US Memories

In my last post I wrote about some of the places I've visited outside the US and commented about how lucky I've been to have seen and done so much. My daughter pointed out in a comment to that post that I'd left out some pretty wonderful places in the US too. And she's right. I've been lucky on that account also.

I'll leave out the scenic beauty of Illinois where I grew up. But after all this blog is named after some of my best childhood memories from there. It was a much simpler time back then. We'd be gone all day and our parents had no clue where we were. We'd ride all over town, which admittedly probably wasn't five miles across. We'd go to "the creek" and mess about as boys do. In the winter we'd drag our sleds to the creek and slide down the hill and out onto the frozen creek. Sounds dangerous, but no one I recall ever got hurt ... badly ... enough to go to the hospital ... for more than a stitch ... or two.

We'd also go to my grandmother's house for a couple weeks in the summer. Basically there were no rules for those weeks. We didn't have to take a bath if we didn't want to. She'd give us wooden orange crates. We'd break them up, take our pocket knives and carve them into swords and play fight with them. Or we'd walk out the railroad tracks and use them to cut the head-high or higher weeds into forts and mazes -- or just cut them to see whose sword was sharpest.

Our family would go to Tennessee for vacations. Freedom. We always went to the same resort: Pete Smith's Watts Bar Dam Resort. Nothing but swimming in the pool and hanging out with the other vacationing kids there. It was a big deal to be able to order off the menu at the pool and then sign the receipt ourselves.

Knox College holds great memories. It was the first time in my life I didn't feel out of place. Lots of people there were at least as weird as I was. I fit right in. I made most of the friends there that I have to this day. And I got married there. And my daughter was born there. I remember glorious spring days running track.

And who can not like New Orleans? I moved there after grad school and
still work for the same company today. Playing volleyball at the lake front. Water skiing in the rivers and bayous -- in the same water with sharks and stingrays. I learned to sail there from two really good sailors and the passion for sailing has never left me.

Pensacola, FL beaches are some of the best anywhere. Lazy days with my family there just playing in the water ... minding our own business ... then along comes a wave (sorry, inside joke).

Where I fit the best was Northern California though. It's my kind of place. Perfect weather most of the time. More to do outside than you can accomplish in a life time. Everyone needs to see Yosemite Valley once before they die. And I'll never forget my one foray into backpacking. From the rim of Yosemite at Tuolome Meadows up to 11,000-feet at Young Lakes ... still frozen even in July. Altitude sickness for 24 hours like you wouldn't believe. Sailing in San Francisco Bay and learning what it is like to sail in real wind. And freezing while you do it. On big boats. Sausalito. Salt Point State Park for tide pooling and walking in the hills -- Pygmy Forrest. Seeing a wild mountain lion up close ... too close I now realize. Snow skiing at Lake Tahoe -- North Star, Squaw Valley, Kirkwood, Sugarbowl. Getting up before dawn to drive the four (or was it six) hours up there and being on the first ski lift ride up the mountain. And feeling like the day was not a success unless you also rode the last chair of the day to the top. Racing downhill for my company's ski team -- helmet and all. Running San Franciso Marathon and finishing. Monterrey Peninsula with Pebble Beach, Pacific Grove. Going to the aquarium in Monterrey itself -- fabulous. Learning to play beach volleyball from a real star and his wife. Santa Cruz on the weekends and playing all day. Watching my daughter grow up and seeing her learn that tarantulas are not to be feared and that being the best at cheer leading doesn't always mean you win the competition.

Business trips to Anchorage (correctly described as scenic over kill). Certainly one of the most beautiful places in the world ... but too darn cold and dark for me in the winter. Bakersfield, Ventura, El Segundo all in California. Ventura on the coast is fabulous. Bakersfield is not nearly as bad as some people make it out to be. I don't think I'll ever be a fan of LA. But a week long trip there looking at colleges with my daughter -- Huntington Beach, Laguna Beach, San Diego. Oh, did I say colleges? Sorry, we mixed in a little bit of volleyball too.

Las Vegas -- I've been all over the world and there is no where else on the planet like Las Vegas. It's much more fun when you're winning. Reno is OK, but it's not Las Vegas

Tulsa, Oklahoma -- not a place where I'd choose to go, yet lots of good things happened there. I owned my first house. My daughter found her life's work and she grew up straight and strong there with a good sense of herself. I learned to windsurf and to play golf (again). I scared the crap out of a guy foolish enough to let me captain his sailboat in a regatta. ("I've never seen anyone pull the sails that tight." "It's windy. Don't worry." We finished second.) Playing indoor volleyball four nights a week because there wasn't a whole heck of a lot else to do in the winter.

Wonderful trip to Taos, NM for more skiing.

And New York, Boston, Orlando, Chicago, San Antonio, El Paso, Flagstaff -- good things about all these places -- although I'm not really much of an East Coast fan. Charlotte, Charleston, Atlanta. I guess I like the South second after San Franciso.

And now Houston ... it's all good. And I've rambled on long enough

Old enough to know better; too young to resist.

Today I am 59. What a useless birthday. I'm actually looking forward to next year already. That's a milestone deserving big celebrations, fancy expensive gifts (just setting expectations here), a trip abroad to commemorate the occasion (can you spell Mauritius, boys and girls?), a birthday blowout with all my rowdy friends in Las Vegas similar to one we had for my 55th birthday. Next year won't be bad at all.

So what's 59 besides a prime number? Nothing. Well, except that gaining a year is better than not being around to have one, I suppose. And as a friend of mine just wrote, 59 in most cases is better than 95. Plus I'm not in bad health, I've got a new house, I'm living on a golf course, my mom's still alive and still putts better than I do, my daughter's doing well. My wife looks like she's 47 -- oooh, if she reads this, I really meant 39, sweetie. That is both good news and bad, by the way. I like that she looks so young; why can't I be that lucky?

One thing I have noticed over the last few birthdays: I used to say that I had no regrets -- now I have lots. I wish I had treated some people better; you know who you are. I wish I'd gone to work for a different company right from the start, but my company has done extremely all right by me, I have to admit. I wish I'd paid more attention to my daughter's growing up because those memories I do have are sustaining. I wish I hadn't thrown some things away; I wish I'd thrown away some things I've kept.

All in all though, not bad.

I've said before, how did a kid that grew up in a corn field ever get to do the things that I've gotten to do or go to the places I've been? I've been extremely lucky on that count. It's a great treat to look at our travel pictures from around the world.

It all started with fly-in fishing trips to Canada with my dad.

