Oh, yeah - exhausted.
In a few days, the service folks from my oil company are coming to do some work on the system so that I can have heat this winter. Never mind that the government says we're going to get a break on heating costs this year because prices are lower and demand will be less because they're expecting a warmer than freezing solstice. My woolly caterpillars told me the same thing with their uneven brown and black stripes and I don't believe them, either.
Anyway, I thought it would be nice if these heating service guys didn't have to find their way through the hay field which is my side yard, so I got out the lawn mower that's been vacationing on my front porch since August and proceeded to cut down various grasses, knotweed, boneset, and a few other dozen varieties of plant life in the experimental weed factory that I call my lawn.
Now, think about it. It was early August when I last knocked down the flora. Mix together plenty of rain, reasonable amount of sun and warmth and what do you get? Something that even a herd of goats might be intimidated by. However, a half an hour of mowing later and there's a sidewalk you can see, grass that's now about 4 inches high instead of 12+, a ton of raking that I'll likely ignore and, oh, yeah -- me exhausted.
It's not that I hate mowing. I love being outside buzz-cutting the green stuff on a nice day like today. However, as I get older, it's getting harder to maintain a hilly green carpet. Yes, the lawn is not flat. I love my house on the hill, but I envy my neighbors who have these wonderfully flat pieces of real estate to push or ride their cutting machines around. They get Kansas to mow, I get Colorado.
In younger days, it wasn't so bad working up a sweat with mowing exercise. Now over 50, physically deconditioned and with less than perfect, but eternally non-smoker lungs, I huff, puff and wheeze while I work up that same sweat. Sadly, keeping it mowed on a regular basis won't improve the wheezing portion of things. I'd get some kid to do it for me, but that enterprising spirit seems to have gone out of our local youth. I'd get an adult or landscaping service to do it for me, but most can't be bought for anything less than $50 and that's not in my budget this year.
But, the job is done for now. The boiler servicing will get done and the techs won't get lost on their way from the road to the basement in the jungle that was. I may mow one more time before I declare a moratorium on mowing and give the grass cutter another vacation on the porch. The woolly caterpillars need someplace to bed down under for the winter, after all. As for me, a cup of tea, some Motrin® and an hour or two of relaxing will do wonders to improve the hacking and coughing and, oh yeah exhaustion while I contemplate the next autumnal challenge.
Huff, puff, wheeze, huff, puff, wheeze, huff, puff, wheeze ......
Tuesday, October 06, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Change is good, right?
Okay, not the normal entry that a handful of people have come to expect, and by the way, did ya miss me? No? Oh. Nevermind.
Anyway, I changed my layout here. Thing is, with the blue not working on my display, I'm not completely sure how it looks. No, really. Blue stopped working a few months back. Just up and died one afternoon. After doing some investigating, it was determined that it was the display and not the computer telling the display that blue is not to be displayed. The display otherwise works, but the entire viewing experience is kind of dulled. Blues are either green or black, depending on their intended blue hue -- boo-hoo. Sorry, couldn't resist.
So, here I sit, thinking I want a change, that change is good. But right now, it's like getting dressed in a dimly lit room. You don't really know what you've got until it hits the brilliant light of day, and yes, I have done the different socks thing unintentionally, thank you. I make the change, but have to wait until I can see it in full color to know whether I love it or not, or until someone come along and ask if I'm colorblind or tells me I have no knack for setting up my blog page.
Nothing wrong with colorblindness (I actually know a few good folks who are), and as far as style preference or lack thereof - pffft. I'll let you know.
Now, go change your socks, you look silly. Oh, and don't forget to feed the fish at the bottom of the page.
Anyway, I changed my layout here. Thing is, with the blue not working on my display, I'm not completely sure how it looks. No, really. Blue stopped working a few months back. Just up and died one afternoon. After doing some investigating, it was determined that it was the display and not the computer telling the display that blue is not to be displayed. The display otherwise works, but the entire viewing experience is kind of dulled. Blues are either green or black, depending on their intended blue hue -- boo-hoo. Sorry, couldn't resist.
So, here I sit, thinking I want a change, that change is good. But right now, it's like getting dressed in a dimly lit room. You don't really know what you've got until it hits the brilliant light of day, and yes, I have done the different socks thing unintentionally, thank you. I make the change, but have to wait until I can see it in full color to know whether I love it or not, or until someone come along and ask if I'm colorblind or tells me I have no knack for setting up my blog page.
