Trying to Stay Sane During a Pandemic

 

2020 Journal Blog

Trying to Stay Sane During a Pandemic

 

Since the pandemic surprised us last February, the Missus and I have tried to be careful to avoid getting dead. It hasn’t been easy; the instructions about being careful have changed several times over the past ten months such that a body hardly knows what to do. I recall that our intrepid Governor, the lady who isn’t afraid of anyone or anything, was one of the earliest to require a complete lockdown in the early spring. It was kind of a novelty at first and it didn’t seem too difficult to give up church, restaurants, and large gatherings in favor of masks, social distancing and staying home. Then things got a little better and she unlocked the state and things went back to being more normal, although we missed seeing professional sports on TV, we consoled ourselves with regular visits to our gym.

For most of the summer the incidence of COVID 19 in our county remained at 23 poor souls who had somehow contracted the disease. The number of 23 stayed the same, week after week until fall. Now, things are much, much worse and we have well over 700 county residents who have been afflicted and the total number is increasing on a daily basis. Our church family also suffered from a mini-outbreak of COVID that resulted in death of an active member.

Currently, we are in a semi-lockdown mode with restrictions only on all the things I like to do: the gym is closed, pickleball not allowed, no gatherings other than those who live together and no bars or restaurants are open for dine-in service. In other words, we are advised to stay home and order groceries.

The medical community has reported that many of us have reported stress during the pandemic because of all the limitations on our activities. Perhaps it is all this stress that seems to have affected some Michiganders severely, provoking them into planning outrageous acts like kidnapping our Governor and assembling in front of the State Capitol carrying semi-automatic rifles and demanding entrance into the legislature. Apparently, these overstressed citizens seem to think their efforts with guns will solve our pandemic problems. Hey, what do I know? We are a gun-carrying state and carrying guns seemed to help in 1776 as they are quick to point out.

The Missus and I have tried to avoid this level of stress by keeping ourselves busy. She has the fulfilling hobby of quilting to keep her occupied and I have been trying to learn to write. With our restaurants closed she has also spent a lot of time in the kitchen and I have spent a lot of time eating. We had Thanksgiving dinner alone and Christmas is looking to be the same. Despite our solitude, Marjorie made us a typical Thanksgiving feast with a 16-pound turkey, oyster dressing, Blue Hubbard Squash, fresh orange and cranberry relish, and the not-to-be-forgotten green bean casserole with home-made onion rings plus mashed potatoes and gravy. After pigging out on all those dishes that I am fond of, (everything) I still made room for her Fruits of the Forest pie. We ate the dinner on turkey day, the day after, and remnants of the turkey for I don’t know how long (I’m trying to forget the leftover turkey that remains in our freezer.)

I hope I have avoided being overstressed by keeping busy. For my part, I’ve played about a thousand games of Solitaire on my computer. Not just any game – I only play the super easy version – the one I can win about every three times, to help reduce my stress level, you understand.

The Missus and I also decided to occupy the long hours at home, alone, by playing games. In our basement, we have a long-neglected ‘games cabinet’ that has been the home of all manner of games acquired over the years, but especially children’s games that we point to whenever we have visiting children. To give you the sense of our cabinet, you should know that one of the most important games that takes up space on a top shelf is the one for children, Pretty Pretty Princess.

We decided to clean out the cabinet and begin the chore of finding all the loose pieces of all the games by actually playing each game. We began with Scrabble. Our intended chore of clean-up of the entire cabinet has been temporarily suspended since we had so much fun playing several games of Scrabble, followed by Sorry, then Chinese Checkers and other similar games.

This diversion has had some unintended consequences as we have been forced to learn how to play at least two of the games that we came across. Both were fun to learn, especially Dutch Blitz and Cribbage. Both are card games, and both have a long history of use by different cultures than our own. I have learned that some of those people from other cultures are in fact, smarter than me.

In addition to playing Solitaire, I have read several books that I wouldn’t have read otherwise, and I can recommend Barack Obama’s new book, ”A Promised Land” and a prize-winning book about migration of Blacks from the south to the north over a fifty-year period, “The Warmth of Other Suns”.

So far as we know, both Marjorie and I have avoided being overstressed by loneliness and the remarkable changes in our lifestyle. This, despite the stress of the restrictions resulting from the pandemic and the terrible partisan politics in America where politicians and their followers seem to hate those citizens who favor the other party, whichever it happens to be. This doesn’t seem to affect me too much, although I am profoundly saddened by our citizenry who seem to have lost their way and fallen into the clutches of a political party.

But not everything has turned out badly.

On one Saturday night that I remember vividly, the evening when the Missus and I enjoyed our dinner from McDonald’s take-out, eating our burgers in the car, I dribbled both catsup and hamburger grease on my clean pants and jacket that I had worn especially for occasion of a dinner out. Since I wash, dry and iron my clothes myself, I was especially stressed by the happening and I immediately blamed the spill on McDonald’s. After I arrived home, I decided to enjoy a cocktail as solace for my soiled clothes. During preparation of the drink, I happened to note that the vodka bottle was nearly empty. To avoid having a nearly empty bottle on the shelf of my otherwise tidy liquor cabinet, I decided on the spur of the moment to empty the entire contents of the bottle in my favorite tall glass. Thus prepared, I went to the fridge’ for the prepared mix that would render a wonderful concoction known as a Bloody Mary. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I discovered that I was able to empty the entire remaining contents of the Bloody Mary bottle into my tall glass. I had to suppress a smile at my good fortune in removing two empty bottles from the liquor cabinet and the fridge’ in one evening! Clearly it was a lucky evening for me.

Maybe the stress from this pandemic isn’t so bad after all.

J. K. Rowling and ME!

 

 North Woods Journal

 

I’m blaming it on the pandemic. My wife would probably argue with that, but I’m sticking with that rationale since I can’t muster any other argument as to why a perfectly sane man would spend so many hours in writing a new book. The writing is not the only challenge; the publication of my literary work is also problematic. Let me give you the details in the faint hope that you may be interested.

