Mattering

Let's suppose for the three or four minutes it will take you to read this entry, my name isn't John.

It's Luke, Doctor Luke if you want to be precise.
I've endured a week of sleepless nights wrestling down words to describe an incredible event that happened thirty years ago.

I'm done and just handed the manuscript to one of my acolytes, or "suck-up" as I often think of him.

He responds with a bowed head,
"Yes, Master Luke, be assured that this precious and insightful gift will be distributed to all of Macedonia, to all who regard the cross as sacred."

Whatever.  It's just a memory.

I'm exhausted, sleep through fourteen hours until the mid-morning sun starts baking my skin.  I force myself to open one scratchy eye and realize I'm under the same pitiless sun as the day before.  No brighter, no different than before the completion of my manuscript.

All that might not have mattered. 

Well, a year later it did.  Mark and John, or their adherents, are a little pissed that my words don't exactly line up with their own narratives.  Sheesh! I thought it was all about the spirit of the things.

Now let's suppose my name is Luke, Dr. Luke as in modern medical this time.  I am an accomplished cardiac surgeon and have just presided over a four hour multiple-bypass operation that should give some guy another three years on this planet.  

I know as I strip off my gloves and step out of my scrubs, however, that he will likely piss it away with bacon and eggs, alcohol, and an occasional cigarette.  Read his obituary in less than a year.

Nothing mattered.  He will die without having contacted neglected relatives, not having written a novel, certainly without making a difference in the lives of his neighbors or friends

Now let's suppose instead my name is John.  I'm in a sandwich shop, Stockton, California. A young girl fixing my subway, is telling a security guard about the man who blatantly steals random objects and reaches across the counter to do stuff I would rather not recount.

Clearly, she is terrified by this individual and indicates his race tactfully to the guard while glancing apologetically toward me.  The man disappears into the kitchen.  I imagine him with a gun, ready to bust this guy's ass after having called the Stockton police.  Was that an my second oxymoron..."Stocton police"?

I claim my bag of sandwiches and deliberately overtip her.  Not so much that she might think I want a "date".  Three dollars, if you must know, and I tell her that I appreciate her hard work.

For less than a second, I see something in her eyes that could mean a lot of things.  I will interpret what I saw as, "So you see what I'm dealing with here?"

My wife and I flee with our sandwiches.  Out of the corner of my eye I see the security guard is behind the restaurant casually inspecting some dumpsters.  He's a survivor.

The sun is coming up again, doesn't look much different. Pretty sure my name is John.  

But I remember yesterday clearly.  For the one half second it took to meet a girl's leveled gaze, I might have mattered.

Women

Had a revelation tonight.

No doubt because I have TMTOMH
     (Hello? Too Much Time On My Hands)

Anyway, it occurred to me that three of my favorite dvr-recorded series have a beautiful, spunky female character--who is black and speaks with a decidedly mid-western accent.

Icabod Crane, Under the Dome and True Blood are examples--not that I watch these particular shows myself.

Now I have no issue with black women one way or the other, and readily admit to no first hand knowledge about them. 

Nor do I need to.  All women, to me, are a delightful mystery. 

I've decided, nonetheless, that only one of them is worth investigating.  Her name is Debbie.  She's kind of a cream-in-your-coffee color, and every morning I wake up grateful because this vanilla colored woman and I still share the same last name.
-
But what's up with the mid-western accent? Why not a jangling Jersey, an excessively dipthonged Minnesotan, or a New England drawl? (Yeah, knew you expected me to to complete that last sentence with "Texas" drawl.  Fact is, they don't drawl so in the big "T" as they lag.  Hand me a few martinis and I will explain it to you: "Tay...uhh ...ex...ahsss".

All women are attractive--whatever their localized locutions.  And as a concept, I love them all--white, brown, black, yellow or red.

And if anyone has encountered the latter two...women who are actually yellow or red... 

Well then, email me at jrichardson@your-a-racist-or-colorblind.com

"Going South" Part One: A Chair-Way to Heaven

July 5th, 2014

The mother of one of my beautiful grandchildren sat down in front of our San Simeon home.
"I like your new metal chairs."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"How about the color?"
"White is good."
"There's lots of whites, of course, you like this particular shade?"
"Uh, huh."
"That's good.  I just painted these chairs a couple of hours ago so you might be wearing it for a while..."

She shot up out of the chair so quickly I feared the grandchild she held might be ejected into the street. 

I sat down on the adjacent chair.
"Just kidding, sorry."

And she calmed down quickly.
We sat in silence for a few minutes while her pulse dropped back from a racing to 70 to its usual 45.  Wish I had a basal heartbeat like that.  Just searching for a lost wallet sends my pitter-patter over the hundred mark.

