One year I stuffed a five-foot real tree into the trunk of my VW Jetta. Only had to bend the tip a little; it recovered.Originally Posted by Williamsmith
One year I stuffed a five-foot real tree into the trunk of my VW Jetta. Only had to bend the tip a little; it recovered.
Success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome. - Booker T. Washington
Vee Dubs are versatile. They even pass their own emissions tests.
“The first step on the road to recovery is to admit you have a problem.” Well, I admit I’ve got this problem. Yesterday, I finally found a suitable replacement for my Chinese Black and Decker toaster. It’s an awful hunk of black dull plastic that won’t take a shine and just ruins my enjoyment of my kitchen. Everything on the counter should have a purpose and should have some redeemable beauty about it. So last night, I banished it from my kitchen kingdom and replaced it with a Toastmaster, Cool Steel looker from I think the 90s. It doesn’t say, Made in China . It says Boonville, MO.
It’s beautiful right? And for $5.50.....a bargain. Oh, and it actually toasts!
Everything that is on our counter had better earn its keep almost every day or it doesn't stay on the counter. And there's no crime in something that works well and looks good! Enjoy the -- umm -- "new" toaster, WS!
*shuffles off to Mapquest to locate Boonville, MO*
Success is to be measured not so much by the position that one has reached in life as by the obstacles which he has overcome. - Booker T. Washington
I tore everything out of my pantry. Took all the shelving down to the bare walls. Mopped the floor and stared in. I banished the few spiders and cob webs. The once pristine wood work has scratches and dents and some paint wear. The walls are covered with black and brown streaks where pots, pans, boxes, racks, and baking supplies have rubbed up against them. I want it to look pristine again. They originally painted the walls a primer white dull finish. I want it to be ultra satin baked scone Behr, just like my kitchen. Today, it gets a makeover.
**********
You look through the one way glass into the interview/interrogation room. It’s a stark room. The carpet is dull gray, the woodwork a little lighter gray, the walls .....gray and the ceiling tile mercifully white. Three pieces of furniture adorn this room that could comfortably be outfitted with an entire living room set. There is a function metal table with an institutional Formica type top and four legs. It sits along the long wall, one side completely butting against the wall. It has nothing resting on its flat surface. There is a decent office chair that swivels, rocks back and forth and rolls. And then there is a simple metal four legged chair.
He sits in the simple chair and waits. You watch him as he waits. He has driven himself voluntarily to see you at your request. Guilty......he is not fidgety, impatient or distracted. A little nervous perhaps but apparently willing to wait as long as it takes. He doesn’t get up and walk around. This is a good sign.
You are sizing him up. Planning a strategy and drawing from all your training and experience. He is in his sixties, someone’s son, someone’s husband, someone’s uncle, someone’s brother. And he is a serial child rapist.
You know this because cause he has made a mistake. He has molested a five year old boy with the ability to articulate the difference between a truth and a lie, has enough vocabulary to vocalize the evil that has been perpetrated upon him and the courage to reveal it to strangers. Strangers who want to help. His mother is a family friend of the one who is waiting in the room, kept at a chill 64 degrees. She works two jobs and struggles to get baby sitters. She thought he was helping her out. In actuality, it was her that was helping him.
In the past he has probably gotten away with a plethora of crimes against children. He was fired from his last job for sexual harassment. His wife knows about his dirty little secrets but out of embarrassment fails to force him to seek help. Or perhaps she keeps hoping it will fix itself. Whatever the reason, she is hoping this will be his swan song.
You have sat in on the interviews with the victim and are convinced beyond all doubt of his guilt. You have gone to the spot in the woods and looked for physical evidence that would prevent the child from any more exposure to the justice system. But this monster is good at what he does. He commits his acts out where the elements will quickly deteriorate bodily fluids. There is no chance of finding corroborative evidence. He purchases his clothes at the goodwill, the clothes he will wear for the crime. Afterward, he burns the clothes in an outdoor fire ring behind the house. He plans carefully.
So you watch him knowing that the only way to make him stop is to get a confession. You commit to striking up a friendship with him as soon as you enter the room. You wine and dine him. You are going to take your time. You will not leave before he does. You will make sure he is aware that he is free to leave at anytime and not under arrest. This is a non custodial situation. Its up to you to prove that in court should he confess to you.
You go through some of the horrendous details of the crime. He doesn’t seem to be repulsed. He is a little absent as he replays the crime in his own mind. You help him rationalize his attraction to children and even “confess” some of your own improprieties with other relationships. You go get him coffee for the fourth time just waiting for him to ask to go to the bathroom. Just one more question. You tell him you want to get him help? The time feels right. It takes all you have to do it but it must be done. You roll close into him as his head is down and reach out with your left hand. You touch his knee and say his name followed by, “did you do these things?”
His head hangs but begins nodding up and down.....he takes a deep breath and exhales and whispers, “yeah, I did it.”
**********
When the pantry is done, none of the scratches and dents and chips will be visible. They will still be there but the latex will cover them up. It will be pleasant to the eye. With every stroke of satin paint, the healing will take place.
My mom made Toastmaster toasters in Macon MO. when she was a young bride. And sliced bread came from Chillicothe Baking Company of Chillicothe, Missouri, which sold their first slices on July 7, 1928.
Float On: My "Happy Place" is on my little kayak in the coves of Table Rock Lake.
