Visit to an Old Haunt

Monday Mystery Tour
August 6, 2012

The Monday Mystery Tour feature used to get regular attention here on Round Circle. I'll try to revive it by posting this story of a place where I lived, Ashland, WI,  and a visit there some six years later.

Sitting at the Black Cat yesterday morning, I was alone at first. I had gotten out of the house early and went to the lakefront and just kind of spaced out for a while. The holiday doldrums have had a hold on me like I see mentioned in so many posts on the blogs I read.

I went to the Cat a little after eight AM. Shortly after, some of the regulars started to hobble in. We sit at a big oval wooden dining room table with a hodge podge of chairs that creak and groan and wobble. The table wobbles too. Lean on one end and the other end does a dance.

Amy stopped by and went to the counter and ordered up her morning brew, straight coffee. Mark had his coffee in the largest mug available and Darl came from the bakery across the street with a ciabatta roll. He gets a mug of coffee and a small ramekin of butter from the coffee shop folks, but buys the roll across the street. And although the same woman owns both businesses, she keeps them totally separated.

I was drinking my double Americano. I desire that strong coffee taste more than the caffeine. Curtis was next. Curtis is the head bread baker. He brought his own “to go” cup from the bakery. They serve coffee there as well and its cheaper than the coffee shop. See, I told you she keeps the businesses separate. Not many places you can get away with bringing in your own coffee to a coffee shop. Folks do it all the time here at the Cat.

Barb came in, Mark left, Amy left and we were all joined by Dale and Donna. These folks live in Florida during the winter. Snow birds you’d call em’. They had just left for their winter abode when a death in the family summoned them back to Ashland for the funeral. Wayne and Donna were right behind them and Jody passed through and said hello, but didn’t sit and stay.

The women came through, Deb and Pat. They are there most mornings and rarely sit with the crowd at the oval table, but banter across the room at us, usually giving our politics a thumbs up or our manners a thumbs down.

Conversations run the gamut here. Anything and everything is discussed. Local and National politics. Fishing and hunting reports. Weather from the Twin Cities of Saint Paul and Minneapolis to Duluth/Superior to Ironwood Michigan and everywhere in between. A form of weather, ice conditions on the Great Gitchegumee, Lake Superior, and the bird watch reports and counts. How many deer were seen or hit on the local highways through the forests. How so-and-so is doing after their operation and has anyone heard from this or that guy lately and how are this or that one’s wife or this or that one’s husband or Mom and Dad.

We are a family of strangers. We all know about each other’s pain and suffering to some extent. What the doctor said last time we went, what church you go, or don’t go, to. What kind of cars we all drive. Each others likes and dislikes and how we drink our coffee and what kind of rolls, bagels or muffins we eat. You know, friends.

There is art hanging on the old brick walls of the Black Cat. Each month, an artist puts up his or her works and a short biography of themselves and their work. Paintings, clothing and jewelry, sculpture, photography. It is scrutinized by the folks at the table. Someone, almost everyone, knows the artist. Other artists tell us which month their show will be on the walls and what they are working on and hope they have their stuff ready by the deadline.

I tell them about my friend that makes her own ceramic tiles to break up and make mosaic masterpieces. I mention the person who draws the figures or uses color so dramatically that I see on the blogs. I’m asked about my snowshoes and my Drum and Dream Catcher making. I don’t consider myself an artist. I just make stuff that people need.

The baristas are a great bunch. I know there are about seven or eight of them. I’m not sure what day which one will be there. Five of them know what I drink when I come in. Four of them know my name and use it. Three of them talk with me at length about a wide variety of subjects. Two are mothers and one is a published writer that says she’ll split firewood for the right to go to the  Cabinette and put her pen to paper because it is such a quiet peaceful lovely spot to work.

I’ve only lived in Ashland for 16 months. But I have been coming to or through Ashland for quite some time. The Cat opened probably about eight or nine years ago. In 1998 I was working in Ashland on a filming crew for the movie, "A Simple Plan". The Black Cat was a sure stop off for a cuppa joe when in town doing errands. On my trips up to one of the artesian wells that flow 24/7 to fill my carboys and sustain my water snob reputation, I always stopped in at The Cat for a look see. I’ve been drinking this water exclusively for the last ten years. Pure, no chemicals, rich in minerals, icy cold, refreshing. I’m no snob, just thirsty.

