If you have followed any of the saga about trying to order a military marker from the VA for my brother's grave, you know that I/we have been in search of Doug's military discharge form, the infamous DD214. It wasn't among his effects when he died.
The last time I was at my daughter's...early April...she helped me submit to a records search division of the VA all of the documents and information required to do a search for a copy of his DD214. I was hopeful that we would have the document in hand shortly and could continue with the quest to get his marker.
But noooooo...! The government can't find it! What are the odds? What are the odds that my brother would lose his DD214, and the government would, too??? Just my luck! The letter said that the file had been removed for a previous inquiry, that they had searched "extensively" but hadn't been able to find it, and that they'd keep looking. Well, great. What to do now???
If I were a betting person, I would put my money on my brother being the "previous inquiry" for his own records. He was famous for not taking care of things. He had lost his job toward the end of his life and was living on revenue from the sale of the family farm before he found another. During that time, he may have thought he needed medical care from the VA and would need his DD214 in order to get it. (I'm just guessing.)
In any case, I'll wait a little longer before I get hot on the trail again, hoping they can find it. I can document his graduation from boot camp, at least four of his duty stations, and one vessel on which he served, as well as his dates of service. Maybe that will be enough to get a waiver for the stupid DD214 in order to get a marker for his grave? Do they do stuff like that? I'm about to find out!
Friday, May 30, 2014
Thursday, May 29, 2014
Battlefield Burial Detail and Body Count
When I was a kid/young adult during the Vietnam Conflict, television news would report almost daily the number of American soldiers that died that day, and the enemy body count. Always, always, it seemed that there were more enemy dead than Americans, and that was encouraging. Then I would read somewhere that the North Vietnam government was reporting figures that were skewed the other way--more American casualties than Vietnamese. Which to believe?
I asked my mom about it. She told me that it is not an uncommon practice for numbers to be embellished just to keep up morale. Whaaaat?? MY country wouldn't lie about stuff like that! Then I think I read somewhere that bodies in other wars were sometimes hastily buried and/or hidden so as not to encourage the enemy with the number of The Kill. Lesson learned.
And now, I'm here to tell you that the same thing applies to the insect world. Every year about this time, I get a minor army invasion of big black ants in the house. It doesn't usually last very long but is annoying. I don't know where they come from or what to do about them, but I smash each one I see. Yesterday seemed to be the biggest influx, around the pantry area of my kitchen. Throughout the day, I think I probably killed 18 of the insidious things. I didn't clean them up, figuring there would be more and I would sweep them up when their carcasses were dry today.
I know from experience out on my patio that the ants have their own battlefield burial detail. Step on any bug out there and leave it, and as soon as the ants find the body, they gather to remove it. I've seen little bitty ants hauling carcasses many times their own size. I'm fairly certain that the bodies go back to the nest to provide food for the troops (the little cannibals!), but in the house, I figure that burial detail would have to be mine.
Thus, when I got up this morning, I figured that my first job would be to count the bodies and sweep them up...but...they were all gone! In fact, I caught one hapless ant struggling to remove the last of the dead bodies (a fatality himself, now), and caught on to their tactics. The little buggers were trying to skew the body count so I wouldn't know how many of them had passed vs. how many were still lying in wait to attack my house. Ha! All it did was reassure me that I could kill as many as I want and they will take care of their own burial detail. I win!
If all is fair in love and war--and this is clearly war--I'll just keep on with the current battle tactics. Works for me!
I asked my mom about it. She told me that it is not an uncommon practice for numbers to be embellished just to keep up morale. Whaaaat?? MY country wouldn't lie about stuff like that! Then I think I read somewhere that bodies in other wars were sometimes hastily buried and/or hidden so as not to encourage the enemy with the number of The Kill. Lesson learned.
And now, I'm here to tell you that the same thing applies to the insect world. Every year about this time, I get a minor army invasion of big black ants in the house. It doesn't usually last very long but is annoying. I don't know where they come from or what to do about them, but I smash each one I see. Yesterday seemed to be the biggest influx, around the pantry area of my kitchen. Throughout the day, I think I probably killed 18 of the insidious things. I didn't clean them up, figuring there would be more and I would sweep them up when their carcasses were dry today.
I know from experience out on my patio that the ants have their own battlefield burial detail. Step on any bug out there and leave it, and as soon as the ants find the body, they gather to remove it. I've seen little bitty ants hauling carcasses many times their own size. I'm fairly certain that the bodies go back to the nest to provide food for the troops (the little cannibals!), but in the house, I figure that burial detail would have to be mine.
Thus, when I got up this morning, I figured that my first job would be to count the bodies and sweep them up...but...they were all gone! In fact, I caught one hapless ant struggling to remove the last of the dead bodies (a fatality himself, now), and caught on to their tactics. The little buggers were trying to skew the body count so I wouldn't know how many of them had passed vs. how many were still lying in wait to attack my house. Ha! All it did was reassure me that I could kill as many as I want and they will take care of their own burial detail. I win!
If all is fair in love and war--and this is clearly war--I'll just keep on with the current battle tactics. Works for me!
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Critter ESP
My daughter reported that, when they started packing to come here for the weekend, their cat went into hiding. She doesn't like riding in the car in the carrier, even though she never seems as stressed as my cats were. The cat wasn't brought to my house, but she somehow has a sixth sense about these things. Packing=carrier=bad stuff! I've seen her do it myself. When Denis begins to wrap up electronics, the cat runs in a panic to find someplace to hide. How does she know??
My sister reports that her Siberian Husky always seems to know when she is going to doggy day care, even though her parents will be home. She loves going to that place and so gets excited without warning. How does she know??
When I was a kid, we had a Cocker Spaniel that we didn't bathe nearly often enough--maybe once a year--in the bathtub. And since we were a family of bath-takers, she would have no way of knowing which bath that was being drawn was for her...but she always did! Without giving her a single clue, I would draw the water for her, then go to look for her...and she would be hiding under a bed. How did she know???
Our furry friends understand more than we comprehend!
My sister reports that her Siberian Husky always seems to know when she is going to doggy day care, even though her parents will be home. She loves going to that place and so gets excited without warning. How does she know??
When I was a kid, we had a Cocker Spaniel that we didn't bathe nearly often enough--maybe once a year--in the bathtub. And since we were a family of bath-takers, she would have no way of knowing which bath that was being drawn was for her...but she always did! Without giving her a single clue, I would draw the water for her, then go to look for her...and she would be hiding under a bed. How did she know???
Our furry friends understand more than we comprehend!
500 Memories
My 'crush' back in the mid-1970s in Illinois was a Hoosier man. I think we'd been seeing each other for a year or two when I asked, "When are you going to take me to the Indy 500"? I had no idea then how complicated that was, but it was the very next May that he came up with tickets. His parents, long-time residents of the Greencastle, Indiana, area, had two tickets that they were ready to give up...and so we took on the whole race thing. The tickets were in an area of Stand B at the outside end south end of the track, just about where the pit road re-enters the track. They were great seats--under a canopy of upper seats, and in a spot that made it possible to see all of the front straightaway, turn one, turn two, a little bit of the back straight, and the cars as they rounded the bend on turn four. Fantastic!
A whole bunch of the seats in that area of Stand B were "owned" by friends of Joe's folks, Emma Kay and husband, who farmed out the tickets to people who wanted them. We paid for next year's tickets on this year's race day, thus insuring the same seats, year after year. Then Joe made a bold move and told Emma Kay that if she ever had two more to do away with, we'd take them. As it happened, the very next year, she did. Thereafter, we had four tickets. In the meantime, Joe and I were married, and the year after that, we had our daughter. We invited my sister and husband to join us at the 500 for years, and they were always up to the challenge.
We ventured to the 500 from Illinois, staying with his parents in Indiana for the weekend. Greencastle to Indy isn't a big stretch. My sister and bro-in-law joined us, staying in a motel nearby. It became a tradition, with other traditions in store! Here are some of my 500 memories, in no order at all:
1. In the beginning, the track had timing lights that the drivers were supposed to use during 'cautions' in order to help them keep their intervals between cars to prevent from advancing positions just because of the caution. A couple of years after that, the lights were gone, and the track had approved the "bunch-up" rule. The cars still had to maintain their position in line, but not their interval behind the car in front of them. Thus, when the green flag was finally dropped again, it was like Lap One all over again.