In the early spring of this year when I, like most, had virtually no knowledge of the corona virus and even less information about Covid 19, I was surprised when our Michigan governor had the knowledge and wisdom to order me not to do the things I most enjoy: Eating out, visiting with friends and family, playing games and exercising at our local gym. “What am I to do?’ I whispered to myself since there was no possibility of me increasing my share of the housework or taking on some other responsibility for which I am not suited.

Since writing is a solitary activity, it dawned on me that I could devote my suddenly endowed cascade of free time toward writing a new book. It wasn’t like an epiphany, rather a creeping realization that simply stroking keys on my beloved keyboard with no end game wasn’t particularly useful. Slowly, painfully, I came to the realization that I needed to put some goal in place to justify all my hours in my favorite easy chair with my laptop perched on my expanding lap. So I did. Decide to write a new book, that is.

Almost immediately, a question loomed large in my psyche – what is my intended audience and will they like a new book from me? The answer to these questions has never been totally revealed to me, but I decided to forge ahead using the pattern of J. K. Rowling and other successful authors, to wit, I would base my new book on an earlier literary work that has enjoyed a measure of success. In my case, that means at least one person told me they liked an earlier book of mine. Besides, I reasoned, the commercial success of a book has little to do with its quality, rather it is a measure of the notoriety of the author.

For some reason, the world’s best-selling author J. K. Rowling (author of the Harry Potter series) decided to publish a new book with a pen name that was unknown to most readers. She convinced the publisher not to divulge the name of the real author at her new book’s release and initial offering. The book was a success by some measures, winning praise from critics after it became widely available. The new release sales were typical for unknown or little-known authors. It sold slightly more than 1,500 copies after its release and promotion, a volume that would produce a yawn for most publishers and would yield similar reactions by most successful authors when royalty results were calculated. The new book was ranked number 4,709 on Amazon’s bestsellers listing.

And then the secret was revealed. It became known that J. K. Rowling was the secret author behind the pen name. Suddenly, buyers everywhere were demanding copies of the new book and they wanted it today, or at least before any of their friends. There was an immediate sales bonanza, and the publisher was unable to keep up with the sudden demand. The book set a new record with a 156,866% increase in sales over just one day. The book rapidly moved from its secure spot of 4,709 to the top of the sales charts! Nothing about the book had changed in that one day except that the author’s identity was revealed.

I believe Ms. Rowling could re-write day-old news from a daily newspaper and set new sales records.

Following J. K. Rowling’s example, my new book is a follow -on to a 2013 book that I titled “Letters From Roscommon”. I recall that one afternoon early in the pandemic as I was thinking how Rowling used the name Harry Potter to identify each of her subsequent books in a series, a brilliant idea came to me. My new book title is “More Letters From Roscommon.”

Publication of a book is a difficult task. Mainstream publishers want only established authors who have a solid sales record before they are willing to offer their services. Some years ago, I read a book that explained a new technology at that time called Print-On-Demand (POD). This technology used the latest printing technology to print books at low cost because virtually all of the work was done automatically at the direction of computers. I tried it and after prodigious effort on my part, their computers and mine were finally able to work together and the result was a paperback book attributed to me.

The company responsible for that miracle of my first book was a small tech firm known as Create Space. Their success and profitability did not go unnoticed such that by the time of one of my later books, the firm had been sold to another larger company. Of course, the new company just had to put their stamp on the little firm which they did by way of new software. I had to face a new learning curve before I could manage to produce another book. By the time I got to “More Letters From Roscommon” a 3^rd iteration of the book software was required. For this work I got to know the Help Desk engineers by their first names. But I persisted and so, finally, the book is now available without me printing each page and sending it you.

I am not sure exactly how Amazon got involved in making/selling my books, but I think it had something to do with Jeff Bezos’ divorce and his subsequent need for more cash to pay his bills. All I know is that the first POD company, Create Space, suddenly became Amazon/Create Space and that name keeps popping up on my computer whenever I want to stare at one of my old books that are for sale on their site. Whatever the facts are, I’m sticking with my story that it is a consequence of the corona virus pandemic.

Stay safe.

Reducing Use of Gasoline

 

Roscommon/Crawford Chapter

Since we have learned that the transportation sector in the United States has surpassed electricity generation as the leading cause of carbon dioxide pollution, we need to focus on changes to reduce air pollution from that source. Here are some tips for reducing the amount of gasoline used when you need to travel.

Drive less

• Burn fat instead of gas by walking or biking when you can.

One of my favorite memories of a work-related trip to Sweden some years ago was the image of middle-aged woman on her way to town. I passed by her while in a vehicle on the way to the factory that I was scheduled to visit. It was snowing and the stylish lady was carrying an umbrella to shield her attractive dress and hat from the wet snow. She seemed entirely nonchalant as cars passed by her bicycle that she pedaled alongside the busy street, steering with one hand and avoiding the accumulating snow with her umbrella. She was not alone in her use of a bicycle in the village that I visited during the sudden snowfall.

• Use a bike-share program if your city or town has such a thing as do many larger cities, especially those in Europe. Urge planners to make our Michigan communities ‘bike friendly’.
• Take public transit when possible as it is invariably more efficient than personal transportation or use ride-sharing services.
• Carpool with friends instead of driving alone. Take the initiative and ask neighbors if they would like to ride with you or share rides on regular trips and errands.
• Plan ahead to make the most of your trips and ‘trip chain.’ If your grocery store is near other places you need to visit, make sure you complete all your errands in one trip. When you have multiple stops to make, travel to the farthest one first and then the closer ones later. This will make your engine warm-up faster allowing it to run at maximum efficiency for the largest part of your trip.
• Work from home if your job allows and consider vacationing by using the bus or train, avoiding airline travel since air travel is by far the least efficient use of fuel.

