Dinner Plates

  
Today I can report that things are “as usual” around here. The trend that began a month ago continues. The rain keeps falling, and things keep breaking (e.g. the hot tub cover lift, hot tub pump, kitchen faucet, porch light, gate latch, garage door, cable modem, TV receiver, dinner plates, etc.) But hey, broken stuff is just stuff, and it can all be fixed ...well, except for those dinner plates. I dropped two of 'em last week while emptying the dishwasher and pieces flew everywhere. Superglue step aside, this is a job for Super-Broom; and so with the help of his partner Dustpan-Man soon every last ceramic shard was safely disposed of, but my plate troubles didn’t end there.

Two days later I was broiling some cheese over a bagel, which you should never do on a good plate, and in half the time it takes to walk out of the kitchen I’d forgotten that I was cooking ...until I smelled smoke. The second rule of broiling (after the no plates rule) is don’t shut the oven door, but being culinarily challenged I broke that one too. When I ran into the kitchen and flung open the oven door, thick black smoke billowed into the room; so I swiftly turned on the fan and the smoke quickly abated.

Being an expert at burning things in the kitchen, I’ve become very adept at hitting the fan switch. Faster than Wyatt Earp could draw his gun on me, I could have all the smoke cleared from the Tombstone Saloon. Which come to think of it would only serve to give ol’ Wyatt a better shot. Similarly in this situation the lack of smoke that initially seemed like a good thing, really wasn’t. Seeing a flash of light I realized that …no, not that I’d been shot ...I realized that the smoke had suddenly stopped because the fresh air rushing into the oven had caused the smoking bagel to burst into a flaming bagel, and a very efficient clean burning one at that.

Well by the time I got the fire put out the plate had reached temperatures that the manufacturer was clearly unprepared for. Amazingly though it didn’t break, but now it looked like something pulled from a 16th century Japanese raku pit, and it no longer matched the other dishes. Later that afternoon, when it was cool enough to touch I threw it away.

In hindsight, I wish hadn't. I wish I had washed it, and re-stacked it with the rest of the dishes Though wounded and scarred for life, it should not have been discarded. Like so many other outcasts it had a story to tell. A story of hardship and misfortune, but like other poor souls who are tossed aside and shunned by society, those stories will never be heard. The other plates were just left to say among themselves “where’s Bob?” Then one of them said “I told you, these things always happen in threes.” To which one of those know-it-all bowls replied "you mean fours, bad things always happen in fours." This morning I swear a coffee cup flinched when I reached for it. Everyone's on edge. They're probably gonna want to sleep with the cupboard door open again tonight.
  

Sunday Morning

  
Sitting in a hot tub with a warm cup of coffee,

Looking across the lawn, and into the back woods,

Watching the creatures begin their daily routines,

Unaware that today is Sunday; a day to relax.

The donkeys turn their broad sides toward the East

To collect the gathering heat of the rising sun.

The goats chase each other around an old tree stump
Butting heads, and wagging their stub tails.
A pair of wood ducks venture down to the pond for a swim,
Scooping up a slug or bug or two along the way.
A lone squirrel darts behind them all, and scampers up a cedar tree.
Swallows swoop and hummingbirds dart, as robins toil at the ground,
All as busy as can be, as though it were already Monday.
  

Argumentatively Speaking

  
If we can’t argue with our friends, who can we argue with? More and more I see people separating themselves from those they don’t see eye to eye with. I cannot find any benefit in this trend for anyone. It seems to me that this mindset is only making us more and more certain that we’re right, with less and less information to base our rightness on. When we surround ourselves with only likeminded people, we stand unopposed. This feels very comfortable, but the problem in this harmonious existence is that unopposed views get weak. If we never listen to opposing views we are never forced to examine our own views, and unexamined views become less relevant every day. If we do not challenge our views with discussion and debate, our views languish due to lack of exercise. Views that are not exercised become rigid and inflexible, and inflexible views eventually splinter and break.

I consider myself lucky to be surrounded by people who argue ….I mean challenge me regularly.
  

