Now, this is scary

Dan and Joe came to fix the plumbing leak this morning. It was right there under the sink. Dan even raised the foot on one side of the dishwasher to make it level and stop the door from binding.

As I always do, I took a picture of them on their hands and knees, working. You know, illustrated stories. Didn't think any more of it until an hour or so later. I was visiting with a friend, and my phone made a new ping.

I took a look, and wound up appalled. My phone was offering to let me share a photo with an apparent Google circle entity at the location the photo was taken. That circle member was identified as the management company of my mobile home complex. 

Still baffled, as I could not make out the picture from the thumbnail, I tapped for the full offer, and there was a picture of Dan and Joe, fixing the leak. I would never have used the picture; it was rude. But, Google looked at a picture on my phone, associated it with the location and wanted to post it to their employer's Google circle.

And, that is frightening.

At my Thanksgiving gathering, one guest and I were chatting about the intrusion of intelligence into our lives. She told me that "they" listen to phone conversations, and then flood your internet with ads relating to subjects or products you might have discussed. I was skeptical.

After today, I think I will enlist a friend to help me conduct a test and find out if we're watching Home Depot and Victoria's Secret spots streamed down both sides of our computer screens after we chat them up.

I have one more subject for today. I cannot think of a category for this one. When Dan and Joe came in this morning, about nine, Dan complained it was cold. But, he complains about everything. I knew I'd just turned the heat up from my overnight 62 degrees, and blew him off.

When I came in from work at two this afternoon, Dan was right. It was cold in here. Sixty two and sinking. Management sent the dynamic duo right back. Joe ran back and forth for tools; Dan lay on his stomach in my small laundry room, testing out theories with volt meters.

Here is the conclusion. The red wire from the thermostat to "the board" in the furnace is shorted. "Some fool" probably stapled it down ( they could not pull it more than a foot out of the wall at the thermostat) instead of letting it lay loose "up there," and a probable nick has shorted through.  It cannot be fixed until tomorrow, when "Chip" can come a pull a new wire. Shame that fool stapled it down, else a new one could be pulled along the same route.

Dan and Joe went to the office and returned with two space heaters for us. They put one in the kitchen and one in the living room. After supper we turned them on, to warm up the house before bedtime. We promptly popped a breaker. We unplugged the kitchen heater; Nancy Drew located the breaker in a flash and put it back in order.

Looks like we'll be sharing the cat tonight.

Nancy Drew knows

There are two bathrooms in our new digs. Mine sprung a leak, and it’s not my problem.

In the old house, eventually I might come across a piece of plywood nailed down, and on investigating find it was to repair a leak that no one knew how to resolve in another way. It became my problem to ascertain the cumulative damage and find the repair people needed.

But, now it’s not my problem.

A while back I found water on the floor. I cleaned it up, and kept an eye on it. It didn’t happen when I used the shower. It didn’t happen when I flushed the toilet. I decided a washcloth I’d hung over the tub to dry had dripped, mopped up the puddle and forgot it.

Sunday we had company. Sunday evening I found a puddle. I cleaned it up and wondered if it came from the shower I took that morning. In the middle of the night the puddle was back, and by yesterday morning soaked the towel I threw over it.

I called management, and Dan and his helper Joe were dispatched.

Dan surveyed the puddle. He flushed the toilet. The puddle did not increase. He filled the tub with water and drained it. The puddle did not increase. He and Joe went outside and “pulled a panel.” No wet insulation. He came back in, mopped up the puddle and told me to be more careful.

The floor was dry all day.

I was home yesterday. My six year old battery went toes up; I had to wait for a jump. That failed. They sent a Jerr-Dan. Right in front of my house, the Jerr-Dan went toes up. Not my problem. Dan and Joe trailing about looking for a water leak helped ameliorate my car frustration. AAA sent a new Jerr-Dan and Dan and Joe left.

I did spend an hour at Goodyear, having my battery replaced. Got home five minutes before the kid, and counting the day a total waste, just hung out for the rest of the night. Bathroom floor was dry, until after a lovely supper of rigatoni in homemade chicken Alfredo. Nicely plated. And, we ran the dishwasher.

Nancy Drew looked at the puddle and puzzled, and realized the common denominator was the dishwasher on the other side of the bathroom wall. It ran on Sunday, after company, and ran last night, after supper.