And I wondered vaguely what it would take to send her pulse even higher.  Maybe Godzilla crashing through Cambrian pines on the far hillside, teethy and hungry?

But I wasn't kidding.  I had painted those chairs with a fast drying rustoleum just that morning.  Originally, I had opted to replace the old chairs with plastic look-a-likes.  My wife wanted metal. After a less than epic battle, I capitulated.  Metal it would be.

"So, had any adventures lately?" my daughter-in-law asked.
I was at a loss, couldn't think of anything adventurous (other than my panicked urge to dive like a frog a few minutes before and save my grandkid from crashing-landing on the asphalt between units #25 and #26).

"Not really, unless you count the craziness of buying a third house."

When you think about it, everyday people have every day adventures all the time.  The wonderful mothers of my grandkids perfectly capture these moments on Facebook or send them instantly from their phones to Instagram.

My phone takes terrible photos (maybe the cracked lens), and my camera persistently whines about uncharged batteries and too little memory on its SD card.

So I have only words to convey everyday moments of wonder--and fear.

Consider if you will, The Metal Munchers...

Two weeks earlier...

We sat on the patio, sweaty and exhausted after a day of house hunting in southwestern Tucson. 
The sun settled into an arroyo of mesquite bushes, barrel and saguaro cacti.  Come dark, I knew, this would be a playland for javelina, various species of rattlesnakes, scorpions and God knows what else.  But for now we enjoyed a tranquil moment in the wild, wild west.

We were babysitting an empty house until our kids had time to move in. No, that's not the only reason we found ourselves in this desert outpost.

Truth be told, we were searching for yet another house--and why?
Weather.
You see, San Simeon can be too misty (sometimes), Visalia too extreme (often), and living far away from grandkids too lonely (always).

We gazed through the wrought iron slats, the sun dropped lower, and silhouetted a skip loader and mounds of steel rebar needed to start the another suburban tract across the wash. Sipping our wine, we felt comfortable and certain that civilization would eventually triumph over this desolation of sand and scrub. 

An unsettling sound started its drift toward us from the construction site, weird and alien to our ears, a metallic wanging much like cheesy sound effects in those old Flash Gordon movies.  My wife and I faced each other.  Some kind of cicadia?

We compared memories of our travels through the southern states, sleepless nights plagued by noxious beetles hiding in trees. Their shed exoskeletons had been found stuck to trees in the morning, looking for all the world like prehistoric cock roaches. Every night, they tormented us with their "rat, tat, tat,"  little demons firing their diminutive machines guns ceaselessly into the night. 

But that was not, definitely not, the sound we were hearing then. Oh, no.
Judging from direction and the high pitched oscillations, these things were eating steel, probably the very stacks of rebar we had seen across the way.

The next morning was exceptionally quiet.  Nothing heard from the construction site.  Hard to lay foundations without rebar, we thought. But not our problem.  We had houses see, places to buy. 

We got home that evening just as tired and still no closer to a decision on the Tucson house.  Resuming our post in the plastic chairs we opened another bottle of wine.  No discernible progress on the housing development.  The metallic oscillation continued as before, perhaps a bit louder. 

As one glass of wine faded into the next, we speculated that the metal crunchers (our new word for this unkown creature) had moved on from raw materials to large machinery. After all, the skip loaders and tractors hadn't moved since morning. Funny stuff, it all seemed at the time. 

The next morning we were off again. But just before closing the car door, I heard something.  The oscillations seemed to resonate around the house itself.  After a mental shrug, I slammed the car door with extra force and we drove away.

That evening we were in a celebratory mood.  A house had been found, we committed, and our offer had been accepted. We settled into the familiar blue plastic chairs in true party mode.

But things had progressed.  The metal fence before us was writhing, ringing and wanging.  Lame description, I know, but I've no idea how else to describe it.

We fumbled for camera or phone.  A record must be made of the contagion just a few feet away and clinging to the metal fence. Look for it in the shadowy darkness, four bars to the right, just below the center.

A metal muncher, as you can see, was clearly devouring the fence.
We got as close as seemed prudent, knowing our blood to be composed of metallic copper and my privates millimeters below a brass zipper (think about it guys). 

Then we realized that we were on the cutting edge of discovering a new species.  Or was a new species on the edge of cutting down our species?

Clearly, mankind needed a plan.  Should we grant them access to our millions of metal junkyards?  A short term solution at best.

Maybe we could taint the metal with radioactivity, like our ignoble ancestors who "gifted" Native Americans with anthrax-laced blankets to stay warm...if they made it through the night.

No, bad idea.  My science fiction IQ tells me that an undesirable species might actually thrive on radioactivity. We've all heard that cock roaches, a species that saw
dinosaurs come and go, will be the only thing crawling around after a nuclear holocaust, right?