2. I was breastfeeding my daughter in May of 1979. She was only two months old when I left her with her paternal grandparents for the duration of the race. In those days, some of the restrooms under the stands consisted of plywood stalls over a cement trough with water that ran through them (seriously)...and I found myself in one of those stalls pumping my sore and engorged breasts, and feeling like a total idiot.
3. I learned the hard way that fried chicken is the lunch of choice for the race. One year, early on, as we were leaving the stands at the end of the race, we went past a pool of vomit on the ground. A man with his young son also walked by it. The child looked down and said, "Oh look, Daddy. Chicken!" Turned my stomach!
4. One year, a hapless squirrel was walking along the retaining wall, trying to make his was from the outside to the inside of the track while the race was going on. Everyone was cheering for the squirrel, and cheered even louder when he succeeded...but...this story doesn't have a happy ending. At one point, although I didn't see it and heard nothing from anyone who did, the track truck had to come along and scoop up his poor dead body. I hated that.
5. One time, during a looong rain delay, the fans got bored and came up with their own entertainment while waiting to see if the track could be dried so the race could go on. Someone in our area sent a beach ball aloft. It was kicked around for quite awhile. And someone else started a "wave". The wave went all the way around the track, and then some. It was even announced on the track PA that "We have the first ever one-lap wave." Mindless crowd entertainment!
6. Because we approached the race from Greencastle, which was about 40 miles out, we always left early. One year when my daughter was about 5 or 6, my brother-in-law's back went out on the evening before the race. I watched as he crawled up the steps to my in-laws' house on his hands and knees. I knew he was in major pain, and soon enough, early on Race Day, they called to say they wouldn't be able to attend. We decided to ask our daughter, Megan, if she wanted to go. I think I woke her up somewhere along about 5:30 AM, not knowing what to expect. Well! That child shot up out of bed and had herself dressed and ready to go in short order! We were able to sell the other available ticket to a scalper (which is legal in Indiana) for a fraction of what it was worth. Still, it was a good day for Megan!
7. The Snake Pit used to be a place in the infield in Turn One where people put lawn chairs on top of pickup trucks and vans, and then did stupid stuff. Not too may years later, stands were put there and the real Snake Pit was gone...but the Speedway people used the term to refer to an area of the infield with a much better reputation.
8. One year, for reasons I no longer recall, Megan and I walked the half-mile of the infield, northto south, after the race. There was an enormous amount of trash everywhere, and the smell of urine and beer was overwhelming!
9. When The Divorce happened, I no longer had any of the tickets. Since they were not in our/my name, I could not legally force my ex to give me custody of two tickets. Long, sad story. I went through a number of years determined that I would go to the race without those tickets...and did. One time, I was in turn three. Couldn't see a a thing. Another time, I was in the Pagoda area, rubbing elbows with drivers' wives, but still couldn't see much (and those seats were in the sun). Another time, I was on the ground level, directly across from the pits. Still couldn't see all that I was used to seeing....so finally, I gave up. Three years ago, I had the chance to go again, to those same grand seats, so invited my sister who came from Illinois for a gal's weekend. It was fun!
10. For several years, we had tickets to the Saturday Drivers' Meeting at the track where we got to watch instructions for drivers and tour the garage area. There was a dress code. People in shorts and tank tops were not allowed in. Also, we made it a tradition--along with my sister and bro-in-law--to go up to 16th Street and Georgetown Road on Saturday just to watch the crazy partiers, secure our parking spot for the next morning, and buy trinkets from the kiosks and booths. You could see it all on Saturdays...and again the next day. I gained a lot of respect for Indiana police assigned to Race Weekend in Indy. They generally looked the other way for regular nonsense but would arrest for people who were flagrantly violating the laws--especially if they were being indecent. I can only imagine the tales they can tell!
11. For several years, long after I had lost the tickets in The Divorce, I worked the race as a "volunteer" earning money for my radio club. We worked the main gate. Had to be there early. It was our job to check coolers and bags for contraband (anything in glass, weapons, etc.) and rip tickets as people entered IMS. When the gate first opened and people just trickled in, the job was easy. When the crowd increased, it got busy very fast. We were ripping tickets as fast as we could without even looking up...and eventually would be told by the team leader that we could no longer check every bag. Just check some randomly. (It would have been easy to sneak in something illegal then!)
12. Some first-timers at the race thought that IMS was "dry" like the rest of Indiana on Sunday, not understanding that they could bring in all the alcohol they could fit in their coolers as long as it wasn't in glass bottles. They would hide their booze at the very bottom of their coolers, underneath a lot of cans of pop and bottles of water. Other first-timers, upon hearing that they couldn't bring their glass bottles of beer into the gate, would stand just outside the gate and drink it all rather than waste it. The more experienced track-goers would walk in at 8:00 AM or earlier with an open can of beer in hand, already three-sheets to the wind.
13. As track workers, we had to wear black shoes, black slacks, a yellow Safety Patrol shirt (provided by IMS) and an IMS ball cap (also provided). Trust me: the outfit was not at all flattering to females. Fortunately, I never ever saw anyone I knew come through Gate One, and I was grateful for that. I already mentioned that we ripped tickets just as fast as we could in order to move the throngs of people in as quickly as we could, most of the time without even looking up. One young man in a jovial mood commented to me, "I'll bet you were a 'looker' in your day!" He was totally unaware of the insulting nature of what he'd just said until he got just past me. I stopped and turned around to give him a "what did you just say?' glance, at which point, he started stumbling all over his words in fake apology. It was funny!
14. While working the race, the volunteers were relieved of our responsibilities once the race started (used to be at 11:00 AM). Gate One had a pitch-in picnic in the grass just inside the gate. Most of us stayed for that. Some of us went up to the stands to watch the beginning of the race before starting the trek home. Getting out of IMS during the race was tricky. We were stationed at the south end of IMS on Georgetown and 16th. We were parked at the staff lot clear up at the north end and beyond. The distance was at least a mile. The shuttles that took us from the lot to the gate at 5:30 in the morning could not run once the spectators were there, so unless we could wangle a ride on a golf cart (which was really not kosher), we had to walk. And some of us had problems with that. That was one of the things that convinced the radio club that maybe we needed to find other ways to raise funds!
15. In all my years at the 500, as a spectator and/or a worker, the weather ran the gamut of cold to unbearably hot. Several years, it rained...and one year, it sleeted on us. (I suppose that could have been tiny hail...but what's the difference?) One year when we were working the race, one of our number in the radio club who had been listening to ham radio, announced that a Skywarn net was being called up because severe weather was on its way. I believe he said "Tornado warning for Hendricks County"--which is where we all live. We hightailed it home as fast as we could. I got out of my black pants and put on some shorts, then stayed glued to my ham radio as the storm approached and spotters were sent out. One of our guys spotted a tornado on the ground, headed in the direction of where my daughter and family lived (on Friendswood Golf Course). I called Meg and told her. She said, "What should we do?" I said, "I think you should take cover." I'm quite certain I have written about this story before. I was fine until someone reported on the radio reported "heavy damage to Friendswood Golf Course". Then I freaked out! When the storm passed, Meg no longer answered her phone, so I took off in that direction, only to find out that they had found a way out of the destruction to come to my house! Their moldy little house on the golf course was untouched, but just barely. A huge, ancient maple tree in the back had come down--along with 125 other trees and a barn--missing the house by mere inches. The power and phones were out. The family was shaken, but safe. They spent the night at my house with nothing but the shirts on their backs. After a quick run to the store to get diapers, etc., we settled in...but everyone was up early the next morning to head back to the course to start the clean-up. Now, THAT was a race day to remember!!
16. The last time I went to the race was three years ago when my daughter gave me her two tickets because she was unable to use them. Same old glorious seats as back in the 70s! I invited my sister from Illinois, even though it was difficult for her to leave her husband behind because he has some dementia, but she came. It was to be the Old Gals' Weekend! I bought bus tickets from the airport so we wouldn't have to fuss with finding parking. I bought a little soft-sided cooler on wheels because I knew we weren't capable of carrying much. The weather was good (very hot, actually) but we had a good time visiting--she, enjoying being free of the fetters at home, and me, just enjoying her company. I don't remember who won the race. I only know that it was most likely the last race I will ever be able to attend, and I loved every second of it!
