Recycling, Going Green, Being Poor

I was going to write more about the insanity at Associated Content tonight, but every time I think about it, my eyes cross, my blood pressure rises, and the dogs start to howl.  Instead, allow me to share a simple little project which exemplifies how thinking green gets under your wallet & sometimes trips you down memory lane.

If my grandparents were alive today, they would be the greenest people on the planet. They recycled everything. Granny canned and preserved all sorts of fruits and vegetables, all which they grew. Everything got repaired by Papa. Trash was a rare thing. It was a very simple life they lived. They were farmers. They were poor.

By today’s standards they were very, very green.  Recycling was not a choice. It was a necessity. My dad was the same way and slowly I’ve discovered everything old is new again. I’m not near the pack-rat my dad was, but I’ve started to look at everything with a “how can I recycle this” attitude. It’s not that I’m a dyed-in-the-all-natural-sheared-from-free-range-sheep-wool Green freak. It’s just that I’m cheap. Here’s the project that proves how cheap I am.

Just as most people keep a grocery list and jot down items as they run out or just have a moment, I keep a Lowe’s list. You read correctly. I jot down items I need at the hardware store as I come across a repair for which I don’t have the correct parts. On that list I’ve had “hooks for hat rack” for the last couple of weeks. The empty wall in the laundry room was a perfect place to put up some hooks to hang my hats. I have about a dozen hats and the cheapest six-hook bar I found at Lowe’s was about $14. I intended to buy a couple and utilize that empty laundry room wall until I found something squirreled away in the garage.

While looking through scrap wood for a step stool I wanted to build (yet another item I didn’t want to spend $60 on and for which I found the boards from an old entertainment center I had disassembled), I found a tool bar. It was something I bought three years ago thinking I would hang the tools in the shed. I hadn’t thought that out very well. My shed doesn’t really have a vertical wall high enough to mount a board like that. But the cheap, green CFL light switched on over my head. This board-and-peg bar would make a great hat rack!

I grabbed some paint, gave it a few strokes, found some screws, tapped in the pegs, and woke my wife up at 10:30 PM with the noise from my power driver.

Standard tool rack

Now a lovely hat rack

Since finding a new place to hang my hat, I’ve pried my wallet opened and sprung for a level. After using my new level to hang a couple of pictures, I decided to check my work. It turns out I have a pretty good eye. The hat rack was dead-on level.

A hat rack is a simple thing, but using what was supposed to be a tool rack as a hat rack and not cluttering a landfill with a idea gone wrong, is green. Before you toss it out, think about my hat rack. Think about my Papa. He’d be proud of such a simple thing. He was green before there was green, not because of his ideology, but because of his economy.

When green becomes economically feasible, that’s when it will really catch on. In the current economy simple things like converting a tool rack to a hat rack are becoming things of necessity. Forcing people to be green with guilt or taxes only pushes people so far. The average person will only find the green path if led by their wallets. Follow me! I’m so lazy and cheap, I’ll find the shortest, easiest path.

My Shameful Experience Buying Turkey

I had my Thanksgiving grocery list neatly typed. I even arranged the list in the order of aisle number. Yes, I’m anal that way and I have a cursed visual memory that burns maps and spacial information into my brain. But juggling a list while controlling a cart is something I haven’t mastered.

The cardboard Jello Pudding display on aisle 4 didn’t stand a chance. It wasn’t the speed that did it. It was the sheer inertia of my half-loaded cart. Snag. Drag. Bang. Jello everywhere. Humiliated, I reassembled the display and help the nice young man restock.

I was already feeling sheepish and in no way prepared for the humiliation of the meat department. Turkey was my goal. The pale, white fowl begging to be brined then baked to a golden brown. God, I love Thanksgiving. I love the cooking, the eating, the family. I love putting the first fire of the season in the fireplace. But I must focus on the bird.

Suddenly I was confronted with the birds. They were all stamped with the words “Young and Fresh.” I started to push and pick through them, looking for one of the right weight. As I fondled the young, fresh birds, I felt other shoppers staring at me. They weren’t, but I felt they were. I felt dirty. I felt like a pedophile. These young, fresh things were taunting me.

I quickly dropped a 12 pounder into the cart. My eyes darted around the store. No one saw. No one knew my shame, but me. But it got worse.

My young, fresh flesh is currently in the garage refrigerator in a cooler full of brine. As I type that, I realize how very “Silence of the Lambs” it sounds.  It puts the butter on its skin or else it gets the gravy again.  God, I love Thanksgiving.

Up and Krunkin’

That magic moment came Friday morning.  My back stopped spasming long enough for the kink to leave.  Just in time to move a sofa to my daughter’s upstairs apartment.  Yeah, really looking forward to that experience.   Thanks to my bud Jon, his new hardwood floor and his every-thing-must-go strategy for clearing out the living room, I got a free couch and chair.  Well, nothing is really free.  I have to expend the energy to get it to it’s destination.

