I decided to change my diet drastically and I found time every day to walk.  I walked and walked and walked.  By Summer I had lost 26 pounds.  I felt some better and I had no clothes that fit.  In fact, besides some business attire that I wear for work on occasion, I still don't have clothes that fit.

With Spring beginning my work was slowing down enough that I could take weekends off and it was time for me to work on my mom's estate.  Every weekend required me to paint, replace carpet, and fish through the belongings of my deceased parents.  When the growing season started I discovered that the riding lawn mower had finally given up on me.  I had two acres of lawn to mow without a mower.

I was nearly killed by hornets.

I held an estate sale at my house.

I celebrated my younger son's 2nd birthday on a river boat cruise.

I borrowed a mower from a nearby friend with the hopes that the house would sell quickly.  Weeks went by and the house wasn't sold yet and I was beginning to be more obnoxious with my requests to borrow the mower than I'd allow myself to be.  My best friend Eric came to the rescue and said "Just come get my mower whenever you need it."  I'd head to his house which was about 30 minutes away and then drive to my mom's place which was another 40 minutes away.  After that I'd mow the lawn which took about 2 and a half hours, then return it...hauling it in the trunk of my small sedan.  I did this until his mower caught on fire.   I came over the day after I returned it to see a burned spot on the sidewalk in front of his house surrounded by the discharge of a fire extinguisher.  I have no doubt that I caused this somehow.  He bought a new mower and for another month I used that one until the house finally sold toward the end of Summer.

By August I had a chance to finally breathe and I celebrated by riding my motorcycle.  I rode and rode and rode.  It was one of the few things that I did in the year where I was able to sit and think about nothing.  I did a lot of that.

Through the Winter and Spring after about 10pm I worked on my book.  I couldn't sleep anyway so I figured I may as well just keep plugging away on it.  My wife and I worked on it and pursued it completely as a glorious, independently published work.  When it was finally done, I read the book from beginning to end and realized what a dark and stressful year it was.  It wasn't the most serious literary effort that I have worked on but I will tell you one thing:  I WROTE A FRICKIN BOOK AND IT'S A HARD THING TO DO.  I'm proud of it but also determined for it not to be the only published example of my writing.

I went to Texas.  I saw an old compound that was shot up by a well armed militia...no not in Waco...in San Antonio.  The gift shop insisted that I remember it.  I bought a comic book and then I hired a Mariachi band to play while I ate lunch...and then bought a cowboy hat.  

I dealt with creditors, lawyers, accountants and beautiful super models.  I'm lying about one of these.

I voted but I don't think a single candidate I voted for won in an election.  Still, many national magazines insist that I belong to the fastest growing political movement in the country...unfortunately a fair amount of us don't vote.  I am constantly toying with the idea of being a non-voter myself but I usually give in and vote so I can punch my ticket to the debate of the issues.

I made a pirate ship cake with a 2 year old.  

The year just sucked in a lot of ways.  When I look back and see that I had buried my head in my tear drenched palms more times than I have taken a vacation I know it's time to change things a bit.


That was the season that was 2012.  Turn! Turn! Turn!

Holy Cow! Thank you so much!

Most of you that read this blog or know me personally know that I wrote a ridiculous fiction book that came out in 2012.  I promised that I would donate all of the profits from the first month of sales to the local gospel mission in my county.

I did this for two reasons:

1. The Everett Gospel Mission is a very worthwhile cause which provides help to homeless people in the Snohomish County area.
2. I wanted to provide a good reason for you to buy it since this was my first published book.

I was really quite surprised that as many copies sold as they did.  Many of you bought a copy because you just like buying a book when you know the author.  Some of you were promised and unusual book and figured I would deliver.  Some of you will read just about anything and have no standards at all.

This morning I rounded up the donation slightly and we collectively made a contribution to the Everett Gospel Mission for $500.00.  Not bad at all for a book with a small profit margin and a $12.00 asking price.

You did it though.  My reasons weren't completely selfless...I wrote a book and just wanted people to have an incentive to read it.  It was your kindness that did the rest.  Now readers in three continents can claim they own my stupid book!  Seriously, I simply can't believe it.

I'm currently kicking around a million ideas for a new writing project and so far I don't like any of them.   If you know my style, the less you hear about it, the harder I am working on it and once I'm done with it I'll be shy about sharing it.  I'm not sure what that disorder is called.

