It seems that this time of year there's usually some major purchase I have to make or expensive home maintenance work that has to get done. This year is no different, with my annual stopped-up sewer issues.
About once a year I have to have a plumber come out. My house was built in 1961, and sewer pipes back then were made of clay. Nice porous stuff that sends out engraved invitations to every tree in the vicinity to come wrap their roots around it and dance a slow dance with it. As the love affair continues, the pipe eventually loses its virginity and the tree roots get inside, where they breathe in the rarified air and decide to stay, birthing new baby roots along the way.
To add to the pain of this once-yearly visit from the plumber, I apparently don't have a "clean out", at least not one that is visible. It may be buried, but since no one knows where, it's not a huge help. So the toilet has to be taken off and the pipe snaked to dislodge the roots that are causing the clog, or the plumber has to use the sewer vent on the roof of the house. Yesterday's visit was $337.00, but would have only been $165.00 had there been a clean out.
Knowing that I need to replace/repair the sewer pipe eventually, and also knowing that I have a water leak somewhere, I asked for estimates to fix these issues as well. The plumber looked around my front and back yard, and basically said that they'd have to dig to find the problem, since they didn't even know where the sewer pipes were for sure. In my innocence I asked "isn't there better technology out there to figure that out, rather than digging up my yard?" Defensive, the plumber said if I wanted technology, I should call American Leak Detectors. He also said that based on a job he had just completed, the sewer replacement alone would probably run in the neighborhood of 4-5 thousand dollars. Gulp.
So I had him unclog the sewer and called American Leak Detectors to set up an appointment to find out exactly what my sewer and water leak problems were, how serious they are, and where they are located. The estimate for the investigation alone is $475.00, and they'll come out Wednesday.
This morning I took a shower and heard the toilet make its familiar gurgle, which means that the sewer is backing up again. So I called Eddie's Plumbing and told them that my toilet was clogged again. I asked if I'd have to pay to have it unclogged, and they said no. Another day of sitting around waiting for the plumber.
Twenty minutes after the window passed when he was supposed to be here, the same plumber shows up at my door. By now, the toilet flushes, but I asked him to run the water in the bathtub for a few minutes anyway, and then try. Sure enough, the toilet would not flush when there was water in the line.
He told me that his job yesterday wasn't warrantied since there were tree roots (not what he told me yesterday - there was a 90-day warranty, or until another company removed the toilet for work). I told him that he needed to either unclog the sewer completely today without charge or I would be calling his office and getting my money back. He threw a hissy fit and said that he'd climb up on my roof and snake the pipes for free, but not again. I heard him on the phone to his office complaining about it - they must have told him about customer service, because when he came back in he was all cheerful and smiley. I wished he wasn't all cheerful and smiley, because he was missing a couple of front teeth and it didn't really help my sour mood.
So here I am on my two-week vacation. My plans to go to the movies have been spoiled again. My home owner's insurance policy considers all of this "normal maintenance" so it's not covered. Depending on what I find out tomorrow, I'll probably have to take a 401k loan out to replace the sewer line and fix my water leak.
But, and it's a big but...I'm not homeless, and I know people who are. I may have to go use the bathroom at the convenience store 1 day a year, but I don't have to rely on that store's sink to clean my clothes and my body 365 days of the year like some do.
I'm aggravated, yes I am. But such a small thing when you look at the big picture. I'm lucky my town had flouride in the drinking water, for example.
Breathe in, breathe out, and a big toothy grin to you all!
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Chapter 2 - No Longer the Baby
49 years ago today I was no longer the baby of the family.
Mom and Dad left the safety and security of Wisconsin in the late summer of 1961, where Mom's family lived, to move to North Dakota, to a small town on the prairie where there was a hardware store for sale.
In this picture, they're still in Wisconsin, celebrating August with a barbeque (Mom was about 6 months pregnant here).
They moved into a new 3-bedroom house situated on two lots. To the North was a wheat field as far as the eyes could see. The school was only 2 blocks away, which was a bonus. Although 3 bedrooms, the house was only about 900 square feet or so, with an unfinished basement. For those of you that have been there, imagine the house without the family room and without the back porch. Now imagine raising 3 children there, with one bathroom and a 1-car detached garage!
