Doc's Place: Personal

Blue Memories Green

Tue, 18 Mar 2008 03:00:05 GMT

I was born due to my mother's sacrifice of her own chance for life. A little over a month after her death, I was taken in by the Nolan family, all four of whom were unmarried siblings, and two of whom were my Godparents. This occurred on St. Patrick's Day. The youngest was 50 at that time.

Blue memories green

St. Pat’s Day of ‘46

Families were switched

Peace, Doc

Iceberg

Mon, 03 Mar 2008 13:08:04 GMT

Iceberg hard and cold
Abandoned, apart from all
Melds in friendship’s warmth

Thank you all for your comments, both public and private. They reassure me greatly that the decision to continue blogging in general, and on Spaces Live in particular, is the right one.

Peace, Doc

"A friend is someone who can see the truth and pain in you even when you are fooling everyone else." - Unknown

About Friends, Messages, And Why I May Appear To Be A Cantankerous Old Poop

Mon, 04 Feb 2008 01:40:54 GMT

I wrote a post on this general topic not so very long ago, but I seem to need to repeat myself for those who may not have read it. I know that some things have changed in how MS Live reports statistics and records the number of visitors. My stats dropped off dramatically a few months ago to about one tenth or less of what they were averaging. I don't believe I have either blog odor or that I have offended so many people, all at once, to explain this phenomenon.

At approximately the same time, I began receiving friend requests that appeared to me to be "suspicious." These came from people who had never commented on my posts. They came from sites that were "new," either in time, or by way of never having posted anything on the web. They came from names I did not recognize and appeared to have no connection to any of my friends' sites. Occasionally, they came from closed sites and did not allow me to "preview" who wished to be friends. Essentially the same thing is happening again. I have received six requests in two days to be "friends, along with messages that almost plead with me to accept them. None of them has left a comment on my blog. Pardon my skepticism, but that leaves me with questions.

I accepted one of the requests because I saw that other of my friends or acquaintances were on their friends list. I don't know the person. I have not responded to the rest. I realize that I may be doing many of these folks an injustice with my skepticism. Some people are quite social and are "friend collectors." Some may be lonely. Some may be so new to blogging that they don't yet grasp that there is a certain understood but unwritten protocol to asking people to be friends. Spaces Live isn't Facebook, MySpace, a dating service, or many of the other perfectly legitimate types of site on the web. Please remember that when making these decisions, I don't know you. I have had some fairly serious problems in the past with "friends" so you really must give me some indication of why I should press that "accept" button.

Thank you for tolerating my rant.

Peace, Doc

"People ... ask 'Can I ask you a question?' Didn't really give me a choice, did ya there, buddy?" - George Carlin

Dear "Santa,"

Tue, 18 Dec 2007 13:32:44 GMT

Dear Santa (or Whomever else I may be addressing in this missive),

I've been a relatively good old coot for the past year, and I want to make sure you are aware of that before I place my Christmas requests. Go on, check your books twice. ...

All righty, then. You will note that the last time I wrote was in 1962 when I was 16. Thanks for the engine parts, but the girlfriend thing didn't work out so well. Oh well, it has been 45 years and I've pretty much gotten over it except for the recurrent Sara dreams. I still have one of the J&E 13.5 to 1 forged aluminum stuffer pistons, though. I digress.

I'm not exactly certain how to go about phrasing my requests. The only material thing I want is computerish and I can take care of that myself. The things I want are impossible without the aid of time travel or some other deus ex machina.

I want to know my mother. She died to bear me and we never knew each other. I have incorporated others' memories of her but really have none of my own. I have the many idealized stories about her that the Nolans told me as I grew up in their care. (Even the one of how she learned to drive the Packard by being turned loose on R.P.'s farm and told to just do it.) I have real life memories of avoiding a particular elderly woman who, like a heat seeking missile, would track me down every time I visited one of the Nolans at the nursing home, to tell me how darkened her breasts were from the cancer before she died. I have my birth certificate in the envelope addressed to her that would have arrived days before she died. I have pictures of her. I am learning more about the branches of the Tree of Lives since pursuing an interest in genealogy. Thank you for that. But I never knew the source of my own life and I want to.

I want to have known my genetic family better. I am regrettably late in that request, also. It is eerie to have grown up in the same tiny town of less than 1000 souls and never really to have known them well. I believe I understand how my presence would have served to remind each of them of who wasn't there. I knew them, somewhat, but the Nolan siblings were my "real" family, who took me in as an infant when the youngest of them was 50. I know the two families were close. The Nolans were cousins on my paternal grandmother's side and two of the Nolans were my Godparents. My names indicate that, also. I am named Tom after Tom Nolan and Alden after my biological father. It is so frustrating to want such intimate knowledge after time has passed the point of possible retrieval.

I want to be young again. Most specifically, to relive the 1960's. Despite the Sturm und Drang of one's teen and early adult years, it was beyond doubt the best period of my life, especially because I never did any actual jail time. Perhaps you could pass this one on to the Prime Mover (assuming I am not already addressing It.) If there is a Higher Power that takes these Wolfman Jack type requests, I would prefer to have the Chronosynclastic Infundibulum's reset button pressed to begin at 12:01 a.m. of January 1, 1960 and end exactly 10 years later by quickly and painlessly wrapping the Camaro and me around a tree.

Given the assumed impossibility of these requests, thank you at least for the phenomenon of recent memory deteriorating before long term memory goes. I really do prefer memories of first love and of another sort of Christmas tree blinking down to green at U.S. 30 Dragstrip to remembering if or what I may have had for lunch.

Peace, Doc

"Rented a tent. Rented a tent." - Unc, from a short sci-fi story by Kurt Vonnegut

Price, Value, and Worth in Decision Making

Mon, 03 Dec 2007 19:04:52 GMT

Following my move from a large house on the far fringes of the westernmost suburbs of Chicago to a much smaller apartment in a suburban town, I clearly had to dispose of many possessions. There was not enough room for everything, even considering the extra space gained by leasing a storage space until I could make some further decisions and dispositions. I began to ponder how I was making these decisions as I was sorting through the small mountains of "stuff" that I had amassed and carried with me throughout my life. What factors were involved? Were the factors equal in importance among items or between two items if I could only keep one? What could I justify keeping, to myself, to others, or simply what was necessary? How am I deciding what I'm deciding?