Nothing wrong with colorblindness (I actually know a few good folks who are), and as far as style preference or lack thereof - pffft. I'll let you know.
Now, go change your socks, you look silly. Oh, and don't forget to feed the fish at the bottom of the page.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
As the World Turns .. and Turns and Turns and ..
Early in June, I woke with a severe case of vertigo. Now, I have episodes of vertigo 1-2 times a year, mild in severity, usually on waking and sitting up and they clear within a couple of hours. Nothing I can't handle. Latest theory on these episodes is that otoliths within the labyrinth of one or both ears have somehow obstructed the normal movement of things within that structure that's so vital to our sense of balance and the world spins - wheeeee.
There was nothing fun about the episode in June, however. I woke with a really vicious case of vertigo while laying flat on my back. I sat up and found it to be just as bad. When I stood up and walked, I found myself wandering off to the right while trying to walk in a straight line, all this time with the room spinning clockwise at a furious pace. After about a half-hour of this nonsense, combined with nausea, vomiting and sweating that I never have, I took myself to the emergency room. Yeah, I know, EMS people, I shouldn't have been in the driver's seat for this ride. Anyway, they did a work up to rule out a silent heart attack (a heart attack with no chest pain), diagnosed me with positional vertigo ("You have vertigo, but we don't know why") and released me to stagger out to my car, drive home and lay in bed for the next two days staring at a spinning ceiling, my ears also singing the siren's song loudly and more than a little off-key, otherwise known as tinnitus.
Cut to two days later when I saw my nurse practitioner, who was clearly out of her element and referred me over to an ears, nose and throat specialist. The sweating, nausea and vomiting were gone within a few hours of showing up -- nothing like a little IV Compazine in the ER to take away the barfs -- the ringing in my ears still quite noticeable, but the vertigo scaled back enough that I could usually compensate for it if I moved slowly.
Cut to three days after seeing the NP, when I woke with markedly less vertigo and tinnitus than I had gone to bed with, but now with left ear pain. Ah-hah! The culprit is apparently making itself known. Well, not really.
Cut to the next day, when I see the ENT specialist, a matter-of-fact, no nonsense kind of man that I couldn't even get a smile out of on initial greeting. He examined my ears and found nothing wrong. Oh, this just made me feel so wonderful (not). He suggested sodium overload (too much salt in my diet preceding the attack), which wasn't the case. Looking at the blood cell count I had in the ER and upon seeing that there was what's known as a 'left shift' to the white cell count, he asked me if I was taking steroids. I was insulted, although I shouldn't have been since people take steroids for benign reasons, too. I told him no. He ordered an audiogram (hearing test) and released me, wistfully remarking that sometimes the cause for acute labrynthitis, my official diagnosis, is never found.
Cut to yesterday, a month later, when I finally saw the audiologist for the hearing test. By this time, all symptoms are gone and have been gone for three weeks. This very nice man examines me, explains the tests and the results in detail (my hearing is perfectly normal), says I have the best hearing of all the people he's seen in the last week and pleasantly sends me on my way.
So, the ENT specialist was likely right, the cause will probably never be found. I have spoken unofficially to another ENT specialist as well as done a bit of research on vertigo, labrynthitis and the like. Viral infection involving the inner ear is considered a major suspect in this episode since my ER blood test results make the sodium overload theory crumple like paper and hit the trash bin, the steroid taking suggestion following suit. There was also no evidence of infection by anything that would respond to antibiotics. This made sense to me and I'll embrace that idea for lack of anything more logical. The other theory, not widely appreciated and more of an explanation for the milder vertigo 1-2 times a year, is the otolith concept. What's an otolith, you ask? It literally translates as 'ear stone'. Yes, someone's suggesting I have rocks in my head and that they're shifting.
Wait, they may be onto something. I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions, however.