Drive wise

• Avoid aggressive driving since speeding, rapid acceleration and unnecessary braking wastes gas, lowering your gas mileage by roughly 15% to 30% at highway speeds and 10% to 40% in stop-and-go traffic. In a test by Consumer Reports, speeding up from 55 mph to 65 mph dropped the fuel economy by 4 to 8 mpg, while speeding up from 65 mph to 75 mph cut fuel efficiency by an additional 5 to 7 mpg.
• Get in the habit of driving at the speed that provides the best gas mileage for your vehicle. This will be achieved by using the highest gear and driving at the slowest speed for that gear, often slightly above 50 miles per hour for many vehicles. Do this cautiously if this speed is slower than the bulk of traffic on your roadway.
• Use your brakes sparingly when traffic allows. Let your momentum carry you forward until you reach a slower speed for turning or stopping, but don’t shift the transmission into neutral during this maneuver since its unsafe and doesn’t help save fuel.

Choose fuel efficient vehicles and don’t idle

• Unnecessary idling of cars, trucks, and school buses pollutes the air, wastes fuel, and causes excess engine wear.

·         Reducing idling from diesel school buses prevents children from being exposed to diesel exhaust, reduces greenhouse gas emissions, and saves money on fuel. The EPA has a Clean School Bus Program that includes information and resources that can help reduce school bus idling in your community. Check to see if your school is aware of this program.

• Many new vehicles have features that shut off the engine when the vehicle comes to a complete stop, thus saving fuel. When the driver presses the accelerator pedal, the starter motor is automatically engaged and the engine fires, ready to run and move the vehicle.
• Consider purchasing a more fuel-efficient vehicle. You will find the added cost of the fuel-efficient vehicle can save you money in the long run. Think electric, diesel, or a smaller, lighter weight vehicle that fits your needs.

Maintain your vehicle for improved fuel economy

·        Keep your vehicle tires at the maximum allowed tire pressure.

·        Use only regular gas including those gasolines that contain ethanol added to the gasoline. Keep in mind that ethanol has less energy than gasoline, so you might see a small dip in your fuel economy even though you are helping prevent air pollution by using a renewable fuel.

·        Follow recommendations in selecting motor oil; consider use of lower viscosity oils modified with friction-reducing additives that are claimed, and do, help improve economy.

·        Don’t use your vehicle as extra storage space – remove unnecessary things from your vehicle to save weight and improve fuel economy. This means removing any rooftop storage devices (a wind drag) and golf clubs from your trunk (unnecessary weight) when these items are not used.

·         Don’t waste energy by unnecessarily operating a heater or air conditioner. Keep in mind that lowering your windows also costs fuel since the aerodynamics of the vehicle are compromised. Testing shows that below 55 mph, open the windows and leave the a/c off. But at 60 mph or higher, keeping them closed and the air conditioning running will burn less fuel.

Some of these tips will save only small amounts of gasoline for each driver. However, if you multiply these small amounts by 200 million drivers in the United States, we can prevent huge amounts of air pollution.

Missing September

 

Missing September

 

I just looked at my calendar and realized that I have lost an entire month. I don’t know what happened to September, but here I am now rushing toward the end of October and there is still no September North Woods Journal until this piece hits the digital divide, so to speak.

The only explanation that I have for the lost month is that I have been working on a new book. That, and the keys on my laptop are beginning to wear such that the letters on several keys are barely visible, making typing more of a problem. I have memorized the location of most letters, but on the rare occasion that I lose track of a letter I have to search the entire keyboard looking for it. The most egregious of the missing letters are ‘a, s, r, and t’, these have the white paint completely worn from the surface of the keys. It must be that the fingers on my left hand are more abrasive than those used by my right hand where the keys are largely undamaged, except for the ‘I’ that is half worn so that it appears as an elongated period. Fortunately, I don’t lose ‘I’ very often.

Perhaps coincidentally, another thing about September that I learned today was my email problem, the one that I didn’t know that I had. Beginning sometime in early September, one of my three e-mail accounts, YAHOO!, began to hide my e-mails by refusing to send them to my computer. You don’t want to know the details, but today I apparently solved the problem and YAHOO! finally sent my missing e-mails to my computer, all 389 of them.  learned that I had missed several appointments and other parts of my life that depended upon e-mail communications. Darn! If you think I am no longer friends with YAHOO!, you would be correct.

My new book is a collection of unrelated, miscellaneous topics that I have managed to compile and present as if they were a series of letters written to friends and family members who live some distance from my home in Roscommon and the surrounding north woods. I have given the work the clever title “More Letters From Roscommon.” Some of you who have especially gifted memories may recall that this title is similar to a previous book that I offered in 2013 with the equally clever title “Letters From Roscommon”. The new book should be available soon from Amazon, providing that the YAHOO! e-mail problem doesn’t have far-reaching tentacles that affect my mail to Amazon.

Probably the best explanation about my new book is to provide a sample. Here it is, the last chapter of “More Letters From Roscommon”

PS Don’t tell Amazon that I sent this along to you.

 

 

 

Chapter 26

Dog Sitting

 

 

Dear Family and Friends,

If you are an adult with grown children, sooner or later you will become a dog sitter. Trust me, it is inevitable. If you haven’t yet had the pleasure of dog sitting, here is a hint: Dog sitting is kind of like babysitting except it’s harder, and furthermore, the man of the family is expected to take a large role in caring for the visiting pooch.

In the first place, you are likely dog sitting not for your children, but for your grandchildren. And their standards of required care for their beloved pooch are much, much higher. Don’t even think about tying the dog outside to a drafty old doghouse, no siree. And, just so you don’t forget, the grandkids will be checking up on you, asking how Fido is enjoying his or her vacation at your house.

Nowadays, dog sitting also means entertaining the mutt. Surely you didn’t think the dog only needs to be fed, watered, pooped, and put to bed, did you? High- strung dogs of today’s ilk need entertainment beyond a few simple dog toys; otherwise you can expect chewed furniture, broken lamps, upturned wastebaskets and other symptoms of doggy boredom, according to experts (and grandchildren who are knowledgeable in such matters).