Unlike me, Bruce was born in North Dakota (I was born where my parents met - in Wisconsin). Yet another reason for big brother Mickey to miss his baseball games for feeding time (he says he missed a good deal of his childhood having to give me the bottle).
Being only 13 months old at the time, I don't remember the fuss everyone made, although I understand aunts and uncles came bearing gifts for the newborn prince. Less than a year later we almost lost him to the flu - he ended up in the hospital with an IV in his tiny foot trying to keep him full of fluids. The rest of us got the milder form of the bug and stayed at home in bed. Or maybe it was measles - I don't remember that either!
My first memory of my little brother was at Grandpa Fred's house in Oakes, ND. His house seemed like a mansion to me, a three-story built in the early 1900's, with a pool table on the top floor! Bruce and I were running around the house like 2 and 3 year olds do, and we stopped for a picture, with Bruce putting his arm around my neck. For years after that I claimed that he was trying to kill me even then.
My next memory (7 or 8 maybe?) was asking a babysitter "when I turn 8, will I be able to beat him up"? It was a serious question from the serious child that I was. Bruce was a physical boy, and would punch my arm to annoy me every day until I left North Dakota.
One day, in my teens, I learned how to use one of my powers. He had just punched me, and although I wasn't really hurt, I collapsed on my bed and started to cry hysterically (crocodile tears). He started singing to me and telling me jokes just to make me stop crying. "Do You Love Me", from Fiddler on the Roof still makes me giggle to this day.
Mom and Dad left the safety and security of Wisconsin in the late summer of 1961, where Mom's family lived, to move to North Dakota, to a small town on the prairie where there was a hardware store for sale.
They moved into a new 3-bedroom house situated on two lots. To the North was a wheat field as far as the eyes could see. The school was only 2 blocks away, which was a bonus. Although 3 bedrooms, the house was only about 900 square feet or so, with an unfinished basement. For those of you that have been there, imagine the house without the family room and without the back porch. Now imagine raising 3 children there, with one bathroom and a 1-car detached garage!
Unlike me, Bruce was born in North Dakota (I was born where my parents met - in Wisconsin). Yet another reason for big brother Mickey to miss his baseball games for feeding time (he says he missed a good deal of his childhood having to give me the bottle).
Being only 13 months old at the time, I don't remember the fuss everyone made, although I understand aunts and uncles came bearing gifts for the newborn prince. Less than a year later we almost lost him to the flu - he ended up in the hospital with an IV in his tiny foot trying to keep him full of fluids. The rest of us got the milder form of the bug and stayed at home in bed. Or maybe it was measles - I don't remember that either!
My first memory of my little brother was at Grandpa Fred's house in Oakes, ND. His house seemed like a mansion to me, a three-story built in the early 1900's, with a pool table on the top floor! Bruce and I were running around the house like 2 and 3 year olds do, and we stopped for a picture, with Bruce putting his arm around my neck. For years after that I claimed that he was trying to kill me even then.
My next memory (7 or 8 maybe?) was asking a babysitter "when I turn 8, will I be able to beat him up"? It was a serious question from the serious child that I was. Bruce was a physical boy, and would punch my arm to annoy me every day until I left North Dakota.
One day, in my teens, I learned how to use one of my powers. He had just punched me, and although I wasn't really hurt, I collapsed on my bed and started to cry hysterically (crocodile tears). He started singing to me and telling me jokes just to make me stop crying. "Do You Love Me", from Fiddler on the Roof still makes me giggle to this day.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
King of Excess
My mother's penchant for making more food than necessary has long been family lore. We all have memories of her walking behind all of us at the dinner table, asking if we wanted more mashed potatoes, and before we could answer, having a large heap plopped on our plate.
She was, after all, a child of the depression, she said to explain her tendencies to feed us more than we could possibly eat. Her father was also a restaurant owner, a "supper club" in Wisconsin that was quite popular in its day, so she grew up knowing how to cook well, albeit in large portions.
This trait of excess was passed on to her children, at least to her youngest two, myself included.