Then it’s off to the grocery store to spend a weeks grocery money on one meal.  I love Thanksgiving.  We’re going to celebrate at least twice.  The youngest is doling out a spread on Wednesday night.  Then we do it up right at the old homestead on Thursday.  Throw in some leftovers and we’ll eat for 5 days.  Until then I’ll just rest up and watch some porn.  My definition of porn is the Food Network and this is sweeps week.  Oh yeah Alton, brown that bird!

Veteran’s Day Means a Little More to Me

I fly an American flag from the front of my house. It gets replaced when it is faded or worn. I sing along to the Star Spangled Banner at ball games and other events. I stand when it is played and place my hand over my heart.

I’ve never done anything grand or courageous for my country, just these little things to show respect for those who have sacrificed for her freedom. My meager efforts are an attempt to show my admiration for men and women, in and out of the military, who contributed to our great society.

Army life means that Old Glory is always the center piece of parades, activities, and even cookouts. This is how I was raised. Growing up we had very basic rules. One of the most important was respect for our country’s flag.

At the age of three, I remember playing in a field behind our quarters at Ft. Wolters. At 1700 hours (that’s 5pm civilian time), the fort PA system would blare revelry as a prelude to retiring the flag with the Anthem. As the first note started, we would drop our toys and start running, trying to make it home before the music started.

We would never make the distance and when the first notes of the Anthem started we froze and stood at attention for the duration. Years later I would find out that my mother would watch our daily attempts from the kitchen window and giggle with proud laughter at the respect we had learned at such a tender age.

The Army for all its olive drab is really full of colors. As a boy, I was fascinated with my father’s dress uniform. It had so many ribbons, so many colors. I researched them all. When I discovered the secret meaning of one, I would query my dad as to its deeper meaning. Most of these conversations would go on for quite some time as dad explained, with pride, why this award was given and why it was awarded to him.

Sometimes the conversation was brief and the answer was technical; no history; no story. Only later in life would I discover that there are some things about which even soldiers can not speak. When I came across photos of an old Jeep in one of the family picture albums, I was puzzled. Why so many photos of a beat-up Jeep? That is when I heard the story behind the Purple Heart.

It was a busy Saigon street in April 1966. That Jeep had three people in it other than the driver, my father. As a motorcycle passed, a Vietcong soldier tossed a grenade into the floorboard. My father grabbed the grenade and ejected it from the vehicle. It exploded as it left the window, peppering the Jeep and occupants with shrapnel. Twenty years later, during a routine X-ray, they would find a sliver in my father’s hand that the Army surgeon had missed. Soldiers carry many things and some are the scars of war.

When my old soldier faded away, they honored him with the traditional twenty-one gun salute. The Major handed his widow a tightly folded American flag. His ribbons and medals were carefully displayed in a beautiful case. The flag was framed. Later, my mother gave her husband’s son a worn, stained, folded dollar bill and an unforgettable memory of what it really means to be a soldier.

For this we return to the early 1950s. As my parents returned home from a date one evening, my future mother asked her beau if he had enough gasoline to get home. He wasn’t sure so she gave him one dollar for gas. Back then, one dollar would have bought three gallons. He made it home with no help.

That’s the kind of guy he was, adventurous and resourceful. He folded that dollar bill and kept it close to his heart, until he shipped out for war. On that day, he placed that simple piece of cloth in an envelope with instructions to give it to his son if he failed to return.

He did return and served with honor for a total of 27 years as the guardian of my freedom. My father carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. He carried “the button,: “the football” for five presidents. Most importantly, he carried me on his shoulders and still does.

Soldiers never stop serving. That is the mind of a soldier. Somewhere in Kharkov, Ukraine is a family to whom Barefoot means food, care, and prayer. My old soldier kept serving overseas long after he mothballed his uniform. He went to Ukraine and poor islands off the coast of Honduras to give people food, medicine, and hope.

Soldiers are a breed apart. We would not enjoy our freedoms without their sacrifices. One day of remembrance each year is not enough. When you vote your conscience, cross state lines without papers, go to a grocer that is not state-owned, thank a soldier. Each day you wake up with the freedom to do as you please thank a soldier.

Find a soldier to thank. I have mine.

I Have a Trophy Wife

I took some time out of my busy schedule to spend some time with my wife. You have to do that every once in a while guys. Trust me on this one. It cuts down on the couch time.

I took her to the spa. By spa, I mean optometrist. She put off going for 2 years and I insisted because she was missing all of my beauty. By beauty, I mean the lights were out because I forgot to pay the utility bill.

The nice young lady totaled up the bill, sans insurance, and proclaimed that it would be $250. I turned to my bride and said, “You’re a high-maintenance chick.”

She retorted, “I’m a trophy wife.”

“I didn’t win first-place.”

“Yeah. I’m one of those Special Olympics trophy wives. Every one wins a prize just for participating.”

During this brief exchange, we gazed lovingly into each other’s eyes with full knowledge of our strong love; an understanding that only comes with time, patience, and a sense of humor. The young attendant however had her jaw on the floor. It wasn’t until that jewel I married, turned and said, “We’ve been married 25 years,” did the poor, unwitting soul stifle a chuckle.