Generally, you’ll be dog sitting at home during the winter months while the kids and grandkids are vacationing somewhere that is warm, probably enjoying time on the beach. Meanwhile, you will be suiting up in your cold weather parka with you and the dog taking several trips outdoors so the dog can do his business. This can be annoying if it has snowed several inches and it is too dark to avoid stepping in a pile –  the dog won’t warn you about this either.

I admit that my attitude about dog sitting was decidedly negative. But wait, let me give you my recent experience and then you can decide for yourself about dog sitting nowadays.

If you are a senior like me, you can probably recall the days of your youth when most dogs lived outdoors in a doghouse, often tied to a chain or rope to prevent the animal from running away or bothering the neighbors. Although I grew up in a cat family (one cat and no dog), many of my neighborhood buddies had dogs and all were outside animals. Even my grandfather had an outside dog that was  allowed indoors only on rare occasions, but never allowed to enter a carpeted room.

I succumbed to dog ownership as a newly married man. Our first dog had a doghouse in the back yard but no chain, instead, I built a chain-link fence enclosure for him since he was a runner and he liked to find girl dogs in the neighborhood. Although his doghouse was insulated, on the coldest winter nights we let him indoors and provided him with appropriate bedding.

Somehow, my subsequent two dogs became indoor dogs. However, they were not allowed on the furniture nor beds, other than their own doggie bed. Both of those dogs were the kind that had hair, not fur, so they needed regular haircuts. The benefit of having hair meant that the dogs did not shed, thus reducing the amount of vacuuming needed. All of the foregoing is provided to explain my mindset when the Missus and I were asked to dog sit so our son and his family could travel. We readily agreed since we knew our granddaughters would enjoy the trip and we wanted to help assure the success of their travel.

The date for their trip was settled and the travelers brought their dog to our house for our care. Since it was the middle of winter, I should have known I was in for hard duty. The family began unloading their car for the dog sitting assignment: first the dog, and then a half dozen trips to the car and back for all the essentials they felt were needed for a happy dog visit.

We piled everything on the floor of the living room so we could sort it out and find a place for everything. Here is at least a partial list of the things they decided she needed; her personal bean bag chair, her favorite group of chew toys, her personal harness and leash, her bowl, the requisite dog food, a cage and blanket for her cage, her favorite snacks, her sweater, and several other things I have forgotten. The amount of the luggage she needed to ensure her happiness was more imposing than mine for a winter vacation of about the same duration.

I asked about her bed. The granddaughters looked at me without answering. I turned to their mom with a quizzical look and asked, “Where does she sleep at home?”

The mom explained that the dog normally slept in one of the girl’s beds. It would become our first challenge. Neither the Missus nor I were interested in sharing our bed with a dog. The agreement that we reached with the family was that we would confine the dog to her cage for the first night or two while she became used to our house and our rules.

Despite that first issue, the Missus and I were able to satisfy the family that we intended to supply first class care for our new charge, a youngish pup who was equipped with white fur that insured the ease in finding which areas in the house would need frequent vacuuming. [It turned out to be everyplace in the house.]

The dog’s name was Pocket. The family said their goodbyes and left. Pocket followed them to the front door and sat down, looking at the door after they left as if expecting them to reopen the door for a surprise greeting.

She sat at the front door for at least 15 minutes with the occasional whimper before she finally got up and went to another door and repeated the same performance. No amount of my urging could entice her to come and sit by me. Finally, I resorted to the cure-all; I picked up one her cookie treats and broke it in half and gave it to her. She chomped it down in about 3 seconds. I showed her the other half of the cookie and made sure that she watched as I carefully placed it on top of her blanket in the cage. She went right in after the cookie and I quickly latched the door behind her. That’s where Pocket spent her first night with us, watching carefully as we prepared for bed.

Because she was still a pup, the Missus and I agreed that our first duty in the morning would be to take her outside so she could do her business in emptying a full bladder or full bowels. For some reason that duty fell to me. As soon as I awoke, I crept into the living room where we had left the caged dog. There she sat, patiently waiting for me. I hurried back into the bedroom and threw on some clothes, expecting that any delay would end with me cleaning a fouled cage.

She was still waiting when I returned and positioned her leash around her neck for our morning outing. It was cold outside, and, despite my fervent hope, the snow had not magically disappeared, and the temperature was still only slightly above zero. Fortunately, I had shoveled the sidewalk in anticipation of our guests, and it remained clean.

I expected I could walk Pocket to some part of the snow-covered lawn that was accessible from the sidewalk where she could deposit the consequences of last night’s dinner and assorted cookies. She had other ideas. She walked only a few paces before she stopped, crouched, and quickly deposited her load. On the sidewalk. This was quickly followed by the bladder emptying routine. On the sidewalk.

It was a mixed blessing: I was happy that she was a fast pooper, but unhappy that she had created the job of poop clean-up on the sidewalk directly in front of our front porch. I was tempted to pretend that I didn’t know the poop was in the way of the mailman and anyone else who might come to the door on a winter morning, but I knew the Missus wouldn’t buy it. I took the dog back in the house and returned later with a small shovel that I would soon learn to love.

As soon as I opened the front door from our first trip, Pocket rushed inside. I took off my boots and my winter coat, hat and gloves, then stood there in the entryway in my socks. It took only two steps before my feet felt cold and wet -- I found that I was standing in the small puddle from Pocket’s snow-covered pads. Then I remembered that dogs, no matter how well trained, don’t wipe their paws upon passing over a perfectly clean and dry floor. I decided to change my socks then wipe the floor. While I was in the middle of the sock-changing and floor wiping job, Pocket decided it was time to play. She dropped one of the throw toys on the floor beside me.

I couldn’t’ resist. I played the throw game with her until I realized we had mussed two throw rugs, tipped over a small table and spilled the contents of a flowerpot including the flower. I put out her bean bag chair and she lay down while I cleaned the wet spots on the floor, the spilled flowerpot, and a few other things. Then I sat down in my favorite easy chair. I had just reached for the newspaper when Pocket climbed on my lap.

