Both Lois and I have been left behind by loved ones. It's an experience that never gets easier with age and experience. There is a grieving process and this lasts longer in some people than in others. I grieved for my parents in-law. I still refer to them as Mom and Dad (Lois uses 'Daddy'.)
I didn't grieve for my Mom until years later after Dad died. He survived Mom by two rough years. I was twenty and green as grass, trying to hold it all together. When Dad died I was crushed with grief. I felt so alone with no siblings, so apprehensive at what life would throw at me.
But I did heal and I learned how to live alone, yet there were lonely moments, usually at any holiday. When working at the mine I didn't mind working on Christmas Day or Eve. Work can be a great tranquilizer.
There are other kinds of deaths and one of them is the passing of one's workplace. Each instance is unique, each (personal) experience varies as some take this life event in stride and some don't. The mine died and I didn't think I could survive. Another job came and when it went, I decided to take computer programming classes at the local community college .
I became employed at Sprague Electric Co. in Grafton, Wisconsin as an applications programmer. The job lasted exactly one year. The manager called me into the office. I became alarmed when he told me to close the door. I thought that someone in my shrinking family had died. Instead I was relieved that I was being terminated for non-disciplinary reasons and I was eligible for unemployment benefits.
Grief over my loss of employment settled in after the unemployment benefits were exhausted. I had lived with the hope that the company would rally and I would be asked to return to work. The company closed for good. I grieved for that career position more than any previous employment. Several attempts to secure employment ended in failure. I felt that God had let me down and eventually I became despondent. That story is not the purpose of this missive.
My beloved has been employed at the Ironwood K-Mart for almost thirty-five years and its closing is weeks away. I went into the store weeks ago and the outer perimeter was bare. Fixtures are being sold, leaving ghastly bare walls.
This store was an encore for the first K-Mart store in Ironwood and I recall how busy it was, both at the registers and at the pharmacy. Everything was so new and shining. K-Mart even had auto service and they sold tires and the store had the aroma of newness. and excitement. There was a little cafeteria where I enjoyed coffee while waiting for Lois. Sometimes we ate together when she had the afternoon shift.
Lois loved her job. I knew this from the start. At home she talked about the store and what transpired that day, good or bad. She related details of her job that I didn't understand because you had to do those things to understand their intricacies.
She made friends at work, both fellow employees and customers. She met every imaginable sort of person, some personable, colorful, even those who were fun-loving. She dealt with those on the other end of the personality spectrum and she often told me about how difficult it was.
She still carries keys with which she opens the store early in the morning and closes it at night. When we had occasion to be customers, Lois showed her pride in her work, straightening merchandise that had been moved on the shelves since her shift had ended. She showed me the area she had worked on so hard that day. The merchandise was in military precision, ranks and files absolutely perfect. The shelves would muster a white glove inspection.
When we checked our purchases, an employee would ask Lois for help, whether on the registers or something in the store. Lois always helped with zeal and a tender patience that I admire so much. (She has to have vast patience to live with me!)
Her fellow long-term employees will grieve, no doubt. It takes a team to make a business work and K-Mart has had a mighty good team.
I never thought I'd feel this way, as though a dear friend or family member was wheezing and shriveling more with each passing day, welcoming the inevitable.
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
Monday, February 22, 2016
Life in the Old Baptist Church.
My good friend Lloyd Mattson once complained of the lack of rancor in the Baptist church he attends. Our current Baptist church is the same. No drama at business meetings, save one explosive outburst at an annual meeting a few years ago.
Lloyd's post (theholenews.org) jogged my memory. We had all finished our traditional pot-luck dinner following the morning service. I was our young treasurer and when I was up to bat at a business meeting, I got raked over the coals.
"Why are the payments to missionaries behind schedule?"
"Ah,... after paying bills and the pastor's salary and retirement and the monthly payment for the new pipe organ and the monthly mortgage payment there was nothing left; well there was less than a hundred dollars left. Can't do much missionary funding with that."
At the previous annual meeting, around 1984 the Board of Deacons wanted our missionary budget increased by a whopping fifteen per cent. I put together a presentation showing our income trends over the last five years versus the expenditure trends. By the figures on the screen (from the overhead projector) it was plain that we were barely treading water. I wasn't against missionary funding but I saw red flags while working as treasurer for a few years.
During this annual meeting my presentation advising caution in the proposed budget increase was heard, duly recorded and totally disregarded. Someone mentioned that God owns the cattle of a thousand hills." God will provide", someone else said and a resounding "amen" followed.
One of the elders proposed that each week a percentage of the offering equal to our missionaries' total slice of the pie chart would be set aside so that the missionaries would be funded.
"If this is done, the power company will be shutting off our lights and maybe the pastor will miss a payday on occasion," I protested.
I was chided for my lack of faith. "What is not of faith is sin," came from a former deacon, Sam, who often sang solos and along with each would preach a sermonette. I protested that God has given us faculties to manage our financial affairs prudently. I may as well have been talking to the walls and the proposal was approved. I was ready to quit my position and let the Board of Deacons figure it out but my conscience stopped me.
