Landscaping: My Newest Hobby

What a great idea: create an environment in the front yard and strategically place small benches so I can enjoy the tranquility of my creation.

And how hard can it be to make a coupla benches? Bring it on!

The materials for 3 benches I designed were all precut before I brought them home, so it was just an assembly project. However, what was I thinking when I chose 2x8x12 for the seats, had it cut into lengths, then used 2x4s as braces, and topped it off with 4x4 legs long enough to bury 15”?????

Do I have to tell you how heavy the finished project is? These benches will be able to seat 2-3 people, substantial people, without a quiver. I’m not going to paint them until the environments are finished because I want the benches to be part of the landscaping, and not stick out like sore thumbs. Besides, I don't want to have to move them anymore than it takes!

Two of the benches are set in place, waiting to be leveled before pouring the concrete into the holes. The third bench is waiting for me to finish excavating a pit tangled with roots from the tree next door. I’ve dug and dug and dug, but have run into some very thick roots, about 3” in diameter, and it’s slow-going. Once I get all the obstructions cleared and the hole dug, it’ll be easy to set the bench in place, but getting through all the rocks and roots was more than my tired body could do—after making the 3 benches and digging the holes for the other 2.

Don’t know if the first landscaper will ever show up, so I’m pondering alternatives. Today, Saturday, two guys who work for a nearby city came by to talk about the project. They are willing to finish it for me and took copies of my pictures and drawings of the concept. I’m going to continue to work on the Friendship Cactus Garden until they show up, as well as finish cleaning up the mess in the big yard. They seem enthused not only about making some extra cash, but also by doing their first solo landscaping project. They’ve completed many projects for the city, so know what they are doing, but have wanted to start their own landscaping company to earn extra income—and I’m their first project.

So there it is.

This may work out or it may not, but I'm just working on this hobby one day at a time. Some days are good, and some are frustrating, but I'm bound to run out of things to do sooner or later and end up with a landscaped yard. Right?

Making it all better ... $100

I received a reply to my correspondence with Customer Relations at AirCanada.

Key points:

***Sincere apologies for the inconvenience and frustration I experienced on such a special occasion
***Despite our best intentions and preparations … delays and cancellations sometimes occur.
***Unfortunately, we cannot assume responsibility for a customer’s reason for traveling
***Our employees are expected to deliver courteous and efficient service at all times
***Airport signage is a responsibility of the Airport Authorities
***As a gesture of goodwill and concern, we are pleased to provide you with a [$100] credit for future travel.

My response?

I sent the travel voucher back and told them to pass it on to someone who will accept $100 in lieu of the service that should be provided at no additional charge to ALL AirCanada passengers.

Bummer, Dude

I finally gave in and started work again on my yard: I haven’t heard from the landscaper since he called last week from Mexico and said he still wants to do the project—and would be here this past Monday at 7 am. I’m going to continue to believe that something has happened to interfere with him finishing the job, rather than think that he doesn’t want to do the job and won’t take the time to call and tell me that. If he shows up—great; if he doesn’t, there is still a lot of work to do to get the plants in before it turns cold.

The piles of dirt left from the brick project have to be raked smooth and level, so that’s what I’ve started in on. I’m also pulling out a lot of cement product, especially where the mixer sat in the middle of the yard. The yard is replete with lots and lots of little rocks, all of which need to be raked out of the soil, too. I can do grunt work, especially if it means I don't have to pay someone else to do it.

Once the yard is smooth, I need help bringing in the big rocks that will anchor the landscape, then I plant the desert plants, fill in with the smaller rocks I’ve selected, and then frost the yard with a layer of what is called “desert sand.” It is actually ground up rock, but it forms a nice surface that pretty much stays in place if it’s done correctly. I want specific rocks that are in an empty lot at the end street, so it’s not just go get them. Some of them are going to be heavy to lift into the bed of the truck, so I need help.

The biggest part of the project is getting water to the desert landscape. I can replace broken sprinklers, cap off PVC pipe, and even add extenders and t-joints, but I don’t know how to design and install the watering system, much less hook it up to the clock so it comes on and off as it’s supposed to throughout the year. I’ll be using drip irrigation off a few main sprinkler heads, which will simplify the plan, but someone has to install it before I can maintain it.

Why doesn’t it just happen that I decide what needs to be done, hire someone to do it, and it gets done?