Let's face it.  We need a more a permanent solution.  Let's grant them a reservation.  Some place devoid of metals where they could NEVER thrive or enjoy themselves. How about Antarctica?  I hear penguins are pretty intelligent. Let's train them t be border agents.

And here's where the multi-billion dollar pharmaceutical industry could step in.  Invent a substance like alcohol to which they are especially susceptible and keep them drunk off their beetle butts.  Speaking of which, maybe we could just scoop up their inebriated carcasses and melt them down to form VW beetles.  One helluva car and fittingly inspired by insects!

Sadly, these are all just Hollywood endings.  Face it, we're doomed.

You know, I just realized that the manufactured home we finally bought in Tucson is 50% aluminum.  Poof.

And those chairs in San Simeon--should've insisted on plastic.

Dear Lord, spare me more adventures, for a while, especially the kind that could remove this comfortable chair right out from under my butt.

ruth

Wherever you go, I will go.
Wherever you live, I will live.
Your people shall be my people.

Submission, surrender, or subservience?

Joints and Jointers

Hunched over my laptop,  I didn't hear her come up behind me.
But I sensed a gaze over my shoulder.
"Oh my God..."
She had seen what I was doing.  My head dropped with shame, "I'm so sorry..."
"You realize that blog entry was posted over a month ago..."
"Uh, huh."
"And that every one we know and maybe some people we don't have already read the original version..."
"I couldn't help myself."
"Plus it's 11:30 and nobody will ever read whatever it is you're doing there?"
"I know," I said miserably, "but some parts still aren't right.  Nothing I can't fix in few minutes.  I'll be done with it then."
She chuckled, either in amusement or pity, and went to bed. 

Those damn joints!
And that jointer...

The Jointer is an eight inch tool shaped like a lazy "S".  I can describe it precisely though I have not held one in over 40 years.

The bottom of the "S" is thick as a large man's thumb, the opposite end slight as toddler's pinky, able to accommodate any width.

Smooth steel, kept polished principally by the efforts of a bricklayer's helper also known as a "tender," in the eastern states known as a "hod" carrier.  It's a job I know well (though I'm still baffled by the word "hod" and unsure if I've ever carried one).

The essence of this job is simple but demanding: carry stuff to the bricklayer, the union certified tradesman who has suffered through an apprenticeship, spent time as a journeymen, and shown sufficient mastery of his craft to be regarded as a full fledged mason.  In short, a man who's paid his dues, knows his stuff, and rules without question.

You carried endless bricks to him so he never, ever has to go the pallet and pick some up for himself--that's a given.

And the wrath of God is reserved for hapless tenders who do not in a timely manner deliver endless wheelbarrows of cement mixed thusly:

22 heavy shovels of course sand
1/2 of a 94 lb. bag of moisture sucking cement
1/4 shovel of fire clay--if he is working on  the box (inner portion where the fire burns)
Adequate water to create a smooth mix, neither too runny or stiff, a precise adhesive the master bricklayer refers to as "mud."

He was never to wait upon you for its delivery because your job was to anticipate this needs.
If you were good enough, my father once said, you actually knew when the bricklayer wanted his coffee thermos and the precise moment to bring out the lunch boxes.

I was never a good tender, always moaning and too often looking forward to lunch.  Because then my father and I would relax and talk aimlessly for the duration of an hour (back when the term "lunch hour" was a literal expectation.)

But only if the morning's work had been acceptably jointed.
And quitting time or not, we never left a job until jointing the last levels of bricks.

Though a bricklayer will roughly joint his work during the course of his day, it is the tender's job to perform final touches.

He must run the aforementioned "S" shaped tool at the correct angle along the intersection of brick and mud, brushing away any excess, and impart the clean finished look of fine masonry.

Sometimes I got lazy.  Bone tired, just wanted to go home.  My father would drop his tool bag.
"Johnny, those joints are sloppy."
"Aw, Uncle Bill's fireplace is oozy and totally unjointed.  You said you liked it."
"That was his choice of style and his fireplace, not what the people who buy this house will expect."
I looked back at a few rough spots.
"They won't notice."
"I've noticed." 
"They won't even care about it."
"I care."

His eyes focused solely on the fireplace wall and I handed him the jointer.  After a few minutes and one last look, he handed it back to me.
Then came a time when he just looked at the jointer in my hand, walked to the truck, and waited.

After jointing, my last moments on the job site were always the same .  I rinsed the jointer in a water barrel, dried it on my pants and placed it carefully into my father's tool bag.  Only then was I rewarded with the sound of a battered Chevy's ignition.

Did I learn anything by working as a tender during summer vacations?  You bet.  I would NEVER go into construction--even if it meant  teaching instead.  Did all that jointing teach me anything?  Yes. A better understanding of the word Integrity.
A big word, hard to live by.

