How To Grow Old Before Your Time

Friday we drove to Bordeaux and the purpose was twofold. One, buy a new carpet for a missionary apartment in Brive La Gaillard and two; buy two chairs for an apartment near downtown Bordeaux. The idea was to go to IKEA, have lunch in their restaurant, buy the goods and be back home by 6pm. The famous gps had us go along the river in downtown Bordeaux to get to IKEA. Traffic was awful. Along the way, we passed many small restaurants full of happy people eating lunch. My thought was…I’m going to IKEA for lunch? What’s with that? Anyway, we got to IKEA which has been under renovation since 2009 and I asked how to get to the restaurant and was told it was…CLOSED. At this point I am not happy. Add to that the fact that the carpet section was also closed. I then received a call for the young women at their apartment in Bordeaux asking if we could find them a small rug. Aaarg! Frustration level up.


I was starving so we walked over to the Auchan cafeteria where I promptly walked into a support for an umbrella in the outdoor eating area. Frustration level way up. Once inside I found redemption. The special of the day was steamed mussels and french fries, all you can eat. I made a pig of myself and my frustration level went to zero.

We decided to return to IKEA for the chairs but on the way stopped at the French version of the Home Despot (Home Depot) and found a rug that would be perfect for the apartment in Bordeaux. I put it in the car and returned to IKEA. Going to IKEA is like going to any mall and having to go into each and every store, past every item for sale before being let out the exit. We did find the chair we wanted but were told that it would have to be paid for there, but picked up at a warehouse down the street. Aaarg! Frustration level went back up. By accident we did find a small carpet for the apartment in Brive. Yes! Frustration level went down. We paid for the items and headed to the warehouse and picked up the two chairs and headed to the apartment in Bordeaux. The gps said it would take 15 min and it took 45min. Traffic was bad. Aarg! Frustration level back up. We got to their apartment only to find that they had left and would not be back for an hour. So, I decided to assemble the chairs on the sidewalk in front of the apartment.(see photo) I got one chair put together and tried to put the other together only to find out it was missing an important part. Aarg! Frustration level up. We left their rug and one chair in the entry and returned to the IKEA warehouse only to be told I would have to go back to the main store. There is no way in to the customer service except by going all the way through the store. I sneaked in the back way. I was told to take a number. They were on #210 and my number was #235. Oh my! I sent my wife to get a couple of ice cream cones. When I got to the counter my wife returned saying she had to buy the cones at the cashier’s desk but when she got to the machine it was not working. She was just standing there with two empty cones. Aarg! The nice lady at the desk informed me that she did not have the piece I needed but it would be mailed to me sometime in the next 10 to 15 days. At that point I gave up and started looking for a box cutter to slit my wrists. We returned to the ice cream machine and it was finally working. I was going to head home a different way but there was a bad accident on the bridge which held up traffic for two hours, so we had to go through town. It took 1.5hrs to get to the freeway and 1.5 hrs to get home.

For some reason, I feel much older today. But, I am waiting patiently for the part from IKEA. Thanks for listening, I feel much better

How Did I End Up Here?

A couple of years ago, I purchased a small GPS as a gift for my wife at Christmas. It allows her to arrive at the places she set out to find and conversely, find her way home afterwards. She describes herself as directionally challenged which is nice speak for “where the %*^&@! am I and how do I get home?” I, on the other hand could take you to a small creek in Wyoming where I fished on afternoon at the age of 15 and show you exactly where I caught 26 brown trout.


When we moved to France last year, I purchased a chip from Garmin that was supposed to have every street, alley, and roundabout in the entire country in its data base. There have been some problems. Let me explain. Because it allowed me to choose a language I naturally chose English since I have been speaking it since childhood. When I asked for directions a man’s voice with an English accent would come on and pronounce the French street names as though there were English words. I never could match up the streets with the bloke’s pronunciation. I speak French with a reasonable accent and none of the names he spoke had the faintest resemblance to the actual streets I was looking for. So… I changed the language to French and got a most pleasant French woman pronouncing each street exactly and precisely in a manner that was understandable and accurate. I have found that in life however, for every plus there is usually a minus. I call it Frank’s Law of Revenge.

The current voice on the GPS, Betty, as my wife refers to her, always wants me to go the shortest way. It’s her way of annoying me. Thus the Law of Revenge comes into play. Satellites don’t seem to know about detours for street repairs or understand the French propensity for changing one way streets to flow in the opposite direction over night. Mind you, the shortest way is often not the fastest way. We were coming back from Angouleme on the national highway which was well marked and directing us to our town of Mont de Marsan. Twelve minutes outside of Angouleme and Betty blurts out “in one mile turn right.” Having been raised to do what I was told, I turned right and found myself driving down a one lane road and onto a large farm. Betty directed me around the barn and onto a much smaller road that eventually passed through fifty six small villages with population of less than seven but each having a church built in the twelfth century. Usually such roads are blocked with stray sheep, goats, dogs or very old French farmers wearing rubber boots and driving brand new John Deere tractors at less than 10km/hr. This one had one of each. By the time I found my way back to the original highway, it added an extra hour to our trip.

Sometimes, when I really know where I am going I will intentionally not turn where Betty tells me to turn. She then does some quick recalculation and tries to get me back to her original route. After a while, I hear some words in French that my mother would be proud I have not learned and she gives up.

If I have driven somewhere once I can usually get there again. So when people say “do you know how to find XYZ?” my answer is always “Yes, I went fishing there once.”

Thanks for listening I feel much better.

Cross Here

A few years back, I used to ride the trains in France with some frequency. They were slow and most of them stopped at every small town. Every time the train came to a road crossing someone appeared to lower the crossing gate to prevent people for being hit by the train. I once saw a taxi driver go around the barrier only to be hit by a train coming from the opposite direction. I watched as his car was pushed down the tracks and he climbed into the back window to save himself.
Today, automatic railroad crossing gates assure the safe crossing of railroad tracks in France. They are fully automatic and for the most part are not guarded. Most of the dangerous crossings have been replaced by bridges or overpasses. Auto routes do not cross railroad tracks and the TGV does not cross any roads.

In the past, the crossings were not automatic, but manned by employees of the SNCF. Usually it was the wife of a railroad officer whose job it was to manually lower the gate or in some cases crank a large wood and metal fence along a metal track when a train was to pass. These were particularly difficult to manage when it froze or if it snowed. Records had to be kept and the gate keeper allowed no one to pass until the train/trains had cleared the crossing.
At each crossing was a small house, known as the railroad crossing house. It was provided rent free to the family of the crossing guard. One can still find many of them all across France, but the manual crossing gates have all been replaced by automatic ones. The crossing houses are identical. There is usually a number posted on the house along with a metal sign indicating the number of the crossing. The house consisted of two floors with the main floor being just one room with an integral kitchen, living area, wood stove or fireplace.

There was no running water but there was a pump just outside and usually not too far from the outdoor toilet. The second floor consisted of two bedrooms plus an attic. There was a dirt/rock cave (basement) where wine and veggies could be stored. In many rural areas, the trains only passed once or twice a day, but in the cities it was full time work.

Since the advent of automatic crossing gates many of these homes have been sold to private parties and remodeled, but recently the practice has stopped and many of these old houses now sit vacant and in poor condition. If you travel in France, look for them where the roads cross the tracks and you will be amazed at how many you see.

Slow Down Or Eat It

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

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

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?

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)

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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.