17. I was there when Tony Hulman was still alive and walked on the track, traditionally, before the race. I was there when they broke the 200-mph barrier in qualifying. I was there when A.J. Foyt took a hammer to his car in frustration when his crew couldn't seem to figure out what was wrong with it. I was there when there was the first woman in the race, and everyone was all a-twitter how the "Gentlemen, start your engines" command would work. I was there before they limited the size of the coolers that could be brought in. I was there and happened to be watching the pit area when Rick Mears caught on fire, as he jumped out of his car and started slapping himself to put it out. I was there when Gordon Johncock, leader of the race by quite a bit, ran out of gas right in front of us at the beginning of the very last lap. I think I was there the first time Jim Nabors sang Back Home Again in Indiana. I was there for some of the closest finishes, and there for races that finished on a yellow. And even though I'm not there anymore, I'm still there in my mind. I love it! I weep over it!
This year, my daughter and family came for the race. Other years, my former son-in-law and his family come and stay at my house for the duration of the race weekend. (They trade off on those same four tickets that my ex and I had for so many years.) We have it down to a science now. We have made our own traditions, and it's all about the memories!
A whole bunch of the seats in that area of Stand B were "owned" by friends of Joe's folks, Emma Kay and husband, who farmed out the tickets to people who wanted them. We paid for next year's tickets on this year's race day, thus insuring the same seats, year after year. Then Joe made a bold move and told Emma Kay that if she ever had two more to do away with, we'd take them. As it happened, the very next year, she did. Thereafter, we had four tickets. In the meantime, Joe and I were married, and the year after that, we had our daughter. We invited my sister and husband to join us at the 500 for years, and they were always up to the challenge.
We ventured to the 500 from Illinois, staying with his parents in Indiana for the weekend. Greencastle to Indy isn't a big stretch. My sister and bro-in-law joined us, staying in a motel nearby. It became a tradition, with other traditions in store! Here are some of my 500 memories, in no order at all:
1. In the beginning, the track had timing lights that the drivers were supposed to use during 'cautions' in order to help them keep their intervals between cars to prevent from advancing positions just because of the caution. A couple of years after that, the lights were gone, and the track had approved the "bunch-up" rule. The cars still had to maintain their position in line, but not their interval behind the car in front of them. Thus, when the green flag was finally dropped again, it was like Lap One all over again.
2. I was breastfeeding my daughter in May of 1979. She was only two months old when I left her with her paternal grandparents for the duration of the race. In those days, some of the restrooms under the stands consisted of plywood stalls over a cement trough with water that ran through them (seriously)...and I found myself in one of those stalls pumping my sore and engorged breasts, and feeling like a total idiot.
3. I learned the hard way that fried chicken is the lunch of choice for the race. One year, early on, as we were leaving the stands at the end of the race, we went past a pool of vomit on the ground. A man with his young son also walked by it. The child looked down and said, "Oh look, Daddy. Chicken!" Turned my stomach!
4. One year, a hapless squirrel was walking along the retaining wall, trying to make his was from the outside to the inside of the track while the race was going on. Everyone was cheering for the squirrel, and cheered even louder when he succeeded...but...this story doesn't have a happy ending. At one point, although I didn't see it and heard nothing from anyone who did, the track truck had to come along and scoop up his poor dead body. I hated that.
5. One time, during a looong rain delay, the fans got bored and came up with their own entertainment while waiting to see if the track could be dried so the race could go on. Someone in our area sent a beach ball aloft. It was kicked around for quite awhile. And someone else started a "wave". The wave went all the way around the track, and then some. It was even announced on the track PA that "We have the first ever one-lap wave." Mindless crowd entertainment!
6. Because we approached the race from Greencastle, which was about 40 miles out, we always left early. One year when my daughter was about 5 or 6, my brother-in-law's back went out on the evening before the race. I watched as he crawled up the steps to my in-laws' house on his hands and knees. I knew he was in major pain, and soon enough, early on Race Day, they called to say they wouldn't be able to attend. We decided to ask our daughter, Megan, if she wanted to go. I think I woke her up somewhere along about 5:30 AM, not knowing what to expect. Well! That child shot up out of bed and had herself dressed and ready to go in short order! We were able to sell the other available ticket to a scalper (which is legal in Indiana) for a fraction of what it was worth. Still, it was a good day for Megan!
7. The Snake Pit used to be a place in the infield in Turn One where people put lawn chairs on top of pickup trucks and vans, and then did stupid stuff. Not too may years later, stands were put there and the real Snake Pit was gone...but the Speedway people used the term to refer to an area of the infield with a much better reputation.
8. One year, for reasons I no longer recall, Megan and I walked the half-mile of the infield, northto south, after the race. There was an enormous amount of trash everywhere, and the smell of urine and beer was overwhelming!
9. When The Divorce happened, I no longer had any of the tickets. Since they were not in our/my name, I could not legally force my ex to give me custody of two tickets. Long, sad story. I went through a number of years determined that I would go to the race without those tickets...and did. One time, I was in turn three. Couldn't see a a thing. Another time, I was in the Pagoda area, rubbing elbows with drivers' wives, but still couldn't see much (and those seats were in the sun). Another time, I was on the ground level, directly across from the pits. Still couldn't see all that I was used to seeing....so finally, I gave up. Three years ago, I had the chance to go again, to those same grand seats, so invited my sister who came from Illinois for a gal's weekend. It was fun!
10. For several years, we had tickets to the Saturday Drivers' Meeting at the track where we got to watch instructions for drivers and tour the garage area. There was a dress code. People in shorts and tank tops were not allowed in. Also, we made it a tradition--along with my sister and bro-in-law--to go up to 16th Street and Georgetown Road on Saturday just to watch the crazy partiers, secure our parking spot for the next morning, and buy trinkets from the kiosks and booths. You could see it all on Saturdays...and again the next day. I gained a lot of respect for Indiana police assigned to Race Weekend in Indy. They generally looked the other way for regular nonsense but would arrest for people who were flagrantly violating the laws--especially if they were being indecent. I can only imagine the tales they can tell!
11. For several years, long after I had lost the tickets in The Divorce, I worked the race as a "volunteer" earning money for my radio club. We worked the main gate. Had to be there early. It was our job to check coolers and bags for contraband (anything in glass, weapons, etc.) and rip tickets as people entered IMS. When the gate first opened and people just trickled in, the job was easy. When the crowd increased, it got busy very fast. We were ripping tickets as fast as we could without even looking up...and eventually would be told by the team leader that we could no longer check every bag. Just check some randomly. (It would have been easy to sneak in something illegal then!)
12. Some first-timers at the race thought that IMS was "dry" like the rest of Indiana on Sunday, not understanding that they could bring in all the alcohol they could fit in their coolers as long as it wasn't in glass bottles. They would hide their booze at the very bottom of their coolers, underneath a lot of cans of pop and bottles of water. Other first-timers, upon hearing that they couldn't bring their glass bottles of beer into the gate, would stand just outside the gate and drink it all rather than waste it. The more experienced track-goers would walk in at 8:00 AM or earlier with an open can of beer in hand, already three-sheets to the wind.
13. As track workers, we had to wear black shoes, black slacks, a yellow Safety Patrol shirt (provided by IMS) and an IMS ball cap (also provided). Trust me: the outfit was not at all flattering to females. Fortunately, I never ever saw anyone I knew come through Gate One, and I was grateful for that. I already mentioned that we ripped tickets just as fast as we could in order to move the throngs of people in as quickly as we could, most of the time without even looking up. One young man in a jovial mood commented to me, "I'll bet you were a 'looker' in your day!" He was totally unaware of the insulting nature of what he'd just said until he got just past me. I stopped and turned around to give him a "what did you just say?' glance, at which point, he started stumbling all over his words in fake apology. It was funny!
14. While working the race, the volunteers were relieved of our responsibilities once the race started (used to be at 11:00 AM). Gate One had a pitch-in picnic in the grass just inside the gate. Most of us stayed for that. Some of us went up to the stands to watch the beginning of the race before starting the trek home. Getting out of IMS during the race was tricky. We were stationed at the south end of IMS on Georgetown and 16th. We were parked at the staff lot clear up at the north end and beyond. The distance was at least a mile. The shuttles that took us from the lot to the gate at 5:30 in the morning could not run once the spectators were there, so unless we could wangle a ride on a golf cart (which was really not kosher), we had to walk. And some of us had problems with that. That was one of the things that convinced the radio club that maybe we needed to find other ways to raise funds!
