Redneck Studies: Deadly Deja Vu Department

My brother called me last night to come out and rescue him. It seems he'd been turning into a customer's driveway when the left front of his truck collapsed onto the pavement.

Again.

Fortunately, he was only going about 5 miles an hour as he made the turn so he was not injured, but the left front still hit hard and looks like it might have bent the frame since he can no longer close the driver's door. I met him out by the side of the road and we waited for the tow truck to drag his vehicle back to the same guys who "fixed" the exact same problem (which only occurred after they "repaired" a different problem) barely four months ago.

He uses these jokers because he's a sucker for an underdog sob story and the owner claims to have quit the garage my brother used to use (and I still do) in a righteous fit because the other owner was doing something shady although he hasn't given any specifics. He now claims the old shop is in financial trouble which I certainly haven't seen whenever I've been in there. All this is hearsay and only one side of the story. My theory is bozo got fired for incompetence. He claims to have quit in a huff without giving notice. I say he was fired on the spot and told to get out immediately. Considering the quality of his work in my brother's case, I feel pretty confident in my assessment.

My brother does not take advice well. Nevertheless, I attempted, as diplomatically as possible, to explain to him that these bozos had already had all the chances they should be allowed and that he really ought to take his truck somewhere else lest they get another chance to kill him because, sooner or later, they might well succeed. I think I might have got through to him. At least, he was talking about going somewhere else and sending these idiots the bill. Whether he does or not, we'll see.

At leas it wasn't raining last night.

Saturation Point

Yesterday's thunderstorm may have put us over the edge.

It came on very strong with violent, close lightning (the power went out--briefly--before the thunder hammered through) but didn't last all that long. Nevertheless, it poured while it was here and, for the first time, we have some semi-serious flooding.

Our property does not abut a canal, but there is one at the end of the street. That end of our street was flooded and the entire next street over was as well. I don't know how deep because I had already driven through an intersection which I had never believed to be in a depression of any sort but which was covered by a 50 foot wide temporary lake that rose over my axles and I wasn't about to tempt fate again.

A couple of the canals near us were topping their walls and flooding onto the lawns of the houses backing up to them. The swale around the front two sides of our property has become a moat and the low spot in back is now a pond of sorts. Virtually all of our cherry tomatoes are splitting due to all the water being taken up after the fruit sets. (They still taste better than anything in the store.)

This morning, the streets were clear and dry again although low-lying grassy areas are still covered in standing water. The canals are back within their banks, barely. The ground is squishy to walk on.

One thunderstorm has rolled through already this afternoon but it was a light one. Another one like yesterday's just might be one too many.

How It Came To Be That Alfred Hitchcock and I Had the Same Housekeeper

Recently, a friend posted on his Facebook timeline the anniversary date of Nixon's resignation from the presidency. Normally, I do not comment on Facebook except for birthday congratulations but this prompted me to remark on how I happened to be in Lafayette Park, across the street from the White House, standing by Connie Chung and Dan Rather, partying with a few thousand others that night.

Which got me thinking about some of the other events/happenings/coincidences in my life.

It was in the last century, while Nixon was still president, and I was studying political science at a small private university in New Jersey. Our school, despite its size, offered several off-campus semesters including United Nations (International Organizations), Brussels (European Community), Washington D.C. (U.S. Government) and London (Comparative Government). I eventually took all of the off-campus semesters except Brussels thereby spending my entire junior and half my senior years away.

This story is about London.

There were about 40 of us on the semester, including about a dozen students from other schools, plus three of our professors and another handful of local professors and lecturers including a sitting Labour M.P. All of us, except the locals, lived in a five-story white stone Victorian townhouse in South Kensington a short walk from the Royal Albert Hall. The owner would occasionally lurk about in the corners with serious second thoughts about having American college students running loose. (Rumor had it a few years later he sold the place to some African country for an embassy.) In addition, this being London and all upstairsy-downstairsy, we had a full staff: cook, whose specialties included Brussels sprouts, ox-tail soup and eggs drowned in lard; three live-in maids, two homely Spanish girls who looked enough alike to be sisters and one incredibly cute Australian whose nickname was "Rabbit" and who has her own story possibly titled "How I got the Maid Fired for Fraternization," due in a future post. And the housekeeper. Mrs. Yardley.