I did purchase lumber to make 3 benches for my landscape, one on the Friendship Cactus Garden side of the driveway and 2 in the big yard. I want it to look inviting, and I love having a bench outside my front door, so I decided to dress up the landscape environment too. I’m going to start working on those tomorrow as I had all the wood cut (except the 4x4 for the legs) before I paid for it, so just have to assemble my pre-drawn plan and coat it well with varathane.

High ho, high ho, it’s back to the yard project I go. Bummer, dude.

In the Valley of Elah

I hadn’t heard about the movie, but my movie buddy recommended it based on her reading of favorable reviews. In the desert, there are some theatres that play limited releases, which In the Valley of Elah appears to be.

The cast is outstanding, including Tommy Lee Jones, Susan Sarandon, and Charlise Theron in lead roles. The piece moves slowly and quietly to the climax and, at one point, I wondered how Charlise Theron’s character fit into the story.

The son of a career military man, long retired, is reported missing by the Army. Dad and Mom know that this behavior is not typical of their son, so Dad drives to the military base to find him. The story moves from one person, one event, to the next, ending (of course) with the Dad finding the answer to his question.

It’s a chilling narration centered on video tape found on the son’s cell phone. While he was stationed in Iraq, he filmed scenes of his daily life to show what he did, and took snapshots that captured what he saw. These films are bits and pieces that are mangled from intense heat, but a friend of the father’s is able to make them somewhat viewable and provides the Dad with evidence that keeps him focused on his search for his son.

What a powerful film. The most profound statements are often found in silence, and this film radiates silence. Often, Jones’ character simply sits and listens while others talk, and when he finds another piece to the puzzle of his son’s whereabouts, he picks it up and sees how it fits into the complete picture. Susan Sarandon is a “typical old-corps wife,” long-suffering and mostly silent. When she comes to the base to view her son’s remains, her comment to her escort is, “You don’t have any children, do you?”

In the context of the film, her comment is an arrow straight through the heart: the military has soldiers, not sons.

The film is not a commentary on the war in Iraq, but it is a biting condemnation of how the military treats its combat veterans. As one character says, “One day over there, the next day here. It’s crazy.” The lesson was taught during Vietnam about the mental anguish combat causes, an injury that is more traumatic and longer-lasting in some ways than physical injury. That conflict was 4 decades ago, and it seems that the lesson has been forgotten.

One character, the young wife of a military man, describes the death of the family pet, a Rottweiller, by a newly-returned Iraq warrior who grabbed it by the throat and drowned it in the family bathtub. When the wife asks for help for her husband, her concerns about his mental stability are brushed off. Because we aren’t proactive in dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, we are forced to become reactive when it rears its ugly head.

This is a powerful film, a thoughtful and thought-provoking film, a film I recommend regardless of an individual’s stance concerning the conflict in Iraq as that is simply the vehicle for the message. For me, the lasting question is how the parents will bury their son: as a warrior, or as a victim of a savage war that came too close to home.

Aging is a Process, NOT an Event

When I was younger, I was taller because I was thinner—a lot thinner. I had the fair skin, hazel eyes, long blonde hair thing going, and I walked tall and proud. Thus, I could pretty much walk into any situation and effect a command presence if that was my goal.

A dozen years later, I’m still tall, but heavier, still sporting hazel eyes and somewhat blonde hair, but the lines on my face, as well as the turkey neck, make it obvious that I’m now into the “old lady” category so often ascribed to older people. If I were in the entertainment industry, I would lift the face and cut off the turkey waddle, but I’m just a plain, simple retired teacher and see no need to be someone I’m not.

No one takes me seriously anymore: I am overlooked for the young person in the crowd. It is so much easier to brush aside an older woman than it is a hot chick—especially if you are male and in charge of decision-making. The eyes go to the package, not the product, and my package is approaching its expiration date. The product is probably better because it’s seen more, done more, knows more, but why look beyond the surface? Toss out the old, replace it with the new, and move on.

I remember when I saw my mother as old, a shock, to say the least. I recognized the all-grey hair, the stooped-shouldered walk, the lack of pep in her step, and the lines on her face that testified to a long life behind her and shorter days ahead. I know that my focus changed from “my mom” to “little old lady,” and it became obvious that I felt I had to take care of her, watch out for her, offer her advice on living her life, rather than listening to her talk about her own life. But she was 75 before that happened: I have a lot of potential years before I’m 75! I’m working hard not to sport the grey hair, walk the stoop-shouldered walk, drag my feet. The lines on my face? Oh, well.