15. In all my years at the 500, as a spectator and/or a worker, the weather ran the gamut of cold to unbearably hot. Several years, it rained...and one year, it sleeted on us. (I suppose that could have been tiny hail...but what's the difference?) One year when we were working the race, one of our number in the radio club who had been listening to ham radio, announced that a Skywarn net was being called up because severe weather was on its way. I believe he said "Tornado warning for Hendricks County"--which is where we all live. We hightailed it home as fast as we could. I got out of my black pants and put on some shorts, then stayed glued to my ham radio as the storm approached and spotters were sent out. One of our guys spotted a tornado on the ground, headed in the direction of where my daughter and family lived (on Friendswood Golf Course). I called Meg and told her. She said, "What should we do?" I said, "I think you should take cover." I'm quite certain I have written about this story before. I was fine until someone reported on the radio reported "heavy damage to Friendswood Golf Course". Then I freaked out! When the storm passed, Meg no longer answered her phone, so I took off in that direction, only to find out that they had found a way out of the destruction to come to my house! Their moldy little house on the golf course was untouched, but just barely. A huge, ancient maple tree in the back had come down--along with 125 other trees and a barn--missing the house by mere inches. The power and phones were out. The family was shaken, but safe. They spent the night at my house with nothing but the shirts on their backs. After a quick run to the store to get diapers, etc., we settled in...but everyone was up early the next morning to head back to the course to start the clean-up. Now, THAT was a race day to remember!!
16. The last time I went to the race was three years ago when my daughter gave me her two tickets because she was unable to use them. Same old glorious seats as back in the 70s! I invited my sister from Illinois, even though it was difficult for her to leave her husband behind because he has some dementia, but she came. It was to be the Old Gals' Weekend! I bought bus tickets from the airport so we wouldn't have to fuss with finding parking. I bought a little soft-sided cooler on wheels because I knew we weren't capable of carrying much. The weather was good (very hot, actually) but we had a good time visiting--she, enjoying being free of the fetters at home, and me, just enjoying her company. I don't remember who won the race. I only know that it was most likely the last race I will ever be able to attend, and I loved every second of it!
17. I was there when Tony Hulman was still alive and walked on the track, traditionally, before the race. I was there when they broke the 200-mph barrier in qualifying. I was there when A.J. Foyt took a hammer to his car in frustration when his crew couldn't seem to figure out what was wrong with it. I was there when there was the first woman in the race, and everyone was all a-twitter how the "Gentlemen, start your engines" command would work. I was there before they limited the size of the coolers that could be brought in. I was there and happened to be watching the pit area when Rick Mears caught on fire, as he jumped out of his car and started slapping himself to put it out. I was there when Gordon Johncock, leader of the race by quite a bit, ran out of gas right in front of us at the beginning of the very last lap. I think I was there the first time Jim Nabors sang Back Home Again in Indiana. I was there for some of the closest finishes, and there for races that finished on a yellow. And even though I'm not there anymore, I'm still there in my mind. I love it! I weep over it!
This year, my daughter and family came for the race. Other years, my former son-in-law and his family come and stay at my house for the duration of the race weekend. (They trade off on those same four tickets that my ex and I had for so many years.) We have it down to a science now. We have made our own traditions, and it's all about the memories!
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Good Enough?
I have trouble sleeping at night. Oh, I can get to sleep, no problem. Staying asleep, however, can be a problem. Thus, I leave the TV on all night. (Everything I read says that this just adds to the problem. Oh well!)
Sometimes, there just aren't too many shows to choose from late at night, so I gravitate to a couple of the same format. One is called Bar Rescue. The other is Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares. There is a third called Tabitha Takes Over, but I don't like it at all, so I stopped watching it.
All three have the same premise. A business--bar, restaurant, beauty salon--is losing money and at risk of closing. Someone calls in the expert for a rescue. The experts look askance at the staff, the cleanliness of the establishment, the feasibility of the facility, and the acceptability of the food (served both in bar and restaurant). There is a lot of profanity in the shows and a lot of yelling. Tempers flare. Kitchens get closed down until they can get to the bottom of problems. The chef expert and/or patrons of the restaurant find the food inedible. Each "expert" almost always mentions "that this is the "worst situation [they] have ever encountered in all their years of doing this." Facilities are remodeled at the expense of the show. In the end, voila! Everything is hunky-dory, thanks to the experts.
Watching these shows gives me somewhat of a bad taste in my mouth (no pun intended) for eating out. But I ate out today, with some radio friends of mine on their way to the Dayton, OH, Hamvention. I pulled some sort of a piece of cellophane plastic off my country-fried steak, and it occurred to me that I have never, ever, sent a meal back to the kitchen. The people in the shows would send steaks back to the kitchen because they were cold when delivered to the table. I have had cold meals before but never sent them back. I didn't send my meal back to the kitchen today because of the piece of plastic. I pulled it off and kept eating. Why??? I don't like to make a scene, I guess. I mean, I cook too, and sometimes stuff appears in my food. I just remove it and move on. Should I expect more from a place that I am paying to feed me?
I was raised in a family that ate home-grown vegetables. When I was in second grade, I remember my mother putting a bowl of home-grown broccoli on the table. Yum! And then I spotted the worm in it. At closer inspection, the whole bowl was full of worms--all dead, of course--but there, nonetheless. Had there just been one worm, we would have removed it and continued to eat. As it was, Mom just took away the whole bowl and it was never spoken of again. Buckshot in the rabbit on the table...a cherry pit in the cherry pie. Are we so picky that we can't see past the cat hair in the Alfredo sauce?
I'm still trying to decide if I'm not picky enough and thus teaching people to treat me poorly, or if I'm just a result of my raising. I've eaten plenty of dirt in my day. Drank out of garden hoses. Brushed the dirt off carrots or strawberries from the garden and popped them in my mouth. I even walked barefoot and just scraped glass pieces out of my bare foot and kept on walking. Yet I'm still alive.
I bought a Michelina frozen meal at the grocery today. When I got it up to the check-out, I noticed that one whole side of the cardboard packaging was open. I decided right then that I needed another, so a stockboy was sent to get one for me. I was apologetic, but the thing was clearly defective. Most likely, it was safe, but why risk it? Maybe I'm no so hopeless after all.
I guess if I am eating an expensive meal out sometime, and it doesn't meet with the proper expectation, I'll feel obligated to send it back to the kitchen and hope for something better. In the meantime, I will hope that it's good enough.
Sometimes, there just aren't too many shows to choose from late at night, so I gravitate to a couple of the same format. One is called Bar Rescue. The other is Gordon Ramsey's Kitchen Nightmares. There is a third called Tabitha Takes Over, but I don't like it at all, so I stopped watching it.
All three have the same premise. A business--bar, restaurant, beauty salon--is losing money and at risk of closing. Someone calls in the expert for a rescue. The experts look askance at the staff, the cleanliness of the establishment, the feasibility of the facility, and the acceptability of the food (served both in bar and restaurant). There is a lot of profanity in the shows and a lot of yelling. Tempers flare. Kitchens get closed down until they can get to the bottom of problems. The chef expert and/or patrons of the restaurant find the food inedible. Each "expert" almost always mentions "that this is the "worst situation [they] have ever encountered in all their years of doing this." Facilities are remodeled at the expense of the show. In the end, voila! Everything is hunky-dory, thanks to the experts.
Watching these shows gives me somewhat of a bad taste in my mouth (no pun intended) for eating out. But I ate out today, with some radio friends of mine on their way to the Dayton, OH, Hamvention. I pulled some sort of a piece of cellophane plastic off my country-fried steak, and it occurred to me that I have never, ever, sent a meal back to the kitchen. The people in the shows would send steaks back to the kitchen because they were cold when delivered to the table. I have had cold meals before but never sent them back. I didn't send my meal back to the kitchen today because of the piece of plastic. I pulled it off and kept eating. Why??? I don't like to make a scene, I guess. I mean, I cook too, and sometimes stuff appears in my food. I just remove it and move on. Should I expect more from a place that I am paying to feed me?