In succeeding weeks when I sat down to church business, a good portion of the offering as reported on the income summary was dedicated to the Organ Fund. Some money was dedicated to specific missionaries. I wrote a check equal to the missionaries percentage, which would sit on my desk and collect dust along with each weekly check. I could not send out these checks because the checks for the utilities, power, natural gas, insurance, etc., would bounce and if enough checks bounced our church would be in trouble.
An ad hoc Advisory Committee was created as a watchdog to be sure that I followed policy concerning missionaries.
Each week I gave a profit and loss report and it was evident that our budget was extravagant, overwhelming our income. The Advisory Committee didn't see it that way.
"George, you're supposed to send those missionary checks right away. The Lord will provide."
"How can I write checks that exceed our bank balance and somehow expect the Lord to prevent checks from bouncing? Too many people are designating their offering checks. A large chunk of our weekly income is designated to the organ, then I don't have enough money to keep the lights on."
In a short time the problem worsened and I reported to the committee that the balance after Sunday's offering, without any cash outlays was less than a hundred dollars. Shock registered on the faces of those present. Soon the committee dissolved and I was in charge of the finances again.
Subsequent annual budgets increased, using the excuse of having faith. "If it's not of faith it's sin," someone said at an annual meeting and several jumped on this bandwagon and the movement was afoot to increase the budget. The difference was a small band of people starting to think conservatively (financially.)
The church has since been through ideological splits. Pastors have come and left. One of the pastors spent the church's money with reckless abandon. I cautioned the deacons as to our rapidly depleting cash reserved. The pastor was brash and had encounters with different members who left the church. When membership and cash reserves had dwindled He was asked to leave.
Presently we have a wonderful pastor. He doesn't chafe at his salary. He cares about individual struggles and shepherds our church lovingly. He is about to lose his day job because of company financial decisions (downsizing) so God only knows how much longer we will have him, since we can't afford to pay him very much.
I disagree with him politically and as to the origins of the universe. He is young-earth, I subscribe to the Big-Bang and theistic evolution but we get along as friends.
The church finances have been stable for several years and there haven't been any intra- church wars. It's wonderful being relaxed during a Sunday service.
I've seen enough of church strife and divisions, people essentially saying, "Be reasonable, do it my way." I'll take peaceful Christianity any day.
Lloyd's post (theholenews.org) jogged my memory. We had all finished our traditional pot-luck dinner following the morning service. I was our young treasurer and when I was up to bat at a business meeting, I got raked over the coals.
"Why are the payments to missionaries behind schedule?"
"Ah,... after paying bills and the pastor's salary and retirement and the monthly payment for the new pipe organ and the monthly mortgage payment there was nothing left; well there was less than a hundred dollars left. Can't do much missionary funding with that."
At the previous annual meeting, around 1984 the Board of Deacons wanted our missionary budget increased by a whopping fifteen per cent. I put together a presentation showing our income trends over the last five years versus the expenditure trends. By the figures on the screen (from the overhead projector) it was plain that we were barely treading water. I wasn't against missionary funding but I saw red flags while working as treasurer for a few years.
During this annual meeting my presentation advising caution in the proposed budget increase was heard, duly recorded and totally disregarded. Someone mentioned that God owns the cattle of a thousand hills." God will provide", someone else said and a resounding "amen" followed.
One of the elders proposed that each week a percentage of the offering equal to our missionaries' total slice of the pie chart would be set aside so that the missionaries would be funded.
"If this is done, the power company will be shutting off our lights and maybe the pastor will miss a payday on occasion," I protested.
I was chided for my lack of faith. "What is not of faith is sin," came from a former deacon, Sam, who often sang solos and along with each would preach a sermonette. I protested that God has given us faculties to manage our financial affairs prudently. I may as well have been talking to the walls and the proposal was approved. I was ready to quit my position and let the Board of Deacons figure it out but my conscience stopped me.
In succeeding weeks when I sat down to church business, a good portion of the offering as reported on the income summary was dedicated to the Organ Fund. Some money was dedicated to specific missionaries. I wrote a check equal to the missionaries percentage, which would sit on my desk and collect dust along with each weekly check. I could not send out these checks because the checks for the utilities, power, natural gas, insurance, etc., would bounce and if enough checks bounced our church would be in trouble.
An ad hoc Advisory Committee was created as a watchdog to be sure that I followed policy concerning missionaries.
Each week I gave a profit and loss report and it was evident that our budget was extravagant, overwhelming our income. The Advisory Committee didn't see it that way.
"George, you're supposed to send those missionary checks right away. The Lord will provide."
"How can I write checks that exceed our bank balance and somehow expect the Lord to prevent checks from bouncing? Too many people are designating their offering checks. A large chunk of our weekly income is designated to the organ, then I don't have enough money to keep the lights on."
In a short time the problem worsened and I reported to the committee that the balance after Sunday's offering, without any cash outlays was less than a hundred dollars. Shock registered on the faces of those present. Soon the committee dissolved and I was in charge of the finances again.