Mrs. Yardley was in charge. Mrs. Yardley set the schedules for the maids and inspected their work. She kept the owner from freaking out. She could do nothing to improve the cook. She was barely five feet tall, broad in the shoulder and hip, with thick stubby fingers and a voice like a trumpet. Think short Julia Child with a working-class English accent. And, unlike the owner, Mrs. Yardley was intrigued by Americans.

One day four or five of us were sitting around one of the bedrooms enjoying a little afternoon sweet vermouth when Mrs. Yardley knocked and entered. She had a question regarding American timekeeping, specifically: Did the phrase "a quarter of the hour" mean fifteen minutes before or after the hour? Being Americans, it had never occurred to us that this could cause confusion but, after considering for a moment, we realized that, yes, someone unfamiliar with the Americanism could misunderstand and invited Mrs Yardley to partake of some vermouth while we explained. (It means before.) Turned out Mrs. Yardley liked vermouth. We had two bottles that day. We guys finished one and Mrs. Yardley did for the other.

Towards the bottom of her bottle Mrs Yardley started to reminisce about her experiences during The War. She'd been in London during the early part of the Blitz but late in the war got a position out in the Essex countryside as a housekeeper. In fact, she was on her bicycle, peddling home from market one day, when one of the first V-1 buzz bombs exploded in a field less than half a mile from her. She said her employer out on the estate was "Mr. Hitch-cock." That's how she pronounced it, with equal emphasis on both syllables as if it was two words.

We asked her if he was, you know, the Mr. Hitchcock. Oh, yes, indeed, she said. Himself. We asked what he was like. Mrs, Yardley turned her glass a bit, examining her vermouth, perhaps contemplating the propriety of discussing personal details of a former employer.

"He was a very quiet man," she said, finally. "Strange. But very quiet."

Well, of course.

What We Have Here Is a Failure to Mitigate

(A Fairly Typical Juncture of Two Canals)

I have noticed on certain trips about town, when crossing over some of our numerous canals, that the water level on one side (the inland, or "upstream," side specifically although they are all pretty far from either the river or the gulf) is significantly higher than the other. One in particular is so high it completely covers the culverts meaning any increase in water level is going to flood that area.

(Hmmm . . . Potentially Blockage Inducing Flotsam, There)

My assumption is the openings under the bridges I am crossing have been blocked by flotsam of unknown provenance. I do not know if the people living in the immediate vicinity of these choke points have noticed or notified the city. I do know I have seen no one doing anything about it.

The water is already up to the lip of the seawall in many places.

And look! It's raining. Again.

The Ongoing Daily Apocalypse

Seems a rather large sinkhole has opened up near Disney World swallowing a largish building or two and effectively destroying an entire resort complex.

(It is an ex-resort)

No injuries reported, so that's good and the resort has given spending money to guests who lost their clothes and wallets and such in the collapse.

Meanwhile, closer to home, a Texas company is seeking permits to drill fracking wells in a housing development next to protected panther habitat near the Everglades, a process that will use tens of thousands of gallons of water. Never mind the toxic chemicals used to break up the rock, that water has to come from somewhere. The state Department of Environmental Protection notes that "heavy ground water pumping, [and] diversion of natural water flow routes . . . may accelerate sinkhole formation." What could possibly go wrong?

(Locals protest fracking as the Google Street View car rolls by)

Meanwhile, a twelve-year-old boy over toward Lake Okeechobee has contracted brain-eating amoebae, probably from swimming in a canal full of warm fresh (but contaminated) water. The brain-eating amoeba is rare, but of the couple hundred known cases there has only ever been one survivor.

Meanwhile, over on the east coast, a large bloom of slimy, fluorescent green algae is closing the St. Lucie and Indian rivers. Officials are warning locals not to even touch the water.

Just another day in Paradise.

Kind of puts the pythons and bears and lion fish and tegus and 48 species of mosquitoes in perspective doesn't it?

