’53 Chev

       The Green Bomb.

     It probably should be the Green Bomb II since there was another ’53 Chev that preceded this one.  The old one had the wheels run off of it.  It had maybe 150K miles on it, which is remarkable for cars of that era.  Those old “6-bangers” often had to have a complete engine overhaul after 60 or 70K miles.  I can’t remember that first ’53 being overhauled.

     The folks liked that first ’53, which was the first automatic transmission ever allowed to join the farm fleet, so well that they snapped up the Green Bomb when it came up for sale from a neighbor whose parents had died.  It was similar to the first ’53 and they knew its history.  Those neighbors bought it new in 1953.

     The Green Bomb was replaced by a much newer Buick.  The Green Bomb may have sat outside for a while, but not a long while.  As soon as the red barn was completed, it was moved to its retirement spot in the very deepest part of the barn, the north end where there was supposed to be walk--in door leading to the “finishing corral” for future beeves.  That door never got done. 

      Eventually, a stove blocked the way to the exit for the Green Bomb.  Then various tractors and trucks, some being overhauled, were in its way to the door.

   Note the stove pipe descending on the Green Bomb’s hood like a tornado funnel.  That’s where the stove stood.

     There was never any reason to get the Green Bomb out of its place.  It probably sat there close to forty years.  The tires went flat, the roof provided a storage place for things that needed to be kept mouse-free. 

      While the mice couldn’t get to the roof of the old car, the interior of the car was not so lucky.

    The ’53 is the last antique car left on the farm.  Plans are to get it sold, too.  Then will come the antique tractors and machinery as my farm career approaches its end.  It’s a sad, sweet time as digging out the old stuff brings back a lot of memories.

     The first step in getting the Green Bomb out of the barn was clearing a way.  The stove was the big obstacle.  With the help of the 4010 and it’s frontend loader, and Lelsie, Patti’s companion when we are at the farm, the stove came out of the barn and went down into the basement—another story, maybe, except I forgot to take any pictures of that memorable event.

    Next, the tires had to be aired up.  One refused to accept any air.  One aired up and went back down in about 15 minutes.  A third lasted for a few hours, and one held air for nearly a week.

    I was able to get the spare out of the trunk and replace the totally no-good tire.  The spare held air for a couple of days.  I was able to get both wheels off the front, using the spare on one side and blocks under the other side.

    Brother Dave came down to help.  He rolled around under the back end of the car for nearly an hour getting the rear end jacked up, blocked and both rear wheels off. 

     Dave had brought four “cheapy” tires (in fact, they were free, but it cost $96 to get the old tires removed and the new ones mounted) with him.  A trip to town had the new tires mounted in less than an hour.   That was quite enough work for two old guys for one day.

     It got cold overnight.  Halloween dawned cloudy and cool.  Attempts to start the 4010 in the cold didn’t go too well.  It took three attempts with battery chargers hooked up between attempts.  Once it started, the clutch and transmission didn’t want to go to work in the cold, but eventually, everything worked. 

     Moving the 4010 left only one obstacle between the Green Bomb and its first glimpse of sunlight in 40+ years.  We pulled another tractor out of the barn and the way was clear.  Hooking a chain to the Green Bomb called for another roll in the dirt beneath the car, but it got done.

      One last problem:  the car didn’t want to shift out of Park.  WD-40 here and there and constant working the shifter succeeded. 

     Pulling the car was no problem for the 4010, and the Green Bomb seemed actually anxious to get out, rolling faster than the 4010, catching up to the tractor and managing to unhook the chain.

     Inertia was overcome and the car soon sat in front of the shop waiting for a good cleaning.  It didn’t get a good cleaning, but it got most of the mouse poop and debris removed from interior and trunk.

  We donned respirators whenever we got near the interior or the trunk of the car.  Hantavirus, you know. 

      There were a few interesting mouse-chewed documents, like this booklet listing license plate numbers, what car and to whom the license was issued.  Invasion of privacy?

     

    We left the car sitting in front of the shop.  It was destined to sit under two feet of snow on this second week of November, 2024.  I’m not there to take a picture of that.                                                   

                      

  Long live the Green Bomb!

 

    

The Missing Spark Plug

     ”No good deed goes unpunished.”   (Somebody important said that.  It wasn’t Mark Twain.)

     It wasn’t a very magnanimous deed, anyway.  I changed the oil on the lawn mower.  It’s one of those chores too easy to put off. 

    Check the oil before starting the mower.  My but it is dirty.  I’ll change it when I get done mowing.  Except after I get done mowing, I’m too tired, so I’ll put it off one more time.

     This time, I really did change the oil after I got done mowing.  Getting the drain plug out of the underneath side of the mower, then getting the mower over the drain pan so as not to pollute anything with dirty oil, is like trying to use a bed pan in the hospital. 