Subsequent annual budgets increased, using the excuse of having faith. "If it's not of faith it's sin," someone said at an annual meeting and several jumped on this bandwagon and the movement was afoot to increase the budget. The difference was a small band of people starting to think conservatively (financially.)
The church has since been through ideological splits. Pastors have come and left. One of the pastors spent the church's money with reckless abandon. I cautioned the deacons as to our rapidly depleting cash reserved. The pastor was brash and had encounters with different members who left the church. When membership and cash reserves had dwindled He was asked to leave.
Presently we have a wonderful pastor. He doesn't chafe at his salary. He cares about individual struggles and shepherds our church lovingly. He is about to lose his day job because of company financial decisions (downsizing) so God only knows how much longer we will have him, since we can't afford to pay him very much.
I disagree with him politically and as to the origins of the universe. He is young-earth, I subscribe to the Big-Bang and theistic evolution but we get along as friends.
The church finances have been stable for several years and there haven't been any intra- church wars. It's wonderful being relaxed during a Sunday service.
I've seen enough of church strife and divisions, people essentially saying, "Be reasonable, do it my way." I'll take peaceful Christianity any day.
Monday, February 15, 2016
I Have a Medal!
This post is from my runner's log. I'm trying to keep my eagerness for the 2016 Paavo.
When I started this log on October 23, 2013 I was on my third year of running. Back then, running in a half-marathon didn't occur to me.
At the start line I my pre-race anxiety level was mild. Instead I was eager to get started. It's a good thing Lois drove me to the start line in plenty of time because we were under the impression of an 8:30 start time and the race began at 8:00, as I was down on one knee fiddling with my shoelaces. I didn't hear a gunshot, just saw everybody running in this great, big pack. I cast off my hoodie and joined the pack.
My expectations were realistic, being a first- timer; I just wanted to finish the 13.1 miles. I had trained for this for this since early May, logging about 25-30 miles per week.The months of training gave me an idea of what I could do as well as how hard I could push my body.
I'm a recovering alcoholic and one of the devils that dogged me in other non-running endeavors was the thought, "Who do you think you're kidding? This takes a better man than you. You can't do anything right. You're not as good, not as smart, not as strong; you don't have what it takes."
One Friday night Lois and I drove along the race course and as we came to the end I said to Lois, "I can do this!" I really believed it so I signed up online and committed myself to train for the event.
I found a training program on the Runner's World website. I stayed with two weeks before I violated the advice not to run too long a distance too soon, to work up to the half-marathon gradually. I ran 12.8 miles on Saturday, May 30 and I became overconfident. After running that distance I should have rested for two weeks, but I thought I'd try the actual race course the next week.
I charged up Highway 77 too aggressively and forgot about pacing myself to conserve my bodily resources. Halfway through the course my legs began to feel heavy. I took walk breaks thinking I could resume running in a short time, but at the junction of Highway C and Highway 51 I mostly walked. My upper back began a dull ache. My legs had weakened and I tried to make up time using timed walkin/ running intervals. The problem was that I became confused as to the most recent reading of my watch.
The final two miles were all in a slow-tempo walk. Inside the city limits of Hurley I crossed the road and sat on a low headstone in the cemetery. I had flopped and I was ashamed of myself. It took all of my strength to walk home.
I felt sorry for myself for a couple of days and then I looked at what went wrong. I had ignored expert advice because I thought I knew better. I had also run up and down the hills of Norrie Location two days before, another violation of expert advice. Thirdly, I hadn't slept well Thursday or Friday night. I should have postponed the run.
I went back to running in a disciplined way with slow, easy runs during the week and a longer route that progressed with each week. I watched what I ate and drank plenty of water, running or not. I gleaned every bit of wisdom I could from various runners and the result was heartening. On Saturday, July 4 I ran 13.1 miles and I did it in two segments, using our home as an aid station where I drank water. I also carried M&M candies with me for extra energy. I ran in Ironwood and Hurley, not the official race course. The discipline paid off.
In the ensuing weekends I began to taper my long Saturday runs but I made a mistake that almost cost me participation in the race. On a slow, mid-week run I decided to see how fast I could finish a four mile run. I was proud of running four miles in 39 minutes. Later that day I felt the painful onset of shin splints. I had pushed myself too hard, again ignoring expert advice.
No running for the next two weeks as I iced my shins, rolled my calves on a foam roller and showed up at work in shorts with support sleeves on my legs.
I prayed that I'd heal and be able to run the race.
After two weeks I started running, 10 seconds on and then a minute walking. I progressed with 20/60, 30/120 and back down to 10/60. The easy running was painful but with each day the pain eased and after a weekend with no running I felt no pain. I would be ready.
I was determined, running with this huge pack that I would stay with my pace even though others passed me by. When young women passed me I mentally complimented them. My pace through most of the race was the tempo of 'On Wisconsin" and when I felt I could go faster "Hail to the Victors" came to mind.
At the start the temperature was in the low sixties and kind of humid. By mid race it was a little warmer but it felt more humid. Glad I wore my headband.
I just have to give praise to the volunteers gathers at at intervals, aid stations. They held out cups of Gatorade, water, and at one station a gentleman offered me beer, which I declined, graciously.
