Richard
huddled in his jail cell, pulling brilliant blue duster closely around him. His
secretary Heather had given it to him yesterday during their latest tryst. She called it a new "radioactive color" style. He had been so happy.
Now
he was watching his world disintegrate.
Where had it all gone wrong? He wondered. Surely
everyone in the investment business embezzledfrom his clients now and then. It was part of the investment game.
With the untimely arrival of the arrest
warrant, he was for a moment left spellbound.Richard’s
travel carry-on sat by the door, stuffed with one-million dollars and a change
of underwear.
Five more minutes!
Five more
minutes and he would have been out the door, heading to Jamaica.
Bummer.
These underlined and bold words are from a 2015 Wednesday Word challenge created by Delores to challenge writers. the underlined and bold print words are the offering. Delores has retired and passed the baton onto
Grandma and Grandpa Cardiff with four daughters: Mom, Minerva, RoseMary, and Vada.
Hoarding
is at last a recognized danger, especially for older people. Most people can think of friends and family that fit into the category,
having no idea how to help people who are strong in denial, strong in
holding onto the towers that are part, of their history and collections over
decades.
My
late brother and his wife lived on the edge of implosion. When he died,
their house had just a narrow path through to bedroom, bathroom, and
kitchen. Why our family did not see this as a mental issue and not a character flaw, I will never understand.
Then, my precious Aunt and husband were the same. Can't bring myself to describe her home, except for this one story.
A neighbor gave a sweet
potato to my Aunt Vada and husband Uncle Darrell. Their counters and
table were so crowded that pots and pans were on the floor. The kitchen
table had just enough places for eating, boxed in by whatever. A sweet potato had been placed on it and eventually fell behind the table, onto the floor. She didn't remember it was there.
One day a mysterious vine crept up onto the table. Startled, she peered under the table. The sweet
potato had new vines winding up and around the table. She laughed
loudly and unwound it all, telling all friends and family about it. The
new plant was placed on the TV cabinet.
Dang
it. That monster went like a snake over the cabinet and down to the TV.
Then it twisted around and down across the TV. At that point, her son
came visiting and whistled with amazement. Within an hour or two, the
vines were tossed out in the trash. Since
then, Aunt Vada believes it is 1964 and asks about my mom. Aunt Vada was my "crazy
fun aunt", being only 15 years old when I was born. She held me, rocked me, changed my
diapers. She is the one remaining sister. This
is serious. Think about those whom you love. Check in on them. They
were part of your life at one time. Now it is time for you to renew that
relationship.
Her
son Sean tried to attack the stuff laying around, out of their sight.
The basement was stacked from floor to the floorboards. Over time, he
managed to clear out money that Uncle Darrell had sequestered away within
those newspapers. At last count, there was $600,000 and more. Where did it all come from?? Aunt Vada's husband Uncle Darrell was a state police officer and she was a secretary for the city. Where?
P
We all speculated and could not come up with an answer. The answer had to be something that was illegal.
Hoarding is more than hanging onto those items that were handed down from ancestors. Hoarding is a mental issue.
If you know an adult who is like Aunt Vada, take care to check in on them now and then. No guarantee that there won't be a sweet potato involved.
CostCo
(and Sam's) is a horror to experience on any week, any day, or any
hour. So much fortitude is required to gird up any given body part when
entering its gates of hell. Once a membership is flashed to an
employee, air is sucked straight out of one's lungs and a spectre of
doom hovers around anyone with money in pockets or purse. Common sense flees, prices seem reasonable, and the hunt begins.
