Too Busy People

Slow Down Or Eat It

2012-01-19T02:58:00.000-08:00

On an average, we travel about 250 km each day. We live in a town in France that is on the edge of a national forest. The trees are not really big. It’s mostly pine and oak with a lot of underbrush. Organized hunts are a big deal here and from time to time we have seen large groups of hunters waiting at the edge of the trees as dogs flushed the deer or wild pigs from the forest. As you might expect there are signs along the road warning of deer and other animal crossing hazards.
So far, in the five months we have been here, the only things I have seen on the road were a flock of sheep and a couple of dead red fox. I contrast that to my home in Olympia Wa where the common flat fauna of the road consists of squirrel, possum and occasional raccoon. Dead cats, otherwise known as sail cats are also common. A sail cat is sort of like an organic Frisbee, although it does not always go where you expect it to go.
In most states it’s against the law to retrieve road kill for human consumption. Even if you hit the elk yourself, you cannot haul it home and stick it in the freezer.
Republican Rep. Dick Harwood of St. Maries wants to make road kill in Idaho a sport. In West Virginia a similar law was passed in 1998. As a result, the annual West Virginia Roadkill Cookoff has become a national event, featured on the Food Channel. Its dishes include Thumper Meets Bumper, Asleep at the Wheel Squeal, One Ton Wonton, Rigormortis Bear Stew, Tire Tread Tortillas and Deer on a Stick, according to Jan Friedman, author of Eccentric America.
Most road kill are accidental but making it legal to dispatch a critter with your pickup seems a bit much. I have, however, had second thoughts recently.
We had dinner with a really nice family that lives about an hour from our home out in the national forest. They don’t really live on a farm but they have the usual dog and cat and a billy goat named Kaiser. The goat is best described as a “watch goat”. Usually it is tied up, sometimes when we go there it runs up to the car and as soon as I exit it begins to butt me with its horns. I have often wondered what it would taste like with a little barbeque sauce.
After the first course of dried country sausage and bread, the hostess brought out a large pot filled with potatoes, onions, carrots, mushrooms, and some kind of brown meat. My wife said she does not understand all that people say because of her limited French vocabulary but she did understand the words “voiture”, “diner” and the word “animal”. I turned and asked her if she wanted to know what she was eating and she said “no, tell me later”. The food was spectacular and we finished with cheese, yogurt and fruit.
The meat had been tenderized by a small white Renault that was driven by a friend and he had given the carcass to this family as a gift.I was just glad it wasn’t their goat.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

It's All About The Butter

2011-12-31T08:38:00.000-08:00

I have a good friend that says I fry the best pan fried oysters in the entire world. My response is always: “Give me enough butter and I can make your shoes taste good” It’s true. Who would have thought that the fat from bovine lactate, churned and solidified with a little salt could taste so good. Someone once asked Paula Dean’s son what he thought his mother’s favorite desert was and he said “butter”. My grandfather ,CR Snelgrove ate cooked cereal most mornings. I never saw him put sugar or milk or even cream on it. He always put a half a stick of butter on his hot cereal. In case you are wondering how that affected his health, he lived into his 90’s.
My preference currently is old butter. You know, the kind that sits in a cave covered with mold and is finally brought to the light of day under the name of cheese. I am currently making my way down the cheese isle at the local grocery chain. It may take me six more months to sample all the cheeses that are on the shelf. Next to all the ready packaged varieties is a counter with three fulltime employees who have at their disposal about 200 different cheeses. They wield long two handled knifes, ready at an instant to carve off any portion of those giant rounds. I have to stop for a moment. I am beginning to drool.
My assertion that you can eat anything given enough butter was proven once again when I recently brought home a dozen snails. They were previously purged, cleaned and cooked and stuffed back in their shells in a mixture of BUTTER, garlic, and chopped parsley. If you actually think about it, the thought of eating the slimy gastropods that chew up the veggies in my garden is pretty disgusting. I cooked them in the oven until the butter melted and we picked them out of the shells with tooth picks. The French actually have a utensil that holds the shell while you pick out the snail with a small fork. My wife’s response to the first snail was, “they are not too bad.” She only ate one which means that on a scale of 1 to 100 they ranked about a 2 for her. Since I translate for her all the time, I will translate for you as well. “They are not too bad” accurately translated means: “who in their right mind would ever eat more than one of these things.” I ate my half dozen and came away with the conclusion that I could have stuffed the shells with parts of an inner tube from my bicycle and it would have tasted about the same. So much for the old escargot myth of snails being a delicacy. It’s all about the butter.
For right now I think I will stick to the cheese, the yogurt, the ice cream while we spend the next year here.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Don't Forget To Turn Off The Power

2011-11-25T10:55:00.000-08:00

I inspected an apartment in Tarbes and found that the light switch was not working and the young Mormon missionaries who were living there were just leaving the hall light on to see when they used the bathroom. So much for privacy. It would be like putting a microphone in your john and broadcasting it throughout the house. So…. I decided to take the switch apart and see if I could fix it. Voltage here runs about 250V which if you touched the wire, would make you look like this chicken. Being much smarter than I used to be (having once drilled through a 220v line putting up a curtain rod) I turned off all the power to the apartment, removed the old switch and deciding it could not be repaired headed off to the brico.
I have spent a good deal of my life in lumber yards, tool stores, Home Despot, Sears and various other money pits, I was not too surprised to find the French have followed suit and come up with the “Brico”. There are various companies but all the stores are basically the same. Picture Home Despot with all the prices in euros and all the help wearing yellow vests and speaking a language that you don’t understand very well. The rows of home improvement/repair items seem to be endless and the number of people available to answer questions is in an inverse relationship to the number of things on the self. You have probably heard of surly French waiters, but let me assure you, they get their training from the guys at the brico. I finally found a guy in a yellow vest, showed him my broken switch and asked him if he could find me one just like it. He said no, and proceeded to recite the entire Gettysburg Address backwards at a phenomenal speed. I was quite impressed. Then he asked me if it was a two or three pole switch. I told him I did not want to discuss politics. After playing charades for a couple of minutes he handed me three items to replace the one I had in my hand and walked off. He didn’t give me a chance to ask him how the three parts went together, so, just to annoy him I tracked him down and asked where I could find a smoke alarm and a fire extinguisher. He was not amused.
Back at the apartment I stared at the three parts for twenty minutes until I had a general idea how they went together and installed the new switch. I turned the power back on and flipped the switch. No light. Slightly frustrated and not wanting to appear incompetent in front of the two young missionaries, I meditated for a few more minutes, dreading the thought of having to return to the brio and talk with Jean Pierre one more time and it came to me. There was an additional switch on the fixture. Voila, let there be light. There are few things in life more satisfying than a successful repair.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Dead?

2011-11-02T12:49:00.000-07:00

Worldwide custom dictates taking something to the host when you are invited to dinner. A flower arrangement, a beverage, a desert or anything else that shows the host you are grateful for the invitation and even more so, grateful that you don’t have to cook that meal at home yourself. Over time, we have been the recipients of some wonderful deserts, lots of bottles of Martinelli’s Sparking Cider, and one time a cheese plate with an opened and half consumed box of Triscuts. We can only assume that our guests got hungry on the way to our house. In our attempt to understand the culture of France and fit in, we have picked up on at least one interesting custom. Chrysanthemums are never to be taken to someone’s home as a gift, ever.
Why? I knew this would come up so here is the answer. On November 1 of each year there is a holiday called Toussaint. It’s All Saints Day. It is a day for remembering all your dead relatives and I guess the almost dead ones also. It was yesterday and all the government buildings, post offices, and most businesses in town were closed including the Huit a 8 (8 to 8) which is the French equivalent of the 7-11 only with different hours. Graves and monuments to those who have died were decorated with…you guessed it, Chrysanthemums. These beautiful flowers are considered the flowers of the dead.

Hence it’s considered bad taste to show up for dinner carrying a big pot of mums. Now you know.
thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Hit The Road Jean Pierre (Jack)

2011-10-20T13:22:00.000-07:00

We drove to Bordeaux the other day to a meeting which started at 10 am. There is a freeway near our town but the entrance is really out of the way and on top of that it is a toll road. When the French decided they were behind the rest of western Europe in the freeway department, they didn’t have the billions of euros it would have taken, so they turned the project over to private enterprise. The only catch is you have to pay a toll based on when you get on and off. If I take the freeway to Bordeaux it gets me there fifteen minutes sooner but 11 euros poorer. So……I take the old national highway. Picture this, a two lane highway just barely wide enough for two cars, lined on each side by gigantic London Plane trees that were planted to keep the driver of the horse drawn cart from getting a sunburn. Speed limits are 55 mph except where posted otherwise. There are 15 small villages on the way to Bordeaux so I have to slow down to 43 mph in each town.
Out on the highway, I set my cruise control at 55 and expect to be passed by every other car headed in my direction. The process is as follows: (I am sure they teach this in French driving classes)
1. Tailgate to within two feet of the car in front of you
2. When there is the slightest opening (not necessarily when there are no oncoming cars) whip to the oncoming lane and pass at the highest possible speed. No need to wait for all oncoming vehicles to clear.
3. Return to the lane at the quickest possible moment, preferably within five feet of the car you are passing.
4. Continue to do the same until you reach your destination. Use of turn signal is optional.
Driving on French highways is a lot like the most memorable ride I ever took with my Dad. We had been to Yellowstone Park because he took a couple of days vacation for the 4th of July. For some reason he felt that we all had to attend a barbeque at my uncle John’s early in the afternoon . We left West Yellowstone at 11 am. Picture the traffic on the 4th of July. Picture a very busy two lane highway from West Yellowstone to Salt Lake City. Picture my dad setting a land speed record for a Chevrolet as we traveled 351 miles in 3.6 hours. (This is typically a six hour drive). No talking was allowed. We were going so fast, I finally got down on the floor in back of the passenger seat and said every prayer I ever remember hearing. No sense in looking out the window, we were going so fast everything was a blur. We passed 256 cars, 95 trucks, a herd of sheep and an airplane headed out of Idaho Falls to Las Vegas. Usually, a trip like that would call for a pit stop for a Coke and a bathroom break. No such luck. If you had to go, you quickly forgot because every sphincter had gone into emergency mode within the first 10 miles. I kept seeing the headline in the local paper when I closed my eyes. It read: Family of 5 Killed Instantly When Their Car Passed 11 Cars And Slammed Into An Oncoming Cattle Truck. No Cattle Were Hurt.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