There was nothing fun about the episode in June, however. I woke with a really vicious case of vertigo while laying flat on my back. I sat up and found it to be just as bad. When I stood up and walked, I found myself wandering off to the right while trying to walk in a straight line, all this time with the room spinning clockwise at a furious pace. After about a half-hour of this nonsense, combined with nausea, vomiting and sweating that I never have, I took myself to the emergency room. Yeah, I know, EMS people, I shouldn't have been in the driver's seat for this ride. Anyway, they did a work up to rule out a silent heart attack (a heart attack with no chest pain), diagnosed me with positional vertigo ("You have vertigo, but we don't know why") and released me to stagger out to my car, drive home and lay in bed for the next two days staring at a spinning ceiling, my ears also singing the siren's song loudly and more than a little off-key, otherwise known as tinnitus.
Cut to two days later when I saw my nurse practitioner, who was clearly out of her element and referred me over to an ears, nose and throat specialist. The sweating, nausea and vomiting were gone within a few hours of showing up -- nothing like a little IV Compazine in the ER to take away the barfs -- the ringing in my ears still quite noticeable, but the vertigo scaled back enough that I could usually compensate for it if I moved slowly.
Cut to three days after seeing the NP, when I woke with markedly less vertigo and tinnitus than I had gone to bed with, but now with left ear pain. Ah-hah! The culprit is apparently making itself known. Well, not really.
Cut to the next day, when I see the ENT specialist, a matter-of-fact, no nonsense kind of man that I couldn't even get a smile out of on initial greeting. He examined my ears and found nothing wrong. Oh, this just made me feel so wonderful (not). He suggested sodium overload (too much salt in my diet preceding the attack), which wasn't the case. Looking at the blood cell count I had in the ER and upon seeing that there was what's known as a 'left shift' to the white cell count, he asked me if I was taking steroids. I was insulted, although I shouldn't have been since people take steroids for benign reasons, too. I told him no. He ordered an audiogram (hearing test) and released me, wistfully remarking that sometimes the cause for acute labrynthitis, my official diagnosis, is never found.
Cut to yesterday, a month later, when I finally saw the audiologist for the hearing test. By this time, all symptoms are gone and have been gone for three weeks. This very nice man examines me, explains the tests and the results in detail (my hearing is perfectly normal), says I have the best hearing of all the people he's seen in the last week and pleasantly sends me on my way.
So, the ENT specialist was likely right, the cause will probably never be found. I have spoken unofficially to another ENT specialist as well as done a bit of research on vertigo, labrynthitis and the like. Viral infection involving the inner ear is considered a major suspect in this episode since my ER blood test results make the sodium overload theory crumple like paper and hit the trash bin, the steroid taking suggestion following suit. There was also no evidence of infection by anything that would respond to antibiotics. This made sense to me and I'll embrace that idea for lack of anything more logical. The other theory, not widely appreciated and more of an explanation for the milder vertigo 1-2 times a year, is the otolith concept. What's an otolith, you ask? It literally translates as 'ear stone'. Yes, someone's suggesting I have rocks in my head and that they're shifting.
Wait, they may be onto something. I'll leave you to draw your own conclusions, however.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Well, That's Two - Sort Of
Back in January of last year, I sold a bit of narrative fluff I'd written and made $25. It wasn't the money so much as it was that someone thought my words were worth something. Sadly, they never used the piece, so I was back to wondering if I really had any creative talent beyond being told by a relative handful of the population that I did. What do friends know, eh?
A few days ago, my fingers were doing the keyboard and mouse wander of the land of HTTP and just for the helluva it, I typed in "freelance writing". Quite a few links resulted from the search, but I only checked out a few out of idle curiosity. I decided to open an account on one site and see what I found. If this site is any indication of what's out there, then writing for internet sites clearly isn't going to supplement my income to any significant degree. While the categories were many, the articles needed were either not in my areas of knowledge or were not in the level I was allowed to look at. I found one topic, though, and was able to write a little 350 word blurb in about an hour, and the next day I found out it had been accepted for use. Yee-haw. Notice the lack of exclamation points.
The reward for my work? All of two dollars and thirty-four cents. Now, really, when was the last time minimum wage was $2.34 an hour? The point of writing for such sites is to write more articles and the money will accumulate. In addition, as you write more, your classification will go higher and you'll be given access to categories of higher caliber and pay.
So, let's put this into perspective. There's very little on the site in my classification that I could write about without needing to do research first. Let's face it, I've got lots of life experience and book learnin', but I don't know everything. The research would take extra time on top of the time that it would take to write the article. So, let's say I had to research the piece I wrote and that research took an extra hour. My $2.34 an hour just turned into $1.67 an hour. I think I made that back in the late 1960s on my very first job. But, hey, if I continue to write articles, it will slowly accumulate and my classification will go up, allowing for a better pay rating. You know what that means? Double! I'll be making $4-5 an article! The yee-haw is still lacking exclamation points.