I finished somewhere in the middle of the pack and that was okay. I want to do this again in 2016.
When I started this log on October 23, 2013 I was on my third year of running. Back then, running in a half-marathon didn't occur to me.
At the start line I my pre-race anxiety level was mild. Instead I was eager to get started. It's a good thing Lois drove me to the start line in plenty of time because we were under the impression of an 8:30 start time and the race began at 8:00, as I was down on one knee fiddling with my shoelaces. I didn't hear a gunshot, just saw everybody running in this great, big pack. I cast off my hoodie and joined the pack.
My expectations were realistic, being a first- timer; I just wanted to finish the 13.1 miles. I had trained for this for this since early May, logging about 25-30 miles per week.The months of training gave me an idea of what I could do as well as how hard I could push my body.
I'm a recovering alcoholic and one of the devils that dogged me in other non-running endeavors was the thought, "Who do you think you're kidding? This takes a better man than you. You can't do anything right. You're not as good, not as smart, not as strong; you don't have what it takes."
One Friday night Lois and I drove along the race course and as we came to the end I said to Lois, "I can do this!" I really believed it so I signed up online and committed myself to train for the event.
I found a training program on the Runner's World website. I stayed with two weeks before I violated the advice not to run too long a distance too soon, to work up to the half-marathon gradually. I ran 12.8 miles on Saturday, May 30 and I became overconfident. After running that distance I should have rested for two weeks, but I thought I'd try the actual race course the next week.
I charged up Highway 77 too aggressively and forgot about pacing myself to conserve my bodily resources. Halfway through the course my legs began to feel heavy. I took walk breaks thinking I could resume running in a short time, but at the junction of Highway C and Highway 51 I mostly walked. My upper back began a dull ache. My legs had weakened and I tried to make up time using timed walkin/ running intervals. The problem was that I became confused as to the most recent reading of my watch.
The final two miles were all in a slow-tempo walk. Inside the city limits of Hurley I crossed the road and sat on a low headstone in the cemetery. I had flopped and I was ashamed of myself. It took all of my strength to walk home.
I felt sorry for myself for a couple of days and then I looked at what went wrong. I had ignored expert advice because I thought I knew better. I had also run up and down the hills of Norrie Location two days before, another violation of expert advice. Thirdly, I hadn't slept well Thursday or Friday night. I should have postponed the run.
I went back to running in a disciplined way with slow, easy runs during the week and a longer route that progressed with each week. I watched what I ate and drank plenty of water, running or not. I gleaned every bit of wisdom I could from various runners and the result was heartening. On Saturday, July 4 I ran 13.1 miles and I did it in two segments, using our home as an aid station where I drank water. I also carried M&M candies with me for extra energy. I ran in Ironwood and Hurley, not the official race course. The discipline paid off.
In the ensuing weekends I began to taper my long Saturday runs but I made a mistake that almost cost me participation in the race. On a slow, mid-week run I decided to see how fast I could finish a four mile run. I was proud of running four miles in 39 minutes. Later that day I felt the painful onset of shin splints. I had pushed myself too hard, again ignoring expert advice.
No running for the next two weeks as I iced my shins, rolled my calves on a foam roller and showed up at work in shorts with support sleeves on my legs.
I prayed that I'd heal and be able to run the race.
After two weeks I started running, 10 seconds on and then a minute walking. I progressed with 20/60, 30/120 and back down to 10/60. The easy running was painful but with each day the pain eased and after a weekend with no running I felt no pain. I would be ready.
I was determined, running with this huge pack that I would stay with my pace even though others passed me by. When young women passed me I mentally complimented them. My pace through most of the race was the tempo of 'On Wisconsin" and when I felt I could go faster "Hail to the Victors" came to mind.
At the start the temperature was in the low sixties and kind of humid. By mid race it was a little warmer but it felt more humid. Glad I wore my headband.
I just have to give praise to the volunteers gathers at at intervals, aid stations. They held out cups of Gatorade, water, and at one station a gentleman offered me beer, which I declined, graciously.
I finished somewhere in the middle of the pack and that was okay. I want to do this again in 2016.
Monday, February 1, 2016
Out-of-Control Capitalism
Two weeks ago Lois found out that K-Mart of Ironwood will close soon and she will be among the ranks of millions jobless people. It brings to an end the thoughtless queries of people, including friends, "I heard K-Mart is closing." These queries began when the rapacious Walmart Corporation built a store in Ironwood. These queries hurt Lois as some of them were followed by hurtful assaults, 'Walmart is better anyway."
To those I would say, "You got what you wished for." Now there is no more competition in Ironwood, Bessemer, Wakefield or Hurley, or Ontonagon, and about 6 other minor cities whose residents shop in the Ironwood area. You will pay higher prices because that is how capitalism works. Destroy the competition and rape the vanquished, regardless of how much pain it causes. After 35 years Lois' job is gone.
The four living Waltons can rejoice. Another Kmart store has been destroyed and what the hell do they care? Their collective wealth exceeds that of the bottom 40% of the United States. Just FOUR PEOPLE! Capitalism is not godly. It is greed on steroids. It is economic Darwinism. For this country to survive capitalism will have to be reigned in by more socialist moves such as a living wage, not a minimum wage.