Hmmmmm. Was she technically lying on our furniture which we agreed not to allow? Or not. I decided or not and gave her a thorough petting that provoked a small handful of white fur to flutter to the floor, flutter, flutter, flutter.

After the petting, I put out some more of her toys and that seemed to satisfy her. For a little while only. By then, it was time for her morning walk. I re-assembled my winter coat, hat and gloves and was about to put her leash on until I remembered her sweater. She didn’t seem to happy about the sweater but I remembered the admonition from the granddaughters about her wearing it in the cold, so I wrestled with her a bit longer and finally managed to sweep the thing over her head until I realized her front legs also needed to pass through the hole for her head. I took the thing back off and tried feet first through the hole but that didn’t work either. Finally, the Missus came upon my struggle and put the sweater on the dog.

I got myself dressed and out we went for our walk down the road. Pocket seemed to like it. She stopped to investigate a dozen or more spots and two yellow patches near the neighbor’s house. Apparently, Pocket was born with the knowledge that the means to communicate with other dogs is through your urine that she deposited at each opportunity. It was tempting to see if dogs could recognize the difference between dog urine and that of humans, but there wasn’t sufficient privacy, so I resisted taking any action to settle the question.

On our arrival back home, Pocket needed little urging to return to her bean bag chair for a nap. Who says dogs don’t’ lead a charmed life?

After the dog rested, drank water and asked for another cookie, the Missus warned me that it was probably time to de-water the dog again if I wanted to avoid another clean-up job. I decided against the sweater but in favor of the leash that I could put on her with only a little urging. We went outside again along the sidewalk only. It took several minutes, but Pocket finally seemed to understand what was expected of her and so she complied with only a very little yellow spot to show for it.

I made a mental note to explain to the Missus about her not having to urinate after our morning walk because she squatted and spotted roughly 15 times along the road and besides, she doesn’t seem to like wading in the snow.

The scene I described above was repeated several times over the next few days of Pocket’s vacation. The playtime schedule varied only a little with addition of a game of 'tug' using the chewed, dog saliva-coated rope toy while Pocket growled and jumped around the living room, threatening to break the television.

In addition to the games I kept my parka handy for regular walks so the dog could sniff out the secret places where other dogs had done their business. Pocket always seemed to mark the same spots with her particular odor to advise any other dog who visited just who was in the neighborhood. It is how they keep track of each other, and it keeps them entertained just as Facebook does for the older set.

Pocket got in the habit of sitting at my feet at the dinner table. If I happened to drop a morsel of food, she gobbled it up, precluding my need to bend over and pick it up myself.

I could tell that Pocket loved the little game of my dropping  food by the way her tail thumped the floor when I sat down for dinner. You’ll understand how easy it was to fall into the habit of intentionally dropping a morsel or two, even though I had been warned against such a practice by the granddaughters and the Missus didn’t like me doing it either. But Pocket and I both enjoyed it, so I continued sneaking food to her since she promised that she wouldn’t tell.

After two nights in the cage, the Missus and I discussed the notion of letting Pocket lay in her bean bag chair instead of remaining in the cage. She seemed to like it just fine for at least one night until she discovered that in the middle of the night, she could come to our bedroom unobserved and climb onto the foot of our bed, and nestle against the lump provided by my feet that were under the covers. I knew she was doing it, but as soon as I moved about, she left for the bean bag.

After the second day of the surreptitious bed climbing and early morning departure, she became braver. Finally, the Missus and I told her she could stay in our bed so long as she remained at the bottom and on top of the covers. By this time, it was near the end of her vacation and It seemed a small step for us and an important ascension for Pocket.

By this time Pocket and I were close buds. I began taking her along to my morning coffee klatch and the north woods men were impressed by her as she pretended to follow my commands. Of course, I knew she was only humoring me.

Here is a picture of our little pup Pocket who has just asked me when we are going outside again. She’s kinda cute, don’t you think?

I have to finish this account since she also just told me she is hungry; besides, she and I will be watching Jeopardy together after our walk.            

Grandpa Bill

 

Two Languages Called English

 

I learned recently that children are not being taught to read  or write using cursive writing. What an outrage! Why shouldn’t today’s children suffer the same pain as us older folks when we had to struggle in learning two different systems of writing? I remember Mrs. Gillom in the 1^st grade trying to explain how this A was the same as this A and this z was the same as this z. The letters in the two systems didn’t look the same, but they were supposed to make the same sound. It didn’t make sense to me, but a lot of things didn’t make sense at that time, same as now. My classmates s and I struggled through the 1^st and 2^nd grade lessons to understand  that we had two systems of writing and by God we were going to learn both, come hell or high water. So we did. And now, after all these years of using both systems, we are told that learning both systems of writing for today’s kids is a waste of time since everyone is using computers or telephones with this A instead of this A. I suppose the educators who decide such things are correct, that it is a waste of time to learn both systems, but it doesn’t make me feel any better since I trusted Mrs. Gillom all those years ago.

I find that today I use a mix of both cursive and printing when I write something by hand, which is rare for me. One of the reasons for the rarity is the decreasing legibility of my handwriting as my pen or pencil  nowadays seems to have a mind of its own. Surely, it is not just me losing some fine motor skills as result of getting older.  

One of the other differences I find between my age group and those considerably younger is in the increasing use of impolite words in our written language; using what we called swearing in everyday written discourse. It  is especially common for today’s younger set to use certain swear words in writing. This happens, from both men and women, seemingly without regard for the audience who will see or listen to their words, perhaps even their parents.

I mentioned both men and women because after I became fluent in adult language, I came to understand that swearing was the exclusive domain of men and used only in the presence of other men and boys; by its exclusive use among all men (except, of course, for those in the ministry), we manly types were taught that women were too polite and too sensitive to undertake the use of coarse language. even in the need for precise descriptions of bodily functions. I am certain that my mother never in her life used a swear word. Even words that covered certain body functions were too coarse for her use, so she invented other words as substitutes. As a consequence, none of us in my family ever farted; rather, we released the occasional “poo-gee-bar” and everyone within hearing laughed at our embarrassment.