My new -old toastmaster has made itself comfortable on my counter. It is toasting like a champ. And it is easy on my eyes. I love the idea that somebody’s mother from Missouri probably had a hand in making it.
This morning dawned frosty and cold. Usually I like to remain asleep throughout my hour and a half workout, I don’t like to really wake up until I get my coffee. It was so cold today I noticed the frost on the top of the automatic door opener going into the hospital. My gym is conveniently located on the ground floor of the orthopedic wing of the local hospital.
I reached out and touched the frost and then scraped the icy layer with my nail. It crunched. My eyes opened a little further. Afterward, I travelled the 100 or so miles to my mothers house. It’s funny how life circles back. She’s out in the yard raking leaves when I arrive. Says she wants to die on her feet. If it happens that way I was thinking a pile of leaves will probably cushion her fall.
She saves the coupons from all the papers for me. Somehow the mailman happened to deliver all the Arby’s coupons for the entire neighborhood to her. I can eat discounted roast beef sandwiches everyday for a month straight. We sit and talk , meanwhile I cut coupons. Today she needs to drop a check off at the local medic rescue office. She’s been paying these guys the equivalent value of a months water bill every year for forty two years and only used them once. I figure that to be about $1400. She sleeps good at night knowing when the time comes for an emergency ride, she won’t be telling them to go away because the bill will be too much.
So I stuff her in the passenger side of my Tacoma. She can still get in without a step stool. Every approaching twist in the road or turn, she gives me instructions like I’ve never driven these roads before. “I grew up here mom, I know where I’m going.” “Go down this alley here and across the bridge,”she replies. “Gotcha mom.”
We deliver the check. She leaves out a satisfied sigh when I stuff her back in the truck for the second time. Around the block toward lunch we go. “Turn right at the stop sign. It’s up on the corner there.” “Right, mom....I’ve been here several times before.”
Its just a little diner with a few tables. Out front there is a chalk board with the specials. None of them suits her. “Maybe we better go somewhere else?” She is probing to see if I’m disapointed. “No”, I say, “we will just order off the menu okay.” “Good” , she seems pleased, “I want the half hot roast beef sandwich anyway.”
Its the same every time time we go out. She orders a glass of water, I get coffee. She eats like she starved herself. We chitchat and I learn about the goings on with the family. Everything is framed by what will happen when she’s gone. It makes me a little uncomfortable thinking about that but she seems to be able to talk about it like a move to a new neighborhood.
After lunch we go straight for the nearby Brewsters. She always gets a cherry vanilla cone...this time I get pumpkin. We sit in the truck silently licking our ice cream. I remember as a child her taking me to her favorite ice cream stand. She used to get a banana split, I got a milkshake.
The sun is shining. She wants to go for a ride in the country. It’s 16 miles to the state line and a 40 cent per gallon discount on gasoline. So we head due west. “You better turn here! Otherwise we’ll end up in Timbuktu!” “Right mom....gotcha.”
On the ride home, I sneak a look over at her. I want to her live forever. But I know she can’t. Her head bobs up and down a little , she’s fighting falling asleep. At the next crossroads, I take the road to the left and she says nothing about it. Its no problem , of course, I know where I am going. It’s just that, I’m kinda used to her telling me where to turn.
Your Mom sounds wonderful. I wish mine could live forever too. I guess we are lucky to have them while we do. Since my Mom's memory has been deteriorating, she says she is more afraid of living than of dying, but she does continue to live with enthusiasm, fortunately.
He always wanted to be a country singer. He had a good voice and his sister appeared on the Wheeling Jamboree back almost a half century before this picture was taken. He stands on a street corner in front of the local supermarket. The name of the store is right behind his head. It’s some time in the mid eighties, the cars in the parking lot still have the hood ornaments common to that era.
He is proud. His attire? Black boots, dark blue jeans with the cuffs rolled, a red handkerchief dangling from the back pocket, a blue button up collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. No hat but a big smile. A strap holds a vintage Gibson guitar to his chest. He plays his favorite chord.....C major.
I look at the picture for hints about my father. We didn’t have many father/son talks. What I do know is he was celebrating the acceptance of a jingle he wrote for the supermarket chain. They were going to use it in an advertising campaign. And so, I guess it was the only success he ever scored on a lifelong dream.
I suppose that was enough. He never posed again for a cameo. I remember him as having very high ...highs and very low...lows. Kind of like Baby Face Nelson in the movie “O Brother, Where art thou?”
In the photo hes got his right leg locked straight and his left knee bent in acceptance. That’s kinda the way I remember him. He could be standoffish and he could be tender hearted. You Just didn’t know which one until you tried.
Yesterday was his birthday. He would have been 88 years young. He’s been gone a decade now but the guitar is still around....sitting there in the corner of my music room. The guitar is 58 years old. Yesterday, I drove past the Supermarket and noticed they were preparing to tear it down. Part of me wants to go back to that corner and get my picture taken with his guitar. I’m not sure why yet. Somehow I feel like if I stand there, just like he did....I might magically get to know him better. And It seems like it would be best if I said goodbye to the store for him. The picture is evidence that it was an important place. And I’m glad he has such a big smile. I like to remember him on one of his high....highs.
There are currently 1 users browsing this thread. (0 members and 1 guests)
Posting Permissions
Reply With Quote