The Ticket

2011-10-15T01:18:00.000-07:00

I got a ticket today. Actually the term is contravention and it means that I did something wrong. What you ask? I know that would come up so here is the answer. We drove to Pau the other day to help some young sister missionaries find a new apartment. We were supposed to meet them at the rental agency which just happened to be in the middle of town. Parking is very limited and as a result people park everywhere. They park just about anywhere they please but no matter where you park you still have to pay for it. Somewhere on the street is a machine where you enter large quanties of odd looking coins, push a button and receive a small piece of paper with a time stamped on it which you put on the dash board of your car. As you all know, I am a diligent follower of the rules, so when I found a parking place I dutifully paid for the parking and put the paper on the dash. Apparently while we were at the rental agency the local cops took a good look at my car and wrote me a ticket. The ticket is a two part device with the cost on the front and a written explanation on page two. The ticket said I owed the city of Pau 35 Euros and if I didn’t pay within 30 days the cost would go up to 75 Euros. It seemed a bit steep for a parking tickets but I could not read what the cop had written inside. The French apparently did not have Mrs. Gessellman for 3rd grade writing class because all the words were written in a style that must drive genealogists crazy. I got a friend to translate for me and he told me I got a ticket for not displaying a current insurance card on the windshield. I checked after our discussion and discovered that it had expired in 2010. It’s the equivalent of not having a valid or current insurance card in your possession or in the car in the states. Here in France you are supposed to put them in a little carrier stuck to the inside of the windshield. I think I will have a little chat with the guy in the office who is responsible for all the cars and send him the ticket. The French have a habit of conducting rolling roadblocks at all hours of the day and night to check for proper driver’s licenses, insurance, an identification card, or a note from your mother saying it alright to drive. So our vehicle might be grounded until we can get a proper card.
The last time I got stopped by a policeman and thought I was getting a ticket, I was riding my bike east on Lacey Blvd at about 25 mph in the bike lane (yes it’s slightly downhill there) and got red lighted by the local constable. Turned out he just wanted to look at my bike. I let him look and then pedaled quickly home for a change of clothing. My only other ticket in the last 15 years was in front of the State Farm Regional Office in Dupont WA. I was clocked going ten over the limit but only cited for no insurance because I could not find my current insurance card. The fine was $150. I went to court. Court in Dupont was presided over by a retired hanging judge from someplace in rural Arkansas. I had to sit through all the criminal cases and watched as this judge declared the guilt of each defendant. Burnt toast came to mind. When it was my turn, I respectfully explained my situation and produced my valid insurance card. To my amazement, the judge declared, “Charges dismissed! Assessing court costs of $150." Some days you just can’t win.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better

Oh MY!

2011-09-30T12:31:00.000-07:00

Tonight I witnessed one of the greatest tragedies of life. The squandering of at least 40 combined hours of time by an incompetent musical director. How do I get 40? There were 20 musicians, mostly young and inexperienced who suffered through the ineptitude of a disorganized, chaotic, and uninspiring first rehearsal perpetrated by a director who should have known better.
We are now living in St Pierre du Mont in France and my wife would like to play in a string ensemble if we can find one. We visited the local conservatory last week and were told that an amateur group meets on Friday night for a weekly rehearsal in preparation for a series of concerts. She was invited to come and observe and join if she were interested.
We arrived at the appointed time, 7:00 and went into a small but nice recital-rehearsal hall. There were about 20 high school aged string players and about a half a dozen adults all just milling about; talking and socializing with their friends. About 7:20 a much harried looking woman of vast proportions descended the stairs and called the players to order. Roll was taken, chairs and stands were found and the conductor then proceeded to pass out three pieces of music. Tuning was done by the conductor taking each instrument and plucking the strings with her thumb and handing the instrument back to the player. She did this with each player including the adults. No “A” was ever given so the pitch from each instrument varied from player to player. It was kind of like taking a small sample of yellow paint and matching 30 other samples to the sample just previously matched. What you get is an entirely different shade of yellow for each sample. By the time the tuning was completed it was almost 8:00. Not one single note had been played. She even checked the tuning of the adults in the group.
The first piece up was Bizet’s Carmen. Both Carmen and Bizet should ask for their money back. The conductor’s technique was reminiscent of someone beating a snake with a stick. I think she quit beating when she thought the snake had finally died. I know I had. Her comment at that point was “Wonderful. Now let’s number our measures.” Exit Frank and Barbara stage left.
Here is the point. These people were cheated out of what could been a wonderful musical experience. An experience of learning, appreciation of great music and above all the satisfaction of working with others under the direction of an inspiring conductor to play some of the greatest music ever written. Never mind that they may have all been inexperienced. They deserved better.
Instead they got incompetence bordering on criminal action. This woman stole their time and gave them nothing in return. One can only hope that in the next life she is assigned to a place where the only music be heard is bagpipes or “Lady of Spain” badly played on an out of tune accordion by a chubby pre-adolescent with acne.
I am now going to practice my guitar.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Bag It And Tag It

2011-09-11T19:45:00.000-07:00

Over the last few years my wife and I have had the great opportunity to do a bit of traveling. In 2002 we flew to Paris France (no, not Paris Idaho) and rented a car. We traveled all over France in a small VW Jetta for three weeks. Before we left, I suggested that we probably could get along with just taking a small carry-one bag each. The idea went over like a fart in church, but after some discussion and a few tales of people traveling half way across the planet and having to wear the same clothes until the luggage was finally found, my wife finally agreed. Yes it is entirely possible to travel with just a carry-on. You just have to be willing to spend a few hours in a self service laundry in a foreign country. My logic was validated when we met an American couple in Paris and shared a table with them at the Café du Marche. He was wearing one of his wife’s blouses because his luggage had been lost. In many places he would not have received a second look and I probably wouldn’t have noticed either if he hadn’t brought it up. If you look at it from a positive point of view, he beat the stereotype of the American tourist (Dockers, new white tennis shoes, t-shirt with some message like “I caught crabs on the Oregon coast” and a Chicago Cubs baseball hat).

Unfortunately, as we are packing today in preparation of our flight to Geneva Switzerland tomorrow I am trying to stuff 250 lbs of the essentials of life into four suitcases and a carry-on. Oh, did I mention the two laptops in a back pack and a violin? Larry’s Tire Store, Funeral Home and Airlines LCC, is limiting us to 50 lbs per bag. The first leg of the trip from Seattle to Salt Lake City had only two bags and both were over the weight limit. Since then my wife has been shopping and we have added two more suitcases. I am now way over the limit and will have to discard the chop saw and air compressor to accommodate her recent purchases. I have refused to give up my 5lb bag of Snickers. Larry, in his quest to squeeze the last dollar out of my wallet has told us that our first bag is free but the 2nd one will be $75. Other airlines charge $35/bag except for SouthWest and they don’t seem to care.

I let you know how it went when we get there.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Life Without Discomfort

2011-07-23T17:53:00.000-07:00

Last week, I was in Utah visiting family. While there, I set up Skype on my sister in law’s computer and then went to a nearby McDonald’s to see if it worked. Just as I was finishing the call, an older man walked by and stopped to look. After I finished the call he said, “Do you think I am too old to learn to do that?” I said “That all depends upon your definition of too old.” He looked at me with that odd look that I often get when talking to strangers and I continued. “My definition of too old is DEAD. Go for it.”

He laughed and asked if he could sit down. We chatted for a few minutes and I showed him how Skype works and asked him if he had a computer. He said yes, but his wife was on it twenty four hours a day. My response was “so…your wife is a genealogy fanatic.” He looked at me with that “how did you know that “ look and slowly said yes. “Not only that” he said,” but she has tracked down the burial places of hundreds of dead ancestors and has dragged me all over the country to show them to me.” I said, “That’s not so bad. She could be dragging you all over the country to visit her living relatives. It’s a lot easier visiting the dead ones. You don’t have to be polite when you visit the dead ones.”

I suggested he buy a cheap laptop with a camera and that way he could visit his wife’s living relatives online without having to go to the trouble of driving or flying to make the visit. That way, when he got tired of listening to the conversation, he could feign transmission problems, shut off his video, or disconnect his microphone thereby making a quick exit back to his shop, or garage or any other quiet, safe place. He seemed quite taken with the possibilities. I did explain that if used it, he had to remember some basic rules.

· Always make sure you are dressed. That means more than just underwear.

· You are not a professional baseball player so never pick your nose or scratch anything.

· Remember, the camera picks up everything in back of you too, including voices.

· Always remember to disconnect before making rude comments about the person you were speaking too.

When I was a child, my dad would take us to visit all his widowed aunts. We guessed he was trying to insinuate himself into the wills of these old ladies. Refreshments were usually presented but there was never any variety. By the time I was ten, I had guessed that some super salesman had sold a railroad car of stale fig newtons to every old woman in town who could have been even remotely related to my father. My apologies to Nabisco, but they are not on my preferred eats list even today. It’s really too bad we didn’t have Skype when I was a kid. Think of the flatulance I could have avoided.

Please... No Repeat of History

2011-03-24T11:23:00.000-07:00

My nephew recently emailed one of my daughters asking about all the recipes that belonged to my mother. Mother passed away last year and I guess he had an idea that perhaps it would be a good idea to compile a book of his favorite grandmother’s concoction so they could be enjoyed by future generations.

A great idea, I guess in theory but not in real practice. You see, he did not grow up in the house and he didn’t have to eat the stuff. I am not saying that my mother was a bad cook, but I have often joked that we said a blessing on the food after we ate instead of before. She was very good at cooking many things, particularly if the process involved boiling or frying. All vegetables were boiled beyond their useful measure until they were devoid of any color or taste. Then, at the insistence of my father, they were always covered with a white sauce. Therefore cooked veggies were always creamed veggies. Creamed corn, creamed cabbage, creamed Brussels sprouts, creamed carrots; you could hardly tell one from another. There were never any leftovers. We just called them “evidence”

Pot roast was a Sunday special. The process involved taking a blade pot roast, covering it in flour and beating the crap out of it with a hammer, back side of a meat cleaver or any other heavy object available at the time. The meat was then seared (mostly blackened) in a pan on both side and then simmered (boiled) in water for approximate 7 hours or until the meat no longer resembled beef. The gravy was always great.