Not all Americans followed such practices as my family as I had assumed. I learned only recently that some early Americans used coarse language rather matter-of-factly. One of the pamphlets I purchased in Philadelphia was a tract authored by Benjamin Franklin. The title: Fart Proudly.

I would like to imagine that social media is one of the reasons for the use of awful language, but not all. Our President is one of those who seems unable to moderate his language in the presence of those like me, who are offended by such things. He seems to have several favorite expressions that he uses in speeches without concern for his audience. I have heard him talk of so and so being an SOB, and using other, equally abusive terms. His Tweets also are written without any limitations on the foul language that was formerly used only in private, whispered conversations among men.

Now, women and children seem to regard swearing as their privilege once they learn to tweet or post or ‘instagram.’ Even those words that I thought were nearly universally banned, such as the ‘F’ word, appear to be fair game for most everyone, but not me and my peers who were taught to have a little more sense in judging the appropriateness of certain words in polite circles, LOL.

Of course, we should all understand that language changes over time. New words are invented, and old words discarded as their usage declines amidst the release of new technologies. The internet, with its rapid double-thumbed approach, seems to be a stimulant in changing our language. One of these changes seems to be the common use of formerly forbidden swear words, for what purpose I am uncertain.

Here is a single example of how some words can become commonplace.

A long time ago when farming was an integral part of the lives of most people, soil fertility was of paramount importance. Unfortunately, no one knew about fertilizers until a chance event occurred when mariners scraped bird guano from some rocky barrens on desolate islands in the ocean. They brought the odoriferous solids to the civilized world to learn that Eureka! the soils thus treated produced copious quantities of vegetables. The first fertilizer was found. Soon a rapid trade began as mariners began selling the guano everywhere. And then the worst happened. The nitrogen-rich guano got wet on one particularly nasty voyage, fermented to produce alcohol, and then exploded when a mariner lit his pipe near the end of a long voyage. The new fertilizer industry quickly moved to protect their financial interests and advised all shippers to implement means to avoid the guano from getting wet during transit.

How to do this in the hold of a ship? The answer was to ensure that the guano was never on the bottom of the hold where water often accumulated during long voyages. Thereafter, dispatchers always advised shippers to keep the guano above water levels. “Ship high in transit” was the frequent reminder stenciled on shipping containers. Of course, it was soon abbreviated: “SHIT.” And another swear word was added to our lexicon. LMAO. The world goes on and on despite what I think, although I’m still angry about learning both A’s and Z’s.

 

 

 

 

Bill's Garden Report

 

Bill’s Garden Report

“But though an old man, I am but a young gardener” Thomas Jefferson

 

It is that time of year again for my garden report. Actually, the garden isn’t yet finished as I still have green tomatoes, peppers that haven’t matured, and a few ears of corn not yet ready. However, my experience in preparing these blogs suggests that if I wait until everything in the garden is finished, I probably won’t get around to giving my report, so here it is, despite my hope that there will still be more  vegetables for our dinner table.

The brightest spot thus far in this year’s garden was the success of my snow peas and green beans. I planted both on opposite sides of a frame that I built to support the pole beans and the naturally tall snow peas. Both beans and peas seemed to like the frame that I erected in early spring. The only negative to their vigorous growth was the mama snapping turtle who decided that the soil surrounding the bean poles was a perfect spot to lay her eggs. So she did. Her motherly duties of digging a hole, inserting her tail and nether parts into it and then depositing a dozen eggs or more demonstrated she had zero concern for the damage done to my beans.  I repaired her damage after she left the garden and the beans and peas resumed their growing, yielding a surprising bounty of vegetables.

This year I purchased my seeds from Burpee’s mail order catalog. One of the intriguing things the catalog showed was miniature corn that could be planted in a patio container, according to the ad. Surely my small raised bed gardens could be used instead of a patio pot so I laid out my plans and marshalled the work bench in the barn in preparation of planting my seeds. We had a lot of cold, rainy weather when I decided it was time to plant. The consequences of this delay in my planting plans was that I left the seeds in their packages in my barn while I waited for warmer weather. It didn’t occur to me that mice might just enjoy my seed corn. They did. I found the package of seeds had been chewed with the largest part of my seeds missing and some partially chewed by tiny teeth. Disappointed but not undone, I planted everything that remained and anxiously awaited corn on the cob that I expected to harvest about now. It didn’t work out as I had hoped.

The seed fragments didn’t germinate. After a few weeks, I had only eight stocks of corn from the unmolested eight kernels and nothing from the seed fragments. The few stocks grew slowly. One night some sneaky critter dug up  five of the eight, leaving me three healthy corn plants with a total of five ears that I have been watching like a hawk. I haven’t pulled any of the ears yet, but I expect to feast on the paltry little things soon. I marked the corn experience as strike one in my battle to derive some benefit from all my labors in the garden.

In addition to the peas and beans, I had remarkable success with six kale plants that I purchased from our local greenhouse. It was the first time I had grown kale and I came to understand that many people don’t like the green, leafy veggie that can substituted for lettuce in a salad. I also came to understand that six healthy plants are enough to feed a family of eight or ten. Our family of two didn’t make a dent in consuming this prolific plant – just ask if you would like me to send you a year’s supply.

