Occupy Christmas Presents

A month or so before Christmas, Sharon said, "Honey, all I really want for Christmas this year is a round trip ticket to see Esther, Eric and the girls. It's expensive flying the day after Christmas." How could I say no? Of course I got her a couple of other things to open that morning (ear rings and clothes), but the ticket was the main thing one.

We did something similar for me. In late November I needed to buy a djembe. I wanted a medium size, such as a 14", to have reasonable bass but not need a trailer to move. I was going to get a plain one and ask one of my artist friends to decorate it, but fell for a nicer djembe with a tribal mask design-- which cost more. "Why don't we let this be my Christmas present?"

Sharon looked at the price tag. "That can be one of them."

I added a padded carrying bag, a Shure SM58 and a cable.

"OK, I guess that works."

Of course, she had a couple of things for me to open as well, some candy and two more, lovely, tie dyed tees by Happy Hippy Rose. (The third tie dye, the one with the djembe, was a birthday present.) And I had a couple of things for her to open.

One of the nice things about doing it this way is that it was very easy to not focus on the materialistic side of Christmas on the day. I love it when a plan comes together-- even when it's not mine.

Occupy Ourself!

My employer is building a new, six story headquarters because we are growing like crazy. As it turns out, we are growing even crazier than planned so the new building will be full by the time we occupy it. We've asked whether the building could be taller and were told no. So imagine my surprise today when I was given the proposed building usage by floor, including "floor 8: boardroom and labs".

My first guess was that we had talked the city into more floors, and the seventh was a super secret, unplottable floor, perhaps patterned after Number 12, Grimmauld Place, which would be pretty cool. Xilu suggested that perhaps there will be no seventh, and the eighth floor will hover. I like that idea even more because it would mean our anti-gravity research has paid off and our stock price will go through the roof-- assuming we know where the roof is, because that depends on the number of floors. My boss ominously hinted that I wasn't on the "need to know" list, which inclined me toward Xilu's idea.

But one of our copious Davids explained that seven and eight were actually part of the parking garage connected to the building.

Now there's a concept! Have the board meet in the parking garage! That will attract only the best people to our board. In case it's not obvious why, here's a short list of the pros and cons.

Pros:
- If board meetings go late, they can hear whatever band is playing on the roof at Momo's. We are, after all, in the Live Music Capital of the World.
- An excellent view of the sunset.

Cons:
- Exhaust fumes
- Skateboarders
- Austin weather varies from 15 on severe winter days to 115 on severe summer days.

Pros:
- Free sauna on severe summer days

Clearly the pros outweigh the cons, unless the board members all die from extreme temperatures and exhaust inhalation. In that case I'm sure we could get some of the skateboarders to fill in if we promise them the free food and drinks the board would otherwise consume, and access to the exclusive upper floor via elevator. After all, skaters gotta skate.

A Silver Spoon in Mom's Mouth

Mom grew up on the wrong side of the tracks in Selma during the Great Depression. Technically they weren't dirt poor; there was plenty of dirt. But not as much of everything else.

The youngest of three girls, all quite lovely, Mom was occasionally spoiled as the baby of the bunch. One of her uncles, a cab driver an hour away in Montgomery[1], used to come visit on Saturday. He'd give her a double handful of change-- mostly nickels and dimes.[2] It was usually around five dollars. Today that will barely buy you a fast food lunch; back then it could have fed the family for a week. But her uncle was adamant that his princess could spend it however she liked, so she and her sisters or friends blew it on ice cream, sodas and movies.

Given that movies cost a dime and sodas a nickel at the time, this is the equivalent of blowing several hundred dollars a week on movies and sodas today. She did occasionally buy something she wanted or needed, or presents, but overall, they didn't have much.

When Sharon and I were getting married, Mom was appalled that we weren't registering for fine china, glassware, silverware, etc. It meant a lot to her to have nice things, and she was adamant we deserved them. But there were a lot of things we needed (we had next to nothing) and stuff we couldn't use every day was not high on our list.