To begin, the amount of time I initially had to pack or dispose of possessions was relatively long; over six months from the first inquiry to the closing of the sale. The complication was that, although both the buyer and I wanted very much for the sale to occur, I didn't really believe it would happen until about two weeks before the twice postponed closing. There were problems with it being an "as-is" sale, with the buyer's ability to secure a mortgage loan, and the consequent granting's of delays for the signatures on final papers and of the closing itself. I further complicated and confused the situation by refusing to use a realtor or agent and stubbornly doing it all myself (with the aid of the best real estate attorney in town. I'm not completely self-destructive!) He is celebrating his 50th year in the practice of law and initially told me that this was the strangest sale he had ever done. By the time he had gotten the building contractor who had initially approached me about selling when estimating an insurance repair in the house, his son (the buyer,) and me (the seller,) all on the same page of the real estate law book, the sale had made it down to the third or fourth strangest. By the time of the closing, there were only two weeks left until I was supposed to vacate the premises. I had been disposing of clearly unnecessary possessions during most of this period, but clearly not quickly enough due to my belief that the sale had a poor chance for success. It was then written into the contract that I could rent the house from the buyer for a further two weeks following the sale. *sigh* That gave me more time to pack and panic.

At first, belongings were packed somewhat logically and neatly. I was only panicking slowly at that point, and I had some guidance from Firstborn. As time passed much too quickly, it became obvious that I was slightly behind schedule. A storage space was leased and the apartment on which I had placed a deposit, and then backed out of a few days later, was definitely rented. I began moving box after bag of stuff to their appropriate destinations. Not nearly enough boxes and bags, however. After the local movers I hired had done their job with furniture and large or heavy possessions, I was still left with a house full of stuff which seemed to be rapidly breeding behind my back. The compact Chevy Cavalier could not be filled and emptied quickly enough, so I leased a cargo van for two days (which turned out to be ten.) At this point, anything that seemed like it might have any use or value at all was stuffed into containers and moved, often to the wrong place. The buyers were quite forgiving about allowing me to come back repeatedly with that van as they began to install hardwood flooring and tear out walls and windows. Finally it came to hiring Number One Son, grabbing anything we could carry, and putting it somewhere other than the house.

That phase is over, now. I have even begun to relax enough to begin a series of cluster headaches which appear to follow periods of severe stress. If the reader thinks briefly about what sort of "possession mountains" this scenario would produce, they would quickly realize that all the necessary, useful things are under the massive amounts of indiscriminately commingled belongings that continued to be moved in as rapidly as possible. A great deal of progress has been made since I adopted the strategy of wandering this maze and bringing some order to the chaos by putting similar items in their own separate piles. Some smaller piles have been sorted, boxed, labeled, and stored on shelves. It is here that the decision making process began to develop.

I would conservatively estimate that 75 to 80 percent of the things that have been moved would be seen by others as either useless, or if they are useful, I probably don't need them. If they are useful or important, they are likely to be under something else and yet undiscovered. Also, I was missing three major things necessary for a semi-civilized life; a sofa, a bed, and a microwave. Firstborn came to the rescue on the first two with her 25% manager's discount and free delivery. I managed to find a microwave at Sears all by myself.

The sorting and piling process continued until I can now see about half of the living room all the way down to the carpeting. For this, I rewarded myself by attaching the broadband modem to the computer. It was also partially due to relief from the fear that something would fall on me. This may have been a mistake as I now have very little desire to continue sorting or writing about it. Woot! I'm going to play with my new toy instead. I have never had anything faster than dial-up. With the speed of this connection, however, I can avoid work much faster, so it might turn out even in the end.

- To be continued. -

Peace, Doc

"Anyone can do any amount of work, provided it isn't the work he is supposed to be doing at that moment." - Robert Benchley

Before, After, and Before the Next After - II

Fri, 16 Nov 2007 00:03:43 GMT

I believe I may have neglected something. This is the article that was to be posted with the pictures in the series. Oops. ...

Overall, the chaos became even worse after these pictures were taken and a few dozen boxes and bags of various sizes were added. The tide has now turned and more stuff is leaving the apartment than is entering it. I have followed the "baby steps" advice that several of you suggested. I would have suggested the same to others but I was busy being overwhelmed and forgot.

Several square feet of floor space are now visible, a few things have been placed where they belong, and the sight of empty boxes is becoming a positively reinforcing operant for me. Each carton, like a box of Cracker Jack, seems to hold a surprise. The last that I worked on revealed a 30 foot long, somewhat dirty and greasy piece of cargo parachute strap. I am ecstatic. It is the tow rope that was used to haul my Gas Class coupe around the pit area of US 30 Dragstrip between runs by my 1956 Chevy sedan-delivery wagon. In truth, I have little idea what will be done with it, but it will remain a beloved possession. It might be carried in my car trunk and possibly be used for its original towing purpose or a small piece of it might find its way onto my planned Wall of Golden Memories. Or both. Can one wash parachute strap? Should one? It might lose some of its mystique. So many possibilities present themselves with the blank canvas of a clean space. So many original ways ~~to clutter~~ to tastefully decorate my new surroundings stun me.

Now that I have become somewhat re-energized, questions have arisen as to the appropriate places to put things. Some are self-evident to me. Cleaning products go under the sink, in the laundry, or in the bathroom, depending upon their purpose. Does a vacuum cleaner go in the laundry area if there is room? I know where my spoon, fork, knife, and can opener will go. Where does one store all the other stuff that makes it appear to others that one knows how to cook? Is there a protocol for which cabinet holds what item? May the oven be used as storage space? For tools?

Many more observations will be made in future posts and I am in the process of developing a quasi-scientific (it uses numbers) method of determining how much stuff will remain in relation to its uselessness or its owner's lack of common sense. Just now, however, I am quite ready to get back to work. I have had a high speed Internet modem installed since a week ago Wednesday but have not been able to get to it. I now see that a straight line path to it is possible.

Peace, Doc

"The secret of good old age is simply an honorable pact with solitude." - Gabriel Garcia Marquez

If You've Got Me By The ...

Sat, 29 Sep 2007 19:28:39 GMT

Un-Huh. The title refers to the quote attributed to Chuck Colson during his years in the Nixon administration. "If you've got them by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow." It would appear that this house selling adventure has, somewhere along the line, turned from something I wanted to do into a monster that is dragging me along behind it, kicking and screaming.

The potential buyer was to have obtained a mortgage as of yesterday. That was the third extension I had agreed to for them to obtain funding. My attorney called and I was prepared to hear that it had finally been obtained. I actually misheard what he said in a very short-lived moment of joy. When I listened more closely I heard what he was actually saying. It ran something more like, "They'll probably get the mortgage after the FEMA inspection." FEMA inspection?! What FEMA inspection? WTF!? The same bunch that can't handle a gaggle of house trailers effectively? When and how did they come into the picture? What new law? That recently? You didn't know about it either? Yeah, OK. Give them another week.