Strike two in my garden was the results of the three zucchini plants that I grew. They grew to enormous size and I watched over them with hot anticipation for a bumper crop of the tasty ‘tubers’ that I enjoy in salads or as a stand-alone veggie. Never mind the fact that they grew so large they covered their neighboring plants.  (Now I can’t tell what the neighboring were since they were smothered out of existence after several weeks. The huge zucchini also threatened the existence of four little tomatoes that are still struggling to make fruit.) I began searching thru the massive leaves  every day for my first zucchini treat, but I found that as soon as the flower on the newborn tuber dropped off, a rotten end became evident and I was forced to toss the little devils. I looked it up. It was blossom end rot. The garden book said the plants needed calcium. Almost unbelievable, the cure was said to be dosing the soil with a calcium supplement. I didn’t want to tell you this, but I dosed my zucchinis with Tums and sure enough the blossom end rot disappeared. At this writing I still have had only three or four little tubers, so I am ranking the experience as strike two.

Do you like sauerkraut? I do. The reason I like it is because the preparation of the kraut after you grow the cabbages is incredibly easy if you happen to own a large crock with a close-fitting lid. I happen to have such a useful article and I decided to put it to use again this year, never expecting that this would become my strike three occurrence for this year.

I grew four cabbages from seedlings and, as luck would have it, I placed them next to the ill-fated corn plants. Since the corn largely failed, the cabbages had the benefit of extra space and careful watering as I watched over my corn. The result was a crop of four large cabbages, fully formed and free of the nasty little worms that sometimes hide in the folds of the cabbage. Last week I decided it was time to harvest the attractive cabbage heads and begin the process of making kraut. My better half insisted that I follow a recipe for making the kraut to ensure the safety of the finished goods from the canning operation. I reluctantly agreed. The recipe said I needed 20 pounds of cabbage – my four weighed a measly seven pounds. I purchased three more cabbages from the farm market bringing my total to seven cabbages weighing in at 24 pounds since the farm market had even larger heads than I.

Last weekend I decided it was time to make the kraut. I set up my base of operations on the raised outdoor deck. I lugged the heavy six-gallon crock to the deck. While stopping to catch my breath, I did a quick calculation: I would be adding 24  pounds of cabbage and 3 or 4 quarts of brine to the crock bringing it to a total weight of … too much to carry up and down the six steps to the ground and the garage where I decided to ferment the kraut.

The new calculation provoked me into carving the cabbages on  the deck and carrying the shredded mess into large handfuls for transfer to the crock. I began. I had made 5 or 6 trips up and down the stairway when I began to notice a strange buzzing sound. On trip number seven the hornets had enough – they attacked. Three or four of the little devils stung my face and two got my right hand as I was desperately swatting at them. The battle was touch and go for a second, but I escaped their attack and made for the barn where awaited my hornet spray bottle full of a poison so deadly that even angry hornets shudder when they see me with the bottle in hand. It took me a few moments to regain my composure and retrieve the 2^nd spray bottle that I needed after using an entire bottle on steps to the deck.

I went back to the tedious job of slicing the cabbages into slivers as small as I could make them. Another hour passed and stings became a distant memory as I watched the crock get fuller and the pile of seven cabbages get smaller. I was concentrating so intently on my cabbages that I didn’t happen to notice the grey clouds forming overhead. The clouds coalesced and a soaking rain began to fall. I calculated that it would be easier to get a little wet while I finished the job rather than to put away all my tools, find a place to store the uncut cabbages, and carry the  crock to the garage for safe keeping. I gritted my teeth, massaged the sting spots on my face and continued slicing the cabbage. A song popped into my head and I smiled while I sang, “Choppin’ broccoli, choppin’ broccoli.”

Another hour passed as I worked in the rain that had become a deluge. The fatigue that set in from the climbing, stinging, and rainfall made the making of sauerkraut the end of the inning for this year’s garden. I bet even Thomas Jefferson would have said “Whew!” or Damn! 

Awww well, next year’s garden should be even better with all the things that I learned not to do from this year.

 

 

 

Bill's Book Report

Bill’s book report about the newest ‘breakthrough’ book that has sold more copies in a shorter time than any other book in America; selling nearly one million books in one day

 

"Too Much and Never Enough"

How My Family Created the World’s Most Dangerous Man

By Mary L Trump, PH. D.

 

This book is about Donald Trump written by his niece, a clinical psychologist who lived in the Trump family home along with Donald and his brothers and sisters for an extended period due to the death of her father, Donald’s oldest brother.

Mary explains the reason for the book in the closing lines of the book’s prologue.

“The events of the last three years, however; have forced my hand and I can no longer remain silent. By the time this book is published hundreds of thousands of American lives will have been sacrificed on the altar of Donald’s hubris and willful ignorance . If he is afforded a second term, it would be the end of American democracy.”

 

 

The book opens with a recounting of the Trump family history beginning with an immigrant from Germany, Friedrich Trump who left Germany in 1885 to avoid mandatory military service. He came to New York after an extended period in British Columbia where he developed an ownership status in several restaurants and brothels. He returned to Germany but was told by authorities that Germany was no longer his lawful home since his skipping out to avoid the draft was extremely bad form. He returned to New York with a bride in hand and the couple began a family, using the fortune from his Canadian investments to begin housekeeping in Queens, NY.

Two sons and a daughter soon arrived, all of whom grew up speaking German in the Trump household. The oldest boy was given the anglicized name of Fredrich for his father. In a twist of fate, the original Friedrich died prematurely when he contracted a corona virus then known as the Spanish flu in 1918 and the 12-year-old Fred became master of the house and the sudden wage earner for the family. The youngster took his sudden elevation as family head seriously and he began doing odd jobs for neighbors to help his mother manage their expenses. They managed nicely since the original Friedrich had left a financial legacy – $300, 000, a sizeable inheritance for the time when the average wage was 22 cents per hour.

For some reason, the youngster who became known as Fred took an interest in construction and decided that he could build garages as a means of earning his fortune. The boy began to study the building trade intensely, having no other interests beyond garage building. With his mother’s help, he became successful, earning a builder’s license and constructing garages for the new-fangled automobiles that seemed to be cropping up everywhere.

