Just Two Inches

I don't know if it's the nostalgia involved in watching Hallmark movies non-stop for hours on end, the commercials on TV at this time of year, or that I shouldn't have risked drinking the eggnog that was a week past its carton date...but I am raring to go and ready to tell another story.

Actually I was only half kidding about being influenced by the commercials and the nostalgia. M.C. Hammer just popped out of a chimney, upside down, to tell a woman hammering several nails into a fireplace mantel that she "can't touch this" and it made me laugh out loud. With all due respect to the advertising company, it probably didn't influence whether or not I was going to buy their product...but it did influence whether or not I would write in my blog again today. At the risk of alienating a significant portion of my readers I would like to give you a rare glimpse into the inner workings of my slightly odd and mostly ADHD brain and give you the formula that spawned today's musings:
MC Hammer + holes in a wall + presents = blog about my brother

See...easy as pie. Wait a minute... pie + computer / divided by surface area of a rectangular prism....You don't want to hear all the details. I'll just get started.

Years and years ago Sylvia and I took the kids to go visit my brother in Indiana. It was a hoot of a trip that started when my dad gifted us a camper. We spent time sightseeing while traveling back to California. Our first stop was to my brother's house in the land of Goshen. Until Dan lived there I suspected that "Land o' Goshen!" was simply an expression my grandfather used to show that he was surprised and amazed. "You bowled 199 when you used my old ball? Well land o' Goshen!" The trip was quick and Dan had to work so we didn't get to spend more than a couple days there. He arranged with the homeowners association that we could park our new behemoth on an empty pad that was just itching for a placeholder.

We parked "Thunder" (The name the kids gave to the camper. They were lightning rookies back then. It made an impression) and Dan took us into his house to give us the grand tour. We, of course, did all the "good to see you's" and "did you have any trouble finding the place's" in the living room. It was a pretty good sized room with a giant sectional couch for lounging around while watching TV. The kitchen was equally large and attached to the living room. There was a family room off to the side and there were doors leading into the bedrooms. We got to see their room. Nice. The daughters'. Nice. The spare. Nice...also where Sylvia and I would stay. Then we got to see the son's room. It was nice but there was a little something extra in it.

People who are familiar with me are thinking, "Knowing Jeff. It could be anything!" A giant anaconda? No. A life-sized replica of a stormtrooper? I wish. A bag of miniature antlers suitable for gluing onto the heads of stuffed Jackrabbits? Nope. The extra additions in this room were approximately 20 holes in the wall.

The holes were not angry fist sized cavities. In fact, they were kind of tiny...but they were noticeable. I couldn't take it. "Uh Dan?"
"Yeah."
"What's the deal with the holes?"
"Oh. We tried to hang something but we wanted it to really stick so we looked for a stud. We never found one."
"Really. I never would have guessed."

Actually that is exactly what I guessed and I knew that they had never found a stud since the holes were not covered by anything. No artwork. No candle sconces. Not even dogs playing poker or velvet Elvis! Nothing! And what made the holes stand out even further is that all 20 of them were at the exact same height from the ground in a straight line across. You see, Dan had used the old tap the hammer on the wall trick to find the stud. It's a tried and true method among DIYers everywhere and many singing fish have been secured to the wall on stud mounted nails. Not this time.

I think it's time to reveal the final reason this row of holes was so striking and so memorable to me. They were somewhat randomly spaced. This was back in time before people carried cell phones and cameras still used film so I didn't get a picture of the wall and its holes. Allow me to try to paint a verbal picture. Starting at the left was a single hole. About a quarter inch to the right was another hole. Maybe half an inch away from that, another hole. This happened maybe six times to the right of the original hole, each being spaced from a quarter inch to a half inch apart. Then he skipped 2 inches. (allow me to say that again) Then he skipped 2 inches! Then he continued to poke holes in the wall until he finally gave up after 14 or 15 more tries, about 15 inches from the original hole. I could just feel the frustration emanating from the row of holes in the wall as they became less and less uniform toward the end of the row. Some even spread out to about an inch apart...but none of the spaces were larger than the 2 inch gap toward the start of the line.

For those of you not in the construction business I feel I should explain. A stud is a piece of wood framing that makes up the skeleton of the house. In order for there to be room to insulate the wooden frame it's built so that the studs are on edge causing there to be open space from the inside wall to the outside wall. That space is then filled with insulation. The standard depth of these spaces is 4 inches. The average width of these studs is 2 inches. These common pieces of lumber are called 2 by 4s. I mention this in hopes that you consider the coincidence of the width of these boards (2 inches) and the width of space that Dan skipped (also 2 inches...see where I'm going with this) when using his hammer to pound holes in the wall.