I was raised in a family that ate home-grown vegetables. When I was in second grade, I remember my mother putting a bowl of home-grown broccoli on the table. Yum! And then I spotted the worm in it. At closer inspection, the whole bowl was full of worms--all dead, of course--but there, nonetheless. Had there just been one worm, we would have removed it and continued to eat. As it was, Mom just took away the whole bowl and it was never spoken of again. Buckshot in the rabbit on the table...a cherry pit in the cherry pie. Are we so picky that we can't see past the cat hair in the Alfredo sauce?
I'm still trying to decide if I'm not picky enough and thus teaching people to treat me poorly, or if I'm just a result of my raising. I've eaten plenty of dirt in my day. Drank out of garden hoses. Brushed the dirt off carrots or strawberries from the garden and popped them in my mouth. I even walked barefoot and just scraped glass pieces out of my bare foot and kept on walking. Yet I'm still alive.
I bought a Michelina frozen meal at the grocery today. When I got it up to the check-out, I noticed that one whole side of the cardboard packaging was open. I decided right then that I needed another, so a stockboy was sent to get one for me. I was apologetic, but the thing was clearly defective. Most likely, it was safe, but why risk it? Maybe I'm no so hopeless after all.
I guess if I am eating an expensive meal out sometime, and it doesn't meet with the proper expectation, I'll feel obligated to send it back to the kitchen and hope for something better. In the meantime, I will hope that it's good enough.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Communist, Socialist, Muslim...
So it's come to this.
I admit that I spend too much time on Facebook as a way of keeping up with people in my past and present life, since I'm just not able to get around that well these days. A few of my "friends" on FB are family. A few more are amateur radio buds. Most are former students. It's all good. HOWEVER, sometimes--and this is why I say my time spent is probably "too much"--stuff is posted by others that gets to me. The point of this blog post is to complain about one that got to me, and how frustrated I am that I let it do that!
One of my dear, dear radio friends--my mentor in the hobby, in fact--has become a right-wing political officianado. That's okay. It's his right. Unfortunately, he frequently posts things just to keep the pot stirred up, then sits back to see what occurs. I happen to be a liberal thinker (translate: independent voter...NOT Democrat), so I frequently challenge the stuff he posts because he is taking his rhetoric directly from Tea Party or NRA websites. (This isn't a guess on my part. His posts are re-posts from those sites, and say so.) That's okay, too, but I really rankle at political things that are posted as if they are truth when they have not been validated. (I've written about this before.) And many of them consist of "yellow journalism" that is the trademark of things on the Internet.
All my life, I've been able to see and/or understand both sides of any story before I made my own judgment about which felt right for me. All I ever really wanted of my students was to investigate things before they formed opinions, and then think for themselves. If whatever side of the line they came down on was part of a researched and well-considered opinion, it's fine. I am just offended by folks who spout off about issues without knowing all the facts. That's just the way I am.
All my life, I've been able to see and/or understand both sides of any story before I made my own judgment about which felt right for me. All I ever really wanted of my students was to investigate things before they formed opinions, and then think for themselves. If whatever side of the line they came down on was part of a researched and well-considered opinion, it's fine. I am just offended by folks who spout off about issues without knowing all the facts. That's just the way I am.
A few days ago, my "mentor" posted something on his FB page that I didn't respond to, but another of our radio friends did, and drew me into it. Below are those posts. The first bulleted one is from my mentor; the second is from a fringe radio friend; and the third is my response to the fringe dude:
* it is way past time to defund the UN. we are paying for most of it. it is even less effective than the "league of nations" was and a needless drain on us. shut it down.
* You want to talk about anarchy! Just wait until the confiscations and internments begin! Communists/socialists/Muslims are the ONLY ones needing to disarm the US citizenry. Plain and simple. It goes against their plans for world domination under the guise of peace and stability. Yeah, totalitarianism is pretty stabile. Sorry, Peggy, if this includes you in one of these three groups
*So now, Mr. ****, you and the rest of the FB world should be able to comprehend why I am not your "friend" on Facebook. I consider this a flagrant insult, that you should even imply that I am Communist, socialist, or Muslim. But I bow to your superior intellect and political thinking. Name-calling and labels do seem to be a hallmark of the right-wingers, so I will accept it as your only defense against those who don't always agree with your point of view. World domination. Yes! We are out to rule the world! HAHAHAHAHA! I trust you are indoctrinating your children with the same narrow-mindedness and paranoia that you seem to have. Good job! I still maintain that we need a one-party system of government--all Republican. Who will you insult then?
Interestingly, no one responded to what I said.
I don't usually have that kind of a meltdown, publicly, but being--in essence--called a Communist, socialist, or Muslim because I don't always agree with the right-wing rhetoric incensed me. I've been called a "lib-tard". That kind of rhetoric never, ever promotes change. If these guys actually wanted to change my mind about which way to vote next election, they picked the wrong method!
Two things bug me:
1. The guy that implied I was a Communist because I am a liberal thinker, has a teacher for a wife who, at one point, was supporting the whole family (three kids plus parents) on her income alone because he changed jobs. (American Public Education is a subject that is near and dear to me, for reasons that should be obvious.) The Republican Party, starting with George W. Bush's No Child Left Behind edicts, then on to Republican governors in Indiana--Mitch Daniels and now, Mike Pence--have continued to dismantle American Public Education in Indiana. It has been insidious, and (in some cases that I have already written about) unethical. How can he support the party that is killing his wife's profession??
2. Why do I let these things get to me? I hate hypocrisy. I hate dishonesty and lies. I want to hold people's feet to the fire when they are spouting opinions that are only partially true or totally false. My daughter often advises me just to ignore/turn off/shut down rather than respond, and she is wise. Still, it's hard for me to let the nonsense slide. I'm working on it.
I don't want anyone speaking for me whose "truths" aren't mine. That is why I won't declare for a political party. The instant I do, some ignorant politician will say something so totally out of whack that I will be ashamed to be part of what he/she stands for. Whomever I vote for is no one's business, but I do vote, even in primaries. (Unlike the guys quoted in the previous posts.) My blood runs red, white, and blue...so if my "lib-tard" mentality makes me a Communist, socialist, or Muslim, I guess that's just how it will have to be. Funny, though. Last time I looked, I was a "WASP" Christian American citizen. Huh! How could that be??
Monday, May 12, 2014
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Mother's Day Traditions?
All of the mothers of my life are long gone. My grandmother, mother, mothers-in-law--all of those who influenced me in my own journey as a mom have departed. I had great relationships with all of them. I truly cannot complain about anything in that regard!
My maternal grandmother was the matriarch of our family. In her later years, she was confined to a wheelchair, so doing things to honor her on Mother's Day generally consisted of converging on the two-bedroom farmhouse where she lived. Mom did it, of course...so the rest of us did, too. Taking my grandmother away from the homestead was out of the question. And then, when my parents retired to that same farmhouse after my grandmother died, the tradition stayed the same. "It's Mother's Day. We need to go and be with Mom to let her know how much we love her!"
We meant well, but you probably can read between the lines on this one: if we were all there, sleeping arrangements were tight, entertainment for the children was short, and the meals were all on Mom! She probably fell into a dead heap at the end of the weekend! It never occurred to us to take our mother out for a meal in those days. Most of us could hardly afford taking ourselves out, much less tack on the price of Mom and Dad's meals. It also never occurred--to me, at least--to contribute financially or in-kind for the holiday visits. What was I thinking?? It had always been this way. I just fell into the cracks. And to be honest, I don't think Mom would have had it any other way.
I think the most peaceful Mother's Day I ever had was when my daughter was 6-months pregnant with my first grandchild. (I've written about this before but had my details wrong when I did.) She and her husband were living and working at the Friendswood Golf Course, and Meg was working the clubhouse that Sunday morning. It was easy/slow work for her. I took her a McDonald's breakfast and a gift of some maternity shorts and a top to match. She wasn't expecting it, so it was extra special for me. I think she said something like, "You really do love me!" Well...yeah!
One Mother's Day when Meg was in middle school, she decided to surprise me with breakfast in bed. She had prepared pancakes--or tried to. (She wasn't adept in the kitchen yet.) What she delivered to me in the bedroom was what she called "pancake pieces". And so they were, complete with a burn on her arm from touching something she shouldn't have touched. (I think she still has the scar from that!)