We
had a list given to us by his sister: a specific list for specific
number of guests. Twenty hamburgers, twenty hot dogs, and six chicken
breasts to be halved seemed very reasonable. When reaching the meat section, my high I.Q. husband starts figuring and asking, "Does one hamburger really mean these? Where each is larger than my hand? Six pounds--is that enough? Chicken? Nine pounds? Can one chicken breast really be halved and be substantial? And, hot dogs? Surely not the cheap ones, skinny and pathetic. Let's buy these." $25
+ $25 + $40 + .... It was $175 totaled up for twenty people to eat just
grilled meat. What are our relatives? Ravenous cannibals, piling
plates with nine dollars worth of meat? Then
John reasoned buns and condiments were necessary. Throw in a jar of
jam, a new purse for Mother's Day, a three-pack Redi-Whip, and some
vitamins, our wallets opened as spectres vacuum green bills, and a nice
cashier smiled, "Have a good one." God
help us. We are too old to take this pressure. When CostCo was Price
Club 30 years ago, we called it the One-Hundred Dollar store, enjoyed
strolling the aisles. Now, it is closer to Two-Hundred-Fifty Dollars,
and our legs hurt. We still go to Sam's Club, it is closer and more user friendly. CostCo or Sam's club...It is an addiction, either one.
Just a note: our BBQs usually end up with some charred meat.
It is always good.
Temperatures
here have been 103 deg F. Hot so hot, and people head to cooler
places. Sam's Club is our favorite, and Lowe's is next. Lowe's is
actually more interesting. Either way, hot or cold means we are stuck for a while.
Richard huddled in his jail cell, pulling his Armani suit closely around him. Now he was watching his world disintegrate.
Where had it all gone wrong? We had a duster clean the computer files. We dated everything retroactively . He wondered. Surely everyone in the investment business embezzledfrom his clients now and then. It was part of the investment game after all.
With the untimely arrival of the arrest warrant, he was for a moment left spellbound.Richard’s travel carry-on sat by the door, stuffed with one-million dollars and a change of underwear.
Five more minutes!
Five more minutes and he would have been out the door, heading to the nearest non-extradition country.
Bummer.
This is a re-post from 2015, using Wednesday Words provided by Delores. This is an opportunity for bloggers to play with words. Words can be found also at Elephant's Child, Drifting through Life, as well as other talented bloggers.
Oscar time is on the horizon, with all its flash and glamour. The red carpet has been vacuumed and shaken out, light bulbs tightened, egos spit-polished, and statuettes lined up. Enthusiasm here has waned considerably. Thank you, Lord, for DVR and the remote. I will read and my dear one will work on Sudoku until we can speed through the profundity spewing from those more knowledgeable than the rest of the world. The thing is that it does not matter at all which are the movies many have enjoyed, but the movies that hold the most meaning and assuage the politically correct need. (Man, I just read the above paragraphs and I AM IMPRESSED with the sentence structure and vocabulary used. This deserves an Oscar.) Such verbosity is a result of reading this blog, Word Splash with Joanne Faries . In her blog, Joanne has chosen some excellent quotes from some superb directors:
Samuel Goldwyn, Alfred Hitchcock, Steven Spielberg, and
film critic Pauline Kael.
These talented people clearly state what movies should do.
No one, no one at all, ever talked about what was involved when a girl or boy starts Irish dance lessons. Those dancers look amazing as they skim along a wooden dance floor, as they kick high to the sky, and as they leap without effort. Some costumes/dresses are impossibly ugly, the colors are day glow colors. But no one tells about the money all that costs. Dresses straight from Irish designers can cost up to $3000. Children have a habit of outgrowing these dresses.
Oh, the hard shoes. How can any pair of shoes cost so very much? Apparently, those hard shoes can cost a lot.
In 2017, new shoes cost about $350. Used ones are slightly less. But what happens when one shoe is lost? Disaster. After a huge Irish Feis (fesh) dance competition held in a hotel near Disneyland, my daughter discovered that Clara, my gr-daughter had only one shoe. They searched all over the hotel with staff help, to no success.
