Adventures In Busing.

A Certain Slant Of Light.

I was at an appointment when my phone buzzed. I let it go straight to voicemail because no one ever calls me about anything really important. When I left the appointment I had a message from my neighbor that said, “You really need to step outside and take a look.” Then his voice dropped away as he said to his wife, “Oh, honey, we’ve got smoke and fire.” That’s where the message ended. I rushed home, hoping my neighbors were okay.

Long before my wife and I moved into the house where we live now someone planted a hackberry tree next to the driveway. There’s a retaining wall between our driveway and our neighbor’s driveway, and I can’t figure out why anyone thought it would be a good idea to plant a tree, which would spread its roots and eventually turn into a hundred-foot tall monster, right there. And we’ve talked several times with the neighbors about removing it because if anything happened it would probably fall on their house.

Luckily what happened instead is an enormous branch fell on their driveway. It took out a power line which zapped several of their appliances and started a fire at the power pole at the street which was stopped from spreading to houses on the other side of the street by neighbors with fire extinguishers.

I have no idea how good I’d be in a crisis and have great respect for Thomas Slatin who, as part of her extraordinary life, worked as a firefighter, a profession that calls for running into danger, but I wish I’d been there to help. Instead I came home to find that the worst was taken care of. Mostly I stood around and watched while a guy came out in the dark and moved the branch so the electric company could repair the wires.

A few days later we had a crew come out and take down the entire tree. They did an excellent job, especially since the tree was in such a difficult position between houses, driveways, and power lines. I wish we’d done it sooner—as the saying goes an ounce of prevention is worth about five-thousand dollars of cure.

With the tree gone I understand why it was planted there. Our house faces west and a lot more late afternoon sun beats down now that the shade the tree was provided is gone. It’s a relief that we don’t have to worry about it smashing the neighbor’s roof anymore. It seemed so solid and stable, but, as the saying goes, the bigger they are the harder they fall. We have a much more open view of the sky now, but the tree will still be missed.

 

Outside The Door.

I confess I was briefly tempted to take the box full of snacks left outside of an office down the hall from the one where I work. I saw it as I was leaving for the day and obviously the delivery person couldn’t get anyone in that office to answer the door. It’s possible everyone had already left for the day, although from what I’ve seen there’s rarely anyone in that office, which made me wonder if the snack box had been ordered by someone who worked there or if it was a special promotional gift sent by someone outside whatever department uses that office. I still wasn’t going to take it but I wondered if anyone who worked there knew it had been delivered, and how long it would take them to find it. At least from a quick glance I didn’t think there was anything perishable in the box.

If it was sent by an outside party then I wonder why. The office is a department in the same large non-profit organization I work for, which is why we’re in the same building, and over the years I’ve gotten a fair amount of swag from visiting companies. One of the best things I’ve ever gotten was a tote bag full of assorted books from a distributor, but I also have small things, like some leatherette writing pads which are handy for taking notes. And once I got a five-pound box of baklava—enough to make a baklava balaclava, but that’s another story. Even though I could have easily eaten it all by myself it arrived at the perfect time to go to the office holiday party.

Since I work for a non-profit there are strict rules about taking gifts from outside companies, but, aside from the baklava, I’ve never gotten anything big enough to sway my opinion even if I were in a position to make big policy decisions. It seems like business gifts—from pens and reusable bottles, and I even had someone give me a Bluetooth speaker with their corporate logo on it—have become big business, but do they really do influence anyone? My father worked in sales and I’d sometimes get to tag along on business dinners—Black Forest cake at the Hermitage Hotel, where the men’s room is a tourist destination, will always be a cherished memory—but these seemed more like thank-yous and, well, a chance to have a little fun on the company’s dime than bona fide attempts to get more business.

I can honestly say I’ve never been influenced by any of the corporate gifts I’ve gotten, but then it probably would take more than a bag of books or even baklava to buy me.

It’s About Time.

Source: Wikipedia

All I can think about right now is time. My work schedule has been completely thrown off not just by the Labor Day holiday—not something I’m complaining about—but I was also sick last week—something I’m complaining about—which meant taking some time off from work—not something I’m complaining about. Also a large branch of a very large, very old hackberry tree next to our driveway fell in our neighbor’s front yard. It took out a power line which caused a small fire in one of the transformers at the street, and knocked out my neighbor’s electricity and internet for more than a day. Still it could have been worse. The branch didn’t hit their house or their cars, and it finally pushed us to have the tree cut down, which we should have done years ago but kept putting it off. So that’s something I have mixed feelings about.