I went to work today, after the long weekend plus Monday. I stopped at the office on my return and made an appointment to have Dan come tomorrow morning to look at all the towels in the bathtub. I’ll start the dishwasher when he calls to say he’s on the way.

July 20th was 19 weeks ago

It's over for another year. I have Saturday's back.The band uniform is at the dry cleaner for the last time.  Saturday's don't start for real until next week, though. It was Saturday when I went to bed last night. 

It was nearly noon when we stumbled out the door today to take on Saturday shopping. Miss Less Awake than I rummaged in the back end of the car for several minutes before she handed me the shopping bags. She won't carry "granny" shopping bags into the store.

Our market is one of those new build warehouse sized emporiums so beloved of millennials. It's simply a rebranded Giant Eagle. Too big for me; Laura heads off with the shopping list and I wait on the wrong side of the registers until she finally comes down the chute and is directed to a lane. "Please proceed to Lane 13!

This time Laura sorted out a red bag and a green, in honor of the season. Her best laid plans went awry; we still came home with a couple of plastic bags.

After lunch, we set out to find some more ornaments and the star to top the tree. I thought about this over the week and decided on a garden center. They specialize in seasonal decorations, and seemed a great idea. One block down the road I had a moment! Why was I heading across town when we have a fine nursery across the street.

We bought a wreath, all the rest of the ornaments, and a star for the top of the tree.

Toby is happy to keep watch over the tree now. No more hiding underneath.

Can they win another game for Joe

It’s the state semi-finals tonight, Joe. And they’re matched against the same team that took them down last year, but barely.

It was a beautiful night last year. As I left from taking Emily for band inspection, folks were beginning to gather at the intersections of the residential and main roads. Why, I wondered, and then realized they were gathering to cheer the team buses. (They probably cheered the band buses, too.)

The team spirit of the city impressed me, and I swing around back into town to sit in the grocery store parking lot and watch. It was inspiring. Homemade signs, the beat up yard signs signifying the home of a band member (Loud is Good), anything they could get over their heads, the parents waved.

Tonight I had to get Laura to school way early.  The director wants to see how many gave up the holiday to march in the band, decide what sort of a show they could put on, and run through it. Sadly, it’s cold and drizzly. I bet the parents were at the corners anyway; football is a pretty big deal around here.

Instead of going home tonight, I went straight through on the main road and out to another township past mine. An old acquaintance is newly admitted to a care facility there, the memory unit. When the aid took me to her, she knew me and knew my name as soon as I spoke it. She remembered and used it the rest of the visit.

We had such a good chat. One of the sisters associated with the facility stopped to introduce herself, and my friend introduced me. The sister asked me to stay to supper and went and arranged us a private table and another meal. I couldn’t believe I signed out more than two hours after I signed in.

So, a cheer for Jean, too, who told me she would be ninety on her next birthday, “whenever that is. I was born in 1927.” That needs cheering from the street corner, too.

Why she needs a head start

December is Laura's flat out favorite month.

Early on, her birthday. Later on, Christmas.

It's the present thing, I believe.

It started last weekend when Laura wondered what we should do for stockings this year. I volunteered to ask Aunt Janice for ours, and she asked if I would be offended if we just looked for our own.

"What about any of the ornaments?" She hoped never to see those again, either.

So, we went to look at what is up for sale this year.

Needless to say...

We picked out a little tree, some garland, and the beginning of the ornaments.

We do have thirty odd days to accumulate ornaments we like. (I liked the owl!)

Mr. You Know Who hasn't knocked it over yet, an annual occurrence at the old house.

He does nap on the tree skirt every day, 

after his obligatory pounce to shake out mice or things.

One of the first things Laura hopes to find is the star. 

In the meantime, a Santa hat.

Perimeter patrol

My cat ownership goes back to my college days, and I've never permitted a cat on a counter.

At the old house some cats were hell bent on hitting the counter when the two leggers were done in the kitchen. Purrl was an awful offender, looking for the last splatter.

Toby had Purrl to show him how to do it, but was never interested.

The first time I saw Toby in this window he raised two paws and said, "You caught me, but it's the only south facing window I can reach. Don't take it away from me."

And, I haven't.