      The draining process finished and the drain plug restored, I searched the place for a quart of the right weight oil.  Nothing.  So I used a jug of 15-40W to fill a quart measuring can with a spout that pivots, up when you want to contain the oil, down when you want to send the oil into the crankcase.  I filled it full and got it all into the mower.

     Then I checked the oil.  Way over full, and the words “Do Not Overfill” clearly amplified on the dipstick through the film of clean oil.

     Oh well.  I’ll be sure to get some of the oil out of the mower crankcase before I start the engine again.  I stowed the mower.

     A couple of weeks later, I needed to mow again.  I recalled the too-full engine.  I put an old suction device to work with a piece of  gas line that fit over the suction pump’s inlet fitting, and small enough to fit into the dipstick and oil fill access on the mower.

    It took a few tries to get the oil level down to  near the full mark on the dipstick.  I replaced the dipstick, filled the gas tank, gave the primer button two or three shots. 

     I gave the starter rope a jerk.  The mower, reared up and threatened to hit me.  I changed positions so I could use a foot to hold the front of the mower down while I pulled the starter rope again.  Nothing moved.  The starter rope wouldn’t budge.  A few more attempts confirmed that.

     I then performed a dangerous maneuver.  I tied the brake lever to the handle so the brake wouldn’t interfere with my attempts to get the engine to turn.  I rolled the mower over on its side, the side with the gas tank and the oil filler up so as not to leak liquids all over while I grabbed the mower blade and attempted to rock it back and forth.

     The engine was primed with gas and the spark was enabled with the brake lever tied to the mower handle.  Had I succeeded in getting the motor turn, it could have started.  No worries.  After several attempts, I got the engine to move an inch or two.

    At this point I figured out what had happened and why the words on the dipstick, “Do Not Overfill,” was an inviolable commandment.  The oil in the overfilled crankcase had seeped into the cylinder and locked things up.  Eventually, I figured out that I had to remove the spark plug to get the engine to turn. 

    By the time I figured that out, I had worked oil into the exhaust valve.  When I did get the engine freed up enough to turn, not only did oil spew out of the spark plug hole.  It sprayed out of the muffler.

      With the engine freed up, the spark plug cleaned and replaced, I tried several times to get the mower to start.  No luck.  I pulled the spark plug again and checked it on the ohmmeter. Nothing.  No amount of cleaning, blasting with air, anointing in alcohol could get anything out of the spark plug.

     Lesson:  don’t soak a spark plug in oil.  It probably will ruin it.

     It was Sunday.  The only place that would be open was Big R.  I threw the spark plug into the cup holder in the car and went in to start my domestic chores. 

    A couple of hours later, we got into the car to  head to town to find a new spark plug.  I forgot something and had to go back to the house.  I left the Goodwife in the car while I ran in and back out.  Hurried, maybe, rather than ran.

     I grabbed the garage door opener and threw it into the car’s cupholder on top of the spark plug.  Or at least, I thought I put it on top of the spark plug. 

     When we got to Big R, I picked up the garage door opener to grab the spark plug.  Which wasn’t there.

      Where was it?  I looked in every nook and cranny in the car, the glove box, the console, the door pouches, under the seats.  Nothing.

     I patted down the Goodwife.  Nothing.  Not in a pocket.

     I didn’t jump to the conclusion that she had relocated the thing, because I have been known to do something without thinking about it, or even to forget that I have done something.  I might have put the spark plug somewhere where I couldn’t miss it, but can’t remember where.

    It didn’t matter.  Nothing to do but go into Big R and see what spark plugs were available.  There were only three in stock, and it wasn’t hard to select the right one.

      Come Monday morning, I installed the new plug, primed the engine, and on the second pull, the engine fired up.  It smoked horribly for the first minute while burning the excess oil it had imbibed. Over the next five minutes, the smoke coming out of the muffler gradually lessened to zero.

      The recompense for my good deed was fully paid.  Almost. 

     The spark plug remains MIA, or MII, missing in INaction, since it wasn’t working.  Not that it matters at all.

     The experience is all too usual nowadays, where I find dirty underwear in the bathroom vanity, a flashlight in the refrigerator, or a picture removed from the wall and wrapped up in a bathrobe for just a few examples of life in our house.

    Oh well.  One missing, worthless spark plug is nothing to fret about.

The May Gap

       It’s 3 p.m. 

      “Let’s go!”

     “Go where?’  Woops!  That’s a question.  Can’t ask direct questions.

     “Someone needs to tell me where to go.”

     No answer, maybe a shrug and grimace, maybe a “I don’t know.”