This can't last much longer or I'll simply have to pull the plug on it. It started as a simple "as-is" sale between a contractor who was to repair some water damage under my insurance policy and me. I agreed to a much lower price than I wanted because I then would not have to do all the cosmetic repairs and updates that would be necessary to make the house desirable. The contractor had all the necessary materials sitting in his warehouse and the house was to be sold to his son. It seemed sort of logical and straightforward when we sat and discussed it together.

Certainly the buyers must be no happier with this situation than am I. A four generation group of them inspected the house and all appeared to really like it. They are continuing every effort to obtain a mortgage and close the deal, as far as I can tell. I want and need to sell so I am making every reasonable concession possible. It has simply gotten to the point that, if it sells on October 26th, the next scheduled closing date, the costs I will have incurred approach $10,000. This situation has kept "the carrot" just close enough that I keep chasing it, and just far enough away that it hasn't been caught in six months. I am canceling the apartment I had found and also the storage space that I leased to cut costs as much as possible. Nobody has done anything wrong, illegal, incompetent, or more than normally self-serving. Just wrong time, wrong place, wrong economy. At this point I think I might be better off selling the lot and casually mentioning, "Oh, by the way, there's a house on it."

Peace, Doc

"Oh well. I'll figure it out." - Doc

Dressing Left

Fri, 14 Sep 2007 09:18:15 GMT

Hmm. Yes. Technically in "Eight Things Tag" there is no requirement that one must explain the meaning of a "thing" not understood by the reader. The curiosity about one entry comes from the fact that I was being deliberately cryptic. I put that one in as a zinger for the Spaces Live team who had just featured me again without warning or notification. The only way I discovered this was from a large increase in hits coming from Spaces Live home base. At least the last two times they have had the courtesy to display a stock photo of a "real" doctor in scrubs, walking down a hospital hallway. The first time I was featured, about two years ago, a picture of a demented looking bald guy, waving a Rorschach card was used. People asked if it was me. I have grown two pony tails in the past 12 years and only once in 30 years have I administered the Rorschach (a psychiatrist made me do it.) You're right. I'm stalling.

To begin this perilous journey of explanation, we will travel to Savile Row in London where some of the world's finest men's wear is produced for specific individuals. There is nothing "on the rack." One selects the fabric for a suit from a series of bolts of cloth. When one acquires his tailor in this fashion, it is usually assumed that the customer will return repeatedly unless he is terribly displeased with the shop's work. Exact measurements are taken of every part of the body necessary to make the suit fit perfectly. Adjustments are made to these measurements over the years as one develops a paunch, loses his youthful musculature, develops a slight hunchback, or any of the myriad other changes that may occur to the human body as the years pass. Slight adjustments in the amount of cloth in the basic pattern that has been so carefully developed are made.

There is a habit that males display early on that appears not to change over his lifetime. This habit is necessary to know so that an extra amount of cloth is allotted to the appropriate area to maintain a perfect fit. Now we get to the habit. It is where the male positions his genitalia in his undergarments. Most males would hope that this makes a difference in the amount of cloth used on the right or the left side of the pants' zipper. Whether it actually does or not, he is asked by the tailor whether he "dresses right" or "dresses left" so that extra space may be allowed on the correct side. I dress left. It doesn't matter with jeans.

Peace, Doc

"Oh, I am so embarrassed." - Oscar the Grouch of Sesame Street

Something I Didn't Know About Home Sales

Thu, 30 Aug 2007 22:01:00 GMT

Acting as one's own agent, realtor, errand boy, etc., in the sale of a house has taught me several things. One of them is that the well and septic inspector won't pass your property unless your tank has been pumped within the past three years. Thankfully, he notified me of this in advance, when I hired him.

For those city folk among you who don't know what I'm writing about, I will explain. When one lives far enough out into the "country," there is no piped in city water or sewage disposal drain. The individual homeowner is responsible for maintaining their own miniature sewage processing system. Water is pumped into a pressure vessel in the basement from an aquifer (in my case about 400 feet down.) It is then cleaned of the larger bits of sediment by passing through a "whole house filter." Water pressure is maintained by keeping the water in the pressure vessel pushing against air pressure just short of blowing up the whole device. From there on, cold water filtered to that point only, is routed to outside hose faucets and to the cold water outlets in the kitchen. From that point on, mineral laden water is "softened" by passing through a water softener where it is treated chemically with salt to remove the rest of the minerals. This makes bathing and the like a much more pleasant experience. After it is softened, it passes through the water heater to provide the hot water for the home.

OK. We have the water in the house. When we're done with it, it has to go somewhere. That somewhere is into the septic wastewater system. All water from washing machines, garbage disposals, sinks, bathtubs, and toilets, flows into the septic tank. The tank allows the solid waste to settle to the bottom of one part of the tank while the liquid waste flows out into the septic field. This field is a series of three or four lines of tile buried underground in the yard where it leaches the liquid waste into the soil. Actually, it is a rather "green" system which makes use of virtually everything that passes through it. One can discern the truth of this by noting the lines of crabgrass that grow above each of the tile runs.

I was unaware that the septic tank required regular pumping. When I read about the subject, it appears that tanks should have the sludge waste pumped out at regular intervals. By Googling the subject, I found that definitions of "regular" varied between two and seven years. This tank had far passed "regular" even if one multiplied the two numbers above. I naively believed that one just waited until it didn't work very well and then had it pumped. I was wrong (even though it functioned perfectly during the entire time my family had occupied the house.)

The sludge was removed by a filthy tank truck with an extremely powerful vacuum pump through a heavy-duty, quite contaminated hose. Being careful not to touch the sanitary technician, I handed him a check for $200.00 and bid him adieu.

And now you know the muse for the haiku in the previous post. It is written from the "sludge's" point of view. I seriously doubt that anyone has written a poem of any form about the cleaning of a septic tank until now. No rotten cyber-tomatoes will be thrown at the author, please. We must maintain a facade of decorum.

Peace, Doc

"The grass is always greener over the septic tank." - Erma Bombeck

More Observations On Selling A House

Sat, 11 Aug 2007 21:09:03 GMT

As arrangements proceed on selling the house there are so many loose ends that I can't concentrate for quite long enough on any to complete any of them. And the voices are getting more insistent, louder, and are commanding mutually exclusive behaviors!

"What do you mean I have to have the septic tank pumped? The sale was 'as-is,' complete with everything in its current condition. I think that includes the sh**! ... No? OK, What's his number?"

"And if I store my stuff in a pod there's no way to get at it to sell it a few pieces at a time?"