Even the best writers start slowly, with poor pay and and more than a few moments of rejection. Full-time paid pursuit of wordsmithing may eventually come, but don't give up your day/night job. I have no daydreams of making it big in any corner of the writing world, but I'd like to think that somebody would again pay me $25 for one 600 word piece so that I can once again think I really can write a little better than average.
A few days ago, my fingers were doing the keyboard and mouse wander of the land of HTTP and just for the helluva it, I typed in "freelance writing". Quite a few links resulted from the search, but I only checked out a few out of idle curiosity. I decided to open an account on one site and see what I found. If this site is any indication of what's out there, then writing for internet sites clearly isn't going to supplement my income to any significant degree. While the categories were many, the articles needed were either not in my areas of knowledge or were not in the level I was allowed to look at. I found one topic, though, and was able to write a little 350 word blurb in about an hour, and the next day I found out it had been accepted for use. Yee-haw. Notice the lack of exclamation points.
The reward for my work? All of two dollars and thirty-four cents. Now, really, when was the last time minimum wage was $2.34 an hour? The point of writing for such sites is to write more articles and the money will accumulate. In addition, as you write more, your classification will go higher and you'll be given access to categories of higher caliber and pay.
So, let's put this into perspective. There's very little on the site in my classification that I could write about without needing to do research first. Let's face it, I've got lots of life experience and book learnin', but I don't know everything. The research would take extra time on top of the time that it would take to write the article. So, let's say I had to research the piece I wrote and that research took an extra hour. My $2.34 an hour just turned into $1.67 an hour. I think I made that back in the late 1960s on my very first job. But, hey, if I continue to write articles, it will slowly accumulate and my classification will go up, allowing for a better pay rating. You know what that means? Double! I'll be making $4-5 an article! The yee-haw is still lacking exclamation points.
Even the best writers start slowly, with poor pay and and more than a few moments of rejection. Full-time paid pursuit of wordsmithing may eventually come, but don't give up your day/night job. I have no daydreams of making it big in any corner of the writing world, but I'd like to think that somebody would again pay me $25 for one 600 word piece so that I can once again think I really can write a little better than average.
Sunday, May 03, 2009
52 -- Woo-Hoo
The 2008-2009 natal season was not a wonderful one. Death of a family member (my Dad), change in health status for me (now improved) and for family members (not as lucky), change in job status (starting to improve), financial worries (light at the far at the end of the tunnel), loss of a few of my feline friends (family, too, but you have to have a pet to appreciate that), etc. etc., etc. All in all, this grouping of 365 days between birthdays qualifies for the bottom ten on the list of the 52 years I've been here.
For the first time ever, I symbolically stayed up until just past midnight like it was December 31st and toasted the old year out and the new year in. Never champagne (I get no kick from same), always ginger ale. I said thanks to my late parents for having me (I think I was an anniversary sex baby) and made a wish for a better span between birthdays. No, I didn't blow out a candle afterward, but I don't think it matters. I think the wish was heard. Not going to say by whom 'cause that'll just start a theological debate and little and big wars have been fought over such discussions.
Like winning the lottery, if I'm meant to have a better year, I will. I'll certainly do my best to keep my 52nd year on the planet out of that self-designated bottom ten.
For now, the day starts a little later, in part from the fact that being up until past midnight doesn't work for me, and in part because things traditionally wait a little longer for the birthday girl to slowly savor her birthday coffee before taking on the birthday dishes and the routines of an otherwise routine day.
Life goes on.
For the first time ever, I symbolically stayed up until just past midnight like it was December 31st and toasted the old year out and the new year in. Never champagne (I get no kick from same), always ginger ale. I said thanks to my late parents for having me (I think I was an anniversary sex baby) and made a wish for a better span between birthdays. No, I didn't blow out a candle afterward, but I don't think it matters. I think the wish was heard. Not going to say by whom 'cause that'll just start a theological debate and little and big wars have been fought over such discussions.
Like winning the lottery, if I'm meant to have a better year, I will. I'll certainly do my best to keep my 52nd year on the planet out of that self-designated bottom ten.