Mauritius is still the most special place for me. We loved our trips to Thailand too. Southern Italy was wonderful and seeing Pompeii and Herculaneum fulfilled a dream. Amsterdam was exciting and fun. St. Petersburg had the most beautiful palaces. London is one of the best cities to walk around in. The Pyramids and the Sphinx were both better and not as good as I'd imagined.

Singapore is nice but sterile. Hong Kong is crazy and dirty and loud and smelly and vibrant. I got to fly in to Hong Kong at the old airport ... the one where you fly between (literally) apartment buildings to land.

I'll never forget the Pushkin Museum. We're walking around Moscow one day and my someday-to-be wife says, "Oh, here's Pushkin Museum. I've not been there in years." I asked, "What's there?" "They have impressionist art." "Oh, OK. (hesitation) Let's go." And then we get in there and there's a FLOOR of impressionist art. We walked and looked until I just couldn't do it anymore. It was the first time I understood why they make such a fuss about Picasso.

And the first ballet I ever saw was in Kremlin Palace Theater in Moscow. And I've see ballets in both the Bolshoi and the Marinski theaters as well. I've been inside the Kremlin.

Can't forget Kazakhstan ... the land of sand and a great experience. Who else do you know that's been there? AndI met a certain beautiful, Russian dancer there.

And then there are the garden spots: Lagos, Nigeria; Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea; Caracas and Maracaibo, Venezuela; Bogota, Colombia; Jakarta, Indonesia. Sort of a coin toss as to which was the most dangerous. Papua New Guinea was the most beautiful. Bogota had the most friendly and happy people ... and the most guns. Venezuela had the prettiest girls, although it was a tough choice between there and Bogota. Jarkarta was fun back in the day. The most polite people live there.

Australia is caught in a time warp of about 1960s US. That's good news and bad. Fremantle and Surfers' Paradise were fabulous.

Mexico with friends many years ago was great ... and got me started windsurfing. The volleyball there on another trip was really fun (my team beat the instructors' team).

Which brings me to Urkraine of all places, which actually had even better beach volleyball (strangely enough), but I was too old to enjoy it.

And speaking of windsurfing: Aruba -- zowie zowie.

And speaking Caribbean, St. Lucia for a honeymoon ... and rain rain rain.

Turkey was OK, but I liked Egypt better. Cyprus was OK, but I liked Egypt better too.

And after that long list, I'm probably still leaving out places and certainly leaving out lots of memorable experiences. Amazing.

59 years -- Maybe 59 is OK.

Chewing gum and wee bits of wire

I spent a good part of the day engineering a pulley system so I can store my sailboards (windsurf boards) up out of the way against the ceiling of our garage. I'd built something similar in my California house many years ago. It worked OK, but never perfectly. I decided: new house ==> proper engineering.

Last night I retrieved suitable bits, saved from previous rigging and that had languished in a paper sack for nigh unto 10 years. I sat in the family room and rove rope through pulleys, attached pulleys to scrap slats of wood simulating the ceiling and the cradle I planned to hold the boards. Much re-roving, re-attaching, and re-cussing. Eventually I had a design that looked reasonable. That left only to scale it up today.

Stud finders don't.

This windsurf equipment is relatively heavy, probably bordering on 75 pounds. The three attachments on the ceiling of the garage needed to be embedded in the wooden ceiling joists, not just in the sheet rock. I'd earlier purchased an electronic stud finder. That was supposed to make finding the studs easier and even would prevent you from drilling, screwing or pounding into live electrical wires.

I put up the ladder in the garage, turned on the stud finder and spent the next 45 minutes making marks on the ceiling. If you took the time to connect all the dots I made, you'd have a picture of Lady Godiva Riding a Horse. What you wouldn't have is any idea where the studs are ... or you'd be led to think they are everywhere.

I retreated to the tried and true. A little careful looking allowed me to find the nails holding up the sheet rock ... probably nails in the studs. A few taps of a long thin nail into the hoped for position of the stud either proved or disproved the theory. If true, then the pilot hole for the hook to go in the ceiling was already started. If false, eye-ball the sheet rock nails again and try the next most likely spot. At the end, throw the electronic stud finder at the wall.

I got the pulley system rigged. It worked a treat on its own with no load attached. Then I went to work engineering a cradle of sorts. I'd hoped this cradle would hold a couple boards, two masts, and nine sails. I got some wood roped and tied together. The pulley system worked fine with just the cradle attached. The system even looked like it was going to work with one board sitting in the cradle. It looked like that right up until the point that the cradle dumped the board onto the concrete floor. It had only made it to a height of about 12" so no great harm done.

Then two hours went by.

At the end of the time roughly eight different ideas for holding the boards in the pulley system had been tried and had failed. While pacing back and forth muttering, I happened to see two straps whose original purpose was to hold things on car roof racks. Roof racks were gone; straps now became sailboard holders: easy to attach to pulleys, easy to make tight and slip proof, easy to get off. Viola. Another 30 minutes of experimentation ensued, but eventually: two boards snuggled against the ceiling.

Now the sails should be a breeze. Hook them to the beam of the pulley system where the straps attach -- up they go. Except they over balanced the boards to one side and this time I had two boards and four sails on the concrete.

Another hour and two beers go by before I realize I don't actually have to hoist the sails. They're light. I'll just fasten them to the hooks in the ceiling and I'll be done. Two bungee cords and four trips up the ladder: Job Done.


It required another 20 minutes to clean up the 42 tools, 97 bits of rope, 6 left over pulleys, and some nails -- and pushing all the storage boxes back to where they belonged -- and picking up the remains of the non-finding stud finder.


For the record:

1. I did not use one strip of duct tape.
2. I did not use any newspaper.
3. I was not bleeding at the end of the exercise.
4. No animals were harmed in the testing except for the spider that fell off the ceiling and down my shirt front.
5. I only used two 4" pieces of wire in the whole construction.
6. Generally all the pieces that should be symmetrical, are of the same type and size, i.e., no big giant hook on one end and one tiny hook on the other. All the screws are the same type, size and color.
7. The rig has remained in place for six hours and has not crashed to the floor.

I rewarded myself by heading off to play golf. And when I got back, thanks to previous effort, I could even park my new old golf cart in its rightful place.

Technical writing ... a short course

In my new position I get to review software design documents created by people in our work unit. Our project is integrating information from diverse software applications to provide my company a unified view of the crude oil and products trading that we do. We're merging data from the trading system itself, from a credit management system (really important in the current economic situation) and from a pricing/risk system. That last one's particularly interesting because it attempts to keep the Company from going bankrupt because it bought too much oil when prices were high or sold too much when prices were low. Complicated stuff.

