11:11:11—Hi, Dad!

I think about my dad a lot. He died at the too-young age of 55. I was 27 and I look at my daughters now, 34 and 28, and wish that I was at least half as wise when I was their ages so I could have talked so much more with my dad.

My dad was an interesting guy and he was interested in a lot of things. I am interested in many of those same things only I didn’t realize it in time. I regret that I didn’t talk to him about them. I was too wrapped up in my own life, married with children, too separate from my parents.

He would clear off the coffee table and put a pencil in the middle and stare at it for the longest time, trying to move it with his mind. I think about that and realize that we share the same curiosity for things like the power of our minds, physics—string theory, parallel or alternate universes, the great unknown.

I have a book, written by a friend/coworker of his, called “The Power of the Subconscious Mind.” I met this man when I was 12 and he signed the book for me. My dad really hoped it would spark something in me, I think. Back then I was unsparkable. But I kept that book and thought about that meeting every time I looked at it. Have picked it up several times and read some of it, and expect to try again. I normally don’t read self-help books, especially all the way through, and this has been no exception, but I keep it.

The older I get, the more I think about the small things I remember about my dad, and see that I missed so much of what made him into the kind person he was. And kind he was. He was always ready to give someone a helping hand. He had many talents but kindness coated them all.

And little kids loved “Uncle Lee.” He would teach them to play cards, all kinds of games and tricks, and could relate instructions in a way that kids could understand. He made them laugh; they liked his attention.

My dad was a tinkerer and a fixer. He fixed small appliances, going “down cellar” where he had a workshop. People brought him toasters that stopped working and he would fix them, and not charge them for it. He would laugh, saying that most of those toasters just needed a good cleaning.

He also built electronics, such as his prized reel-to-reel tape recorder. He bought kits from Heathkit (see http://www.heathkit-museum.com/hvmhifi.shtml for their electronics museum). He was good at that stuff and I think he might have been happier working in that field. Not that he was unhappy. I think my dad was pretty content with his life, working in the city, coming home for supper every night, puttering around the house and yard on the weekends. He liked being home, oiling the things that squeaked, taking care of his tools, repairing what he could.

My dad also liked dressing well for work; one of my jobs was polishing his shoes every Sunday night—he had two pair—and he wore suits to work, carrying his jacket carefully so as not to wrinkle it. In winter he would carry a car coat. He’d rarely actually wear it but he carried it with him just in case of emergency.

Although my dad was a homebody, he was always welcome at any party or gathering. He always had a smile and joke and liked people to be at ease. One of his favorite jokes was an insurance joke (he was in the business), a bumper sticker that read: Have You Hugged Your Actuary Today? Cracked him up!

He was an anglophile and while I knew we liked the same things, same kind of comedy—Laugh-In (it had a lot of British humor in it and we loved Judy Carne’s accent) and The Two Ronnies—I was older before I put a name to it. I was always fascinated with England and the rest of the U.K. and Ireland but just recently realized I got it from him. I should have known because we would watch Laugh-In or The Two Ronnies together, laughing so hard, we couldn’t speak although we tried to. He also loved Benny Hill and a good, raunchy joke!

Things that annoyed me about him when I was a teen are the things I remember with such fondness now. There were three or four songs off the Top 40 pop charts that my dad really enjoyed. He recorded “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” on his beloved reel-to-reel and thought it hilarious to blast it at 6 a.m. on a Sunday morning so his kids wouldn’t get to sleep in.

Another way he’d occasionally wake me up was he’d tiptoe upstairs to my door, turn the knob quietly with one hand, then he’d pound the door open with his other. I’d lurch up in bed, royally pissed off, but I couldn’t say a word, just glare while he laughed and told me it was time to get up. If I let loose my anger, then I was in for it. If only my eyes were lasers … now this is a favorite story of my growing up.

His other favorite songs included “Mrs. Robinson”—I have theories about why he liked it—and “American Pie.” He loved that song because it rhymed and he knew all the words after the first time he heard it, so he said. Whenever I hear those songs on the radio, it’s like my dad is saying, “Hi, Daughter.”

Speaking of rhymes, I get my fondness for ditties from my dad. He would write little rhyming poems every now and then; I’m not quite sure of the extent of them. But I have just one of the ones he wrote me still. I treasure it as it’s in his handwriting, too. I had it laminated a long time ago as the paper was decaying.