This is how a competition looks
As irony would have it, a few days later John and I attended a math conference in the next hotel over. Time was on my hands, so I went to the hotel and asked about the lost shoe. Obviously, Lost and Found was the place to go. No luck. But then the hotel maid recalled one shoe and turned it in the next day after the Feis. That correct lost and found box contained the shoe. Huzzahs all around!
The lone lost shoe
What was lost was found. Was the search worth it? One shoe, was it important enough to find? No one warns us about the cost. But everything costs money, what matters is where it is spent. A new sofa and love seat or a life time of dance memories and skills? Just where do you invest your time, money, self? The dresses are crazy out-of-line, no matter what.
CostCo is a horror to experience on any week, any day, or any hour. So much fortitude is required to gird up any given body part when entering its gates of hell. Once a membership is flashed to an employee, air is sucked straight out of one's lungs and a spectre of doom hovers around anyone with money in pockets or purse. Common sense flees, prices seem reasonable, and the hunt begins.
We had a list given to us by his sister: a specific list for specific number of guests. Twenty hamburgers, twenty hot dogs, and six chicken breasts to be halved seemed very reasonable. When reaching the meat section, my high I.Q. husband starts figuring and asking, "Does one hamburger really mean these? Where each is larger than my hand? Six pounds--is that enough? Chicken? Nine pounds? Can one chicken breast really be halved and be substantial? And, hot dogs? Surely not the cheap ones, skinny and pathetic. Let's buy these." $25 + $25 + $40 + .... It was $175 totaled up for twenty people to eat just grilled meat. What are our relatives? Ravenous cannibals, piling plates with nine dollars worth of meat? Then John reasoned buns and condiments were necessary. Throw in a jar of jam, a new purse for Mother's Day, a three-pack Redi-Whip, and some vitamins, our wallets opened as spectres vacuum green bills, and a nice cashier smiled, "Have a good one." God help us. We are too old to take this pressure. When CostCo was Price Club 30 years ago, we called it the One-Hundred Dollar store, enjoyed strolling the aisles. Now, it is closer to Two-Hundred-Fifty Dollars, and our legs hurt. Still our car wanders there. It is an addiction.
Education is confusing at any school district, State education departments, and Federal over-sight committees. Questions range all over spectrum, based on political interest levels. All the issues in education are based on Politics, and who controls the money. No, really, it is just about the money. Call me cynical, but educational needs reflect political hormone swings, a pendulum of sorts.
For over a decade, bi-lingual education was the "flag pole to salute" (political term). Teachers had the option to meet certification 1) take four college classes, or 2) take a test, essay and fill in the bubble. This all earned the "B.C.L.A.D.**"certification.Not only that, teachers had a deadline of four years to complete this requirement, or face employment death. **Bi-lingual Cross-cultural Academic Development It is very important here to acknowledge that the goalof every teacher, is to understand the needs of all students and meet them. In less than a year, a growing bi-lingual program was dismantled. Teachers were aghast--killing the sacred cash cow? Money moved to other programs.
No Child Left Behind--a national test given faithfully and funded by National funds--was part of the GW Bush legacy. With this Standardized Testing, districts forced "teaching to the test" onto each teacher. Nearly every day, students took mini-tests which would hopefully lead to successful scores, making school districts showing progress.
Here is a preface from an 1889 edition of Illinois and the Nation. This book itself is as dry as sand, but it is an interesting view of expectations in teaching:
So many opinions, disputes, and frustration accompany this topic. What to do? What to say? What to believe? What next?
What do you think? Did education in 1905 go the right direction?
What should schools be teaching in this era? Are students basically the same, or radically different from students way back when? What should be done now?
My posts nearly always contain some sort of graphic or whatever. It breaks up the solid wall of words. When a student faces this wall, shut down may happen. So, throw in some photos appropriate to text and allow readers to process, then read on.
As Theo rumbled down the country road to catch his cousin
Victor at his business, he prayed incessantly.