I regret that change in my perception then because now it’s happening to me. I chafe from the abrasiveness of those who want to tell me how to live my life their way, rather than accepting that I’m an independent person who does fairly well on her own terms.

It’s subtle, not meant to be offensive, but it’s there.

I make a decision that used to be my right—and now it’s questioned by well-meaning family and friends. “Are you sure?” they ask me. Taking away anyone’s power to make the decisions that affect their life appears to be the first step in taking away one’s life.

I make a statement about what I know, what I believe, what I think, what I feel—and it’s challenged. I have changed and so have my viewpoints, so it’s quite possible that what I used to believe, think, feel or know has changed to reflect my maturity. Changing one’s mind does not mean that one is losing it—just coming up with different ideas.

I decide to go somewhere/do something and everyone wants to know why. My answer used to be “because” before I went on my way, but that’s no longer acceptable. I have to justify my lifestyle with some sort of detailed action plan that includes the rationale, the method, and the financial underpinnings before I’m grudgingly allowed to put it into play.

Why?

Am I showing signs of senile dementia or just changing my life during the twilight years? Is it really okay for everyone around me to change while I remain static? I’m a dynamic person, not a bump on a log, and I want to continue to grow as an individual, not wither away and die quietly.

I’m not at the point when anyone needs to take care of me, and when I do need assistance, I ask for it. Until I need it and don’t ask for it, let me continue to make my own way through what remains of my life.

Flashpoint

One could assume that alerting the USPS to potential mail fraud and/or expressing concern for one's personal identity safety would attract attention. One could assume that contacting a major charity organization also named on the mail I've been receiving would attract that organization's concern for protecting correspondence that is coming to my address, not theirs.

Not so, it seems. Instead, my persistent attempts to convince someone, anyone, at the USPS that someone is using my address and the name of a local charity to divert mail is merely an annoyance. It's been going on for about 6 months, during which time I've reported it directly to my mail carrier at the box on the street twice, to the postal workers at the local branch several times, and to the manager at the local branch twice, to no avail.

I am assured that I have no legal obligation in this situation, but I'm more concerned about the moral obligation!

Today, I decided to call the organization directly and alert them that someone is diverting their mail to my address. Goodness, you would think that someone, anyone would thank me for taking the time to inform them about this situation, but that's not what happened.

After assuring me several times that no one with the name I gave them is employed by their organization, as well as confirming that the address I was providing is not one of "their" addresses, I gave up, apologized for taking the time to interrupt their busy day, and hung up. I'm not sure why the 2 different individuals I tried to explain the situation to could not understand that someone is putting their business at jeopardy by diverting their mail to my home, but that's what happened.

From this point on, whatever mail I receive, including the credit cards to many local businesses, as well as personal and official correspondence, I will toss it into the trash. I'm tired of noting each piece of mail with "incorrect address" and returning it to the post office. I'm tired of providing information about the situation to people who do nothing about it. I'm tired of worrying about both the potential damage for the business and to myself if my address is being used by this individual for other possibly illegal activities.

I've done my best to stop this situation, but if no one cares as much as I care about it, so be it.

If It Weren't For Bad Luck, Y'all Wouldn't Have No Luck!

Every Friday morning, early, we meet for b'fast at a local restaurant. We talk, we laugh, we gossip, we share sorrow. For a group of 6, we've had our share of bad luck lately.

One diner has had a really rotten summer. First, the pipes in her home broke, flooded the entire home, and sent her to a hotel for 2 months; then, her live-in's car was broadsided while parked outside their home last weekend; and today, she arrived late because her car was broken into, trashed, and rendered inoperable in the middle of the street!

Another member of our elite group had her office involved in a fire. Yes, the business below hers burned in an electrical fire, but, fortunately, my friend's office suffered primarily smoke and water damage. However, the joists between the first and second floors burned through, so she has to relocate for perhaps several months while the damage is repaired.

My 40-hour one-way trip to Canada palls in comparison!

If bad luck travels in 3, then 3 of us have used up the bad karma quota for the group for about a year!

