Tuesday, March 31, 2009
How to Annoy Your Kitty...
Go to Youtube.com and do a search on "how to annoy your mean kitty". Videos 1, 2, and 3 are good, but number 4 is best: "weird ears". Cute.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Paines Run Trail
Forsooth, an old man takes his leave, and into the depths of the forest he doth go.
And the sights and sounds thereof, into his mind do they soak, soaking deeply. It is as though his mind and heart were woolen cloaks, dipped into a cold rushing stream, absorbing the wonderful delight of nature in all its purity. Spiritual refreshment at its finest.
And the old man findeth therein much peace and solace, and the woods they serve as strengthening nourishment for his yearning soul. Verily, the forest is a soothing balm, after the terrible suff'ring he didst endure from the mouths of uncountable babes, exacerbated by the indescribable stress caused by his captivity in a room filled with the chaotic to-and-fro pandemonium generated by a noisy multitude of waifs earlier in the day, alas, endured while accompanying his beloved, as doth she always desire.
But now, far from the cries which grate upon his spirit, and the disturbances that destroy his inner peace as doth the crawling of ants and other vermin on sensitive skin, the old man leaves behind his cares, and unreels his feelings of tension, and enjoys the relaxing solitude of the forest. The trail he didst follow is known as Paines Run. While thereon, one is never far from the cold but soothing gurgle of said lively stream.
"Watch and beware, old man, watch and beware", comes a warning from the rushing waters, "for darkness doth approach nigh." Ah, the woods and all nature doth know too well: the hour be only a single one, perhaps two at most, before the sun layeth down its light for the eve. A less-experienced walker would do well to venture not far from his carriage at this time of day. The old man did look and he beheld: the fleeting sunlight no longer shines in the depths and hollows wherein the waters lie; only a sliver doth illumine the tops of distant mountains. The day is far gone.
But the old man is experienced and wise, and he knoweth where he can go, and where he cannot, and how far he may venture before the night cometh. He doth press onward, lured into the stillness, a peace broken only by the spry antics of the waters as they jump, skip over, and brush past the rocks and boulders which would impede their flight to the valley below.
Alas, the large rocks themselves, they doth provide for the old man a safe passage, a dry passage, to the far side of the stream. Once, twice, thrice, and even more, the old man is able to cross and reach the far side, picking his way from stone to stone, to and fro, following the trail as it weaves a giant braid, intertwining its path with that traced by the hyperactive attention-deficit water.
His familiar and trusty walking-stick held firmly in his grasp, the old man is surefooted as he steps from dry stone to wet stone to dry. He removes not his boots, his hosiery, nor raises the cuff of his sturdy trousers. Yet his feet stay dry, his hair stays dry, and even the bag upon his back stays dry, so experienced is he in conquering the hazards as the trail passes over, again and again, the loud chorus of the cascades within the confines of the streambanks.
Presently, as the trail rises up an approaching ridge, a golden gleam catches the old man's eye: a glimmering ray from the rapidly setting sun, enlightening a tiny patch of moss and lichen growing upon a colorful rock. The old man pauses. He hesitates only a moment, before reaching into the bag upon his back. The unseen forest creatures who may be watching beheld his hand as it emerged from the backpack. For therein, in the cradle of his grasp, he holds a ... Canon SuperShot 950!
Liken'd unto a distant spark of lightning a half-day's journey away, the tiny strobe embedded in the upper portion of his camera suddenly burst forth a momentary shock of false daylight, snapping into the darkened ravine like the strike of a heron capturing a troutling, the artificial daylight extracting for but a fraction of a second the glory of those bright colors that a moment before were locked so tightly away for the night.
Walking on, the solitude elicits in the old man a sense of pleasure, of joy, of euphoria. A mile? Nay. Say two? Perhaps. Even three. But no more.
The old man consults the face of his shiny timepiece locked about his wrist, and therefrom he determines that the travel has run its course, the end has been reached, he must now reverse his track, he must go no further, lest the wiles of the night overtake him, and his beloved spouse back home worry greatly for his return. He reluctantly obeys the necessity wrought by the spinning earth as the grayness of nightfall becomes deeper, deeper, an unstoppable tide washing away the hues and auras of the nature he enjoys.