So here we are. Before I even left my daughter's place a few weeks ago, she asked if I wanted to meet up halfway between here and there for a Mother's Day meal together. And just yesterday, she was bemoaning the fact that she hadn't bought anything for me for MD. So?? Since when did MD become another gift-giving "holiday"? It was meant only to be a day to honor one's mother. I don't need flowers or gifts to know that my child loves me. She is a mother in her own right now. Time to pass the baton to the next generation! I don't need "stuff". What I need is attention, and I get that. Can't complain!
A couple of years ago, my daughter and family were here for MD, combined (if I remember correctly) with my son-in-law's birthday. Meg, God bless her, had a very elegant brunch planned for me and Grandma Judy. She had a delicious fruit salad, baked blueberry French toast with homemade blueberry syrup, other goodies, and homemade Mimosas to drink. She worked on it for two days, and we endeavored to make the table look as elegant as the fare. It was all very delightful, but I'm quite sure that she forgot that the day should honor her, too....and that she was probably exhausted when she finally arrived home to the Chicago area. I wouldn't trade it for anything....but I wouldn't ask for it, either. It was priceless!
I'm rambling here. I think my whole message is that Mother's Day is a nice way to remember those who are/were our cheerleaders in life and that we owe them our undying love and gratitude, but doing that needs to happen every day of the year, not just on Mother's Day. The other part of my message is that, by the very nature of motherhood, moms don't need to be feted on MD. When they gave birth, they accepted the responsibilities of being mothers. Why do we need to be celebrated for changing diapers and being there every step of the way? It came with the job!
Happy Mothers Day to those of you who took on the job, whether you are a female mom or a dad doing both jobs. If you don't have any kids, Happy Mother's Day anyway!
My maternal grandmother was the matriarch of our family. In her later years, she was confined to a wheelchair, so doing things to honor her on Mother's Day generally consisted of converging on the two-bedroom farmhouse where she lived. Mom did it, of course...so the rest of us did, too. Taking my grandmother away from the homestead was out of the question. And then, when my parents retired to that same farmhouse after my grandmother died, the tradition stayed the same. "It's Mother's Day. We need to go and be with Mom to let her know how much we love her!"
We meant well, but you probably can read between the lines on this one: if we were all there, sleeping arrangements were tight, entertainment for the children was short, and the meals were all on Mom! She probably fell into a dead heap at the end of the weekend! It never occurred to us to take our mother out for a meal in those days. Most of us could hardly afford taking ourselves out, much less tack on the price of Mom and Dad's meals. It also never occurred--to me, at least--to contribute financially or in-kind for the holiday visits. What was I thinking?? It had always been this way. I just fell into the cracks. And to be honest, I don't think Mom would have had it any other way.
I think the most peaceful Mother's Day I ever had was when my daughter was 6-months pregnant with my first grandchild. (I've written about this before but had my details wrong when I did.) She and her husband were living and working at the Friendswood Golf Course, and Meg was working the clubhouse that Sunday morning. It was easy/slow work for her. I took her a McDonald's breakfast and a gift of some maternity shorts and a top to match. She wasn't expecting it, so it was extra special for me. I think she said something like, "You really do love me!" Well...yeah!
One Mother's Day when Meg was in middle school, she decided to surprise me with breakfast in bed. She had prepared pancakes--or tried to. (She wasn't adept in the kitchen yet.) What she delivered to me in the bedroom was what she called "pancake pieces". And so they were, complete with a burn on her arm from touching something she shouldn't have touched. (I think she still has the scar from that!)
So here we are. Before I even left my daughter's place a few weeks ago, she asked if I wanted to meet up halfway between here and there for a Mother's Day meal together. And just yesterday, she was bemoaning the fact that she hadn't bought anything for me for MD. So?? Since when did MD become another gift-giving "holiday"? It was meant only to be a day to honor one's mother. I don't need flowers or gifts to know that my child loves me. She is a mother in her own right now. Time to pass the baton to the next generation! I don't need "stuff". What I need is attention, and I get that. Can't complain!
A couple of years ago, my daughter and family were here for MD, combined (if I remember correctly) with my son-in-law's birthday. Meg, God bless her, had a very elegant brunch planned for me and Grandma Judy. She had a delicious fruit salad, baked blueberry French toast with homemade blueberry syrup, other goodies, and homemade Mimosas to drink. She worked on it for two days, and we endeavored to make the table look as elegant as the fare. It was all very delightful, but I'm quite sure that she forgot that the day should honor her, too....and that she was probably exhausted when she finally arrived home to the Chicago area. I wouldn't trade it for anything....but I wouldn't ask for it, either. It was priceless!
I'm rambling here. I think my whole message is that Mother's Day is a nice way to remember those who are/were our cheerleaders in life and that we owe them our undying love and gratitude, but doing that needs to happen every day of the year, not just on Mother's Day. The other part of my message is that, by the very nature of motherhood, moms don't need to be feted on MD. When they gave birth, they accepted the responsibilities of being mothers. Why do we need to be celebrated for changing diapers and being there every step of the way? It came with the job!
Happy Mothers Day to those of you who took on the job, whether you are a female mom or a dad doing both jobs. If you don't have any kids, Happy Mother's Day anyway!
The Shower That Wasn't
I'm certain I have said this before: I hate showers. All my life, I have been a bath person, and since junior high, I have been a bath oil person. Showers dry out my skin and make me cold when I emerge.
Baths in bath oil, however, are wonderfully good for my skin, and because the skin is covered with an oil layer upon completion, there is no cold blast. Unfortunately, my age and agility challenges make baths a bit more difficult. I end up showering whether I want to or not.
I don't shower every day. Most people do, but since I don't do anything to make me sweat or get dirty, I shower when I need to. Thus, if I say I need a shower, I mean I really need a shower! Today was one of those days. I planned to attend an evening event with former school people, so I figured I should clean up. Right?
So...there I was, standing naked in the tub, all ready to shower. Had my face greased up with cold cream and was adjusting the water temp so the blast when I pulled up the shower plunger wouldn't send me into cold-water shock...but...I couldn't budge the shower plunger! I tugged and pulled. I even padded my hand with the washcloth to see if that would give me an advantage. I put my considerable weight behind the yank, but nothing happened. It had been stubborn before, but now it was impossible.
What to do?
I considered just plugging the drain and taking a bath, but the bottom of the tub was dirty from previous showers, and I didn't want to exit the tub to get the bath oil. Thus, I made do. I used the washcloth to soak up the water and lather and wash and splash and try to figure out if I was actually making a difference. Obviously, my hair would have to be washed at the kitchen sink. I was doing a lot of bending over to get the washcloth lathered and rinsed, etc...and I don't bend over well. UGH!!
I guess that I came out of the shower cleaner than I went in. I now have another repair on my to-do list. Heh heh...when I was telling my story to the folks at the evening event, the young men took off at my mention that I was standing in the shower, naked. There is something repulsive to young folks about thinking of their elders as romantically entangled or nude. Their problem, not mine!
So...tomorrow I will deal with the shower plunger. For tonight, I am saying that I'm clean. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!
Baths in bath oil, however, are wonderfully good for my skin, and because the skin is covered with an oil layer upon completion, there is no cold blast. Unfortunately, my age and agility challenges make baths a bit more difficult. I end up showering whether I want to or not.
I don't shower every day. Most people do, but since I don't do anything to make me sweat or get dirty, I shower when I need to. Thus, if I say I need a shower, I mean I really need a shower! Today was one of those days. I planned to attend an evening event with former school people, so I figured I should clean up. Right?
So...there I was, standing naked in the tub, all ready to shower. Had my face greased up with cold cream and was adjusting the water temp so the blast when I pulled up the shower plunger wouldn't send me into cold-water shock...but...I couldn't budge the shower plunger! I tugged and pulled. I even padded my hand with the washcloth to see if that would give me an advantage. I put my considerable weight behind the yank, but nothing happened. It had been stubborn before, but now it was impossible.
What to do?
I considered just plugging the drain and taking a bath, but the bottom of the tub was dirty from previous showers, and I didn't want to exit the tub to get the bath oil. Thus, I made do. I used the washcloth to soak up the water and lather and wash and splash and try to figure out if I was actually making a difference. Obviously, my hair would have to be washed at the kitchen sink. I was doing a lot of bending over to get the washcloth lathered and rinsed, etc...and I don't bend over well. UGH!!