...and I'm still asked about the Kindle version.   Well, I announced it would be coming soon and in typical fashion the whole process blew up a bit and made me a liar.  I'm working out some "quality" issues with Amazon and will have them sorted out.  I will continue to work on it and will announce when it is available.  Thanks for your patience and your interest.

The Christmas I met a president

Since I was a little boy I had always wanted to meet a president.

I remember one Sunday afternoon my whole family sat and watched Richard Nixon deliver a speech on the television.  The only response to his speech that I remember was that of my grandmother, who said that she didn't believe a word he said.  She was also a Republican.

It intrigued me immediately why the entire country would put someone in charge that a fair amount of people distrust so much.  Whoever these mysterious people were that got to be president, I knew I had to meet one eventually...and about eight years ago I finally did.

I met Jimmy Carter.

Yeah, I know.  I could sense the expression on your face when you read it and I haven't even finished typing this sentence yet.  It's like saying you got your picture taken with the 2001 Super Bowl Champion Baltimore Ravens.  It's kinda cool...I guess.

President Carter was in Seattle for a book signing of his Christmas memoire, Christmas in Plains.  I bought a voucher for the book which was essentially a ticket to stand in a long line and wait for him to scribble his name on the title page.  I was surprised that the line was so long to see a rather unpopular one-term president, but this was Seattle after all.  Many of the people in line still had Dukakis bumperstickers affixed to their Volvos. 

After about forty minutes in line I finally got up to the table where President Carter was and he decided it was time to take a break.  There I was standing across a table watching a former president drink water.  I would have time to talk to him if I wanted, but what would I say?

He sensed the tension as only a man who brought peace to Egypt and Israel could, and broke the ice.

"What are your plans for Christmas?"  He asked in his warm southern accent.

I had a tough time with this question.  I knew he probably was used to having an awesome Christmas.  Why else would he bother to write a book about it?  I didn't want to spoil the moment and tell him what kind of Christmas I had in front of me.

In fact Christmas Day was a marathon of traveling between two family events that were hours apart and usually involved a turkey dinner where the turkey was out of the oven about the time everyone was ready to leave.  It was exhausting and rarely worth the fuss.  Merry Christmas, President Carter.

"Um, well...I'll be spending it with family."  I stammered.

"Oh that's nice."  he replied.  "Family is important." he continued.

"What are you and Rosalynn doing?"  I asked.

"Oh we......"  he replied as I wasn't listening because all I was thinking about was how I was having a conversation with a president.

He signed my book and we wished each other a Merry Christmas and I walked on by the Secret Serviceman who was beside him and returned to my car in the parking lot.

I finally got around to reading his book about two years after our brief meeting and I was taken by his descriptions of Christmas from his youth.  His memories were filled with humility and service for others and lots and lots of family.  I was right...his Christmas' were awesome.

I'm not sure my Christmas memories will ever match those of President Carter, but they're memorable all the same.  Who knows, maybe I'll write my own Christmas memoire.

Merry Christmas to all of you and may God bless you with peace.

Why the Power Company Hates Me

"Blessed are the merciful, for they shall have mercy"  - The Gospel of Matthew
 

 Since my mom died, I've had to make a lot of phone calls.  Most of the phone calls are the type where I am tying up loose ends.  Paying bills, correcting, notifying, getting information, etc.  I've made countless phone calls.  Interestingly they either go really well or go badly.  I suppose that's just a built-in expectation when dealing with this kind of thing.

I am far beyond it being an emotionally charged subject.  Most of the time I just want to get it over with so I can go back to the other million things I have going on, both at work and at home.  The last phone call I have had to make was to the utility company.

When the house was sold, the power company apparently had the wrong notification date so they continued to bill well after perfect strangers were in my mom's house rearranging furniture and eyeballing picture frames to make sure they were level.  No problem, I'll give them a call.

The first call I made to them went well.  I explained the date that it was sold and got it straightened out with them.  They thanked me for calling and I hung up while crossing it off my list.  Over the next two weeks they continued to send bill and notices.  I figured there may be some gap until their system would catch up after my phone call so I decided to let it go a couple more weeks until I called them again.  In that time two more bills and a threatening letter followed.  I laughed at the threatening letter because they explained impatiently that they were willing to move forward with steps that would result in ruining the credit rating of my two dead parents.  I called again.