Reagan's "supply side economics" started a forty-year bonanza for the rich, along with the demise of labor unions. Reagan's followers saw an increase of 300% income vs. a paltry 1% for the rest of us, the 99%. Business have been raping their workers and this must be stopped.
A single-payer national health system will have to replace the voracious blood-sucking administrations of hospitals that demand full payment of the copay amount even if it unmanageable for the patient. If the patient doesn't pay the hospital sics collection agencies on them that endeavor collection through the use of fear and unfounded threats, possibly causing further health problems.
Companies like Walmart must be stopped, taxed heavily and FORCED to share their wealth with those whose hard work and long hours made trillions of dollars for the company. The same goes for restaurant and lodging chains. Energy prices need to be federally controlled.
The wealthy (1%) and rich corporations must pay their fair share of taxes. Those businesses doing offshore banking must be penalized. Tax loopholes must be closed.There must be penalties for shifting production facilities to foreign countries and that includes the computer tech-support business.
The loss of my wife's job has released my vitriol. The political party that strives to buy elections must be stopped. Citizens United must be reversed. Hard working employees must be given (retroactively, for the last eight years) living wages. NOT MINIMUM WAGES! They should also be given, by law further raises to keep up with the cost of living. The thievery perpetrated by business against labor must be stopped and reversed because the angst of the working class will intimately boil over into a inevitably violent revolution.
The American people can only take so much!
To those I would say, "You got what you wished for." Now there is no more competition in Ironwood, Bessemer, Wakefield or Hurley, or Ontonagon, and about 6 other minor cities whose residents shop in the Ironwood area. You will pay higher prices because that is how capitalism works. Destroy the competition and rape the vanquished, regardless of how much pain it causes. After 35 years Lois' job is gone.
The four living Waltons can rejoice. Another Kmart store has been destroyed and what the hell do they care? Their collective wealth exceeds that of the bottom 40% of the United States. Just FOUR PEOPLE! Capitalism is not godly. It is greed on steroids. It is economic Darwinism. For this country to survive capitalism will have to be reigned in by more socialist moves such as a living wage, not a minimum wage.
Reagan's "supply side economics" started a forty-year bonanza for the rich, along with the demise of labor unions. Reagan's followers saw an increase of 300% income vs. a paltry 1% for the rest of us, the 99%. Business have been raping their workers and this must be stopped.
A single-payer national health system will have to replace the voracious blood-sucking administrations of hospitals that demand full payment of the copay amount even if it unmanageable for the patient. If the patient doesn't pay the hospital sics collection agencies on them that endeavor collection through the use of fear and unfounded threats, possibly causing further health problems.
Companies like Walmart must be stopped, taxed heavily and FORCED to share their wealth with those whose hard work and long hours made trillions of dollars for the company. The same goes for restaurant and lodging chains. Energy prices need to be federally controlled.
The wealthy (1%) and rich corporations must pay their fair share of taxes. Those businesses doing offshore banking must be penalized. Tax loopholes must be closed.There must be penalties for shifting production facilities to foreign countries and that includes the computer tech-support business.
The loss of my wife's job has released my vitriol. The political party that strives to buy elections must be stopped. Citizens United must be reversed. Hard working employees must be given (retroactively, for the last eight years) living wages. NOT MINIMUM WAGES! They should also be given, by law further raises to keep up with the cost of living. The thievery perpetrated by business against labor must be stopped and reversed because the angst of the working class will intimately boil over into a inevitably violent revolution.
The American people can only take so much!
Saturday, July 11, 2015
Our Doggie Kids at "Cute School" (Snickers in Kindergarten)
It was almost the end of the school year and the sublime spring weather got our Scottish Terrier/Corgy boy (Snickers) in a restless state. Miss Beagle coaxed the students into their nap time, keeping an eye on Snickers because of his propensity to sneak out for a smoke.
At the first instance of his tobacco use Miss Beagle was shocked since this has never happened in the annals of the school, even in the middle school age dogs. Miss Beagle grilled Snickers for his tobacco source, but he's a stubborn lad, loathe to squeal so Miss Beagle made him sit in the 'shame' corner pending his cooperation. She was unaware of a bond between Snickers and the principal, Mr. Pit Bull whom the students had clandestinely dubbed "The Bull."
Miss Beagle did, by chance, uncover the alliance after sending Snickers to the principal's office for brawling during a game of "London Bridge is Falling Down." School had been recessed for the day so she went for 'the Bull's office to investigate the matter of Snickers' admonishment. No one happened to be in the office but the window was open and she detected cigarette smoke. She heard the two talking just outside so she sauntered toward the window.
"I was in a few scrapes myself when I was a young pup."
"How old were you?" Inquired Snickers.
"I was in the second grade, as I recall."
"By the way, how many times have you been sent to my office?"
"About a hundred, give 'er take."
"Anyway," continued The bull, "I knocked out a mutt who ate one of my colored crayons, the red one. I knocked the poor kid out cold! They carried him to the nurse's office and give 'm smellin' salts to bring him to."
