Customer Service

       Customer Service.  Oxymoron?  The thing that is not?  The trigger for a snigger?

     Whenever I have to deal with customer service, I can’t help thinking of an episode from Grapes of Wrath.  I have had a few times to call customer service lately.

     In the novel, as the “Okies” travelled the road from Oklahoma to California, they found it necessary to stop, for groceries, to camp, and for gas.  Many of the gas stations had signs advertising themselves as “Service Stations.”  As their journey began, whenever they bought gas, they could use the restroom, fill the radiator with water and the tires with air as part of the service.  In many cases, the service attendant would take care of the water and tires.

     When the family ran into a station that charged for air and water, one of the Okies was prompted to tell the attendant a story about a neighbor back “home” in Oklahoma.

      Many of the families had a few head of cattle along with other livestock such as pigs and chickens.  Owning a bull for three or four cows was unnecessary and beyond the reach of many of the families.  It was the custom for  those with small herds to call on neighbors with larger herds who also were able to afford a bull whenever it was time to have a cow bred.

       In the story the traveler told the service station attendant, a young neighbor, Willie, took a heifer over to the neighbors to be “serviced.”   When he and the heifer arrived, the only one home was the bull owner’s teenage daughter.  Willie and the bull owner’s daughter turned the heifer into the pen with the bull. 

     The young gal and Willie perched themselves on the top rail of the fence to watch while the bull and heifer accomplished their business.  Willie tried to keep up his end of the conversation, but as the action picked up in the corral, Willie got fidgety. 

     Finally, unable to restrain himself much longer, he turned to the neighbor gal and said, “Boy, I sure wish I was doing that,” nodding his head toward the bovine couple.

     The young gal replied, “Well, why don ’cha, Willie?  It’s your heifer.”

    The traveler went on to explain the point of his story to the service station attendant.  “Whenever I see that sign ‘Service Station,’ I always wonder who’s getting screwed.”   

 

     I suppose if you follow that trail far enough, you will have to reflect on the concept of “self-service”. 

     Or maybe a close relative of customer service, “customer support.”  In my youth, I remember seeing ads for supports, sometimes called trusses, purported to aid in dealing with a hernia.  And of course, there’s always support hose, an absolute delight wear.

     In our politically correct times, folks are always searching for a nice label for things that are not so nice.  I think of the word “retarded.” 

     In our former community, we had a lot of support for “retarded” citizens.  We had a school called “Trainable Mental Retarded.”  That got shortened to TMR and was eventually renamed for a local family that did so much to bring that institution into existence.  That school went down the drain when the state mandated “inclusion”, which meant all students had to be in the same classroom.   To do otherwise was a form of segregation.

      We also had a “sheltered workshop” for retarded adults.  We had an organization called “Association of Retarded Citizens.”  We still have ARC stores.  Not yet politically incorrect?

     My old neighbor, now gone for 50 years, muttered behind his hand, when mention was made of retarded citizens housed in our neighborhood in group homes, “We used to call them idiots.”

     I thought at the time he was being nasty.  On further reflection, I begin to think he was probably accurate if politically incorrect, a term not yet in use in those days.  Maybe “idiot” was at one time a nice term and not the insult we now consider it.

     I see that following this thread will lead me down a rabbit’s hole.  Along comes the person that says we mustn’t label people.  That will lead us to the war over pronouns.  After all, personal pronouns label us by sex.  Man and woman do the same, as do boy and girl.

     Therefore, I shall quit while I am behind.  A euphemism by any other name should smell as sweet.  (With apologies to Juliet and her pondering on what's in a name.) 

     I only hope that reading all this has been of some service to you.

 

 

 

 

DT—Not Delirium Tremens

      Dementia.  Environmentally induced?  Hereditary?  Dietary?  Natural result of living longer?

      Dementia Together leaves those questions to others.  It believes that a person suffering from dementia has life to live and live happily. 

     To that end, you will hear and see the phrase “Contented Dementia.”  The organization reaches out to loved ones who are dealing with how to care for a person with dementia.  The staff has some ideas about how to care for that person that will be satisfying for both the patient and the care giver.