Well, I didn't say anything but I did decide to get him a house warming present the first time we went shopping. For generously allowing us to invade his home with a group of Californians I presented my brother with his own brand new stud finder! He, of course, held it up to his chest and we laughed when it squealed to signal that he had indeed found a stud. Probably the oldest joke in the construction business (although I hold my stud-finder to my head to find the stud...or large block of wood...tomAYto, tomAHto).

It's funny what triggers a memory. I lost my brother to diabetes a number of years ago and I never would have thought that of all the things there are to remember about him I would find myself laughing out loud recounting the story of the holey wall at his place in Indiana. I suppose I owe 3M a thank you for putting together a collection of images that gave me a happy memory...so thank you. I'll take all the memories you can give me.

By the way, in case you hadn't guessed...he found the stud in the wall. You'll never guess which 2-inch space was hiding a stud. Land o' Goshen!

Who's On First? (revisited)

What started as an attempt to be a responsible citizen ended up being one of the funniest stories my mother-in-law ever told me.

My mother-in-law, Ruth, who is in her 80s, is the picture of doing things the way she has always done them. It's a little problematic when someone wants to introduce something new to the routine, but it is great when there are things around the house that need doing. Every morning she gets up and begins her routine. Every week she does the activities that don't need to be done daily. She even has a few activities that fall into the once a month category. In order to respect her privacy I am going to skip most of the details of all of those things. But I suppose, if you were to imagine her sitting at the kitchen table reading her German newspaper every morning, glass of orange juice by the top right corner of the page, antique letter opener within hands reach, it would be ok.  (she opens her mail as soon as it comes...she would never slide her finger inside an envelope)

Yes, she is a woman of routines. In fact, she even has a few yearly tasks as well. She calls to get her gutters cleaned like clockwork. She services things whose instruction manuals suggested yearly service would be a good idea. And she calls the power company every year as soon as fall starts moving into winter. It's this last activity that I want to talk about today.

There's one more thing I need to mention about Ruth. She has lost her sense of smell. The doctors say it happens more often than people might think and there isn't really anything that can be done about it. If she lived between a refinery and a garbage dump I'd say losing your sense of smell would be a blessing. She lives in a lovely little neighborhood so it's mainly a bother. My wife and I figure it is a side-effect of living with a chain-smoker for the better part of 50 years. (Raleigh....unfiltered)

Back to Ruth's routine. She saw in a news report that a woman's house had burned down because there was a problem with her heater. When the weather got colder this poor woman turned her heater on like she'd done every year. This particular year, however, there was a problem that caused a failure and that failure caused a fire. It wasn't her fault. As it turns out, the only way anyone would have known that there was a problem was if she had a technician come to her house, take apart a portion of the heater, and use a special meter that detects trace amounts of natural gas. To alleviate everyone's fears, and to be responsible journalists, the article went on to point out that many utility companies offer a free service where someone would come out to inspect heaters and gas lines for anyone in their service areas. Ruth called PG&E. They do indeed offer such a service. A routine was born. That routine led to a phone call a few years ago. Here is how, from what she told me, I imagine it went:

"PG&E can I help you?"
"Yes. I want to get my heater checked."
"There's a problem with your heater?"
"No I want to get it checked."
"Does your heater not turn on dear?"

As an aside, because I wasn't there to hear this and because I think it would be funnier juxtaposed with Ruth's thick German accent, the woman from PG&E is from the deep south.

"I don't know if the heater turns on."
"Is there someone there who can help you turn it on?"
"I don't want to turn it on right now."
"You don't want to turn on your heater on?"
"No. I want to turn my heater on...but I want to get it checked."
"OK Darlin', let me see. You want to turn on your heater but it won't turn on so you need to get it checked. Right?"
"No. I want to get my heater checked so I can turn it on."
"I'm gonna just suggest that you turn the thermostat up and let's see what happens."
"I want to get it checked before I turn it on."
"Sweetie, PG&E doesn't fix heaters. You need to call someone who works on them in order to do that."
"Well I want it done for free."
"Well bless your heart. You'll have to pay for someone to come fix your heater. Repairmen have to make a living too."
"I just want to make sure that my house doesn't burn down."

Suggesting that her house was going to burn down kicked it up a notch...and triggered what I'm sure is a checklist of questions that need to be asked in these instances. I also imagine that she is sitting up completely straight and holding her headset against her ear. They told her at her call center training that something like this might happen. Today might be that day. She was ready. At attention. Concerned.