Book Bonfire

Ron Goldman and his daughter, Kim, appeared on Oprah today to explain their rationale for publishing OJ Simpson’s pseudo-confession for the brutal murders of his wife, Nicole, and Ron Goldman, a restaurant employee who seems to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Did OJ do it? We don’t need a purported “self-authored” book to tell us that: we have the crime scene evidence and it is conclusive. Yes, OJ did it, and he got away with murder. Why do we need a book to validate the black eye the jury gave to the judicial system?

The central questions asked on Oprah are should the confession be published? Should consumers purchase the book? Should anyone read a book that could be construed as a manual for murder for other abusive husbands? Should anyone profit from this publication: the publisher, the author, the families of the murder victims?

My answer is that NO publisher should have made the deal to print and distribute the book: period. It doesn’t matter if the killer publishes the book or the victim’s family publishes it, there is NO justification for this book to be published. The decision to do so reminds me of the ploy used by serial murderer Ted Bundy, who, having exhausted all of his plea options, offered to tell where the bodies are buried in exchange for avoiding the death sentence. The response to that deal was “hell, no,” the same answer every publisher should have given to this book.

However, because greed is the primary motivator in our society, the Goldman’s decision is to print and distribute the book, while denying OJ Simpson and his family any profit from it. After all, this is the USA, where we let freedom ring and leave the conscience up to the individual to do the right thing, whatever that may be in this instance. Had it been my decision to make, I would have gone on Larry King Live and publicly burned the manuscript.

However, if the book is going to be published, I support the Goldman’s decision to remove the profit element from OJ Simpson and his family. I think justice would better be served if anyone who thought about buying the book simply donated the price of the book to a non-profit organization that deals with domestic violence. Leave the book to molder on the shelves of the bookstores or enjoy a community bonfire, but don’t acknowledge OJ Simpson by purchasing and reading his account of what he might have done to kill two people.

If you have to read anything about those murders, purchase a copy of the court transcript, read it, and address the core issue of that trial: how did a jury find him not guilty?

It disgusts me that it was a Simpson family decision to write the book, and that the family, including Nicole’s now-grown children, formed a corporation to funnel the profits from the sales of the book to OJ so he can continue to enjoy the lifestyle he has flaunted for the past decade.

Oprah asked if this action is going to bring the Goldman’s peace, and the daughter, Kim, was flabbergasted. As she so eloquently replied, “There is no peace for the families of murder victims,” and then expressed her disbelief that Oprah believed anything would ever bring peace and/or allow the families to move past the double murders.

Oprah’s question was as insightful as Nancy Reagan’s answer to the drug problem, “Just Say No,” or Rodney King’s solution for racial violence, “Can’t we all just get along?” There is no magic cure for murder, for the abhorrence the victim’s loved ones always feel toward both the violence and the killer. Ignoring it does not make the murder go away, it makes it fester, like a pus-filled boil that, sooner or later, must be lanced.

In finding OJ Simpson not guilty in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, a jury played the ultimate race card, seeking retribution for every black man ever found guilty by a white jury in spite of the evidence. To add credence to that verdict by allowing OJ Simpson any form of public acceptance for confessing to the crime simply reinforces the shame we all should feel for the miscarriage of justice that allows him to continue to live without paying for the heinous crime he committed.

Finally, Phase Finish

Repeated phone calls to the landscaper have not been returned, so this morning I sent the final message: either call me and tell me when you'll start work on the landscape or tell me that you no longer can do the project. I'm tired of all the dirt in my front yard--and living room!

Once the landscaping is finished, I can call in the carpet cleaners and begin to regain control over the dust and dirt inside.

Finally, the phone rang: he's in Mexico before the heavy gardening season begins (about the first of Oct), but will return this weekend and begin the project Monday morning. Yeah. It should only take him 2 days, if that, and he came in right on budget for getting the job done: sprinklers, ground preparation, planting, rocks and desert sand.

Once the yard is finished, I'll be able to manage it myself, saving time, effort, energy, and financial resources (especially water, as I'm no longer watering the next-door neighbor's yard, which is thoroughly dead! I wonder if he ever figured out why his watering system is no longer watering his yard?).

I am confident that the person I've hired will live up to my expectations. Pictures will be posted when appropriate.

That's Edu-tainment!

