Unknown, but so familiar

I found this letter on the floor of a room in my house a few years ago. I think it must have fallen out of an old book. Where the book might have come from, I'm not sure. It reminds me of the nostalgia associated with "Mad Men." Letterhead (on the navy trimmed beige stationery) reads Mrs. Frederick A. Sanford, 75 Tennyson Street, West Roxbury, Mass. No idea who that was.
May 14, 1953
Marie, darling:
What kind of a run-around are you giving us? If you don't let go pretty soon Uncle Fred is going to call the doctor for me as he swears I am going to have the baby instead of you.
It is a darn shame you are having such a 3-ring circus and not even a clown or two to cheer you up, but it will soon be over I am sure and you will forget all about it. At least you are getting a bit of rest, I hope, and not scrubbing that kitchen floor.
I told Lyman I didn't wonder he couldn't raise flowers in your back yard if he planted them as deeply as he evidently does his baby.
I had a nice talk with Wayne on the 'phone and told him if he was a good boy and minded his Nana Uncle Fred and I will buy him something special. He was all right although keyed up a bit, but he laughed and talked with me quite a while.
We are without a car for a day as Mitch had a slight accident Sunday. Turning in to the church at the curb he bumped into the bumper of another car and while he didn't even scratch the other car, it put a big dent in the fender of our car, so we are having it fixed. You can imagine how glad I was that Mitch was driving and not Uncle Fred.
We are very busy as usual. Two more weddings lined up for June and corsages galore for high school "Proms." Just wait until Wayne gets into high school and you and Lyman have to pay for corsages for the lady-love!
I went in town yesterday and bought some new slip-covers for our living room furniture. The others I had won't fit now that the furniture has been re-done. They are rather good looking and I hope will look well on the furniture.
I wore my new suit last Sunday (and nearly baked) and everyone said I was quite the belle of the ball. I am anxious for you to see it.
Well, dear, I don't want to tire you, so will quit this time, but hope you'll soon let go as every time the telephone rings, I have "nervous prostitution."
All my love, dear, and Uncle Fred and Mitch say "Me, too"
Affectionately, Auntie

Laundry

People today sometimes complain about doing laundry. I guess I understand why, but in all my years I have NEVER complained about doing the laundry. I remember how my mother did the wash back in the early years of her marriage and our childhood.
My parents would chop down a tree, cut it up and store it outside.
To heat water, the wood would have to be fed into the stove.
No running water, so my mother had to bring water into the house, bucket by bucket. She had to manually fill the buckets from the outdoor pump.
She had to pour the bucketfuls of water into large pots to heat on the stove. Some cold water was poured into a large galvanized washtub. Hot water from the pots on the stove was added to the cold until the temperature was right.
She had to wash the clothes piece by piece in the tub, scrubbing out stains and dirt on a handheld washboard. She changed the water when she needed to. After all the laundry was washed and rinsed, another repeat process, she had to empty the washtub and carry all the water out of the house to dump in an area away from the house, as no plumbing of any kind existed .
Probably the worst part, which she hated, was wringing out the clothes. Not til later did she own a "mangle" so she had to twist and squeeze each sheet, towel, and piece of clothing until they were manageable enough for her to pile up in her arms and take them outside to hang on the clothesline, and in all kinds of weather. I remember her hands being chapped and cracked from hanging wet clothes in cold weather.
When it was raining or snowing, she had to string clothesline around the kitchen stove so the clothes would dry.
When the clothes were dry enough , then came the job of ironing. In the days before permanent press, fabrics were mostly very wrinkly cotton, which had to be ironed.
To iron, she had to lay the ironing board-----she owned one, but it was flat, without legs---across the table. She had to have the stove hot, even in summer, so she could lay the cast iron, and heavy, iron on the stove to heat, iron the clothes until the iron cooled, and then repeat the process until the clothes were all ironed. Those were the days when washing clothes was done on Monday and ironing was on Tuesday. I resented those days because my mother was always tired and too busy and grumpy to give us her time. I know in my heart I never would have survived having to work like that.