Hastening onward down the ravine, the old man speedily races the night which threatens to overtake him. With sure but careful step, he safely crosses the stream once again, counting the sixth time on this particular journey that his path embraced that of the enchanting waters. "Hurry, hurry", the waters entreat, for the darkness is nigh unto thee...
A clearing? An overlook? Nay, 'tis the end of the forest. Stopping again for a moment before stepping into the conveyance that shall transport him home, the old man once more raises his magic box. He captures the last throes of the sun's cavorting, as it empties the remainder of its daily palette of light and color, knowing that upon the morrow it once again shall have a new supply with which to paint the world.
The old man now entreats the reader, "Clicketh upon this image, I praythee, and study closely the foreground. What see-est thou?" Indeed, what see-est thou?
Behold, the sun is now gone. Night has come. As the gold and purple give way to the darker violet, the old man takes a moment to busy himself tinkering and fiddling with the settings on his magic box. Given the lateness of the hour, it is likely a captured image will produce only blackness rather than the faithful vision of what the old man has seen. As a workman carefully crafting a masterpiece, he directs his fingers to twist the dials and knobs, and amazingly, the box is able to capture one final scene before the stars announce the advent of complete and utter darkness. Alas, the landscape fades to black.
The old man departs the joy of woodland for home. Once safely within the confines of his abode, he greets his beloved, and together they dine on fowl which she has prepared in a fine manner, accompanied by green peas and golden corn kissed by a touch of butter. After the refreshing repast, they together silently give thanks for the much-improved state of the haughty feline mistress of the house, whose health has, for the moment at least, returned in complete measure.
Oblivious to the spiritual renewal of the old man, the cat seems to say,... "In your face, pal. Now where's my kitty-treat?" As cats are wont to do.
"Watch and beware, old man, watch and beware", comes a warning from the rushing waters, "for darkness doth approach nigh." Ah, the woods and all nature doth know too well: the hour be only a single one, perhaps two at most, before the sun layeth down its light for the eve. A less-experienced walker would do well to venture not far from his carriage at this time of day. The old man did look and he beheld: the fleeting sunlight no longer shines in the depths and hollows wherein the waters lie; only a sliver doth illumine the tops of distant mountains. The day is far gone.
But the old man is experienced and wise, and he knoweth where he can go, and where he cannot, and how far he may venture before the night cometh. He doth press onward, lured into the stillness, a peace broken only by the spry antics of the waters as they jump, skip over, and brush past the rocks and boulders which would impede their flight to the valley below.
Alas, the large rocks themselves, they doth provide for the old man a safe passage, a dry passage, to the far side of the stream. Once, twice, thrice, and even more, the old man is able to cross and reach the far side, picking his way from stone to stone, to and fro, following the trail as it weaves a giant braid, intertwining its path with that traced by the hyperactive attention-deficit water.
His familiar and trusty walking-stick held firmly in his grasp, the old man is surefooted as he steps from dry stone to wet stone to dry. He removes not his boots, his hosiery, nor raises the cuff of his sturdy trousers. Yet his feet stay dry, his hair stays dry, and even the bag upon his back stays dry, so experienced is he in conquering the hazards as the trail passes over, again and again, the loud chorus of the cascades within the confines of the streambanks.
Presently, as the trail rises up an approaching ridge, a golden gleam catches the old man's eye: a glimmering ray from the rapidly setting sun, enlightening a tiny patch of moss and lichen growing upon a colorful rock. The old man pauses. He hesitates only a moment, before reaching into the bag upon his back. The unseen forest creatures who may be watching beheld his hand as it emerged from the backpack. For therein, in the cradle of his grasp, he holds a ... Canon SuperShot 950!
Liken'd unto a distant spark of lightning a half-day's journey away, the tiny strobe embedded in the upper portion of his camera suddenly burst forth a momentary shock of false daylight, snapping into the darkened ravine like the strike of a heron capturing a troutling, the artificial daylight extracting for but a fraction of a second the glory of those bright colors that a moment before were locked so tightly away for the night.
Walking on, the solitude elicits in the old man a sense of pleasure, of joy, of euphoria. A mile? Nay. Say two? Perhaps. Even three. But no more.