"Are you in danger?"
"I don't know. That's why I want someone to come check."
"If you feel like you are in danger evacuate the area and...."
"I don't have to evacuate. I just want to be able to turn on my heater."

Next question on the checklist.

"Do you smell gas ma'am?"
"I don't smell anything."

Relaxing a little. "Oh, well if you don't smell gas that is a good sign."
Emphasizing... "I don't smell anything!"
"Right, if you smell gas you should leave the area but since you don't smell gas I think you should call a technician to come fix your heater."
"But I don't smell anything."
"Exactly. Not smelling anything is a good sign."
"No. I don't smell anything so I want to get my heater checked."
"If you don't smell anything, you don't need to get your heater checked. They put something into the gas that makes it smell like rotten eggs. Do you smell rotten eggs?"
"I don't smell anything!"
"Great!"
"Not great! I want to get my heater checked because I don't smell anything!"
"But Sugar, if you don't smell rotten eggs, I don't think there is a problem."
"I don't smell anything."
"Perfect! If you don't smell anything that's what we want."
"I want to smell something. I don't smell anything."
"Oh no ma'am. Smelling something means there's a leak and we can come take care of a leak. It is not a pleasant smell, that gas, you don't want to smell it."

Both exasperated at this point.

"Will you please just send someone to my house to check my heater?"
"I can send someone to your house to check your gas line if you think there's a problem but ordinarily you would smell the rotten egg smell. It's very noticeable."

In unison (much like Abbot and Costello at the end of "Who's on First?")
"I DON'T SMELL ANYTHING!"

Heaven only knows how many times these two kept running around this conversational track always ending up at the same place they started but I am happy to report that the woman finally agreed, for self preservation's sake I'm sure, to send someone to Ruth's house. The PG&E technician that showed up was able to do, in person, what the poor woman could not hope to do over the phone. He cleared her heater for another year's usage and I got a story to tell.

Ironically, some months after this Sylvia and I happened to be over at Ruth's house when Sylvia turned on the heater. Thick smoke billowed out of all of her heater vents and filled the top foot and a half of her house with a haze in just about 30 seconds before we turned it off and called the fire department. We stopped it in time to prevent any damage and the fire department declared the house safe....but it smelled awful.

Ruth said, "I don't smell anything."

A Study {not really} of Vonnegut

I realize that it has been a long time since I have written here but...the last time I wrote I flew through the jet-wash of the pilot ahead of me. It caused my engines to stall and I went into a flat spin that sent me out over the water. When my R.I.O. (Radar Intercept Officer) ejected, he hit the canopy and...well I just can't talk about it, and I had a confidence problem...
....or maybe that was the movie Top Gun.  I get confused.

I had actually gotten the computer out of mothballs and dusted it off yesterday when something momentous happened in the house and I needed to pause my writing until the next morning. Later in the day my dad brought up an article he'd read about Kurt Vonnegut and how a letter he'd written to a school got published in a book about great quotes. As a comparison, whenever I write a letter to a school it is never published and the people in the office tend to look at me funny from then on.

The gist of Vonnegut's letter was that he was encouraging people to create something. He offered, as an exercise in creation, an assignment. He told the students that they should each write a poem. Not just a random collection of words (like some people's blog posts...amateurs) but an honest to goodness rhyming poem! Then he instructed the people who have agonized over finding rhymes for things like "Castille soap" and "Ipswich clams" (bastille rope and sandwich trams by the way) to tear their poems into pieces. Not just any old pieces either. "Teeny weeny" pieces! Never mind the fact that the author of Slaughterhouse 5  called for the destruction of people's hard work...he used the words "teeny weeny" to do so! He said that in creating without a plan to get rich and famous and have no intention other than creation you will grow your soul and you will be all the better for it. I'm going to assume the best and infer that my dad was suggesting that I could start writing again and I'll leave the tearing into teeny weeny pieces to the people who print out my blogs...and the occasional office staff of random public schools.

I'm sure this is not what he had in mind but here is my contribution:
A Haiku Poem
by Jeff Garrett

Kurt Vonnegut says
Creation is to your soul
As sweets are to waist

So there you have it. I have created something. I'm not sure if my soul has grown Mr. Vonnegut, but since I cannot afford to pay for alterations on my soul's wardrobe I'd be willing to try the rich and famous portion of creation for a bit...you know just to keep things interesting while paying off a credit card or two.