"It doesn't matter that I have the dorm refrigerator door duct-taped closed. It wouldn't stay closed on its own and I'm not keeping it anyway."

"Repeat that slowly and clearly, please. It will cost HOW MUCH to rent a couple guys to load and unload the truck?"

"Why can't I have a garage sale in your parking lot? You want to be paid, don't you?"

"I won't be needing all the glass barware. I'll just throw it all at the fireplace! No. Wait! I'll leave the huge dry bar and TV cabinets (which I can't budge alone, anyway) for the new owners. Complete with glassware and possibly with the older TV. And a post puller jack and a post hole digger!" Doc likes being able to be generous and devious at the same time. I think I'm getting into the right mind set now. And it takes care of about 17 gallons of paint, also. Perhaps many more things. Bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha.

I'm not certain that I can afford this level of accommodation, but if it has a cable Internet connection ...

"Really, Bob? You have the earnest money? And they gave me the extra two weeks to move out? Hell yes, I'll be in to sign the papers!" Closing will be on September 14 and I have little idea how events will play out over the next month. Stay tuned for frequent meltdowns. I don't know what I'm doing. With every other house "I" have bought or sold, a spouse has told me to "sign that, rent that, move that," and eventually I was moved and the trauma was done. It's not working that way this time.

Peace, Doc

"They called me mad, and I called them mad, and damn them, they outvoted me." - Nathaniel Lee

Why Is It Always On A Friday?

Mon, 30 Jul 2007 09:45:48 GMT

Why do events that you want to deal with immediately always seem to happen on a Friday? You can't do anything about them until Monday. I suspect that it is really selective memory and the Zeigarnik Effect which proposes that one remembers uncompleted tasks longer and more vividly than completed ones. But I don't feel very shrinky just now and I want to know what the heck is happening.

In the last post I stated that I didn't believe that paw prints on sealer was the whole story. At this point, it appears that I was right, but I don't know exactly how right. My attorney called me on Friday to set up an appointment to review some major paperwork for the sale of the house and to get some signatures. "Oh? Why?" It now seems that the buyers want to purchase the house and take possession as soon as possible.

"Oh my goodness, gracious me. Whatever shall I do with all my belongings so quickly?" (Yes, that is a paraphrase of what I actually said.) I'll simply say that I've brought out Emergency Plans B and C for consideration. If this happens as quickly as it seems it might, it will reduce my options to quick sales, storage for lots of "stuff" that I have no immediate use for (along with things that I may only possibly have a use for,) donations to charity, and trying to determine where The Boys and I will temporarily reside. One alternative to rid myself of the furniture and other items that I know I won't use is to have "Uncle Epo," (or a similar auction house person,) cart off the larger things to sell at "no reserve" and send me a check.

There has been a bit of difficulty deciding whether I am ecstatically happy, traumatically confused, or living quite close to panic. Over the weekend, it has felt like all three at the same time, with occasional moments of disorientation, inability to rationally concentrate or plan, and losing at solitaire when the plans don't look reasonable.

Weekend discoveries include finding that trucks may be rented from almost any of the local storage places for $50 per half-day, that storage space is ridiculously expensive but available (I suspect a direct correlation, there,) that I have very limited help in accomplishing this mission unless I rent several very large persons, that "stuff" I value highly is not necessarily of the same value to others (even family antiques,) probably not even worth the price to store, and that I realized how many cancellations of service, changes of address, and notifications will need to be made.

Oh well. There's no pleasing me, is there? Yeah, there's a psychological lesson here. The pace and intensity of change, even if it is desired and beneficial change, produces approximately the same level of stress as does change in an undesirable direction. I still believe I am lucky in this situation. Unfortunately there are two kinds

Peace, Doc

"Life is not an easy matter... You cannot live through it without falling into frustration and cynicism unless you have before you a great idea which raises you above personal misery, above weakness, above all kinds of perfidy and baseness." - Leon Trotsky

"I think I had a great idea once, but I forgot it. Maybe I have it backed up on disk somewhere." - Doc

Getting Rid of Stuff

Thu, 12 Jul 2007 08:17:47 GMT

It seems that the more I work at getting rid of "stuff," the more "stuff" I find to get rid of. I know it is going away. I take garbage and recycling to the curb and it goes away. People have taken some stuff to their homes already. Perhaps I had it so neatly arranged that less stuff now takes up more space? That is quite doubtful. I know I move it around to place things in piles (or rooms) to be sold, to be donated, to be given to family or friends, to be stored, etc. Maybe it just looks like I have more stuff? Maybe it looks worse because I haven't seen so much of the stuff for so many years and am actually surprised at how much has been accumulated? That's a definite possibility. When I get things sorted into various piles it really does take up more space, even though it is better organized and there is less of it. I think I'll stick with that one. It casts me in a better light and makes me feel more hopeful.

I have to have a believable story because Firstborn is coming over later this morning to assist me in knowing what belongs in what pile. I'm sure we will disagree. I'm just as sure that she will be right. Oh, the trauma of it all!

Much is discarded

Box of Gone slightly larger

Life is lighter now

Peace, Doc

"There are many things we would throw away if we were not afraid that others might pick them up." - Oscar Wilde

Another Reality

Tue, 10 Jul 2007 06:35:11 GMT

I'm not quite certain that "Another Reality" is the appropriate title for this, but I become unstuck in time and space as I sort and pitch the accumulated detritus acquired while living in this house. It is my current reality. Billy Pilgrim would understand. As I clean up the piles of papers, old bills, magazines from 2002, greeting cards, membership cards and licenses, photographs, and all the other possessions accumulated over 15 or more years living here, I get some pretty strong mood shifts. However "worthless" the vast majority of this clutter is, each bit seems to be somehow attached to a memory. Some of the memories are happily recalled, many are fairly neutral, and some are just plain horrible.

I wonder what possessed me to save a collection of newspaper cartoons, even though they were funny at the time. Some 25 year old paperbacks have actual bookworm holes in them and I get a chuckle that at least they were of some use all these years. Some of the discoveries are bitter-sweet like the bills from Christmas of 1998 when Annie was charging presents and decorations over the phone faster than I could return them to the stores from whence they came. That year the foyer was literally so full of unreturned packages that one could hardly get from the front door into the rest of the house. I understand most of her reasons and feelings behind the desire to give gifts and celebrate the season. It still amazes me, however, that she was able to charge over $16,000 worth of Christmas-related merchandise on the $8,000 limit credit card that I briefly loaned her "to order a few small things."

