Dad's method of babysitting

My father was a mechanical design engineer.  He was about 40 when I was born many years after my siblings and the only girl.  Uniquely Dad hit upon a babysitting plan that amused both of us and indulged our curiosities.  We did factory tours.  Now come on; don't make a face and poo paw the notion.  Think about it for a minute.  He started us doing tours when I was young.  What kid wouldn't be fascinated by Pendalton Woolen Mills, or Boeing, or saltwater taffy making?  Think about all the moving parts.  Think free samples.  Even if I didn't understand what was going on, it was pretty cool.

When I was eight he got the great idea for us to tour the Bumble Bee Tuna cannery.  Pause here to sing the song - bum, bum, bumble bee; Bumble Bee Tuna.  As I recall it was a drizzly overcast day and the tour started on the docks.  For those of you who have never stepped foot in a fish processing plant please do the following in order to grasp the full sensory effect.  Get a whole mess of fish.  Shut all the doors and windows of your house.  Put all the fish boiling in pots on the stove, every burner.  Now multiply the smell factor by a thousand.  The word overwhelming fails to convey the aroma.

Meaning no disrespect to Bumble Bee Tuna for in all honestly it was a very, very clean facility.  But Dad's wonderful idea backfired.  I have not eaten tuna, or most fish since that tour.  It had nothing to do with watching them clean or cut up tuna.  Believe me; it's all about the smell.

As I grew older Dad was both surprised and delighted I wanted to continue our habit of taking factory tours  when visiting new cities, states or countries.  You have to understand, Dad was an engineer and he was a friendly, polite man.  Quite often the tours we got went above and beyond those given to the general public.  For example: northern Arizona, a brief conversation at the pumps led to an invitation to "come see our operation".  We followed this guy out into the desert to a silver mine. Turned out the guy was co-owner/foreman.  I was 14.  They asked if I was claustrophobic.  I said no but I'm scared shitless of elevators.  Next thing I knew I was being strapped in a harness and lowered down a [like a dumbwaiter] shaft.  Dad took the elevator with the guy.  Silver mines are interesting.  They wouldn't let me blow up anything - bummer.

The next day we got a behind the scene tour of Hoover Dam.  There at the dam I realized a main factor in us getting preferential treatment was it gave our guides a chance to brag.  They enjoyed their jobs.  They loved having the opportunity to share their workplace not only with a peer but with a kid who found it as wondrous as they did. 

Dad and I had a list of factories, of things we'd love to see how they're made.  Slowly but surely we were getting them checked off.  Which brings this story to my late twenties, Salem Oregon and the Agripac cannery.  Think the Diamond A food brand.  A sign said they give free tours.  The lady at the desk said they won't give one person a tour, I had to come back with a few friends.  So a couple days later I returned with a few friends.  Note: she did not specify how many constituted "a few".  At this point however she stated we needed to number no less than twenty-five.  I didn't know twenty-five people in Salem.

On my way out I spotted another sign.  They were hiring.  Being an ornery person I took personal time off work and applied at the cannery.  I got drug tested and had a physical.  I sat through safety courses.  Each step of the way I openly told them "I have no intention on working.  This is all about getting a tour."  When they issued my gear I told them.  When I got assigned a shift and team lead, I told them.  Apparently they didn't believe me.  I got put on the corn line to pull out rejects.  Yep, I drove them nuts.  Where do the good ears go?  What's over there?  What happens to the rejected ears?

The team lead wanted to bang her head, or mine, against a wall.  Whenever she wasn't hovering over my shoulder I took off to see what the next crew was doing or to get a look at another processing zone.  Repeatedly the team lead chased me down and declared my wages would be docked.  I just laughed and asked how they made cream corn.  Finally one of the supervisors clued in.  I wasn't there to work.  All I wanted was a tour.  I got a tour! 

Footnote: a while later I happened to be driving by the cannery and saw they'd put up a new sign.  "Free tours to groups of 25 or more". 

I'm sorry to say Dad died before we could check off the most desired factory tour from our list.  Maybe on my way back West I'll be able to stop off at the GE plant that makes locomotives.  Cross your fingers that they don't have a tour group limit.  There's no way I can bluff my way into employment there.  Do you think they'll believe I've come to buy a train?

what I make of it

Several years ago a friend presented me with the book "Heal Your Body" in which the author states physical ailments are the result of our subconscious thought pattern.  The premise made sense at the time and it still makes sense.  I agree that most my problems, psychological and physical stem from fear, or in the author's terms, from my deep-rooted insecurities.  To break the pattern the author suggests beginning with the mantra: I am protected by Devine Love.  I am always safe and secure.