The old man consults the face of his shiny timepiece locked about his wrist, and therefrom he determines that the travel has run its course, the end has been reached, he must now reverse his track, he must go no further, lest the wiles of the night overtake him, and his beloved spouse back home worry greatly for his return. He reluctantly obeys the necessity wrought by the spinning earth as the grayness of nightfall becomes deeper, deeper, an unstoppable tide washing away the hues and auras of the nature he enjoys.
Hastening onward down the ravine, the old man speedily races the night which threatens to overtake him. With sure but careful step, he safely crosses the stream once again, counting the sixth time on this particular journey that his path embraced that of the enchanting waters. "Hurry, hurry", the waters entreat, for the darkness is nigh unto thee...
A clearing? An overlook? Nay, 'tis the end of the forest. Stopping again for a moment before stepping into the conveyance that shall transport him home, the old man once more raises his magic box. He captures the last throes of the sun's cavorting, as it empties the remainder of its daily palette of light and color, knowing that upon the morrow it once again shall have a new supply with which to paint the world.
The old man now entreats the reader, "Clicketh upon this image, I praythee, and study closely the foreground. What see-est thou?" Indeed, what see-est thou?
Behold, the sun is now gone. Night has come. As the gold and purple give way to the darker violet, the old man takes a moment to busy himself tinkering and fiddling with the settings on his magic box. Given the lateness of the hour, it is likely a captured image will produce only blackness rather than the faithful vision of what the old man has seen. As a workman carefully crafting a masterpiece, he directs his fingers to twist the dials and knobs, and amazingly, the box is able to capture one final scene before the stars announce the advent of complete and utter darkness. Alas, the landscape fades to black.
The old man departs the joy of woodland for home. Once safely within the confines of his abode, he greets his beloved, and together they dine on fowl which she has prepared in a fine manner, accompanied by green peas and golden corn kissed by a touch of butter. After the refreshing repast, they together silently give thanks for the much-improved state of the haughty feline mistress of the house, whose health has, for the moment at least, returned in complete measure.
Oblivious to the spiritual renewal of the old man, the cat seems to say,... "In your face, pal. Now where's my kitty-treat?" As cats are wont to do.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Miracle Cure?
When we came home from the vet's yesterday, Faraday was listless, bloated, and miserable. All she wanted to do was curl up in her little box and sleep.
This morning, however, she was bright-eyed, perky, and energetic. She had even thoroughly groomed herself, her fur was silky, and she was back to her usual self. Difference of night and day. Let's hope the change is long-term rather than short-term.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
All Nine Used Up?
Faraday was generating cat puke faster than I could clean it up, and when I started finding blood in it, I took her to the vet today. Dubby recommended I take her to a different vet this time, one recommended by our good friend Martha (the farmer's wife, who often looks after Faraday while we're off on trips).
The little kitty's obviously not well. She has been moaning and howling every couple of hours like she's in great pain, but then she'll be happy and perky for a while, too. Last night, she didn't even want to get up to run down the hall to chase her nightly treat, so I knew something was wrong.
We were at the vets for about two hours while he ran all kinds of blood work and other tests.
Bad news. Faraday's kidneys are failing, as in her pancreas and liver.
Technically, at 15 years old, she is approaching the equivalent of a 90-year-old human. While some cats do live to be older, the typical indoor housecat lives to be 12 to 15, according to the vet.
The doc gave her four shots, including some antiemetic, antibiotics, megadose vitamins, and cortisone, to ease her discomfort and as a last ditch effort to give her body time to heal itself if it's going to. He also pumped her full of fluids since she is badly dehydrated. The meds will last about a week or two. Once they wear off, if she's well, she might be good for a couple of months or a year or more. But there's a 50/50 chance once the meds wear off, she'll be right back where she is today, in which case the only thing to do is to recognize that she's lived out her ninth life.
As lint monkey might say: Sadness.
On another subject: after getting stuck in Houston (...again...) Dubby is throwing in the towel and coming back home, giving up on getting to SLC. This is why I never fly standby: you really can't count on getting where you're going. I can't blame the airlines... they really do need to keep making money.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Sixth Folder, Sixth Picture...
Diane (not Dianna, but Diane) tossed down a gauntlet, to go to the photos folder, find the sixth subfolder, then publish the sixth photo in the folder, so here it is.