This time it went badly.  I say this because this is obviously a mistake on their part and there really was no attempt to solve the problem.  I gave a briefing on the first call I had made and what I thought had been straightened out and asked them what they were going to do about it.  The representative explained that the balance was still due, and wanted to know how I was going to make arrangements to satisfy the balance.  I was out of time during my lunch at work so I just assured them that they'd be wise to take care of it since they are not going to be paid.  They threatened to turn off the power.  I countered with offering what was left of my ham sandwich.  We were obviously at an impasse.

Collection notices now began showing up at my house and I let them pile up.  It wasn't that many days before I came home and the pile of communications from Puget Sound Energy was two inches thick.  This is just what I received since I was assured that it was all taken care of.  I gave them a call.

Obviously my patience with the situation was wearing thin but it was tempered by the fact that I had no real skin in the game.  It wasn't like I owed them money.  It wasn't like I was stressed with keeping the lights on while juggling a host of bills and creditors.  I just wanted them to have things in order and stop wasting their resources.

The representative informed me this time that unless I gave them personal information about myself I could not discuss the account.  I decided to decline and proceed without mercy to the unvarnished truth of the matter.

"You are sending bills to my father under this account number and I want to let you know that he has been dead for sixteen years.  The house is owned by someone else and nobody is going to pay you.  You need to stop sending bills."

 

She then went over the account with me (ya know, the one she said she wouldn't unless she knew who I was?) and explained that she would make a notification in the account and it would be taken care of.  I recognized this dismissive gesture and explained that this was my third call for such a resolution and I was skeptical that it would be resolved.  She conceded that their system may send fewer bills after it goes to a collection agency.

"Look, I'm just trying to be nice.  I can easily throw away the bills. I just think it's  wasteful for you to pursue this.  I don't want any more bills being sent to my house on this."
 

 She assured me that there wasn't anything more she could do.  At no time during the call did she break out of the customer service role and agree with me that this was stupid.  Well, not yet.

"Could I at least verify the account with you and then change the billing address?"   (They were using mine due to the mail being forwarded)

I gave them a new address for the billing address.  I recited the Post Office box number to where the bills needed to be sent.  Her ears finally perked up.

PSE:  "Sir, what PO Box address is this?"

 ME:  "It is yours."

PSE:  "Why would we send the bill to ourselves?"

 ME:  "Why would you deliberately send bills to a dead person?"

PSE:  "..."
 

Is the matter taken care of?   For mercy's sake I hope so.

I will miss you Wonder Bread

When Jesus told Satan that "...man does not live by bread alone..." I'm sure he was talking about the bread at our house when I was a kid.

We bought our loaves of bread at an overstock goods store about 10 miles from where we lived.  The brand name was "Freshie" which was funny because you had pretty much one day to get it eaten or it was anything but fresh.

My mom would send me to school with these awful sandwiches and when the loaf was almost gone and shopping day was still several days away, the sandwich was reduced to one piece of bread folded over.  Freshie brand bread did all it could to resist bending.  Like palm trees when they bow into the wind and become stronger and more resistant, the last five slices in the loaf were more than determined to defy any attempt to stretch the loaf for the sake of rationing.  They would simply split at the seam where the fold should have been.  That was "Freshie" bread.

Growing up in a rural area, my family lived ten miles from the nearest large chain grocery store.  The rule generally was that if anyone had stopped off near civilization they would call home and ask if anything was needed.  My brother did just that one day after my mom realized we had already tortured the last few slices of the Freshie loaf.

My brother came home and set the loaf in the kitchen and handed my mom the receipt.  My mom took the receipt and her voice filled the room.

WHAT BREAD DID YOU BUY THAT COST 75 CENTS?

My brother responded that he bought Wonder Bread.  My mom was furious.  I'll avoid tear jerking illustrations of childhood poverty to just say that my mom felt that the 39 cents that a loaf of Freshie demanded was already too much.

My brother left and was mad for doing his best while being cut down for buying Wonder Bread.  I was mad too.  I was hungry and wanted a sandwich but my brother messed up and bought the wrong bread.  My mom was still mumbling on about how mad she was at the wasted money when I asked her what I should do.

"We can't take it back, you'll just have to use it."  she replied.

Thanks to my dumb brother I would have to cobble together a sandwich using some bread my mom obviously didn't want in the house.  I went into the kitchen and looked at the white plastic bag with the colorful dots all over it.  With contempt I took the clip off and reached in and grabbed a couple of slices.  I noted that the slices were a little heavier than I was used to.

After I made the sandwich, I was still mad that I was having to settle for Wonder Bread and wondered why my brother got a wild hair to buy some crazy bread that was bringing such unhappiness into our home.  