This morning getting ready for work, putting on a shirt with buttons for the first time in ten days, I had to snap out of the hazy reverie of not being quite awake yet and remind myself that in order to be at work on time I had to be present. It didn’t help that last night, or early this morning, I dreamed I was driving to work and realized I’d forgotten my lunch. And my laptop. And Nelson the aardvark. I don’t normally carpool with aardvarks—I wish I did because they’re the funniest animals I can think of—but this was a dream.

On my real drive to work there was a long stretch where I had to drive slowly because I was staring directly into the sun. The car visor wasn’t low enough to block it and while my sunglasses helped what I really needed was the sun to be in a completely different location. And it will be, eventually, as the Earth’s orbit creates the analemma.

Now at work I’m mostly occupied with setting up reminders for changes that will take effect in January 2025. While doing that I feel like I’m living in the future, preparing for something that won’t really happen for five months. That also seems so distant right now but, from past experience, I think when it finally arrives it will seem like the time went by in a flash.

Even though I crept along to work this morning I still managed to arrive at the office so early the building was locked. So I took a walk around the neighborhood. It was cool and nice so that’s something I’m not going to complain about.

Here’s the troublesome, soon-to-be-gone tree:

I Don’t Care If Monday’s Blue.

Mondays are always tough. I know that’s a cliché and hackneyed joke, one that can be counted on to pop up on a regular basis everywhere from the office watercooler to Garfield comics. It’s so pervasive there’s even a counter-response, people who like Mondays. I can respect that even if I don’t share the feeling. Especially this Monday. This weekend I was sick and didn’t get much done. A busy weekend can make Monday feel like a relief, even if it’s not entirely welcome, just because it is a break. Almost as old as jokes about Mondays is the saying that “a bad day of [fill in hobby] is better than a good day at work!” My feeling is that even a good day of housecleaning isn’t that much better than a good day at work, unless somebody brought donuts in, which usually happens on Thursdays. When I’m cleaning the house no one’s going to bring in donuts unless I bring them in myself.

This weekend I was also sick. There was a sudden drop in the temperature last week and while I’m healthy in almost every other way I get a cold at the drop of a hat. Or rather at the drop in the mercury. I’ve been coughing and blowing my nose for a few days but didn’t really realize how sick I was until Saturday when I changed the sheets and made the bed while listening to “The Day Before You Came” by ABBA and that simple task was so exhausting I fell down onto the bed into a three hour nap. Then when I woke up I thought how nice it was that someone had changed the sheets and made the bed for me that I fell into a two hour nap.

I might not have even gotten up this morning but I had a doctor’s appointment, which was a nice break in my usual Monday routine of going to work. It was just a simple checkup—my doctor requires me to stop in and prove I’m still alive every six months or so and reauthorize all my prescriptions.

Instead of going to the office I drove back home, mostly along the same route that takes me home from work—my doctor’s office isn’t that far from my office, which is convenient, but, because I’d been sick, I decided to work from home. Normally my drive is very early in the morning or late in the afternoon so it was kind of a treat to see the midmorning world. There were people out walking dogs, people pushing strollers, even a half moon hanging high in the sky.

I still won’t go so far as to say I like Mondays but I like this Monday.

Wipeout.

Windshield wiper fluid is one of those things I never really appreciate until it’s gone. And then I refill the reservoir under the hood and go back to not appreciating it again. However some critter has chewed through the tubing that goes from the reservoir to the driver’s side sprayer. When I activate the sprayer the wipers wipe but the sprayer only buzzes in vain. This isn’t the first time rodents—maybe squirrels, maybe chipmunks—have done damage to the car because they like the soy-based plastics. A few summers ago I was running an errand when the Check Engine light came on. The wiring for a sensor underneath the car had been completely chewed through. The guy at the repair shop told me it would probably be fine to drive the car without it but eventually it would have to be replaced. With anything automotive I interpret “eventually” to mean “right now”, an ounce of prevention being worth a pound of cure.