It’s good to rub off on people. It’s good to rub against people. Try to do the former as much as possible. Try to do the latter with a select few, if only one.

That was a long dry spell

Between work and a much needed mini-vacation, I haven’t put anything on AC in quite a while. Now that things are returning to something close to normality, I was able to punch this out over coffee this morning.

Tonight we shall dine in finery at Ruth’s Chris. I’m treating my 25-years-tomorrow partner and the 1-year newlyweds to dinner.

What to get for the big silver anniversary? Eyewear of course. She hasn’t had her eyes checked in over 3 years. I don’t think she’d have gone if she hadn’t slept in her glasses and bent them. All the gentle badgering in the world didn’t seem to work, but blindness is a great motivation.

The newlyweds are having their own life-building struggles. Jenn’s doctor didn’t fill out a form correctly and Public Safety suspended her license. It’s good that her husband adores her so much. He’s having to tote her everywhere now. I hope they are using the togetherness to build a stronger relationship.

Jenn isn’t as upset about not driving as she is about the doctor filling out the form incorrectly not once, but twice. Now the doctor has reversed her decision on the matter and refuses to sign off. That makes the first form a fraud. Jenn is hopping mad and plans to file complaints with the state medical board. Damn, I raise a spitfire.

Enjoy the new article. It’s sort of rantish, but you’ll find it true.

Blogger Down! Grid 24-Charlie. Fire for Effect

Not really, but by choice.  I’m putting the blog on hold for a few days.  I’m disappearing from the internet completely for a few days.

Taking downtime is sometimes more important than downloads.  Family, food, fun, and no computer.  The laptop stays home. I’m going to take a notebook and pen.  Doing things the old fashion way will be a great change of pace. Plus no batteries to recharge but my own.

See y’all next week.  Be safe.

Seriously, who takes the train anymore?

Every trip has an economic impact. With gas at its current price, I decided to look at some alternate means of transportation. Fly? No, you can’t get there from here without making a few stops. Layovers suck. Airport security sucks. By the time you fly, you could drive there. Narrow-ass seats to boot.

The deal is, I need to get to New Orleans. Interestingly, Amtrak goes there. From where I sit, they go there for about $65 round trip. That’s about a tank and 1/2 of gas in my van. I calculate it would take about 2.5 tanks to get to New Orleans and back. I decided to take the train.

It takes longer to get there on the train than to drive, but I figure the stress of not sharing the road with 1,527 idiots between hither and thither is worth it. I get to sit back, relax, have a drink and just arrive. Potty stops are not an issue. Another plus.

I’m taking the Crescent to New Orleans. Sounds like fun. The best part is, I get to see some family that I haven’t seen for quite some time. My cousin is getting his own Coast Guard command and a promotion to Captain. The ceremony takes place on the solstice, in south Louisiana, at high noon. The dress is suit and tie. Oh joy! I expect to be 10 pounds lighter from just water loss.

But family is family. I’m excited for the big promotion and the chance to see some family that I haven’t seen for a few years. Good food in New Orleans is just the icing on the cake.

Happy Father’s Day 2007

My oldest daughter and son-in-law popped by yesterday to say, “Happy Father’s Day.” His dad is coming in from out of town and they’re spending Sunday with him. I’m here all the time, so I don’t mind.

The jury is not back on whether the youngest will even call on Sunday. She normally only calls when she needs money. It’s getting pretty sorry. I wouldn’t mind so much if she’d just call to say “Hey” every now and again. The last call was, “My brakes are falling out of my car…” There was a long explanation that followed, but all I heard was “…$300.”

My mom sent a nice card about what a good dad I was to her grandkids. A mom’s support is a treasure beyond price. Unfortunately, I don’t have to worry about what to get my dad for Father’s day. He passed away a few years back leaving the puzzle of “shirt or tie?” solved.

A wrote something a while back, first for Memorial Day then re-wrote it for Veteran’s Day. It’s really all about Father’s Day. If you read it, let me know what you think.

When your father is with The Father, Father’s Day is a little sad. Maybe my youngest will call just to say, “Happy Father’s Day.” If your dad is still around and is worth his salt, give him a ring. Dad’s are people, too.

Don’t forget Mother’s Day

Just so you know I come by it honestly…

I called my Mom the other day to confirm some dates and other facts that I needed to fill out this massively complex form for the government. I understand that “massively complex government form” is redundant. Don’t email me.

I was looking at the part where they wanted me to classify my family relationships 1=mom, 2=dad, 3=children, etc. Some of the categories were step/foster parents.

I jokingly asked my mother, “Have I ever had any step or foster parents?”

Without missing a beat she said, “We tried, but no one would take you.”

I love my mom for her wit, the sense of humor she subtlety taught me and the whole “life” thing. Yes. I’m a birth survivor and proud of it. Sorry my head was so big Mom. I love you.