     But go we must.  I looked for back streets and residential areas where I could putt along at 20-miles per hour.  I could be a Uber driver or go to work for UPS or a pizza place that delivers.  I’ve seen places around town that I didn’t know existed.  I have toured a section of Fort Collins with names from the Eastern Planes,  Akron, Limon, and Arriba. No Genoa, yet.

     After 45 minutes or so, I would try returning home.  Ten minutes in the house and  I would hear, “Let’s go!” or maybe “We’d better be going.”  Many times, her arms would be full of something rolled up in a blanket or maybe pictures taken from the wall, stuff we mustn’t leave behind, we must take with us.

     Attempts to prepare something to eat would be interrupted with demands to do something, usually leave, go somewhere.  Shut off the stove and go.

      Going out to eat became risky.  Once, as we sat waiting for our meals, she became increasingly agitated.  Trying to find causes for behaviors was , and is, a major consumer of my time.  In this case, some girls sitting in a nearby booth were having a good time, laughing and joking.

      The Goodwife was sure they were laughing at her.  She became increasingly agitated. She rose and started to go for those girls.  I blocked her exit from the booth we were sitting in.  She became loud and abusive, turning her wrath on me. 

     The manager came over and I asked her to change our order to “to go”.  The manager and waiter got things ready to go as fast as they could.  Using one hand and holding her back with the other, I fished out a credit card, signed the slip, and the manager helped us to the door.

      The end came on a Tuesday night while I was at the weekly meeting of the barbershop singers.  I got a phone call and I rushed out of the meeting and headed for the bingo site where a lady had volunteered to take her.

     The lady has lived with cerebral palsy all her life.  She is small in stature and not sure on her feet.  When I arrived on site, a friend of the caregiver had helped soothe the savage beast.  I soon learned that the Goodwife had knocked the caregiver over in the parking lot when she tried to keep her from running away.  

      I thanked the friend, I apologized to the caregiver lady, and I got the goodwife into the car.  I knew I had to do something.  I couldn’t go on this way.

      Three different people suggested I have her tested for a UTI, a urinary tract infection.  After three days of trying to reach our neurologist with no response, I turned to our personal physician.  Not much fun, as under the new company he now is contracted to, you cannot reach his office.  Instead, you have to do everything through Arizona headquarters.

      Finally, we got an appointment at an urgent care facility where the “pilot fish” lady that does all the preliminary work for the doctor, got the Goodwife into a restroom and managed to collect a urine sample.

     As we sat waiting for the doctor, I read all about diabetes on a poster on the wall.  When the doctor came, he said there was indeed an infection, a “mild” one he said.  He prescribed an antibiotic to be taken for four days.  He also said she was dehydrated.

    “Getting her to drink water is a chore,” I said.

     “What will she drink?”

     “ A little coffee, maybe some tea, Coke.”

     “Give her Coke or Gatorade or anything she will drink.”

     “I just read all the evils of sweets,” I said and gestured to the poster on the wall.

     “Doesn’t matter.  She needs liquid.  Give her all the Coke she will drink.”

     We picked up pills at the pharmacy and took one immediately.  It didn’t help much.  That evening, I was tired from going.  I resisted the call to go somewhere until about 9, when I realized it might be a long night if I didn’t get  her settled down, so we went out at 9 and drove around.  It didn’t help much.

        When I pulled back into the garage 45 minutes later, she refused to get out of the car.  I left her sitting in the car.

      As she had been a flight risk, I had previously rigged up an extension cord and plugged the garage doors into it.  When I pull the extension plug out of the outlet, the garage doors won’t open unless you pull the emergency cord and open them manually.

     She was sitting in the dark in the car in the garage.  I went to shower.  When I came back, she was out of the car wandering around in the garage and had settled down a lot.  I managed to get her into bed and that was the end of that day, a Thursday.

             Meanwhile, another suggestion came from friends at Dementia Together.  Try CBD gummies.  The cerebral palsy lady agreed.  She said she had used them for years and they helped her.

      On Friday, we called on the local CBD store.  I had just about made up my mind to walk on by, because I really couldn’t see the store itself, only the signs.  As we passed by, a young guy came along and asked if we were looking for the CBD store. 

     I was a little worried about taking her into a place where there might be a crowd or noise, but the young guy wouldn’t take “no” for an answer, so we followed him up the stairs and into the store.  We were the only people in there. 

      There followed a brief explanation of the types of CBD and the benefits.  Always the skeptical one, I though, “Yeah, right,” to myself, but then what did I have to lose.  We bought a small bottle of Peach-flavored gummies that had both CBD and CBC in them. 

     When we got out to the car, I took the bottle out of the box, broke the seal under the cap and gave the Goodwife one.  They were so good she wanted another, but I managed to delay that. 