At least the wiper fluid issue is a minor inconvenience, not something that could cause long-lasting damage, at least as long as I keep the windshield clean, and to do that I’ve made occasional stops at gas stations to use the free squeegees they have next to the gas pumps. Sometimes I also buy gas but I feel guilty when I don’t since I’m taking advantage of a service that’s technically meant for paying customers.

While looking at buying my own squeegee I did a little research into the history of the tool. I assumed it was a recent invention and that like Xerox or Kleenex it was a proprietary eponym. It turns out squeegees date back to at least the mid-19th century, before the first automobiles, since they’re made for wiping any windows and must have become popular with increased use of glass. Imagine squeegeeing The Crystal Palace. And it’s no wonder the name stuck. It’s fun to say “squeegee” and, while not technically onomatopoeia it does evoke the sound a squeegee makes when that rubber blade slides across glass.

The good news is because they’ve been around so long squeegees are cheap. I don’t know how much it will cost to replace the tubing from the reservoir to the sprayer. I checked online and everything I’ve read suggests starting with removing the tire and disassembling the front bumper because the tubing weaves through the engine. With anything automotive I interpret “disassembling” to mean “leave it to professionals”.

Here Comes The Neighborhood.

I don’t know what it says about me that I’ve worked in the same building for most of my professional life. I’ve been through several jobs, moving more or less upward, but every time there’s been a plan to move me to another building it’s fallen through. So I’ve had a front row, or rather side window, seat to all the changes in the neighborhood. The building next door specifically has been through almost as many changes as I have. When I started working here it was a Pizza Hut and that’s what it was for more than ten years. This was surprisingly long because not only has the chain’s stock fallen but that specific Pizza Hut developed a reputation among everyone who worked in the surrounding area. It was known for charging higher prices than what was listed on the menu and if anyone complained the manager would come out and yell “It’s an old menu!” A couple of my coworkers complained enough on one occasion that he refused to give them their pizza or their money back. Also at one time I counted seven other pizza places—five of them entirely local—within a two mile radius so people who wanted pizza for lunch had other, better options, which just added to the mystery of why that Pizza Hut survived as long as it did.

Then it became a Qdoba and did well for a long time, standing out in an area that mostly had chicken and burger places, but competition and the decline of the chain nationally caught up to it. Next was a local casual dining place which seemed like a good idea—a lot of the fast food places in the area have been replaced by hotels, and even several restaurants have gone. Maybe the hotels want captive customers, although one hotel that’s where a beloved music store used to be left its restaurant space empty and unused for years.

The casual place didn’t last long either in spite of its prime location. Now it looks like the whole building, which has been the one constant, is about to be torn down.

Maybe they’re going to put in a pizza place.

I documented the decline and fall of the music store that is now a hotel, which still seems like a downgrade for the neighborhood.

 

 

I’ve Looked At Clouds From Both Sides Now.

There’s a new travel trend called “rawdogging”, which has nothing to do with that term’s original slang meaning, “sex without a condom”, but rather taking a flight and not using anything to distract yourself. No phone, no music, not even a book or anything to read other than the flight-tracker and, I guess, if you’re in a window seat, the view of the clouds and sky and maybe even the ground below if it’s visible. Maybe there are travel rawdoggers who eschew even that, preferring to shut the window and sit in their own thoughts. Some won’t even have food or water—and they make a point of doing this on long, international flights of ten or eleven hours.

At first it sounded miserable to me but then I started thinking about the value of simply sitting with one’s thoughts for a while. A Conde Nast Traveler article sums it up pretty much the same way I would: “Is ‘rawdogging’ just a place-specific term for meditation? Yes.” Meditation is a healthy practice, though abstaining from even water for that many hours isn’t. I understand the appeal of rawdogging, at least on a short flight, or for just part of a long flight. I’ve been on long flights where I spent long stretches just looking out the window—I like the window seat—and let my thoughts drift through the endless azure. I was doing it, as far as I know, before it was cool, before there were whole internet communities devoted to documenting and sharing their experiences.

Which is the real problem. If you want to tune out, turn off, drop in—well, maybe that last one would violate the rules—for your own peace of mind that’s great. I think more of us should do it at least occasionally. I understand that it’s a reaction to the way we’re constantly inundated with information and a feeling that we have to stay busy, stay productive, all the time. But doesn’t documenting it, turning it into a performance that you’re planning to share for the attention, undermine the value of meditating?  It seems like the whole point should be to disengage. Do it for yourself, for your own mental well-being, to try relaxing with your own thoughts.