Explanation: When I was growing up, my GrandDaddy Fordham never talked much about his family. However, I knew that his dad was named Jim Z. Fordham, his mom was daughter of a Creek Indian named Mittie Mikell, Jim Z. was an itinerant music teacher who travelled to several counties stopping in at schools to teach music, and the family lived outside Statesboro Georgia. My granddaddy was the fourth of eight kids (six of whom lived to adulthood).
When I started doing my genealogy, I was in the Statesboro public library one day when I came across an old county map from 1892 that had the landowners' names on it. After about an hour with a magnifying glass, I found it: Jim Z. Fordham! It was in an area surrounded by farms owned by Mikells! I checked a modern map, and to my amazement, this particular road is still right where it was in 1892. So I made some notes about landmarks (creeks, bridges, turns in the road, an old mill dam, etc. marked on the old map and corresponding perfectly to features on the new map) and drove out into Bulloch County.
Right exactly where it should be, there stood the old homestead. Delapidated, run down, abandoned, sold in 1912 to others. I have since found the deeds verifying that this is the correct place.
The house still stands on the three acres the family farmed to provide food for eight kids. I climbed into an unlocked window and took some pictures inside of the three-room shanty. It was a two-roomer back then, with an attic loft for the kids. The kitchen was obviously added on the back later (you can see it in the picture at the far right).
The front porch was probably on the original house, but has been screened in. A bathroom has been added behind the kitchen, probably in the 1940's or 50's. (My Granddaddy used to tell us about the misery of having to go way out in the back yard barefoot in the middle of the night to answer the call of nature, and how cold the seat could get in the wintertime!)
Unlike Dubby's folks who are wealthy city-dwellers, my ancestors are poor white hardscrabble farmers who scratched out a living eating what they could grow in the sandy clay of southern Georgia. My granddaddy loved to garden till he was in his 80's.
The interesting thing is, out of those six kids, my generation consists of only me, my two sisters, and two very distant female second cousins. All six kids in my Granddaddy's generation got married, but two boys and one girl never had any children, one girl had a son who was killed in WWII, and one girl had two daughters neither of whom want to admit their poor southern past because they married rich folk (one married a famous tennis pro and the other married a millionaire). That leaves only me and my two sisters to take any interest in the dirt-poor family who lived in that house shown above.
They were poor, had no health care, had two children die before age 2, and then Mittie died when my Granddad was nine (and his youngest sister was only four). The next year, Jim Z. married Mittie's sister Addie, but Addie then died a few years later, too. In spite of being a music teacher, Jim Z. never taught any of his kids anything about music.
There you have it. Sorry the picture wasn't more picturesque, but I wasn't the one who selected the number six.
Explanation: When I was growing up, my GrandDaddy Fordham never talked much about his family. However, I knew that his dad was named Jim Z. Fordham, his mom was daughter of a Creek Indian named Mittie Mikell, Jim Z. was an itinerant music teacher who travelled to several counties stopping in at schools to teach music, and the family lived outside Statesboro Georgia. My granddaddy was the fourth of eight kids (six of whom lived to adulthood).
When I started doing my genealogy, I was in the Statesboro public library one day when I came across an old county map from 1892 that had the landowners' names on it. After about an hour with a magnifying glass, I found it: Jim Z. Fordham! It was in an area surrounded by farms owned by Mikells! I checked a modern map, and to my amazement, this particular road is still right where it was in 1892. So I made some notes about landmarks (creeks, bridges, turns in the road, an old mill dam, etc. marked on the old map and corresponding perfectly to features on the new map) and drove out into Bulloch County.
Right exactly where it should be, there stood the old homestead. Delapidated, run down, abandoned, sold in 1912 to others. I have since found the deeds verifying that this is the correct place.
The house still stands on the three acres the family farmed to provide food for eight kids. I climbed into an unlocked window and took some pictures inside of the three-room shanty. It was a two-roomer back then, with an attic loft for the kids. The kitchen was obviously added on the back later (you can see it in the picture at the far right).
The front porch was probably on the original house, but has been screened in. A bathroom has been added behind the kitchen, probably in the 1940's or 50's. (My Granddaddy used to tell us about the misery of having to go way out in the back yard barefoot in the middle of the night to answer the call of nature, and how cold the seat could get in the wintertime!)