Tara, the manager of the Cat, has a singing career here in Ashland. We went to hear her sing last Friday night at the 2nd Street Bistro. Cait, she’s the one that will split the firewood and was published by Random House, is an energetic friendly sort. Her good nature spreads smiles all about each time she works. I just bought her book. Take a look by Googling her name, Cait Irwin.

The other day I was talking with Cait and we both pretty much agree that the Black Cat is a home of sorts to us regulars. There is always a place to sit with someone you know. Discussions flow freely and friendships build strong foundations.

It’s nice to have such a place in my life. I feel that way around the blogs as well. Some are places where I know I can go and hang out and read and comment and ask questions and generally make a fool of myself if I want to. Good to have these outlets.

Now, the sun is high in the sky. I’m leaving for Chicago tomorrow morning to visit Mom and Sister. Brother will be there too as he is traveling over the holidays from Arizona. The whole family will be together for a day or two.  I’ll be home Thursday. Then, it’s crunch time. The ability to get through the next four days and that long weekend will rely solely on me and the way I will be thinking about things. Looks like a cakewalk.

Peace to you all.

Author’s Notes and Epilogue:

I wrote this sometime in December of 2006. I returned to The Black Cat in Ashland, WI last weekend, August of 2012. I get to and through Ashland once in a while. Sometimes on purpose, sometimes as an aside to a trip I might be on.

This time, I saw Amy. She was just closing her stand of art cards and jewelry she makes and sells at the Saturday Morning Farmer’s Market. The Farmer’s Market is held in the parking lot adjacent to the Ashland Bakery, across Chappell Avenue from the Cat.

I walked across the street and stepped into the Cat. Tara was there and recognized me. I got a smile and a big “Hello”. I hadn’t been to Ashland in a while and hadn’t seen Tara in a really long time. It was great to be remembered. While I stood in line to order my Americano, (some habits are hard to break), I saw Sue come out of the back room. We caught each other’s eye and smiled and said, “Hi”.

Behind Sue was a good friend. Her name is Cheryl, but I only know her as Marsha. I call her Marsha, Marsha, Marsha as if I’m talking to Marsha Brady of The Brady Bunch fame. We stood in line, talking, hugging and smiling. I ordered my coffee and a cinnamon roll and went out front and grabbed a table on the sidewalk.

I was joined by the group of motorcycle riders I was riding with this particular weekend, then Sue and Marsha, Marsha, Marsha came out and we got more chairs from inside and had a regular circle that spread almost to the curb. I asked Marsha, Marsha, Marsha about Rick and Wayne and the others, but lately, there had been no sightings. I haven’t seen or written an e-mail to either of them lately myself.

It was funny as I think about it. Sue wanted a bagel. She had to go across the street to buy a bagel, then bring it to the coffee shop for them to toast it, put it on the plate with the cream cheese and serve it. I wonder if she got a discount. The funny weird part about this is that Darl, who I mentioned in the original story, the one who bought the ciabatta roll from the bakery into the coffee shop every morning, used to date Sue. What syncronicity. Both Darl and the woman he dated get their bakery and hand carry it to the coffee shop. We lost Darl a few years ago.

As we sat there and I introduced my motorcycle riding friends to my Ashland friends, Liz got out of her car to shop next door at the co-op grocery. Liz was a barista here at The Cat years ago when I used to live in Ashland. She was the morning person and chose the music CD’s that played when I walked through the door. We noticed way back years ago that we had a very similar eclectic taste in music and became friends quickly.

Liz had quit the coffee shop before I moved away from Ashland. There was talk that she was going to move out East. I mentioned it and she shrugged her shoulders and said, “Oh well, some day I guess”. Then she turned the tables and asked me, “What about you? I thought you were going to move back to Ashland?”

My response was similar to hers, “Some day I will!” Then I asked Marsha, Marsha, Marsha if I could put a small RV trailer next to her garage off the alley and plug it in so I’d have a place to stay when I came to visit. She said, “Sure”.