We have to pass information back and forth between those three systems. Plus each of those three pushes and pulls data from more than twenty "outside" systems. For example, we have to send accounting information about the trades to the Company's accounting system monthly. We also pull in externally-created financial statements and credit reports for our suppliers and customers. It's nice to know that we'll actually get paid when the time comes, so we check that stuff pretty carefully.

The only way to pass that information around is to write computer programs to extract the information from one system, massage it, and then pass that information to the receiving system. For each one of those interfaces (on the order of 100, by the time everything's said and done), we need to write a document describing what we're going to do. The business people read the document and say, "Yup, that's what we need." The programmers read the document and say, "OK, I understand what software you want me to write."

Part of my job is to read each of those documents. I verify that the described solution appears to work. I verify that the solution adheres to our software architectural standards. I verify that the document contains all the information that a programmer is going to need to get busy in a few months and actually write the software.

It's driving me crazy.

My dad was a writer. I remember being in tears when I was in grade and even high school after I'd take some piece of writing to my father. I'd have spent probably an hour laboriously typing on a manual typewriter the single page that the assignment required. I'd be pretty proud of it. Dad would look at it, look at me, and then start in. "This isn't clear. Make this shorter. You can say this better. ..." It never failed. No matter how good I thought it was, it wasn't. I'd have to look at retyping the whole thing. (White-outs were never enough to correct the mistakes he found.) It was painful and only more so because ... damn it ... he was right. Everything he suggested improved the piece.

So now I'm the reviewer. Most of the team doing the writing don't come from a liberal arts background, and in fact not a US background of any kind. They are dyed in the wool techies. They need help. So, for posterity, here are my rules for technical writing:

All things being equal, shorter is better.

Figure out who your audience is before you start. Don't put anything in the document that your audience won't use. When you try to include it, don't tell me "Oh, that's good information." It's not good if no one's going to use it.

Use the journalistic pyramid style: start simple, get more detailed as you go. That way, when the reader has reached the level of detail he or she needs or desires, the reader just stops reading.

If a sentence contains any of these words then you probably need to rewrite it: "is", "are", "be". Those are tipoffs that you're writing in passive voice and it drives me crazy. E.g., "It is sent to program two." WHO or WHAT sends it to the program? Don't compound the problem by saying "It is sent to program two by program one." Say: "Program one sends it to program two." It saves two words: 22%. It saves five characters: 12%. You end up writing 9 pages instead of 10 and the 9 are much more clear and readable.

Write everything in present tense. If something's not happened yet, pretend it has. You're writing about something you want to make happen. Be positive.

Don't try to impress with how smart you are. Never use two syllables when one will do.

Put things in the document or in an appendix, but not both. That way if something changes you don't have to make two updates to the document, one of which you're bound to forget.

Look for chances to use the imperative sentence. That style is short and clear. Do it.

Whew. It's good to vent.

Score one for the 'bama

As a knock on to my earlier post about the Presidential Oath of Office, I'm happy to note that President Obama got together with Chief Justice Roberts and they did their oath thing all the way through without a hitch. Of course people are bitching (a) that there were no press photographers present and (b) that he didn't swear on the Bible. But, he fairly well put to rest the paranoid few who were going to make an issue of the original oath taking. I'm glad he did that. Otherwise we'd have to listen to the moaning for weeks.

But that's not why the President is getting an 'atta boy' from me. It's because he ordered the closing of the Guantanamo military prison. Those of you that know me are probably surprised that I'd not want to keep that murdering bunch of terrorists safely locked up until Cuba sinks into the sea. Under normal circumstances, you'd be right. But our president is not letting them go. He's going to transfer them, he thinks, here to the mainland.

Of course, lots of people, including congressmen, governors, and other bottom dwellers, have ostracised GW Bush for putting those people there in the first place. But, now as the chickens come home to roost -- or in a more appropriate metaphor: the carrion-picking vultures begin to perch -- those same people are saying, "Oh, wait -- not in MY prison." Gosh, that's a shock.

So, I'm happy that this deal is going to make the people who love to gripe but don't want to do anything about it, start putting their money, or at least their prison systems, where their mouth is.

But that's not what I'm really happy about.

What I really hope happens is that they put these guys from Guantanamo into the general prison population in say, San Quentin or Attica -- preferably in the Aryan Nation cell blocks. The GitMo experience will seem like the good ol' days to the terrorists in no time.

So, well done, Mr President. So long as you're not turning those bastards loose, close that baby down, and let them have a little prison hospitality in our 'hood -- for as long as they last.

Is the test over? Did I pass?

Those of you following my series of posts on our move to Houston know that it has been challenging. It has been so bad in fact that I have often felt that I was being tested by a higher power -- tested and found wanting, I'm afraid. I'm so down on the whole thing, life's really been a drag.

And then a ray of hope: Some days ago, Joe (a guy that lives near us) played golf with Jack (a guy that also lives in The Club). Jack received a new fancy golf cart for Xmas and was selling his old one -- cheap. Joe told me about it; I wrote an email to Jack. Days passed and nothing. Then late last week there's a knock at the door and Jack is there. "My wife just told me about your email. I still have the cart for sale. Want it?" I said that I'd come by his house the next day to take a look. He agrees and drives off. Next thing I know, there's another knock at the door -- Jack again. He's driven the cart over for me to see.

It IS old, but looks OK. We drive it around the block and it seems all right. He tells me that it is 10 years old but the battery is only about 18 months old. I tell him that I'll think about it and he drives off.

I do due diligence online and his offer is less than 1/3 of the cost of any other used cart that I can find. I call him and say, "Done".

I get home early on Tuesday night. Wife drives me to his house. I hand him a check and drive home in my new old cart. (Actually it was not quite that simple because I left my checkbook at home on the first 'go-round, but never mind.) Figuring in the cost of the cart and the yearly "trail fee" that I have to pay The Club, if the cart lasts a year or two, I'll have gotten my money. I have to play about 100 rounds of golf during 2009 in order for it to pay out versus just renting one of The Club's carts every time I play. Of course, if wife starts playing golf too, then it's 100 rounds between the two of us -- even better.

So I'm good. But, that's not the silver lining. The way things have been going, I'm pretty sure the cart will crap out on me the first time I actually use it. But ...

I arrive at work yesterday and my pay stub is in the mailbox. I open it and discover that I received some sort of strange tax refund from 2006. It covers the cost of the cart and a good chunk of the yearly "trail fee" that I have to pay The Club. So win or lose, I've not busted the bank with my impulse purchase.