The Beginning of the End

I know that some people may be frightened at the title, "The Beginning of the End" but I'm afraid I may be understating things. You see, for the first time since October of my 7th grade year, I have broken my glasses. Well, I haven't really 'broken' them per se, but I did hear an unfamiliar "clink" as I rolled out of bed this morning. (The phone was ringing...it was Nature...she was calling me.) I'm accustomed to not reacting rashly when there are unknown sounds or feelings. Not shoving that drill bit case to where it should be all willy nilly because I felt something touching it that I couldn't see saved me an hour of picking through broken baby food jar glass to separate 300 various washers from rubble. Waiting to see if the vacuum cord is just a little tangled instead of dragging on something saved me from knocking down one of the wine glasses we got as a wedding present. And this morning, exploring the floor gingerly in the dark by gently moving my hand back and forth over the carpet before I lumbered off to the bathroom saved me from having to re-enact the BB gun seen in A Christmas Story where Raphie twists his into oblivion while he walks around in the snow after shooting his eye out. Side note: I sleep in a pink bunny costume most nights so it would have been adorable to watch on that secret reality show that is watching my every move via remote control cameras...True Story.

I mentioned 7th grade earlier. That wasn't because that was the first time I had broken my glasses, it was the first time I had worn glasses. I was taken away during school to a room for a vision screening. They had me read a poster that had the least inspirational message I had ever seen. I think it was in Latin. E, AI, POH, after that it was all a blur. I'm sure it says something like, "If you can't read this, go to the optometrist" but I never researched to find out. My parents took my sister, my brother, and me to Ronald H. Sand to see if I needed glasses. My sister lucked out, no glasses. My brother and I got to pick out our own frames. After what seemed like three and a half months while they mined the basic materials needed to make two pairs of little boy frames, I suspect from somewhere in the mountains of Nepal where all raw materials need to be smuggled out of the country between the toes of a Yak, we waited for our spectacles. He chose gold metal frames that made him look like a miniature John Denver. My silver teardrop shaped frames made me look like I'd picked out glasses while not being able to see anything. (note to parents: If the pudgy little love of your life has the cutest little chubby cheeks...do NOT let him choose teardrop shaped glasses. His high cheekbones will thank you.)

I learned, from watching middle child Jan The Brady Bunch, that having to get glasses was the worst thing that could ever happen to a kid...and I was off to junior high school, where everybody is kind differences are celebrated. I was happy to learn that life rarely imitated The Brady Bunch (even though I am a middle child...but let's not open up that can of worms) and I was largely ignored. That might also be that I prayed every night that absolutely nobody would notice that I was alive while in school and that the paneling colored clothing I wore would help me melt into the background. It was relatively soon after that this that a teacher pointed at me in class and said, "You, Garrett, you cussed me out and knocked over your desk before you ran out of the room! What are you gonna do when the principal calls you into his office?" Me (trying not to have a stroke from extreme embarrassment) squeaked out, "Tell him I didn't do it?" He bellowed, "WHO IS HE GOING TO BELIEVE!?" Even weaker than before, "you". "That's RIGHT! I will get believed so don't cross me!" I'm sure he was making a point...I think the point was that he was a bully and that I should be afraid every day I that I see him. But, happily, he never mentioned my glasses.

I went for years exchanging old glasses for new. Every time I was praised for not needing new ones before our insurance renewed (every two years) and I just kept plugging along...not bumping into things like buildings and aircraft carriers because I could see. At some point the doctor said that I was old and active enough to warrant getting a new style of glasses. They turned into sunglasses whenever I was outside. That was awesome! But the really interesting thing was that the new frames I got had springs that bent the arms to the side when in trouble. They could get knocked off my face in a game of basketball and they still wouldn't break! Now all I needed to do was learn how to play basketball and I would be all set!

After learning about the frames with the stretchy springs I felt invincible! I even toyed with half wire frames that looked like they were held together by magic...but (spoiler alert) were really held together by tiny little clear plastic cord that I also never broke. For a while I got two frames that were exactly the same and simply traded new lenses for old every other year. This way I didn't have to pay for new frames at all and if I needed to wear my 'back-up' pair because I had broken a pair (yeah right) then nobody would notice at all! I still had them all in a cabinet in my room until I saw something that said I could donate old glasses to help people in need. I put a handful of perfectly usable old glasses into the box and hoped that a lot of people thought they would look retro in my old, old glasses. They were out of my hands...and off of my face.

And then jump ahead to this morning. There I am blindly reaching around for what turned out to be my glasses on the floor. I suppose you could say I found my glass on the floor since I found only part of what normally resides on my face. I gingerly picked up the frame and felt that there was a significantly different feel to them. One of the lenses had popped out and there was an odd angle to the frame. Pieces moved that had never moved before. I quickly ran through last night's bedtime. I was pretty tired. I was reading something. I must have fallen asleep with my glasses on and they broke at the edge of the frame. They feel really bent out of shape and the pieces that aren't connected feel sharp like broken metal. Darnit. Turn 50 and everything starts to go to heck. Oh well, guess I wasn't really planning on using that birthday money on anything else anyway.