While I can readily admit the mantra has been useful in seeing me through situations that felt overwhelming, I'm not sure how much progress I'm making towards truly addressing my subconscious issues.  Perhaps it's because I've yet to feel secure.  Those rare instances in my life in which security was on the horizon?  Well, let's just say it turned into a pipe dream like winning the lottery.

My life experience says people have ulterior motives therefore anything they say or do is to benefit them.  The problem is I want to believe there are those who honestly give a damn about someone else, about me.  I tend to look at relationships be they with friends or family as mutually equal.  I care about you; you care about me.  We help and support each other.  Over the course of my life I've met four people who share this same belief and put it into practice. 

The word envious doesn't really apply. I am bewildered by those who have people who love and care about them.  My experience, particularly with family members, says if they aren't profiting somehow, they aren't doing it.  Love come with a price tag.  Mom spoke the truth when she said the only reason she wanted a daughter was so said daughter, me, could take care of her.  I was a latchkey kid.  I had chores before school and a list waiting when I got home.  Saturday mornings I'd wake to an empty house - and a list.  If I failed to complete the chores or the quality of work didn't pass muster there would be punishment, a spanking and more chores.  By the time I was ten I could cook and iron.  Both tasks required me standing on an orange crate.  Mom did her own thing.  She was a budding artist.  Lord help me if she had to lay down her paintbrush or the book she was reading to come see what I was doing.  Heaven forbid she lend a hand, after all, what are daughters for?

At age 15 the State of Oregon granted emancipation and I found out what it was like to be homeless.  Incredibly I managed attending school everyday and maintained good grades.  Most nights I slept in my car.  Early in the morning a janitor would let me into the girl's locker room to shower.  Occasionally I stayed the night or a weekend at a friend's place though not often because their mothers were leery of my independence.  I strove to be very polite, to be a well-mannered guest.  Believe me, it was wonderful to just for a few brief hours feel like I belonged.  But it never lasted.  They were the family.  They had their priorities and I wasn't one of them.

The following year my parents moved back into the state and regained custody of me.  In hindsight, I should have ran away.  Which is worse: knowing you're homeless or being in a home in which you're not really a part of?  I was there for Mom's convenience.  Clearly she wished I came with an on / off switch like a vacuum cleaner.  Then she could keep me in the closet when not in use.  Nothing I did was good enough and she let me know it daily, repeatedly and if possible, publicly.  Right or wrong I took care of her until her death.

I have come to terms with my childhood and choices made as an adult.  I think my biggest fault is expecting people to treat me in the manner in which I treat them.  The day is what I make it.  I can indulge in selfishness, take my frustrations out on others or wallow in self-pity.  Personally I choose to be polite, to be helpful and to avoid confrontations, especially those that serve no purpose. 

While it's true I currently have a roof over my head I am and have been for two years technically homeless.  Being forced to rely on charity does not sit well with me.  But the day is what I make it.  I am doing my best to change the situation but there are things I have no control over.  Do I feel secure?  No.  Am I frustrated?  Yes.  Being homeless, accepting charity, means so much more than swallowing one's pride.  It means knowing at any given time circumstances can change depending upon someone else's whim.  It means remaining at a heightened level of vigilance for what was fine yesterday is unacceptable today and there will be no verbal notification of the change in rules.  Most of all it means knowing I don't belong, that I'm equal to a stray dog or cat.

Still, the day is what I make of it.  I could let the situation overwhelm me, which at times it has threatened to do, or I can keep striving to move forward.   I'm already homeless.  I've already lost most everything.  Daily I tell myself as long as I've got my dog, life is good.  What gets me down are the setbacks, the clients who don't pay on time or in full, or having to replace spendy items due to another's carelessness.  I'm working to improve my life.  Is it too much to wish that those who could make an impact to meet me part way?  Seems like any more all I get is told to wait and then put on ignore. 