It was a good visit to Ashland. To see the friendliness and slow-to-change day to day world of a small town. I liken it to Mayberry. Every time I get to Ashland and go to The Black Cat I feel this way, like I really would like to move back there, or at least have a place so I can come back more often on a regular basis. Not too many of these holdouts left in the world. I bet if I showed up there more often, things would be back to normal in no time flat. I’ll have to see what I can do about it.

Peace

Roundness

Haiku My Heart

August 3, 2012

Every Friday we gather. It's habit. It's fun. It's time to be poetic and share small moments of our lives with others via stories, photos and poetry in the form of haiku. To see more and find out to to participate, go to Rebecca's recuerda mi corazon.

The tunnel curves right

Or left from the other side

Which way will you choose

No, not talking about the upcoming election and which dogma you’re going to vote for when I ask which way you’ll choose. No, it’s more like the words of a couple of lines of the David Byrne song, “Independence Day” from his solo Rei Momo album in 1989, which fit neatly into the 5-7-5 haiku format:

This compass points in 

Two directions. And North and 

South are both the same

The yin and yang of all things. Or Einstein’s theory that for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. I believe it is that way in life. When an Elder passes to the next world, somewhere, a new life is born. When there is happiness and joy, somewhere is sorrow. Just like that tunnel, it just depends on which way you might be traveling on the road.

The traffic pattern in that tunnel may not be totally equal at any given moment, but can anyone tell me with total certainty that it doesn’t eventually even itself out?

I don’t look for this equalization pattern in my every day life experience, but I realized just today that I probably take it for granted.  Yet I sometimes feel it when it happens and places the karma directly in my path. Maybe I should pay more attention. Maybe the pacemaker was placed there, high on the left side of my chest, near my heart, and is working so the master plan can be even. Maybe we’re all just waiting for our opportunity to be a yang to some other ying.

I have felt out of balance because of the pacemaker thing. It has indeed affected my mind and is not just an apparatus implanted in my chest. I don’t know how many beats of my heart are generated by the electrical impulse of the Medtronic device and how many are my own and still generated by being alive.

And what about the roundness of life. There is no beginning. There is no end to the circle. There is no one in front or behind. At any place on the circle we are present. At any time in the cycle of life or standing on the round globe as the round Grandfather Sun moves in a circular motion and the round Sacred Earth Mother spins around with Grandmother Moon chasing. Does the pacemaker keep me in rhythm for a reason?

How the ocean waves and river currents round the edges of a squared off or oblique edged stone. How we wear, from our rounded fingertips, the edges of objects we touch, and over much time and use, turn the object into a roundness. 

Obscure thoughts? Maybe. But maybe they have come to me to say something to someone, send a message or just remind me how precious life is. Something I might have needed to hear so another occurrence could take place to complete another circle somewhere, in this life, on this planet, in this solar system, within the chambers of our hearts.

Peace

A relationship Has Ended

Facebook. It’s part of the language. It is the flagship of social networking. I remember, and not that long ago, defending the fact that I used it and had more pleasing experiences than unpleasant ones.

I reconnected with my old high school and grade school friends and acquaintances. I got in touch and had an easy way to stay connected with long lost family members. Friends from every era of my life came and went through the Facebook profile. I could read about them and they could read about me.

Where I proudly went to High School

It’s over. I’ve had enough. Facebook has gotten the better of me already and I know that, but I’m done. Here’s the last Facebook post I wrote:

This is my last post on Facebook until, and/or if, I change my mind. If you want to contact me, use e-mail, spadoman@gmail.com
If you need my phone number, e-mail me and ask me for it. If you want me to have your e-mail and/or phone number, e-mail it to me.
Facebook has crossed the line and I don't want to be involved and exposed to it any longer. It looks like old posts and comments will remain, for now.
One of the more fabulous parts of being on Facebook has been the reconnection with many old friends and school mates. I hope to hear from you, and also hope you'll want to hear from me. Peace to all.

I really don’t want to lose contact with my friends, but I can’t allow myself the daily visits to Facebook any longer. If I search for saddlebags for my motorcycle on Google, then I see motorcycle saddlebag advertisements on my Facebook side bar. Same with anything I happen to search for. I do a lot of browsing going gaga over motorcycle parts, so I get suggestions on my side bar and in my spam mailbox on Gmail that shows me they know exactly what I’ve been looking at.