I tried turned on my phone as a flashlight and tried to find all the pieces I would need to make them work for the day while hoping that it had just come undone somehow. I had visions of crawling around the floor squinting and looking for the tiniest screw known to mankind with the world's tiniest magnifying lens. And while I am at it. What kind of a cruel irony is it that the people who can see the least are expected to manipulate the things that require the best vision...while working on the thing that helps them see better! But I digress....

 I decided to go out and examine the twisted wreckage in the some serious light and I found one of the greatest boons to mankind that I have ever seen. The frame had simply come undone and, yes, the screw is now embedded in the hinge. While employing my trusty Swiss Army knife and its glasses screwdriver that lives in the corkscrew I was able to mend my broken life and am bespectacled again.

So that's it. My record still stands! I am the king of not breaking my glasses! Now if I could only remember where I put them.

The Squeaky Wheel

It was eleven o'clock at night, many years ago, and I had just realized that I had forgotten to put out the garbage cans...again. I swept through the house as quietly as I could so I wouldn't wake our two young kids or Sylvia, my wife. We were in an exceptionally stressful season in our lives and I wanted everyone to get as much sleep as possible.

When everything was gathered together I hit the button on the sectional two-car garage door and it squealed and squeaked and complained like normal. It had gotten so loud lately that I was thankful the neighbors hadn't complained about the noise or suggested strongly that we get it fixed. Money to do that just wasn't in the cards any time in the foreseeable future. I hoped that the noise wouldn't wake one of the kids, who would then call for mommy, which would set off an hour of glasses of water, tucked covers, and reassurances that everything would be alright and that it was time to go back to bed. I waited...silence.

I brought the three sorted cans to the curb and walked back to the garage. I hit the button to close the door and held my breath as I pressed my luck for the second time in only ten minutes. The usual high-pitched squealing as the metal wheels struggled down the tracks was different, more strained. Then the sound changed into something that was unusual and horrible. The door itself was stuck on one side but the motor kept trying to force it. The motor whined, the metal tracks groaned, and the squealing was unbearable. It was like fingernails on a chalkboard times three. In the time that it took me to take all of this in and reach for the button to stop this cacophony, the safety mechanism in the system had kicked in and reversed the door's direction. I was thankful.  At least the noise would stop.

Here is where the problem really began. As the door moved back up to its horizontal position over the garage I heard metal hitting the floor. I saw the corner closest to me begin to sag away from the track. Apparently the power of the motor against the jammed door had bent things out of shape. I quickly leaned into the house to see if there were any sounds from the children. I completely expected Sylvia to come walking out in her pink flowered robe squinting against the light to see what that horrible sound was. Thankfully, she never came.

I quickly assessed the situation and determined that one wheel had worked its way out of its holder and if I could just slide it back in I could probably maneuver the door into the closed position so I could finally go to bed. Thankfully, I thought, "I am a tall strong guy. No ladder needed. I'll just reach up and push the wheel back in as I push the door back onto the track. I really, really don't want to have to be dealing with this right now, but I got this." Brute strength had worked for me many times before. I grabbed the greasy wheel from the floor, stood under the hanging corner, and began to push it into place. Immediately, the other side of the door drooped as more metal parts came crashing to the floor ten feet away. Now one whole section of the door was dangling precariously over my head. I took a closer look and saw that the next panel's wheels were just barely hanging into their holders and the slightest movement in the wrong direction would pull them out too. Still I thought, "Maybe I got this." I adjusted my strategy and gently moved the door in the direction that would help the wheels stay on. That was when I heard something that sounded like an enormous fishing reel casting about fifty feet of metal cable. The sprocket that was attached to the spring had broken and all of the cable was now spilling all over the door. The door lurched in the wrong direction and another wheel fell to the ground. When the wheel and its components hit the floor, it sounded an awful lot like, "You really don't got this." Now I was worried.

It was now nearing midnight, I correctly determined that there was no possible way I could close this door by myself, and the only person I could think of to even remotely help me was blissfully asleep at the end of the hall.  Waking her wasn't even a remote option. I started thinking about possible solutions and none of them were good. I foolishly touched the newly hanging corner of the second section and its partner wheels squeaked out a warning. Not good.