For now, the day starts a little later, in part from the fact that being up until past midnight doesn't work for me, and in part because things traditionally wait a little longer for the birthday girl to slowly savor her birthday coffee before taking on the birthday dishes and the routines of an otherwise routine day.
Life goes on.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Whoops
What a lovely day Saturday was. Sunny, warm, beautiful. All Spring days should be like Saturday. It was so nice, I left the moonroof open on my car. Early Sunday morning, it rained. For a couple of hours. I even ventured out into it to get my paper and to wander down to my neighbor's house to drop off the paper. I passed my car a grand total of three times. Did I notice the moonroof open? We even had a dry period of several hours, when I could have gone out to get the cat litter out of the car that I had been too lazy to bring in Friday. Never happened. Even as the cold front passed through the area around 8 PM Sunday, with its thunder, lightning, wind and, oh yeah, a 45 minute deluge, it never occurred to me that there was something amiss with my VW that could have been easily corrected by a more diligent owner.
This morning, as I ventured out again to get the paper, I noticed condensation on the inside of the windshield. I wandered over to check to see if I had left a window open. Golly, I finally noticed I left the moonroof open. Talk about a soggy interior. The front passenger seat had been spared to some extent by all the crap that tends to accumulate in a car owned by a single driver who rarely has passengers. But, there was still the wet and sloppy mess of papers, newspapers, mail, and seat covers to deal with. I'd leave the car open, but they're forecasting showers for this morning.
Oddly, I'm not upset. I'm not mad at my neighbors for not noticing before I did, since my moonroof being open isn't an obvious sight. I'm not mad at the weather forecasters for not being psychic enough to know that winter-weary people might need to be reminded to close their windows, etc. BEFORE the rain cleanses the inside of their car. I'm certainly not mad at my Creator for deciding we needed to have over an inch of rain yesterday. I'm not even mad at myself. Okay, I called myself an 'idiot' once during the hauling of newspapers that only needed some glue added to make great papier mache. But for the most part, I giggled my way through it and am still laughing. I think I'll have it dry soon enough that I won't have mildewed everything, so I don't think I'll regret my humor. Sometimes you just have to appreciate the absurdity of the moment and the actions (or inactions) that led to that moment.
Now, to go throw some towels down on front seats.
This morning, as I ventured out again to get the paper, I noticed condensation on the inside of the windshield. I wandered over to check to see if I had left a window open. Golly, I finally noticed I left the moonroof open. Talk about a soggy interior. The front passenger seat had been spared to some extent by all the crap that tends to accumulate in a car owned by a single driver who rarely has passengers. But, there was still the wet and sloppy mess of papers, newspapers, mail, and seat covers to deal with. I'd leave the car open, but they're forecasting showers for this morning.
Oddly, I'm not upset. I'm not mad at my neighbors for not noticing before I did, since my moonroof being open isn't an obvious sight. I'm not mad at the weather forecasters for not being psychic enough to know that winter-weary people might need to be reminded to close their windows, etc. BEFORE the rain cleanses the inside of their car. I'm certainly not mad at my Creator for deciding we needed to have over an inch of rain yesterday. I'm not even mad at myself. Okay, I called myself an 'idiot' once during the hauling of newspapers that only needed some glue added to make great papier mache. But for the most part, I giggled my way through it and am still laughing. I think I'll have it dry soon enough that I won't have mildewed everything, so I don't think I'll regret my humor. Sometimes you just have to appreciate the absurdity of the moment and the actions (or inactions) that led to that moment.
Now, to go throw some towels down on front seats.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
The Sounds of Employer Silence
I'm in the process of applying a for part-time position to supplement a take-home income that looks, well, like it needs help. I know I'm not alone in this. There are those who have been out of work for only a short time, those who have been out for what seems like an eternity, full-timers who can't make ends meet on what they make and part-timers who need to be making a full time wage just so that one nostril is maybe above water. The competition for any job -- best paid to worst, 2 hours to 40, monstrously successful to seriously menial -- is fierce, with the applicant to job ratio anywhere between 5:1 and 200:1, depending on the position. Tough times, indeed.