As you can tell, he did have a job to do up here. Something has his attention. He is all purpose.

Watching him settle in is worth the price of admission.

Of all our treasures up there, 

only the bird moved.

Look at that tail, just so, around the butterfly, under the bird.

And look at those ears! Something he must know about is happening on the street.

Home

This Google Earth image was taken in June of this year, the month before I moved in. When I called the trash company for service, the representative had to find my GPS coordinates. I said about half way down my road, on the east side, a double wide. "With the red roof?" "The next one south!" Mr. Next Door has the only red roof in the park.

In June, my unit was brand new, surrounded by mud and ruts, no drive yet. You can see my front and back decks. The next unit after me has a tenant now; lovely lady. She finished the deal with the lone handyman to get dirt in between our units and get it ready for grass. I have a shed back there, now, and I believe her clincher was "She's going to fall back there, and won't you be in trouble!"

All those brown rectangles are sites prepared for a trailer "to drop." Management seems to drop one or two a week. Those two rectangles behind me have units in them, being prepped for occupation. The rectangle 4th down from the red roof has two rows of concrete plugs in the ground; each as big around as a 55 gallon steel drum, and pretty deep. The unit rests on them. You know I just have to know everything.

Years ago I worked for Forest City Enterprises in Cleveland, and they built high rise apartments from prefabricated units that were built in Akron and taken by train to their location. When they left the old car barn in Akron, where they were made, the sinks were installed, the closet rods in place, lighting--just the toilet was secured in a closet so it would not break in transit. 

I realized that's exactly the situation here. Manufactured homes. These are not trailers, but they are mobile homes. I need to stop saying "the trailer park," and say "the mobile home park." Or not.

A unit going in behind me. The yellow unit beside it is in one of the two rectangles behind me. This one is in place but not dropped. It's still on wheels.

Now the wheels are off, on the left, and the axels are on the right. Workers will get underneath and get the hook ups situated, then drop the unit and install the white skirting. I'd love to be here when they "drop" it.

Don't mourn, organize!

You can call the House Oversight Committee and add your voice to the call for a bi-partisan review of Donald Trump's financial records and potential conflicts of interest. The phone numbers are: 202-225-5074 or 202-225-5051. They are counting every phone call! If you can't get through, call the White House switchboard: 202-224-3121.

Lunch with Jeanette

I lived at the top of my old road for twenty eight years. Jeanette lived at the bottom most of her life. She called on the new owner of my old house and told her what to expect, and to be prepared to tell her if the mail has been delivered in the winter. Jeanette has a long lane and cannot see her mail box from her house.

Then Jeanette headed off for my house. The lovely new lady of the old house called and forewarned me. 

I like Jeanette. She's self entertaining; she talks all the time and seldom expects an answer. She had two invitations to lunch sponsored by the middle school (where Laura was just last year), and the person she always takes is feeling poorly, so, of course, "I thought of you right away." And off we went.

Heading to be served our Thanksgiving dinner. The little face over Jeanette's shoulder is leading us to the head of the line. I apologized to the youngster in red shoes for cutting in, and he said, "No, please, you go first."

The string ensemble played, and probably well, but could not be heard over the lunch room din.

My place mat. I considered obliterating the name at the bottom, but on consideration I think the lovely little saying may be one of those ubiquitous Irish proverbs, and is cited as Ireland, County Derry. If some parents with the surname of Derry chose to name a child Ireland, Hooray! I am descended from County Derry.

Jeanette's plate.

My plate. Same as above, without turkey, shredded, and dessert. From six o'clock around, one ice cream scoop of Stove Top stuffing, extra salt. That large, horrid canned corn. One melon scoop of sweet potatoes, extra sugar, oatmeal topping. One spoonful of apple pie filling. One serving of jellied cranberry sauce. One ice cream scoop of instant mashed potatoes, extra salt. I'm still waiting for the salt and preservative induced skull splitting headache to subside. 

We were constantly attended by seventh graders who wondered if the food was good and what did we have for family Thanksgiving. When their shift ended, they disappeared and were replaced by new caretakers. It was all too sweet, and Jeanette had someone to listen to her for an hour.