Thank you, Oh Great Spirit. I needed a little light in the tunnel.

Faithfully yours ...

I don't know for whom I felt sorrier yesterday: President Barack Obama or Chief Justice John Roberts (what a great name). Everything else about the day had probably been choreographed to the n-th degree. And then it came time for the Presidential Oath of Office -- a grand total of about 35 words. Obviously no one had earlier put the President and the Chief Justice in the same room for five minutes and said, "OK, you two do a dress rehearsal. I know, I know. It's dirt simple and you've both memorized the Oath, but just do it. You know stuff happens." And they didn't and then it did.

Roberts got thrown off when the President interrupted and started repeating the words "I, Barack Hussein ..." before Roberts was ready for him to begin. That gives Roberts one too many things to think about and so he proceeds to change the wording of the oath from that dictated in the Constitution. I thought the look on the President's face was priceless: You STUPID sonofabich. Now what the heck am I supposed to do? Say it incorrectly like you just quoted, or say it the way I know it's written? So the President starts in and then Roberts compounds the problem by interrupting the President. President Obama eventually elected to choose some from each side of the menu: failing to repeat the oath as written and yet not repeating exactly what Roberts had asked him to say. I bet President Obama thought when it was mercifully over, Great. Four minutes into the world's most difficult job and I've already fouled up. Well, the good news is that the press corp (and blog writers) won't have to make something up to write about.

Or maybe he thought, It's like a new car. You drive like you're on eggs until you get the first dent and from that point on, you just motor on down the road -- worrying more about where you're going than worrying about denting the car. I've had my first dent, so look out world: I'm comin'.

And then I had to laugh because one of the TV news reporters mused out loud about whether the President was really the President since the Oath was not correctly administered. Oath or no oath, the man was President from noon yesterday per 20th Amendment to the Constitution. The reporter should've known that.

I've already been reading that the white conservatives are going to take it to court about whether the Presidency is all legal or not. HELLO! Who are you going to take your case to? The Supreme Court? Like John Roberts's Supreme Court? Well, I wonder how THAT'S going to turn out?

Maybe I'm not listening in the right places but it also wouldn't surprise me if some people are saying, "Just another example of the white guy messing with the black guy."

I should say that President Obama was gracious to Roberts when asked about the oath taking later, saying something like, "Oh, you know, we were both nervous .... yada, yada."

My final thought: I'm glad it wasn't me up there in either role. I'd've probably forgotten all the words, puked, and then passed out. Mr. President, things are never so bad they couldn't be worse. Go drive that car like crazy.

Democracy

"Democracy is the worst form of government except for all those others that have been tried." -- W Churchill

My father every four or eight years would say, "What's happening today is really amazing. In only a handful of places in the world does a government completely change, and there is no fear, no armies on the streets, no dead predecessors. The outgoing guy just hands over to the incoming guy and life goes on." So I'm celebrating today in honor of my dad because, once again, I think he's right.

I think President-elect Obama's been horribly over-hyped. I'm almost going to feel sorry for him when the honeymoon is over and people begin to realize that he isn't a saint. He's just a fairly smart guy with limited political experience who's willingly thrown himself in the deep end. As comedian Chris Rock said, you can't even make fun of the guy. It's like: "Ooh, you're young and virile and you've got a beautiful wife and kids. You're the first African-American president." What else are you going to say? Rock goes on, though, by saying that eventually President Obama will screw up and then the comedians will get on him and the rest of us can take off the rose-colored glasses.

I read in another article that it has taken 44 years since the voting rights act passed for an African-American to become the 44th President. I hear people saying that Martin King's 'dream' is becoming a reality. I thought about that some days ago sitting in a restaurant here in Houston. It was an ethnically diverse group ... to the extreme. There was even a Russian among us. For a period of my life back at least in part of the 60s and certainly in the 50s, that mixing would never have happened. We have come a long way and if electing Senator Obama gets people to admit it, it's a good thing.

And the last bit of my political diatribe: The United States of America does make progress. We move forward. The rest of the world at times hates us because we mess up their comfortable status quo. We don't always move forward in the the right direction, but generally we look ahead. I contrast that with other countries who have dipped their toe into democratic waters, gotten scared and turned back to the safety of a somewhat benign dictator. People who long for socialism to keep them safe at the expense of moving forward.

Thanks, but I'll take the worst form of government over all the others, especially the US version.

Good luck, Barack. You're gonna need it. But your country will face forward with you, like we always do.

More testing of my ability to cope

You can probably guess by now that when days go by without a post from me, it is not a good sign.

Here's a litany of the past several days:

Family room and bedroom furniture arrived. Couch (a floor model and we knew it) had more damage than we would've liked including some disconcerting black stains on the back. One swivel chair has stitching on one seam coming out. The second chair has some of the ticking showing if you lift the cushion on the arm.

We found a few scratches on some of the bedroom pieces, but generally they were acceptable until ...

We discovered that each nightstand had lights underneath. Very cute. Just by touching them you could cycle through dim, medium, high and off settings. Frankly, we didn't even realize they had that feature. (And neither did the saleswoman, I should say.) We plugged 'em in, turned them on, liked them, and turned them off. A few minutes later, I come back into the room and they're on again. I figured Wife liked looking at them, but I wanted to save electricity, so I turned them off. A few minutes later I'm back in and they're back on. I stand there and stare for a few seconds, now they're off. A few more seconds, on - dim. A few more, on - medium. And then on - high before turning themselves off and starting the cycle again.

The saleswoman is actually at the house (more on that in a minute) so I ask, "What's the deal?"

She says, "Oh, just unplug them."

I say, "Wait a minute, I paid for these and they're supposed to work."

"Oh, well, I don't know ... "

So why is the saleswoman there? Because she and two of her minions brought four oriental rugs for us to see with the newly delivered furniture. The deal was that she would bring rugs in about our price range and we could choose. The first was way too red and it was easy to say "no". I'd liked it in the store but not on the floor. The next was really good. It looked completely different depending on which side of the room you were standing. It was the one the saleswoman originally picked for us when we were in the store. The third one was even better -- a bolder design, but looked fabulous in the room. The fourth one, not so good. Less traditional. We were ready to pull the trigger on the third one.

I ask, "How much?"

Rug seller (one of the minions) says a number that is more than double what we thought we were going to pay. I just blink.

Wife, quite appropriately, goes off on them saying, "You told me you were bringing carpets the same cost as the ones we looked at in the store."