I am a person with hopes and dreams and goals.  I wish my circumstance was different but it is what it is.  How does this make me of lesser value?  I work.  I put a lot of effort into building my company back from the ashes.  I take pride in the job I do, and I enjoy doing it.  I am not receiving any government handouts.  When I'm not focused on my business I write novels.  Frustratingly all I'm hearing from agents is "we like the book; please wait, we'll get back to you" or they love the book but it doesn't fit with the trend they're currently peddling so please try again later.  I guess being homeless also means I have all the time in the world to patiently wait for other people to remember they've left me hanging.  If I ran my business like that I wouldn't have one. 

There are days I want to scream "I am here.  Would someone please pay attention to me?"  What I'd give to ask a question and not be met with a blank stare, or "huh?" or "wait".  Being homeless has caused me reevaluate worth, self-worth and the worth of others.  Perhaps I've given up on the notion of security hence my new mantra:

"I am worthy of all that is good.  I willingly and graciously accept good things to come to me."  The day is what I make of it - and my day is going to be good.

I'd like to place an order

Yesterday my sister-in-law announced she had just received a call from her husband's oldest daughter to say "we're fine.  It was scary but we're all safe".  I racked my brain trying to recall if there'd been previous mention of health scare or travel to a foreign country.  Drawing a blank left me saying "huh?" 

"The earthquake," my sister-in-law prompted.  "A short while ago Virginia had a 5.8 quake."

Again my response was "huh.  5.8's are nothing.  Artillery practice at Ft. Bragg can rattle a house better than a 5.8"  Her stepdaughter grew up in Oregon therefore she should know all about earthquakes.  So why was she all weirded out over a little one? 

Today I added a new entry to my list of major differences between the West and East Coasts - earthquakes*.  Allow me to say very tongue-in-cheek, "gee, I found yet another thing they don't have out here."  No baby loafs of cheese and no dry-cured bacon; no flavor choices in SoBe or CoffeeMate, and now no earthquakes.  I'm in half a mind to call the USGS and complain.  The other half my brain is toying with the notion of putting in a request.  Certainly the USGS can't think me any bigger a kook than the local grocery store managers. 

*According to the USGS, Alaska, Washington, Oregon and California get at least one earthquake a year magnitude 5.8 or better.  Since 1900 the East Coast has experienced two (2) including yesterday's quake. 

The Neighbors

Holly and I have been in Fayetteville NC for a little over 2 years now.  Most of that time we've hung out on the front porch in clear view of the street.  I've got my laptop, coffee and cigarettes.  Holly is on a tether to keep her from detaining passersby for a thorough inspection.  (Maybe the TSA should hire her.)  Meaning no disrespect to exercise buffs, and totally meant tongue-in-cheek, I refer to them as "streetwalkers".  Oh come on, you should see some of the outfits they wear.  Still, it doesn't matter if they're covered head-to-toe in thermal fleece or flaunting shiny Spandex, it's my generic term for anybody running, jogging or walking.  Plus it gives me a chuckle when someone asks what Holly is barking at and I say a streetwalker; this is an upscale middle-class neighborhood. 

The neighbors who aren't scared of Holly venture into the yard to greet her.  She is a big girl; twenty-five inches to the shoulder and weighing in at 82 pounds.  Since she doesn't have a tail, cropped too short hence her nickname of Twinkle Butt, Holly tends to come across as imposing.  Mainly she's just doing her job, alerting me there's someone near.  For 2 years I've been answering questions about Holly.  Yes, she's friendly.  Yes,  you can pet her.  She's a Boxer  - Great Dane cross.  Do you think anyone asks about me?

Lately I've learned the neighbors had been leaving me alone because they saw the laptop and thought I was working.  Actually, that's pretty thoughtful of them.  Equally impressive is the range of occupations they've assigned me.  Because I'm frequently seen on the phone the majority decided I'm a customer service or sales rep.  Coming in a strong second is medical transcription and other home-based data entry type jobs.  Far down on the list are: web site designer, stock trader and online party host.  I think that last one came from sheer hopefulness that I could hook him up with a date.  Ah, maybe if he checked the mirror before leaving the house?  Even Holly winces at some of his color and pattern combinations. 

Earlier this year two of the neighbors discovered I write.  One of them has read Desert and has started The Privacy Fence.  I cut her some slack.  She's very pregnant, with twins, due anytime and trying to finish her last term of college before the babies arrive.  Note: remarkably none of the neighbors have assumed I'm taking online classes.  Interesting. 