And if, through my repeated attempts and obsessive revisions, I ever learn to put down words with the same artistry and regard for quality that my father practiced daily with bricks and stones, I'll know who to credit--or maybe blame.

Lights are off underneath the bedroom door.
Time to stop thinking about joints.

Maybe she's still awake.

Jill Rocks (and will continue to do so in her retirement)

Breakfast, always a major concern for males.  I stood below his San Simeon porch, a boys concert weekend at the coast.

J: That motel buffet was pretty good yesterday.
B: It was.
J:  Maybe we should go into Cambria today, try some place new?
B: Yeah.
J:  But then again, we're sure to get what we want at the buffet--and as much as we want.
B: True.
J:  So, Jill's retiring?
B: Uh, huh.
J:  She's so energetic.  How's that going to work?
B: Not sure.  But Jill will make it work.  She can do that.
(Not sure "B" used this many words.  But he did ramble on, my mind wandered, and I considered the egg sized rock pressing against my toe).
J:  Wow, this is one large moonstone!  Nice, huh?
B: Yep.
J: I wonder if it came from around here.  It's really large for a beach agate.  Someone might've brought it from the desert...
B: You think?
J:  How 'bout going back to the buffet?
B: Sounds good.
J: Mind if I keep this rock?  I'll give it to Jill after I polish it."
B: Sure.
J: Pick you up, half hour?
B: OK.

My polisher was down for several months but that was OK.  I was exhausted after this lengthy verbal exchange and needed some rest before taking on "Jill's Retirement Rock."

Until tonight.  It took some time but went well.

Still there's nothing I or anyone else could create that would adequately symbolize the absolute commitment, patient demeanor, and daily sacrifice that Jill brought to her students and coworkers.

J: Keep on rockin' Jill.

Heading South, Part One

Erin Brokovitch Was Here!
(Spoiler Alert!  This story has no happy ending.)

Tuesday, May 20th, 2014
(Not Julie.... in the movie, the real one, sure as sweat pouring down the fatman's nose)

Where?
The corner of Hinkley and .....



How do I know?  Signs, signs, you can read the signs as .... sung.

Not the one of above, silly, the one below that caused me to screech off the highway, park the Element perilously close to oncoming and ongoing trucks the size of aircraft carriers.



What was this all about? 
I had no clue (as usual) until I saw the sign right outside the passenger window, just beyond my wife who expected the next behemoth truck to rearend us with a force that would launch us halfway to Bishop, Califronia.
This sign, to be specific.


Hmm...somebody has it in for PG and E.  No surprise there, nobody likes a MONOPOLY (not the game) and this ones faulty gas lines erupted like Vesuvius in ... and blew a good portion of ... county and .... souls right into the stratosphere.  Not to mention their forced marketing of anything but "smart readers" to reduce your utility bills.

Oh well, "It Happens" as the sugarland song explains though most of us would pronounce it with an "sh" before the "I".

But we wondered what kind of excrement inspired the artist that produced these two painted plywood masterpieces?

So we did what Sherlock and all true detectives do.
We turned on our Way Too Smart phones and solved the mystery:

Though the movie Erin B. ended comfortably because tragedy borne corporate
irresponsibility and the resultant tragedy was followed by JUSTICE SERVED, real life just aint that neat.

The battle continues dispite ./..  //// best dramatic efforts the battle continues and has been all but lost.

So here.s what we learned from two sources, the first a website known for unimpeachable truth and impeccable scholarship:

Wikipedia which reveals that this mega corporation has dicked with people in the courts, tried to buy them off (or out) and the plume of pollution has forked and spread drastically from its origins:

The second source....is unimpeachable unbiased as this ABC news report (equally fair and truthful in the persuit of a story) indicates:
....

Tell the truth.  You didn't go to either one of those links, did you?
I understand, life is too short, no time to worry about other problems.

So let me give you a soundbite summation:

1. Big and Bad megacorporation wants to make its customers happy and make billions by moving natural gas efficiently along metal piplines ....

2. But two problems:  natural gas .... doesn't volunteer to move to homes of potentially happy customers, so it needs to be compressed and forced to its destination
2. Compressing this gas creates heat, the kind the causes problems and creates leakes
Solution: send this fossil stuff up a tower and enlist others to keep it cool.
Solution: Hexavalent Chromium which is kind of like the rock salt makes ice colder so you can make ice cream faster )Im cranking as fast as I can don't beat me, Dad, please!)
3. which iks a bigger problem because chromiu mm six also increased a baby risk of dddddd rapid organ deterioration

so blah blah blah so theres a riskthat your children will be born ith birth defect   blah blashwhagtever
also next paat

When informed by the courts that they must desist from creating freaks and mindlessly zombies they ciscoverd an solution, and absolute cure for school shootings:

publish wiout if god had wnted me tohe would havelet me chare in after  birds survelance.