OhpleaseOhplease, Dear Lord…
Victor waited, clearly watching for Theo, his spirit battered by now. Cell
phones are marvelous things he thought as Theo braked in front. There was urgency in Theo’s step, and some in
Victor’s stance.
Theo pulled a business card from his wallet and held it out as
they shook hands. “Does this offer still
stand?” Theo gulped. “My barn was blown
to pieces, and I need this….”
Victor’s eyes widened,assessing if this was a true offer. He credited Theo for the strength it took to come there. “You
mean this? Really? You want to sell?”
Theo nodded with determination. “I gotta do this. I ain’t got a choice…Does the original offer
still hold?” Oh, please say it does!
“Here, sit down,” Victor replied, pulling over a leather
chair. “I’ll make the call, ask him if
it the offer stands.” Victor made the
call, spoke briefly, and his eyes widened as he made a thumbs-up.
Theo relaxed for the first time since the windy storm had
crossed over his farm. He released a
deep breath.
Victor jumped up, placing his hands of the desk.
“He’ll give you fifty
more! Think what this means! $160,000!” Dropping his head between his knees, spots and stars floated in
darkness.
“He already has a buyer, some fancy dancy designer up in Chicago. Been waiting for one of those barns in your
county to tumble down! He's been putting together a collection of old reclaimed timbers for a year now. ***
Who knew some
rich person wanted the 'country touch' in their mansion. ### Gol’durn. You’re going to be okay, Theo. That designer is already putting together a
crew and eighteen wheeler to take that wood away in the next day or so."
Victor heard the sobbing and relief in Ellen’s voice when
Theo called with the news.
In the sunny week that followed, from the old growth American
chestnut, white oak, black walnut, pine timbers, planks and, hand-carved pegs
that had held the structure together since 1840... the hand-hewed timbers were chosen. The collection embraced the history, decades, and lives which the barn had sheltered. Then the old barn was driven away.
The designer handed Theo a cashier’s check, wished him well,
and followed the truck back to Chicago. Victor stood on the concrete porch with
Theo and Ellen. “You’re gonna be okay,
Theo. Okay…”
Theo nodded, finally seeinga brighter future. Ellen whispered, “Okay…we’re gonna be okay.” She saw, with a sudden clarity, her husband's courage.
Our old barn was taken down in the 1970s, before the trend to purchase the reclaimed wood began. At that time, the barn was wafting in the wind. It was sadly burned to the ground when it lay in pieces.
Standing in a long queue
at the pharmacy is always stressful. It
often seemed to Nancy as she needed
medication for shingles and was at
the end of an emotional tether, all the people ahead of her needed so much.
Some needed translations into Spanish. Some needed
calls made to their doctors. Some
elderly people needed a multitude of
help.
Nancy needed to return home;shingleswas eating up any energy she
had. But she would not give up her spot
in the line, since she was the next person up, after a frail old woman finished
talking with the pharmacy technician.
Nancy gritted her teeth, and then overheard the old woman speaking.
“That much? It costs that much?” She opened her wallet. “I don’t have enough…I guess I will have to
wait until next week to pick this prescription up…”
The technician
explained to her that the doctor said she needed
to start taking this prescription today.
The woman stepped away and said she would have to think about what she
could give up today, so she could buy the medicine.
Nancy took her place
in front of the technician. Impulsively,
Nancy leaned in and whispered, “How much
does that woman need to pay for that prescription?”
The technician
hesitated, but leaned forward and whispered, “About fifteen dollars.”
Nancy checked her
purse. She had a five, three ones, and
one twenty dollar bill. She pulled out
the twenty. “Here…I’ll pay for her prescription, but you can’t tell her who gave
the money.”
Surprised, the
technician took the money. As Nancy left
the counter and walked through the store, she heard the elderly woman called
over the speaker. Then she heard the
woman exclaim. Relief was in her voice.
Nancy smiled. She needed
to hear that.
This is a true story. I was there. With my shingles.