I assessed the situation. We weren't living in a horrible neighborhood but the thought of leaving the garage door open all night, and leaving the house essentially open for anyone to just walk in, was not going to happen. I wouldn't be able to sleep if I stayed in the garage all night and the astoundingly challenging group of students in my special education classroom needed a teacher who was on top of his game to be effective and safe. I saw no way out. I looked at the uncoiled wire, the two broken pieces of door, the growing number of wheels and parts on the ground, and I quickly sank from worry to despair.

I gave up. Inside my mind I was like a rabbit cornered by a pack of wolves, eyes darting this way and that looking for a solution but realizing that everywhere I looked only spelled out doom. Outwardly, I sat down heavily on the step that led from the garage to the kitchen and buried my face in my hands. Prayer was not really something that came naturally to me. I could never really wrap my head around the fact that the God of the universe would concern himself with what was going on in my little life. I almost silently whispered, "God, I give up. I can't do it myself. I need help."

As the word "help" still hung in the air I heard a cheery, "Hey Jeff.  Need some help?"

Our mechanically inclined neighbor, Mark, was uncharacteristically out for a walk in the middle of the night and passed by our door as he was on his way home. In about ten minutes we were able to coerce the pieces back together well enough for the door to come down and lock into place so I could get a little sleep. I asked Mark if he had ever been an answer to prayer before. He laughed and shook his head. I shook his hand and thanked him for the help but I never did ask him why he was out walking around in the cold at midnight. I knew, God had sent him to me to show me what a simple prayer can do.  And these days? Well, I won't pray for rain unless I am holding an open umbrella.

California Mega Storm (The hidden survivors journal)

It started out with my trying to sleep in.  For the first time in my entire teaching career (and my school attending career as well)  The districts decided to shut down the schools for the day...in anticipation of a horrendous storm.  I made my observations on Facebook to pass the time.  (Yes, where I live we had power the whole day.) I thought I would put all of my storm rambles together in one post.  Here's how the day before started, when I heard that I would not be allowed to teach the next day.

Ok, So I have resigned myself to being part of kooky California...but closing the schools because it's going to be rainy and windy...Now we're just gonna be laughed at by all the other states. Be prepared everyone, California is gonna have its lunch money taken away by Rhode Island and Texas is gonna give us a swirlie!

Then this is how I woke up.  It pretty much put me in a goofy mood.

So whoever had "5:08 A.M." in the 'When will Jeff's dogs wake him up on the day he unexpectedly gets to sleep in" pool...you are the winner. Unfortunately your prize was seen tumbling down the street in the wind.

I don't want to alarm anyone but our wind chimes were just playing the Minute Waltz in 47 seconds. Also, I just saw a silly old bear who seemed to be stuffed with fluff, and his little piglet friend, floating away while holding an umbrella. More updates to follow.

People kept asking me to continue updating...so I did.

Storm Survivor Journal:
12-11-2014
8:02 A.M.
I haven't seen any other survivors in more than an hour. They are all sleeping in. The dogs, who normally bark at trouble, are silent. I can only assume that means there is no trouble.
Spent the better part of an hour writing a constitution to rebuild society...then I thought, Nah, I'll just Google the one that already exists.
It's been days since I've had milk. Mostly because I haven't had the desire to have any. I am going to attempt the arduous walk into the kitchen to get some. Wish me luck.

Storm Survivor Journal:
12-11-2014
10:51 A.M.

Successfully navigated the parking lot where the tires pushed away the water that was standing in one area of more than 2 inches. It really put the "Most terrain: Level Moderate" rating on the tires to the test. Water splashed aside almost two feet away from the van. I did not need to put chains on at this time.

Inside the store I navigated the aisles and had difficulty finding the bare necessities. There were so many choices in the the way. I stocked up for a couple of days of existence before I realized that they only had one lane open. I was the only customer, so the wait wasn't terribly long. I was pleased to see that the complete breakdown of the monetary system had not happened yet. I was able to pay with a credit card.

I was able to get the food into the house before our son lost his mind. I briefly regretted teaching him about the Donner party, but when he poured himself a bowl of cereal, my fears abated.

Our indoor shower, that is installed in the middle of our living room ceiling, is working nicely but seems to be stuck in the "on" position. There are two gentlemen on the roof trying to turn the knob to "off" somehow. I did not hire snipers to watch their every move, mostly because I called them and asked them to do it.

Morale is high. I credit it to discovering that Looney Tunes plays reruns during the day when I would usually be working. I will attempt to update further as the seconds turn into minutes, and the minutes turn into hours...but for now, That's all folks!

Storm Survivor Journal:
12-11-2014
2:42 P.M.