Unlike Dubby's folks who are wealthy city-dwellers, my ancestors are poor white hardscrabble farmers who scratched out a living eating what they could grow in the sandy clay of southern Georgia. My granddaddy loved to garden till he was in his 80's.
The interesting thing is, out of those six kids, my generation consists of only me, my two sisters, and two very distant female second cousins. All six kids in my Granddaddy's generation got married, but two boys and one girl never had any children, one girl had a son who was killed in WWII, and one girl had two daughters neither of whom want to admit their poor southern past because they married rich folk (one married a famous tennis pro and the other married a millionaire). That leaves only me and my two sisters to take any interest in the dirt-poor family who lived in that house shown above.
They were poor, had no health care, had two children die before age 2, and then Mittie died when my Granddad was nine (and his youngest sister was only four). The next year, Jim Z. married Mittie's sister Addie, but Addie then died a few years later, too. In spite of being a music teacher, Jim Z. never taught any of his kids anything about music.
There you have it. Sorry the picture wasn't more picturesque, but I wasn't the one who selected the number six.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Snow, and the Meaning of Pumpernickel
It snowed last night! Two inches. And it's cold again.
And I learned the meaning of the word "pumpernickel"... (...and no, it's not from Napoleon feeding the dark German bread to his horse Nicole: "C'est pain pour Nicole".) My dad, being of German ancestry, used to eat pumpernickel bread when I was little.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Sculpture: Middelheim Park
Have you ever seen...?
The world's largest sweet potato?
The world's largest bowling ball?
The world's largest ice-cream cone?
An upside-d0wn house?
There are over 300 sculptures in Middelheim Openluchtmuseum (open air museum), a 67-acre sculpture garden in the Nachtegalen (nightingale) park in Antwerp. In addition to modern pieces like those above, the park also has some classical works...
The world's largest bowling ball?
The world's largest ice-cream cone?
An upside-d0wn house?
There are over 300 sculptures in Middelheim Openluchtmuseum (open air museum), a 67-acre sculpture garden in the Nachtegalen (nightingale) park in Antwerp. In addition to modern pieces like those above, the park also has some classical works...
...including an original Auguste Rodin:
Hmmm, looks like he's checking his deodorant.
Point your browser to:
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Crocque Madame for Dinner...
Dubby made some great-tasting spaghetti sauce for lunch this afternoon. Lots of meat. It hit the spot over angel-hair.
Tonight around 9, I realized I hadn't had dinner yet. I had a craving for a Crocque Madame.
A traditional snack (or light meal) in Belgium is the "Crocque Monsieur", which is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich. It is always served with "sla" (a tiny helping of salad) and Frites (any Belgian will tell you that french fries having nothing to do with the French, they were invented in Flanders and are properly called Flemish Frites). When prepared properly (twice fried), real frites beat the pants off any American french fries you can come up with, in taste and texture, too.
There are many variations on the Crocque Monsieur. A "Crocque Hawaiian" is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with a slice of pineapple on top. (Yes, it really is as good as it sounds! MmmmMM!) A "Crocque Paris" (pronounced crock-par-EE') has sliced olives and mushrooms over the sandwich. One of the most popular variations is the "Crocque Madame", which is a grilled ham and cheese sandwich with a fried egg on top.
So for dinner, I made a Crocque Madame. It was great, just what the doctor ordered. Since Dubby had cooked some bacon yesterday, I used bacon instead of ham. You fry the egg separately, using just a touch of butter to crisp the edges, then lay the fried egg on top of the grilled sandwich. Yummm.
Unfortunately I didn't have time to make the frites. A Crocque just isn't the same without the frites and a bowl of mayonnaise to dip them in. But it was still quite good.
Working DX...
I wrote a nice paragraph explaining why I like ham radio, about how it doesn't need any infrastructure, isn't subject to terrorism, overloading, disasters, power failure, obsolescence, monthly charges, etc. etc. and about how today's kids don't appreciate the complexity of today's technology that's needed for them to communicate all over the globe. My little ham radio and batteries in my garage and a wire in the air are all I need to talk all over the world.
