Patching Jeans (not genes)

      No, they are not genetically modified, but they are jeanetically modified.

     They are my work jeans.  They have holes in the knees.  I know, I am perfectly in style wandering around the farm with my knees showing.

      I also am perfectly aware that when I kneel down to plant a seed or work on a piece of equipment, bare knees on bare ground isn’t always a pleasant meeting.  Think of pebbles below and body weigh above the kneecap.  Or thorns and stickers, or dried cedar needles.

    Thus, I look for ways to patch jeans.  My time-tested means left the earth over twenty years ago.  My mother, I mean.  She would sew on jean patches whenever I needed them.  She also would wrap glass gallon jugs with burlap, gunny sacks, too, but that’s beside the point right now.

     The Goodwife would occasionally patch a pair of jeans, but sometimes the pile of holey jeans got quite high before anything joined the patched pile.  So, I set out to patch jeans myself.

     I have never learned to operate a sewing machine.  I think I should learn that, but the time is never right to set out on that adventure.  Probably too frustrating for a guy who already cusses at broom handles that won’t stay put leaning against the wall.

     I tried iron-on patches.  They worked well until I washed the jeans.  Then, the edges commence to curl like a pig’s tale.  Quite annoying, not to mention dangerous, if a protruding patch should find itself in contact with a roller chain operating a part of a machine.

      In despair after two separate attempts to use iron-on patches.  I sent a batch of holey jeans to Goodwill.  Heaven only knows if I might have met a young lady wearing them in church.  I guess I would have had to gone to church in order to see that.  But you catch my drift.

     I also looked into fabric glue.  I knew enough about quilting to know that there are products out there that are supposed to hold two pieces of fabric together with glue.  When I asked the young lady in the quilt shop if she had any, she said they had nothing permanent, that what they had was just to hold things in place until you could stitch it more permanently.  Scratch that idea.

      The best ideas come from chance occurrences.  Several times a week, in fair weather, we stroll down the street enroute to the walkway around two separate lakes, or ponds if you are east of the Mississippi.  Our initial ”good day” greetings have, in a few cases, expanded into genuine conversations with some of the folk working in yard or garage along the way.

     Thus it was, I asked Mike, as I eyed the knee patches on his blue jeans, if he knew how to run a sewing machine.  Mike calls himself a garage rat.  We call him a fair-weather barometer.  If it’s a nice day, Mike’s garage door will be open, and as often as not, he will be doing something in his garage, like building a set of speaker boxes out of plywood.  He’s always willing to step out of his garage and shoot the breeze in the sunlight.

      Mike looked at me blankly and asked why I would ask if he could run a sewing machine.  I pointed out his patched knees.  He laughed and said, “Silicone.”

      “Silicone?” I asked.  Yes, silicone, plain old window and door stuff or bathtub and sink stuff that comes in a squeeze tube.  You cut the patch to fit and coat the edges with silicone and apply it to the holes in the pant legs of your jeans.  Let it set for a few days, and voila!  You have patched jeans.

      It took a while before I could attempt using silicone to patch my jeans.  When I did get to it, I thought  that in light of recent changes to my middle, such as having to move up from 32-inch waist to 33-inch waist, I had better choose carefully the jeans to patch.

     After my despairing cull job, the candidates were not particularly numerous.  Having selected a likely pair, I grabbed a tube of caulk designed for tub or shower.  I carefully applied the silicone around the holes in the pant leg and to the edges of the patch itself.  I carefully placed the patch into position with seams bordering the sides and centered over the failed jean fabric on the pants. 

     A few days later, as I checked the jeans, left on the cement of the basement floor, I found the caulk unset, still a jelly.  And still sticky.  I had a mess.

     While the caulk wouldn’t dry, it would spread to other surfaces and be rather hard to remove.  Faced with two choices, I decided to reclaim the project rather than trash-canning it.  My first stop was the trash basket where I recovered a few used paper towels and napkins.  Snotty Kleenex need not apply.  (You wouldn’t expect a person patching jeans to use new paper towels for a job like this would you?) 

     I managed to get most of the recalcitrant caulk off the jeans.  The granite kitchen counter cleaned up nicely.  (It’s probably fake granite, but it still cleaned up nicely.)

    I was ready to try, try, try again.  I had another old tube of silicone, but this time I determined to try its effectiveness before I applied it to the jeans.  I applied a shaft about two inches long to a near-to-hand 6-pack holder.  A day later, it had turned to rubber and adhered nicely to the cardboard.

    Onward with the experiment.  I re-applied silicone to around the knee holes and the edges of the patch.  I carefully aligned the patch between the seams and over the hole and returned the jeans to the basement cement floor where any leakage could be cleaned up and wouldn’t be forever in a carpet.

      Two days later, the patches were firmly affixed to the jeans.  But the experiment isn’t over.  The patches haven’t been subjected to numerous genuflections and kneelings.  Nor have they encountered clothes washer, dryer, or clothes line. 

 

     Later:  The patches weathered the work world well.  I got into a dispute with a couple of hydraulic hoses, resulting in dirty jeans, not to mention oily spots all over my glasses and additions to grease spots on my shirt.