The past several years, I knew that there was something missing from the school where I was teaching, but it was one of those “could be that, could be this” situations where I just could not put my finger on the core issue. I knew that the public’s perception, reinforced by the district’s approach to site management and in-service training, was to lean heavily on the Broken Teacher Syndrome: whatever the problem is, fix it by retraining the teachers.

The definition of insanity is endlessly doing the same thing and expecting a different result.

No one looks at the students in the seats, the students who come and go as they please, not as the school policy dictates; the students who don’t do homework; the students who prefer to amuse themselves with the latest tech gadget, rather than read an assignment; the students who have been promised a college education and a rosy future, but who do not see the correlation between education and goal attainment.

Yesterday, I watched Coach Carter on one of the off-brand TV stations that I still receive (thank you, Time Warner, for replacing all of the major networks with sports, religion, shopping, Spanish language novellas, children’s programs, and local advertisements). When Coach Carter locked the gym because the players signed a contract and didn’t live up to it, the town was up in arms. The parents’ protest was centered on the premise that basketball was all their sons had, and that was exactly the point that Coach Carter was trying to move away from: if students are going to be successful in life, they also need an education.

Of course, the parents won because educators don’t seem to understand that we are the trained professionals and must keep our eyes on the goal: education. Appeasing parents may be the expedient solution to conflict, but it often comes at the expense of what is right for the student’s education.

I had tears in my eyes when Coach Carter went to the gym to remove his personal belongings and found the players sitting at desks. They got it, but their parents didn’t see it. The players knew that they weren’t ready to go back to the court to play basketball because that would be all they had to look forward to, and when their high school athletic career was over, so were their futures.

It’s so simple: kids need an education, and getting an education is hard work. It takes daily effort 180 times between September and June to get up, get dressed, and get to school. It takes completion of homework that has precedence over hanging out at the mall or having fun with friends. It takes a parent who knows how to say “no” to immediate gratification and provide on-going support for long-term goals. It requires a strong educational community to train the parents, along with the students, about the importance of staying in school and acquiring the basic foundation of reading, writing, speaking, listening, and thinking skills that allow today’s child to become tomorrow’s productive citizen.

That’s what was missing in my career, an educational process that focused on strong academic achievement, rather than students “enjoying” school. Replacing solid core curriculum with high-interest/low attention span activities is what kids do when they are at home on the computer, watching TV, or using their IPods. The school system has to be above that level of edu-tainment because our job is education. We cannot compete with an electronics industry that is throwing billions of dollars at development of tekkie toys, but we can educate today’s youth so they can afford to purchase those kinds of products in the future—and know how to use them to enhance their careers, as well as enjoy their leisure time.

Meanwhile, lock the gym.

Be professional and strong about what each and every student needs not today, but five years from now, when it really matters whether we educated kids or entertained them. Students reach for the expectations others have for them, so set them high; when the expectations are too low, it’s not just the students who ignore them, but their parents and even the teachers.

If all we expect from our system is competency at the 8th grade level, why are we keeping kids in school for another 4 years?

Computer Updates

MSN did another update, which required shutting down and rebooting. Every time they do that, it messes up my computer! Programs that used to boot instantly slow to a crawl; MSN flashes as it comes up; and I start having issues across the board.

Why is there not an option to accept or reject these updates?

I did return to the standard e-mail option, rather than the "live" option, which I have found basically annoying and not an improvement in e-mail service. Having a little window pop open to tell me that I can download music or update myself on the latest "star" happenings is nothing I want or need in my life!

Add to the MSN issue the fact that my cell phone battery loses power too often and shuts itself off, and I'm in a tekkie bad mood! I bought the cell just one year ago, but it's had a battery problem for months. The only way to get another battery is to extend the plan--which already has to be at somewhere nearing a century because EVERY time I need service, it requires an extension of the plan.

I'm beginning to understand why people prefer not to have computers and buy the throw-away phones at the grocery store ... .

Flight Plan

When the baggage agent motioned to me to follow him after he shut down the conveyer belt at baggage claim without any suitcases coming down the ramp, I didn’t even flinch: I had resigned myself to the fact that either I or my bags would not make it home. The trip to Canada could best be described as difficult.