Advice on Cussin’ for Today's Youth

  
Any old cuss can tell ya, shootin’ off cuss words is like shootin’ off an old air pump BB gun. The longer you pump it up, the better them BB’s (cuss words) fly, and the more impact they have when they hit something. If you (like so many young people these days) just keep pulling the trigger after each pump (of your jaw) all you’ll end up with is BB’s splayed all over the place, and you’ll look (and sound) pretty stupid doing it. On the other hand, if you keep your finger off the trigger ‘till there’s plenty of pressure in the chamber, that four letter word’ll fly straight, and put a hole clean through whatever you shoot it at. So (and here’s the important part) when you’re pressure’s in the red, and you’re ready to fire, don’t point at nobody. Instead, for politeness sake, go out to the woods and plink off a few tin cans ....unless of course someone shoots at you first. In that case you can aim right between their eyes ….unless of course there’s a lady in the room.
  

Ray

  
Today while I was cutting firewood in the backyard, I began reminiscing about my job at the sawmill, over thirty years ago. The fresh Douglas fir sawdust flying from my chainsaw smelled the same today as it did back then. I began to hear the sounds of the sawmill. The pounding of logs on their way to the head-rig, the tearing of saw blades, the rip of the planer, the slapping of lumber coming off the green chain. I could feel the building shake, and I began to see their faces again. Phil, Bob, and Jay. Mark, having a laugh with Cho and Kim. Patty with her leather gloves tucked in the back pockets of those tight blue jeans. Glen and Old Throp, grading and stamping the lumber. Ken, high on speed, keeping up with the best of ‘em. And Ray.

Today I wished I could go back to that mill just one more time. Back three decades. Back to the night before Ray died. I’d sit by him at the lunch table and say “Ray, don’t come in to work tomorrow. Take your wife and kid out for a drive in that new truck you’re so proud of. And when you come back, don’t wear those steel toe boots. They’re not safe. They’re more dangerous that you could ever imagine. And from now on, don’t climb up on that machine of yours anymore when it’s running. And when boards get caught in the rollers, don’t ever try to kick them through with your foot. When boards get caught like that, turn off the machine Ray. Turn off the machine.”
 

Driving Lessons with My Father

  

When I was a kid my father drove a jet black 1965 Pontiac GTO, and I just couldn’t wait to drive it someday, but by the time I turned 15½ and was ready to get my drivers permit my father was driving a pea green 1962 Ford Falcon Station Wagon. "Deep sigh."


LESSON I

My first driving lesson (in the old Ford Falcon) began in an open field near the Tacoma City Dump back in 1974. “Slowly let out the clutch and apply the gas” dad said. “Slower, more gas.” Clunk! “Okay, let’s try again. Ease the clutch. More gas!” The car began to lurch and stop, lurch and stop. "Clutch, gas... more gas!” The car began to fight back, and violently lunged forward. Without seatbelts it was hard to stay on the seat. Squeak clunk, squeak clunk! By now the car was bucking as though I’d just planted a pair of silver spurs deep into her rear fenders. Then after what felt like at least 8 seconds, but must have been less because I didn’t hear a horn blow (or see any rodeo clowns run in front of the vehicle) the bucking gave way to rocking as the engine wheezed, coughed, and finally died.

With a pine tree air freshener swinging in circles from the rear view mirror (no doubt trying to hide the smell of fear in the air) and my outnumbered two feet stabbing at the three pedals on the floor, I heard dad say “Start it again ..start it again.” After a moment of silence I replied “I can’t find the keys." They’d been thrown from the ignition while I was busy hanging on for dear life. "What do you mean you can't find the keys?" "They’re not in the ignition" I said. More silence. After getting out of the car and searching, the keys were finally found hiding under the front seat, probably looking for an escape route. I was looking for one too.


LESSON II

A couple days later, after perfecting the art of engaging the clutch, I was now ready to hit the open road. Oh look, there goes the old Ford Falcon now, with me driving and dad navigating: “Turn left here. Go straight. Take a right at the light.” So far so good “Now take the next right.” “What?” I gulped to myself, “the next right?” The next right would take us over the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, or more specifically: The Tacoma Narrows Bridge version 2.0. The first Tacoma Narrows Bridge (version 1.0) also known as Galloping Gertie collapsed and fell into Puget Sound in November of 1940. God rest little Tubby’s soul (the cocker spaniel who was the only fatality of that famously filmed event.)