People on the West Coast who know me always include the following warning when introducing me - "it is highly likely that anything you say or do will end up in a book."  For the record, this is true.  Also for the record, there are 3 fictitious characters in Desert: Kayla, James and Scott.  I changed occupations and last names of everyone else.  I might have used a bit of creative license in regard to physical appearance or marital status but only for the sake of the storyline.  See what you get when you say "I want to be in one of your books!" 

The neighbors here are so naive.  Totally out in the open I've been studying them for 2 years.  I guess they're so used to seeing me I now blend into the scenery.  While I can't say The Privacy Fence is about them, I will admit they gave me the idea for it.  It's simply amazing what I overhear. 

Heads up Fayetteville!  I've started a new novel and the chances are good that some of you will be in it.

  

Hearing Voices

I used to think everyone had a few billion personalities in their head struggling to be heard.  As I grew older I figured out that isn't the case and it's best to keep quiet about hearing voices.  Apparently there are members of society who feel those of us who hear voices should be medicated into semi-consciousness. 

Bring on the padded room!  To quote ZZ Top,  "send a straight jacket, something in a shade of grey."

I collect people.  I absorb their personality traits, body language, speech patterns and odd quarks.  One person in your world equals 3, 4, or 17 in mine.  I'll try to explain.  People are multi-faceted.  I have "blanks" living in my head; think artist's blank canvas.  Each filled blank represents particular facet of someones personality.  Maybe it's how someone reacted in a situation, or expression of change brought on by maturing.  Allow me to point out often my voices (filled blanks) are non-gender specific.  You've been saved in my head as a story out of context, yet a story all the same that needs to be told.

Every so often a group of these filled blanks gets together and sets up a ruckus.  The only way to quiet them down is to write their story.  Because they represent real people during the writing process they are real.  Picture if you will, the luxury of having people you care about, living or deceased, together with you for eight weeks or so. 

The hardest part about writing is the period at the end of the last sentence of the final chapter.  Their story is now told.  They recede into the background and I'm left with an eerie, unsettling quietness.  I miss them.  I'm at a loss as to what to do now that they've gone.  It's during this let-down period that I probably should be medicated.  Those of you who don't hear voices - how do you cope?  If the only voice in my head was mine, Holly would move to a different zip code.  I tend to get really grouchy during the let-down phase.  This is not a good time to be pushing my buttons or there will be more blogs like the last two. 

Yes my Twin, I will start writing again soon.  The earth will go back to orbiting the sun and there will be balance in the universe for a few months. 

where's my iPad?

Earlier today I was standing in my bedroom, slightly bent at the waist, hopping from foot to foot because I really had to go pee but was determined to locate a web site password first.  Logic finally took over and said "Hey, take your password book with you and go pee or be prepared to shampoo the carpet."  Picture slap to the head and relief of getting to the toilet in time.   Once seated I continued flipping thru pages in the book looking for the password.  My great-nephew's cat wandered into the bathroom, I looked up and our eyes met.

What do our animals think of our bathroom habits?  How many of us have a full reading library next to the toilet?  Do you use your laptop or iPad while on the throne?  When you're trying to make high score or to the next level on a handheld gaming device, do you just walk on into the bathroom and drop trousers?  Funny how most of us won't talk to someone on the phone while going pee but we will text.

At any given time, while I'm trying to use the toilet my dog, my neice's pup and g-nephew's cat will be jostling for position and demanding attention.  The bathroom is nice sized but believe, it's not big enough for all four of us.  The cat will try to get on my lap.  Not to be outdone the pup will do his best to knock the cat off and take his spot.  In the meantime my dog is head-butting me and complaining.  Finally my dog will chase the pup and cat from the bathroom; the cat usually doubles back. 

This morning as the cat and I stared at each other I got a flash of what he was thinking. "Where the heck is my iPad?"  He has a nice covered for privacy litterbox that's big enough to accommodate an iPad fastened to an inside wall.  He's a cat of the electronic age, much more interested in computers than books or magazines.  Nearly everyday he tries to help me answer email or do research.  I know he's a big fan of Bejeweled Blitz on Facebook.  If he had an iPad in his litterbox we might not see the cat for hours.