     A trip through the washing machine was required.

 

     Ouch!  Back to the drawing board, or just ash-can it?  I need to talk with Mike again, to see if his patches weathered the washing machine.  

     Three possibilities:  1) The silicone was also old, even though it set up well.  2) I used window and door caulk.  Should it be the tub and shower variety?  3)  Change brands of caulk?  I used Ace Hardware variety.  Try another brand?  (GE need not apply.) 

     My apologies that there isn’t a better ending to this story.  Stay tuned!

 

 

Disney on Ice

 

     “I think we may have got the B-Team.”

     That comment came from a dancer who watched the wavy lines of the “dancers” on ice skates as they stretched across the hockey rink.  True, the chorus line didn’t line up nearly as precisely as the Rockettes.  I noticed it, too, but it wasn’t that much of a distraction for 2-left-feet me.

      I got lost in the lighting and the special effects, and trying to follow the Disney story lines.  I recognized Aladdin, Snow White, and of course Mickey and Minnie, Goofy, Donald Duck (no nephews), and a few others.  I had to rely on Grandson to enlighten me when it came to sisters Elsa and Anna, one of the major story lines.

     Elsa was a goddess whose anger could turn July into winter, complete with snow falling, and inflict Anna’s heart with ice because she wanted to marry the handsome Prince after only one brief meeting.  Elsa departs and Anna sets out to find her to convince her to return the weather to July and bless her union with the handsome Prince. 

    In the quest, Anna runs into some real characters including a snowman who is the only one who truly appreciates winter in July, and a wart hog, which had to be a skater with skates on his hands, skating around bent over enough for his hands to contact the ice.  What a backache he must have after his appearance.

 

     Anna also encounters a young, humble woodsman who has an interest in helping to find Elsa and convincing her to return the climate to July (a refreshing change from climate warming).  Together, they  find Elsa, who in anger not only refuses to correct the weather, but turns Anna’s heart to ice.

     The only way for Anna to get her warm heart back is by true love.  The handsome Prince tries to revive her but fails!  It takes the young woodsman kneeling by her side to revive Anna.  The truth dawns on all of them, except the poor old obtuse Prince. 

     Elsa was right.  A match between Anna and the Prince was not made in heaven.  When the Prince steps in and tries to claim the newly-revived Anna, he is rewarded with a brisk slap to the face from Anna.  She and the woodsman are destined to live happily ever after.

      The snow stops, the sun comes out, every body is happy except the poor old snowman, who has been such a help in locating and placating Elsa. He realizes that his day is about done, but he says it’s worth a meltdown to see Elsa, Anna, and the woodsman so happy.  Elsa rewards him with a permanent cloud of snow flakes and cold to accompany him everywhere he goes.   Thus, they ALL live happily ever after, a truly Disney ending, with a year-round snowman.

      As I watched the story unfold in lots of song and dance, I thought this is just like opera, except for the absence of fat ladies and rigidly-erect baritones singing with vibrato ranging a full step above and below the note.  I had to back off that judgment and think, this is a musical on ice, with the skaters doing the dancing to canned music, music like most performances these days, too loud.

     It wasn’t as loud as the noise played during a hockey game, but loud enough I had crammed pieces of Kleenex in my ears because I forgot to bring my ear plugs.  I told the usher that he should have a private concession and offer ear plugs for sale to those he helped to seat.  He laughed and said I could probably get ear plugs from the head office, but I said Kleenex would work.

    There were other characters I hadn’t a clue about, such as the Chinese warriors, whom I mistakenly referred to as Samurai.  I got severely corrected for not knowing that they were Chinese and not Japanese.  Oh well. They all rook arike.  Uh oh.  I have crossed the line of political correctness.

     The whole experience took me back nearly 70 years when Uncle Wilbur and Aunt Dell took us all to the “ice follies” or “ice capades.”  I remember the colored lighting, especially the blue.  There were probably a lot more colors that I couldn’t see.  I remember Peter Pan, in green, streaking across the sky in front of us, and later Wendy and maybe a kid or two, all able to fly.

    The other thing I remember was Uncle Wilbur insisting he buy snow cones for us, and I insisted on a blue one.  It was pina colada, and it tasted terrible.  I sat there with the thing melting in my hand.  The adults didn’t want it and they were debating what to do with it. 

      Uncle Wilbur took it from me and threw it down behind the seats.  We must have been near the top of the coliseum, because there weren’t any chairs behind us.  I’m sure Mom was scandalized.  I guess I must have felt something in that way, too, as I still remember Uncle Wilbur’s trespass all these years later.

 

       From an old person’s point of view:  As this show opened, the skaters all came out in their leotards and circled the ice several times, as a sort of warm up, I think.  One of the best skaters I saw out there had a bald spot on the top of his head near the back, and a receding hairline. 

 

       I enjoyed the experience of Disney on Ice.  Everyone should take in the ice follies once or twice in a lifetime.  One of the best things about this experience: It was right here in Loveland.   I didn’t have to go to Denver to enjoy it.

 

In the audience:

    

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.