We were on the road the day after school ended. For months we had talked about this. I had been reading about the great shows we could see, while my husband was calculating the expense. By the time the day arrived, he had turned in months of soda cans and bottles for recycling, coming home with $100. Vegas, baby.
Excalibur Hotel was brand new, and we were in awe, like the true tourists we were. I went to the nickel slots; soon lights were flashing and ringing. I made $40. My husband took to the quarter slots, and broke even.
courtesy of Bing.com
Exhausted after a four hour drive and hitting jackpots, we went up to the room to change and go see a show. I had three great ones circled with the ticket cost. It was going to take all my nickel winnings, and cut into the recycling money, but hey…Vegas! I showed the paper to my beloved, hoping to make a great choice.
He's an original.
I searched his face, and realized that he wasn’t interested in seeing a live show. He turned the paper to another page where “Terminator” was showing in a movie theater off the Strip.
We came to Vegas, and he wanted to see “Terminator”.
I caved and went on the drive off the bright flashy streets to some dimly lit, grungy theater. It was easy to find. It was between cruddy bars, with a pawn store across the street, and liquor store next to that. The streets were lined with big motorcycles and prostitutes. We, a modest grade school teacher and geeky high school algebra teacher, were like two fireflies in a sky filled with bug-eating bats.
The show started in a theater filled with bikers and biker chicks, pimps and prostitutes, drug dealers and users, and two school teachers. As the plot developed, the theater roared its approval with colorful metaphors and heartfelt profanity. Swearing wasn’t unexpected, but never with such sincerity and verve. As the movie came to a rip roaring conclusion, the guttural howls nearly ripped the grime off the floor.
1959
We walked out toward our car very aware of our vulnerability. A few steps ahead were a pimp with two of his girls. Oh, it was very clear who and what, because the car was a white decked out Cadillac, and he was wearing a white suit, with white fur cape, and gold jewelry on every digit. The girls were also dressed for their profession. We kept close to them, figuring no one would mug two stupid school teachers within close proximity of the Cadillac. The pimp wouldn’t want blood on his car, right?
We were parked behind him in our little Toyota Tercel. We took off with all the speed it could give us. I didn’t talk to my husband for the entire trip back to the hotel. When we were in our room, we looked at each other, waiting. First there was one giggle, and then a chuckle. Then we burst into relief-filled laughter, amazed that we had done such a thing, and nothing happened to us.
To this day, when we consider Las Vegas and its lights, all we think about is that one night, that one movie, and that white Cadillac. Vegas can never beat any of that.
Recently my daughter Mary asked me to write some stories about the growing up years. Being the youngest of three children, Mary felt like she missed out on some of the memorable events that the other two were privy to. Okay. I gave it some thought, and this one year stands out so clearly in my mind.
The year 1981 was an eventful year, making national and international history. Ronald Reagan was sworn in as President of the United States. The U.S. Embassy hostages, held for so very long in Iran, were released a few days later. The economy was plummeting all over the world, and unemployment was higher than it had ever been. Federal taxes were brutal. Inflation was legendary. We took out a second mortgage on our humble house at the standard interest rate of 16 ½ percent. We borrowed $10,000 which was supposed to provide us with income for the entire year.
We were property managers of low-income apartments in the Mojave Desert. Our tenants were struggling to pay their rent while living in old worn out apartments. Evictions were common; my husband went nearly every other day to file eviction notices at the courthouse. With rent collections down so low, my husband decided we would live on our borrowed money. Of course, he didn’t tell the owners of the properties that we were doing this. He felt this reflected poorly on him as a manager.
With a new baby girl, a two-year old son, and a five-year old daughter, our expenses were already stretched beyond our financial ability to pay for them. Each month was a balancing act and guessing game: which bills to pay, how much to pay, and how little did we need to just squeak by on a quickly emptying checking account.
I like to think of that year as this: The Year I Didn’t Win Publisher’s Clearing House.