     Our tiptoe into the lake of experiences the organization has to offer was with a Memory Café.  Those are hour-and-a-half meetings with persons suffering with dementia and their caregivers, whether they are spouses, children, friends.  Memory Cafes are purely for entertainment and give everybody a happy time.

     Each meeting has a theme of some sort.  “Antiques” were the subject of our first visit.  Folks were invited to bring an antique for “show and tell.”  Some of the people did bring something to share.  It was in December, so the program included a mother and her two teenage daughters singing Christmas Carols and leading the group to sing along.

     A second meeting involved chocolates and European countries.  Again, we had songs to sing from some of the countries we “toured”, along with a chocolate from that country.  For every country, someone in the gathering had a memory of visiting that country to share.  That included a couple doing a polka, someone trying to use a hula hoop, and throwing Styrofoam airplanes through the hula hoop, to mention a few.  Audience participation is encouraged. 

      We have also participated in bowling—patients and caregivers bowl a line at no cost--and pool, also free to DT people.  All these activities bring folks going through the experience of dementia together.  It helps to know you are not walking the  pathway alone.

      There are support group meetings, too, some live, but many via ZOOM.  I am not much for ZOOM meetings, but I have attended two.  There were over 30 participants in both of these meetings.  Most of the meetings are in “breakout rooms”.  My room was full of husbands caring for afflicted wives, or in one case, a recently-deceased wife.  We covered the problems of handling medications, driving, or stopping the driving, and having in-home help. These meetings can be depressing, but I think helpful tips may outweigh the negative.

     In addition to the social aspect of DT gatherings, they offer classes on how best to care for your dementia-afflicted person.  A term you will hear when working with DT  staff is “SPECAL”, pronounced “Speckle.”

       When dealing with people with dementia, SPECAL has Three Golden Rules. 

Rule One, Don’t ask direct questions.      

Rule Two, Listen to the expert.

Rule Three, Don’t contradict.

     If you think following those rules is difficult, you are right.  When looking at a menu, how do you ask, “What would you like to eat?”  Making decisions is very difficult for “us”.  So, you say something like, “The Shrimp sounds good,” or, “Mmm, the liver and onions sound really great.”

     Then comes rule two, listen to the expert.  The dementia person is the expert that you must listen to.  While the shrimp might get a lukewarm response, the liver will likely get a great big “Ugh!”  You keep trying with suggestions until you get an enthusiastic response.

      When the person gets anxious or uncomfortable, you listen carefully to try to figure out what’s bothering her.  Try is the keyword for me.  Sometimes, what is being said makes no sense.

       And Rule Three, don’t contradict.  What!  How can you be married and not correct things that are obviously wrong?!  “No, you have NOT taken your pills!”  Woops. 

       Suggestions:  don’t disagree with a statement.  Try to figure out why the person would say that.  Agree, repeat what she said.  Apologize:  "I’m sorry that’s the case."  Align:  "join the club."  Or, attract attention to something better.

       Many of the rules seem counter intuitive, but folks promoting SPECAL, while still developing strategies, insist that these things can be done.  Like everything else in life, it takes practice. 

     I am just beginning to try to implement these strategies.  I find myself violating all three of the golden rules, but I continue to try.  I have only attended one of the meetings on SPECAL.  I am sure there is more help when I can get to other meetings.

     One useful idea I have tried has to do with large, noisy gatherings, such as family events.  The dementia person will be confused and frustrated by the noise of such a gathering.  The experience can lead the person to demonstrate “unacceptable behavior”. 

     The prevention:  be sure the dementia person has a one-on-one attendant at all times.  This job should be shared rather than falling on one person.  Likely candidates are children, grandchildren, siblings, or close friends.

     People ask how they can help.  The answer is simply sit down and have a conversation with that person.  Try to keep the three golden rules in mind, no direct questions and do not contradict.  Listen carefully and do your best to respond in a friendly way.  The attention will block out much of the noise and confusion and make the person feel a valued part of it all.   

     Finally, DT also provides training for those brave, dedicated souls who work in “memory care” institutions.  Many of those who attend DT meetings have loved ones in memory care.  Sharing DT ideas with staff at the institutions has worked well for them. 