When I was unemployed for a year four years ago, I sent out resumes and filled out applications to the point where I literally had a stack of copies of each one (or a paper I inserted indicating that I had filled out an application in person) that was just shy of 1½ " tall before I started working again; I had a ceremonial weenie roast of the papers at the end of it all. Of that stack of over 200 attempts at making employers sit up and take notice, I had less than a dozen acknowledgments that I had even sent in anything. I had no way of knowing if my application or resumé had been received unless I called. Yes, calling persistence can pay, but not when the personnel office won't answer any questions or worse, you can't contact them at all because you've responded to a blind ad.
I'm fortunate in that I have two interviews coming up for the just under a half-dozen applications I sent out recently, but it doesn't change how I feel about the silence, especially in the hard times we're all going through right now. I understand that potential employers are potentially overwhelmed by the number of applicants they're getting for a single job opening right now, but does that mean that the niceties need to go out the window? A simple, "Thank you for your application, but we've hired someone else for the position" now takes too much time, effort and money. But, even an automatic, "We got your application/resumé and will contact you if we wish to interview you", as cruel as it seems, is nicer than silence. I'd rather know that they at least got what I sent and took the time to read the name and address or e-mail before they filed it away, tossed it away, or hit the delete key.
And I know I'm not alone in this, either.
When I was unemployed for a year four years ago, I sent out resumes and filled out applications to the point where I literally had a stack of copies of each one (or a paper I inserted indicating that I had filled out an application in person) that was just shy of 1½ " tall before I started working again; I had a ceremonial weenie roast of the papers at the end of it all. Of that stack of over 200 attempts at making employers sit up and take notice, I had less than a dozen acknowledgments that I had even sent in anything. I had no way of knowing if my application or resumé had been received unless I called. Yes, calling persistence can pay, but not when the personnel office won't answer any questions or worse, you can't contact them at all because you've responded to a blind ad.
I'm fortunate in that I have two interviews coming up for the just under a half-dozen applications I sent out recently, but it doesn't change how I feel about the silence, especially in the hard times we're all going through right now. I understand that potential employers are potentially overwhelmed by the number of applicants they're getting for a single job opening right now, but does that mean that the niceties need to go out the window? A simple, "Thank you for your application, but we've hired someone else for the position" now takes too much time, effort and money. But, even an automatic, "We got your application/resumé and will contact you if we wish to interview you", as cruel as it seems, is nicer than silence. I'd rather know that they at least got what I sent and took the time to read the name and address or e-mail before they filed it away, tossed it away, or hit the delete key.
And I know I'm not alone in this, either.
Monday, February 02, 2009
The Telegraph Set
My Dad passed away two weeks ago. "Died following a brief illness" is how it would be described in the obituaries. Aggressive b-cell lymphoma, likely Stage IV. Given all the facts, he chose not to pursue further evaluation or treatment and died one day shy of two months from being diagnosed. I won't bore you with more details. Condolence gathering is also not the purpose of this writing. The purpose is to tell the story of the telegraph set.
My father had been a telegrapher in his younger days, years before I was born. I don't know much else except that, in his opinion, he wasn't all that good at it. Yet, among the items he kept from back then time was a telegraphy set -- a sending key which ticked out the Morse code messages and a sounder to receive them. He may or may not have been good at it, but the telegraphy set apparently had some meaning for him.
My parents divorced when I was in my early teens. My mom got custody of the brats, including me, and my dad moved to a place closer to where he worked. He took with him what he wanted, things which had purpose and/or meaning for him. As I explored through the things he left behind, I found he had left the sounder portion of the telegraph set. That's not how I had viewed it, of course. To my younger self, it was the bigger piece of those two pieces I knew somehow worked together. It was the clunky side, the side that seemed broken to look at it. It didn't seem as cool as the other piece which had a pad you could tap on and play like you were sending some secret code. To this young teenager, he'd taken the best part. I never asked why he left it and couldn't understand why he left it behind.
My dad remarried a very nice woman who I came to view as my mom away from my mom. They bought a house about 50 miles south and settled in, both working at their respective jobs until retirement came for both of them. Before then, they laid plans to take up residence in Maine, and as soon as they both called it a day for the last time, they headed north.
In the early 1990s, I headed toward their portion of Downeast to see this place they loved so much. It was beautiful both in terms of the scenery and the layout of their home. I saw many of the items that I had seen in their house in New York, including his half of that telegraph set. I hadn't really noticed it in their home down here, as the rooms were smaller and places to put things not always easy to find. But I'm sure it had a special place because it had one in Maine. It was in the room with his computer, stereo, etc. It was on a mantlepiece, just as he had left the other half of the set.