    We took a little run up to Carter Lake, visited with a man with a dog, always an attraction for “us.”   We went home for about 30 minutes before going to the bar where the 96-year-old guy plays.  We were at the lounge until after 9 p.m., ate, visited, had a good time.  No sign of agitation or anger.

     It was our miracle day.  There hadn’t been a peaceful day for a long time.  Was it too good to be true?  Would I have to reconsider my opinion that such stuff was another form of snake oil?

     Saturday came and went with only minor disturbances.  We ran through the antibiotics and continued to use the gummies.  There have been days when we used two gummies a day.  It hasn’t been perfect, but when I look back on it, it still seems a miracle that I don’t have to deal constantly with “Let’s go!”

      How did I live with it?  The truth is I was seriously considering memory care for her.  I couldn’t deal with that kind of stress day after day. 

     I have since found some good help for three to five days a week.  We are managing.  Life goes on. 

 

 

    

Snake in the Dryer Vent

      No, not a real live snake.  Settle down.  No need to shiver and get the chills.

     It is a  sewer-cleaning snake. 

     The story goes back a few years.  (Hard to believe, but we are coming up on ten years of living in this house.)

     The washer and dryer are in the basement.  The dryer vent runs up inside a wall, takes a turn, or maybe two, and between floor and ceiling, heads to the outdoors.  The horizontal section of the metal vent pipe is at least twenty feet.

     Every year, as farm activities slow down, I think, “I’ll clean that dryer vent pipe this fall or winter.”  This spring, I really did go after the lint in that vent pipe.  I think a lot of house fires start when lint, highly flammable, builds up in the pipe and some malfunction of the dryer allows it to keep running and heating even after the clothes are dry.

      Under ordinary circumstances, the lint is so wet you couldn’t ignite it with a torch.  But when it is dry, it makes a good fire-starter.  Try using some to start the blaze in your fireplace or wood stove.

      Anyway, I moved the cabinet nestled between the washer and dryer.  I moved the dryer away from the wall so I could get to the flexible connection from dryer to vent pipe.  No easy task, since the dryer is "two-story." There was plenty of lint in the flexible pipe.  It was easy to use a rag to remove the lint from it.

     Now for the metal pipe disappearing into the basement wall.  A drain-cleaning sewer snake would be perfect, at least so I thought.  I tied a rag to the little coil spring on the tip of the snake and ran it into the pipe. 

      It was sort of successful.  I got a lot of lint out.  My idea was to run the snake all the way through the pipe, tie a rope to the end of the snake and pull it with the rope in tow back through the pipe.

     Problem:  the snake is only fifteen feet long.  It was then I calculated the length of the vent pipe.  It must be between twenty and thirty feet long.  Revise the plan.  I had to go from both directions, from the outside termination of the pipe as well as the from the dryer side. 

     If it was indeed thirty feet of pipe, the fifteen-foot snake should cover the entire length.  To gain access to the vent pipe from outside, I had to remove the metal, hooded flapper mechanism. Worthless flapper, I should add, because the flapper valve never closes after a little lint gets into the hinge side.   The idea is for the flapper to close when the dryer is not running.  Once the lint gets into its hinge, the flapper never closes.

     It took a little effort to get rid of the flapper assembly.  Screwed to the exterior wall and a rather tight fit, it came out reluctantly.  I ran the snake and rag as far into the pipe as I could from the outside.  I got some lint out, but it wasn’t satisfactory.  I needed a longer snake.

     I didn’t want to buy one, so I went to Home Depot where the only light snakes were electric powered ones that look like an electric drill attached to a sewer snake.  It was $30 for 4 hours to rent it.

     I had another snake at the farm.  No need to rent one.  I bought a plastic dryer vent termination assembly which is much more efficient than the metal one.  The plastic one has three little flappers that aren’t too badly affected  by the lint, and they are easy to clean if they do get stuck open.

      It was a bit of a problem to get the plastic one through the wall and connected to the metal pipe because the metal pipe had no support and sagged when I removed the old flapper assembly.  I got it in temporarily and resolved to finish the job after the next trip to the farm.

     All was well for a few cycles of the dryer.  But one day, the dryer ran and ran and ran.  I opened the door.  The clothes were still quite wet.  Hmmmm.  Did we need a new dryer?

    I went outside and discovered that there was virtually no air coming through the vent pipe when the dryer was running.  Back down the stairs, I pulled the flexible pipe off the metal vent pipe, and the warm wet air gushed out.  I left the dryer run with the hot air venting into the laundry room.  In about fifteen minutes, the clothes were dry.

     Conclusion:  nothing wrong with the dryer.   My cleaning attempt had had the opposite effect; it plugged up the vent pipe so that no air could get through it.

     I didn’t have a shop vac, but that was my first idea.  Stick a hose in there and see if I could remove any of the lint that way. 