When they want me to see about home refinancing, solar windows or how to save money on my car insurance, the ad usually has a women with large augmented breasts, with extreme emphasis on the boobs, to announce the ad. I haven’t been looking at porn or looking to buy breasts on Ebay or Craigslist, but being a male, they are selling sex, just like TV does. By the way, they screwed up because they don’t really know what kind of woman makes my head turn. See ladies, it happens to men as well.

I don’t see ⅔’s of what my Facebook friends post. I see the same 10-15 people every day, over and over. I ask FB not to post the game invites, they do anyway and clutter up the other side of my page with requests to play Facebook games. I don’t want to play games. I did at one time, but didn’t want to be sitting in my chair doing the games, so I quit them all.

A popular Facebook game, Farmville

I've lost contact with many friends because they play games and that's all I see is their game moves on their status reports. They don't ever say anything personal to me, they just play the games. That is their prerogative, but if I don't care to look through pages and pages of Farmville or any other game scenarios and I block the content, I lose that friend and the contact, and the only way I can find them is to type in their name and wade through page upon page of game data.

I don’t even see the photos my spousal unit posts on her status!  If I search a friend’s name, I’ll see their page and know that time and many posts have passed and I didn’t get to see any of them. Facebook suggests who my friends should be. They suggest all kinds of things in their attempt to make money. Do you really think they can have a network this large throughout the world and not be making money? It’s the underhanded way they do it that really bothers me.

I had chosen to let them do it so I can stay in contact with my friends, play games and have a social network to belong to, but I don’t choose to any longer. If you do, I don’t judge you or do any name calling. I just accept the fact that to some, it doesn’t matter. That is a personal choice and I have made mine.

I get spam mail on my e-mail accounts from firms that have something I looked up information about on Google. I am always being harassed to give my cell phone number to them, and if I want to read most stories, I need to allow them to share my information. One time, years ago, I put my cell phone number in an ad and my cell phone bill went up by $9.99 every month. I went months before I noticed it and paid for a service I didn't want or even know I had signed up for. My blunder, I know, but to me, that is an unethical way to make money and the same as theft.

I actually have met people that have become “friends”, because they were friends with someone that I was friends with, but they don’t know me and I don’t know them. I even have one "friend" that I have been in contact with for over three years because she saw a picture of me on my motorcycle on someone else's page! And although this isn’t so bad as it broadens a person’s horizons and the idea of making a new friend is enjoyable, I find myself spending more time with people I’ve never met and don’t know as the person I do know and was excited about reconnecting with fades away in to the sunset.

No More!

I asked my friends to give me their e-mail addresses and if they want, their phone number. I’ll keep in touch when I need or want to. They can have mine and do the same. I have plenty of friends that I don’t talk to real often, but when we do talk or get together, it will be like we never had a gap of time when we didn’t have a chat. I much prefer getting an e-mail, see a text or getting a call from someone than trying to edge in a serious comment along with so many others. How about a letter on paper delivered by the US Postal Service?

Even though I’m never ashamed of what I’m saying to someone, some correspondence needs to be personal. Commenting on a funny, political or satirical photo or other posting might not be the place to ask the simple question of “How’re ya doin’?”

Facebook already has so much information on everyone. Your tendencies as to what you look at while browsing, for instance, drives the spam mail you get. Your Facebook page gathers information even when you are not on Facebook itself. They keep an eye on you. Now, with Facebook changing your e-mail to (so-and-so)@facebook.com, we’ve let them control everything in and out of our lives. This blog is a Google run deal. I’m sure the content here is used like this as well to some extent. I know there are other blog hosting sites and I’m frantically looking for one right now.

There you have it. My reasons for leaving Facebook and my lament about knowing there will be some of the great people that I know that will no longer “Poke” me or say “Hello”, “Good Morning” or “Have a Safe Trip.”

In my perfect world, I’ll get up, power on the computer and see an e-mail from someone that just wants to say Hi and let me know they’ve been thinking about me and decided to touch base. Or better yet, start a discussion about whatever it is they might want to talk about. Something in my life that they read on the blog, or something in theirs that they want to say.