I guess that I came out of the shower cleaner than I went in. I now have another repair on my to-do list. Heh heh...when I was telling my story to the folks at the evening event, the young men took off at my mention that I was standing in the shower, naked. There is something repulsive to young folks about thinking of their elders as romantically entangled or nude. Their problem, not mine!
So...tomorrow I will deal with the shower plunger. For tonight, I am saying that I'm clean. That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Real Tools for the Female Single Life
Once upon a time, when I became a single woman, one of my single female friends told me that the first thing she did when she got divorced was to buy a power drill. I figured she knew what she was talking about, so I did that, too. It was good to have but certainly not the end-all and be-all of what I needed to get along without a male partner.
I was divorced in 1991, and became a ham radio operator in 1997. As one of the sparce females in the radio hobby, I got lots of help and advice from male radio friends. One told me, on the air, that I could "bring [my] bobbie pins" and join him in a tower project. (I could virtually hear the thud of other listeners hitting the floor in disbelief that he had said something that sexist on the air, so I seized the moment and had fun with it for a lot of years.) Another time on the air, one of my radio friends told me that he would check the spark plugs in my car if I supplied my feeler gauges. "My WHAAAT??" The whole listening radio world laughed. (I know what feeler gauges are now, but I sure didn't back then. Do you??)
So, what tools you really need in order to survive as a female alone? Think about it. Here's my list
1. Backscratcher.
Self-explanatory, because sometimes things itch back there that you just can't reach. Truth be known, even if you have a spouse or partner willing to scratch your back for you, they often don't get the exact right spot. Although scratching your own back with a backscratcher sounds very unromantic, it gets the job done. I have four bamboo scratcher wands--one of which was my dad's. Dad's came back to the States from Japan in 1958, and stayed as part of the supplies of the nest he had by his recliner. God help you if his permanently-stained Jim Beam glass, his TV guide from the newspaper, or his backscratcher were out of place!
2. Stepstool.
My house burns out light bulbs like you wouldn't believe. Having no one tall in the house to reach the burned ones to replace them, I invested in a collapsible stepstool. It also helps me reach the top shelves of my kitchen cabinets. Not pretty, but very useful.
3. Grabber.
Grabber? What's a grabber, you might ask? A grabber is a little square or circular flexible rubber thingie that you can use to grab a stubborn jar lid in order to loosen it. This is my most critical "single person" tool. I'm usually pretty good at opening jars, having learned some of the tricks from my mother, but as I get older and have less strength in my hands, the grabber has become essential to my kitchen functioning.
The very first grabber I had was a give-away from the Indiana State Fair many years ago. On the front was printed that it came from the "Animal Board of Health"...and the rest of it showed the recommended temperatures for cooking different types of meat. (Megan got a charge out of that. She said it sure didn't seem healthy for the animals that had been cooked!) That piece of rubber developed a tear in it and eventually disappeared. Do you think I could find anything to replace it? No...but I did find some rubbery squares at the grocery store that were meant to go under things to prevent them from scratching wood surfaces. They were sold in packs of three. I figured I was good forever with those. But, as with socks in the dryer, they eventually disappeared too, and I could NOT find them again anywhere. Finally, in desperation, I bought a bit of rubbery netting designed to go under throw rugs to keep them from sliding. I cut out several squares of that and stashed the rest. (I have MORE than enough left over to keep me for awhile, if I can remember where I put it.) I had to slap one of them down for Grandpa Phil when the family was here at Christmas to help loosen a jar lid that even he couldn't get. Worked like a charm!
4. Magnifying glass.
I hate this one, even though I need it. I can't hand a bottle to someone and ask them to read the fine print to me...so...even with my "readers" on, I have to resort to magnification. Unfortunately, the magnifier I have isn't really cutting it anymore, so I need to resort to bigger and better. I get really irritated with magazines, etc, that print things on a colored background. Without good light and good contrast, I miss a lot.
As for other tools, I have them all--hammers and screwdrivers and pliers. Feeler gauges. Even soldering irons and all of the other clap-trap that ham radio requires. But the tools that get used the most and are the most helpful are the ones listed. The only one missing is the one that plants money trees. Now, that one would be really, really useful!
I was divorced in 1991, and became a ham radio operator in 1997. As one of the sparce females in the radio hobby, I got lots of help and advice from male radio friends. One told me, on the air, that I could "bring [my] bobbie pins" and join him in a tower project. (I could virtually hear the thud of other listeners hitting the floor in disbelief that he had said something that sexist on the air, so I seized the moment and had fun with it for a lot of years.) Another time on the air, one of my radio friends told me that he would check the spark plugs in my car if I supplied my feeler gauges. "My WHAAAT??" The whole listening radio world laughed. (I know what feeler gauges are now, but I sure didn't back then. Do you??)
So, what tools you really need in order to survive as a female alone? Think about it. Here's my list
1. Backscratcher.
Self-explanatory, because sometimes things itch back there that you just can't reach. Truth be known, even if you have a spouse or partner willing to scratch your back for you, they often don't get the exact right spot. Although scratching your own back with a backscratcher sounds very unromantic, it gets the job done. I have four bamboo scratcher wands--one of which was my dad's. Dad's came back to the States from Japan in 1958, and stayed as part of the supplies of the nest he had by his recliner. God help you if his permanently-stained Jim Beam glass, his TV guide from the newspaper, or his backscratcher were out of place!
2. Stepstool.
My house burns out light bulbs like you wouldn't believe. Having no one tall in the house to reach the burned ones to replace them, I invested in a collapsible stepstool. It also helps me reach the top shelves of my kitchen cabinets. Not pretty, but very useful.
3. Grabber.
Grabber? What's a grabber, you might ask? A grabber is a little square or circular flexible rubber thingie that you can use to grab a stubborn jar lid in order to loosen it. This is my most critical "single person" tool. I'm usually pretty good at opening jars, having learned some of the tricks from my mother, but as I get older and have less strength in my hands, the grabber has become essential to my kitchen functioning.
The very first grabber I had was a give-away from the Indiana State Fair many years ago. On the front was printed that it came from the "Animal Board of Health"...and the rest of it showed the recommended temperatures for cooking different types of meat. (Megan got a charge out of that. She said it sure didn't seem healthy for the animals that had been cooked!) That piece of rubber developed a tear in it and eventually disappeared. Do you think I could find anything to replace it? No...but I did find some rubbery squares at the grocery store that were meant to go under things to prevent them from scratching wood surfaces. They were sold in packs of three. I figured I was good forever with those. But, as with socks in the dryer, they eventually disappeared too, and I could NOT find them again anywhere. Finally, in desperation, I bought a bit of rubbery netting designed to go under throw rugs to keep them from sliding. I cut out several squares of that and stashed the rest. (I have MORE than enough left over to keep me for awhile, if I can remember where I put it.) I had to slap one of them down for Grandpa Phil when the family was here at Christmas to help loosen a jar lid that even he couldn't get. Worked like a charm!
4. Magnifying glass.
I hate this one, even though I need it. I can't hand a bottle to someone and ask them to read the fine print to me...so...even with my "readers" on, I have to resort to magnification. Unfortunately, the magnifier I have isn't really cutting it anymore, so I need to resort to bigger and better. I get really irritated with magazines, etc, that print things on a colored background. Without good light and good contrast, I miss a lot.
As for other tools, I have them all--hammers and screwdrivers and pliers. Feeler gauges. Even soldering irons and all of the other clap-trap that ham radio requires. But the tools that get used the most and are the most helpful are the ones listed. The only one missing is the one that plants money trees. Now, that one would be really, really useful!
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Workin' the Mini
Everyone in Central Indiana knows that the month of May belongs to Indy due to the 500-mile race held over Memorial Day weekend, and the first Saturday of May begins the festivities with the Indianapolis Mini-Marathon. This is a 13-mile marathon race that runs in an around the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, culminating a whole year's worth of planning and organizing. Running the 2.5 oval of the speedway track comes about midway through the racecourse, so it's a milestone of sorts.
Most people don't know this, but amateur radio operators play a huge role in the Mini. There are operators stationed at every checkpoint, every first aid tent, and at other strategic places to communicate needs with the authorities that are in control of the operation of the race and the safety of the runners. Radio operators all listen to and report on the same radio frequency, thus forming a network, and the guys at the command center are Net Controls. Everything goes through them. This year (today, in fact) there are 75 radio operators workin' the Mini.