Jeanette's bumper sticker. She said once she got out of her car and found a perfectly coiffed and well dressed woman reading it. When Jeanette came back to her car, she found a dollar bill under her windshield wiper. It said: "I am rich, but I will help you." Jeanette pulled it out of her purse and showed me.

Meanwhile, in other news, The Indoor Band Show

I saw earplugs distributed.

I left the hearing aids at home.

The band, streaming down the aisles,

assembling onstage.

There are more than two hundred in the band.

Onstage.

Up the stairs.

And, in the balconies.

Instead of the regular tall marching hat, many wore costume hats.

That's our trumpeter there. The short one.

More hats.

The best hat!

The kid.

Only two playoff games left.

With luck, only one.

How went your day?

My week is settling out well, but today did not have an awesome beginning. My Sunbeam toaster lever would not engage. Sunbeam, the brand of our mothers and grandmothers and great grandmothers!

I had bread and butter for breakfast, not my usual warm, crunchy and evenly toasted slices of eight grain bread.

I met my accountant in town. She walks everywhere, and was walking down the library drive when I spotted her. We reset a cancelled appointment for this week. I went to work, then home for lunch before my card playing Monday afternoon.

When I opened the tap for water for coffee, there was no water. I called the office—it would be a ten minute problem. I left the coffee ready to add water, ate lunch, rinsed my hands with water from the fridge, and went to play cards with the Methodists.

Cards with the Methodists is a great start to the week. The Methodist church in town is dwindling in membership and decided to sponsor a weekly card session with anyone who wanted to play. 

Sadly, only four of us are at the table. As the only non-Methodist playing, I’ve felt a little guilty, and considered offering them an out if the three of them wanted to cut bait. But, I enjoy myself so much I haven’t put the offer on the table.

Today there were three of us. We played two fierce games that can only happen when too few players have engaged too often, recognize the bidding strategies of each other and set out to play tight, well bantered rounds. I lost the first game by two points and was devastatingly ahead when we had to call the second game for lack of time.

The best news is, in their current bulletin, Mother of Sorrows will be invited to join us.

Getting home before the school bus, I packed up my five month old toaster for return to the store tonight. I put water in the coffee reservoir and flipped the switch. Nothing. I tried an outlet further down the counter. Nothing. I went to the breaker box and located the outlets. The breaker wasn’t tripped, but I flipped it anyway. Nothing.

I moved an outlet closer to the sink, and tried resetting the GFI. Down at my toaster/coffee pot end of the counter, the coffee pot looked back with a red eye. Just for fun, I unbagged the Sunbeam and plugged it in.  The lever engaged and the warm smell of re-toasted bread crumbs wafted up. Trouble shooting electricity has never been my strong point.

Next time I will listen to Sunbeam at nine in the morning.

An old story

Long, long ago, when I was demonstrating spinning somewhere, I looked at a man’s belt buckle and looked again. Belt buckles are easy to spot from a chair in front of a spinning wheel. The man had been watching for some time, and I broke the conversational ice.

“87^th Airborne. So was my brother-in-law.”

“Yes,” he said. “And I’m a very good spinner. May I try your wheel.”

He matched my grist in a few seconds, and as he sat and spun from the roving he said he was a paratrooper in the war. A failed jump landed him the Belgium countryside, with an injured leg. He was swarmed by men and women who gathered up him and his parachute, and helped him into a farmhouse.

They examined him, pronounced him likely to live, and dressed him up as an old grandmother. Since he would be sitting out his injury in any event, they put him in front of a spinning wheel and told him to make it look good.  He taught himself to spin, behind the lines, with his Belgian underground rescuers, and eventually rejoined his unit and carried on.

I’ve remembered his story of a mission and working during the delay for these last twenty years. I’ve always been partial to the work business, and now I have a mission to go with it.  I’ve joined the Ohio Democratic Woman’s Caucus. And, Amazon will have the rest of my missing sewing machine parts in my mail box on Monday.

In short order I will be making quilt tops for sick kids to drag around and stuffing envelopes for the cause.

Don’t mourn, organize. Some pictures from this week:

The little pear tree is winding down for the year.

The mandevillas carry on. There hasn't been a hard frost, yet.

The birds won out.

My township will benefit from this election, and so will I

When I became Fiscal Officer, thirteen years ago, I continued my regular working hours. Up at seven, behind the desk by eight. I was stunned the minuscule amount of work involved in the job, part time though it was.