While this Tacoma Narrows Bridge (version 2.0) didn’t sway in the wind like its predecessor, it was indeed very narrow (unlike it is today with its version 2.1 updates.) Back then it was a two-way four-lane death trap famous for its frequent head on collisions. However, thanks to the new Tacoma Narrows Bridge (version 3.0 built adjacent its 2.1 updated sister bridge in 2007) each bridge now transports one way traffic too and fro from Tacoma to Gig Harbor, making for a much safer crossing.

But back to 1974: “Take the next right.” “Okay” I said as I turned the wheel, and there it was jutting out of the icy waters of Puget Sound, appearing to be at least a thousand feet tall and approximately four feet wide, The Tacoma Narrows Bridge! Over a mile long, but less than a half mile away, the giant green Leviathan was coming right at us. If I were prone to hyperbole I might call it a bridge of peril in a fog of misfortune spanning a sea of cold and certain death, but I’m trying hard to stick to the facts here. Toward the bridge we went. The first sign on the approach to the bridge read “CAUTION: SEVERE SIDE WINDS AHEAD.” The next sign read “CAUTION: DO NOT CHANGE LANES ON BRIDGE,” and with the last sign my fate was sealed. “NO U TURNS!” So there I was ....the Ford Falcon was but a bullet in the chamber of a cocked gun, pointed right between the eyes of destiny. BANG!

The first thing you notice while driving on the bridge is that the lanes immediately narrow to make room for the one foot wide metal grates that separate them. These grates were designed to allow wind and rain to pass harmlessly through the bridge deck, but they also allow car tires ignore steering wheel instructions whenever they touch them. To protect human lives however the grates running down the center of the bridge had been painted yellow, and in later years even had little orange plastic tubes clipped to them. Being made of rubber and therefore subject to melting, tires naturally fear the colors of fire (mainly yellow and orange.)

Not willing to trust life and limb to my tires natural instincts, I chose to drive in the outside lane. As I was tight-roping down the concrete strip at 45mph I became uncomfortably aware of the steel pipe mounted eight to ten inches off the pavement to my imediate right, just between the road and the sidewalk (Note: the version 2.1 update replaced this pipe with a sturdy thirty inch high guardrail.) I noticed that the pipe didn’t seem high enough to nudge me back into my lane if I were to hit it. Rather it appeared to be the perfect height, if I were to strike it at the proper angle to launch the car up and over the bridge's outer handrail, and into the dark churning waters two-hundred feet below.

“Don’t touch the grate, stay away from the pipe” I repeated over and over in my mind. By the time we reached the first suspension tower I was squeezing the steering wheel so hard that the car was beginning to turn blue. “Don’t touch the grate, stay away from the pipe.” Mercifully the second tower finally passed by. We’d traveled nearly a mile on the bridge and were almost to the other side. Blood was slowly returning to my fingertips. “Take the first right turn after the bridge” dad said. Now until that moment the last thing on my mind was doing this again anytime soon, but “take the first right turn” could only mean that we were going to loop under the highway, and get right back on going the opposite direction. Couldn’t we just take the 110 mile trip around the water to get back home? What’s the big hurry?

Then I heard the instruction again. “Turn right up here.” Slowly removing my left hand from the steering wheel, I grabbed the turn signal lever and pulled up on it. Adrenalin is a funny thing. Sometimes it's very useful, but when you’re learning to drive it usually isn’t. For the next several hundred feet with the right turn signal blinking away, I was caught in an awkward predicament. I couldn’t let go of the turn signal handle to re-grab the steering wheel. Well I could have, but it would have fallen to the floor and I thought I might need it again. Seeing only one thing to do in this situation, I reached over and handed my dad the turn signal lever that I had just ripped right off the steering column of his car. I won’t quote to you what I heard next. Let’s just say it was an emphatic expression of disbelief. Apparently in all my father’s years of driving, he had never (not even once) torn off a turn signal lever, nor had he ever seen anyone else do it. Well what’s a son for if not to teach his ol' dad a new trick every now and then?