I posted this essay on my blog, Round Circle. I also linked to it on my Facebook page. So, I guess the announcement about not participating on Facebook is already a lie, but I’ll risk it to let my feelings be known and in hopes of not losing years of contacts to cyberspace.

Peace to all

Haiku My Heart

July 27, 2012

Every Friday, we come together and share. We write and do show and tell through our poetic words. Friends have been made and the circle grows as we visit each other. Have a look. See if you'd like to join us. You can find all you need at Rebecca's recuerda mi corazon.

Maggie, Please come back

I knew you would, if you could

Never ending dream

Thirty Nine. She’d have been thirty nine on the 26th of July, 2012. That was yesterday. We had cake after dinner. I try to remember more, but the years have taken away some of it. 

The last time I saw her in person was at her high school graduation on a Monday night in June, 1991, June 4th. It was held in downtown St. Paul at the Roy Wilkins auditorium. Then, we went to Applebee’s and had dinner.

Graduation night, June 4, 1991, with her friends Bobby and Adrienne, in the green dress

The next day, her Mom and sisters and I left to live and work in Northern Minnesota at a YMCA Camp called Camp Menogyn. Maggie stayed in St. Paul and had a small efficiency apartment a few blocks from her work and on the bus line, so in the Fall, she could take the bus to classes at the University of Minnesota.

Maggie inn the steps of her apartment building, 1991

Instead of the typical kid going off to college and the family staying back in the home town, we went off to work way up on the Canadian border and the kid stayed in the home town.

My fondest memory, the scene that I see over and over in my mind’s eye, was when I went to Camp Menogyn for a few weeks the month before, May of 1991. I went to set up the kitchen and orientate myself to the logistics of the camp.

The day I returned, I was up in the apartment and Maggie got home from school. She bounded up the flight of stairs that led to our apartment on Goodrich Avenue. I see her coming up that stairwell, screaming and smiling, in a hurry to get up there to see me, her dad, because I had been away. I remember the thunderous noise of her footsteps as she rushed up the wooden steps in her exuberance.

I’m glad that is the memory I see. I wish I would wake up now, and have it all be a dream. My God how I miss her.

I can’t help but wonder what things would be like if this tragic event hadn’t taken place. She was already in college at 17, with multiple post-secondary education credits. Her boyfriend, Bobby Jens, was already the perfect, respectful, courageous son-in-law, and that was when they were dating! She had achieved things that many people don’t achieve in a lifetime, like her acceptance into the first class of the Rudy Perpich Center for the Arts.

I wrote a song some short time after she left us. I noticed that some of the lines fit right into the 5-7-5 Haiku, so I am using it today for Haiku My Heart. After all, nothing has ever touched my heart more than my children and Grandchildren. Maggie was our first born child. She taught me what love is. So, the Haiku is truly from the heart, about the heart and for the heart and soul of a family.

Here are the words, I have never put a title on this:

When I was young

I followed my dreams

My friends thought I was crazy

With some of my schemes

But you stood by me, baby

Through good and through bad

Now the dream is over

The end is so sad

Chorus

Maggie, please come back

I knew you would if you could

Through twenty years of marriage

The love did divide

‘Twas a Pearl named Maggie

So sweet and sublime

She awakened our spirits

And of others around

Made her mark on the world

Her legend lives on

Chorus

Life is a card game

The luck of the draw

It was comin’ up aces

But fate had a flaw

Something has happened

No more smilin' sweet song

Our world has ended

Maggie is gone

Chorus

fin

Dale Apartments in St. Paul, MN. I snapped a cell phone shot as I sat at the light outside Maggie's apartment building yesterday

Please don’t be sad. Death is a part of life. No one gets out alive. I accept this, and although I would have wanted it to be different and every one I ever knew to die of old age after me, that’s not the master plan for every living creature. I mark this day because it is just that, this day. Yesterday was Maggie's birthday, and like we would feel after a grand celebration, we feel everyday.