"Oh, well these are bigger: 10x14, not 9x12."

"Why'd you do that?"

"Better for the room."

"Not if it is twice the budget. How much is it for 9x12?"

Cellphone calls and much punching of calculator buttons ensues. In about 10 minutes guy quotes a price still $1000 more than we'd agreed.

Bob is at the limit: "Sorry to waste your time. Pack this stuff up and get out of here. I told you we were over our budget just in buying your furniture. Out."

Response: "But such high quality ... highly discounted ... can't get elsewhere."

Rebuttal: "What part of 'get out' was unclear to you?"

Oh, yes and one more thing: the swivel chairs that we are unhappy about were floor models. Saleswoman says, "Oh we sell off the floor all the time. I never promised they'd come from warehouse."

Wife and I both say, "Oh, yes you did. The only thing that was not to come from the warehouse was the couch."

"Oh, no ..."

"... Oh, yes", we say

"... and your sales receipt clearly says 'all sales final, no returns'", she says.

We continue the battle with this, quite expensive I should tell you, store. I'm not giving the store's name, but when we get this resolved, or as resolved as we can get it, I'll publish the name and encourage everyone to avoid the place like the plague.

Continuing --

We also pulled the trigger on a new mattress and box spring - Simmons Beautyrest -- on sale -- a good deal, we think. Mattress looks good on the surface. Lots going on at the house; Wife's busy; she signs; delivery people leave. With more time she starts looking and finds loose threads on lots of the seams -- threads that just weren't cut off. But, also finds seams that are pulling out already. Only cosmetic, it appears, but still: we paid nearly $2000 for the set. She calls 'em back on the number delivery people gave. They say, "Sorry you signed for it." She calls the store and speaks to someone (our salesman's not there). The guy says he'll call the warehouse.

Long story longer: They agree to deliver new mattress after Wife threatens bodily injury to them if they don't. Delivery people show up one day late. Delivery man looks at mattress and says, "You don't want it." I'll bring you another." He goes away. He comes back a couple days later. Starts to unload, then says, "Worse than the other one." Goes away. Fourth try is supposed to be today. We'll see.

Lesson learned: when people deliver product, give them a cup of coffee and sit them down. Tell them they're going to be there for 30 minutes. Go thoroughly over every inch of the product. Have a cup of coffee yourself, then go over it again. Only then sign the papers.

And, oh, yes, Wife found broken tiles on roof during a cursory inspection she makes from a ladder. Calls warranty people. They come out and find as many as 25 tiles broken, saying that it looks like storm damage from Hurricane Ike. Why didn't our inspector find the damage? I don't know. We're in negotiations with warranty company on who's going to pay for replacing the tiles. Tiles are not part of warranty -- only leaks are. Grrrr.

Final straw: I go to fill up the car with gasoline yesterday and my card is denied ... my EMPLOYEE card is denied. I find out today that my bank didn't make my last payment like they were supposed to.

If this is a test, I'm on the border of not passing.

Sounds In the Night

I have a few more fishing tales that are funny too, even though they're not actually associated with setting out lines. Here's one that we still laugh at.

It was a hot, humid Illinois night. We had the exhaust fan running full blast pulling air in through our open windows and out through the attic. Air conditioning was a luxury we didn't think we needed or could afford back in those days. My bedroom window faced the backyard with its apple and cherry tree. You could hear the cars on the highway some quarter mile away, but traffic was always light. We were a ways out in the country. At the end of our street, the corn fields began.

It was late at night, probably after 2AM. I was sound asleep but something woke me. I lay awake listening. Then it came, "Knee-deep. Knee-deep. Rib-bit." A frog. Like a big bullfrog. Couldn't be. A creek ran a few blocks from our house (a favorite play spot of ours), but there was no way a frog would make its way to our backyard. I lay there a bit and then it came again: a loud, throaty "Knee-deep". This time it was followed by a cymbal "crash". Then all was quiet. In a few minutes, again "Knee-deep, knee-deep, clang". This time the clang sounded like two pot lids smashing together.

I went to the open window and peered into the backyard. I could see nothing but shadows. I watched to see if I could tell where the sound was coming from. Pretty soon I heard the "Knee-deep, knee-deep, rib-bit, bang" and this time a second metalic "bong" as well. It was definitely coming from the backyard and it sounded close, but I couldn't tell from where. I briefly thought about jumping out the window and going to look around, but it didn't seem worth it. I figured a frog had somehow found its way to the backyard. OK, but what was the metallic banging sound?

Late the next morning (in those days 'double-digits', as my daughter would later say, was definitely the right time to get out of bed) I stumbled out, and my dad was sitting at the kitchen table.

"I heard a frog." I said.

He grinned and said, "I know. I brought 'em home from the river last night. Biggest bullfrogs I ever saw. I just wanted you and your sister to see 'em."

"What did you keep them in?"

"Minnow bucket."

And now the mystery was solved. We went out in back and next to the cherry tree sat one of his metal 'minnie buckets'. He popped the lid's fastener and opened the top. Two huge frogs sat goggle-eyed in the bottom of the bucket.

I laughed to think about them trying to get out last night. A couple warning croaks and then an escape jump. BONG! Little froggy head hitting the top of the bucket. Slight concussion. Shaking of head. Sitting dazed in the bottom of the bucket. Recovery. Croak. Jump. Bong.

Now they looked like they'd finally learned their lesson. They sat staring up at us from the bottom of the bucket.

Dad said he'd released them into the creek near the house later.

When I Was A Boy (WIWAB) - Read All The Posts

My last post completes something I've intended to do for a long time: write some of the stories that revolved around my dad's and my setting out lines on the banks of the Mackinaw River in the 1950s, 60s, and 70s. If you want to read all the posts as a short story, here are links to all the "When I Was a Boy" posts. I've marked my favorites with asterisks. Use the comments feature to let me know which ones you like ... if any. Critical comments appreciated too.

1 Fishing In Dad's Day
2 ... But When I Was A Boy - Getting Ready To Go
Seinin' Minnies
3 Driving To the Mackinaw
4 We Arrive
5 Getting Started
6 My First Pole
7 Set the Lines
8 Nettles and Firewood
9 Got One
10 Definition of Patience (*)
11 Hidey Hole
12 Runnin' the Lines
13 Harry's
14 Running Lines in the Dark
15 Where's the Pole?
16 Big Fish and Shooting Stars (*)
17 Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
18 Last Run
19 Home and Back Again
20 Sunday Afternoon

WIWAB - Sunday Afternoon

We arrived home just before noon -- tired, dirty, and happy. Dad parked the car in the driveway in front of the house.