      Until we find a cause or cure for dementia, Dementia Together provides a helping hand for those of us wandering in the wilderness.  If you have read this far, you have taken a first step in the adventure that Dementia Together tries to provide. 

     Welcome aboard!

The Curse of an Inanimate Object

      His fists were balled, the third finger on either hand extended.  His lips were drawn back into a smile that is not a smile.

     His gestures were aimed not at a person, but at some thing. Probably something on a car, truck, or combine.  In my mental image, Brother #1 was on his knees at the time, working on something, what I don’t remember. 

     At first, I was alarmed as usual when anger becomes overt.  Then, I was somewhat taken aback. 

     It wasn’t the first time I had ever seen a human express anger at a thing.  I have been golfing quite a few times.

     My alarm and wonder quickly turned to amusement.  I stifled a laugh.  Wonder returned.  Wonder remains. 

     Could such behavior help explain road rage?  Sitting encapsulated in glass, plastic, faux leather, dials, gauges, lights, do we see other autos as inanimate objects not behaving the way we want them to, objects at which it is suitable to express our anger?

     I’m sure some psychologist somewhere has studied the matter and has the answer.  She/he  hasn’t shared that with me yet.

     The wonder, and the humor, came back recently when Brother #2 related the story of a sweeper that refused to stand in the closet where he willed it to.  He hurled an invective at the recalcitrant utensil, which of course was misinterpreted by a nearby listener.  She probably shared my alarm and wonder, and maybe the amusement.

    I laughed heartily as Brother #2 related the story.  I remembered the scene with Brother #1.  But I was really laughing at myself, for I have found myself aiming hand gestures and invectives at completely inanimate objects.

     Most recently, it was a sheet of music that refused to stay on the music rack on the piano. I was holding a guitar on my lap.  Otherwise, I could have easily cleared away a music book or two and made plenty of room for a single sheet.  I’m thinking the idea of victimhood must have place here somewhere.

     Of course, my cell phone comes in for its well-deserved share of abuse, but that’s not quite the same.  It isn’t exactly inanimate.  It surely has an inscrutable mind of its own.  If not a resident devil.

     Is abusing inanimate objects a familial thing?  It’s definitely age-related.  That is, I find myself expressing anger at things more frequently now than I ever used to. 

     Take clothes hangers for an example.  They hardly ever cooperate.  Such useful things.  Such frustrating things.  Or the toaster that has two settings, scorched or barely warm , regardless of what I do with the dial

    The real bugaboo for me are things that refuse to remain on a shelf.  In our house, there are many shelves, and many things that won’t stay where I put them.  I often laugh at myself,  soon after I get done expressing my frustration with well-aimed gestures and harsh words.

     A friend experiencing eye problems had prisms in his latest pair of glasses.  His comment was that as he sat in his chair and put his cup of coffee on the end table or counter, it often fell off as soon as he released it.  A matter of eye-hand coordination and a change in depth perception.

    I laughed as he related his experience with new glasses.  It sounded not so vaguely familiar.  Another age-related experience.

     I find when anger boils over into gestures and words, it’s best to slow down, relax, take a breath or two and remind myself that none of this will matter in fifty years from now. 

     Maybe other old people have come to that realization and that explains, along with arthritic joints and stiff muscles, why old people do things so slowly.  Slow down.  The job will get done.  If it doesn’t?   Oh well.

      I think of my grandfather putting on his glasses .  With palsied hands, he pried open the spring-loaded case, removed his wire rimmed glasses, slowly unfolded the temples, carefully and slowly lifted them, shaking all the way, to his face, perched the nose pads on the bridge of his nose, and fixed the wires in place behind his ears.  The process ended with the snap of the empty case that had held his glasses.

     I was always fascinated by the slowness and the thoroughness of the operation.  Now, there is some understanding, too.

     I never saw his glasses fall off  his face.  Or the shelf either, for that matter.  

     Extending myself out another fifteen years, if I make it that far, don’t be surprised if you see me shuffling around inside the house wearing my hat.

      “Why do you wear your hat in the house, Papa?”

      “To hold my brains in.”      

     

           

The Amazon Conundrum

 December 5:  Tried to order goggles, fins, snorkel, the “Mares Package.”  Can’t sign in to my account.  Twenty minutes on the phone dealing with a vocal robot, finally reached a human being who advised me to simply start a new account.