Odd Jobs

Odd only in the sense that most people alive today have never heard of the rigors of the changing out of the Storm Windows. The first home my parents ever owned was the Valley Falls house. As proud homeowners, or at least responsible homeowners, back in the '40's, a necessary chore was to take down the storm windows that covered the windows in the winter, definitely the downstairs windows and those upstairs if at all possible. The downstairs windows in the front of our house were about 8 feet tall, and in 2 sections, which hooked together at the center when they were installed and so the top part had to be detached from the bottom, taken off , and then the bottom section removed. The process necessitated the use of a ladder and at least 2 people. Those old wooden windows were so heavy and so large it took a lot os strength to hold them and lift them down. Getting the top section freed from the bottom section and then handing it down from the ladder to the person below, while simultaneously holding the bottom section in place took strength, patience and the will to succeed. Cracks in the glass were all too common, not to mention cracks in the relationship of the parents who had to do the heavy lifting. The side windows were also very elongated, the kitchen windows not quite so challenging, and the front upstairs windows were attacked by standing on the roof of the porch. To us, though, it was a hallmark of the change of seasons. Taking off the storms, giving them their spring cleaning before storing them for the summer followed on the heels of taking the parlor stove down for the season, and storing it as well. When we were kids those enduring chores lent an air of permanence to the seasons----all that activity presaged that summer would last forever.

But life does grow colder, and parents do grow older, and after a time, I don't remember when, the storm windows did not come down when spring came. Maybe a parent's back went out one year, or the metal brackets securing the windows together rusted them into a single immovable monstrosity; whatever precipitated the change, my father reasoned that the heavy storms which served to keep heat from the stove inside the house in the winter would likewise serve to keep the summer heat out, so the job was dropped from their itinerary. The windows got washed on the outside pane and the pane inside the house. The area between the 2 panes was left alone, except for the small spiders and other bugs that managed to infiltrate the area. no one seemed to really mind.

Lost in Time

I wonder if anyone now alive remembers a man we as children knew only as Harry Horsecollar. He would walk down the road near my grandmother's house. He worked on a nearby farm, one of those hardscrabble properties common in the 1940's when the idea of a self-sufficient lifestyle was still ingrained in the older population. He would plod by the house, always alone, looking like a tired old man to us visiting kids. He never spoke to us kids: not many did in the days of children being "not heard," but he would wave a hand to the adults if they were outside. We thought of him as ancient, but I suppose he could have been only in his 40's. No mention was ever made of his having a family. His life was consumed by work, so that served as his identity to others back in those days of private lives. The story was, though, that his horse had died and Harry would put his dead horse's collar around his own neck and pull the plow . When he had to work the further fields, past my grandmother's house, he would still have the collar around his neck, having left the plow in the field for the next day's work. I never heard him spoken of in any other context, Harry Horsecollar was probably never aware of his moniker, and if he had been I don't imagine it would have affected his life to any degree at all.

Bedbugs wit

A week or so ago I was reading a rather somber toned, somewhat in-depth article on the problems caused by infestations of bedbugs. The writer assumed the identity of one who took the issue seriously, relating where the pests are found, how they may be transported into our homes, the health threats they may pose, and what measures can be taken in the elimination of existing infestations and the prevention of recurrences. The article seemed scholarly enough until the last sentence: ..."so when you go to bed tonight, sleep tight and don't let the bedbugs bite." Oh, NO! My thought was is the writer in third grade, and I immediately had to discount any advice he had given.

How high?

I think I need to raise my debt ceiling. Shall we vote on it?

HOW HOT IS IT?

So hot that the cat has been sleeping in the bathtub for the last 2 days.