The construction business exactly fit Fred’s personality and his need to be constantly busy in the business of earning money. As he matured, he began spending every minute of his free time pursuing his business as it became the single focus of his life. Fred was a high functioning sociopath, a rare but not uncommon condition afflicting 3% of the population, 75% of whom are men. Symptoms of sociopathy are a lack of empathy, a complete indifference to right or wrong, abusive behavior, a penchant for lying, and a complete disregard for the feelings and rights of others. Fred displayed each of these symptoms. His personal life with his family of three boys and two girls was dictated by his sociopathy and his absence as he worked most of the time, personally managing every detail of his growing business, and, at the end of each day, picking up and saving any nails that had fallen to the ground.

His wife and the mother of his children had her own problems. Her last pregnancy was difficult and the medical remedy at the time and place she was cared for involved the surgical removal of her ovaries and uterus. The sudden loss of her female hormones provoked the onset of severe osteoporosis, all of which was undetected at the time. Nine months later her oldest daughter Maryanne found her unconscious in bed and bleeding profusely. Maryanne awoke her father Fred who arranged for his wife’s emergency admission to a local hospital. Fred told Maryanne to help the younger children and then go to school and he would call her. Doctors told Fred that it was unlikely his wife would live another day. Maryanne expected the worse when she got the call from her father. “She is going to pull through,” he said, without any words of comfort or support for the youngster. Maryanne became the caretaker of the children including the baby Donald who was just 2 and ½ years old. From that point on, the children had little care from their mother and none at all from their father who continued his unrelenting attention to his work.

Fred’s single focus was the earning of ever more money without regard to the illegality of the practices he implemented. He expanded his construction business into one of development; retaining ownership of everything he built that he used as rental property. Soon the development and rental business exceeded his construction business as the weekly and monthly receipts poured in from his renters.

The oldest boy in the family was named Fred but called Freddy. Fred Senior occasionally took Freddy to work with him to begin learning the business. It didn’t work. Freddy soon became the object of Fred Senior’s abuse when he was unable to comprehend the subtleties of the business or display what Fred called ‘a killer instinct.’ The humiliating abuse often occurred within the hearing the 2^nd son, Donald. The abuse became more severe and only ended when Freddy found excuses for not accompanying Fred Senior to work. Donald learned to avoid his father’s abuse by lying as he watched his older brother use that technique to escape abuse by inventing reasons to avoid the real estate business.

Freddy tried to escape the family business by joining the military. He was successful, well-liked by both his peers and officers. He decided to apply for flight training which ultimately led to him becoming a pilot. After his service, he continued flying, winning qualifications to become a commercial airline pilot. His continued success led him to become one of the long-distance airline pilots with enviable flight assignments from coast to coast. None of his successes was enough for Fred, he belittled his son’s choice of a career calling him a bus driver in the sky who earned a pittance compared to Fred’s earnings. The denigration of his skills by the man whom he most wanted to impress drove Freddy to despair. Donald watched from close-up as Freddy descended into alcoholism from his father’s continued abuse. Freddy died at age 42.

Donald was unable to control himself in High School. His atrocious behavior was disrupting classes and even Fred’s intervention was seen to be insufficient to ward off a scandal. The solution Fred reached was to remove Donald from his regular school and send him to a military school to help his wayward behavior. Surprisingly, Donald managed to follow the rigid rules and behave sufficiently well to graduate from the academy. After the military academy training, it was decided he should go to college. His older sister Maryanne helped with his homework and Donald paid another youngster to take his SAT tests for him to insure he would be qualified for university training. No one knows about Donald’s university grades or behavior since the President has threatened the school with lawsuits should they reveal his academic record.

Before Freddy’s death, Fred Senior had taken on a new project; the installation of his son Donald in the family business despite his earlier promise to Freddy. One part of the business that Fred had carefully cultivated was wining and dining politicians who had influence over New York’s zoning regulations and the awarding of lucrative building contracts. It was the singular thing that Donald could manage that didn’t require any knowledge of the building trades nor the work needed to manage the sizable rental business. Besides, Donald liked the idea of being seen with high-ranking officials in city government and Fred didn’t mind the free publicity that Donald generated by his constant publicity stunts generally involving beautiful women and expensive dates.

Before the elder Trump increasingly fell victim to dementia, Donald began his own business career in various business deals, most of which were abysmal failures such as the casinos in Atlantic City. Fred Trump regularly bailed out his son until his death when Donald became the leader of the Trump business empire. As a testament to his fabled business acumen, Donald was forced into bankruptcy five separate times.

The psychologist Mary Trump analyzes the psyche of both Freddy and his little brother Donald and concludes that each was irretrievably damaged by their father with the difference being that Donald learned from watching the harsh treatment of Freddy on techniques he could use to avoid the pain from his father’s treatment. He learned never to show pain from mistreatment by his father. Fred Trump did the same. His constant refrain, “everything is great,” belied the fact that his wife and son were both suffering physical and mental anguish. Donald watched his dad and learned to lie, avoid responsibility, and gain riches from his father by avoiding taxes, and using public officials for favors once they were given sufficient contributions to their secret accounts.

The psychologist niece offers a sympathetic view of Donald’s many character flaws; ‘it was what and how he was taught.’ Near the end of analysis she says, “Donald today is much as he was at three years old: incapable of growing, learning, or evolving, unable to regulate his emotions, moderate his responses or take in and synthesize information.”

This book provides essential information for understanding the motivations for Donald Trump’s bizarre behavior as President. Unlike other failed presidencies, like those of Warren Harding (corruption scandals involving theft) and Richard Nixon, (lawless behavior condemned by both Congress and the Supreme Court), our nation was able to remove the blight and move on, recovering our path in a few short years after those men left the Presidency. This time the behavior of our Chief Executive is so egregious that many psychologists (including Mary Trump) believe that the mentally deficient man serving as our President will undo the character of our great nation and destroy democracy in the United States for the foreseeable future. In their view, the damage he has done to the United States government likely can be corrected by subsequent Administrations after four years, however; corrective action may be impossible if the damage continues for a second four years as the aberrant behavior becomes institutionalized throughout the government. It is a chilling conclusion.