      Later, got notice from Amazon:  Your order has shipped.

 

December 11:  Amazon emails that my order is on hold.  Contact Fed Ex.  I try tracking the package.  It went to Henderson, then to Johnstown.  It was here!  Except it wasn’t. 

     Several attempts to track the package.  Fed Ex gives me such reasons as:  Tried to deliver, nobody home.  I was home.  Another attempt stated that recipient has moved.  A third one stated that the recipient has asked for a change of address. 

 

December 12:  Worked my way through the Fed Ex phone options, finally got a lady, who gave me a case number.  “What do I do with that?”  After some hemming and hawing, the answer was “I don’t know.”  Neither did I.

 

December 14:  Amazon sends two more notices that my delivery is on hold, please contact Fed Ex. 

    Attempts to contact Fed Ex ended without me getting past the robot.  The final advice, Contact Amazon.  Click.

       I decide I had better reorder if I want the stuff before Christmas.  This time, the price has gone up from the original $30 to $48, plus no free shipping this time, over $50 for what was $30.  I exercised my 30-day free Amazon Prime trial in order to cut out the shipping cost.

      Amazon emails that my package will arrive on December 19.

 

December 15;  I get two more emails from Amazon stating the package, the original one, can’t be delivered.  Contact Fed Ex.

     I get an email from UPS stating my package will be delivered tomorrow, December 16.

 

December 16:  UPS package arrives—the original order for the Mares stuff, at least so I thought.

     I get two emails from Amazon stating Fed Ex ran into problems trying to deliver the package.  They will try again. 

     Moral:  Don’t send a Fed Ex driver to do a UPS job.  Even the USPS can do better than Fed Ex.

 

December 19: the Mares Package arrives via Prime delivery.

 

December 20:  I do a quick, and this time it really was quick, return form for Amazon and get a link, which I am supposed to copy on my phone, but instead, I printed it off.  We take it and the package to UPS.  The young lady scans the print copy, prints off a label, affixes it over the label of the unopened package, and we are on our way.  With the time waiting in line, we weren’t at UPS for more than five minutes.

     I get an invitation from Amazon to rate the seller of the Mares Package.  I decline to waste any more time on it. 

 

December 26:  I arise and look out the window to see a package on my doorstep.  It’s from Fed Ex.  It is the long lost, well-travelled, original Mares Package.  Written on it in Sharpie indelible ink, “Moved.”

      I go through Amazon’s return policy, the same one I did for the Prime delivery.  I get a notice that the shipper has been notified that I wish to return the package.  I will hear from them within 48 hours. 

 

 January 2:  Having no response from my December 26 attempt to return the third Mares package, I go through Amazon’s return form again.  Same message, I will hear from them in 48 hours.

 

January 7 or thereabouts:  I get notice my credit card account has been credited for the $50 Amazon return.  I set about to cancel Amazon Prime.  I can do that at any time, remember.  There was some slaloming among all the buttons trying to convince me to keep Amazon Prime, but I finally crossed the finish line.  My trial membership will end on January 12.

 

January 10:  Finally got a response from the Amazon vendor.  Ok to return package.  No code or UPC sticker or shipping label in the email message.

 

January 11:  I signed into my account and found a UPC code, printed it off and headed to UPS.  The young lady scanned the code and said, “Have you returned something else?”  Yes. “ You used this label.  You can’t use it again.”   The Indian guy supervising the store told me to call Amazon.  “They’ll straighten it out.”  Oh boy.  Just what I wanted to hear.

    I called Amazon.  It took three tries to get a human.  On try one, the robo voice wanted me to verify my account by giving him (it?) the code they texted to me.  Except when I tried to get the text, I lost the robot.

      On try two, I requested my code via email, which I got.  But when I used it, I had to sign in to my account, even though I was already signed in.  When I signed in, I got sent back to the request to verify my account, which sent me to the sign in page, which sent me back to the verify my account.

     On try three, I answered “NO” to all Mr. Robo’s requests.  Finally, he asked if I needed to talk to someone on the phone.  “YES!”  Give him my phone number and they would call me.  I filled in the number and waited. 