The rationing has begun. I have taken stock in our supplies and determined that we need to be careful. The determining factors were: number of people in the house, number of bags of individual sized potato chips (Lay's Classic), and the likelihood that our teenage son has a hollow leg used to store food. Jake and Sylvia (my co-survivors) ventured out in the weather to go to a party. I can only hope that they made it, and eat enough to not notice that I have eaten most of our supplies.

It has become apparent that I need to pay attention to some sort of exercise regimen, I fear that my muscle tone has begun to atrophy. I blame the people who have sent me messages from the outside regarding my journal. I may have to send a coded message explaining that you are only encouraging me.

The rain has been steady for a few hours now. If I were to go outside I would be soaked to the skin in mere hours of being in the elements. I can certainly see the wisdom involved in having so many news reports and school closures. Imagine the turmoil that would ensue if hundreds of Californians were to walk around with slightly water spotted polo shirts.

I actually forgot one of my very own survival tips and paid dearly for the mistake. I walked outside to talk to someone on the front steps and I completely forgot to take off my glasses. The numerous steps involved in removing tiny little drizzle droplets from my glasses almost made me miss the beginning of the program I wanted to watch on TV.

The dogs are getting anxious and fidgety. I can only assume that it is due to it being only ten minutes away from their normal feeding time. Having a full month's supply of food is small comfort in the face of this one day storm. Somehow we must strive to go on...even in speckled shirts.

Storm Survivor Journal:
12-11-2014
4:03 P.M.

I can only assume that the nearly 12 hours of steady dampness has begun to take its toll on the people of California. There must be some sort of brain fungus that remains dormant until the roads stay wet for longer than a marathon of westerns starring Don Knotts (excluding the Apple Dumpling Gang series). I think the fungus has been activated.

I noticed the descent into madness while I braved the elements to check the mailbox. I was not washed into the abyss as I leaned out of the door. There was no mail yet so the danger has not fully passed yet.

The evidence, I saw two cars going down the road at a reasonable speed. The second car, however, was following so closely they could have been part of a fuel injected conga line. The only reason I can see that a person would follow so closely on a wet day like today is that his (or her) brain has been taken over by an extraordinary substance.

5:08
Had a nice surprise. My mom stopped by. I saw her from a distance, through the downpour, and opened the door while she disembarked from her weather gear. (closed her umbrella). There was no sign of her sherpa. I can only imagine that he was lost on the trip. I'm sure mom performed a nice ceremony next to the impromptu marker where he breathed his last.

Odd occurrence on this damp day. Our old fashioned telephone, the one attached to the wall, proved that it was effective on days like this. It's effective on other days too but it worked today like any other day. When it sprang to life I was a little startled because it is usually only used by salespeople and people conducting surveys. Today was no different. I was glad to see that it was operating as it should. It's a good thing too, that was the way my school district chose to inform me that they were going to force all of the innocent children of our district to trudge through the aftermath of this mega-storm and make them go to school. The bottoms of their shoes will be wet and there will most likely be soggy leaves for them to stomp on.

With them coming to school, fortunately, means that I will be going in to work. They say that the way to get over a traumatic event is to get right back into what you would do normally. I can only hope to recover from this experience...over time.

Storm Survivor Journal:
12-11-2014
11:43 P.M.

It is past time to go to bed and I just want to say that I am looking forward to a day where the most exciting thing will be when my entire class tells me, at nearly the same time, that they saw a lot of rain and wind yesterday.

I would like to say thank you for putting up with my silly little ramblings. I would also like to say that I understand that there were several places, relatively close by, that experienced real storm trouble and flooding. In trivializing the overreaction of the news media for our area I definitely did not mean to trivialize people who were going through actual hardship. Our thoughts and prayers are with everyone who have been inconvenienced, injured, or put out of their houses.

And so, with a slightly dampened spirit (of course the pun was intended) I crawl off to bed as I dream of which shower I will use in the morning since the gentlemen with the tarps failed to stem the rising tide of water continuing to pour into the living room. We're thinking of telling the insurance company that the storm blew away the entire second story of our house. Papa wants a new master bedroom! Wish us luck.

Still working on the emotional scars.  Day by day..............day.... by.... day.....

Cast Party

In the summer, even though we haven't done ANY camping due to a permanent malfunction with our trailer-pulling truck...and a hopefully non-permanent malfunction with our truck-replacing bank account, my mind wanders to the forest by bodies of water.  While my mind is out, wandering willy-nilly among the trees, it notices things that it then relates back to me in excruciating detail.  Usually at night, when I am trying to sleep, and have to get up early the next morning.  These memories are then the stories I relate to you all.