But since no one reads my blog anymore, what the heck, I decided to erase it. So I'll just write this as a personal journal entry.
I've been working too hard lately, putting in 18-hour days, and so I decided to take this weekend off and see how many countries I could talk to on the ham radio this weekend. I talked to 200 different stations in the following countries. (Yes, this is boring, but no one reads my blog anymore anyway, and I'm curious about how many countries I talked to, so I'm gonna use this space to count them.
1. Anguilla
2. Antigua and Barbuda
3. Argentina
4. Aruba
5. Austria
6. Azores
7. Bahamas
8. Barbados
9. Belgium
10. Bermuda
11. Bosnia-Herzegovina
12. Brazil
13. Canary Islands
14. Cayman Islands
15. Chile
16. Columbia
17. Costa Rica
18. Croatia
19. Cuba
20. Denmark
21. Dominca
22. Dominan Republic
23. Ecuador
24. England
25. Ethiopia
26. Falkland Islands
27. Fernando de Noronha (who the heck has ever heard of this island? It's in the Atlantic and belongs to Brazil)
28. France
29. Germany
30. Greece
31. Guadeloupe
32. Guatamala
33. Hungary
34. Ireland
35. Italy
36. Jamaica
37. Madieras Islands (A famous group of islands off the French Riviera, but they belong to Spain)
38. Martinique
39. Mexico
40. Netherlands
41. Netherlands Antilles
42. New Zealand
43. Nicaragua
44. Northern Ireland (yes, it's a separate country from Ireland)
45. Norway
46. Panama
47. Paraguay
48. Poland
49. Portugal
50. Puerto Rico
51. Romania
52. Senegal
53. St. Kitts and Nevis
54. St. Martin
55. St. Vincent (anyone who studied European history knows why there are so many Caribbean islands named after Saints: It has to do with the papal bull preceding the Treaty of Tordesillas which effectively established the "Spanish Main", and made Spain (later Charles V, born in the Gravensteen Castle of the Counts of Flanders in Ghent) believe that the entire new world belonged to them, and it was their religious duty to drive out the French, English, and Dutch colonists.).
56. Slovakia
57. Slovenia (few Americans know the difference between Slovakia and Slovenia ... or even where they are... or care for that matter)
58. South Africa
59. Spain
60. Switzerland
61. Turks and Ciacos
62. Ukraine
63. Uruguay
64. Venezuela
65. Virgin Islands (U.S.)
66. Virgin Islands (British, yes, they're a separate country!)
67. Wales
I actually talked to someone in every one of these countries, and exchanged callsigns, locations, power levels, etc. over the air.
And of course, Canada is 68, and I guess you could call the U.S. number 69. I talked to 49 of the 50 states... including Hawaii, but not Alaska.
Lots of islands above. Lots. Of course, having a ham radio can be very, very important when you live on an island, especially one that's subject to hurricanes and other disasters that often take out the communications systems. Islands are well-known for having lots of ham radio operators.
Sixty-nine countries in two days. Wow.
Sorry, but I didn't work any stations in Kenya, Sudan, or Djibouti.
And for some reason, the list doesn't include some major countries like Sweden, Finland, Russia, Japan, China, Korea, Taiwan, Australia, Indonesia, India, Israel, Egypt, Turkey, or the Philippines. Why not? Because the sunspots are at their minimum... the sun has been almost perfectly spotless for almost two full years now (the longest time for several centuries!) and shortwave radio propagation is heavily dependent upon sunspots. In fact, to talk to 69 countries in two days during a sunspot minimum is something to brag about. Ergo... this post. Even though it is only to myself...
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
Five...
It was five degrees yesterday morning. That's 5 above zero Farenheit, or 27 degrees below freezing.
AND... it was five degrees again this morning! Brrrr.
Thank goodness we've spent the last 100 years warming up the planet.
But at least the furnace keeps the house nice and warm. Having a cat that sleeps on the foot of the bed also helps a little.
Monday, March 02, 2009
I Still Can... But I Probably Shoudn't Anymore
Now that I'm on the wrong side of "middle" age, it's nice to know that I can still do some strenuous physical activity. Like operating the snowblower and snow shovel to clear off the five driveways of the other elderly denizens of our neighborhood.