There were remembered but unexpected surprises. The $4,000 billing statement from the hospital ER for officially stating that my wife was dead. I knew that before she left the house. I refused to pay it. Then there were also the cardiac needles, the unused ampoule of epinephrine, the disposable electrodes, the used latex gloves and such left by the EMT's, and the other debris that I picked up from the floor when I arrived home from the ER later. Why would any sane person keep that sort of thing? First, I don't believe that I was entirely sane at the time. Second, it just felt wrong to simply throw it away. So a few bits of it went into my ephemeral, yet very real "box of gone." Memories, and objects related to them, from a past that one never completely abandons. Sometimes I am prepared for them and consciously get them out to contemplate from a cardboard box or from their compartments in my memory. At other times, they are not so neatly contained, sneak up from behind, and bite. Hard.

This whole process is taking much longer to accomplish than it should, but I am beginning to see much larger patches of floor where stacks of paper, boxes, special issues of Time, books, and the like had once resided. I think I am better able now to envision, on these clean spots of floor, a glimpse into my future. Like the projection involved in trying to determine what a Rorschach ink blot "is," I am free to remember a much different future than where my previous thoughts about it had led me. Besides, I took an actuarial test of "how long will you live?" I answered truthfully. It seemed to state that I'll live to be 84 or 85. That's plenty of time to cause more trouble and enjoy life.

Peace, Doc

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful what we pretend to be." - Kurt Vonnegut

Reuse, Repair, Recycle.

Mon, 18 Jun 2007 22:30:35 GMT

Recycling, reusing, and repairing things and I have had a long and idiosyncratic relationship. Even as a child I remember reusing whatever materials that could be found to manufacture items that I felt needed to exist. Thick, very smooth template paper became a flexible toboggan for as long as it lasted. Louis Alyea's auto repair back lot dumpster was a prime source of unidentifiable but potentially useful parts which I harvested. The rough pine template lumber that was drilled with what seemed to be random holes that Pop brought home from the American Bridge Division of U. S. Steel became the mainstay of several projects from a (somewhat) high jump to a backyard "clubhouse" (which collapsed in upon itself) to the masterwork of my childhood, The Tree House.

This compulsive/hoarding behavior developed to a greater degree as I aged. I began to keep "stuff" because "I might need it sometime." This grew to the extent of keeping old Model A Ford windows or a dented radiator shell to keeping almost any electronic or mechanical part I came across. A "thinning positive reinforcement schedule" made it even more likely that I would arrive home bearing some oddity, because I used such things fairly frequently. At first it was quite rewarding to find a use for really strange objects. Later and less frequently it became even more reinforcing to me when anyone marveled that I actually had a part that could be used fix something.

The amount of "stuff" I saved grew in direct proportion to how much space I had to fill. When the family moved into the present house, all but me thought it was terrifically funny that they moved "everything" and then they moved "Tom's stuff." Both portions took approximately the same amount of time and energy. That was over 15 years ago. You may see this one coming, but now that I have a chance to sell the house "as is," I have fallen again into one of my existential crises. I've already sorted in my mind and partially on paper what is to be given to the kids, sold, given to friends, donated, stored, or simply thrown away. That takes care of about 1/3 of my stuff. What about the two old (but still working) dot matrix printers, my working Commodore 64, and the Win 95 Scanner-Copier-Fax? What about my drag racing and flying trophies? For that matter, what about my metal toy truck and steam shovel? What about the computer graveyard in the basement? What about the 10 file cabinets (really) and the stuff that inhabits them?

After reaching this level of panic, I decided to start with something easy. I would take my aluminum cans to the recycler. Two and a half years worth. They entirely filled the Cavalier. The largest bag sat in the passenger seat while four other large bags were put wherever they would fit. I filled in every empty spot with smaller bags of cans. I thought I was going to have to resort to putting some in with the engine under the hood. Fortunately, I overlooked three bags and did not have to do that. It was a real effort to close the driver's side door and every time I shifted, I punched a bag of cans. At several stops along the way, one particularly evil bag fell forward onto my head. The staff at the recycling facility laughed at me! Not so much when a couple of the bags broke open and we had to use a snow shovel to get them on the scales, though. I had delivered 93 pounds of cans and the manager was tallying up what would be paid to me when I delivered the Coup de Gras, a coupon good for five cents extra per pound. Then I was happy. I could see most of the garage and family room again when I arrived home $60.00 richer. I just hope that the rest of this process goes this easily.

Peace, Doc

"A house is just a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get more stuff." - George Carlin

A Gmail to my Daughter, 04/12/2007

Fri, 13 Apr 2007 23:24:19 GMT

"Hey, Firstborn,

I'm doing OK. The important question is, "How are you?" I note that you're back to overdoing it as much as ever, so I assume that you're feeling somewhat better. I hope that's true. The offer still stands, that any time you want to get away from work for a little while, just drop over here and nap in the recliner, sit and talk, or whatever.

Yes, I heard about Kurt Vonnegut on the news (once,) between the obscenely bloated coverage of Don Imus' remark, which he said once and The Media and the Rev. Al Sharpton have taken the opportunity to repeat and replay at least 427 times so far, and the "Oh, by the way; We're definitely winning the Iraq war because Al Quaeda only killed two Cabinet Ministers in the Green Zone today." Not that I think there is any spin on the news that is served up to us on different colored platters or anything.

I'm sure I've told you before that Annie knew Kurt Vonnegut personally, both living in Indianapolis, but she remembered him mostly as the strange older man who sometimes visited Doc Barton's house, sat on the front porch talking, and of whom she was a bit afraid. I can only hope there was "no pain." And so it goes.

I may need some advice again, soon, on colors for the living room, dining room, and downstairs bathroom. Two ceilings, five or more walls, and the arch between the dining room and the living room are being replaced and the rooms repainted. I had never seen water filled stalactites hanging from a ceiling before. Or, for that matter, paint that peels off Sheetrock looking exactly like wallpaper was being removed. I will also get a partial payment for the damage to the soaked carpeting, possibly enough to pay for the insurance deductible. Actually, the house already looks better because I had to clean up before the State Farm adjustor came to assess the damages that the failure of a $0.25 plastic plumbing part can cause.

Bittle made it through his surgery well and is recovering quickly, although I think I get more of his medications on him than in him. Thankfully, the problem was only a burst anal gland, with both glands being impacted. They were expressed and flushed, and he goes back to the vet on Saturday to have the drain tube and stitches removed. He hates his antibiotic, but seems much less resistant to taking the kitty-narcotic he gets for pain. He gets a little wide-eyed and has a glassy gaze for a few hours after taking it. He appears to enjoy watching the things that only he can see, though. He is eating, drinking, and using the litter box already, just less frequently than normally. He is also his usual loving, forgiving self, coming to "flump" down under my elbow to be petted and purr, about two or three minutes after med wrestle time. He will have to go back to the vet for checks and gland expressions for the next several months.