It didn’t matter that she had a broiler pan as part of her gas oven, all meat was fried. Steaks, chops, burgers, hot dogs, fish, duck, rabbit and the occasional pheasant. The only meat I ever remember being cooked in the oven was a turkey. Most chicken was boiled, not fried. In retrospect, I guess stewing hens were cheaper than fryers.

Mother was always an advocate of the hearty breakfast. Her father always had a bowl of Cream of Wheat cereal. Never with milk but just with a half a stick of grade A butter. She was always shoving a large steaming bowl of oatmeal, Cream of Wheat or Roman Meal (i.e. dog food) in front of us at breakfast. No matter how hard I tried, there was never enough sugar to make it palatable. I would usually let mine sit until it had hardened into the shape of the bowl and could be used as a door stop. I left home at age nineteen and have never eaten a bowl of hot cereal since.

So, I rest my case hoping that my nephew will reconsider, since if we don’t view history in all its truths, history is bound to repeat itself. Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

The Police Blotter and More

2011-02-07T21:26:00.000-08:00

My son has recently been sending me the crime blotter from the City of Oak Harbor. I find them most amusing and searched for other small towns that have similar problems. Here are a few:

June 8, 2 p.m., Newport Harbor: A sailboat was unable to cast off because a squirrel atop its mast refused to come down. Police, in a rare breach of protocol, did not shoot the squirrel. No further information is available.

September 3, 1:20 a.m., Thames Street: A Lakefield, Massachusetts, man indiscriminately exposed himself to people near the corner of Thames and Mill streets. But when police approached, he didn't expose himself to them, which may have hurt their feelings. It's no fun to be excluded. After a short chase, police arrested the man.

12:58 p.m. — A man driving on Highway 525 near Harbor Avenue said a bicyclist darted in front of the driver and he had to slam on his brakes. When the bicyclist was asked, “Are you stupid, or what?” the bicyclist shared an inappropriate hand signal with the motorist and kicked toward the car.

The stupidest criminal trick of the last month, cited in San Diego Magazine, involves the woman who flagged down two men in a car in Oceanside, exposed a breast and revealed she was a prostitute. She jumped into their car, explaining she had to get off the street because there were so many cops in the area. The two men, plainclothes officers, arrested her.

Man mistakes brother for trashcan. At 11:24 p.m. Sept. 15, police responded to a report of a drunk driver in a neighborhood on the 16300 block of Orchard. A man ran into a parked car while driving a scooter intoxicated. The man said he thought he saw his brother, which was just a trashcan. He was arrested. [Love this so much! An intoxicated scooter and a trashcan brother. It's why I read the paper.]

A man driving a moped erratically was stopped by Mount Pleasant police, and when they asked if he had any physical problems that would interfere with his ability to pass a sobriety test, he told them he was a "fat (expletive)."

Stupid is not always just found the police blotter. The following are insurance claims I actually handled:

A man found mice in his cabin in Island Park and threw flea bombs under the cabin to get rid of them. Burns cabin to the ground. Claim paid.

Woman spilled large quantity of grease in her oven. Her solution was to turn on the self cleaning oven. Result: large fire in kitchen. Claim paid.

Woman reported she damaged her sons garage door when she drove into it. He is blind but owns a car. He lets his friends drive and his mother drives him to the store a couple of times a month. She pulled into the driveway and instead of putting it in park she put it in drive and went through the garage door, taking out the water heater, washing and dryer and driving out the back side of the garage. I suggested she let him drive next time. Claim paid.

Man offered to cut down a very large tree on a vacant lot owned by his brother. The tree fell the wrong way and hit a neighbor’s house causing $45,000 in damage to the house and contents. The man said he did not feel he was responsible since it was his brother’s tree. Claim paid

Man reported his truck and boat trailer were stolen from the parking lot at Pt Defiance. He called back two weeks later to report that the police found the truck and trailer in the upper parking lot at Pt. Defiance. Not stolen, just misplaced. My conclusion was that no fish were caught but lots of beer was consumed. Claim was withdrawn.

Man reported that his 9hp Honda outboard had been stolen for the third time this year. He wanted to know how to prevent this from happening again. I suggested he quit parking his boat in the street and to put the outboard under his bed. Claim paid

In the aftermath of hurricane Ivan, a man from Louisiana reported that he lost the contents of two freezers that held venison, shrimp. oysters, pork, crab, alligator, various varieties of fish and a couple of possums. We sent a field adjuster to the home and found out that there were no damaged food items. In fact he did not even own any freezers because he didn’t have electricity on the property. Claim denied.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

It's A Dangerous World Out There

2011-01-12T10:29:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I received another promotional flyer from my credit union offering me insurance. Never mind that I am 68 years old and am, according to my doctor, quickly sliding towards the reading of my will. No, this insurance is a little different. It’s called Accidental Death and Dismemberment Insurance. Because I belong to the credit union I already have $20K in such coverage as part of my account. The flyer was to get me to buy additional coverage. I have discovered over the years that insurance salesmen always try and sell me a policy that really benefits the family. Their family, not mine, so I am always careful when I am around them.

I am not trying to minimize accidents. I recently heard of a shake cutter out in Grays Harbors County that lost his left arm and left leg at a mill. It looks like he is now all right. I also read recently that most fatal auto accidents occur within five miles of your own home. I think I’ll move ten miles away just to make sure I am safe.

The brochure says that if I die of some accidental cause like getting hit by the garbage truck on my way to the mailbox, my beneficiary will receive the whole amount. The whole amount is also payable if I lose both hands above the wrist. The loss of both feet above the ankle and both arms also qualify for full payment. If I accidentally lose one hand all I get is $10K. The fine print says I have to prove that I lost them accidentally and didn’t just leave them lying around at the bus station. Cutting of my fingers in the table saw doesn’t pay anything. Besides, the saw doesn’t care anyway.

If I lose both arms and legs and am so badly maimed I also lose both eyes, the most I can collect is the amount list on the policy. Oops…I just read the extra fine print. Since I am over 65 I can only collect half the amount listed on the declaration. The most I can get for a lost hand is $5K. Oh my! The extra extra fine print only printed in Mandarin, says that any loss must occur on the 30th day of any month that does not have an R in it. (May, June, July, August) It also says that the loss must occur within five miles of my home. Now I am definitely moving.

It also says that if I only lose both legs I cannot collect or file suit against the insurance company (Mutual of Humptulips) or anyone else. I did some research and found case law that indicates such cases have always been thrown out on Summary Judgment. Judges have unanimously agreed that the plaintiffs in such actions didn’t have a leg to stand on.

I think I would be money ahead if I set up an account with the credit union. I could make a $100 deposit every time I nicked myself on a saw blade, narrowly missed being killed on the freeway, or showed up without thinking at the gun range on Wacko Wednesday. That’s the day the nut cases show up to practice with their cannons and assault rifles. My guess is that I would have the $20K in short order. It could then be converted to some interest bearing account to be used accidentally on toys and good food.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

On the Pill

2010-12-15T16:52:00.000-08:00

I am getting to the age when things have started to fall apart. My hair is thinning. My eyesight is failing. My finger nails have deep ridges in them. I have osteoarthritis in my right hip, and my eye brows are beginning to look like the broom in my shop. I became a little concerned when my doctor told me earlier this year that my cholesterol was too high. He also said that my blood pressure was too high and asked if I smoked, drank alcohol, worked in a stressful environment, lacked physical activity or suffered from obesity. I answered no to all of the above. Being relatively inventive, I asked him would it help if I took up drinking and smoking, got a stressful job, stayed up late, quit riding my bike, gained 50 lbs and then quit. The only response I got was that doe in the headlight look. He suggested I watch what I eat and see if both could be lowered by diet alone. So, I went on a no fat, no taste diet that simply consisted of my usual food but without the following: butter, red meat, cheese, ice cream and anything else that might taste good. I have eaten so much chicken I cluck when I try to speak.

Recently I went back in for a bloodletting and the results came back exactly the same. BP too high and cholesterol level way to high. He now has me taking two BP pills, a cholesterol pill, a vitamin, an aspirin, and an anti-inflammatory for the arthritis in my hip.

Friends are very helpful and often suggest home remedies or a collection of natural health products, none of which are any good. My wife’s aunt and her husband were once convinced that if they purchased a juicer they could have all the benefits of fresh fruits and vegetables in liquid form. They bought the juicer, two cartons of carrots and made a gallon of fresh carrot juice. Three days later they both looked like they had been spray painted with safety orange. Another friend decided that he could lose a ton of weight by taking chromium tablets. He lost the weight but threw his blood chemistry off so badly he had to spend a few days in the hospital on dialysis. One of my oldest friends suggested I tape some magnets to the areas where I have the most pain. He guaranteed I would see improvement almost immediately. The magnets didn’t work and I quit when I got stuck to the refrigerator door when I got up in the middle of the night to get a snack.

Another well meaning friend gave me a bunch of sticky back holograms. I was told if I stuck them on the area where I experienced pain, the pain would go away. It seems that the holograms would redirect the forces of the universe for a realignment of my cosmic construction. All I got out of it was a temporary tattoo of a goat.

Speaking of goats. I did see an interesting product in my local Walgreens. It’s Epimedium, also known as Rowdy Lamb Herb, Barrenwort, Bishop's Hat, Fairy Wings, Yin Yang Huo (Chinese: 淫羊藿), or my favorite, Horny Goat Weed, It is suppose to be a natural alternative to Viagra. I wonder if it has the same four hour warning.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Ever Wonder Why I Hate To Shop?