"First things first. Let me find something to put the fish in. Start unloading the car will ya'?"

He opened the trunk and then quickly disappeared into the house.

I started carrying the gear from the trunk into the back yard and laying it out in the shade of the apple tree. After only a couple trips, Dad was back with a metal tub and a big plastic bucket. He filled them with water from the tap on the side of the house. He pulled the net full of fish from the back seat, carried them into the backyard, and one by one put them into the containers of water. The largest one forced water over the rim of the tub when he slid it in.

"That ought to hold them while we get things cleaned up a little. You keep going and I'll get the poles."

Pretty soon we had the car unloaded and the gear spread out in the yard. He hooked the garden hose to the spigot and began hosing off all the equipment: nets, waders, my wet jeans -- everything that didn't mind a little water. He untied the bundles of poles and sprayed water on them concentrating on the muddy butt ends. When they were clean, he shut off the water and stood the poles against the side of the garage in the sun. Waders got thrown over the clothes lines.

"Guess I better do those fish. You can go get cleaned up if you want. I can handle it," he said as he started to go into the house. I hung around outside and pretty soon he was back. His arms were full -- a wad of news papers, a pair pliers, a knife, a ceramic bowl from the kitchen. He laid the stuff in the grass, went in the garage and came back with a lawn chair. Setting that in the shade he brought over the stuff from the house and the containers of fish.

He began pulling the fish from the containers and laying them in the grass -- sorting them by size. "... eight, nine, ten, eleven. That's a pretty darn good haul for this day and age. I haven't come back with that many in a long time. Couldn't 'of done it without you." I grinned at him as he said it.

With a sigh he sat down in the chair and picked up one of the fish. It lay gasping in his hand; its mouth opening and closing. It croaked like a frog and I jumped.

"They do that sometimes." Dad said. "The darn things can live quite a while out of water. They actually can breathe air using their swim bladders." And with that he picked up the knife. "Remember how to do this?" I gulped and nodded ... hoping he wouldn't ask me to clean one.

"Cut around his head just behind the fins." I flinched. The fish was still gasping in his hand as he did it. "Guess I should'a put him out of his misery first." With that he picked up the heavy pliers, laid the fish in grass and gave it a bash on the head. He eyed it for a second then hit it again, leaving a dent in its skull this time. I stood on one foot and then the other. He picked up the fish again.

"So cut around his body. Hold his head in your palm and put your fingers behind his fins. Careful: spines on these little ones are sharp as heck and they're poisonous ... oh, not enough to kill you, but they really hurt when they cut you.

Then grab the skin with the pliers and pull down toward his tail. It comes off like you're taking off a sock.

Now cut from his touch-hole to his chin." He said it with a grin.

"Make a cut down through his back. Now just hold his body with one hand, his head in the other, and pull down. All his guts come right out.

"Clean up his insides with the edge of your knife, cut off the tail and you're done."

That old man could skin and clean a catfish in less than two minutes. I tried and tried over the years; I never could do it.

In less than an hour all the fish were cleaned and laying in the big bowl of water.

The rest of that Sunday was a slow winding down from the work of the weekend. We showered, got some lunch. Dad had a beer or two in front of the TV. When the gear was dry we put it away. The poles went back in the garage rafters.

We slept well that night.

WIWAB - Home and Back Again

We trudged back to the campsite dragging our one catfish on the stringer with us. Dad put the fish with the others in the net in the river. I climbed into my dry clothes and waited by poking around in the dying fire with a stick.

He was back in a minute saying, "Let's pack up and head home. I'm tired." I was tired too. It was well past midnight -- way past my bedtime. We started throwing things into the trunk of the car -- waders, fishing rods, wet clothes ... anything we could find that looked like ours. We were done in minutes. "Anything we missed, we'll get in the morning." he said. We climbed in the car and crept our way back down the dirt road with the corn to our right and river to our left.

"I hope those darn gar swim on before morning." he said. I just nodded. And in mid nod, fell asleep.

I felt a shake on my shoulder some time later. "OK, climb in bed. I'll get you up in the morning." he told me. I climbed out of the car, shuffled off to my room, stripped off my clothes and climbed in bed -- stinky, dirty, and all. A bed never felt so good.

The next thing I heard was my door open with a pop, and my dad saying, "Come on, boy. Rise and shine. We need to get back down there before the fish get off the hooks." From under the covers I poked my head out and gave him a bleary one-eyed stare.

"What time is it?" I rasped.

"Not that early. Get moving." came the reply. I tossed back the covers and reached for my jeans on the floor. "Grab another pair of jeans out of your drawer and bring them with us." he told me. "No sense in putting on your wet ones again. Your Mom's going to have to wash anyway." He left the door open and walked down the hall toward the kitchen.

After a two pieces of buttered white bread toast with cinnamon sugar and a big glass of orange juice we were on our way back to the river. The morning was sunny and starting to get hot already.

We turned down our dirt track again. I peered out the window as we got close to our camp of the night before -- straining to see our poles in the greenish looking water of the river. No such luck: a view of the nettles and a glimpse of the water was all I got.

We stopped under the trees, Dad opened the trunk and pulled out his waders. I was standing on one foot and then the other. "Run down and see if we've got anything on. I'll be right there." he said. I didn't need encouragement. I slid down the dirt bank and ran across the gravel to the edge of the water. Scanning the far bank I could see our poles. All the lines hung straight into the water -- no movement, no fish. I sagged.

He came up beside me. "Pretty quiet. Maybe we got skunked." he said. "Wouldn't be the first time, but we've got that one lunker in the live net, so it's not a total loss."

He walked to where the minnow bucket was sitting in the river and upended it. Spilling the few remaining minnows into the stream. "Won't need those now. I didn't dump 'em last night because I didn't want the fish eating them instead of our bait." He set the bucket on the gravel. "OK, let's see what we got." He started across the stream.

As he approached the first pole it twitched. Closer still and the end dipped down into the water. "Got one! He's tired from fighting all night, but there he is." In seconds, a fat catfish was flopping in the net. "Gars didn't get them all I guess." he said grinning. He carried the pole and the fish in the net back to where I waited on the gravel next to the river. He put the fish on the stringer, then fitted the hook into the eye-screw on the pole so it was all neat and tidy. He laid the pole on the gravel. "Let's go get another one."