I am currently sitting on my little island of anxiety and fear of audit, surrounded by piles of papers that may or may not have anything to do with the 1040 I am trying to prepare. The mid-2006 computer crash took out much of the information that I had so neatly (relatively speaking) arranged. I suppose I'll find out how much jail time to expect when I take all the relevant information to my tax preparer. She rounds numbers down if they are .49 or less.

Overall, I believe I may become calmer when "stuff" stops jumping out of hiding unexpectedly, and yelling "Ugga-Bugga!" behind me.

If you have run out of guanabana nectar, let me know and I'll replenish your stash from my dealer.

Love, Dad"

I hope this explains in part why I haven't posted recently. Sometimes real life just gets in the way.

Peace, Doc

"Still and all, why bother? Here's my answer. Many people need desperately to receive this message. I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people do not care about them. You are not alone." - Kurt Vonnegut

The Courage of One's Convictions

Tue, 27 Feb 2007 14:29:52 GMT

(Or possibly, The Convictions Brought About by One's "Courage.") The comment below was what set me off this time, because it was designed deliberately, I believe, to hurt one of my friends. It doesn't read badly. It even seems to be friendly. So what's wrong with that? The answer is that it was found on a site that the author had never commented upon before, that it was found in my friends list and/or from another Spacer, that he left the link to his invective about me as "bait," and that this was designed to hurt the other blogger, to harass me, and to cause emotional injury to at least one person. He has specifically been warned about harassment and stalking, in print, in prior posts and he is so advised again at this time.

The comment:

"Snoops O'Malley

As a photographer and a ontologist I can only assume you are looking deeper into the fibre of life than many others. Hope you hit that epiphany one day, its well worth the journey.

Like a few of your film recommendations, but I would add The Fountainhead.

February 24 6:31 PM (EST, noted by TAB)
(http://hippieinvestigator.spaces.live.com/)"

It appears that Snoops, having a link to his unflattering post about me posted by me, closed his site as soon as he saw some responses to it. It had been published at 3:01 p.m, CST, on 02/24/07. There was one comment that revealed a significant amount of information about him. Interesting. It did not even contain much that one cannot easily and openly find about me on this site. None of it was new to me, but I did not write it. I had previously chosen to take a higher road and simply delete objectionable comments. When his own personal information was included in his comments, however, he apparently found it much less fun to play games. Of course I have copies of that post with the comments, but I know much more about him than was revealed by whomever wrote the revealing comment. I simply haven't publicly divulged it. My inquiring readers have missed the enjoyment of his unbiased reporting about me by his closure of his site as soon as anything was revealed about himself. I feel it only fair to republish what was publicly posted about me. The public is clamoring for his words of wisdom and must not be denied. Do you know what I'm going to do, however? I'm going to redact all identifying information about him in his comments section and republish it myself. Of course I have kept archival copies of most of his (and others') writings since before he carried through on previous threats against me (not published upon Spaces or at least not upon one which is still active.) Without further comment, I present Scoop's "interview:"

February 24

News of the Day

Freudian Spacer takes spirit of dead wife to bar, picks up chicks big time.

Ever wonder how to pick up the ladies? Just ask Space own Freudian Shrink and eternal mourner Doc Blood who on a recent sojourn to the airport Holiday Inn lounge discovered that being dead isn ’ t necessarily being buried.

It seems our frugal Spacer stopped in for a free glass of water while filling his pockets with complementary peanuts from the bar when lo and behold he made eye contact with a foxy septuagenarian three seats down.

“ I quickly avoided all eye contact, “ said our Freud boy, “ as I ’ m not really an Alpha male, but a Beta worm and without support for back up or someone to just plain blame for whatever misdeeds I might do, it ’ s best that I steer clear of any confrontations. ”

Twice feature Spacer and veteran of countless blog wars our master manipulator was backed into a bar stool when the dominant granny picked up her drink and meandered over to sit beside him.

“ That ’ s when I panicked, “ said the bad doctor, “ so I just blurted out what came to mind. ”

Those spontaneous words he uttered were like triggers for the psyche and like the Sirens of the Odyssey are capable of subduing the most mindless of the masses into lumps of sympathetic slobbering bowls of human jelly. “

In hindsight its really all just psychology. ” said our crimson coward, “ Plus I have been using it for years on my page to win over the status-quo and bend them to my will. ”

And just what were those words? “

I just said, that my wife is dead, and nobody loves me, and then wept big crocodile tears. ”

Playing off the Kubler-Ross angle and new age spiritualism where nothing is written in stone for just how long a person can grieve before they look like a wet towel, Heir doctor has found that people are afraid to question reality and instead give over to that altruistic nurturing side of themselves that appears to speak to the greater cause of humanity. “

You see its good to care, ” said our Freudian fraud, “ and people want to care, to heal. I mean its classic Florence Nightingale stuff for women to want to heal a man's soul, and so why not exploit that end of it for my own means. Why should it just be me living in misery when they say misery likes company. Really I ‘ m doing these people a favor by giving them something to live for instead of letting them live for themselves. And its not like I ‘ m lying, I have to sell myself on the idea too for it to appear real. Like Zig Ziggler says sell yourself first ‘ . ” Look it ’ s this vomit of pop psychology, new age mysticism, and leftist thinking that traps people into always doing for others before they do for themselves making them a kind of free slave. God help us if people ever figure out the value of acting out of themselves for their own self-interest, and then realize that to give from yourself to another human being while being largely the same action is really self-renewing in spirit. When people do that you can ’ t collect souls if you know what I mean. ”

So all this leaves us with the question of just how many women did the doctor score with? “

Thirteen if we count the granny, but I don ’ t because I ditched her for a big knockers sixty year old named xxxxx with a push up bra that served as a tit holster, ugh, who I then dumped for a nice forty-four year old divorcee. Actually by the time I was done I left with a twenty- one year old college student whose boyfriend supported her independence. Fool! So I went from thirteen the number of transformation to twenty-one the age of reason. And let me tell you, she couldn ’ t reason worth shit, which is just how I like them. Sympathy rules. ”

It does indeed, and on this reporters next trip to the bar all those traumas of childhood will make an appearance and get me fucked to no end.

2/25/2007 http://hippieinvestigator.spaces.live.com/blog/cns!39F577F2F50EEC0C!391.entry

I will end with the end of the text. A picture and four comments followed this, but would serve only to reveal actual persons' identities. One name in the text has been redacted for the same reason. I thank the person who defended me with accurate information but ask them not to do so again. It will hurt my case.