2010-10-11T18:37:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid the only time you got new clothes was a few things at Christmas and the majority when school started in the fall. The routine was something like this. We would get in the car and head to JC Penny where after what seems like many hours we went home with exactly the same stuff we bought last year, except newer. The list was always the same. Six pairs of briefs, six pairs of socks, two pairs of Levi’s (never the Levi brand because they were too much money) one pair of shoes and a few t-shirts. None of the clothes ever fit, nor were they designed to. As I look back on it now, the rationale was that anything that fit today would be too small tomorrow. Never mind that the pants legs were six inches too long. You were expected to grow into it. Just as I was getting to the point where things were suppose to fit, they wore out and/or fell off. I always had two pair of shoes; one for everyday and one for Sunday best. When the every days wore out they got resoled or a new heel put on and a little polish made them fit for formal wear. When they finally fell apart, the old ones got tossed and the Sunday best became the everydays. It was then time to go buy new shoes. I always enjoyed the process of the shoes because our store had an x-ray machine you could put your feet into and see where the bones were in relation to the shape of the shoes. Someone finally found a relationship between too much x-ray exposure and death and the machines disappeared from the stores.

Last week I went into a Red Wing Shoe store in West Valley Utah to buy a new pair of shoes. There were three construction workers already there trying on a variety of work boots. They had a job at Kennecott Copper mine and were turned away from the work site because they didn’t have the proper safety footwear. Their employer gave them a purchase order and off they went to the shoe store. The scene took me back to my childhood. Boy were they excited. They tried different boots, traded what they thought was good with the co-workers, raved about how comfortable the boots were, traded again. One big guy got so excited he had to use the restroom three times. The only thing missing from the scene was the Back to School sign in the window.

I remember when I was no longer excited about buying clothes, and for that matter shopping period. When I entered junior high school, my mother took us to JC Penny’s for the annual event. An event I might add, that turned out to be the last time I ever went shopping with either parent. My mother denies the circumstances of the events, but total recall of the day is so burned into my memory that there can be no error in the telling. My 13 year old brother, who had already been to junior high school, had been dating since the age of 11 and could grow full beard over a weekend, reminded my mother that since I was going to be taking PE I would need certain equipment.

My mother spotted a clerk twelve rows over, and in the loudest voice I ever remember my mother using, and pointing directly at me, shouted “Hey! We need a jockey strap for this boy right here. And you better make it an extra small”. No hint of ever growing into this piece of clothing. From that day forward I did my own shopping for clothes.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Watch Out For The Bikes

2010-09-07T19:15:00.001-07:00

I recently was a volunteer with the Tour of Utah. This is a pro bicycle event known as a stage race. Every day during the event the racers show up at a different place and follow a prescribed route to the finish. The Tour of Utah is considered a very difficult event because of all the mountain routes. For example, the last day started in Park City, went to Camus, Midway and down Provo canyon. From there the route goes over the Alpine Loop, past Sundance and down American Fork Canyon. It then proceeds over the Skyline Road into Salt Lake Valley. The final indignity of the day is that it concludes at Snowbird Ski Resort at the head of Little Cottonwood Canyon. The total route is a little over 100 miles. The rider with the lowest time at the end of the week wins.

Most of the time I was busy being a Race Marshal. It simply means that I wore an official orange shirt and told people where to go. I like telling people where to go.For example: There were Two Older Women with lots of hanging jewelry and other parts at the Criterium in Park City. I shall refer to them simple as TOW. I had just closed the street crossing to Main Street because the racers were practicing and riding past at about 45mph. TOW said, “How do we get across the street. We have reservations at the Gold Spoon and our other rich friends are already there.” Me: “I am sorry ladies but the course is now closed for safety reasons.” Tow: “Well you just don’t seem to understand. We have money and therefore are entitled to special privileges.” Me: “I am sorry ladies but the road will be closed until after the race. At that time you will be able to cross. Oh and by the way the racers will be going around this city block as fast as they can for the next hour and forty five minutes.” Tow: “But that young man is out in the street. Why can’t we go there too?” Me: “Ladies, that young man is Levi Leipheimer, a professional bike racer. You can tell because he has a racing bike strapped to his @ss. At that point l avoided any further eye contact, turned my back and pretended that I had suffered a major hearing loss. There were 15,000 people watching the race is Park City that day. I did not hear or see from TOW after the initial encounter.

On day two I was assigned to a right hand turn into the city of Goshen. My job was to stop all vehicle traffic at the approach of the Highway Patrol and not let anyone proceed until the last racer had passed the intersection. I was dropped off by the shuttle van about an hour before the racers were to pass so I swept the rocks out of the street, ate my sack lunch and drank two liters of water. Then I looked around for a restroom. Goshen is what you find when you look up “End of the Earth” in the dictionary. The one lane streets are wide enough for four lanes in each direction but there are no stores, gas stations churches, or portable toilets in the entire town. I did manage to locate what turned out to be city hall and when I explained my situation to Foghorn Leghorn he said he understood completely since he too was the proud owner of a 68 year old bladder.

When I returned to the intersection I saw the flashing lights of the police coming into town and I dutifully stepped into the middle of the intersection and stopped all traffic. In less than three minutes the entire peloton had passed from one end of town to the other. When I was sure there were no riders who had been spit out the back of the group, I allowed traffic (50 pickup trucks) to continue. As I waived them through, many of the drivers waved back. Sort of. I had a great week.

Thanks for listening. I feel much better.

Eat Out Once In A While

2010-09-06T21:51:00.000-07:00

I spent an hour on a recent sunny day having lunch at the JC Diner in Tremonton Utah. It’s an older place built in 1950. It is surrounded by field corn on three sides and parking lot full of pickups and tractor trailers. It is for sale and is described as a “well established country restaurant”. I walked in and immediately felt out of place. I was the only patron not wearing bib overalls. This fine dining hall has eight stools and six booths. The Formica counter top has been wiped clean so many times the pattern has completely disappeared. My waitress approach and I braced myself for the greeting. “You want coffee Hon, or do you want to see the menu?” Cindy must have been born in the place. She knew everyone who came in by their first name. She said she works from 5:30 am to 2:30 pm everyday but Sunday and has done so ever since her husband grew up and left home. That must have been some time ago. The specialty of the house is chicken fried anything or a hot roast beef sandwich. The soup of the day was straight out of the Campbell Soup can. I thought I was 14 again.

As I sat at the counter I recalled going to work for my grandfather, Charles R Snelgrove, when I was 14. He was the founder and chief potentate of the Snelgrove Ice Cream Company. My initial duties were to clean milk cans and make popsicles, assorted ice cream novelties and scrub the floors at the end of the day. I worked full time during the summers. Since I was a man of money (I made 90cents/hr), I bought my lunch every day at Hubbard’s Diner in Sugerhouse. My typical lunch was a hot roast beef sandwich followed by a piece of homemade apple pie with a slice of cheddar cheese on top. I would then go into the retail part of the ice cream store and have the counter help make me double caramel fudge malt with a scoop of caramel and a banana mixed it. I gained one pound one summer and blamed it on the hot roast beef sandwiches.

The conversationat the JC Diner ran from the price of corn to immigration. I was wearing a US Border Patrol hat and when one the locals noticed it, the conversation turned from Mexican farm help to the weather. At one point the local constable came in for coffee. He was typical small town law enforcement. You know the kind; average height, balding, addicted to greasy food, overweight, always gets his man, or woman or an occasional transvestite. His name was Bob. I think all cops from northern Utah to the Canadian border are named Bob. He asked me how long I had worked for the Border Patrol and I ignored the question and just told him I was retired. An hour later, well fed and more importantly well entertained, I went on my way, thinking I had stepped back into another time.

If you travel the country, get off the interstate and find a local café. You may find Bob or Cindy or a whole bunch of folks who look just like them and you will be glad you did.
Thanks for listening I feel much better.

The Van

2010-08-05T11:44:00.000-07:00

My daughter, her husband and their four small children just moved back from South America. They are currently staying at a local motel and have borrowed his father’s old van for transportation. I offered them my Rav4 but someone would have to sit on the roof rack. They had their Dodge pickup shipped to Columbia when they moved there four years ago but they sold it when they left. Something about not enough room or no home entertainment system I suppose. They have spent the last couple of days test driving vans. They finally settled on a Toyota. I guess it looked nice, drove well, had a sound proof barrier between the driver and the passenger, and thirteen cup-holders. With that many kids and that many cup-holders it should also include full-body child restraint systems and a port-a-potty.

My experience with the car industry over the years has been interesting. When I taught school, and had summers off, I would do dealer trades for a couple of local car dealers. I made a lot of trips to the Seattle car auctions to pick up used cars one summer, but that little money making venture ended when eight of us went to the auction and found out we only had four dealer plates with us. We drove the four cars without tags anyway. As luck would have it, all four cars were pulled over near Tacoma by the highway patrol. We all went to court along with the car dealer, who in the meantime had received a nice visit at his place of business from the cops. For some reason the regular traffic court was overbooked and we all ended up in the criminal court. We appeared last on the docket after all the criminal arraignments had been done.

Criminal arraignments allow the recently arrested and not so recently stupid to stand before the judge and hear the charges and plead guilty or not guilty. It they plead not guilty, they most often ask for a public defender because not only are they stupid but they are too poor to hire an attorney on their own. One young man had been arrested at the B&I store. He was accused of mooning the gorilla. There was actually a live, full grown gorilla in the back corner of the store for many years and it appeared this kid had been drinking, dropped his trousers and pressed his bare but up against the glass enclosure. When the charges were read there was some laughter in the courtroom. Before this idiot could respond, I said to the guy seated next to me, “I think he should plead not guilty. The gorilla will never be able to identify him." I didn’t think I said it very loud, but the judge heard it and threatened me with a contempt of court citation. The car dealer paid a hefty fine. I quit transporting cars.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Off to the Gym

2010-06-19T12:15:00.000-07:00

The photo on the left is a great commentary on the American diet, junk food and general lack of restraint. The Italians loaned Michelangelo’s “David” to an American gallery for a year and this is how he returned.

The other day, as I got out of the shower, I saw my reflection in the mirror and said to myself as I have on many previous occasions, “Johnston, your wife better outlive you because this is not dating material.” My solution was to join a gym. You have to understand that my experiences with gyms and health clubs have been unsatisfactory ventures. It’s not because I have not lost weight or improved my physical conditioning; it’s because the last three gyms I joined went out of business. The first one mysteriously turned into a dog food store. The owner of the second one packed up a U-Haul one Sunday, locked the doors and left town. The owner of the last one ran off with a dental hygienist from Humptulips and went bankrupt when his wife divorced him and fleeced him to the point his total net worth consisted of one pair of Fruit of the Looms and a Starbucks card. He was forced to live on his boat.