     We do have a central vac in the garage that has never been hooked up.  It seems to have been used to vacuum vehicles and the garage floor once in a while.  It has a twenty-foot hose.  It wouldn’t reach the dryer vent.  I took the hoses from the central vac and hooked it to the Kenmore vac and ran it as far into the pipe as I could.

     It sort of worked.  The vacuum hose would grab a slug of lint and plug up.  I would pull the hose out, unplug it and repeat the operation.  I eventually had a trash bag full of lint.  And the dryer worked a little better, but the air flow wasn’t as robust as it should have been.

      I still needed something to go through the entire length of the vent pipe.  I had remembered to bring the other sewer snake from the farm by this time. Attempts to connect the two snakes together by sticking one in from the basement and the other into the outside opening were unsuccessful.

     And now, the problem.  I decided I should hook the two snakes together and try driving them in that way.  I should be able to get all the way through the vent pipe with the two hooked together.  You have probably already figure out what happened.

     My connection was a dismal failure.  I got one snake about twenty feet in, it got stuck.  When I tried to pull it back, my feeble connection broke and about five feet of the second snake came tumbling down out of the vertical section of vent pipe. 

      The other snake has taken up lodgings in the dryer vent pipe.  It remains.  Attempts to remove it from either end of the vent pipe have been unsuccessful.

     I returned to the vacuum cleaner.  This time, I ran the dryer on air flow—no heat--while I ran the vacuum hose into the vent as far as I could from the outside.  Using that and the sewer cleaner, I managed to remove a bushel, no exaggeration, of lint.

      When the vacuum came up empty, I ran the snake in there and snagged big chunks of sopping wet lint.  Not much danger of fire, unless it fermented! 

     Alternating vacuum and snake, I succeeded.

     Unless you consider the resident snake in the vent pipe. 

     The first load of clothes that went into the dryer got dry in record time.  So it wasn’t only a safety issue.  It was a step for energy efficiency.  When I get my report from the power company, maybe my electric usage will be closer to my energy-efficient neighbors.  (Except I’ve had to run the air conditioner more this year than ever before, but that’s another story.)
     Brother John suggested attaching a leaf blower to the vent pipe.  That makes a lot more sense, but I don’t have a leaf blower.  I could rent one but . . . . .

     I will have to try to get the snake out of the dryer vent  someday, but for now, I’m content with “let sleeping snakes lie,” or something like that.      

Living With Dementia II – Lost & Found

 

            There it was, right on the dog’s bib. 

 

      Not too long after getting the ID bracelet, it went missing.  Not surprising.  Things go missing all the time.  Peanut butter jar found in the dishwasher.  Underwear in the trash can. 

     For a person who has always believed in, “a place for everything and everything in its place,” and for whom “Look for it!” is inflammatory,  it has been a tough time.  Nothing gets put in its place.

     But I am learning.  I must have multiple items.  Can’t find it?  Get another.  The lost one will eventually turn up.  About a year ago, I couldn’t find the dandruff-preventing shampoo.  I looked and looked. 

      On a visit several weeks later, Tisha came upstairs carrying the shampoo.  Where did she find it?  In a basement closet full of sewing and quilting material and other junk.

     Conventional wisdom is that the person living with dementia won’t change her ways, so I must change mine.  What I discover is that losing things bothers me.  A lot.  That characteristic is why I quit carrying a pocket knife decades ago.  I couldn’t keep track of it.  Them.

      When I lose things, I have to find them.  If I had all the time back that I wasted looking for things that weren’t in their place, I would only be fifty-something.  Though I try, old habits die hard.

     So it was that when the new ID bracelet disappeared after less than a week, I looked and looked, even though I knew I should not.  I need more than one.  So I returned to the website I had ordered it from, RoadID, and ordered three more.

     One day, I picked up the cute little mechanical dog to see if it would help to calm stormy waters that were arising.  There it was, the bracelet on its red band somehow nestled into the dog’s bib.

      While waiting for the new bracelet nameplates to arrive in the mail, I had jerry-rigged a label on one of the spare bands (I had ordered six total, but only one nameplate) because  I found it difficult to leave the house unless the Goodwife was wearing an ID bracelet.

    In less than a week, the new nameplates arrived.  Now I have multiples and wait for the lost to find themselves, like Little Bopeep’s sheep.

      This time, I saved the packaging.

              

    Note:  the original red bracelet has gone missing again.  It’s been AWOL for 4 or 5 days.

 

 

      

 

Living with Dementia I

      A visit to the ladies’ room.  It should be safe.

     I started getting worried about ten minutes after that decision.

     We were at The Ranch taking in the RV show.  Time was when we could spend an easy two hours looking at campers, motor homes, fancy trailers.  We had to see how cleverly the manufacturers used the small space to create all the conveniences of home to take on the road.