Finally, a statement of belief and intent: I have no argument with the several players in this so-called game. Play it by yourselves and I do not become irritable. Do not comment on my Space or those of my friends or I shall pursue it as far as I wish. Perhaps I already have with one.

Doc

"The hardest thing to explain is the glaringly evident which everybody had decided not to see." Ayn Rand (1905-1982), The Fountainhead (1943)

A Tag of Fours

Tue, 20 Feb 2007 03:34:01 GMT

By simply wandering around among the blogs of friends, I appear to have inadvertently stumbled into a devious trap. Usually these tag posts are sent to people via comments on their posts. I met with a sneaky and devious version, however, which stipulated that the next three people to visit the site were tagged. Of course I was number three. Ah, well, "Git 'er done."

Four jobs I've had:

Steelworker
Gas-Line construction
Self-employed electronics prototyping and construction
Clinical Psychologist

Four places I've lived:

Hebron, IN
Geneva, IL
Galesburg, IL
St. Charles, IL

Four favorite TV shows:

Anything with wheels racing anything else with wheels
CSI, Law and Order, NYPD Blue reruns, etc.
CNN, especially my fellow curmudgeon, Jack Cafferty
The classical instrumental music on cable public TV from midnight till noon

Four places I've been:

Isle Royale National Park
Most of the continental US
Canada (Various) with plans of emigrating in the late 60's
Home

Four places I visit every day in Cyberworld:

Outlook and other email
Google homepage
Numerous blogs, my own, my cyber-friends,' and others
"Investigations" which could lead me anywhere

Four favorite foods (realistically & now):

Butterscotch pudding (the cats like it, too)
Yogurt, all but plain (the cats also like this)
Mexican (frozen)
Corned beef (canned)

Four places I'd rather be right now:

"Sun-Daaayyyy, at fabulous US-30 Dragstrip!"
Forty to 45 years back in time
In the bed of a pickup truck, flying RC Cross Country
Competitive target shooting

So there you have the sanitized version of my list of fours. If anyone else wants to do one, feel free. I'm not tagging anybody. I had a tough enough time being truthful without being too truthful with this as it is.

Peace, Doc

Sometimes the mind, for reasons we don't necessarily understand, just decides to go to the store for a quart of milk. - Diane Frolov and Andrew Schneider

Groundhog Day

Thu, 01 Feb 2007 19:25:31 GMT

Rinngg. Rinngg. Rinngg.

Complaint department, please.

What warped humorist decided that Annie would be buried on Groundhog Day?

Who's in charge of coincidences, here?

Because I want to lodge a formal complaint!

It is quite undignified and in extremely bad taste.

Who do I speak to that can remedy this situation?

God, you say?

What's the number?

Well then, the email address.

P.O. Box? Fed Ex? UPS?

Prayer, you say?

Do I get a signed delivery receipt with that?

Then how do I know anybody is paying attention?

Faith?

That doesn't sound verifiable to me.

I suspect that Groundhog Day will occur on February 2nd next year, too.

Nothing at all will be done about this situation!

A cross-quarter day. What's that?

Half way between the Winter Solstice and the Vernal Equinox, eh?

What was that you just said about Imbolc and Candlemas?

It is?

All about the same day?

Then this isn't a coincidence?

Why didn't you just tell me that in the first place?

No, I suppose I didn't.

Hmmm. Never mind, then.

I'll have to rethink this.

Yeah, thanks.

Bye.

Click.

Peace, Doc

"The mystery of love is greater than the mystery of death." - Unknown

For Annie

Mon, 29 Jan 2007 06:03:52 GMT

Two lone years ago today

My Annie silently slipped away

To a land of where and while

I had no map to guide my way

Leaving in her silent style

I walked alone for many mile

While I prayed that she could stay

I got no answer but her smile

Her corpse is close, a few feet down

Wrapped in a new-bought silken gown

That she had never worn alive

But only 'neath that earthen mound

She is gone, I cannot thrive

As I could were she alive

'Til next we meet there underground

Enjoin my spirit to survive

Peace and Love, Tom

What I Did During My Winter Vacation

Sun, 07 Jan 2007 04:46:33 GMT

I believe I'd best post something (anything?) so people know I'm still alive and, relatively speaking, functional. I have been feeling a bit "under the weather" for the last week or so and haven't really wanted to do anything except remain comfortably numb. As an aside, has anyone ever thought, as I just did, how silly that expression is? We are all "under the weather" except possibly for the crew of the International Space Station and even they are subject to solar storms, potential hails of meteorites, and the like. So perhaps I've just been lazy.

Yesterday I was struck by a fit of cleaning and fixing. This is unusual for me. If I can step over it, around it, or on it without hurting myself, it is probably as clean or uncluttered as it needs to be. Dusting, sweeping, removing clumps of cat fur from carpeting and furniture, moving various objects around, scrubbing a floor or two, replacing burned out light bulbs, bagging aluminum cans to recycle, updating everything on the infrequently used PC, and other related, insignificant tasks summed to a total to which I am not accustomed. It does explain two days of not blogging, however. One day of fix up/clean up and the following day filled with recovery naps.

During the week a fair amount of time was spent developing multiple project ideas I have about making a small but relatively consistent income from various Internet sites. I think some of them might actually work. I will certainly not become a dotcom millionaire, but anything for a buck. I have a dotnet site under construction and am working at starting another dotcom. I am also "monetizing" some other blog sites I have, and a group site I run somewhat unsuccessfully. There's nothing insurmountably difficult about these tasks, just a myriad of details and processes to be worked out and enough tiny tasks to make my brain hurt.

All of the above, combined with my small private practice and my usual Thanksgiving through Mid-February depression, has left me with a decreased desire to be pleasant and a generalized increase in lethargy and crankiness. If I follow my own advice, I should now praise myself for what I have accomplished and for my restraint in not inflicting my grumpiness on my friends and readers. I'd probably pull a muscle trying to pat myself on the back, though.

Peace, Doc

"Education is what survives when what has been learned has been forgotten."
- B. F. Skinner

Oh Tannenbaum

Tue, 28 Nov 2006 12:42:40 GMT

When my first marriage ended over 20 years ago, I lived alone in a small apartment in a "not so good" neighborhood. When the winter holidays came along, I didn't feel very celebratory and only put up decorations at the insistence of Firstborn and Number One Son. "Buy a Christmas tree? You gotta be kidding me!" "No, Dad. You have to have one." Harrumph.