Each year that big brown envelope came in the mail, and each year I had thrown it out in the trash. The year 1981 was different. I held that envelope in my hands and it seemed to grow warmer by the second. ‘Why not?’ I thought, as I tore the sealed edge. ‘Why not indeed?’
The envelope held a bundle of letters, stickers, and more than that, promises. “You could be the next winner of $1,000,000!” All I had to do was to fill out the enclosed papers, decide whether to subscribe to a magazine or not, get free mystery prizes, and put all those into an envelope and return it by a certain date. My hands literally shook as I reviewed all the offers, as I thought about ‘what if?’ that this meant. I ignored a crying baby, a brewing fight between the other two kids, and filled that return envelope, sealing it with a loud slurp.
But then, the mailman came and I found another brown envelope in my porch mailbox. “You have been selected to be among the twenty thousand people who could be the next winner of $1,000,000!” With disbelief written on my every feature, I ripped open the envelope, and there was the letter that explained everything. I reread it, again and again, looking for nuances of language, phrases that could be misinterpreted. Finding none, I pulled out the rest of the package of more stickers, more offers, and mystery prizes. I filled out the papers, declining the magazines, but staying in the contest. I had that return envelope filled and sealed before the postman made it to the end of the street.
I didn’t forget about it, but I did push it to back of the queue, behind cleaning, laundry, bill paying, and child rearing. As I said before, life went on. Then the water company came and turned off the water. We hadn’t paid our bill for the last month, $28.92. I cried, I begged, and I promised, but the water went off anyway. I needed to take cash down to the water company and pay the bill. There was no way to reach my husband and scream hysterically into the phone. We had one car, an old Ford Granada. So I paced the floor, waiting and waiting, and told the kids NOT to flush the toilet. They did anyway.
He came home and after listening to my ranting for about ten minutes, he said that he had some cash from rent collections, and that he would go pay the bill. An hour later the same water employee came out and turned on the water. He tried to look apologetic, but I knew he wasn’t. Everyone we knew was counting out their pennies and looking forward to seeing President Reagan clean up the mess of the past decade of disastrous politics. I made grilled cheese sandwiches (with day-old bread) and tomato soup (4 cans for a dollar) for supper. I started speaking again to my husband around 9 p.m.
The weeks dragged by. We went to Pic-N-Save to get shoes for the kids, and found some socks as well; they were ‘seconds’ which meant there were flaws in them. Well, the whole year was flawed as far as I was concerned, so we bought the socks and the shoes. Our credit card usage had never been so high, but we had no money, and a promise of money in the future gave us mental permission to use the Visa and MasterCard. I watched for the postman with the intensity of a stalker.
I followed the procedures, declined the offers, and filled the return envelope with the papers I had checked and double-checked. I caught the mailman before he got to the house on the corner. Hope was once again alive. Then my husband came home as I was wrestling with the bills, trying to see how close we could come to paying them all. He asked, in all seriousness, “Do you think we could get by with $600.00 this month?” I looked at his sweet face pinched with worry, and put my head down on the table and started crying.
The apartment owners came home from a long cruise and met with my husband to go over the collections and bill paying. When the owner saw that we had not taken a salary for seven months (yes, seven months), he swore and said, “Dammit, you gotta look after your family.” He wrote a check for the back pay, and told my husband in certain terms, “Don’t ever do this again!”
My husband deposited the check and didn’t tell me until the next afternoon. The mail had come, and I was holding the letter telling me that, regretfully, I didn’t win, but not to give up because next year could be my year. I looked at my husband as he told me that we had gotten paid back pay. We could pay our bills, but not all of them. It would take years to pay off the second mortgage (at 16 ½ percent) and all the credit charges.
The envelope went into the trash, and we hugged. Then I fixed dinner, spaghetti with meat sauce. I used a whole pound of hamburger, at 59 cents a pound on special that week. And, life went on.