And speaking of cats, how does it happen that a cat who has never left the house except once in its carrier three years ago can acquire fleas? We have not had fleas in the house since 20 years and 3 cat-lives ago. And getting rid of them is not as simple as one would think. It seems nobody wants to give a cat a flea bath. The groomer girl in Schaghticoke said she needs special equipment and it's very expensive; cat handling gloves cost $100 each. It would be worth it though because last year when our cat got dirty, we tried to give it a bath. Dave donned a heavy sweatshirt and a big old ski glove. He was to hold the cat while I washed it. But the cat writhed around and grabbed a hold between the sweatshirt and the glove, and totally lacerated Dave's arm. And that was to have been a simple dip in the bucket, not a thorough flea bath. So off to the vet's. They prescribed a pill that is supposed to kill the fleas in an hour or so after the cat ingests it. We think we got a pill down its throat, after it spit it out several times. Thing is, Dave was holding the cat while I pried its mouth open and pushed the pill back on its tongue. But Dave's idea of holding the cat frimly is the same as squeezing it, so that may have triggered the reflux. Shades of Lenny in Of Mice and Men. The cat may well resent us anyhow, because obviously we must have brought the fleas into the house. The vet also ordered a house spray to prevent re-infestation, but we're waiting to see if any mortality results from the pill first.

Plain Language

Sears Repair service was here the other day, "adjusted" fridge under Warranty. Today I got a letter in the mail from them, and was wondering what the heck, opened it, and printed across the top of the (form) letter was, "Don't worry. This is not a bill. It is confirmation of your coverage." The population must be on the verge of panic to elicit such a pre-emptive strike.

FYI

NYS Dept. of Motor Vehicles does not accept a Bill of Sale in lieu of a Lien Release, no matter what Chase Auto Finance of Texas, the Philippines, et al tells you. There is nothing in the manual that so specifies, or at least nothing that could be found, so who knows----somebody somewhere thought it agood idea?

Outsource this!

I say let the immigrants in and have them do their work according to American standards. I say tax to the hilt the corporations who outsource customer service. All that does is lower the standards of service for Americans to the level of a third world country. "I will issue a request," says the woman sitting in the Philippines alone in a room except for a telephone and an answering machine that plays 1940's show tunes while you're placed on hold. But, no, I am the one issuing the request; she is supposed to DO something about that request, "My name is "Kaze" she offers. How do you spell that? "K A Y" she spells out------"Kays" she pronounces.
What's the address of that corporate office?

Peacocks and Wolf-Coyote-Dogs Q&A

I saw peacocks and wondered why they were casually strolling the roadside. I theorized they might have escaped from an area zoo. A reliable source informed me more likely they had flown the coop of the Hunting Preserve on the road from Salem to Rupert. Some savor the delicate taste of freshly shot peacock. My source also informed me that Washington County has been put on watch for the animal known to be a cross between the wolf and the coyote. What ran across the road in front of my car was way bigger than a coyote, not as heavily-bodied as a wolf, as tall as a German shepherd but with the snipy face of a coyote. A coyolf or a wolote?

What I read...

was "View my complaint profile." It might have been "complete profile, " but in any case it's one and the same.

Things Part II

My life is not a victory march.

Things

Change is coming: There is water in the pool. the bungee cords are gone from the refrigerator, the cracked windshield in the car is to be replaced, and we might even succeed in obtaining title to the Subaru if Motor Vehicle will accept a Bill of Sale instead of a Lien Release. My insurance agent's office said to insist on the release, but the auto finance said a bill of sale will suffice. We'll find out tomorrow.

Wealth redux

At one point in my life, I thought we would have significantly more discretionary income when we no longer had to buy Pampers, formula and baby food. That time came to pass, eventually, but our income never seemed to notice any difference.

Wealth

If I were rich, I would buy lots and lots of money.