"Anyway, nobody messed with me after that but I was required to stay after school in the principal's office every day for a month."
Miss Beagle knocked on the door and cleared her throat. The smokers quickly made their way back inside.
"Out for a little spring air?"
The Bull coughed before he spoke.
"I was just giving Snickers a lecture about fighting."
"Indeed."
She looked sidelong at The Bull, spectacles perched on the end of her snout.
The Bull shifted uneasily and excused himself, "I've got a lot of paperwork to do. Snickers won't make any more trouble, right, Snickers?"
"Yes, sir!"
At the first instance of his tobacco use Miss Beagle was shocked since this has never happened in the annals of the school, even in the middle school age dogs. Miss Beagle grilled Snickers for his tobacco source, but he's a stubborn lad, loathe to squeal so Miss Beagle made him sit in the 'shame' corner pending his cooperation. She was unaware of a bond between Snickers and the principal, Mr. Pit Bull whom the students had clandestinely dubbed "The Bull."
Miss Beagle did, by chance, uncover the alliance after sending Snickers to the principal's office for brawling during a game of "London Bridge is Falling Down." School had been recessed for the day so she went for 'the Bull's office to investigate the matter of Snickers' admonishment. No one happened to be in the office but the window was open and she detected cigarette smoke. She heard the two talking just outside so she sauntered toward the window.
"I was in a few scrapes myself when I was a young pup."
"How old were you?" Inquired Snickers.
"I was in the second grade, as I recall."
"By the way, how many times have you been sent to my office?"
"About a hundred, give 'er take."
"Anyway," continued The bull, "I knocked out a mutt who ate one of my colored crayons, the red one. I knocked the poor kid out cold! They carried him to the nurse's office and give 'm smellin' salts to bring him to."
"Anyway, nobody messed with me after that but I was required to stay after school in the principal's office every day for a month."
Miss Beagle knocked on the door and cleared her throat. The smokers quickly made their way back inside.
"Out for a little spring air?"
The Bull coughed before he spoke.
"I was just giving Snickers a lecture about fighting."
"Indeed."
She looked sidelong at The Bull, spectacles perched on the end of her snout.
The Bull shifted uneasily and excused himself, "I've got a lot of paperwork to do. Snickers won't make any more trouble, right, Snickers?"
"Yes, sir!"
Saturday, June 13, 2015
Dress Rehearsal
My running has taken a more serious nature as I signed up tor the Paavo Nurmi marathon. I did some searching in the Paavo website and found that there was also a half marathon. I found the map of the course then Lois and I took a ride to investigate the course. (Afterward I said to Lois, "I can do this!")
The course starts in Gile, Wisconsin and initiates one's legs with an approximately medium climb on otherwise busy Highway 77 past well-kept homes nestled in spruces and pines. There is a blacktop lane for runners and cyclists and the road surface integrity is excellent, as it is for the 13.1 miles.
I ran the course June 6, and made rookie mistakes, the first of which was to charge too fast up the hill until the turn at Highway C. My legs were warm but not burning. I stopped and consulted my Fitbit activity tracker. I thought I had run farther than the two miles indicated. My time wasn't too bad, at 20 minutes but I would regret this later.
Onward! My shoes slapped the pavement over hill and dale in a pastoral setting. I stopped regularly to consult Fitbit and I was on the pace that I desired. I ignored the article in Runner's World stating that first-timers should not have a time goal. Just finish the race. I've been running for five years. What do they know? My goal was 2:20.
Fatigue started in my calves after about an hour and I remembered that I hadn't slept well the last two nights. I slowed my pace to the beat of the song, Richard Cory, the ballad by Simon and Garfunkel about a much-envied rich man who had the world by the tail but went home one night and killed himself. I began to sing this out loud as well as I could, pausing as I ran past fishermen at the Gile Flowage.
At three-quarters of the County C stretch my legs began to ache seriously. I couldn't understand this since I had run 12.86 miles the previous Saturday. (I would research more on running marathons later and find out that I shouldn't run half-marathons in consecutive weeks.) I had also read that first-timers especially should intersperse intervals of walking. I was too bull-headed to heed any of this Runner's World crap.
At the somewhat residential stretch I knew Highway 51 wasn't far ahead but I was running out of gas. I started walking intervals at seven miles and I was mad at myself. What the hell is wrong? I can run this, I know I can!
Highway 51 afforded a downhill stretch so I ran (much slower than Richard Cory tempo) but when the road flattened out so did I and I was back to running-and-walking intervals but when traffic passed by I made sure I was running.
The intervals changed with more walking, less running and my legs were burning, my hip joints were killing me but I was determined to make this course. I have sisu as did Paavo Nurmi the great Finnish marathon runner who won nine marathons, (I think.) Fatigue and pain trumped my pride.
By the Gile Flowage I consulted Fitbit and my time was lousy. I was ashamed but I pressed onward. By now my pace was three-quarters walking. I had only two miles to the finish line.
I ran and walked several intervals and my upper back ached. I realized that I was out of gas a mile from my goal and I couldn't run any more so I walked on aching legs and hips. Cars sped past me and I wished I was sitting in one, headed for home.