I saw the sending key, recognized it and smiled, but still didn't understand why he didn't take the whole set. It's not as though my mother wanted it. I just didn't "get it" until years later.
My dad was a quietly sentimental man, a good man and caring father. He had also become the distant parent who still wanted to be a part of his children's lives, but didn't get to be there as much as he might have wanted by virtue of divorce decree. Yet, he had his "connection". The telegraph set. The sender on his end, the receiver still here, left where they could always be seen. Messages from one home to another, from parent to child. Advice and help, always there, always available if needed. All of it in one message, one perhaps not said enough between father and daughter, but still silently said and received through such intangible means.
Yup, I finally got the symbolism of the action. Took more than three decades, but I finally got it. Pity I never told him.
Hey, Dad?
. .
. _ . . _ _ _ . . . _ .
_._ _ _ _ _ . . _
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
My father had been a telegrapher in his younger days, years before I was born. I don't know much else except that, in his opinion, he wasn't all that good at it. Yet, among the items he kept from back then time was a telegraphy set -- a sending key which ticked out the Morse code messages and a sounder to receive them. He may or may not have been good at it, but the telegraphy set apparently had some meaning for him.
My parents divorced when I was in my early teens. My mom got custody of the brats, including me, and my dad moved to a place closer to where he worked. He took with him what he wanted, things which had purpose and/or meaning for him. As I explored through the things he left behind, I found he had left the sounder portion of the telegraph set. That's not how I had viewed it, of course. To my younger self, it was the bigger piece of those two pieces I knew somehow worked together. It was the clunky side, the side that seemed broken to look at it. It didn't seem as cool as the other piece which had a pad you could tap on and play like you were sending some secret code. To this young teenager, he'd taken the best part. I never asked why he left it and couldn't understand why he left it behind.
My dad remarried a very nice woman who I came to view as my mom away from my mom. They bought a house about 50 miles south and settled in, both working at their respective jobs until retirement came for both of them. Before then, they laid plans to take up residence in Maine, and as soon as they both called it a day for the last time, they headed north.
In the early 1990s, I headed toward their portion of Downeast to see this place they loved so much. It was beautiful both in terms of the scenery and the layout of their home. I saw many of the items that I had seen in their house in New York, including his half of that telegraph set. I hadn't really noticed it in their home down here, as the rooms were smaller and places to put things not always easy to find. But I'm sure it had a special place because it had one in Maine. It was in the room with his computer, stereo, etc. It was on a mantlepiece, just as he had left the other half of the set.
I saw the sending key, recognized it and smiled, but still didn't understand why he didn't take the whole set. It's not as though my mother wanted it. I just didn't "get it" until years later.
My dad was a quietly sentimental man, a good man and caring father. He had also become the distant parent who still wanted to be a part of his children's lives, but didn't get to be there as much as he might have wanted by virtue of divorce decree. Yet, he had his "connection". The telegraph set. The sender on his end, the receiver still here, left where they could always be seen. Messages from one home to another, from parent to child. Advice and help, always there, always available if needed. All of it in one message, one perhaps not said enough between father and daughter, but still silently said and received through such intangible means.
Yup, I finally got the symbolism of the action. Took more than three decades, but I finally got it. Pity I never told him.
Hey, Dad?
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Thursday, January 01, 2009
Happy New Year - With Any Luck and Skill
I managed to stay awake until midnight and toast in 2009 with my ginger ale. My original plan was to sleep through until morning like I normally do. But for some reason, I felt the need to see out a year that left much to be desired and welcome in a year with all the potential that comes my way and that I put into it.
Resolutions? Don't be silly. I can resolve to do this and don't do that as well as the next person, but I've been there and done that and have just as a poor a track record as they do. My only goal will be to make this year before me better than the one behind me. There may be some bumps along the way, especially at the beginning, but I think that goal is more than attainable.
Happy New Year, everyone.
Resolutions? Don't be silly. I can resolve to do this and don't do that as well as the next person, but I've been there and done that and have just as a poor a track record as they do. My only goal will be to make this year before me better than the one behind me. There may be some bumps along the way, especially at the beginning, but I think that goal is more than attainable.
Happy New Year, everyone.
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