The last few camping stories have been about a friend of mine, since we went camping together a lot, but today I thought I would pick on a member of my family for a change.  My cousin Tom.  His family and my family did a lot of camping together while we were growing up.  There were times that we would stay for a week at a lake or a river and just hang out.  Tom was a bit more outdoorsy than me.  Of course that is like saying that centipedes have a few more feet than I do...but let's not quibble over semantics.  I am suddenly reminded, though, that after spending many unfruitful hot hours sitting on the edge of a lake, drowning worms, swatting mosquitoes, and essentially practicing casting, Tom's sister Kay came over and asked for a shot at fishing.  I, of course, said "Sure" since there were obviously no fish in the entire lake...and I was beginning to have my suspicions about whether or not there were any fish anywhere on the planet.  Kay took my rod and reel, cast it into the exact spot I was fishing, and in about eight seconds was walking back to her dad to show him the fish she caught.  Oh well...I wanted to go make myself a glass of Tang anyway.  Did you know that the astronauts drank that stuff?

Another time Tom and I were stomping around the banks of a smallish river/largish stream and I was watching him fish.  I went into semi-retirement after the whole showed-up-by-my-cousin incident at the lake. We walked around talking about nothing in particular (which was always my favorite part of fishing anyway) and the fish were not biting.  We didn't know it at the time but they were all in a group at the water's edge next to Kay...just waiting for her to hold out her hands, or a frying pan, so they could climb over each other to jump into her grasp...but I'm not bitter.  After quite a while, and the call from the camp that lunch was about to be ready, Tom decided that the best fishing would be in the middle of the water, casting upstream, and avoiding all of the trees from the bank so he could really send it out there.

We waded into the middle of the water and told the family that it would be one more cast and then we would come in.  Tom leaned back, set the reel, took a deep breath, and flung that Super Duper (#503) lure as hard as he could!  It was poetry!  There, standing in the middle of the river, looking upstream into the beauty of God's creation with enormous birch and fir trees leaning over each side of the bank casting shadows over their portion of the wide and swift cascading crystal blue water Tom had threaded the needle.  His lure did not go into the trees.  He wouldn't have been so rude as to trample on my specialty of catching the ever popular tree-trout.  His lure went straight down the sunny center of the river and disappeared into the distance.  It was unnatural how far it went!  It just seemed to go on forever!

Now, I always thought Tom was a great guy but this magnificent cast had ratcheted his stock up a few notches.  I was seriously impressed that anyone could have aligned the cosmic tumblers so perfectly with the right wind speed, line strength, reel tension, and aim to come together all at the same time.  I looked, open-mouthed, from the last place I could make out the lure to Tom's face.  His ever-present smile was just a little bit bigger right now.  The sides of his mouth pushing up toward his laughing eyes.  It was like a smirk that had just gotten completely out of control.  He started reeling it in.  He knew what he had done and the amazing cast he had made.  I think he was secretly glad that his pudgy bespectacled cousin was there as a witness to this religious event.  At this point telling you that a fish was on the other end of the line would have been too much.  My dear readers would be knocking over their computer monitors and yelling "SHENANIGANS!" into the air.  I agree.  While I do enjoy a good fish story, and I have been known to spin a tall tale once in a while, I will remind you that this is 100% true!

There we stood in the center of the river reeling in the lure.  Neither of us could stop grinning... still he reeled.  Lunch was all but forgotten...still he reeled.  We had our excuse ready for when our moms asked us why we were late...still he reeled.  Then he reeled some more.  And still more.  And suddenly the realization that even if he had caught the tail end of a low flying plane and it had pulled most of the line off of his reel...he would have been done by now.  Simultaneously we looked down at the reel as he continued to turn the crank...and we saw the tiniest end of the fishing line, flipflipflipflip, as it went around and around.  The lure had broken the line and flown off into the next county.  We laughed and worked our way back out of the river so we could go eat our balogna sandwiches, plain potato chips, tiny handfuls of homemade Gorp (trail mix complete with carob chips), and wash it all down with Tang (Did I mention that astronauts drink that stuff).

I don't really remember the reaction from the family to our telling of the greatest cast story in all history, but I will never forget the fun we had on all those trips together.  And Tom, don't worry.  The line breaking didn't make your standing go down a single notch.  In order to slide down that scale you would have had to do something particularly heinous... like catch a fish with my gear... in a matter of seconds... after I had been sitting in the hot sun working on my second degree sunburns and getting eating by mosquitoes... for hours... without so much as a single nibble!  But honestly, who would ever do something as horrible as that?