Mangomania

Our mango tree is doing something I have never seen before. The east-facing quarter of the tree (only) is producing a second crop of fruit.

The entire first go-'round ripened and fell and was gathered by us, or was eaten by the squirrel, birds and insects. But now, this one section of the tree is producing again. And the mangoes are glorious. They're huge, plump and heavy. A couple of them have fallen, mostly due to wind and rain, but my brother has taken to actually harvesting them so we're getting them store-quality with no blemishes.

Somewhere, he found a long-handled sickle (12 feet (4 meters) long and which I have never seen before in our collection of tools) and has taken to going out almost daily to gently swipe at the ripest looking fruit. Sometimes he has to climb a ladder first. If they're ready, they fall. If not, he'll try again in a day or so.

Three mangoes, peeled and cubed, filled two quart containers yesterday. (I quit after three because I managed to stab myself in the palm.) There are close to a dozen more on the counter awaiting attention (and the availability of more containers) and still there are a couple dozen more on the tree.

Meanwhile, Neighbor Mike's tree is now overflowing with ripe fruit, too, although his are golden yellow all over where ours turn orange/red retaining green undertones. None of his have fallen yet, but neither have we seen him picking any.

Payin' It Out, Old School

I got on the phone yesterday to pay my semi-annual auto insurance bill and received a surprise. A human answered.

There was a weird kind of electronic hiccup while the phone was ringing, a hesitation of sorts, while the system apparently switched from the standard automated routine to human back-up. I was so startled to hear a real person I blurted out, "Oh, I was expecting the computer," when she said, "Hello."

She seemed a bit taken aback, too, and not aware their system was down. Nevertheless, she took my policy number, confirmed my name and birthdate, and asked if I wanted to pay the full amount with the card they have on file. I said, "Yes." She said, "Done," and gave me my confirmation number.

The whole process took less than half the time going through their automated phone tree does mostly because the robot voice offers repetitive descriptions of its intent and actions and demands constant confirmation of mine.

I'm sure the robot is cheaper but the human was way more efficient. And nicer to talk to.

My Back. Let Me Pat It.

I received my 6 gallon certificate from the hospital blood services department today. That's 48 pints or approximately 24 liters. I donated another 43 units or so back in Salt Lake City before moving but the Red Cross doesn't give out prizes like the local hospital here does. (I have enough blood related T-shirts to last the rest of my life already.)

And that's almost all platelets, too. I switched from whole blood to platelets back in SLC when they asked me to do a directed donation for the children's hospital. Even though my blood type is common, for some reason, I am part of the 1% that does not carry the common cytomegalovirus making my otherwise plain vanilla blood suitable for people with compromised immune systems.

Before that I gave in both Connecticut and New Jersey when I lived/went to school there but I wasn't nearly so conscientious then. I think that may have something to do with a bad experience at school in New Jersey when the Red Cross did a drive and everyone I went in with was all through and done and the next batch was finishing up while I was still on the table because my vein had collapsed and nothing was drawing so the doctor in charge pulled the needle from my right arm, walked around the table, and jabbed it into my left arm. Now a days, the slightest thing goes wrong they pull the works, stop the process and trash the lot but back then there was no HIV/AIDS or BSE and very little concern for hepatitis or any of the other horrors now on the questionnaire and that doctor was not going to just walk away with a half-full bag.

Anyway, if I totaled them all together I'm probably somewhere around 20 gallons, lifetime. So now I've got my certificate and I'm scheduled again for the 15th.

I feel so noble.

Sign of the Times

Pulled up behind a truck towing an enclosed utility trailer at a traffic light yesterday. The back of the dark maroon trailer had a large headline that read, "Ten Simple Rules" across the top with the list appearing below in rather fine yellow print that was difficult to read without tailgating.

At first I thought the trailer might be a rental and the "Rules" were instructions for proper usage. As I eased up closer, however, I could finally decipher that small print and recalled where I was.

Ah, yes. Not "Rules." The Ten Commandments. Written in contemporary ("You must not . . .") rather than traditional ("Thou shalt not . . .") style. The trailer might still be a rental, though. Sometimes this place is south New York. Other times it's just deep South.