If my dog learned how to use the toilet her reading materieal of choice would be the Driver's Manual.  From there she'd move to law books seeking a loophole that would pave the way for her to get a driver's license.  State Farm said they'd insure her - if she had a license.  Her next endevour would be to get a Social Security number, mainly because I won't let her use my debit card and neither Wells Fargo nor Evergreen will issue her a debit / credit card without a SS#.  

I think the pup would watch movies, maybe TVland too.  The latter because I'm not sure if he's discovered Animal Planet yet.  He'd appreciate an iPad loaded with games like Pong.  He's young, he's a terrier; he's got the whole prey-drive thing going.  Now if he were to team up with my dog they'd own their own PetCo franchise. 

For those of you who have pets and a television in your bathroom - stop right now.  The next time you're cheering for your team or engrossed in CSI while seated on the throne, ask yourself "What is my dog / cat think?"  Are they jealous?  Do they use my bathroom when I'm not home?

Tell me a lie

Back in the mid 90s I worked with this gal who fascinated the heck out of me for the lies she told.  For the sake of the blog let's call her Ann.  Personally I think I could use her real name and give her address too because she won't recognize this as about her.  So here's the scene: a specialty electronics assembly company in Beaverton Oregon; swing shift, small crew numbering around twenty.

Ann sat directly infront of me with my friend Rose to her left.  Ann was absolutely beautiful, tall and lean and graceful.  She was in her late twenties and though single she divided her time between living with her dad and her boyfriend.  Did I mention she was beautiful?  Ann had legs up to there and hair down to meet them.  Near as I could tell she was well educated.  Maybe she didn't finish college but she'd had at least a few years.

My favorite memory is of the day Ann used a traffic accident as reason for being late to work.  Arriving over an hour late she crept onto the floor stealthly dodging her supervisor.  Once in her seat Ann quickly laid out her station to appear as if she'd been there for some time.  She gulped down part of her Coke to lend further credence to the time factor.  Then, assured she'd not been spotted by her boss she swung her chair around and related witnessing a traffic accident that snarled a major intersection thus making her late.

Points: she witnessed it; the accident took place past the intersection; Ann was already running late.

After telling the story to me, Ann turned to Rose and told her a slightly altered version basically making the accident more than a mere fender bender.  Rose responded with the appropriate oh's and ah's prompting Ann to emblish a bit further.  I had to bite my lip to keep from grinning. 

Points: the accident location stayed the same but now also included the driveway into a business; there are more cars involved and victims are more seriously injured.

In typical Ann fashion she took the tale from work station to work station modifying it for her audience.  I got Rose's attention and suggested she eavesdrop.  This was going to get good.  There were seventeen people at work that day counting Ann but not counting her supervisor (who was hiding out in reception eating ice cream while doing word puzzles).  By the time the story made it around the assembly floor it somewhat resembled the original tale.  Rehearsal over Ann came back to her seat and waited for her supervisor to make rounds.

I wish I'd had a video camera to record the tale told to her boss.  Ann said she left home on time and took Barber Blvd because traffic update on radio said 217 was clogged due to construction.  Traffic on Barber was moving at a good clip when suddenly out of nowhere an idiot ran a red light.  It was a major intersection; cars were slidding and banging.  Ann stood on the brakes but the guy behind her reacted too slow.  His car hit hers and pushed her into the car in front.  Her forehead struck the steering wheel.  She's feeling whoosy if she moves quick or when she stands up.  Paramedics checked her at the scene.  The police questioned her.  She had to have her car towed.  She borrowed her brother's car to get to work.  But Ann made it to work.  Granted, a few minutes late but she made it - and see, she's been working.  Oh yeah, she forgot to clock in probably due to hitting her head.  Would the boss mind signing her time card?

Come on applaud.  It took nearly twenty minutes to tell the boss the story and another twenty to recap parts of it.  Let's do the math: an hour to rehearse the story and forty minutes to gain the boss' sympathy.  But it's not over yet for Ann still has to go back to all sixteen coworkers and bring them up to speed on the story told to the boss.  Add another two hours. 

Come on applaud.  Ann's been at work four hours and no one but me has bothered glancing out to the parking lot.  Yep, her car was parked in a side row instead of it's normal up-front-near-the-door slot.  By the way, neither her father nor her boyfriend's houses are anywhere near Barber Blvd.