     Finally, I checked my phone.  It had managed to turn the ringer off.  Amazon had indeed called.  I called back.  This time, I didn’t have to deal with Mr. Robo.  I got some lady somewhere on the other side of the world, whose English I could barely understand, who called me “Steaven” to rhyme with “heaven”.  

     I took a vow of patience with myself and explained that I had a third package that I had not paid for and I would like to return.  She looked at my account and explained that I already had returned a package and got a refund.  Yes, but I got a third package for which I have paid nothing, and I would like to return it.

     Two put-on-holds-with-scratchy-worn-out-music later, she came back on to tell me I did not have to return the package.  I would be getting a refund.  I patiently explained that I was not due a refund.  Oh well.  As recompense for my inconvenience, I was to keep the package and I would get the refund.

     Okay.  I tried.  I will need some documentation to prove we had this conversation.  You will get an email.  And I did.

     It remains to be seen if my credit card gets another refund, but if not, okay.

     Maybe I am done.

      I won’t hold my breath.    

 

January 13:  Capital One notifies me that I have a credit from Amazon. 

     I’m still waiting for the second shoe to fall.

 

“Pie”pourri

       Or, how new recipes come about.

     “Dad, did you put Italian Seasoning on the apple pie?”    

     “No, I don’t think so.”

     “Well, it looks like Italian Seasoning.”   Takes a closeup sniff of the pie.  “It smells like Italian Seasoning.”    Cuts a piece, puts it on a plate, takes a bite.  “It tastes like Italian Seasoning, too.”

      Well, it probably was Italian Seasoning on top of the apple pie.  I took a second look and had to agree.

      The night before, as I slid the pie into the hot oven, I realized I had forgot to put cinnamon on top of the apples before I put on the top crust.  So, I went to the cabinet, pulled down the plastic jar, and sprinkled some on top of the pie crust, closed the oven door, placed the jar back in the cabinet. 

     After about 45 minutes, I pulled the pie out and let it cool for a while.  I placed it in a pie carrier and put on the hood of the pickup in the garage.  I never looked at the pie again until the preceding conversation took place.

      Yes indeed, I did put Italian Seasoning on top of the apple pie.  The cinnamon is right next to the Italian Seasoning in the cabinet.  As I was preoccupied with something else, a nearly constant state of mind these days, though I would be hard-pressed to tell you what I was mulling over, I never gave it a second thought. 

      My never-very-great sense of smell didn’t give me a clue.  It took a daughter to bring it to my senses, all both of them, smell and taste.  It didn’t taste great.  I wouldn’t recommend it for a future recipe.  However, I only got to eat one piece when I brought the leftovers home.  None of it went into the waste basket.

 

      One-oh-four on one-oh-four.  We singing boys (one of us is in his twenties) did a gig at a local assisted living facility for a 104-year-old lady who was born on January 4.  Her 104^th birthday fell on January 4, 2023.

     The activities director hired us to serenade Irene on this occasion.  We did some old chestnuts that she knew.  I don’t think she fully appreciated our effort, especially since she had to sit in her chair throughout the whole thirty minutes we sang.

      When she recognized one of the songs, she tried to sing along, but she was usually a phrase behind us.  Her impaired hearing made it difficult to converse with her, but we did our best.  So did she.

      At 104, she was born in 1919, the same year as our mother. Granny has been gone for twenty years.  It’s hard to imagine living that long.

     Irene was attended to by one of her cousins as well as the activities director.  I think she must have outlived her children.

 

     Tru-Vue.  We went to a “Memory Café” as our initiation to a program called “Dementia Together.”  As we were newbies, we didn’t know that attendees were invited to bring an antique.     

    After the show-and-tell from the audience, a young lady from a neighboring town’s museum took the microphone and proceeded to talk about some of the antiques she had brought from the museum’s collection.  She had toys, kitchen utensils, and tools.  The thing that stimulated my memory was what she called a stereoscope, I think.

      We had something similar when we were kids.  It had disks with a dual set of pictures.  It was a kind of 3-D, I think, for when you looked in the eye pieces, it was like you were right there, in the scene.  By pulling a little lever on the upper right side, you advanced the disk to the next scene.  I don’t really remember much about those pictures, except one of Bethlehem, I think, that had an old bearded guy in a turban and robe of many colors, mostly drab, standing in front of a house.  The remarkable thing to me was how small the house was.  Was it a toy house, I wondered.