When I left the local airport at 6 AM Thursday on a flight to Denver, I was optimistic and excited about traveling to a destination I had never been, especially since the destination was the town where my son and his wife would live following their weekend wedding. I took the time to water the horses in Denver, to eat another in what would become an endless string of Glucerna bars, to sit patiently and wait for the next leg on the journey, leaving the USA for Canada—the east coast of Canada.

Two and a half hours after boarding the AirCanada flight, during which all passengers were treated to a tympanic drum solo from an engine on the left side of the plane, it became apparent that we were going to have to deplane. The airline agent aboard the plane assured the passengers that other agents inside the terminal were busy rebooking our flights and that there were seats available. I was relieved that I would make the final leg of my journey, even though I would be late, as I was traveling to my son’s wedding and couldn’t wait to join the festivities.

No use getting upset as I had allowed more than adequate time for this trip, leaving on Thursday for the rehearsal on Friday and the wedding Saturday. I had a new Harlan Coben novel, as well as several skeins of cotton yarn and a plastic crochet hook, so no big deal.

And it wasn’t a big deal until 3 PM, 45 minutes prior to what I believed was going to be my departure for Toronto, where I would make my connecting flight to my final destination. When the agent told me and another half-dozen passengers at my gate that there were no more seats available and we would all be spending the night in Denver, I replied, “That’s not acceptable.” It was only 3 PM in Denver, one of the USA’s largest airports, so find another way to get me to my destination prior to 5 PM the following day, at which time I would attend the rehearsal and the dinner to follow. How hard is that?

Impossible.

I was handed a small packet of papers, told to “go find a cab,” and sent to an ExtendAmerica hotel 20 miles from the airport. Included were food vouchers for dinner that night, as well as breakfast the following morning, but the hotel was in a business park and there were no food facilities within the hotel or anywhere around it. More Glucerna bars and a good, long cry.

I slept a bit, but by 3 AM was really pissed and ready for war, so I dialed the 1-800 number for AirCanada, a call answered by a nice woman who spent an hour with me trying to find an alternative. I used the map of the USA in the phone book, and we literally crossed the US trying to find another route/connection that would get me to anywhere from which I could then travel to my destination.

Nothing.

I returned to Denver, joined what actually totaled a dozen passengers from the original flight, and waited for the 11 AM connection to Toronto, which left on time, packed to the gills. We stayed on time until the announcement that a runway was shut down in Toronto and we were going to circle until availability for landing was cleared. My connecting flight was leaving for my final destination at 5:20 PM, which was precisely the time we finally made the arrival gate.

In an airport that employs perhaps a thousand people at any given time, one would think that one of them would be willing and able to answer a simple question: has my connecting flight departed? I had no luggage, I had not cleared customs; I had not re-entered the airport and made it through security; and, more importantly, I had not peed since we began the endless circling more than 2 hours ago. It was going to be close on all counts, but I was not going to punish myself to make it through a process I had never done before if the flight had already left the airport.

I waited and waited for my luggage, grabbed the bag when it flew out of the black hole at the carousel, and then didn’t know where to go/what to do: the sign for “connections” was turned off or malfunctioning, so I tried to find someone, anyone to tell me where to go next. I eventually found Customs and cleared that leg, then headed in the direction that should have taken me to Security, but the escalator went nowhere. I rode it back down and asked another person for directions, went back up and found the same dead end, so went back down. This time, someone told me about a small corner office where I might be able to get information whether the flight had departed and if a later flight was available.

I entered that office and yes, the woman apologized as she explained that my connecting flight had been delayed—I had about 20 minutes to make the gate and be on my way. Hallelujah! I took off at a fast clip and made it in time to use the bathroom, eat another Glucerna bar, find my boarding pass, and settle in.

I arrived at my final destination at 9:30 PM Friday, a mere 39.5 hours after I began the journey. I’m glad that no one told me the borrowed vehicle used to pick me up at the airport and deposit me at the hotel broke down almost immediately after they left my hotel! I guess my horrendous travel karma is not limited to planes.

The wedding was wonderful; however, my appearance is something I really didn’t want documented by photos, but, oh, well, that’s the way it turned out. Lots and lots of photos. The lovely Friday I had planned to share with my daughter was supposed to include a manicure and hair appointment, neither of which happened, and I’m not handy with hair. Enough said.

The trip back was very long, but only involved 3 legs. I flew in the largest plane I’ve ever been in, and then in the smallest to the local airport, where a friend arrived to bring my car so I could go home and begin the recovery process. I was home about 2 PM, and my bag arrived about 9 PM.