Primitive Crossword Days

Long, long ago, when I was still in school, our English teacher told us about a crossword puzzle contest, sponsored by one of the literary publications, which student and teachers could enter. The prizes must have been fabulous because I remember working hard to try to find the answers. I think I may have been the only one in the class who took him up on the challenge. It's so hard to think of now, but back then, the only way you could find an answer to anything you didn't know was to look it up in BOOKS. And a big part of the whole process was to find the proper book. There was no real way to know whether the answer could be found in an Atlas, an encyclopedia, a Who's Who, a dictionary, either biographical or geographical, or any of the myriad of other research volumes. A big part of any English exam back then was focused on choosing the correct reference work to use to find any given piece of information. Guess wrong and you lost credit for the question. Anyway, I completed the puzzle except for the part depending on one word. The teacher also was missing the same word. I remember the word: it was sere. I remember feeling disappointed because I hadn't been able to find the word. Ironically enough, I suppose, I am now all too familiar with the meaning of it.

Stop murder

The relatives of the man who murdered 3 people in their sleep and set the house on fire say he was always crazy and violent, with a criminal mind, and he should be dead, and wish that he'd been somehow stopped before he killed someone. Reminiscent of the missing Rainwater youth......Anticipating calamitiy is not the same as predicting the future, but close enough?

Set-top Boxes

The basic set top boxes that Time Warner and Verizon install in order for you to be able to view their cable offerings are worth $500 each. When you disconnect from their service, you are reminded, rather gently, to return the set-top box. Verizon even sends you a package containing a box so you can return their set top box. They tell you that you can drop your cable box off at any UPS office for a free return, and that you don't even need to package it. They have a contract with UPS, they say, that allows you to do so. Only thing is, UPS doesn't see it that way, and say they will charge you if the box is not wrapped. No problem, they even give you a receipt, as does Time Warner when you drop their box off at the TW office. But just to be on the safe side, evidently, they bill you anyway. Presently, I have bills totaling $1500 for 3 boxes. Verizon robo-called me twice in 1 day; the robot doesn't believe me when I press "1" on my phone to say I've already returned the fool things. I wonder why they're so valuable and why they're so desperate to get them back. or at least get paid for them...

And another thing...

You fat parents out there, we don't mean to be too hard on you. There are other ways, besides not putting Doctor Pepper in your child's sippy cup, that will help your child to stay fit and that's by modeling good behavior yourself. Eat those leafy vegetables and GO TO THE GYM. Does anyone on the other side of wealth and privilege realize how that resonates with the poor fat people? Even if they could arrange transportation and pay the membership fees to get their fat a%@#es to the gym, who would take care of the obese little kiddies. Take them with you, you say, and pay the extra family membership, and how would the kids react when they're told to drink carrot juice instead of soda? I recall that somebody famous once said of the poor people,"Let them eat cake," and I'm sure cake has more calories than whole-wheat bread.

Take my kids, if you please.

Just when you think that people must be getting smarter, even if it's because everyone now is exposed to so much knowledge, an unbelievably stupid idea becomes an issue that everyone is seduced into taking seriously. "Do you think that overweight children should be taken away from their parents and put into foster homes?" Really? And what kind of foster parent should those children be placed with? Not anyone who looks like those overweight judges who make the child-seizing decisions, and how many slender judges are there? No foster parents who look anything like those tubby, out-of-condition police officers who may be called on to take the children from their homes. Social workers and teachers who serve as models for the displaced kids are known to have their own weight problems. I venture to say that most of the U.S. Presidents have been on the heavy side, much royalty has had a weight problem, and how many Popes could have stood to drop a few pounds. I've heard that many foster parents agree to the mission because they need the money stipend to supplement their incomes. Do you know how overweight poor people are? If you have any doubts, just hie yourself down to your local Social Services office and take a look around. So someone must bell the cat and eliminate all the folks who are too fat to raise kids. Not an easy task.