And so the next hour went by in a flash. We caught a few more fish, but on some poles the bait was still on. He's slap the line like a whip against the water to knock the bait off, then hook the hook in the pole's eye and toss it to me near shore. Eventually all the poles lay waiting for us on the bank.

Then we retraced our steps. He had cords tucked away in some pocket or another and we tied the poles into two bundles as we walked back to the car. He rinsed the bundles in the river to get rid of some of the mud. Then, like a shot, he was up the bank with each bundle and tying them onto the roof racks of the car. He rinsed the buckets and threw them in the trunk. He cleaned up the last of the debris around the campsite. With a final glance we walked to the river's edge and pulled up the wire live net that contained our fish. We must have had more than a dozen -- a good haul for those days. He carried the net back to the car, laid a pad of newspapers on the floor of the back seat and put the net on top of it. "Let's go home. A cup of coffee sounds really good."

And so it was over. I caught a last glimpse of the river as we drove out to the main road. The leaves of the corn were waving in the light breeze. We rolled the windows down on the way home as the sun beat down.

"When are we going to go again?" I asked.

When I Was A Boy (WIWAB) - Last Run for the Night

My last "When I Was A Boy (WIWAB)" post about setting out lines with my dad was way back in July. The story line from that post was that we'd just run the lines at night, caught a big fish, seen a shooting star, made a campfire and listened to the White Sox ball game on an old clunker of a radio -- while the smoke chased me around the campfire. I have to say the the WIWAB post just before that one took a lot out of me. That was a very personal glimpse into my soul and it was hard to think of anything to write after that which would be as good. But now, I'm going to try to get back in the writing mode. There's one more post about setting out lines that has to be written. I'm not sure when that will be. All I know is that I have to keep going.

The fire had begun to burn down. The White Sox had lost again. The old man grunted and stood up.

"That's what happens when the knuckle ball stops knuckling", he said. "The pitcher looks great for seven innings. The ball's jumping all over the place. Then suddenly it's not moving around at all -- just coming up there toward the batter like a pumpkin. Next thing you know the other team's scored six runs before the manager can yank the pitcher out of there. ... Oh, well.

"Let's go run the lines then we'll head home.

"Change your jeans and we'll go."

I grimaced at changing into the wet, cold pair of jeans again, but stripped off my nice dry pair, pulled the wet ones off the branch, and tugged them on. We found our head lamps. The batteries were getting low. I had to listen to him tell yet again about how he and his brothers used to fish with just oil burning miners' lights back in his day. "Just a tiny little flame -- more smoke than light", he'd say. It was a family legend. With every telling the light got dimmer and the fish they supposedly caught got bigger.

We clambered down the bank to the river and got the minnow bucket from the water. There weren't many minnows or crawfish left. "I hope we catch so many on this run we use up all the bait", he said.

We panned our lights across the river, picking up reflections from the poles. All quiet, no bobbing. He sighed and waded out to check the lines. "Bait's gone." He called. He re-baited that line and moved to the next and the next and the next. The same story -- all the bait was gone. Further downstream, he pulled a small channel cat off the hook and put him on the stringer. He waded into the bank and handed me the stringer. "You take care of this guy while I finish up." He panned his light back across the stream and one of the poles was whipping back and forth.

"Ho, what have we here?" he asked as he waded out towards it. "Doesn't act like a catfish." As he got closer to the pole he slowed and got the dip net in his hand. He carefully grabbed the line near where it attached to the pole and started to lift up. There seemed to be an explosion in the water next to him. "Ah, hell, it's a gar." he yelled. He lowered the net in the water and then lifted up. I could see the light reflecting from the side of the silvery fish. This time he pulled the whole pole out of the bank and walked towards me near the shore.

"Hate these damn things. They travel in schools, eat all the bait clean, chase away the catfish, and even when you catch one they're no good to eat. Damn things." He walked up on the shore and lay the dip net and pole on the sand. I shined my light on the fish. It was snake like with a long snout. It opened its jaws and snapped them angrily shut on the net. I caught the flash of rows of white sharp teeth. Just then Dad stomped down on the fish's head with the heel of his boot. The tail snapped back and forth. Stomp the boot came down again. This time there was no motion. When he stepped back the fish's head was jammed several inches into the sand. I swallowed at the violence of it and took a step back.

"That's the only way I know to get the hook out of its mouth without getting bitten." He reached for the line and pulled the fish up. He carefully pinched the exposed hook between thumb and finger and worked it out of the fish's bony mouth. When it was free, he held it up in our lights. I could see its needle like teeth even more clearly. "Damn thing." he said and threw it far up onto the bank into weeds. "At least the raccoons and foxes'll have something to eat tonight."

He turned from me and started baiting the hook. I continued to look up to where the fish was gone. I didn't really want to get back into the river.

To House or Not To House

My newly (and FINALLY) installed AT&T cable TV service includes a Digital Video Recorder. What a great toy. I can record up to four programs at once and replay them on any of the TVs in the house. I can even do it on the fly ... like say if Wife has some urgent task that needs immediate response -- such as taking out the garbage or like telling me why we're having chicken not steak for dinner. Click, I push the "Pause" button and when I come back later I click "Play" and take right up where I left off -- merrily skipping commercials as I go.

It lets me record future shows and even set up a series record so that I get all the shows in a series without having to think much about it.

Which brings me to the real topic today: House -- the Fox Network dramatic series about a diagnostic physician at a major metropolitan hospital. I'm fairly well addicted to the show, and I wonder why. I really like Hugh Laurie. Reading his Wikipedia entry was interesting because -- some what frighteningly -- he has characteristics in line with his not-very-nice TV character: Dr. Greg House. He's a musician. He's suffered from clinical depression. He's got an eye for hot babes (he had a relationship with Emma Thompson). But he's a Brit (despite having locked in a good American accent), his university degrees are in archeology and anthropology, and his original theater experience was as a comic.

On the one hand I'm surprised at myself for liking the show. Dr. Greg House is a real asshole, frankly. He delights in manipulating people, is addicted to pain medication, got himself high on LSD to manage his migraines, likes hookers, and hates hospital clinic duty. He routinely dumps on his best friend, such as when he incrementally increased his requests for loans from his friend just to try to get a fix on how much his friendship was worth. His stock saying is "Everyone Lies". If he were a real doctor he would have been sued, barred from practicing medicine, and probably would've been beaten up and/or shot dead long ago.

Generally when faced with a character like this I'd say, "Why do I care about what happens to this guy?" then I'd switch stations. I do that with most reality shows since they tend to be populated by people that I would not chose to associate with under almost any imaginable circumstances.