Margaret Ellen (Maggie) Spado

July 26, 1973 -- June 8, 1991

Peace to all

Journaling, 40 Years After the Fact

Good Morning

Some time ago, I wrote an article mentioning all the different jobs I’ve had over the years. There were indeed quite a few. The post mentions 81 jobs that I’ve held. Some I did one day, some I did for years. Working for wages is what we do to support ourselves and our families.

Some of the jobs I have had were certainly more glamorous than others. When the subject comes up and the conversation goes over to what we do for work, the motion picture production business gets mentioned. So many people find that it is a big deal to have worked with the movie stars.

I guess the conversation sort of flitters out when I mention sorting tomatoes for minimum wage at a day labor facility. Yeah, really. I sorted tomatoes. They were in cardboard fruit boxes and came down a conveyor. I’d grab a box and pull it off the rollers and put it in front of me. I’d open the lid and pick up a tomato. If it was red, it went in this box. Green, and it goes to the other one. Small, large, small red, small green, large red, large green, medium red… and so on and so forth.

The thing about working, no matter if you have had one job or eighty one like I’ve had, is that every day you may do the same thing, but you do experience different people, different weather, different things in every aspect of a job that differ from day to day.

I have held many jobs a a furniture mover for a few different companies over the years, mostly when I was a lot younger and stronger. Furniture moving is unique in that when you do household moving or furniture delivery, you go into peoples homes. Different people, every day.

Not only are you in their homes, but we see the rooms in those homes. The bedrooms, the closets, all the rooms. I’m sure I’ve used the bathroom in a large percentage of the homes I went into to deliver furniture or move someone from one place to another. By the way, in Chicago, no one that lived in a first floor apartment and was moving to a first floor apartment ever called the movers. People on the third floor moving to another third floor called the movers.

So, different people everyday. Think about it. People of every ilk. People with all sorts of personalities and all kinds of furniture. Old heavy steamer trunks, spindly legged tables, large items, small items, over packed boxes, under packed boxes. One lady handed me a light bulb once as I was carrying an armload of boxes out the door, and another man didn’t pay attention to anything we moved except one very ugly frail piece of crap wooden breakfront that he called his Welsh cabinet!

The large van lines that I worked for in Chicago, Allied Van Lines, was run by a company called Jackson Storage and Van Company. They had six offices in and around Chicago. I worked at all six at one time or another. Chicago, LaGrange, Oak Park, West Chicago, Naperville and Maywood.

The office and warehouse for Jackson Storage and Van on Madison Street in Chicago. We called this Number 7. I don't know why. The piano moving division worked out of this office.

The company would do local and long distance moving. We had some of our own long distance trucks that worked out of the company’s offices and other long distance drivers would come to our warehouses to deliver a customers belongings or put them in storage.

We did all kinds of moving. We moved single items, like a piano, or a whole household. We did commercial jobs where 40 and 50 men would move an entire corporate office in the course of a weekend.

One time we had to move an entire apartment complex out to other places and to storage. A water main had broken and they had a central boiler. No heat in the middle of a cold damp Chicago winter. It was going to be a long term fix to get heat back into the building and pipes were freezing and bursting, then that water would freeze in the hallways and stairwells.

We moved them all. Came in, hauled boxes in and packed everything, then loaded onto trucks and moved people to hotels, apartments and some folks had their belongings put into storage until they found a place to live.

I actually have bad dreams about having to do all this work and I just arrived at the apartment complex when I wake up. That is such a miserable feeling.

I remember having to do evictions. The Sheriff would be waiting for us and when we arrived, he’d knock on the door and walk in and serve the eviction papers to the tenant. We’d go in and get everything out of the house or apartment and put it on the front lawn.

I’m sorry to say we were sometimes disrespectful and would throw stuff down the stairs instead of the usual care we would take with the property of a paying customer. The deputy sheriff didn’t care, he just wanted the place empty so the owner can come and take possession.

One time, this drugged out hooker was on the bed naked and begging us not to take her bed as she makes her living there. Honest!

I’ve moved sports figures in Chicago. Jackson had the contract for the Chicago Black Hawks Hockey team. I moved several hockey players over the years. Baseball players too from time to time, but there was no one at the house. The star was gone and the family in a fancy hotel in another city. We’d just go in and do our job, and all we’d see was their furniture.