She Who Must Be Obeyed suggested I join her gym. I figured why not. People are always asking me what gym I go to. I figured, even if I don’t go, I will be able to tell them I belong to one. I went to the desk and told the girls that my wife sent me and I was suppose to sign up. It was all taken care of in less time than it takes to sign a will. A few days later the owner of the gym called to say that my wife had won third prize in their referral contest. It seems that anyone who referred someone who actually joined the gym was eligible for a drawing. Turns out she actually won third prize because she referred me. I think they got three referrals. She never wins anything so I figured this was a good omen. I suggested she run right out and buy me a Power Ball lottery ticket. Her reply was, “Listen Skippy……but I forget the rest. The major award was a helicopter ride provided by Larry’s Helicopter, Tire Store and Funeral Services. Not bad for a lady who does not like looking down from great heights, who won’t even look down those metal cattle crossings you find in Montana and Idaho. Come to think of it, she won’t look down at the fake ones that are just painted on the road either. I’ll tell you about the ride another time.

I went to the gym this morning and as I walked up to use one of the machines I was abruptly moved to the side by a woman of vast proportions. She said it was her favorite machine and did I mind. I never argue with anything that outweighs me and could potentially humiliate me with a quick shot to the head. Sometimes obtaining the body of Adonis just has to give way to survival. The only real benefit of the encounter is that I am no longer a candidate for laxatives.

Thanks for listening. I feel much better.

Rails To Trails

2010-06-17T18:54:00.000-07:00

Here in Thurston County we are fortunate to have a series of paved trails that in the past were part of a regional railroad system. Over time, the right- of- ways have been acquired by cities and the county. With the help of a number of grants they have been turned into a great place to ride a bike, roller skate, walk or whatever else you want to do on the trail. Statistically, anyone who rides a bike on a public road will eventually be hit by a car or truck. Riding on a trail significantly lowers the risk.

The trails are not without hazards however. On the trail between 14th Ave in Lacey and Indian Summer Golf Course you are likely to encounter lots of older people walking their yappy little dogs. There are signs indicating that all dogs have to be on a leash but that it often ignored. Some dogs are leashed, but on extremely long tethers which makes the leash useless. No thrill is greater than running over a dog while traveling 15 mph on a bike. Come to think of it, getting a rabbit caught in your spokes comes in a close second. Absolutely nothing, however,compares with an old lady going into cardiac arrest when you run over her little fluffy poo.

One day I encountered a couple out walking their dogs. She had three and he was grappling with another four. I slowed down to a crawl and when I passed them I said. “Wow! This looks like a Korean buffet.” He laughed. She didn’t. . Little yappy dogs or “rats on a rope” as I like to call them, are still the biggest hazard.

When I pass people walking the trail, I always pass on the left. I always give fair warning by saying in a firm voice, “On your left”. People with normal brain matter move to the right, but those whose latest brain test scored “oblivious” or lower always move to the left. I have considered yelling “Move your @$$ to the right” but I don’t think it would do any good. I have also considered putting a bell on my handlebar but then I would have to put a pink basket above the front wheel.

I once settled an insurance claim where a 14 yr old boy ran over a 92 year old man who was walking on the Burke Gillman Trail in Seattle. The kid was watching his gears change instead of watching where his bike was going. If I recall, the total settlement was in the neighborhood of $17,000. Because Washington is a strict liability state where dogs are concerned, I pity any dog owner whose dog might drag me off the trail and into the bushes. My motto is…”All Dogs Should Be Eaten”

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Death By Salad

2010-06-07T10:23:00.000-07:00

Every morning check the local obituaries to see if I am listed and if I don't find myself listed, go about my day. I saw a grave marker the other day that said “ See, I told you I was sick”. It’s one of my favorites. I am afraid that my gravestone will say… “Death by salad”. By the way, the frog in the package of salad pictured at the left is alive and well. But he hasn't eaten the salad yet.

Men, left to their own resources would live strictly on mac and cheese. burgers, french fries, soda pop and Twinkies. Those who are not Mormons would add beer and cheese whiz to the list. Women on the other hand require at least one and preferably two salads per meal whether they are Mormons or not.

She who must be obeyed has decided that no day shall pass without at least two salads on the table. I get to choose. I choose not to have salad at breakfast.

Miraculously there will appear a green salad, a tan salad (macaroni), a taco salad, a fruit salad, oriental noodle salad, three bean salad with at least two different kinds of beans, or some kind of salad with nuts in it at lunch and dinner. Or a whole list of other things which can be loosely considered salad in some obscure culture. There are at least twelve different salad dressings in the fridge along with a couple of homemade varieties. Women go to great lengths to come up with the perfect dressing for each salad. Men are less inventive and will settle for a mixture of catsup and Miracle Whip.

Most of the fruit salads are made from the peaches and pears put up last fall with a few grapes imported from Chile and then frozen into a slush which can only be served if the temperature outside is at least minus 12 degrees Fahrenheit. Frozen fruit salad never appears on hot days. I am beginning to think that she may have misunderstood the “green” movement and thinks it means salads.

As a defense I have decided that the sauerkraut and onion on my Costco hotdog qualifies as salad and I can skip the large bowl at dinner. There are ways around most things.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

TO ROLL OR SPRAY, THAT IS THE QUESTION

2010-04-29T08:34:00.000-07:00

An unknown author once said “The average woman would rather have beauty than brains, because the average man can see better than he can think.” Moderation is a good thing but we have all seen the consequences of overdoing a good thing. Most of us have come across a woman at one time or another who dared not smile for fear of causing her makeup to crack, flake off and land in her vichyoise.

I am not sure what posses some women to go to that extreme but as a kid we use to joke at home about the women who looked like they used a paint roller to apply their disguise. It always seemed a bit wasteful since none of the beautiful women in my life were ever prone to overdue the war paint. Come to think of it, my grandma Tessie never wore any makeup of any kind. Without it she was most elegant. She Who Must Be Obeyed has been known to judiciously apply the paint from time to time but not to the extent that it would rub off on the phone or the chin rest of her violin. None of the women of my life have ever used much camouflage, i.e. the over use of foundations, colorants, fake eye lashes, pancake makeup etc. It just wasn’t necessary.

But for those of you who strive for utter and complete pore eliminating coverage there is really good news. L’Oreal has come out with a new makeup that you actually apply with a roller. No doubt it will take some practice to get it to roll on smoothly without any overlap lines or holidays. (painting terms). I worked once for a commercial painter and it took some practice to apply the latex evenly to a wall and they were always flat. I never once however, painted a wall that had a large nose in the center. Good luck putting a roller over your honker and have it look smooth.

I think it makes better sense to spray it on instead. For approximately $50.00 at the local Home Despot you can purchase a Wagner sprayer and a gallon of latex color matched to whatever shade you want to be that day. You could place a cone over your face to prevent overspray onto the neighbor’s car and pull the trigger. It would take a little touch up around the edges but it would certainly be more even than the roller. You may have to tape off your eyebrows and lashes and plug up your nostrils but what a finish. A little blue tape on the lips would certainly be in order.

Where lipstick is concerned, the important thing is not color, but to accept God's final word on where your lips end according to Jerry Sienfield.

Thankfully, beauty is easier to remove than apply, and a swipe of a wash cloth in the right direction and you are you once again.

Thanks for listening. I feel much better

The Early Termination Fee

2010-04-26T15:21:00.000-07:00

I was watching an ad for a cell phone service company and read the fine print that appears for a brief second during the ad. It turned out to be a disclaimer that if the buyer cancelled the contract before the 200th year as stipulated in the contract there would be a $175 dollar early termination fee. Who in the name of all Wall Street Greed thought up the concept of “the early termination fee”? I began to think out loud and said to myself “Wow I hope this doesn’t catch on.”

I can see it now. I have been going to the same $6.00 haircut place for a number of years and if I were to move or just go down the street to the $5.00 place, I could get a bill from my old barber simply for not coming back. “Sorry you no longer want us to give you a crappy haircut. Please remit $175 as an early termination fee”. If Hollywood Video found out I switched to Netflix they might send me a $175 bill for not coming in anymore too. If the concept really gets some wheels I could get billed for changing the tv channel before the program is officially over, which in actuality means the show plus 28 minutes of moronic commercials. Computers could keep track and add the fee to my monthly cable bill. It would certainly make me think twice about cancelling my subscriptions to Skateboarder and Creative Knitting magazine.

Come to think of it, early termination fees have been around as long as people have been borrowing money. I seem to recall a fee if I paid off a loan on a car or the house earlier than the contract indicated. Come to think of it, even if you make it through life physically and emotional unscathed, your family is billed a termination fee by the mortuary chosen to fleece your survivors.

The ultimate insult would be to die as the result of an accident in the prime of life and get to the gate in Heaven only to be told that, I since I showed up before my time, I would have to return to the world as the greeter at Wal-Mart as an early termination fee.

Thanks for listening. I feel much better.

OH POOH !

2010-03-01T10:57:00.000-08:00

This is a bit of writing I did before I starting the blog. I recently submitted it to the Tacoma Tribune for consideration as a guest columnist, but unfortunately was not selected. Enjoy.