And yet I'm recording every "House" program and even watching the re-runs. I think it's because I wish I were so good at something that I could be as big of a jerk as House and people would just live with it. The only way he gets away with being the way he is, is to be such a flippin' great diagnostician -- even without actually meeting his patients -- that everyone looks the other way when he acts out. And he acts out a lot. I act out a lot too, but nobody looks the other way. So, I vicariously live my life through House -- with his quick acerbic wit, flaunting all rules and quite a few laws, and pretty much putting on a show of never giving a damn what other people think.

Or maybe I just watch because his female boss (Dr. Lisa Cuddy played by Lisa Edelstein) looks great and always wears low cut tops. Afterall I'm never going to be that good at anything to be able to act like House.

Survey: What Carpet Should We Get

Having had a difficult time choosing family room furniture, we finally landed on a leather sofa and two swivel arm chairs. Here are a couple not very good snapshots to give you an idea:





















We're going to use our ancient, but still servicable, end table and coffee table. Here's the best picture I could muster of our family room in which the new furniture will go.


With the tile floor, we obviously want a carpet to pull the room together. As usual, we can't agree. So, dear friends, family and other parties, I'd be interested in any comment you'd like to make about each of the following:




1. Start with the picture of the sofa and chair above. The carpet on the floor is one that the designer chose. We felt it was a bit too light color and drab given the neutral colors in the room.

2. This is the one Wife has her heart set on. Yes, the colors look different in each picture. Sorry. Good news: it's the least expensive:









3. One I particularly like.























4. Another I particularly like.























5. And yet another I particularly like.









Pretend they all cost the same. Which do you like the best?













P.S., I didn't show you the $10,000 all silk one that I REALLY like, but would only be able to afford 1/4th of.

What Price Sleep?

We've got a beautiful bedroom set on order. It should be here a week from tomorrow. I've not slept on a bed with a headboard since ... well, since I lived with my parents, I think. A king sized bed too. It's been years since I've owned one. Can't wait. Big chest of drawers coming as well. I won't have to use my grandmother's cast off, or the one I basically stole from my daughter. And honest to goodness night tables -- one for each side. Not some discount store $10 particle board thing that you have to keep covered with a table cloth. You know: we're gonna have a real bedroom.

But the darn thing needs a mattress and box spring. The store at which we purchased the furniture specialized in Kingsdown "Sleep To Live" bedding. The sales person even had us lay on a computerized mattress-thingy that said I needed a 'blue' (3 of 4 on firmness scale) and Wife needed a 'gold' (cushiest, 1 of 4). They had demo models of each and we tried them out. VERY nice. Wife decided that cushy was not for her. Felt better on my firmness. Cool! We finally agreed on something. "OK," says I to the salesperson. "How much?" She says, "$4500". I laugh and say, "No, really: how much?" She says, "$4500 ... plus tax, of course." I say, "What else you got?"

And then the sales job starts: "How much is a good night's sleep worth to you?" "Only bed you'll ever need." "20-year guarantee." "I have two hip replacements and I own one of these and have no pain." "Worth every penny." Yada-yada-yada.

I say, "What else you got?"

We try one of the lower price sets. Not nearly as comfortable. Even cheaper one; even less comfortable. Surprise. Surprise.

Final words from me, "Thanks. I think not. Send the furniture." Which by the way, costs less than the mattress and box springs we'd just looked at.

So today, we tried Mattress Giant store down the road. We knew they had Kingsdown as well and wanted to see if they had a better price. As my daughter had told me: you can't do apples-to-apples comparison on bedding. Each store calls each mattress something different so you can't tell whether you're comparing the same mattress or not. But never mind. The only Kingsdowns they had were all more expensive than the ones we'd seen at the furniture store. So I says, "What else ya got?"

And nice man Steve shows us some Simmons and some Posturepedic and some Tempurpedic. We find one Simmons Beautyrest for $2100 and another for $1800. Neither were as comfortable as the Kingsdown, but if the Kingsdown was a 10 for comfort, these were in the 7-8 range. Based on price, you'd expect them only to a 4 or a 5. Naturally I like the more expensive one and Wife likes the cheaper one, but those are high class problems at this point. We think we'll go back for the cheaper one tomorrow.

Oh, by the way, given the right circumstances, we can sleep anywhere.

Back In the Blog Saddle Again

A New Year Resolution: get back to writing a blog post every day. So far so good for 2009.

When I last left you back in mid-November we'd just closed on our new house. The intervening weeks have been busy as you might expect. Household goods from the UK were delivered with only minor damage to a few insignificant items.

Goods that had been in storage in California showed up several days later. No damage there either.

Beautiful big Amana stainless refrigerator got delivered and installed without incident thanks to ABT online shopping site. Ditto with LG washer and drier from Home Depot. Just last week we chose an 8'-long leather sofa with a reddish cast and two matching swivel chairs from Louis Shanks furniture store. We also picked out a bedroom set with bed, chest of drawers, and two night stands. While we were at it we picked a beautiful mirror for our guest bath. The salesperson is pressuring us to get an oriental rug for the room. We saw one we liked, but it was out of budget. Later she called back and gave us an even better price. We said, 'no thanks', but she's bringing three options out to show us when they deliver the furniture on 10 Jan. Here's a link to updated house pictures.

We're still lacking window treatments. Wife is handling that. And we've not found her a car yet. She's got her heart set on Mercedes Benz. That'll take some real looking to find one within budget.

Shopping has consumed most of our time, but we managed a few nice events. For Thanksgiving we went to the buffet brunch at The Club. It was great and a needed break from unpacking.

We also attended our company Christmas ... excuse me ... Holiday Party at the Intercontinental Hotel. They served the best buffet I've ever had. They had two bands playing and had 'for fun' gambling going. We had a great time. We stayed home on Christmas Day and made steaks on the barbecue.

For New Year we went to the party at The Club again. (Gosh, it's cool to be able to say that.) We were seated with some truly nice people and had a fun, fun evening. The food was fabulous and the band was good even though they didn't play any Latin music that we could salsa to. Wife got called up on stage to dance a couple times and acquitted herself extremely well, I should tell you. Who is the oldest person in these pictures?



I've been walking the four golf holes that surround the house about everyday. I can start on hole #5, play #6, cut across the course and play #3 and #4 and be back at my house. I've also played one of the full 18 hole courses a couple of times. The first time I broke 100 and I didn't think that was possible. There's water on 14 of the 18 holes. The next time I played, well, it was a disaster, but that's golf after all.

So that's a good start for the New Year: one post done and 364 more to go.