The other side of On the Road

I saw some interesting sights of animals in the not-so-wild, and thought what I saw was interesting, and nice to see. But I saw some other sights that were disturbing, the number of properties for sale in the 35 mile stretch of road between my house and my destination. Mostly the houses for sale are older homes, some showing signs of chronic neglect, others suffering from more recent lack of maintenance and repair. They are the kinds of older houses that we think of as long-standing residences, which several generations of a family called home. Now, for whatever reason, the for sale signs stand on the front lawns where some owners are waiting to move away, while many have already left the houses to fend for themselves. Several big old sprawling farms are listed for sale, the livestock already sold. Something about the still working farms looks a little sad, as if they know what lies ahead. I know cows can't predict the future (except maybe approaching rain storms), but the barnyards seem for the most part eerily empty, with few landowners observing their own properties. Even the once standard-issue farm collie is rarely seen. Mid-day in the country is almost a ghost town.
In stark contrast to the solitude of all that land with no good use to put it to was ominous evidence of too many people crowded into too small a space. One main through route to the adjoining town has a police barrier closing the road. Traffic is detoured around the site where a home was leveled to the ground when it exploded. No official cause has been given pending investigation, but the talk is that at least 10 people were in the house when it exploded, taking several lives with it. Another home in the area has burnt to the ground, with three people inside, who were apparently murdered prior to the fire. Again, several generations living in hot and crowded conditions, with not much hope of lifestyle improvement can likely contribute to violence, especially with the mentally unstable.
And those in charge have an answer, right? And, remarkably, those who aspire to be in charge have an even better remedy.

On the Road

This morning I was driving north on Route 22 on my way to Rupert, Vermont. In a fairly remote area, between farmhouses, but alongside the cornfields, were two peacocks, walking casually on the side of the road. No, they weren't pheasants, or quail, or any type of domestic poultry, but authentic peacocks, or maybe peahens, because neither bird had its tail unfurled. But they weren't trying to make an impression on anybody, they were just feeding in an ordinary manner. I don't know if a farmer had raised them and they were merely touring their usual area, or if they'd escaped, or been turned loose from one of the defunct zoos in that neck of the woods. I know it was kind of pleasant to see them, even if not in their natural habitat because it was such a nice day neither they nor I was thinking of what they'll do when winter comes. I had to repeat the trip later in the day, as the paperwork I'd gone to pick up was not complete in the morning, and at about 6:00p.m. was making my second return trip home when a large animal entered the road from my left directly into the path of my car, causing me to brake. Again in the cornfield district, my first instinctive thought was that it was a deer, but it was not a deer. It was a grayish buff color and then I thought a coyote, but it seemed way too large for that. Wolf entered my mind, but maybe it wasn't that big. So I think it must have been a coydog. I've heard of them, but never seen one and come to think of it,I've never seen a coyote either. I've seen plenty of dogs, and I know it wasn't a dog. It moved really fast, in kind of a sideways lope, and in broad daylight. I kind of liked seeing it too, once I knew I wasn't going to hit it with my car. Can't wait for tomorrow.....