Everywhere I turned the last two days I was stepping in it. I mean literally up to my ankles in pooh. I stopped by my daughter Sarah’s yesterday, after going to the dump, to get a little starter for the compost pile. The heifer was in a stall in the barn and Mercy Cow, its mother, was in the front pasture so I backed the truck into the cattle shed where these two poop machines had made generous deposits. I drove home and unloaded the treasure. It mixed well in my compost heap but I found that for the rest of the day everything smelled and tasted like pooh.
Today I went back to Sarah’s to watch the demise of their heifer, only to find myself up to my ankles in pooh. Keith (of Keith’s Custom Slaughter, Tire Store and Funeral Home) had shot the poor critter and dragged it from the stall. About twenty minutes into the removal of the beast’s leather coat it began to rain and I stepped into the stall but forgot to look down. The term “pooped” is a nautical one that refers to water coming over the gunnels of a boat and onto the deck or into the hold. I had on low cut shoes and got pooped in the stall.
I drove home to find that Larry from the septic sucking service was draining the last remains from my septic tank. Larry said it was quite full. I am guessing it was the result of my preparation for a recent colonoscopy. There is never good news when you have a septic system, so I was not surprised to hear Larry say solids had leaked into the liquid portion of the double tank. It seems there was a crack at the bottom of the wall that separates the two halves. He said he could fix it for a mere $700.00. I immediately found my shoes soiled again. He applied the defibulator all septic sucking services must carry in their trucks and when I regained consciousness he said I could fix it myself. It would entail climbing into the tank with a bucket of concrete and shoving the concrete into the void between the two tanks. Being no dummy and already finding myself unfit to associate with most of the human race, I decided to do the deed myself.
I obtained the required premixed concrete from the Home Despot. The clerk at the checkout made a funny face when I paid so I spoke to her in French. She seemed to understand completely. I got home and attempted to climb into the tank only to find the ladder I was using took up most of the room. (That’s another ways of saying my ass was too big to fit in the hole). I quickly built a skinnier ladder and climbed into the tank only to find the septic sucking service leaves about ten percent of the waste in the bottom of the tank. Its starter poop. Yea just like sourdough. Pooped again!
You have to understand I am, under some situations, quite claustrophobic. It all stems from my youth when my older brother used to torment me by holding my wrists and sitting on my chest while dripping slobber onto my forehead. Climbing into the tank took a lot of effort but the repair was successfully completed. Barbara threw away all my clothes.
When A.A. Milne wrote the adventures of Winnie the Pooh, he should have talked to me first. He would have chosen a different name for the bear.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

The Most Effective Birth Control...Nudity

2010-02-25T10:13:00.000-08:00

Barbara and I recently spent a couple of weeks on vacation in South America. My daughter and her family live on one of the upper floors of a high rise in Cartagena Columbia. The front of the building faces Cartagena Bay. Between the building and the bay is a busy street and walking path that goes all the way from the end of the spit to the naval base near town. Lots of people use the path, from early in the morning to late at night. No matter what time of day you will find walkers, joggers, skateboarders and any number of maids out walking the family snack (dog). The climate is tropical, which means it is warm all year. Most people dress casually; some are more casual than others. One of the regulars on the path was an older man who wore no shoes, no hat, and no shirt.

Yes, it was EL SPEEDO. This man has proven my theory that the best form of birth control over the age of 40 is nudity. El Speedo obviously thought he was the most alluring specimen on the path. Distracting yes, alluring no. The man should have been cited for failing to maintain his property. Perhaps you have seen the website about the people at Wal-Mart. This guy would have made the hall of fame. He came in way ahead of the two old guys I saw at Playa Blanca who were wearing thongs. Most people think thongs are modern swimwear attire. We had them when I was a kid. You could get one anytime an older and larger kid or brother pulled your whitey tighteys up over your shoulders. We called them wedgees. Let’s hope El Speedo doesn’t buy a thong. Thanks for listening. I feel much better.

The Best Way To Get Around

2010-02-17T18:44:00.000-08:00

Cartagena Colombia is a city of about a million people. Paved roads appear to be an after thought which are crowded with all kinds of public transportion; being driven by hundreds of people who have never had a driving lesson. Traffic laws appear to be actually traffic suggestions. Stop signs exist to help the guy selling coffee and gum have some place to lean against. Honking is a way of life. The taxis honk to let you know they are available. The following photos are an overview of the way people get around.

Taxis are everywhere. I think that perhaps at one time there were lanes actually painted onto the pavement but since no one pays any attention to them they were never repainted when they wore out. There is a beggar on one of the streets who has dug a hole and patches it with sand from a small bucket and then asks the cars stopped at the light to pay him for patching he hole he dug.

Motor cycles are a major form of transportation. If a cyclist has a vest with a number on the back he is actually operating a motor cycle taxi.
The burro is a common version on the American pickup truck. I have seen the pathetic burros pulling a cart load of rebar, paint and cement along with four or five Colombians
Water taxis take people from the city to a nearby island. They park just offshore (no dock) and a crew member give the rider a piggy back ride to the boat.

This is a taxi motor cycle and a city bus. The guy standing in the doorway yells at people on the sidewalk telling them where the bus is going. There are no real bus stops. You wave at a bus and it will stop, even if its on an inside lane. The bus driver honks continually letting people know he will stop and pick them up.

LET'S HEAR IT FOR THE BIRD

2009-11-24T10:28:00.000-08:00

I’m just waiting for the flames to die down so I can clean up the kitchen a little. You are probably all saying the same thing, “Frank cooks?” Yes I do and contrary to the opinions of my children who one time endured an experiment with sweet and sour tuna fish and that one time I fixed corn pancakes I am a very good cook.
Barbara and I are spending Thanksgiving home alone, just the two of us. That has not happened in our entire married life. I think the rest will be good for both of us. We had invited the usual suspects but had to tell them they were on their own after Barbara's surgery. Lots of people have invited us to share the meal with them but we decided it would be better to have a quiet day at home.
The last time I had Thanksgiving without any family was in 1963 in Grenoble France. The French are, for the most part, ungrateful; so Thanksgiving has not spilled into their endless list of national holidays. Turkeys on the other hand are also ungrateful, but available only around Christmas. You can find them in the shop windows, hanging by their feet with head and feathers still attached. They don’t seem to mind the indignity. They hang there with the rabbits, quail, ducks and geese. It’s kind of like a barnyard on a hook but the animals are very quiet.
In 1963, my missionary companion Elder Hollinger from Panaca Nevada and I decided we wanted to celebrate Thanksgiving and get a turkey. We rode our Lambretta motor scooter 20 kilometers out of Grenoble and in a little village called Morrin we found a turkey at a farm house. It cost us 64 francs ($15.00) and weighed 8.5 kilos. The old farm woman put it in a feed sack and I held onto it while Elder Hollinger drove back to town. Unfortunately, someone cut us off and he drove into the ditch. I fell off but managed to hang on to the bird. I must have been some sight. A slightly stupid looking Mormon missionary wearing a suit, white shirt and tie and lying in a ditch with both arms wrapped around a turkey in a dirty feed sack. The turkey survived. Since it was only the 15th of November, we took the bird back to our apartment and tied it up in the bathtub. We fed it until the fateful day and I dispatched it with grace and a flick of the wrist. Dinner that year was mashed potatoes, gravy, dressing, and the toughest turkey I have ever eaten.
This year I am thinking that a couple of KFC two piece meals would be really good. I’ll make my own cranberry sauce.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Keep Off the Roof

2009-11-12T18:15:00.000-08:00

My wife Barbara has been suffering from a prolapsed disk in her lumbar spine for the last two months. The pain has been constant and sometimes quite severe. Last Tuesday I took her into the ER at our local hospital and they admitted her and immediately put her on morphine which eased the pain somewhat. Wednesday afternoon she underwent successful surgery to release the pressure from the disk on the nerve root to her left leg. The surgery appears to have successful and she is recovering nicely. Her doctor told her the injury was caused by old age.

A few weeks ago a good friend fell of the roof of his shed and was badly injured. He has spent a few weeks in a rehab center and I understand he has now returned home.
Today I found out that our former Stake President fell off a ladder yesterday while trying to clean his roof and suffered a concussion, two broken ribs, and a torn lung. In addition I find that another friend was just released from the hospital because of another medical problem. All are about the same age.

I have decided that sometimes bad news just needs another vehicle of delivery.Let me give you an example

Larry, a single guy with a cat, asked his friend Bob to watch his house and the cat for a few weeks while he was out of town. Bob said he would be glad to do so and Larry told him he would call every week to see how thing were going.
Larry called at the end of the first week and asked “How is everything?” Bob said, “Fine except your cat died.” Larry was terribly distraught but pulled himself together and said, Bob, you don’t just tell someone their cat died like that. It’s too brutal. You should say that the cat fell off the roof and it’s not doing well. You should have me call back and each day say that the cat is worse and then after a few days you can tell me that the cat died. That way it will soften the blow.” Bob said, “I understand, I guess I could have been a little more tactful. “Great” said Larry “I will call you next week.”

The next week Larry called again and asked “How is everything?” Bob answered; ”Fine except your mother fell off the roof.”

Thanks for listening, I feel much better. (And so does Barbara)

HEAVEN MAY BE DIFFERENT THAN YOU THINK

2009-10-25T20:44:00.000-07:00

My very good friend Bentley (his first name is really Alan but just Bentley sounds so much more English Upscale) has informed me that although we both believe in a life hereafter ,and can achieve some sort of immortal glory based on our works on earth when we die; as we await the great resurrection, he believes we will be assigned to a temporary place in heaven according to our last and final dying words here on earth.
Yes, until the resurrection, we will be with all those other people who said the same thing we did when they died. Here are the categories ranked in order of most said to least said.
Oh s—t.
Hey watch this.
I’m not drunk; I’ll drive myself.
I can drive, talk on my cell and text at the same time. Watch.
The guns not loaded, see.
I wasn’t cheating on you. Put down the gun.
I’m fine. I make a doctor’s appointment next week.
If one pill will work, a whole bunch must be even better
No big deal. It’s not 220 Volts is only 110
What’s this bare wire for?
No I don’t think 92 is too old to be driving.
Sure the water is cold but I can swim to shore.
Lets cross here; the crosswalk is too far down the street.
If I throw up every time I eat, I won’t gain any weight.
I don’t feel good.
Good bye, I love you all.
Oops!
Huh?