People always were worried about us breaking stuff or if it will be safe in the truck. When we packed up boxes, we used a lot of newsprint to wrap stuff.The boxes were packed tightly so nothing moved. It was safe all right.

One of our tricks was to put an egg in a dresser drawer and pick up the dresser and take it out to the truck. When we got to the new home and delivered the dresser, we’d show the customer the unbroken egg. We earned a lot of tips for being safe with their personal belongings, and for those local moves where people pay by the hour, we moved fast and got tips for being below the estimate.

Some folks never got it and never tipped. They thought tips were for doormen, waitresses and cab drivers. Furniture moving companies were charging big bucks, so they thought we made a lot of money. It’s just like it is today. The company owners made the big bucks, we got paid an hourly wage for our labor.

Couldn't find an old photo I had of one of the Jackson Storage trucks I actually drover, but I did find this one. No relation to me, there are a lot mod guys named Joey

I’ll leave you with a story about one of the guys that drove the trucks over-the-road for Allied Van Lines. He worked out of our Chicago office. His name is Sam Carson.

Sam was a character. Many of the workers at Jackson were characters, but Sam was a cut above. A large man, over 6’ 2” tall, big, round and strong. Sam’s sense of humor was notorious, and his stories would have us riveted to his words.

One day, we were in an apartment on the third floor. These people had an upright piano. Upright pianos weigh in the neighborhood of 700 to 1000 pounds. The people that owned the piano didn’t want it to be moved and just assumed that the movers would take it out of the apartment that they were to vacate.

If it wasn’t part of the move, we weren’t going to take it. We would move it out of the house, but if it didn’t go into the truck to be delivered somewhere, all we could do is put it on the street.

Well, Sam got wind of this heavy piano that had to come down out of the tight winding third floor stairway, but wasn’t going to the new place with the rest of the furniture. He came up with an idea to save us all a lot of time and a lot of work.

First, he made sure the people didn’t want the piano any longer. They said they just wanted to get rid of it any way they could. That was Sam’s opening.

He nodded towards us labor types to lift one end of the piano and slide a 4-wheel dolly under its midsection. Now, it was on wheels and we rolled it out of the apartment and down the hall in the opposite direction of the stairwell.

Sam kicked open the huge steel fire door that went out to a fire escape and waved his arm underhand across his belly in a gesture that usually means, “After you.”

We rolled the piano to the edge of the building and lifted one end, slid the dolly out from underneath of it and let ‘er go end over end to the alley. Looked like slow motion for that piano to fall three stories.

It made a thunderous crash and held this awful sounding chord for what seemed like an eternity.

Now, this thing was scattered in the middle of the alley all broken into small pieces. Sam said, “See, now it’s easier to move!”

We went to the alley and sort of just pushed the remnants to the side so a car could drive through and left it there. I’m sure we missed a few keys, but the kids in the neighborhood were picking them up to keep as souvenirs.

Next time, I’ll tell you about the rat that Sam speared with a pointed edged spade shovel as it shimmied across the priceless antique baroque dining room table that was sitting in the truck.

Yep, job numbers 3, 5, 8, 11, 16, 25, 48, 50, 56, 58-60 and 77. Just a day in the life.

Peace

Miracles, Alive and Well

Haiku My Heart
July 20, 2012

Haiku My Heart happens every Friday at recuerda mi corazon. Come,  join and share with us the poetry of life's precious journey. Try your hand, there is no right or wrong if it comes from our hearts. You will be amazed.

Capturing my heart

Their precious glow captivates

From fruit of my loin

These are my two youngest Grandchildren. My daughter’s children. We call them G, on the left, and Yoody. G is five, Yoody is eight in human years. I can’t begin to describe the love I have for them as well as their older brother and sister who are not pictured here today. This love as strong as the love that created our daughters, the bearing of loving fruit. Sustenance for our souls.

This summer, these two have been hanging around a lot. We talk, listen to music, sing and dance, play games, eat and go places. Their Grandmother does all of that and more with them.

My daughter, their mother, posted this photo and it grabbed a hold of me. It is a perfect image of them. It is how I see them when I glance in their direction, making faces randomly in any given moment. Their love and happiness shining through.