      But that isn’t what I remembered about 3-D viewing.  What I remember was a Tru-Vue owned by a favorite Uncle and Aunt and discovered by a favorite cousin.  In later years, I began to realize that maybe what James and I viewed in that Tru-Vue might have been forbidden fruit.

      Of course, forbidden fruit is all the more sweeter, to use a double superlative.  What we were viewing was Sally Rand doing her bubble dance.  Her only apparel was high heeled shoes.  Truthfully, you wouldn’t know if she was wearing any clothing because she held a huge translucent bubble between her and the camera. 

      When the museum lady presenting at the Memory Café asked for comments or questions, I asked if anybody in the room remembered Sally Rand, the bubble dancer.  To my surprise, many of those present answered with a resounding “Yes!”

      The young lady was a bit nonplussed when I described the Tru-Vue I knew about.  The viewer she brought had some boring desert scene.  Another old gal surmised that the really interesting pictures were worn out long ago and no longer available.  Only the boring ones that nobody looked at remain for posterity.

     I don’t know if Sally Rand pictures were worn out or not.  I think the Tru-Vue disappeared somewhere along the line.  Too bad.

      I wouldn’t mind having another look.

    

 

XMAS 2022

      The sun sank well south of Pikes Peak.  I sat in my winter coat on the porch swing.  My spirits went down with the sun.  Christmas fun was over and wouldn’t return for another year.

      In spite of the whole week away from school that still stretched before me, it wasn’t enough to raise my spirits.

       That was nearly 70 years ago.  It was the beginning of the end of Christmas excitement for me.  Such an emotional slump wasn’t comfortable. 

      As I look back, it was also an early symptom of a “disease” I have been afflicted with all my life:  “Sundowners”.  As the sun sinks, a restless dissatisfaction on the mild end, fear on the other extreme, sets in.  The feeling lasts maybe an hour or less. 

     I think the term was invented by some employee in a nursing home who noticed that all hands-on deck sometimes wasn’t enough to care for cranky old people as dusk nears.  Aunt Ruth noticed decades ago that I needed some kind of chore to divert me at sundown when I was visiting  her home.  Bless her!

       In this old folks’ home, where the staff tends to itself, the stratagem still works.  We spend five minutes wrapping up in warm clothes to journey the 40 yards, if you go by the sidewalk, 20 yards if you cross the lawn,  to the post box.  If it’s not too cold, we wander a ways down the block to an intersection where we can do a U-turn.  

        Somehow, the brief walk in the cold is enough to dispel the depression.  Back in the safety and warmth of the house, we can begin to prepare supper.  No time to dwell on the negative.

     I think that eons ago, our ancestors found it expedient to hibernate during the winter solstice.  Some foolish progressive thought it would be okay to do some chores or otherwise stay awake in the cave during winter’s onslaught. 

      Christmas probably began as a celebration when the astronomers of prehistoric times proved that by the third or fourth day after the solstice, the sun was indeed exposing itself to us a little longer every day.  Reason for a celebration!

     Along the way, some ancient pope decided if you can’t whip ‘em, join ‘em.  He declared the day a celebration of Jesus’ birth.  Then old Santa Claus intruded.  Amazon Prime made off with Santy’s bag of toys and goodies and there you have it, our modern Christmas.

      The post-Christmas depression of my youth has been replaced by a weary gratitude at the end of the day that the madness is over for another year.

       I have found it expedient over the years to try to avoid spreading my disease to others.  I wonder if wearing a mask would help?

      This year, I am doing pretty well for an Xmas-Phobe.  Being in a barbershop quartet helped.  We treated ourselves and our mates to a rather expensive dinner (even McDonalds is expensive these days) at an eatery in downtown Greeley before we attended The Nutcracker at Union Colony. 

     We signed on to sing some carols in the lobby before the show and during the intermission.  We did that, but we weren’t a big hit.  Most of the attendees were relatives of the dancers or musicians, and they were far more concerned with what was going on backstage and how things were going to go on stage than they were in hearing some old guys singing carols.  When your audience isn't too enthusiastic, you fall back to enjoying yourself, which we did.