We went back and forth for a couple of weeks. Finally, she threw out the big one. "What of the president comes to eat?" I'm pretty sure I laughed, or at least snorted.

"Mom, Jimmy Carter is President. While I don't see him coming to eat with us, I think he'd like it eating on everyday stuff, like just folk. But if not, he could go eat somewhere else."

Aghast at what her son had become, she gave up.

Or so I thought. Fast forward at least a decade.

Mom found some silverware at an estate sale. The chest was hand painted (stenciled?). She bought it for us as a gift. She said it was really cheap; I was never quite sure if that was the case, or if she was afraid we wouldn't take it otherwise. We would have; how do you turn down a loving gift from your Mom or dad?

We only use it a few times a year; we really should use it more (frequent use keeps it shiny!) Whereas a lot of wedding silver tends to be heavy and ornate, this is simple and light, and I love it. I don't normally notice the utensils I use for eating unless there's a problem, but I love using these. (The serving utensils are clearly not original, but we're pretty much a mix and match family, so that works just fine!)

Mom could be very gracious, but one of the times she could be a sore loser was when she thought her kids were settling for less than they should. I'm glad she won this round.

[1] The world was bigger then, and the roads rougher. Especially in Alabama.
[2] Trivia fact: Dimes were still 90% silver at this time.

Early Morning Breakdown

(From the college years...)

I've never been a morning person. The closest I came was during a certain semester in college when I had an 8AM class. Previous 8AM classes had been routinely destructive to my GPA. But this time I had a deus ex machina, a sky rack-- a bed on stilts so high the mattress was a foot from the ceiling. My desk sat under the sky rack; my clock radio sat on the desk. I intentionally did NOT put a ladder on the bed. This meant I had to stand on the desk and haul myself into the bed-- hard enough at night when I was tired, but almost impossible when I was barely awake in the morning. To make sure I got down in the morning I would set the clock's radio to the most obnoxious station possible, with the volume all the way up. That was the only noise I couldn't sleep through. So long as I set the alarm and slept in my bed, I got up.

I was in full zombie mode, walking into walls, searching for brains (my own), but I was up! It worked pretty well throughout the quarter.

Fast forward to final exams. On the morning of the third in a row 8AM exam (after staying up til the wee hours each night cramming), the alarm went off. I forget whether it was bad disco music or bad country music, but I came close to murdering the poor clock. Once mostly dressed, I sat down on the sofa to put on my socks (I'm not sure why, as I almost always went barefoot). Suddenly the light in the room changed drastically. This was seriously spooky. I stared around the room, confused. What just happened? Then I saw the clock. I had fallen asleep sitting upright on the edge of the couch, with my right leg over my left knee, sock half on. Frozen like a statue, I'd slept through the exam. Instead of "The Thinker", I was "The Sock Putter On-er".

That was the point I gave up having to do anything regularly at 8AM for any length of time.

Lemon Tree, Very Tasty!

A year or so after moving to Georgia, we went on vacation to Florida for spring break. We visited relatives all along the Atlantic and Gulf coasts.

In Delray Beach, we stopped to spend the day with Dad's Uncle Fred and his wife. This delightful, slender, couple-- who seemed about a hundred years old at the time-- had the two, coolest, craziest lemon trees we had ever seen, about four feet tall and four to five feet wide. The lemons were bigger than most grapefruit, almost as big as my younger brother Bill's head. Very tangy, a little sweet, not bitter at all. They offered to let us take a couple. Bill picked the largest lemon on each tree.

Once we were home, mom made some lemon meringue pies. She made four pies from one lemon. Seriously. And they were awesome, as befits pies made from lemons so big Texas was jealous.

Bill took a lemon to school (William Robinson Elementary School) for Show & Tell. He was in either first or second grade. His teacher, who shall remain nameless, "corrected" him, explaining he had a grapefruit. My brother insisted it was a lemon and explained that Mom had made two pies from half a lemon. The teacher called him a liar and made him sit back down.