I took a bite.  It tasted like...like HEAVEN.  Oh my dear Lord, I never knew that bread could be...what's the word I'm looking for?  Edible!  Moist!  BENDABLE!

My brother went from being the dumbest most undependable person on the planet to a genius before I was halfway through my lunch.  I savored every moist bite.  I only needed to fix one glass of Tang instead of two to help me choke down the sandwich. 

I never minded growing up poor that much, but Freshie bread became all the catalyst I ever needed to seek a more comfortable life.  A life filled with bread so great that it was called a Wonder.

Even though a slice of Wonder Bread hasn't passed my lips in ages, I will miss it.  Wonder Bread represented for me the hope of all I ever wanted in life:  To be middle class.

Veteran's Day - I think we've got this one wrong

I'm pretty annoyed by Veteran's Day.

"No way!  You're not gonna dump on Veteran's Day are you?  Why do you hate America?"

Why yes, I am going to dump on Veteran's Day.

There is barely a distinction between Veteran's Day and Memorial Day anymore.  Yesterday I saw posts from people honoring those who served and died to make us free, others thanked a vet...even more were just the usual if we didn't have these brave people protecting our freedoms we would be speaking (insert language of country we have fought).  Personally, I'll be damned if any Red Coat could make me speak English.  Part of me wants us to lose a war to Iran so they can go about the business of teaching our kids Farsi in public schools.  Good luck with that.

November 11th was once a holiday to help us remember how absolutely worthless World War I was.  You know, that war that sent 2 million of your untrained great grandfathers to Europe to fight in a war that was almost already over?  For a great many years it worked too!  Once upon a time the United States had to be dragged, kicking and screaming into wars...and once we were in them we did things like invent Atomic weapons to get out of them as quickly as possible.

Now I'm not dumping on vets.  Don't get me wrong.  My heart sinks reading the stories of the increased numbers of suicides, PTSD, and other problems that those who are serving are now facing.  They need our support now, as much as ever. Our vets need to be honored for certain, but not at the expense of one opportunity a year to reflect on the horrible cost of war.

Like World War I, war is often unnecessary and the official reasons for entering them are almost always surrounded in lies. I think we still need days in the calendar year to remind ourselves of this.

[also, please save yourself from arguing that I'm against veterans or am unappreciative or whatever...it's a waste of time for you and me.  I've personally thanked the vets in my family and they have my undying appreciation.]

My Summer in the Crawl Space

While preparing to sell my mom's house there were lots of things to take care of.  Beyond the normal things you'd expect (new carpet, paint, etc) we had a few plumbing issues to take care of.   A leaky tub and shower caused water damage to the flooring and insulation under the master bathroom.  Nothing a couple of plumbers couldn't solve.  After that it was closing up the insulation and cleaning up the vapor barrier.  Boring stuff right?  I mean are you even still reading?  Stay with me.

Under the house is the crawlspace.  This isn't just a generalized term to describe "under the house" but was a true description of the type of space there was available under my mom's house.  At the roomiest height there was only enough room to sit and any actual movement required crawling.  Not on hand and knees either...I mean crawling like you're in the bootcamp scenes in the movie Stripes or in my case maybe Private Benjamin.

I have on eye protection and a respirator since the air is full of rodent poop dust and I am crawling on my belly and sweeping with a horizontal hand broom.  I make a long sweep with my right hand and then heard what sounded like wind chimes. Just so you know, that's the sound it makes when you're sweeping a raccoon skeleton across 6mm sheets of plastic.

I admit that this was freaking me out a little.  I'm holding my breath while I move the skeletal remains of this poor animal along.  I continue crawling along on my stomach just a few feet behind the trail of bones with each sweep of progress.  I swept the bones over and across this large mound under the plastic and then stopped for a second to catch my breath.  While trying to calm down I heard something else that I hadn't heard before.  It sounded like buzzing.  I took off my respirator and shouted over to my brother.

"Hey, do you hear that?"  My voice barely carries.

"What?"  My brother stops tearing at insulation. "What did you say?"

"I hear buzzing or something?  I said after another big breath.  "Can you hear that?"

"Oh," he said then stopped for a second.  "I did see bees over there earlier."

This tiny back area of the house which took me five minutes to crawl into took me just 3 seconds to get out of.  Crawling over the raccoon skeleton and away from the sound of bees I was able to get out of the crawlspace.  No stings, just a bump on the head where I smacked it on a beam, crawling quickly while breathing out a panicked shriek.