To earn my keep, I sorted through all my work and streamlined it for my auditors. Then I filed ten or more years of zoning paperwork hanging around in the meeting room. I looked for more jobs, found them, started them. 

That’s when I hit the wall. Two thirds of the trustees had no problem, one third screamed “Exceeding your authority….!!!”

I hit the wall so often in my first term, I lost twenty pounds. I stuck it chiefly due to the friendship of another first term clerk who had a sympathetic and knowledgeable mayor to work with.

By my second term our post office didn’t open until nine, and why should I go back at nine to get the mail when I was at the office at eight. I simply set my alarm ahead an hour to accommodate the post office. I still had the work done in three hours a day, two or three days a week. (Yes, I quit going to the post office most days.)

I kept my hand in at exceeding my authority (and taking the consequences from the 1/3). Didn’t want to lose my edge. It’s like driving fast now and then.

This third term I still get up at eight, but now I read the news, read blogs, even look at FaceBook, before I ever go out the front door. Maybe I get there by ten, if I’m going to work instead of to knitting group or cards. I can wrap it up in so little time I’m occasionally ashamed of myself, so I drag out another half hour in a chat with the Road Super.

Yesterday I brushed my teeth and showered before I turned on the computer and hit the wall again.  I ate breakfast, went to the post office, and was behind the desk by nine. I had my part of the evening trustee meeting prepared by ten, so I came home and sat in my drive until I went to lunch with the knitters, where politics are not allowed.

Today I have my grip.

We are the majority. We have a full deck. Love trumps hate, and so do grace, charity, kindness, respect.

I mailed the bills, filed the paperwork, wrote last night’s minutes and ate my lunch. I’m on my way to the sewing store. I need thread and bobbins and a lint brush and a trash can. I need to make hippie clothes. I’ve marched and stood in front of bulldozers. I can do it again.

Remember Joe Hill. Don’t mourn. Organize.

I dreamed I saw Joe Hill last night,
Alive as you and me.
Says I "But Joe, you're ten years dead"
"I never died" said he.

Ultimate odds and ends

This day is so beautiful. My mandevillas are still blooming full force, and it's November 7th!

I pulled into a friend's drive today, to exchange pleasantries. I took another picture of her privacy fence.

Emily moved out a couple of weeks ago. The 17 year and 11 month old exercised her teenage prerogative to live elsewhere when not in college. Not to worry, "elsewhere" is back at her mother's. 

Laura and I spent Sunday shopping for chairs and stuff to set up a sewing room.

Jan donated back the white tables; I found a real sewing machine on Craig's list, and Laura is happy with her real sewing machine, which simply means not old. When Jan finds the five inch squares, we'll be back in the charity quilt business.

This came with the ironing board. Laura found it amusing that anyone still irons shirts. I found it amusing that anyone did not know how to fold an ironed shirt. The other side should have included instructions on how to iron a shirt, to complete the irony, but the other side is blank.

Dear Joe,

I looked for the box score I was following last night, but it’s gone and I cannot find another. It must have been a good game; the score changed several times in each quarter, and not in six or seven point increments. Always twos and threes. I said to myself, it must be a good game.

I left home with six minutes left in the last quarter. The boys in blue were down, 25 to 23. When I pulled into the end of the line of cars fifteen minutes later, the scoreboard was still lit, and the band was not “playing” everyone off the field.  I supposed the game was just ending. The score was across the top of the board, and I could tell both numbers began with a two.

The band has a protocol I approve of. Actually, they have their own rules of sportsmanship, like not blowing their instruments for a bad play by the opposing team. No badmouthing the other team or band, that sort of stuff. And, they “play” everyone off the field. The drums beat a cadence as the home team and opposing team depart, as the other band marches off, as all the patrons leave. Then they march from the stands and across the field, to the cadence. It’s pretty neat.

It makes the evening longer, because not only have they emptied the stadium, they still must go into the band room and change out of their uniforms.

Not too long after I pulled into line, the cadence did begin, so I settled back to listen to the last act of Los Angeles Radio Theater, and watch the people stream away. Eventually, the stadium lights were out and the band began coming out of the school. Finally, Laura.