This story came out, slowly, at the dinner table, when Mom or Dad asked Bill how Show & Tell had gone. I remember the gasps from the other kids (and me), mom's indignation, the quiet fury on Dad's face. We almost felt sorry for the teacher. Almost, but not quite. She'd grossly misjudged our brother. She had impugned not only his honor, but the whole family's. We siblings all felt personally impugned because we knew she'd have called us liars as well. She was doomed, and rightly so.

Dad went by Willy Rob first thing the next morning to discuss it with Mr. Strelec, the Principal (a great guy, who rightfully later became the county's Superintendent of Schools). Mr. Strelec called the teacher in and asked her what had happened. She looked right at him and Dad and told the same story as Bill had. She admitted calling Bill a liar.

I don't recall all the details, but I do recall the quiet victory, the joy in justice, on Dad's face as he relayed the teacher's withering under the Principal's response. She called Bill up in front of the class and apologized for calling him a liar, explaining that he had been correct. Dad and Mr. Strelec were there, and Dad was under the distinct impression that had they to been there, she wouldn't have done it. She seriously resented having to. Bill was vindicated. We all were.

The teacher was gone the next year. Hopefully she learned some life lessons from this, perhaps about integrity, the very virtue she said my brother lacked. "Let she who is without sin cast the first lemon."

Auntie Grizelda's Story

If you've never heard the Monkees' song, "Auntie Grizelda", click on this sentence to listen to it before reading this.

(We tracked Auntie Grizelda down in a Pinellas Park, Florida retirement home and interviewed her. Here's what she remembers about the Monkees. She's rather old, hard of hearing, and nearly blind. Out of respect for her, this chapter is printed in large type. -Ed)

``No, I never did like that boy one bit. All that hair, and all those strange clothes, and he just couldn't keep his hands off dear Esmerelda. She was named to rhyme with me, you know. I was her mother's best friend, as well as her favorite sister. In fact, none of those boys could leave that girl alone.

``Yes, that boy was all of the time tryin' to put his arm on her shoulder, and hug on her. I daresay he even tried to kiss her a time or two, and they only dated eight weeks. And all the boys crazy about her, and she about them. What was that girl a'thinkin'? I like to had a fit!

``Esmerelda was a good girl. Still is. She ended up a'marryin' that other Monkee boy, what's his name, Davey Jones. I'd like to send him to Davey Jones' locker! They hadn't been married no time a'tall, I mean they weren't even through with the reception, and that boy had the marriage annulled!

``At least he didn't get her in the family way first. I guess that's somethin' to be grateful for.

``Anyways, that one boy, Michael, he always scared me. Somethin' strange about that boy, how he'd look at me. And always a'wearin' that silly cap, no matter the weather! But I fixed him.

``People say, of course, that the Monkees broke up over some artistic argument, or some such thing. But when that Michael fella kept a'comin' around, and don't think I didn't know what they wanted, even after Esmerelda finally listened to me, and wouldn't have nothin' to do with any of 'em no more, I just got sick and tired of it, and like I said, he scared me.

``This was about a year after the day of the marriage. I called my nephew Frankie over to Brandon, and asked him to come see me. So he did. And I explained about this boy, Michael, and Esmerelda. I tell you, I wished I had thought of Frankie before, and told him about the whole lot of them!

``Anyway, Frankie and a couple of his friends went and paid that Michael a visit. And nobody ever saw him again. I wish I'd a told Frankie about that Davey fella, too, only Frankie could only keep one thing straight at a time.

``Anyway, Frankie took care of things. And today, you always hear about that Michael making movies, or having a song, only nobody ever has any new pictures, just those old ones with that silly hat. And when the Monkees get together for a concert, there's only the three of them, Mickey, Davey, and that other one, but no Michael. On account of I had Frankie take care of him.