For the first time in 15 or 20 years, I went home to North Dakota for Thanksgiving. I volunteered to make the meal that day for 14 people. When making the shopping list, I put down 5 pounds of potatoes, and truly thought that I would be laughed at for making so much. But my brother informed me that they would make the potatoes, yams, and had already bought a turkey and a ham.
The rule of thumb when buying a turkey is 1 pound per person. Being a McCartney, I would have bought an 18-20 pounder "just in case". But if a ham was also in the mix, I would have stuck with a 14 pound bird and still thought it excessive.
But apparently the McCartney Excess curse rained heaviest on the youngest member of the family, my brother. His wife got some of it too, because they proudly told me that they had bought a 25 pound turkey, and were planning on cooking 20 pounds of potatoes. I gasped, and asked if they had a roaster big enough?
"Don't worry", my brother said, "we'll figure it out".
I prepped the turkey the night before by rubbing herb-infused butter under the skin, and stuffing it's cavity with onions, garlic, and lots of thyme. My brother was in charge of getting it into the oven early the next morning, since dinner was at his house.
When I arrived mid-morning Thanksgiving day to start the prep for the rest of the meal, I saw the monster turkey in a Nesco roaster, probably the biggest one they make, but still too small for the bird. The cover of the roaster was at least 4 inches off of the base, and tin foil had been used to seal the gaps. It cooked just fine, although the breast wasn't evenly browned. I rather enjoyed myself teasing my brother about it.
We ate about half of the 20 pounds of potatoes. The rest are probably still in the fridge for leftovers. The sweet potatoes were divine, with chunks of brown sugar swimming in the mix. We had homemade sausage and mushroom stuffing, fresh asparagus, turkey, ham, sweet potatoes, cinnamon apple cranberry sauce, homemade gravy plus lots of appetizers including shrimp, but my brother panicked at the end, thinking there wasn't enough, so he steamed a bag of corn to add to the buffet.
I refuse to be laughed at for my excess any longer. Long live King McCartney - the proud receipient of my mother's legacy.
She was, after all, a child of the depression, she said to explain her tendencies to feed us more than we could possibly eat. Her father was also a restaurant owner, a "supper club" in Wisconsin that was quite popular in its day, so she grew up knowing how to cook well, albeit in large portions.
This trait of excess was passed on to her children, at least to her youngest two, myself included.
For the first time in 15 or 20 years, I went home to North Dakota for Thanksgiving. I volunteered to make the meal that day for 14 people. When making the shopping list, I put down 5 pounds of potatoes, and truly thought that I would be laughed at for making so much. But my brother informed me that they would make the potatoes, yams, and had already bought a turkey and a ham.
The rule of thumb when buying a turkey is 1 pound per person. Being a McCartney, I would have bought an 18-20 pounder "just in case". But if a ham was also in the mix, I would have stuck with a 14 pound bird and still thought it excessive.
But apparently the McCartney Excess curse rained heaviest on the youngest member of the family, my brother. His wife got some of it too, because they proudly told me that they had bought a 25 pound turkey, and were planning on cooking 20 pounds of potatoes. I gasped, and asked if they had a roaster big enough?
"Don't worry", my brother said, "we'll figure it out".
I prepped the turkey the night before by rubbing herb-infused butter under the skin, and stuffing it's cavity with onions, garlic, and lots of thyme. My brother was in charge of getting it into the oven early the next morning, since dinner was at his house.
When I arrived mid-morning Thanksgiving day to start the prep for the rest of the meal, I saw the monster turkey in a Nesco roaster, probably the biggest one they make, but still too small for the bird. The cover of the roaster was at least 4 inches off of the base, and tin foil had been used to seal the gaps. It cooked just fine, although the breast wasn't evenly browned. I rather enjoyed myself teasing my brother about it.
We ate about half of the 20 pounds of potatoes. The rest are probably still in the fridge for leftovers. The sweet potatoes were divine, with chunks of brown sugar swimming in the mix. We had homemade sausage and mushroom stuffing, fresh asparagus, turkey, ham, sweet potatoes, cinnamon apple cranberry sauce, homemade gravy plus lots of appetizers including shrimp, but my brother panicked at the end, thinking there wasn't enough, so he steamed a bag of corn to add to the buffet.