Fright Night

On a weekend in the early fall or, more accurately, at the end of summer, David was already at Syracuse, and Dave had driven Marilyn to Binghamton. He had borrowed a truck from Colony Liquor because Marilyn had decided that year to move off campus into her first apartment, and had taken everything she owned with her in the huge truck. (What happened to her belongings is another story.) From Dave's traveling to get the truck to packing all of Marilyn's earthly possessions, and then settling everything into the new apartment, it had been a very long day and Dave was not expected to be back in Valley Falls until after midnight or so. Since the trip was by truck, Danny and I did not go with them, but were HOME ALONE. We'd had a quiet day as I recall, and later that night around 10:30 or so, Danny was in his room watching TV, and I was in the living room reading a book when we were both startled by a loud noise, sounded like metal on metal. We both looked out the front window, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I'd thought it sounded like the time someone crashed into the back bumper of our car, and told Danny that maybe someone had smashed the metal garbage cans against our car. So I took a flashlight outside and walked around the back of the car, shining its light against the back bumper and the sides of the car. Again, nothing seemed out of the ordinary, and what's more, the garbage cans were in the back of the house, right where they belonged. I went back into the house to report no cause of the mystery sound. So Danny and I both went back to what we were doing when we heard another sound. This time I thought it sounded like a car door slamming, hard. Again we both looked out the window, and this time we saw something different. The brake lights of my car were on! Danny and I looked at each other and I remember asking, "What would make the brake lights of a car go on if nobody was in it?" I think the obvious answer occurred to us both at the same time, because Danny didn't say a word, but ran into his room and came out with a raquetbll raquet. (Lord knows where that came from,) I just looked out the window and tried to plan our escape. I just knew I didn't want to stay in the house. I figured the first sound we'd heard was somebody slamming the hood of the car closed, and the second sound WAS the slamming of the car door, so if someone had been trying to steal the car, he would have been inside the car while I was walking around it shining the flashlight. Our escape strategy was this: Danny stood by the door with the raquet while I ran to the car and started it. I think our plan was that if someone appeared, I was to lock myself in the car, and Danny was to lock himself in the house. I can't quite recall where the raquet was to come into play, as Danny probably lacked the expertise or brute strength to wield it in any effective manner anyway: fortunately we didn't have to implement that part of our strategy, as we made it safely down to the Madigan house, and waited there for Dave to get home. Of course we had to keep calling our house at intervals to find when that might be, as it was in the pre-cell phone era. Those good old days.

Don't mess with the IRS

Why some people don't have bank accounts, don't have title to a car, don't have any credit, or own any property:
Most of the time we think that government language is difficult to understand, namely IRS forms and instructions that seem ambiguous. But if the IRS is trying to collect money that is owed them, the language becomes crystal clear. "You haven't responded or paid the amounts you owe. .....If you act promptly we can resolve this matter without taking and selling your property to collect what you owe. Property includes bank accounts, wages, real estate commissions, business assets, cars, and other income and assets.....A lien is a public notice that tells your creditors that the government has a right to your current assets and any assets you acquire after we file the lien." Those words are easy to understand, right? No question either as to what is meant by "Our records indicate that the federal tax you owe has not been paid.The law allows the IRS to take up to 15% of your Social Security benefits to pay your overdue taxes." And when you choose to ignore the notices, the language gets even clearer: "Although we have told you to pay the amount you owe, it still is not paid. This is your copy of a Notice of Levy we have sent to collect this unpaid amount. We will send other levies if we don't get enough with this one. This levy requires the person who receives it to turn over to us (1) your wages and salary that have been earned but not yet paid, as well as wages and salary you earn in the future until this levy has been released and (2) your other income that the person has now or is obligated to pay you."
I'm proud of our government for its clarity of wording, and if I still owed the IRS any money, I'd be praying that I'll get all my taxes paid before they find me and confiscate my car that I worked so hard to get.

What, no DNA?

Who knew? Just think of all the past convictions based on no DNA. Now that it seems impossible to find a person guilty of a crime without a telltale trail of DNA, all who are presently imprisoned without a DNA match must be formulating their appeals. And those who died in prison because of DNA-less evidence are doomed to recount their injustices with those Catholics burning in Hell because they ate meat on Friday.

Parenting 101

The prospect of imminent fatherhood has him not only enrolled in upcoming parenting classes, but also desperate for information, so he asked his 9-year-old nephew if he had any advice for him as to how to raise the baby daughter. "Yes," came the unhesitating answer. "Give her everything she wants."

Note from Dorothy

This may have been written some years ago, early on....when the disease was still a stealthy enemy potentially capable of being vanquished. I found the note among her Elvis stamps.

TO ALL WHOM I LOVE & LOVE ME

Don't be sad---I'll see you up above.
You can't get out of this world alive,
But you can leave all of your love.