      This time, we weren’t there over twenty minutes before I started hearing, “Let’s go.”  Or “Don’t we need to be going?”  A-D-D on steroids.

      We didn’t enter any of the displays.  We walked among them.  We went outside to walk among the really big ones.  I thought there might be an exit out there.  No, no exit, so back inside we went.

      We had a similar experience at the Home and Garden show in Island Grove Park.  We made it almost thirty minutes, because we stopped to talk to a few vendors, and one vivacious fellow who carried on with the Goodwife with his banter.

     Most of the time, I am greeted with blank stares as the stranger struggles to hear and make sense of what the Goodwife says.  Oh well.  I’ll never see them again, maybe.  Exception:  the lady following a Doberman Pincer.  She did her best to give us a wide berth after the first encounter.

     Meanwhile, back to The Ranch.  We had to return to the main building to find an exit.  Then it was we came across the  concession area including the restrooms.

      The Goodwife entered the restroom.  I stationed myself nearby.  After a couple of minutes, I decided I just as well take advantage of the chairs and tables across the walkway.  I sat and waited.  And waited.  Did I miss her coming out of the restroom?

      As ten minutes stretched into nearly fifteen, minutes, I really started to worry.  What should I do?  I couldn’t go into the ladies’ restroom without getting arrested.

       She had no identification with her.  Our propensity for leaving anything she carries anywhere we go has led to me never leaving home with it, purse or wallet, that is.

      I had just about got up my courage to flag down a passing lady and ask her to check into the restroom when I heard the public address start up.  “We have a person who has lost  her husband.  Her name is Patti,  her husband is Steven.  She apparently has a bit of dementia and can’t tell us her last name.”

     I was all ears by then.  The male voice continued, “If you are Steven and are looking for Patti, please call 911 or come to the east entrance.”

     I was off like a shot, well a 70+ year-old-shot.  The east entrance wasn’t too far.  It was the one we had exited to try to find a way out. 

     I walked through the doors into the foyer and saw:  The lady named Patti was sitting on a bench wearing a huge smile.  A little girl, maybe three or four years old was wrapped around her protectively.  On the bench next to the entwined pair was the woman I assumed to be the girl’s mother.  Milling around were two older siblings and what I assumed was a grandmother of the children.

     As the Goodwife signaled her recognition of me, the mother arose, approached me and gave me a big hug.  I thanked her, but I was too flustered to ask about the details of where they found Patti.  The mother disentangled the little girl from Patti and the family, the older two kids getting restless, moved on.

      My attention was on the two cops, who were quite satisfied that they had found their man.  One quickly departed and I visited with the remaining man.

      He was very polite, and I thanked him profusely, too.  I explained that I had watched her enter the restroom, but I never saw her come out.  How could I have missed her, or how could she have missed me?  Was there another entrance / exit for that restroom?  He didn’t know about that.

     I apologized for her not having any ID.  I guessed I would get her a necklace.  He did have an opinion about that.  He suggested a bracelet instead.  I said it was too easy for her to remove (or lose) a bracelet.  He countered with the difficulty of accessing a woman’s necklace. 

     He didn’t say it, but I immediately realized his point.  A male cop trying to get to a woman’s necklace could easily become a nightmare.  Especially in Loveland, in the current environment.  (male cop, currently serving time in prison,  manhandling an elderly lady with dementia accused of shoplifting from Wal-Mart, just in case you have forgotten)    

      Our conversation with the cop concluded, we found the exit and headed for home.  I immediately began a search for proper ID’s.  Dementia Together to the rescue.  Based on the experience of other folks who have gone before us on the “journey”* of living with dementia*, they recommended Road ID. 

     Dementia Together also strongly recommends that the care partner have an ID in case something happens to that person and the one living with dementia is left unattended.

      So, I Googled Road Id, I looked, I chose, I ordered--a bracelet with spare bands for the Goodwife, a dog tag-like necklace for me.

     I have also found some simple “Alzheimer” door locks from a place called “AlzStore”, the Alzheimer’s Store, online.  I ordered one and installed it on our front door.  It works great and has saved my many worries, particularly at night.  I have ordered three more and will probably order two more.

     The bracelet, bands, and necklace arrived in about a week.

 

      Road ID endeared themselves to me with the disposal instructions on the mailer package:  don’t try to brush your teeth with this mailer, and a second one I don’t remember, and the third one I can’t forget, “Don’t use this package as a suppository”!  Nothing like a little satire to accompany your order!

     The wrist band has worked so far, though we haven’t had to use it as such.  I ask the Goodwife to show folks her new bracelet.  They read it and they understand.

     A few people act like they have seen a rattlesnake, but most are quite kind and understanding.  We are blessed with a group of friends and relatives who totally understand.   