I refuse to be laughed at for my excess any longer. Long live King McCartney - the proud receipient of my mother's legacy.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Jury Duty
My friends all gave me advice on how to get out of it - "say he looks guilty", said one. "Say you're a full-time advocate for gay rights", said another. But I knew that it was part of being lucky enough to be an American, so I knew that I would speak only the truth.
We had to be there at 8 am. There were 600 of us, all packed like sardines in the room, patiently waiting for our assignments. The Clerk of Court had a sense of humor at least, interjecting funny personal stories along the way, like the lady that just decided to leave one day and got sentenced to 8 hours of community service - in that very room. And since she wasn't a potential juror nor was she a government official, she had to be introduced as a lady serving her sentence of community service.
Finally my name was called along with 60 others, and we shuffled over to one side of the room to fill out questionnaires. What was my religious affiliation, what were my hobbies, what TV shows did I watch...easy enough questions. The final question gave me pause though - "do you believe that a child's testimony can be trusted as much as an adult's"? I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist. I answered as best I could, and when we were finished we were given orders to appear the next morning at the 213th District Court.
The next morning I arrived on time, and sat in the hallway with the other 60 jurors for an hour. Actually, I stood, since there was only room for about 6 people to actually sit. The bailiff called us in and we had to sit in the order of our juror number - I was number 18.
Juror 19 to my left was an older man, who I immediately nicknamed "Old Man Denture Breath". I could actually hear the clicking noise as he occasionally adjusted his teeth. Even when he breathed through his mouth all I could smell was rotting stomach contents. I turned to my right, and juror number 17, although more middle-aged, was almost as bad, just from poor dental hygiene I guess.
Voir Dire - pronounced in Texas as Vore Dyer, means to speak the truth. First the prosecution gets to ask us questions for an hour, then the defense gets the same opportunity. The defendant was there too, and looked to be about 18 or 19 (which at my age means he could be 35), and although he was dressed in a suit, seemed by his posture to be a gang-banger. There goes my presumption of innocence, huh.
We were told what the case was, but no details. As I suspected from the questionnaire, this was a molestation case, involving a child under 14. At least 5 people said that they were biased towards the defendant and thought him guilty right off the bat. At least 4 of those people just didn't want to serve and hadn't really thought out their answers very well. Some of the potential jurors had molestation in their family, some had multiple cases. At least two women and one man were brave enough to say that they themselves were molested and didn't think they could be impartial. One incredible man said he had been molested, but felt that he COULD be impartial, and that he felt it was his duty to do so.
The majority of the potential jurors were native Texans, and when the lawyer would ask them a direct yes or no question, quite often answered "probably" (pronounced as 'probly'). Or "maybe", as in "maybe so, maybe yes, maybe, probly". The poor defense lawyer being a yankee, finally had to confess to being frustrated with the answers, and begged for these people to give a yes or no answer. Didn't work - the habit is too ingrained.
Voire dire finished around 12:30 pm, and we were given 30 minutes to grab a bite downstairs from the snack machines. My back ached from the hard wooden bench we had been sitting on for hours, and my heart ached for the child concerned, as well as the jurors who had gone through the same thing.
We got back, and with no ceremony, the judge called out names of 12 people who would serve on this trial. Old Man Denture Breath was called, but I wasn't. I wasn't really sure how I felt about that. On one hand, I was relieved that I didn't have to experience the raw pain that would surely come from this trial. On the other hand, I felt like I could have been a good juror.
I was shuffled down to the jury dismissal area to get my check for service. They're quite generous here. The first day is $6.00. Every day after that is $40.00, which is a huge increase from days gone by. I took my check and walked a few blocks to bus station, which took me back to my car. Back to my world, which doesn't include child molesters, old men with bad dentures, and hard wooden benches seemed designed to punish even the innocent. Sometimes you have to peek behind the curtain just a little bit to see the dirty side of life to make you happy to go back to your ho-hum, boring, existence.