I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear that we made it home safely that day, and I even got to practice using my hand signals, to warn everyone within striking distance which way I intended to turn next.


To view the fate of the first Tacoma Narrows Bridge click the link below:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vu4LPTsy_xY

A Letter to the Editor:

  
Do you read the daily Letters to the Editor in your newspaper? Well, I read one last week that ruffled my feathers a little bit. The writer complained that because the President is on TV so often, he feels like he’s living in a Third World country. It seemed like a strange complaint so I wrote the following Letter to the Editor (Tacoma News Tribune) which they printed a few days later (2/10):

A reader recently wrote that because Barack Obama is seemingly “on TV daily” he’s “beginning to realize what it feel’s like to live in a Third World country.” A third world country? Really? We have groups of people organized to do nothing but trash our president 24/7. People who are not only free to express their opinions, but are free to make up their own “facts.” So called “facts” often based on politics, hatred and fear rather than reality; fueled by corporate interests, along with second and third generation millionaires and billionaires who stoke the fires of ignorance in order to further their cause of power and self-reward, at the exclusion of those of us who must work (if we can find work) to survive. We even have an entire pseudo-news network dedicated exclusively to this cause. Would this be allowed in the third world country? If you want to call us a third world country, call us one for relying on the outside world by exporting our raw materials, and importing finished goods like real third world countries do. Call us a third world country for making medical care a privilege rather than a right, while giving corporations the right to profit by gouging consumers for needed medical care and to profit even further by denying that same care when it suits their bottom line. Maybe becoming a Third World country is what our president is trying to save us from.

That letter set off a barrage of comments on the Tribune’s website, most of which were very unhappy with my letter. So unhappy that several of their comments were removed by the paper for being too “abusive.” While most of the 110 comments were negative, here’s one of the few that defended my viewpoint:

“Randy, this is one of the best letters that I've read in awhile! Each and every post proves your point! Sad to say, however, that some of the entertainment value in the different post are over shadowed by the hatred, ignorance and racism in other post, which really comes back to your main point, which is that "people are not only free to express their opinions, they are free to make up their own Facts." And I might add that people are also free to live their miserable, hate filled lives, as evidenced by some of the fine comments on here.”

Well, in the end, I had to leave one last comment of my own on the website:

It’s a shame that we’re so easily polarized by buzz words, and that we so quickly turn to name-calling instead of thoughtful problem solving in this country (and I mean that at every level, from our Congress to our blogs, to our dinner tables.) Single-payer has become such a loaded term these days. To some, single-payer = Socialism = Communism = Fascism = Liberal = Democrat. Have we forgotten what these terms really mean? Do we care anymore, or are they just words to sling back and forth at each other like mud? Is a single-payer system really evil in all cases, or is it in some cases a reasonable option? Isn’t it in some ways a sort of reverse monopoly? A monopoly that benefits people, rather than corporations by replacing several for profit companies with one non-profit government run (ie. citizen run) entity. For many enterprises this would be a terrible option (I am not anti-capitalism, just anti laissez-faire capitalism,) but in some cases it just might be worth considering. Do we like our single-payer military protecting our shores? Do we like our single-payer fire departments protecting our homes? Do we like our single-payer police departments protecting our property? Shouldn’t we at least consider a single-payer basic health insurance to protect our very lives? For some reason we start screaming “Socialism” at the very thought of it, yet our military, our fire departments, and our police departments are all “social” programs that few of us would want to privatize and turn into for profit enterprises. I don’t want to have to pay private companies to protect my home from fire, my children from being assaulted, or my shores from being invaded. Sure I can pay for “extra” protection if I feel the need and have the means to do so, but for the basics I kind of like having those aforementioned American institutions standing at the ready in case I need them. And by the way, private insurance companies will still be able to make billions of dollars each year by insuring all kinds of valuable “things” that need insuring, but lives are not “things” and one person’s death, shouldn’t be another person’s performance bonus (at least I don’t think it should be.)