My dad was a woodworker as well. He taught himself to build things, from stuff he built when he was a young boy to the year everybody got round pedestal end tables for Christmas. “Down cellar” was his ’60s version of today’s man cave. And he was very proud when he added a lathe to his workshop. He built the table it was attached to out of 2x6s or 2x4s (I bet my brothers know what it was built from.)

There’s also a story I was told and have repeated that he built a digital watch, or clock, when he was very young, years before any of that stuff showed up in stores. I don’t know who told it to me and I even imagined that he was sad or wry that he didn’t have the help or resources to patent this or any of his other ideas. I think that because I have had a couple of great ideas in the past, never believed in them enough to do anything with them, only to see one come to pass years later. I also like to think my dad thought similarly to me, that if he had one great idea, he could have another.

My dad at one point bought or built a digital clock that showed hours:mins:seconds and it would tickle him to death if he could see it when it turned to 11:11:11. Every now and then, he would tune The Grundig radio in the office (my brother’s old room) to Greenwich, England, and turn the volume up really high so he could hear the ticking or gonging (funny I can't remember which, although I think there was also a voice) from anywhere in the house. He would make sure all the clocks were set as precisely as possible. He was so tickled by that. I loved that about him.

But my favorite story about my dad happened on what I believe might have been his very last birthday. It was a beautiful summer day. At one point, I’m sure he was on his lounge chair in the driveway, his iced tea and an ashtray next to him, watching the grass grow. My dad liked to read, detective novels—go figure—and when he needed another to read, he’d go to this newspaper/magazine/bookstore place at the TriTown Mall the next town over (it was open on Sunday mornings when nothing else was, which he liked).

So he decides to take off for the place, only this time he decides to take the highway instead of the back roads. He’s tooling along when a car pulls up alongside him and stays steady. He looks over to see who’s there, and lo and behold, a young woman leans out and pulls up her shirt and flashes him.

As I write this, I realize now that it was amazing my dad didn’t get into a wreck. He was so excited and just couldn’t believe it was anything short of a setup by his friends, as if they knew he’d be on that road at that moment. He told that story over and over for weeks, months. His all-time favorite story, by far. I loved that about him, too.

You’re Giving Me A Wah-Wah

Why do watering bans make little sense?

We have a watering ban in our county. I’d be willing to bet if you have a watering ban, it makes at least little to no sense.

Ours is such that between the hours 6 p.m. and 8 a.m. we are allowed to water on our day. If our house number ends in 0 or 1, we get to water on Mondays, 2-3 waters on Tuesdays and so on.

Nobody gets to water on the weekends. How does that make sense?

The timing of the ban, 6 p.m. to 8 a.m., is supposed to eliminate water evaporating from the sun in the heat of the day. In Florida, it may be a good idea from May until September, but I submit that October through April, people need to be able to water during daylight.

Specifically for those who have jobs and those who don’t.

If there truly is a water shortage, then why aren’t they choosing a number of gallons per person or per household and turning our water off when we’ve reached our monthly limit? That’s what I would expect if I were worried about a water shortage.

But I believe there isn’t, as referenced by a recent SmartPlanet interview with Susan Leal, former general manager of San Fran’s Public Utilities Commission, where she coauthored a book with Harvard professor Peter Rogers. Leal said at both the beginning and the end of the article, “There has been the same amount of water on the Earth since the beginning of time.” She said it twice, ostensibly to make her point that there is an increasing amount of people on Earth so there are more of us to use up this resource.

I say she involuntarily made my point: that the amount of water hasn’t been impacted by people; that it, in fact, evaporates and forms clouds and precipitates, replenishing itself.

I say:

… rainy areas becoming drier and drier areas becoming wetter is nature keeping things in balance, not human-inspired global warming.

… today’s recycling is not the end all and be all of saving the planet.

… going green and slapping on bumper stickers, or buying carbon credits, is not doing what you think it’s doing. It might not be making you a saver of the planet or even of your own life.

… things need to be investigated further; reading something in print or online does not make it real: You need to find reliable sources, ones that share your opinions and ones that challenge your opinions.