The line-up is: Craun (120 feet plus her turnaround area in the back), Lilly (50 feet, but double-wide), Matthews (140 feet plus a turnaround area), Kay (about 250 feet including about 100 feet of gravel), plus ours (40 feet of double-wide, plus 100 feet more single-wide to the back, plus the turnaround area).
I tried doing Daddy-Bill's across the street, but he has so much stuff littering his unpaved driveway (pieces of brick, loose chunks of concrete, pieces of wood, rocks, pieces of metal, etc.) that I can't risk ruining the snowblower anymore. I've broken the shear pins on the blower twice now, both times by choking on something from his driveway. But his was only about 30 feet anyway.
The snow was slushy, hard to blow, and required quite a bit of shoveling. Plus the slush kept clogging the output chute, so about a hundred times I had to shut down, dig out the slush with the little spatula, and recrank the engine. With an 8-hp engine, pulling that starter-rope gets old after the first fifty or sixty times. And controlling a heavy 8-hp piece of equipment isn't as easy as it looks.
A little under five hours all total. The high today was 26. Mid-way I had to come in to sit in the shower and thaw out my toes, toss my coat/gloves/hat/shirt in the dryer, and get something to drink.
But at least I still can do it. It's nice to know that an asthmatic arthritic pot-bellied gray-haired old man can still do stuff like this without dropping dead.
But now, after taking a nap, eating some hot soup, and sitting still in the La-Z-boy for a couple of hours, my body is communicating very clearly that it didn't like what I did today at all. Even the triple-strength dose of Alleve (or whatever it was that Dubby gave me) has no effect on the pain I feel in every joint, every muscle, every square inch of my old wrinkled body. I feel like I've been run over by a truck. Like that rat Saturday. Oh, well, you gotta do whatcha gotta do.
I guess I'm getting too old for this kind of foolishness. But then, I've been saying that for at least a decade.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Clean Audit...
As our branch clerk, I have to be audited every six months. It's a time-consuming hassle, and takes several hours if done right. I'm a believer in the U.S. national motto -- only half of which is printed on our money for space reasons. The full motto is: "In God We Trust -- Everyone Else Get's Audited".
Church audits are thorough and detailed, that's why they take so long. The auditor looks at EVERYTHING -- he checks every donation in every donation batch, every check, every voucher, every bank statement, every reconciliation, every transmission to SLC-HQ, every bank receipt, everything. It's a rare audit indeed that comes out prefectly clean.
My last three audits each had one single "blemish" -- called an "audit finding": SLC-HQ's bank had made a mistake over two years ago. Although the bank made the mistake, SLC-HQ charged ME (actually, our branch's account) for the amount of the error, which is their modus operandi, since most of the errors ARE made by branch clerks rather than the bank. (If you know the kind of person who usually gets called as branch clerk, you understand their reasoning -- it does make sense.) But in this case, neither I nor my predecessor (who is actually as on-the-ball as I am, or perhaps even moreso) made any mistake. It took me almost two full years, over two dozen phone calls, a dozen emails, and finally a certified letter to SLC-HQ (threatening to turn the "theft" over to the Virginia State Attorney's Office) to get them off their duff to properly investigate and fix the problem. In the meantime, my only audit point was this outstanding "mistake" which kept recurring because they continued to fail to investigate, let alone fix, THEIR bank's problem. Finally, they got it fixed -- early last year.
So this time, voila, my audit was perfectly clean. No audit points, nothing at all. Everything balances to the penny, no mistakes, no errors, no outstanding or unresolved issues, no nothing.
It is rare indeed not to have SOMETHING listed in the audit findings, even if it's just an overlooked signature on a check voucher or a voucher where someone forgot to enter the tax amount, or a miscoded expense or something. Minor audit points are not big deals, everyone understands that mistakes occur, oversights are easy to make. The purpose of an audit isn't to find fault, it's to find mistakes so they can be corrected and fixed. There's no shame in having audit finding. In the eight years that I served as stake auditor, I only had one ward clerk who ever had a perfectly clean audit, and that was Bro. G. M., -- Martha and Gracie's granddad over in Franklin, who several times had perfectly clean audits. It's nice to know I'm in the company of the best.
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