We had to be there at 8 am. There were 600 of us, all packed like sardines in the room, patiently waiting for our assignments. The Clerk of Court had a sense of humor at least, interjecting funny personal stories along the way, like the lady that just decided to leave one day and got sentenced to 8 hours of community service - in that very room. And since she wasn't a potential juror nor was she a government official, she had to be introduced as a lady serving her sentence of community service.
Finally my name was called along with 60 others, and we shuffled over to one side of the room to fill out questionnaires. What was my religious affiliation, what were my hobbies, what TV shows did I watch...easy enough questions. The final question gave me pause though - "do you believe that a child's testimony can be trusted as much as an adult's"? I'm paraphrasing, but that was the gist. I answered as best I could, and when we were finished we were given orders to appear the next morning at the 213th District Court.
The next morning I arrived on time, and sat in the hallway with the other 60 jurors for an hour. Actually, I stood, since there was only room for about 6 people to actually sit. The bailiff called us in and we had to sit in the order of our juror number - I was number 18.
Juror 19 to my left was an older man, who I immediately nicknamed "Old Man Denture Breath". I could actually hear the clicking noise as he occasionally adjusted his teeth. Even when he breathed through his mouth all I could smell was rotting stomach contents. I turned to my right, and juror number 17, although more middle-aged, was almost as bad, just from poor dental hygiene I guess.
Voir Dire - pronounced in Texas as Vore Dyer, means to speak the truth. First the prosecution gets to ask us questions for an hour, then the defense gets the same opportunity. The defendant was there too, and looked to be about 18 or 19 (which at my age means he could be 35), and although he was dressed in a suit, seemed by his posture to be a gang-banger. There goes my presumption of innocence, huh.
We were told what the case was, but no details. As I suspected from the questionnaire, this was a molestation case, involving a child under 14. At least 5 people said that they were biased towards the defendant and thought him guilty right off the bat. At least 4 of those people just didn't want to serve and hadn't really thought out their answers very well. Some of the potential jurors had molestation in their family, some had multiple cases. At least two women and one man were brave enough to say that they themselves were molested and didn't think they could be impartial. One incredible man said he had been molested, but felt that he COULD be impartial, and that he felt it was his duty to do so.
The majority of the potential jurors were native Texans, and when the lawyer would ask them a direct yes or no question, quite often answered "probably" (pronounced as 'probly'). Or "maybe", as in "maybe so, maybe yes, maybe, probly". The poor defense lawyer being a yankee, finally had to confess to being frustrated with the answers, and begged for these people to give a yes or no answer. Didn't work - the habit is too ingrained.
Voire dire finished around 12:30 pm, and we were given 30 minutes to grab a bite downstairs from the snack machines. My back ached from the hard wooden bench we had been sitting on for hours, and my heart ached for the child concerned, as well as the jurors who had gone through the same thing.
We got back, and with no ceremony, the judge called out names of 12 people who would serve on this trial. Old Man Denture Breath was called, but I wasn't. I wasn't really sure how I felt about that. On one hand, I was relieved that I didn't have to experience the raw pain that would surely come from this trial. On the other hand, I felt like I could have been a good juror.
I was shuffled down to the jury dismissal area to get my check for service. They're quite generous here. The first day is $6.00. Every day after that is $40.00, which is a huge increase from days gone by. I took my check and walked a few blocks to bus station, which took me back to my car. Back to my world, which doesn't include child molesters, old men with bad dentures, and hard wooden benches seemed designed to punish even the innocent. Sometimes you have to peek behind the curtain just a little bit to see the dirty side of life to make you happy to go back to your ho-hum, boring, existence.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Clean Your Plate - Adventures in Ethiopia
Most people my age remember their parents saying to them as children, "clean your plate - there are starving people in Ethiopia". As we got older, the smart asses among us would offer to package up the leftovers and send it to them if they were that hungry.
So a week ago Friday, when I got a frantic e-mail asking me if I could go to Ethiopia for a 2-day meeting, that's all I could think about. I've been to Addis Ababa twice before - it's nothing to write home about, but the starving children are kept well out of sight. Maybe they're in the countryside?
I'm not trying to make light of the plight in Africa - it's real. When I was having lunch with the team there, I got into a discussion about chicken. My new friend from Ethiopia explained that the chicken found there is all organic. I laughed, because I thought he was trying to impress me. But he followed it up by saying, "no really, it's organic because we can't afford fertilizer."