     The journey* continues.

 

*Phrasing acceptable for those of us “living with dementia”—also acceptable phrasing!

Amazon Hack

 

     Monday morning, I had just sat down, guitar in hand to strum a few chords and try to keep my fingertip callouses in shape, when my cell phone buzzed, or dinged, or whatever that sound is.

     It was Amazon calling.  I don’t remember what the guy said but my reaction was, “Why don’t you people (might have been an unprintable adjective or two) get a real job instead of trying to rip people off?”

    The guy was unphased.  He told me, in his foreign accent, probably Indian, I had an order for a thousand dollars (I don’t remember the exact figure, which he gave me) made from my phone number using a name, which he also gave me, which also sounded Indian.

     “Yeah right!”  He kept going.  He knew that the Goodwife and I had separate Amazon accounts.  The clincher was he had the last four numbers on both credit cards I have stored on my Amazon account.

       I took the time to check my credit cards, and sure enough, he had accurate last four numbers.  I hovered between gullibility and suspicion. I forgot that “Amazon will never contact me by phone.”  I decided I had better play along.

     “Why can’t you just cancel the order, since I obviously didn’t place it?”  Oh no, he couldn’t do that.  It was a “pre-approved order” so he didn’t have the authority to cancel it.  Suspicion arose again.

     The call took 11 minutes and 55 seconds according to my cell phone record.  He couldn’t cancel my order, so he was turning over to another department.  The other department?  The FTC!  Wow! Did I feel important!

        There would be no waiting on hold for an FTC rep.  They would call me!  He insisted I take down the phone number the call would be coming from.  I wrote it down.

     Sure enough in about five minutes, I got a call from that number, with the same area code he had called from.  It was from the FTC!  Julia somebody. 

     She had to call three times to get a decent connection.  When we finally got to have a conversation, one of the first things she asked me for was my social security number.  What a surprise!  “Yeah right,” I said.  She either hung up or the feeble connection let loose.  She never called back.

       The fact that the crooks had so much information about my Amazon account was alarming.  I waded through the Amazon system to find a place to report fraud.  I did that.  I decided I had better close my Amazon account. 

     Because I reported the fraud, my account was locked and I had to contact customer service.  Getting through the canned voice to a real human was somewhat of a chore.  Finally I did, and the guy sort of downplayed the whole thing, saying just ignore the call.  Tell them this or tell them that but don’t give them any information.

      He did email me a link to cancel my account.  I got off the phone an onto email.  Closing the account was a bit complicated.  Among other things I had to scroll through all the neat things I would be missing if I didn’t have an account with Amazon, along with assurance I can open a new account without much trouble, probably a lot less trouble than it took to close the existing account.

     The first time I filled out all the required information and finally got to “Submit”, I got a message that there was a problem and I could not close the account now.  Try again later, it said.

      I went back to the email with the link and started all over again.  This time, it worked.  Except it would be four or five days before the account could be closed.  I felt like a fly on a pest strip, trying to get loose from Amazon.

     The experience took over two hours of my precious morning hours, when the Goodwife is asleep and I can get things done.  It kept running through my head all day.

    On Tuesday, I decided I had better close the Goodwife’s Amazon account, too.  I knew better than to try to use the same link I had used for mine.  I would get into the squirrel cage and go ‘round and ‘round with that link.

     The decision expedited a process I started two weeks ago, deleting over 186,000 emails in her Gmail account, some going back to 2012.  I went back to Amazon customer service, went through the paddle line until I reached a live human.

     This time I had some things to say beside requesting help.  The only place the fraudsters got the information they had was from me or from Amazon.  They didn’t get it from me.  It had to come from Amazon.

     The lady didn’t deny that Amazon has had a breach of security.  She gave me the same spiel, ignore, don’t give the fraudsters any information, etc.  I insisted that Amazon needed to do something about their security.  Oh yes, they take fraud seriously, etc. etc.

     Back to the purpose of my call.  Because of the attempt to get into my account, the Goodwife’s account was locked.  I had to get into the account to close the account. 

     The lady was very helpful.  She insisted I get into the account and start the closing process while she was still with me.  It took a lot less time to close the Goodwife’s account than it did mine.

      Except, it still hasn’t been closed.  The process takes four or five days, she explained.   Yes of course.

      I won’t be surprised if I get an email (not a phone call) requiring me to confirm that I really do want to close the account any time now.

      The real price of the convenience of shopping on the internet.  About four hours, I think. 

     I also reported the phone numbers on the “report phishing” website.  Later, I regretted that.  A reverse phone number revealed that the original phone number belong to some female.  It was no doubt spoofed.  Now some innocent person will have their number listed as suspicious.

     Just for kicks, I tried calling the “FTC” number the guy gave me.  The voice answered, “Hello.”