Further reading:
http://www.smartplanet.com/business/blog/smart-takes/why-were-running-out-of-water/11164/

Diagnoses: Things People Think They Know

Must tell you that when I was diagnosed, and diagnosed and diagnosed, with a million degenerative diseases and conditions, it was over time and it still takes all the time I have to try understanding it all. Nothing that I have will kill me--yay for me!--but on some days, because of what is going on in my neck, arms and hands, I could wish to be dead. (Just realized that I never do wish for death, only relief! and death is not the picture in my head when wishing. I'm so cool.)

The thing is, I got used to what I have and work around it, and after several years, with different things flaring and simmering back down, I still occasionally read all about the different things and what are the new treatments. Still talk to my docs about them. Still have to see the docs way more than regular folk.

But it's funny how friends, family and acquaintances view me and others with disabling conditions. Many of them know somebody who has what I have, or had what I have, and they want to tell me all about the treatment. Many have just read something on the subject and want to tell me all about it. These people are quite well meaning, but it gets very tiring after a while, refraining from saying, "Shut up! You have no idea and are only making me feel like you think I'm stupid. Not helpful."

I've done it myself, especially when meeting someone who has similar conditions to mine. But I try to get only to the point where we are finding common understanding because of shared pain. Ten people can have the same diagnoses and those ten people will be affected in ten dramatically different ways. It is the way it is. The same treatments affect them differently as well.

I've told you that to tell you this:

Something a woman once said has stayed with me. She wrote a column for the paper where I was the weekend editor and she came with me to a Reiki treatment I was getting at the time as she was writing a story about it. She walked with a cane as she had some neuropathy in her foot. She said, "People are always asking me if I've tried this and that. But after all this time, I don't know that I would change it if I could. It has become part of who I am."

It's been 7 years for me and I really understand that now.

I don't know that anyone will ever truly understand what I have, that movement brings me pain and that I cannot live without movement. Conditions keep evolving. But it's OK now if I'm never understood. And it's unbelievable to me what I can endure; it puts so many other things in their proper places of not-so-important. I am now this person because of the last seven years. Chronic pain? So what.

It’s Not Too Much To Ask

Somebody needs to invent a virtual touring mechanism for when you're watching a movie online or at home. This guy is lying on a couch and for a brief moment the camera panned over the art on the wall above. I didn't want to rewind (how prehistoric is that!); I just wanted to click and scroll over his head while he was talking.

In the same vein, I’ve been saying since 1999—at least!—that somebody needs to invent emailing food. People are always emailing me about what they are cooking. TORTURE! Of course, if you could email food, you could email anything and where would the post office be then? Defunct. This is my notice to the USPS: Give it up now! You Are Doomed! UPS and Fedex are probably still OK as there will still be things too large to email that people will want to send one another, such as elephants and furniture, and who knows how long it will take to work out the kinks of losing things in cyberspace. Could be a whole new industry for those out-of-work postal employees: Cyberspace Lost and Found.

Another thing, I need to learn to astral travel right away. Practice makes perfect but I’m not at all sure I know the right way to start. Any reputable teachers around? I think it could be something like the holograms in Stars Wars, which are really only videos, only more life size and ethereal—kind of ghostlike. Or like beaming yourself up and down like Star Trek. If everybody would learn how then it likely could put airplanes, etc., out of business, but I don’t think everybody is going to be able to do it, never mind want to do it. Although I don’t know why not.

Wait, let’s astral travel into the dang movie—now THAT’S an idea.

Youth In Asia (Killing Me Softly)

I have recently been investigating ways to kill myself painlessly. Just in case. Some of you may be a tad worried about that (no reason to, I assure you); some of you won’t read any further than this paragraph.

For those of you still here, this really is not about being depressed and unable to see the bright side of life. I have, so far, been unable to NOT see the bright side. But I am concerned about euthanasia, and have been off and on for at least the past 20 years. At least since Dr. Jack Kevorkian began making headlines.

During my quest for information I contacted a pharmacist friend of mine and asked what the best thing to use was. He wondered only if I was having a bad day. I’d say that was a pretty bad day, but I was saddened only that he didn’t realize where I was coming from. And he never would say. That may have been part of a pharmacist’s oath or something but the guy I used to know would have gotten where I was coming from. Instead he was suspicious, I think.