I on the other hand, I believe that I will get to use my “Bank Time” when I get to heaven’s gate. I will be met by one of those guys that checks recommends at the temple, who will look for a long time at his computer screen and say “Well brother Frank it looks like you lived a pretty good life but there were a few sour deeds in your life for which you will need to spend 952 hours in Hell before being assigned to one of the above mentioned categories. At that point I will whip out my little black “Bank Time” book and explain that I spent many more hours than that in faculty meetings, PTA meetings, elementary school concerts, children’s Sacrament Meeting programs, parent- teacher conferences, Blue and Gold dinners, eating freeze dried food on week- long hikes, owning a 1985 Chrysler New Yorker, and preparing for my last colonoscopy. I will tactfully explain that I have already spent that time in Hell and have documents to prove it. I recommend that each of you keep track as well.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better

The Office

2009-10-18T10:03:00.000-07:00

Sometime towards the end of September, I got a call from the Human Resources department of State Farm Insurance. They asked if I would be willing to come back to work for sixty days, they were shorthanded and honestly, it was flattering to be considered a good enough employee to be asked back. I figured what the heck, work for sixty days and be able to fly to Cartagena Columbia first class to visit Emily and her family or sixty days home detention.
The first problem was HR. My assigned rep. Bea Esser said that because I had been retired so long I would have to take a drug test and pass a background check. She said she would send me the paperwork overnight. Two days later it got to me. She sent it FedEx to the wrong address and wrong name. Three day delay. I finally got a call three weeks after she first called andlearned I was cleared to come to work. Obviously they did not speak with my parole officer Willy Bolt. After I had been working for two weeks, I got a letter from the medical specialist Lou Pole saying that my retirement package health insurance was being cancelled because I was a full time worker. The only problem was that I was actually listed as a seasonal employee and not qualified for any benefits. I called and spoke to Donatello Nobatti who told me a mistake had been made and he would take care of it. I am still waiting for the confirmation of reinstatement by mail. Actually, I am entitled to work 900 hours a year before it impacts any of my retirement benefits. Those responsible have been sacked.

I cannot watch “The Office” on TV because it is too much like where I work. The above photo is the row where my cubicle is located. I say cubicle but in reality they should be called rabbit hutches. Feed and water are provided in little bins on the side of each cube. If management feels rewards are in order, food appears in a vacant cube or at the end of the row. There are four rows just like this in my office. The managers, pit bosses and stat freaks have partitioned booths at the end of the rows. The big boss, Dan Defino, has a corner office with windows. Speaking of the big boss, there was a ‘Stand Up Meeting” a couple of days ago where we were all given a pat on the back for rendering exceptional customer service. I looked around at the group and immediately picked out the current office suck-up. Luke Howard Fitzhugh had on the exact same shirt and tie, pants and shoes as the Big Boss. Obviously someone is looking for a promotion. My guess is that he has already reached his level of competence and should be promoted to a management position within days. Holly Unlikely, the trainer said she did not think the promotion would come until after National Bosses Day. Something about gifting.

The Office is just like the classes I taught for thirty years. There are slow learners, those that don’t play well with others and those who parents need to read to them 90 min each day. There are those who try to cheat and manipulated the computer system to show they do more work that they actually do. One example is the electronic phone message. If you return a call you are suppose to use the pull down menu to add your name as the one who returned the call. Since I am a trouble maker, I pull a lot of those messages, make the call and then give credit to anyone of a half a dozen adjusters who I think could use the points. It really kills the manager’s stats. I think I’ll change my name to Dale Neverknow.

Most days I really enjoy it, but there are a few days where upon leaving the office I quote Martin Luther King Jr. “Free at last, free at last, Thank God I’m free at last.
Thanks for listening. I feel much better

Its Official

2009-09-29T22:12:00.000-07:00

As I have long suspected, I have been married for all these years to Mother Theresa, (only hotter). This was confirmed to me in no uncertain terms today. My dear wife has been in miserable pain for three weeks, taking Vicoden, Tylenol and a variety of other meds for a severe pain in her left leg. It was finally diagnosed today as a herniated disk which is pressing on a nerve. Her doctor now has her on oxycontin pending an injection of steroids.

In spite of all this, I came into the kitchen today to find her making a big pot of soup on the stove; and she asked me to take it to a family down the street where both parents and all their children have the flu. How do I deserve this woman? Move over Mother Teresa.

Thanks for listening. I'm sure she'll feel better soon.

In Response to Your Many Requests (one)

2009-09-21T10:39:00.001-07:00

Due to overwhelming demand, I am posting a photo of our son; the afore mentioned, in the previous post. Sorry girls he is married.

An Hour At Cabela's

2009-09-19T14:57:00.000-07:00

My son Matt is in town with his wife to attend the wedding of one of her friends and when I invited him to go to Cabela's with me this morning he jumped at the chance. Cabela's, for those of you who don’t know, is a giant toy store for men. Not only can you buy toys there, you can also buy all kinds of costumes. Rustic camouflage costumes seem to be the most popular. In fact, Cabela's carries so much camo gear that you really can’t see it. You can even purchase a camouflaged porta-potty so you can poop in the woods and not even the bears will notice.
Hunting season is fast approaching and it appears there was a sale on shotguns and rifles. Either that or the entire male population of the county was trying to arm themselves. You have to take a number to be served at the gun counter and the count was up to 2345 when we walked by, so my guess is there are going to be a lot of dead ducks and deer around here or else there will be a huge upswing in the number of armed bank holdups in the next few days. It also appears like the ammo shortage that materialized last fall is finally easing and so I bought 200 rounds of 22 ammo to replace what I shot last week. The shortage was caused by Seth, Rupert and their idiot third cousin Beauford. It seems they have been roaming the country since last November. They would go into any store that sold ammo and asked how much was on hand and proceed to buy every round. The perceived shortage caused ordinary hunters and plinkers to clean off the shelves in self defense. Looks like the Three Amigos may have been arrested on bootlegging charges because I am now able to find ammo for my 22’s in most of the usual outlets. Either that or they returned to their regular seasonal jobs as your children’s 3rd 4th and 5th grade teachers.
Matt and I wandered through the store past dozens of tables set up for the manufactures of duck calls. Each table had at least two reps blowing on their respective duck calls, looking and sounding like two five year olds trying to best the other in the age old game of “Let’s see who can get Mom to scream first”. Matt asked if I wanted to attend a class. Picture this: Thirty chairs set up in rows, filled with old and middle aged men, each blowing on a duck or goose call, trying to imitate the calls being made by the representative from Get a Goose or Duck Quick or Call It In and Blow It Up, Waterfowl Calls LLC. We watch for a couple of minutes but I started to laugh and bring attention to myself so we moved on.
Matt wanted to know if I wanted to sit in and learn how to call a duck. “Are you nuts” I said, “I already know how to call a duck.” “Watch this…..Heeeeeey Duuuuck!!! “ At that point we were asked to leave the store.
I was again struck with the unfairness of life and the prejudice that surrounds those of us who are past 65 and are rapidly picking up speed on our way to the reading of our wills as we walked down the giant stairs to main checkout area and passed an attractive young female employee who was headed up the stairs. She looked at me first, since I had on a bright yellow shirt and a red hat, but there was no indication she even noticed I was there. Her eyes quickly passed to my son, who is young and handsome. Her eyes widened, she broke into a warm smile and began to immediately drool.
I stood naked in front of the mirror the other day after my shower and said to myself. “Johnston you better die before Barbara because this is not dating material and you wouldn’t survive on your own.” Next time I go to Cabela's I will wear camo, and then I will have a reasonable explanation, in my own mind, for why no one notices. Come to think of it, no one ever did.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

For as young as I feel, how did I get this old?

2009-09-07T17:57:00.001-07:00

I just got back from spending three weeks with my 93 year old mother. She seems to be doing well but she sure has a lot of old friends. She asked me to take her to a church senior singles dinner. Of the eighty or so guests, my mother seemed to be in the best shape. Lots of geezers with hearing aids and the main topic of conversation was “Do you want to know what the matter with me is this week?”
One of the women, who appeared to be in charge, is trying to be an Elvira wannabe. Lots of jewelry, fake eye lashes, etc. She was wearing a black wig that was a good 18 inches of piled jet black hair and where Elvira is a 38DD this woman appears to be a deflated 38 long. She’s pushing 80 as easily as she is pushing her walker. I have always thought that the best form of birth control over the age of 40 was nudity but this woman would have taken the topic off the menu all together.
My observation of senior activities is pretty basic. It is all about the food. The event was a success or failure depending upon whether the food was edible. As you know, salads do not make my list of great foods so in my senior opinion the meal was a dud. They did serve root beer floats and I ate mine first and left the rest. The only other man at the table asked if was not going to eat my dinner and I told him I was waiting for something that used to have a face. He was quite hard of hearing so it didn’t really matter what I said. Mom is pretty perceptive and offered to buy me a burger on the way home.
I didn’t spend all my time at mothers. I volunteered to be a race marshal for the Tour of Utah and I worked at four of the seven races that week. The first was a Prolog up City Creek Canyon and back. The next time was at the Miller Motor Park in Tooele where they did a time trial on the banked track. The fifth stage was from Park City, through Camus, Midway, down Provo Canyon, over the Alpine Loop and eventually up Little Cottonwood Canyon to Snowbird. It was 92 miles and they did it in about four hours. My last day was the Criterium in downtown Salt Lake where the group of 140 riders raced around two city blocks at 35mph for 90 minutes. Great fun and my ID got me into the VIP tent each time for a free meal. I took my bike on this trip and tried to ride every day. I discovered a circle route that took about an hour and burned 2200 calories. No matter where I rode it was uphill both ways. I would be glad to do a 50 or a 100 mile ride with of you. You only have to promise that when you are 67 you will do the same ride with someone who is the same age you are now.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better

This wasn't the A train

2009-07-30T10:08:00.000-07:00

Barbara has been in Oak Harbor helping out with Linda and Eric’s new baby and looking after Tyler, Jared and Alex. When I called and asked how much longer she would be needed, she said about fifteen years. She said she could talk for a few minutes because they just got back from the beach and she had the boys in the tub. Five seconds later she said she had to go. The exact words were…”the boys just came in from the garage and they each have a hammer, I have to go.”

Since Amy was playing with a band at the Indian casino in Anacortes I decided to take the train, spend the night at Eric’s and then take in the show at the casino before returning the “Fun Grandma” to Olympia. It seemed like a good idea at the time. My experience with trains is limited to a couple of trips back to Illinois as a kid and lots of trips on the SNCF in France. French trains with the exception of the TGVs are not necessarily clean, overbooked but usually on time, except for the frequent strikes where the workers load up a train in some large town, pull out of the station, travel to some small village that has a bar-tabac and then go on strike for seven and one half hours. I always traveled 2nd class which meant sitting on my luggage in the vestibule between cars from Lyon to Marseille or anywhere else for that matter.