When I pray for the health and happiness of the children, this is what I see as the answer to these prayers. I am so blessed to have this family and family life, the prosperity to not be hungry and have a safe and stable roof over our heads. To be able to cool ourselves in the searing summer heat, sheltered from the thunder rain, and the ability to stay warm and comfortable in the cold of the upper Midwest winter.

These and all children are the image of Spirit. Life’s lessons can be learned by watching and listening to them. As we guide them, they teach us. 

Their embrace akin

To owning piles of gold,

Their sleep brings us Peace

Author's Note:

Earlier this week, three children, very close in age to my own Grandchildren, were murdered in River Falls, WI, our home town. This tragedy will last a lifetime for all River Falls residents as well as in my heart. I will count my extreme blessings and pray for any kind of peace that can come to the Mother, family members and friends left behind. This post is an attempt to lift us up as there is no way to fathom this kind of loss. I pray hard for Peace for everyone concerned.

Peace to All

Lighten Up a Little

Just thought I'd inject some humor into the blog today with a few thoughts. It's a slow news day except for constant bantering about how freakin' hot it is. So it's hot. If you have a computer, you probably have air conditioning. If you don't have A/C, either sell or pawn your computer and get a small window unit to cool yourself down, or go to Walmart and use theirs for a couple of hours. For my friends in OZ, it's Winter? I don't believe it!

So, the kids were watching something on TV the other day. Actually, it was Anna, the 14 year old. She knows everything you know? She had the closed captioning on. I guess it was just too loud and noisy having other people in the room talking, so she used that feature that allows the words the actors are speaking to be printed at the bottom of the screen.

I have trouble with some words and letters because of astigmatism. I told her to turn it up a little. She responded, "There is no sound, I'm using closed captioning."

I said, "I know, but don't the letters get bigger on the captions if you turn the sound up?"

I think it's a good idea if they don't have that function to invent it. Like large print books or large print keyboards. In fact, I think they should bring back the old analog phones with the big-as-yer-thumbprint numbers so I can see them to dial. (I don't think we 'dial' anymore, just like the cell phone doesn't 'ring'. Some things need to be changed.) Also big enough for my island sized paws to press down on a letter to send a text.

Example of a text I sent the other day:

Plz c if amma cam done over, i neerd tp asl her a question. thz

Talk about the fat fingered mambo on the keypad, I had a hard tome fit]guring out what I chad tried to say when my daughter asked me to interpret the message!

Another idea that came to mind is a new design for a plastic pitcher. You know how the person that takes the last slug from the lemonade leaves about a 1/2 ounce in the bottom of the pitcher, then puts it back into the refrigerator? Well, the one I'm inventing has a false bottom. It looks like there is an inch of liquid when the pitcher is empty. So, the last person to pick it up has to fill it and can't put it back into the fridge with 1/2 ounce left.

"How do we police this?" you ask. Well, it's simple. The pitcher has a hangman sign on the side of it to remind the user that if they put it back into the fridge empty, they will hang from the yard arm. (Might as well infuse some of the Pirate lore into the household, Aurghhhg Matey)

Lastly, I was talking with some folks the other day and the subject of kilts came up. You known the Scottish with their bag pipes, kilts, single malt whiskey and aptitude for being thrifty? Well, each year at the Triumph Motorcycle Rally in Taos, there are a couple of mates that wear a traditional kilt to the Saturday night Meet and Greet BBQ. The connection of Scotland and the British made Triumph brand and all.

So, I heard about some working man's kilts, similar to the rugged heavy cotton twill of tough wearing Carhartt work jeans. I looked it up and found this great site that sells Made in America kilts for any occasion, but does indeed cater to the working man, (or woman), with work wear kilts.

I am definitely going to order a pair of these to wear at the rally in September. The hardest decision will be to decide whether or not I will go commando or not. I say yes, what do you think? If not commando, my red micro-fiber breathable boxer briefs might do the trick in the event of the cooler weather that sometimes appears up in the mountains that time of year.

There you have it. My mid-week thoughts and reflections. "Hot", you say? ( Not the kilts, I know I'd look HOT wearing them, I'm talking about the stupid weather we're having.) Just maybe a tad. Might be frying my brain. Why else would I think up stuff like this?

Peace to all.