Putting religious beliefs aside, if you can, I want to examine euthanasia with the view of it being a practical matter, and possibly being a great relief to ourselves and our family and friends. I know that we are not dogs and cats, but I think we can look at pet euthanasia and apply its principles to people. Why wait until someone’s body and/or mind is ravaged by disease, their finances drained so there is more burden brought upon those left behind? Bad enough they have to watch their loved one suffer for far too long as it is.

Part of the outcry against human euthanasia is that people will be killing off family members and themselves willy-nilly at the first sign of a sniffle so as to benefit from expected inheritances.

I believe fervently that people, as a general rule, aren’t going to do this very often or easily. (I think that about abortion as well but haven’t looked at the numbers.) Pet owners sometimes still wait far too long to euthanize their pets, believing against all hope that they aren’t really suffering or there’s a chance they’ll get better. I believe having the option—without the legal trouble—to off yourself or help someone close to you to do so will not be misused any more than other things are misused. There is always going to be stupidity, and that cannot be legislated, even though we all know it’s been tried repeatedly and those attempts likely will continue as long there are politicians and attorneys.

I'm adamant I'd like the option if I became unable to care for myself in any way. I don't want my daughters, granddaughters, friends and family to have to see me that way for an extended period of time because my body was still willing to produce enough oxygen to carry on. That's no way to live, for me or them.

If it became a legal option to end your life, we could then procure the knowledge and the means to do it compassionately and with as little pain to the dying as possible. We are already half way there, with hospice. I don't know anyone who isn't grateful for the compassionate care received there. Let’s go one step further and have the legal option before we become dessicated if we so choose.

Let's Not And Say We Did

I'd like to call these Pet Peeves, but I've never had a pet who irked me in this way, so I'm calling it People Peeves. Things friends and lovers say that peeve. Clearly I attach too much importance to words, tending to take every single alphabet grouping to heart. I don't think I can work it any other way, though.

“I’m taking up too much of your time.”

Why? If you believe what you're saying, then what the hell are you doing that for? That is clearly a manipulation, especially when I give you no indication that you are doing so. Don’t you know yet that if I want to hang up the phone, I have no problems saying so? That if I am ready for you to leave, I can tell you easily that it’s time for you to do so? If you are ready to go or hang up, just say so instead of putting it on me. How old are you?

“Sorry to bother you.”

Another manipulation. You want me to say, “It’s no bother,” to give you reassurance. Because we are friends or acquaintances, I’ll give you the reassurance the first couple of times, but if you continue to say it every time you call, I’m going to stop talking to you eventually, because you annoy the crap out of me.

“I didn’t mean to …”

This is a tricky one, as sometimes we do things that bring up “unintended” consequences. I have to say that if you say that a lot, you won’t say it a lot to me as I won’t be putting myself out to you for long. And I’ll know when you mean to apologize.

“You think you know me, but you don’t.”

Ahhh, the phrase that indicates your long-time partner is hiding something from you and wants you to be astute enough to figure it out instead of coming clean themselves. It’s not good news.

"You have no idea how much I love you."

Well, you know what? It’s because you are doing a damn poor job of showing me. So shut up.

Walk Like An Egyptian

I still remember the feel of the sheets I found in a department store in downtown Kerrville, Texas, (the one that’s gone now, Schreiner’s) that I wanted to buy with what was left of my going-away gift certificate from my coworkers. I stood there, in the linens department, for 20 minutes, feeling those sheets—Egyptian cotton, 400-thread count—my fingers shoved into the packaging, caressing the material like a big weirdo and daydreaming about how it would feel to sleep on them.

Twenty minutes! Really!

The set was on sale for $80 and I had the money for it but I also had Libby and Bella, two pooches, who would have ruined them immediately while not experiencing a single pang of guilt for doing so.

Oh, but I wanted those sheets in the worst way! It is one of those times that stand out clearly in my mind. The longing—they call it that because the feeling lasts a bit—then denial, acceptance and the walk-away.

I loved that store and the things it sold: always they had lovely home goods, my favorite section.

I sighed, put the package down, looked around to see if anyone was taking special notice of me and walked away slowly, hoping to prevent myself from being arrested for acting like a sheets pervert.

I don’t have any Egyptian cotton sheets still, nor do I have Libby and Bella any more, and I’m OK with all of it.