The Cascade which travels between Portland and Bellingham is the local equivalent. My misfortune was that it was two hours late leaving Portland and I was thirty minutes early at the Lacey station. It’s obviously a government enterprise because although you can purchase a “reserved” seat ticket online you have to go the station to pick it up. The stations is manned by volunteers who know nothing about the schedules, requirements, or amenities and whose only qualifications are deafness, boorish attitude and proof of ownership of a Lionel train set as a kid. Oh I forgot the incontinent part. Having finally got on the train I found out that “reserved seat” means that you go from car to car until you find a vacant seat that does not have a tag on it. Only once you set your butt on the seat itself does it becomes your “Reserved” seat. All in all it was a nice trip and I saw the industrial section of almost every town we passed. What a thrill. No one threw themselves in front of the train and no one tried to beat the train to the crossing so it was pretty uneventful.

Public rail transportation is becoming popular again. Seattle just opened a train line from downtown to the airport. Originally the line was supposed to end two miles from the airport but Sound Transit reconsidered and the new station at the airport will open soon. Seattle also has a short line that goes from Lake Union to downtown. Originally the city, in typical French fashion, decided to call it the Seattle Lake Union Trolley. So… it has now become known as the SLUT. Next time you visit, let’s go ride the slut.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

Words to live by

2009-06-17T08:56:00.000-07:00

A good friend of ours, Lloyd V Bliss passed away last weekend and I was asked to speak at his funeral. I asked his family to provide me with a list of their favorite "Lloydisms". Let me share just a few of them with you.

"Whats the worst thing that could happen?"

"Of course we're active. We just don't go to church."

"Did your head fall off?"

"Always pay your employees the most you can afford-not the least they will accept."

"If you are going to be a fool, be a quiet fool."

"If you have the power, you have the responsibility to be generous with the other party."

"I like long walks, especially when they're taken by people who annoy me."

"There are three kinds of people. Those who can count and those who can't."

If he did not want to do something he had the following replys:

"I'd rather have a dead rat in my mouth."
"Give me 24 hours notice so I can make other plans."
"I choose not to participate."

Live with great principles and act on them. No one would have ever remembered the Good Samaritan if he only had good intentions. We should all live such good lives that when we die even the undertaker will be sorry.

Its raining cats and dogs

2009-05-04T12:31:00.000-07:00

I was at Amy’s the other day and she tried to give me her cat. Why…? It appears that since there are now two dogs living in the house, the cat is ticked off and shows it by marking its territory in the old fashioned Boy Scout method of peeing on everything. I respectfully declined but wondered what had gone wrong. As a parent, I had held fast to the rule of no pets. No dogs, no cats, no reptiles and certainly thought my children as they grew to adulthood would see the wisdom in the no pet rule and follow suit. No such luck.
Amy has two dogs and a cat. Sarah has 52 cats if you count all the barn cats plus two cows, although one is borrowed. Eric has two dogs technically, since one is currently buried in the back yard. You can tell where, because the weeds grow really tall in that spot. Matt has three dogs including the one that belongs to Uncle Sam. Sounds like a Korean buffet doesn’t it.
It has been my opinion for some time that cats simply allow you to feed them and all dogs should be eaten. This line of thing was reinforced many times during my career as a personal injury claims adjuster for State Farm. Laws vary from state to state but generally if your dog (animal) bites someone or does some property damage, you are responsible and have to pay. In Wa, it doesn’t matter where the dog is at the time. You are responsible. In Oregon, the law says you are responsible if it can be proven that the dog has a propensity to bite, maim or rip asunder. In other words, in Oregon your dog gets one free bite.
I handled a claim by a process server against one of our insured’s who claimed the homeowners dog bit him. The homeowner described the dog as a cuddly, friendly, sweet tempered house dog. To me that meant a large, aggressive, ill tempered pit bull. The process server pretended to be vacuum salesman and when he got on the porch the dog dragged him into the bushes for a friendly discussion about his presence on the property. My guess is the dog didn’t like vacuums. He said he had severe wounds so I asked if we could get some photos. He declined but finally came in two weeks later to show a slight red mark on his calf. I offered to settle the claim for $60.00 to cover the cost of his torn pants and some new clean underwear. He said he would see me in court. The statute of limitations has run on that one so I feel pretty safe. I hope he got the clean underwear. After that experience I am also of the opinion that all process servers should be bitten.
Thanks for listening, I feel much better.

I don't live in this ward, but I'd like to ......

2009-03-29T18:50:00.000-07:00

There is one meeting that strikes fear and terror into the heat of every Bishop of every ward in the Church. No its not den meeting, PEC, PPI with the Stake President or even dropping in on the Deacons from time to time. You probably guessed it. The venerable Fast and Testimony Meeting. Every Bishop likes to feel that he has some control of the Sacrament Meeting but once the meeting is turned over to the flock, anything can happen. Today the worshipful attitude was shattered with a brief descripton of the serial killer Ted Bundy, followed by a sister from the Marshall Islands who tried to get her husband and children up on the stand to sing for all of us. She failed. Many prayers were answered right then and there. The Bishop had earlier announced that her husband was going to be baptized tonite but later had to announce that he had been baptized in the Marshall Islands as a kid but forgot. I figured, what the heck, do him again.

Some people who are unwilling or unable financially to seek professional help, use the time to unburden themselves on the rest of us. It becomes a littany of the near dead, the mostly dead, the past dead who have been waiting patiently for the temple work to be done and an assortment of dead pets. Sometimes I really believe I can hear the soft chant of "Jerry, Jerry, Jerry" in the background.

Having been in the uncomforable position myself, I thoroughly enjoy watching our Bishop squirm in his seat. You can almost hear him trying to will, by telepathic means, the speaker into an immediate cardiac arrest.

I have heard "faith promoting" fables about pets being blessed and saved by the priesthood, a priesthood led funeral for a members cat, an admission of an internet addiction to porn, and a pronouncement by a high priest that his wife told him that she was crying because Barbara had just told her that I was having an affair. (What he failed to include was that his wife was mentally ill and that it was just her crazy side talking)

When someone asks after a meeting what I thought about a particular members testimony, I just say "Well bless (his/her) heart. " Translation: "Boy wasn't he full of crap. "

Thank you for listening, I feel much better, bless your heart.

2009-02-24T17:11:00.000-08:00

Barbara and I had a chance to fly to Salt Lake City this weekend and I thought you might find this interesting. Mom just turned 93 and she says she plays the piano every day. She is quite hard of hearing and she is no longer able to read and see things upclose but she is still physically active and her mind is a good as it ever was. I have a slightly longer video that I did not post here.

Arrrg

2009-02-19T10:02:00.000-08:00

The sub service computer called this morning at 5:40 am with an assignment to cover for the French teacher in Yelm. I looked out the window and the sun was coming up for a change so I respectfully declined the assignment, besides, they are not suppose to call before 6 anyway. Serves them right.

We were both hungry after the symphony rehearsal last night and decided to stop at Carl's Jr. for a snack. I almost ordered in Spanish. I figured if I could not understand the counter guy’s English it would only be fair if he could not understand my Spanish. It appears that Carl’s has set some really low thresholds for obtaining employment. Picture this now. Its 9:59 pm. They close at 10 pm. There is no one in the place but me. It’s a take out order and Pedro hands me a number. A number!!!… I’m the only one in the place. Appears he was worried that he would not be able to get the onion rings to the right customer on facial recognition alone. While I’m waiting I take a look at the menu. Up on a lighted board are photos of what they refer to as the Six Dollar Burgers. There are six of them and the prices are $4.49, $4.59, $4.69, $5.45, $3.85 and $29.64 which is the same burger as the $3.85 but comes with a gastric pump and a “go to the front of the line” card for St Peters Hospital ER. No $6.00 burger. Go figure.

We are flying to Salt Lake this weekend for a short trip. I went into my old place of employment and looked up an old friend who works for Enterprise Rent a Car and got him to arrange for a rental in SL. He asked what kind of car did I want and I told him a Geo Metro would be fine. He listed the choice as "Economy" $16.00/day. Both he and I know that the ERAC office at the SL airport does not have any "economy" cars and they will have to give me what they have on hand for the same price. Oh dang. He also listed in the comments section that I was a State Farm VIP, so I guess I will have to shave and use deodorant. O the sacrifices we make to save a buck.
I'm looking forward to a good frisking at the airport and a spacious seat assignment on the plane
We are flying with a new airline called Larry's Feed, Tire, Funeral Home and Discount Airline LLC. Wish us luck.

Thanks for listening, I feel much better

2009-02-03T13:02:00.000-08:00

I am requesting that the management of Fred Myer's put up a readerboard that indicated how many people over the age of 7o are currently in the store so that I can avoid going there during those really fun times.

Oblivious is the word to describe most of these shoppers. Now we're not talking about the crowd that shows up at Costco for the senior lunch (ie hotl-dog and soda $1.50) but those people who through overuse or underuse of the brain matter have learning to behave like no one else in the world actually exists. Try getting around some old fart who wife sent him to the store to buy toilet paper. He parks his cart in the middle of the isle crosswise and then tries to decide which of the 250,000 different varieties he is suppose to buy. I'd like to scream, "just grab one, it doesn't matter which one. None of it is going into your scrapbook" Just for fun, next time I see a crowd at the dairy section I will move in, open my cell phone and say in a loud voice. "Is it all the milk that is being recalled because of e-coli or just the ones with the blue caps?"

Thanks for listening, I feel much better....Frank

welcome

2009-02-03T12:49:00.001-08:00

Welcome to the too busy world of Barbara Johnston and her faithful driver, gardner and soul mate Frank.

Just to give you an idea of Barbara's busy schedule it ususally follows this format.
Monday: She takes a fiddle lesson at noon followed by violin lessons all afternoon. Visiting teaching in the a.m. with assorted other humanitarian efforts. I describe her as a Mother Theresa only much hotter.
Tues: Lessons starting at 8 and continuing until about six then its off to O'Blarneys Pub to play with and Irish Fiddle group
Wed: Lessons all day and Olympia Symphony rehearsal from 7 pm to 9:30.
Thurs: Lessons throughout the day and a group lesson of her students in the evening.
Fri: One lesson in the afternoon.
Sat. Off
Sun. Teach Primary class. Got to choir.

Frank's schedule is the same every day:
9-10.00 nothing
10-11:00 break
11-12:00 NADA
12-01:00 lunch
1-2:00 Zip
2-3:00 Zero
3-4:00 break
4-5:00 Zilch
After 5: Planning for next day
-