A great tree hunting expedition was mounted to cross the road and buy the cheapest fake tree possible at K-Mart. I chose a small (about three feet tall) imitation tree that looked much like Charles Schultz's Peanuts Christmas tree. It cost less than $5.00 and was worth every penny of it. It was made of cheap green plastic fibers twisted into wire "branches." It didn't fool the kids for a minute, but they were willing to accept it. We even gave it a name which has stuck with it through the years. The way in which the plastic strands were wrapped in the wire resembled nothing so much as the business end of a toilet bowl brush and it certainly didn't look like any easily identifiable species of tree. The name? The Mutant Toilet Bowl Brush ! That was probably one of the most accurate descriptions of an object I have ever invented. I loved it immediately because it looked so pathetic, a perfect match for my general lifestyle at the time. I even bought a single string of lights for it and the ornaments were anything that we could make or that looked even remotely ornamental form my collection of strange possessions. These ornaments included construction paper creations, tiny toy airplanes, interesting electronic components and bits of circuit board, brightly colored bits from American Science and Surplus, an occasional "real" ornament from my family or that I had made, and anything else the kids wanted to put on it.

Never before in my experience had absolute crap looked so festive and brought so many laughs to anyone who saw it. When Annie first saw it she was aghast and, though she laughed, there was a "Don't even consider that thing a part of our future" tone to it. I still have it stored away in the basement. I think this will be the year for The Return of the Mutant Toilet Bowl Brush. It will likely be placed in the foyer so as to provide as much humor and embarrassment as possible. Curmudgeons and Scrooges have to take this sort of thing in small steps. Otherwise I might actually smile.

Peace, Doc

A joke's a very serious thing. Charles Churchill

Grave Decisions

Wed, 18 Oct 2006 12:57:59 GMT

Enough time has passed and enough thinking has been done that I have finally started researching and pricing grave monuments. When the first of my family of origin died, I had a “custom” one, four plots wide, made for them, exactly matching that of their parents who are buried in an adjoining plot in a small town cemetery. I would like to replicate that form for Annie and myself. I am to take pictures of them and the memorial works said that they would provide the appropriate materials with which to make rubbings. I have to strike some kind of compromise, however, in that I want something very simple and “plain vanilla”, while Annie would have liked something a bit more elegant. I am sure I will eventually strike a balance with something of simple elegance with the lettering style that is so engraved in my mind.

I also have some odd last wishes to be written someday soon. I am adamant that I have as simple and cheap a funeral as possible, so I will arrange it myself well in advance. I wish to return to the earth as quickly as possible, so I want a simple pine coffin with rope handles. I have found that a group of Trappist monks one state away from where I live makes these. One model that can be purchased “pre-need” may be made with shelves so it can be used as a bookcase or a coffee table until the time for its final use. I like that idea, though it seems to freak out Firstborn. I also do not wish to be dressed in any finery that I would not have worn regularly in life. To that end, my requests will include that I be buried in jeans, boots, and a plain flannel shirt. I want neither to be embalmed nor “viewed”, and Illinois law requires neither. So that's the way I'll do it.

These thoughts might seem morbid or gruesome to most, but they give me a certain sense of serenity and satisfaction in knowing where my remains will be and that I will have it done the way I want. I will eventually be beside Annie the way she knew me.

Of course, I wrote another haiku to commemorate this monumental decision.

Graven marble slab

Everlasting testament

Contradicting life

Peace, Doc

Twenty-Seven Hours

Fri, 06 Oct 2006 22:09:08 GMT

Have you ever had something on your mind or something so important that you just had to talk to someone about it? I am sure you have. I have in the past and I currently have a very big thing, which for personal and family reasons I may not reveal.

It is a very human desire to want to discuss or think about troubles when one is unable to resolve them. An early concept from Gestalt psychology revealed what is now referred to as the Zygarnik Effect. It is the tendency to remember and worry over uncompleted or unsuccessfully completed tasks much more frequently and intensely than ones satisfactorily completed. This need could stem from many sources, from a need for sympathy or validation that one acted correctly, from emotional or physical pain, from too much change happening too quickly. It could occur from the need for understanding by other people, from a lack of knowledge, from an effort to know whether one helped or harmed in a situation, or simply to try to sort out what occurred in such a brief moment and why. I know this post is cryptic. It has to be. I am one of the people trying to understand.

Twenty-seven hours

From elation to despair

Twenty-seven years

Peace, Doc

Old age is the most unexpected of all the things that happen to a man.
- Leon Trotsky

Group Hugs and AWOL Cats

Mon, 02 Oct 2006 23:34:03 GMT

Sunday was an interesting day. This statement would use the oriental definition of “interesting” as used in the curse, “May you live in interesting times.” Aside from the amount of stress and irritation generated by the recent problems on Doc’s Place, real life happened. At least part of the blog problems seem to have been resolved through a friend’s and my own actions. The “enemy to friend” line in the haiku refers to Mr. Donnelly.

I know how I would have written this post only a few weeks ago, but I believe I am going to be much more circumspect in anything I write from this point onward. Once on the internet, one’s thoughts and writings become public knowledge and useable by anyone in any way they want, despite copyrights, Creative Commons rights, or whatever.

My Ex of 20 years, Firstborn, Number One Son, and I all met at my house to discuss an important event in our family’s future. Ex can afford the money required and I can provide the time, taxi service, and “close to home” help. I was so grateful for the manner in which we could agree when a matter of importance arose that I gave Ex a family heirloom. It is a hand made antique clock shelf she had wanted since our divorce. It will eventually go to the kids and if some joy can come from it, I am sure that is how it should be. I cried at the time for far too many tangled reasons to enumerate. A group hug among the four of us occurred for the first time in over 20 years and will probably never be repeated.

Then, as people were leaving, Squeaky escaped. He ran out the front door like a cat on a mission, around the corner of the house, into the bushes, and was lost from view. Everyone stayed to help in the great “catch the cat” endeavor. We looked from where he was last seen and then went on to the next most likely hiding spots. No Squeaky was discovered. Calling, whistling, looking in unusual spots, etc., was unproductive. Just as we were getting to the point where we were at a loss for what to do next, the AWOL feline came towards us from hiding in a backyard planting area. Everyone calling him at the same time unnerved him somewhat and he was ready to run again. I asked that I be the only one to talk and he would come. That worked. When he heard only my voice, he sat down in place under some pine trees and waited for me to collect him. He looked positively grateful for being saved from the not-so-great outdoors. I believe he remembered his early history of being an abandoned, very matted, and underweight little being who had to fend for himself in the wild. In comparison, being a pampered indoor cat was clearly the better choice.

Do I have a moral for this story? Yes. People have a capacity, sometimes not shown, to come together for the good of another, be it human or feline, and that I have been reminded of some basic truths of life which I had to be humbled to regain.

Peace, Doc