Runner's World has great insight into running and I recalled a bit of training advice I had ignored: do easy runs, don't run hard at all two days before the race. On Thursday I intended to take an easy run, but the hills of Jessieville beckoned and I scaled and descended then ran up a long, hard grade, First National Street, thinking this would condition me for the hills in the half-marathon. I ignored expert advice.
I did finish the course but I won't disclose my time, but it was considerably longer than the two hours it to me to run a week ago. I started to realize that running wasn't all legwork. Strategy must be deployed, such as taking it easy at the start, the two- mile hill. I've got to listen to what my body is telling me, not the vanity.
I had read expert advice and ignored it. The book of Proverbs says, "The way of a fool is right in his own eyes." It also says "Pride comes before a fall."
This week I stuck by my training plan, running easy for three or four miles Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday and not running Friday. I researched the benefits of slow runs. I also found that muscular micro-tears from the 13.1-mile venture needed to heal.
Today will be a six-miler and the pace will not be Richard Cory but Tuxedo Junction, composed by Glenn Miller (1930s) and there will be slower intervals in hilly terrain, Stuck in the Middle With You (The Steeler's Wheel) will be playing in my mind.
My goal for the race has changed; just finish it.
The course starts in Gile, Wisconsin and initiates one's legs with an approximately medium climb on otherwise busy Highway 77 past well-kept homes nestled in spruces and pines. There is a blacktop lane for runners and cyclists and the road surface integrity is excellent, as it is for the 13.1 miles.
I ran the course June 6, and made rookie mistakes, the first of which was to charge too fast up the hill until the turn at Highway C. My legs were warm but not burning. I stopped and consulted my Fitbit activity tracker. I thought I had run farther than the two miles indicated. My time wasn't too bad, at 20 minutes but I would regret this later.
Onward! My shoes slapped the pavement over hill and dale in a pastoral setting. I stopped regularly to consult Fitbit and I was on the pace that I desired. I ignored the article in Runner's World stating that first-timers should not have a time goal. Just finish the race. I've been running for five years. What do they know? My goal was 2:20.
Fatigue started in my calves after about an hour and I remembered that I hadn't slept well the last two nights. I slowed my pace to the beat of the song, Richard Cory, the ballad by Simon and Garfunkel about a much-envied rich man who had the world by the tail but went home one night and killed himself. I began to sing this out loud as well as I could, pausing as I ran past fishermen at the Gile Flowage.
At three-quarters of the County C stretch my legs began to ache seriously. I couldn't understand this since I had run 12.86 miles the previous Saturday. (I would research more on running marathons later and find out that I shouldn't run half-marathons in consecutive weeks.) I had also read that first-timers especially should intersperse intervals of walking. I was too bull-headed to heed any of this Runner's World crap.
At the somewhat residential stretch I knew Highway 51 wasn't far ahead but I was running out of gas. I started walking intervals at seven miles and I was mad at myself. What the hell is wrong? I can run this, I know I can!
Highway 51 afforded a downhill stretch so I ran (much slower than Richard Cory tempo) but when the road flattened out so did I and I was back to running-and-walking intervals but when traffic passed by I made sure I was running.
The intervals changed with more walking, less running and my legs were burning, my hip joints were killing me but I was determined to make this course. I have sisu as did Paavo Nurmi the great Finnish marathon runner who won nine marathons, (I think.) Fatigue and pain trumped my pride.
By the Gile Flowage I consulted Fitbit and my time was lousy. I was ashamed but I pressed onward. By now my pace was three-quarters walking. I had only two miles to the finish line.
I ran and walked several intervals and my upper back ached. I realized that I was out of gas a mile from my goal and I couldn't run any more so I walked on aching legs and hips. Cars sped past me and I wished I was sitting in one, headed for home.
Runner's World has great insight into running and I recalled a bit of training advice I had ignored: do easy runs, don't run hard at all two days before the race. On Thursday I intended to take an easy run, but the hills of Jessieville beckoned and I scaled and descended then ran up a long, hard grade, First National Street, thinking this would condition me for the hills in the half-marathon. I ignored expert advice.
I did finish the course but I won't disclose my time, but it was considerably longer than the two hours it to me to run a week ago. I started to realize that running wasn't all legwork. Strategy must be deployed, such as taking it easy at the start, the two- mile hill. I've got to listen to what my body is telling me, not the vanity.
I had read expert advice and ignored it. The book of Proverbs says, "The way of a fool is right in his own eyes." It also says "Pride comes before a fall."
This week I stuck by my training plan, running easy for three or four miles Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday and not running Friday. I researched the benefits of slow runs. I also found that muscular micro-tears from the 13.1-mile venture needed to heal.
Today will be a six-miler and the pace will not be Richard Cory but Tuxedo Junction, composed by Glenn Miller (1930s) and there will be slower intervals in hilly terrain, Stuck in the Middle With You (The Steeler's Wheel) will be playing in my mind.
My goal for the race has changed; just finish it.