For two Minis a few years ago, I was one of those operators. I had a "cushy" station: the entrance to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway on 16th Street, and my only responsibility was to be a spotter. Nice work if you can get it! We all used tactical call signs rather than our own, for convenience. For example, it was quicker and easier to identify oneself as "Checkpoint 1" rather than N9QT--the latter of which would require the Net Control to have to look up where N9QT was stationed. And we all worked under, basically, the same set of instructions: Don't leave your station without checking in and checking out. Identify runners in need of assistance by number, gender, and first name only. Report emergencies as priority. And call in when certain people were spotted at each station. We were to report when the fireman running in full call-out gear passed, as well as first wheelchair "runner", first male runner, first female runner, the location of the "tail end" bus, etc. Other than that, stay off the air!
(I should note that the location of the bus was always a source of concern for the runners. It was meant to pick up the stragglers at the end of the race who couldn't finish for whatever reason. If they dropped out early, they either had to walk to the Finish Line--which could be miles away--or wait for the bus.
Most didn't understand that it could be an hour or two or more before the bus would be able to get to them. Frustrating for them, I'm sure.)
In my case, I was calling in the required information from the entrance to the Speedway, which was kind of a "happening" place to be. Several first-timers would hesitate there to have their pictures taken with the "Welcome to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway" sign over their heads. Many would cheer as they entered just by way of having made that milestone. I was able to slap a high-five or two with some of my colleagues from school who were running the race. It was just exciting to share in all of that as a radio operator. Would I ever have been a runner? Not on your life!
There were some amusing things heard on the network, and there was some drama, too. Being on a network like that requires some awareness of confidentiality. It's not up to the spotters to comment on situations but to report them to the Net Control who was rubbing elbows with the police, ambulances, and Marathon authorities. Once relieved of the day's responsibilities, it also behooved us not to talk about some of that stuff on the air. Someone died a year or two ago, due to exertion and temperatures, but we didn't comment on the air, during or even after the fact. The authorities can handle all of that. It was sobering enough just to hear them calling in the need for an ambulance and trying to locate the man's wife at the Finish Line, then trying to determine what hospital the runner was being transported to...and finding a way for his family to get to the hospital. (They were from out of state.) Thankfully, much of that was handled on another frequency. With 30,000 participants, the Mini presents a slice of life, from blisters and bruises to fatigue and heat stroke. Never a dull moment.
The most amusing thing I heard on the net happened on a particularly warm day: "This is Checkpoint 8. We have a male runner in need of medical assistance. His number is 4560, and he doesn't know his name." Self-explanatory!
The most touching thing I observed came at the Speedway Entrance. A young lady, probably in her mid-20s, stood off to the side of the entrance, all by herself, weeping. I watched her for a moment or two, trying to figure out if she was injured, if she was quitting the race early and mad at herself for not making it further, if she was upset that her time wasn't better... (You just never know with runners!) I didn't want to intrude on her privacy but decided to see if she needed assistance. She didn't, she assured me, then told me that she had been running the Mini with her father--just a Daddy and Daughter thing--for the past ten years; but (as you might have guessed), her father had just died a month or so before, and reaching the entrance to the Speedway without him was an emotional moment for her. I gave her a hug and a tissue as she pulled herself together so she could continue the race--for her dad. I'm not at all sure that she would remember sharing that one raw minute with me, but it honored me that she did. And it just goes to show that one never knows the burdens people carry, even with an event as festive as the Mini.
Once again, "the Kenyans" have won. These are fellows from Kenya who enter (and win) the Mini every year. It gets a bit anti-climactic, really...but this year's Kenyan actually broke the course record, running 13 miles in one hour, one minute, and 53 seconds. I'm sorry I wasn't there to cheer him on, but I long ago decided that it is best to let the younger radio operators take over for me. I'll admit, however, that I did have a few minutes of wishing I was there and part of it all again. I worked the Mini from my living room, watching it on TV!
Most people don't know this, but amateur radio operators play a huge role in the Mini. There are operators stationed at every checkpoint, every first aid tent, and at other strategic places to communicate needs with the authorities that are in control of the operation of the race and the safety of the runners. Radio operators all listen to and report on the same radio frequency, thus forming a network, and the guys at the command center are Net Controls. Everything goes through them. This year (today, in fact) there are 75 radio operators workin' the Mini.
For two Minis a few years ago, I was one of those operators. I had a "cushy" station: the entrance to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway on 16th Street, and my only responsibility was to be a spotter. Nice work if you can get it! We all used tactical call signs rather than our own, for convenience. For example, it was quicker and easier to identify oneself as "Checkpoint 1" rather than N9QT--the latter of which would require the Net Control to have to look up where N9QT was stationed. And we all worked under, basically, the same set of instructions: Don't leave your station without checking in and checking out. Identify runners in need of assistance by number, gender, and first name only. Report emergencies as priority. And call in when certain people were spotted at each station. We were to report when the fireman running in full call-out gear passed, as well as first wheelchair "runner", first male runner, first female runner, the location of the "tail end" bus, etc. Other than that, stay off the air!
(I should note that the location of the bus was always a source of concern for the runners. It was meant to pick up the stragglers at the end of the race who couldn't finish for whatever reason. If they dropped out early, they either had to walk to the Finish Line--which could be miles away--or wait for the bus.
Most didn't understand that it could be an hour or two or more before the bus would be able to get to them. Frustrating for them, I'm sure.)
In my case, I was calling in the required information from the entrance to the Speedway, which was kind of a "happening" place to be. Several first-timers would hesitate there to have their pictures taken with the "Welcome to the Indianapolis Motor Speedway" sign over their heads. Many would cheer as they entered just by way of having made that milestone. I was able to slap a high-five or two with some of my colleagues from school who were running the race. It was just exciting to share in all of that as a radio operator. Would I ever have been a runner? Not on your life!
There were some amusing things heard on the network, and there was some drama, too. Being on a network like that requires some awareness of confidentiality. It's not up to the spotters to comment on situations but to report them to the Net Control who was rubbing elbows with the police, ambulances, and Marathon authorities. Once relieved of the day's responsibilities, it also behooved us not to talk about some of that stuff on the air. Someone died a year or two ago, due to exertion and temperatures, but we didn't comment on the air, during or even after the fact. The authorities can handle all of that. It was sobering enough just to hear them calling in the need for an ambulance and trying to locate the man's wife at the Finish Line, then trying to determine what hospital the runner was being transported to...and finding a way for his family to get to the hospital. (They were from out of state.) Thankfully, much of that was handled on another frequency. With 30,000 participants, the Mini presents a slice of life, from blisters and bruises to fatigue and heat stroke. Never a dull moment.
The most amusing thing I heard on the net happened on a particularly warm day: "This is Checkpoint 8. We have a male runner in need of medical assistance. His number is 4560, and he doesn't know his name." Self-explanatory!
The most touching thing I observed came at the Speedway Entrance. A young lady, probably in her mid-20s, stood off to the side of the entrance, all by herself, weeping. I watched her for a moment or two, trying to figure out if she was injured, if she was quitting the race early and mad at herself for not making it further, if she was upset that her time wasn't better... (You just never know with runners!) I didn't want to intrude on her privacy but decided to see if she needed assistance. She didn't, she assured me, then told me that she had been running the Mini with her father--just a Daddy and Daughter thing--for the past ten years; but (as you might have guessed), her father had just died a month or so before, and reaching the entrance to the Speedway without him was an emotional moment for her. I gave her a hug and a tissue as she pulled herself together so she could continue the race--for her dad. I'm not at all sure that she would remember sharing that one raw minute with me, but it honored me that she did. And it just goes to show that one never knows the burdens people carry, even with an event as festive as the Mini.
Once again, "the Kenyans" have won. These are fellows from Kenya who enter (and win) the Mini every year. It gets a bit anti-climactic, really...but this year's Kenyan actually broke the course record, running 13 miles in one hour, one minute, and 53 seconds. I'm sorry I wasn't there to cheer him on, but I long ago decided that it is best to let the younger radio operators take over for me. I'll admit, however, that I did have a few minutes of wishing I was there and part of it all again. I worked the Mini from my living room, watching it on TV!