The next day, he brought in an egg from an Ethiopian chicken to show me. Much smaller than the eggs we're used to, the yolks are much darker than the "European chickens". Showing me the egg caused quite a debate amongst the Ethiopians in the room, saying that the European chickens were not as tough as the Ethiopian chickens (probably because of the chemicals and hormones they're fed).
My hotel, the only one available at the time, seemed okay on paper. It had "high-speed internet", was newly built (2008), and was close to the airport. I knew that I was in a high-class hotel when I arrived, because there was an ATM in the lobby. ATM's are almost unheard of in Addis. There was no check-in counter, but instead 2 desks, where I was asked to sit and fill out a form. They didn't take American Express, and the card key machine wasn't working, but they showed me to my room. I actually upgraded to a Queen room, so they led me to the 2nd floor, through the restaurant, to room 105. The door was opened, and I saw a bed so close to the floor I knew if I rolled off of it I wouldn't wake up. The locks on the door were broken, but then so was the door to the bathroom.
The overhead light was burned out, but there was a mini-bar. The bathroom had a tiny sink, and a rather large bathtub, with no shower, hence no shower curtain.
The room itself had a desk. One (and I mean one) outlet with only one plug-in was available in the room, but there were three lamps and a bedside clock. If I wanted to power up my laptop, the lamps had to be unplugged. If I needed light, I had to unplug the clock and the laptop. And since there were no plug-in's in the bathroom, you can imagine the sacrifice when I wanted to straighten my hair.
The next morning, I went outside to the front of the hotel to await my pickup. As I looked around, I thought to myself, "this isn't so bad - it looks like any area near an airport in the world except for the skyscrapers with the bamboo scaffolds surrounding them and the strange crow-like black and white birds hanging around."
I thought that until the donkeys walked by, loaded down with bundles of fabric, followed 3 paces behind by two boys deep in conversation. The donkeys certainly seemed to know where they were going, lucky for the boys.
Then a man walked by with huge open cartons of Ethiopian eggs (or were they European - I wasn't close enough to tell) on his shoulder. Children in dirty school uniforms, really old cars spewing exhaust fumes, and a hooker. I could tell she was a hooker because she didn't go anywhere. She was dressed in what looked like a rayon or polyester dress from the 80's, quite modest actually, and she walked back and forth across the street from me.
I spent my 50th birthday in this place. The CIO of Ethiopian Airlines took me out to dinner to celebrate with a roasted lamb dinner. It too must have been organic, because I could barely cut into it. But it's the thought that counts. The people I have met there have been generous, good, and kind, as airline employees around the world tend to be once you get past their tough exteriors. A new adventure to tell, a new story to remember.
So a week ago Friday, when I got a frantic e-mail asking me if I could go to Ethiopia for a 2-day meeting, that's all I could think about. I've been to Addis Ababa twice before - it's nothing to write home about, but the starving children are kept well out of sight. Maybe they're in the countryside?
I'm not trying to make light of the plight in Africa - it's real. When I was having lunch with the team there, I got into a discussion about chicken. My new friend from Ethiopia explained that the chicken found there is all organic. I laughed, because I thought he was trying to impress me. But he followed it up by saying, "no really, it's organic because we can't afford fertilizer."
The next day, he brought in an egg from an Ethiopian chicken to show me. Much smaller than the eggs we're used to, the yolks are much darker than the "European chickens". Showing me the egg caused quite a debate amongst the Ethiopians in the room, saying that the European chickens were not as tough as the Ethiopian chickens (probably because of the chemicals and hormones they're fed).
My hotel, the only one available at the time, seemed okay on paper. It had "high-speed internet", was newly built (2008), and was close to the airport. I knew that I was in a high-class hotel when I arrived, because there was an ATM in the lobby. ATM's are almost unheard of in Addis. There was no check-in counter, but instead 2 desks, where I was asked to sit and fill out a form. They didn't take American Express, and the card key machine wasn't working, but they showed me to my room. I actually upgraded to a Queen room, so they led me to the 2nd floor, through the restaurant, to room 105. The door was opened, and I saw a bed so close to the floor I knew if I rolled off of it I wouldn't wake up. The locks on the door were broken, but then so was the door to the bathroom.