Saturday, April 25, 2015
Mr. Buffet's Employee
It's easy to get bogged down by the negative experiences in life, especially those that originate from sour people. I would like to see a federal law that all persons of sour disposition be required to work one year at a service job at marginal pay, with no benefits, but that's not going to happen. But if it did all of us would still have to take a happy pill since nobody's perfect with respect to disposition. Just ask my wife about my sometimes sour disposition.
There is a toxin that hits you when it's launched by an irascible person. You're behind the counter and you must adhere to proper conduct and not raise your voice or use any conduct that would escalate the situation and give that person cause to launch his vitriol in the direction of corporate headquarters. It takes skill to divert this anger that implies incompetence on your part. Sometimes 'people' skills aren't enough.
Sometimes the toxin has a particularly keen sting as in the instance of a man who threw his key card at me.
"There's no need for that! I'll try to help you with your problem but don't treat me with disrespect." I smelled his boozy breath.
He was silent for a minute, looking down, elbows on the counter and then with a sarcastic smirk lauched into a tireade,
"I spend thousands here and they can't assure me of a key that works?"
" Sorry, I'll make a new..."
"You know who I work for? Come on, ask me who I work for." I took the bait.
"Warren(expletive) Buffet."
By then I realized how drunk he was. He hadn't spent thousands. His company paid for his lodging.
I started making a new key card but I forgot my password, a password I've used for a long time and panic came knocking at the door as Mr. Buffet's employee noticed my hesitation.
"You're new here. You forgot how to make keys."
Rather than respond I concentrated on the task and offered a quick prayer 'help'.
"When did they hire you? Last week?" His voice escalating, "You forgot how to work that machine, didn't you? Yeah, you're new."
My password flashed into my mind and in seconds I had a new key made. I apologized for the inconvenience and handed the key to him.
He snorted at my apology as he demanded to talk to a manager and it was after 1:00 a.m. To shorten this story I called the police after talking to the manager and the officers took him aside for a while and talked to him and asked him questions. They escorted him to his room.
In retrospect the man was reprimanded by his boss who also stayed at the hotel. During the incident I didn't let Mr. Buffett's employee define me, and I didn't retort by telling him how many years I had worked at this hotel. I wouldn't let him destroy my dignity. When he glared angrily I stuck to the problem at hand. I felt rage and fear that he would complain to corporate headquarters but I kept a poker face.
The abuse stung for some time. In church I've been told to forgive those who sin against me. The sting was dissipated by relating this event to my wife. Lois understands since she has had many similar encounters. In time I forgave him and he quit living inside my mind, rent free.
I will endure this situation again assuming I don't completely retire soon. I will dignify complaints and do my utmost for a guest but I will not tolerate disrespect or extreme drunkenness. I won't let anyone destroy my dignity and self-respect.
There is a toxin that hits you when it's launched by an irascible person. You're behind the counter and you must adhere to proper conduct and not raise your voice or use any conduct that would escalate the situation and give that person cause to launch his vitriol in the direction of corporate headquarters. It takes skill to divert this anger that implies incompetence on your part. Sometimes 'people' skills aren't enough.
Sometimes the toxin has a particularly keen sting as in the instance of a man who threw his key card at me.
"There's no need for that! I'll try to help you with your problem but don't treat me with disrespect." I smelled his boozy breath.
He was silent for a minute, looking down, elbows on the counter and then with a sarcastic smirk lauched into a tireade,
"I spend thousands here and they can't assure me of a key that works?"
" Sorry, I'll make a new..."
"You know who I work for? Come on, ask me who I work for." I took the bait.
"Warren(expletive) Buffet."
By then I realized how drunk he was. He hadn't spent thousands. His company paid for his lodging.
I started making a new key card but I forgot my password, a password I've used for a long time and panic came knocking at the door as Mr. Buffet's employee noticed my hesitation.
"You're new here. You forgot how to make keys."
Rather than respond I concentrated on the task and offered a quick prayer 'help'.
"When did they hire you? Last week?" His voice escalating, "You forgot how to work that machine, didn't you? Yeah, you're new."
My password flashed into my mind and in seconds I had a new key made. I apologized for the inconvenience and handed the key to him.
He snorted at my apology as he demanded to talk to a manager and it was after 1:00 a.m. To shorten this story I called the police after talking to the manager and the officers took him aside for a while and talked to him and asked him questions. They escorted him to his room.
In retrospect the man was reprimanded by his boss who also stayed at the hotel. During the incident I didn't let Mr. Buffett's employee define me, and I didn't retort by telling him how many years I had worked at this hotel. I wouldn't let him destroy my dignity. When he glared angrily I stuck to the problem at hand. I felt rage and fear that he would complain to corporate headquarters but I kept a poker face.
The abuse stung for some time. In church I've been told to forgive those who sin against me. The sting was dissipated by relating this event to my wife. Lois understands since she has had many similar encounters. In time I forgave him and he quit living inside my mind, rent free.
I will endure this situation again assuming I don't completely retire soon. I will dignify complaints and do my utmost for a guest but I will not tolerate disrespect or extreme drunkenness. I won't let anyone destroy my dignity and self-respect.
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