     That was Friday.  On Saturday, we found ourselves in the north part of old Fort Collins at a Christmas party in an old house that had been revamped nicely.  It was a sad-sweet gathering we came to find out, as the house’s owner was finally celebrating Christmas after the loss of his spouse two years ago.

      We wouldn’t have guessed that from our reception.  We got there by way of a Rotary silent auction.  One of our guys is a devout Rotarian.  He put a performance by us on the block, and the guy who bought it asked us to provide some entertainment for his Christmas party.  Nobody knows how much we brought at auction. We sort of wanted to know, but on the other hand, maybe we didn’t want to know.  What if we didn’t get beyond the minimum bid, whatever it was?

  So, there we were amongst the merry-makers.  We were a bit apprehensive going in because we heard that a bluegrass band was also on the docket.  Quite a lineup for a private Christmas party in a not-too-large old house with maybe 30 or 40 people there.

     We needn’t have feared.  As word spread that we were there, people gathered from all around, even coming in from the backyard where there must have been some source of heat, because it was not a warm night.  Well, they did have a source of internal heat from a well-stocked table doing business as a bar.

       We put on about a thirty-minute program standing among the audience, who gladly joined in on Christmas carols and other old songs that we do.  Some of the most enthusiastic singers were members of the bluegrass band who call themselves Blue Gramma. 

     The young guy who told me their name when I asked, pronounced it “grAW-muh”.  “Do you have a business card?” I asked.  I didn’t quite get the name.  Well, yes, but they didn’t bring any cards.  He explained that it was a grass native to Colorado.  Then he spelled “Gramma” and I said, “Oh, Blue Gramma,” and the old guy in the band standing there said to me, “Yeah, that’s how most of us pronounce it.”  He and I laughed.

     We regretted that the band wasn’t quite ready to strike it up, so we left, finding it expedient to get home to our ladies on a Saturday night.  Some of them don’t appreciate being “barbershop widows”.  It would have been fun to see and hear what those boys and girls could do.

      On Sunday, we made a late-afternoon trip to DIA to deliver the Goodwife’s sister, who visited over the weekend, into the hands of TSA.  We took Monday off.

     On Tuesday, more singing at our regular Tuesday-night meeting of the barbershop chorus.  The Goodwife had to go with me, as her usual lady friend who takes her to Bingo on Tuesday nights was under the weather.  I think my bride found two hours of rehearsing for a January program rather boring.  A visit to the local “water hole”, also known as Applebee’s, was somewhat less tedious for her.

     On Wednesday, a mammogram in Longmont was followed by a visit to the Longmont Museum.  For ten bucks, it was a good way to stay warm and get out of the house for a while.  By the time we got home, the mammogram results were in.  All clear!

      On Thursday, the singing kicked in again.  The chorus, the old guys who are retired and don’t have to work, sang carols at five assisted living places, three in Loveland, and two in Fort Collins.

      On Friday, the quartet did our public service duty by singing outside in the cold in front of a King Soopers while ringing the bell and collecting for the Salvation Army.   We started at one and ended at three. Enough already.  We did stray from strictly doing carols.

     When our relief showed up at three, he checked the little red kettle and determined that he needed another bucket.  We had pretty well filled “our” kettle.

      Christmas approaches.  I hope I remember to cancel my trial membership with Amazon Prime.  Santa Claus might not be happy if he finds out.

     Merry Christmas!

     Call me when it’s time to wake up!

      

 

    

Fall Colors

              “The most colorful Fall we’ve had in a long time,” heard several times this October.

 

                     Our Fall walks around some of the “Seven Lakes” were quite colorful.

 

      The backyard blushed a little before it dropped its leaves to reveal the hospital parking lot across the way.

     Meanwhile, back at the farm, Mother Nature conspired to color the world for the early birds, in the absence of leaves.

 

     Those who missed the summer visits to the pool found another way to take a colorful swim.

 

                                                

                                                

      I would like to say I have raked up all the leaves in my yard, but I can’t.

    And now, “Old Winter’s Song” without regard for my schedule.