The exterminator later pointed out to me that he was able to kill thousands of bald faced hornets in the nest that were still in the large mound.

"Um, large mound?"  I asked.

"Yeah, those hornets made a huge mound under the plastic, I'm surprised you didn't see it down there."  He held his arms out in a big circle as if to demonstrate the circumference of the place I nearly died. Only a couple of hours earlier I was crawling over that mound while sweeping along a dead raccoon.

Seriously, that day really sucked. 

Peace in the Valley

I'm from the Snoqualmie Valley.  I was born in upper part of the valley, in the town of Snoqualmie, and grew up in the lower half around Duvall.  I moved away when I left my parents house and never really returned under great circumstances.

For awhile, I convinced myself I didn't like the valley.  It was rural after all.  Ya know, the middle of nowhere?  The novelty of answering the question, "So, where are you from?" had long since worn off in my life.  I simply answered:  Seattle area.

It didn't help that after I moved away in the late 80's I was always returning.  From the late 90's on I looked after my handicapped mother.  The stability of her finances, health, and home was a burden on me.  Many many weekends were spent out there in the valley, taking care of property I hadn't lived on in 20 years.  I hardly had time to sit and visit with my mom as I was racing the setting sun to finish the lawn or whatever else was needed.  I didn't regret it, it was how we did things. 

It was a hard situation.  She grew older and living alone was a challenge.  It was never a bargain having limited mobility but she always handled it gracefully.  From my earliest memories my mom needed my assistance with something.  It had been pretty well established in my mindset that she would always need help, though I always watched at a close distance to see where the line was.  All my life I felt there were things I needed to help my mom with.

I never interfered with her independence and I was often times her only advocate when people in our lives suggested strongly that she move away.  Moving away meant leaving her friends and the community she had been so involved in.  

So when I returned to the valley, it never came with much appreciation.



Rory on the suspension bridge that crosses the Snoqualmie River

This last weekend, my older son and I took a ride on my motorcycle and we rode through the valley.  Just for fun.  No burden.  Even at six years of age he knew that we were headed out that way and we wouldn't have a whole day of work ahead of us.  He asked to stop at a park and I had to stop and think where there was one.

We headed along the west part of the valley passing by the old Carnation Farms and into the town of Carnation.  There we stopped at Tolt-MacDonald Park which features a suspension bridge that crosses the river.  I was about my son's age when the bridge was built and I remember what a big deal it was when it opened in the Summer of '76.

Next time I'm out that way I plan to visit with old friends and try to see if there's anything left to appreciate.  I bet there will be.

Real world MPG and the EPA

Ever since I bought my first car back in 1988, my dad educated me on how the MPG works on a new car.  Take whatever number is on the sticker of the car and reduce it until you can imagine yourself disappointed.  That is the actual mileague you are likely to get.

Car manufacturers have been caught in the past fudging numbers on other performance areas of their products.  Hyundai, for example, had apparently advertised better horse power than two of their engines actually produced, and then eventually settled on a class-action lawsuit.

But what happens when the Federal Trade Commission and the EPA are partially responsible for helping a car company deceive its customers?  The example I will use will take us right back to Hyundai (full disclosure:  I have happily owned 3 Hyundai vehicles myself and have never had much of a complaint about any of them).

Hyundai faces a new lawsuit with regard to their claim that the Elantra can actually get 40 miles per gallon.  In about every car review and test drive report from various industry news sources, nobody has achieved the claimed 40mpg.  So what gives?

Hyundai (and other carmakers) are hinging their defense based upon an interpretations of Federal laws concerning advertising (the way they are allowed to lie to you) and how the EPA numbers are calculated (the way they are able to generate false numbers to use in their lies).

It is not a very new concept that someone may introduce fraud to entice you to purchase their product.  Sadly, it's also not new that the methods used to make fraudulent claims is endorsed by the very agencies that should be protecting you.

If government, at any level, has a useful role...it is to protect you from force and fraud.

In these cases, the for-profit car magazines did for the consumer what the government should've done in the first place.  Instead, the agencies that were supposed to protect the consumer allowed corporations to hide inside their complicated rules and methodologies. 

I would like to see the MPG fall under the scrutiny of private companies, using the Underwriters Laboratories model.  Let companies advertise their mileage ratings as they're measured by organizations who only survive by maintaining a bullet proof reputation.  It would be an improvement over the current endorsement of agencies that the public has long since given up trust.