“So, you lost?” Grandma hopefully inquired. “No, we won, 29 to 25.”

There you have it. The game is away next Friday. Instead of 12:30, I’ll probably get to bed at 1:30 or 2. A.M., that is. But tonight I must leave in 45 minutes to take the little trumpeter, and me, to the indoor band show, wherein they play their entire repertoire from the marching season. I’ll take the camera, and leave my hearing aids at home.

Run around, run around, I run around

A week ago I said to a mother new to the neighborhood, a child in marching band means you are married to the band from mid July until the football team looses a playoff game, hopefully earlier than the championship game on Thanksgiving. 

"Actually, Gramma," interposed Laura, "you are not married to the band. You are only engaged." 

She's right.

I deal with three hour practice once a week, but games every Friday night are beyond the pale. Every week I read a new email asking for volunteer parents for concessions or bus monitors or some other fool thing. When pigs fly! This band grandmother will never be out in sub-cold weather on behalf of the band.

I found a lovely little web site that recaps the plays and scores--if there is a volunteer score keeper. I see this year the job has devolved to the coach to keep the site updated. It's the second quarter of tonight's first playoff game, and the score has changed hands three or four times. Must be exciting, jumping up and down and rooting for the home team.

But I keep an eye on the quarter and minutes so I have an idea of when to get in line at the high school to pick up our little trumpet player. In my defense, she knows less about football than I know, including players running on the field means the game started.

Married or not, band consumes a lot of time. This week, band and other stuff consumed so much of my week that a couple of projects at work were niggling my conscience. Tonight I dropped Laura at the band door, finally wearing sweats under her uniform, and went to work for a couple of hours. 

The projects are put to bed, and I am home, and waiting to leave to get in line. It is 9:15 pm, the score board web site just posted half time. The home town boys are losing by three points! Be still my heart; for the first time in five years post season may end in one game! Another ninety minutes plus time outs, plus two bands performing, and I can leave.

When I left work, it was dark, dark, dark, and only a tiny sliver of moon. This tree had an eerie glow. Come back tomorrow to see if my relationship with marching band is over for this year.

One picture is all I have

I have a thing about teeth. I must have as many as possible. I recall my mother starting me at the dentist when I was maybe four years old. This would have been 1947ish, mind you. Somehow it was impressed on me as important, and I did it.

There have been tooth adventures along the way. Two bridges to span missing adult teeth. Another bridge because the root of a tooth simply resorbed. "I'll be damned," said the dentist who pulled it, describing the molar almost falling into his hands. I wanted an implant to replace it, but he talked me into a bridge, which I still regret. We had a couple more tooth disagreements, and I moved along to a new dentist.

A couple years ago the matching molar on the other side of my mouth pulled the same root disappearing act, and tumbled into a dentist's hand. It's some autoimmune problem. I got an implant. But, this is about what happened this morning, at the dentist.

An otherwise sound molar developed a cavity at the line above its crown. At my last tooth cleaning I bargained with the dentist, to no avail, to make a plan to go through the crown to fill the cavity.  I made the appointment. I know the drill full well. Five or six hundred dollars to repair the tooth and the same over again to make a new crown. 

I put in my ten o'clock appearance this morning. Fortunately, it turned out, I had no plans before two this afternoon, aside from going to work, which is easily blown off. My tooth was filled, then the dentist put a camera in my mouth and began taking pictures. I heard it beep five or six time, a new angle, another five or six times.

I turned to look at what the dentist was still doing, next to me. There were three teeth on the screen. Granted, the dentist was making the third tooth, actually, my new crown. I was so fascinated I didn't think to pull out my trusty phone until almost the end.

It was a CAD-CAM machine, and she was Computer Assisted Designing my new crown, from the reference photos she took earlier. When she was done she announced my new crown would be ready in fifteen minutes or less.

"What's going on? Is this like 3-D printing?" Actually, in a lab behind the wall of x-rays, a little block of porcelain was being milled into a crown. "Does it come down a conveyor belt or pop up?" Now she was laughing. Actually, the technician went over there and secured the little block of porcelain between two burrs, and started the process.

So, all I have a picture of is the little worm, counting down fifteen minutes of milling.

It still cost $1,140, after my senior discount. Well, double miles on my card and no second trip back. I'm still in awe.