``Now, Mickey, after he got over being silly about my niece, he was an all right boy sometimes. Always complimented me on my fudge. But that other one, I'd catch Esmerelda looking at him, and he'd just look back, plain as day, like a deer stuck in the headlights.

``I couldn't abide none of 'em except Mickey, and I only liked him over for tea and fudge when Esmerelda was gone. And one day after he was there, I found all the water splashed out of the wading pool our budgie, Grace, liked to play in. Never knew why, but it always made me wonder.

``Anyway, that's the story. I hear they wrote a song about me. Probably mean and hateful. I don't know, on account of I never listened to that trash they called music. I miss Lawrence Welk. He played good music. Not just any old noise, and hateful words, like those boys played.

``That was what ruined this country, you know. That awful, loud noise and hateful words. And all that hair. Didn't even look like boys! And nowadays, most of 'em look like they stuck their head in somewhere it don't belong, blenders or light sockets or toilets or some such.

``But not my Frankie. He still looks so good. Takes care of himself. That boy keeps his hair nice, and dresses nice. And he still listens to classical music. He's so nice. If only he weren't Esmerelda's cousin, but then I guess he couldn't have taken care of that Monkee fella, and then they wouldn't have left her alone, and I don't know what would have happened then.''

Sniper School Pays Off (One Shot, One Kill)

WARNING: If you can't deal with killing vermin, don't read this.

This was written 1998-Nov-08 when we lived in the country, near Jonestown.

The other night, I found out we had a mouse in the house.

I realized that we had no mouse traps.

After pumping up Josiah's air rifle (mine needs a new cocking spring), I realized it was empty - no BBs. The mouse disappeared, and did not come back out, even though I went through the trouble of getting the pellets out and inserting one in the air rifle.

The next day, both Sharon and I forgot to get mouse traps. That night, wen everyone else was in bed, I heard a noise in the kitchen; the mouse was using the gas range top as a playground. It disappeared as I peeped around the corner. Clever little devil.

I chose a suitable, hidden location (the table), complete with rifle rest (a small, wooden tissue box cover someone with bizarre taste gave us). I cleared all collateral objects (salt shakers, dish washing detergent, ceramic duck) from the field of fire. I made sure there was a suitable backdrop (a wall), to avoid any collateral damage (broken windows). I baited the trap (placed grated cheese in the middle of the range top).

I then sighted in my rifle on the target area, all of six feet away. Since the rifle was actually sighted in for 25 feet, I guesstimated that I needed 1/2 inch of additional muzzle elevation (tall sights). I settled in and waited.

After a few moments, the enemy made a scouting mission. He darted across the field of fire, reconnoitered, and darted back. I focused on the front sight and continued to breathe slowly and evenly. Again he darted through, pausing briefly near the cheese this time. I kept my finger over the trigger, but didn't move it.

A moment later, he darted straight into the middle of the cheese. Stopped dead in my sights. I aimed just above his spine, slowly squeezed the trigger.

There was a loud pop. The sights jumped slightly. The mouse did a flip in the air. I heard the whine of the ricochet. Something lodged in my hair. The mouse landed on its feet, scurried a few inches, and stopped across the burner hole. It relaxed and fell through, dead. As I got up and walked over to check it, the pellet, thoroughly flattened, fell out of my hair. [1]

I put the mouse in a Ziploc body bag, cleaned up the blood, and buried him under the coffee grounds in the kitchen trash can.

How did it feel? It didn't really. Not really good or bad. A tad sad, but I just did the job I had to do. Not that hard a shot, nothing to be especially proud of. Just an unpleasant job that had to be done.

It was the next morning I realized I'd blown it. I should have put the body bag in the freezer, next to Sharon's frozen snake. "Frozen Roadkill City - Fun For The Whole Family! 5 Miles Ahead!"

-Miles, Great White Hunter

[1] "Oh, gross! Mouse guts and blood in your hair!" -Sharon