And if you’re really serious about only watching the flight tracker can I have the window seat?

Goodnight, Mrs. Calabash, Wherever You Are.

The last receipt.

Every Thursday afternoon I have a ukulele lesson. Learning anything, especially music, requires a lot of repetition so it’s fitting that after each lesson I call the same restaurant and place a to-go order. Even more fittingly it’s almost always Taylor who answers the phone, and, after several months of repetition, she and I often laugh at the fact that I order the same thing every time.

The last time, though, was different. After my lesson I called the restaurant and Taylor answered with, “Hi, Chris! I’m ready so go ahead with your order.” They’d added some new menu items my wife wanted to try so what I asked for was completely different. And I added a piece of cake. Taylor, who’s occasionally suggested I change my routine, said, “This is the single greatest order I’ve ever gotten.”

I was laughing all the way to the restaurant but when I went in to pay and pick up my food Taylor told me it was her last week. She’d enjoyed living in Nashville, she said, but she had three kids and decided it was time to move back to the small town in Pennsylvania where she grew up. She wanted to be closer to her family who could provide support and she also wanted her kids to have a childhood similar to hers.

It was the longest conversation we’ve ever had and it didn’t last five minutes. I wasn’t in any hurry—the food could wait—but she had work to get to, and, having worked in a restaurant myself, I know there’s never a lot of downtime. She was also in the middle of training her replacement which meant she had even less time. We’ve had other brief conversations before. One night I told her I was such a regular customer because I was learning the ukulele and she said, “Oh, it’s really good to take up a new hobby late in life.” I smiled and said, “Yeah,” and I was on my way home before I thought, How old does she think I am?

It’s a bit like going from one song to another: a lot of notes will be the same but the tune will be different. Thank you for all you did, Taylor, and good luck.

Something To Think About.

Call it being in the right place at the right time, for me anyway. I happened to look out the window of an otherwise empty conference room and saw these guys helping their partner out of a tight spot in the parking lot.

Then they were left in a difficult position with no one to help them out.

Fortunately the driver of the gray car came right out—I guess he was just getting donuts to go and not sticking around. This is understandable. Some places are conducive to thinking—I was in the conference room because I wanted a quiet place to write during my lunch break—and some aren’t. Once the gray car was gone the workers were able to leave without any trouble.

Then this happened. Who designed this parking lot, anyway?

Free Parking.

It’s been a week now since I slipped into the parking garage without scanning my ID. For a long time I had a problem, as a matter of principle, with having to pay for parking, but when I thought about it I realized that I have many other options: riding the bus, carpooling. I could even walk. According to Google Maps the walk would be just under seven miles which, at my usual walking pace, would get me there at under an hour and a half. I might even go faster since I’d be really motivated to get past the stretches with no sidewalks and very little shoulder where the speed limit is 40MPH, which means most cars zip by at around fifty. Biking is also an option, though I’d have a lot of hills to go over and I’d still have to worry about traffic, though, funny enough, Google shows a route for both walking and biking that goes through a local park, so not only would that keep me away from traffic but I could begin and end each day with a nice trip through the woods.

Between wanting to sleep late, though, and wanting to get home at the end of the day—unless I have errands which could be difficult if I were walking or biking—driving is the best option. And I recognize that being able to park is a privilege, so, as a matter of principle, I’m fine paying for it. Besides six dollars a day to park when I only go in to the office a couple of times a week isn’t selling my soul to the company store.

And last week there was some construction work being done on the parking garage. It all seemed to be on the outside and on the roof—cars were still allowed to park, but I had to go the long way around because the alternate entrance was the only one that was open. For some reason they had also taken out the card scanner at the other entrance. The other entrance is usually where I exit—the geography of parking garages baffles me and I can never figure out why I can go in at the entrance at one end of the building, circle around the floors, then, on my way out, end up at the entrance at the other end—so I know there’s usually a card scanner there. With no card scanner there they were offering free parking.

I did think about asking someone whether the parking that day really was free, but I’d already been all the way around the block to get to the entrance and none of the construction guys looked like they were in the mood to answer questions. Also I figure if it does turn out I made a mistake it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.

As a matter of principle.