The overhead light was burned out, but there was a mini-bar. The bathroom had a tiny sink, and a rather large bathtub, with no shower, hence no shower curtain.
The room itself had a desk. One (and I mean one) outlet with only one plug-in was available in the room, but there were three lamps and a bedside clock. If I wanted to power up my laptop, the lamps had to be unplugged. If I needed light, I had to unplug the clock and the laptop. And since there were no plug-in's in the bathroom, you can imagine the sacrifice when I wanted to straighten my hair.
The next morning, I went outside to the front of the hotel to await my pickup. As I looked around, I thought to myself, "this isn't so bad - it looks like any area near an airport in the world except for the skyscrapers with the bamboo scaffolds surrounding them and the strange crow-like black and white birds hanging around."
I thought that until the donkeys walked by, loaded down with bundles of fabric, followed 3 paces behind by two boys deep in conversation. The donkeys certainly seemed to know where they were going, lucky for the boys.
Then a man walked by with huge open cartons of Ethiopian eggs (or were they European - I wasn't close enough to tell) on his shoulder. Children in dirty school uniforms, really old cars spewing exhaust fumes, and a hooker. I could tell she was a hooker because she didn't go anywhere. She was dressed in what looked like a rayon or polyester dress from the 80's, quite modest actually, and she walked back and forth across the street from me.
I spent my 50th birthday in this place. The CIO of Ethiopian Airlines took me out to dinner to celebrate with a roasted lamb dinner. It too must have been organic, because I could barely cut into it. But it's the thought that counts. The people I have met there have been generous, good, and kind, as airline employees around the world tend to be once you get past their tough exteriors. A new adventure to tell, a new story to remember.
Chapter One - The Beginning
I have wrung more joy out of this life than I deserve. I wish I could say that it was because I had a grand plan and executed it well, but I'm not that organized. Everything I have and everything I've done is because it was dropped into my lap by an unseen, yet unbelievably kind, power.
According to my mother, it was a sunny, warm day the day I was born, 50 years ago. Her due date was 3 days prior, so it seemed like a good day for me to be born. I was supposed to be born on Halloween, and if I was, my name was to be Wendy. Lucky for me I decided that being Wendy the Witch was too much of a lifelong stigma, so I stayed snug in Mom's womb for another few days.
The doctor that delivered me said that I was the most beautiful baby he had ever seen. Several months later he went to rehab for drug addition. But I was a cute child, with a broad smile, and blonde hair that I kept until I was in Kindergarten.
My folks lived in Antigo, Wisconsin, where Dad had a hardware store. We didn't stay long after I was born - Dad yearned to go back to North Dakota, where he was raised, and when the opportunity arose to buy the Coast to Coast hardware store in Casselton, he jumped at the chance. Mom wasn't so sure - she had spent her life in Wisconsin surrounded by family, rolling hills, trees, and green. Her idea of North Dakota was that it was flat, windy, cold, and unforgiving. She wasn't far off.
According to my mother, it was a sunny, warm day the day I was born, 50 years ago. Her due date was 3 days prior, so it seemed like a good day for me to be born. I was supposed to be born on Halloween, and if I was, my name was to be Wendy. Lucky for me I decided that being Wendy the Witch was too much of a lifelong stigma, so I stayed snug in Mom's womb for another few days.
My folks lived in Antigo, Wisconsin, where Dad had a hardware store. We didn't stay long after I was born - Dad yearned to go back to North Dakota, where he was raised, and when the opportunity arose to buy the Coast to Coast hardware store in Casselton, he jumped at the chance. Mom wasn't so sure - she had spent her life in Wisconsin surrounded by family, rolling hills, trees, and green. Her idea of North Dakota was that it was flat, windy, cold, and unforgiving. She wasn't far off.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
More Picklin'
I only have 5 days to wait to see if these turned out.
Some of the stuff that went into the brine: vinegar, salt, onions, garlic, and chipotle peppers with adobe sauce. Should be interesting!
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