I said I was trying to reach the FTC.  “This is the FTC,” he said.  Who do you wish to talk to?”

     I responded that I was checking the validity of the phone number.  He hung up.  I went to the FTC site and filled out all the stuff it required.

     It’s been nearly a week.  I just checked into my Amazon account.  It’s still open.  I got the same error message I got on my first attempt.  The account cannot be closed at this time.  Please try again later. 

     I tried again.  Same message.

     I am still stuck to the fly paper.

     Moral(s):  Think twice before opening an account with any of the big tech firms, Amazon, Google, etc.

     Moral 2:  Keep an eye on your Amazon account and your credit card accounts. 

     Moral 3:  There are two types of internet accounts, those that have been hacked and those that will be hacked.  Caveat Emptor!

 

 

’57 Ford

      I don’t know all the details of the trip, just that mother, brother, and sister took a rather hurried trip to Arizona, first riding the train from La Junta to Arizona (Kingman? Not even sure of that) then driving straight through back to Colorado, with one person driving and the other two trying to make sure the driver stayed awake.

     The Ford was Aunt Margaret’s car, a '57 Ford they bought brand new.  It was probably the cheapest version available.  There must have been some Scott’s blood in the Thistlewood family.

      It was the same year as Pete and Liz’s, but had none of the bells and whistles.  It had a three-speed standard transmission.  It arrived in Arizona from Detroit without an air conditioner.  By design?  Uncle Orrie soon installed an air conditioner.

     Like Uncle Pete, Uncle Orrie was very good with electronics and anything mechanical.   He built the first pickup-mounted camper I ever saw.  According to Aunt Margaret,  she was always bugging him to “build a little cabin on the back of the pickup.”  He did it.

     The pickup was a ’52 Ford, white as I recall it.  The camper didn’t extend much above the cab, but it had everything in it, bunks, a small “kitchen”, everything but a bathroom.  They travelled a lot in it.

     Installing an air conditioner in the '57 was no problem at all for Uncle Orrie.  In Colorado, the Ford became a college car.  It suffered a dent or two in a college trip.  I wasn’t involved and don’t know the details of that.

    It eventually went to Wyoming where it served as transportation for Uncle Ricky to commute to his job on the Wind River Reservation.  Two anecdotes I recall:  Uncle Ricky pulled into a parking lot and drew pointed attention from a mother and daughter.  He struck up a conversation with them.  It turns out that their husband / father had a nearly identical car and it really embarrassed them when he drove it publicly.  When they saw him, they thought their man had escaped in the car while they weren’t watching.

    The second story involved a -50-degree morning when the Ford refused to even turn over.  Uncle Ricky got under the car with a coffee can, in fifty-below weather, and pulled the oil drain plug.  The oil oozed out like really cold chocolate syrup into the coffee can.  He replaced the plug and took the coffee can inside and sat it by the wood-burning stove.  

     When the oil warmed sufficiently, he poured it into the engine and tried the starter again.  This time it started.  The old Ford probably wondered what an Arizona car was doing in a Wyoming winter.

     I think the Ford returned to the farm after Uncle Ricky left Wyoming.  It became a piece of real estate that went through two or three different owners without ever moving.

      Life sitting outdoors on the farm isn’t easy.  The cottontails chewed the spark plug wires down to nubs on both the plugs and the distributor cap.  Needless to say, it never ran after that.

      Though I encouraged subsequent owners to do something with it, it never moved and it became a “somebody-should.”  People who drove into the yard looked at the old Ford, saw that it was still intact, still had all its glass and, remarkably, no mouse damage to the interior.  They would say “Somebody should restore that.”

      The farm is rife with “somebody-shoulds.”  In her day, the Goodwife could spot two or three years of “somebody-shoulds” in a ten-minute visit to the farm.

     Unfortunately, “somebody” never showed up.

      Several visitors expressed interest in buying it, including a guy delivering a farm implement to me.  He was sure he could find a buyer, if not buy it himself.  After a few contacts, he never returned my calls.
      The REA guys replacing power poles expressed an interest, as did the siding crew who replace the siding on the house.  “If you ever want to sell that. . . . .”  Push never came to shove.

     Until this December.  As I sat in the local barbershop waiting my turn in the chair, I picked up a copy of Mile Saver Shopper and leafed idly leafed through it.  There was an ad for a guy looking to buy old cars from farms.  I called.  He called back. 

      With the warm weather the last week of January, we were both able to meet at the farm.  He pulled a trailer that would hold two cars.  He was serious.  He took the old Pontiac in the bargain.

 

     The old gals have moved to a “yard” (salvage or otherwise?) near Pueblo.  Maybe “Somebody” will finally get their chance to restore at least the ’57 Ford.