If I go back to Canada to visit my son and daughter-in-law, I will probably opt to drive or, perhaps, take a train. If I do fly, I can assure you that (1) I will not fly through Denver and (2) I will not hear the “thank you for choosing AirCanada” message in either English or French!

Accidental Witness

I saw the van hit the little red car, which spun around twice, barely missing 2 cars stopped on the red light in front of me. It came to rest across the on-coming traffic lanes, facing that traffic. The van slowly finished crossing the intersection toward me and pulled over. I pulled into the turning area next to the curb, turned the corner, and parked in front of the van just as the male driver got out.

He was shaking from head to toe, but not hurt, so I suggested he go stand in the shade after directing him to call 9-1-1, and headed toward the other vehicle. From the looks of the little red car, which lost a rear wheel in the spinning, I wasn’t sure that the driver would be able to get out of the car. As I reached the curb, I was amazed to see that traffic was swirling around the accident—and no one stopped to see to the condition and/or safety of the other driver, whose vehicle was across two lanes of on-coming traffic!

I made it to the red car without being injured. The lady, who obviously was as shaken as the male driver, exited her car, and I guided her off the busy street. The police arrived as we made it to the sidewalk, maneuvered their cars into position, and began directing traffic around the scene. They were concerned about the traffic, too, and asked both drivers if they had triple A so they could call for tow trucks to clear the busy intersection. No one was injured, so now it was just filling out the accident report.

I have no idea where the little red car came from: I saw the van begin to cross the intersection to my left and then BAM! it collided with the little red car. Everyone going my direction was on a red light, but I could not see the left-turn light, so perhaps that’s where she was, turning on the left turn arrow.

The male driver of the van told me that she went right through the intersection he was crossing on a green light, which seemed to be my impression as well. There was no other traffic in the intersection at the time of the collision, and I was waiting on a red light, so that made sense. If the cars ahead of me had been moving, they would have been hit by the spinning red car.

That’s what I told the police officers, and I was told I could leave the scene. I expressed amazement that no one else stopped to see how these drivers were, including the 2 cars that narrowly missed being hit by the spinning red car. The officers said they see that all time: it wasn’t my car that got hit, so I’m outta here.

After my scheduled meeting, I came to an intersection similar to the one where the accident had occurred and it dawned on me that while I am convinced the van driver was the victim, not the guilty party, I may not be able to say that without doubt if the collision goes to court. I drew up what I had witnessed, but could not figure out where the heck the driver of the red car had come from—unless it was the turning lane to my left, and she had a green turning arrow I didn’t see.

So, I went to the police department up the street from where the accident occurred, and after waiting for a full 10 minutes for any individual at any of the desks in the area to notice me and ask me why I was standing there, someone asked if they could help me. I explained that I wanted to amend my witness statement to the accident at 10:00 am and named the intersection. That threw her for a loss, so it took another 10 minutes before she told me I could write it up, sign it, and she’d give it to the officers when they checked in.

Just then, the 2 female officers who were at the accident scene walked into the building. I greeted them, and then explained that I wanted to clarify my witness statement. They were in the middle of something, asked me to sit and wait for them, and returned in about 5 minutes.

As I was explaining my confusion about the red car, in walked the driver of the little red car, who immediately noticed me and thanked me for coming over to her vehicle and helping her to get out of the street.

Based on the conversation I was sharing with the officers, they asked her some questions and she pretty much admitted that the car in front of her, a white car, applied his brakes. Because she thought she was going to rear-end him, she swerved around him to cross the intersection—on a red light, according to the officer who explained the light sequence at that intersection. The van driver was on a green light the other way and did not cause the accident, which is also verified by the damage to the little red car, according to the officers.

The officers also clarified that she was across the intersection from me, coming toward me, which is why, I guess, I didn't see her until the van hit her--on the passenger side--and spun her toward those of us waiting for the light to turn green.

Now it’s up to the insurance companies. The driver of the red car is sure she didn’t cause the accident, but the driver of the van, I, and the police officers all believe she did, so I hope that evidence prevails and I don’t have to appear in court!

Compassion or Crime?

A 25-year-old mother, driving an estimated 80 mph on the interstate, lost control of her vehicle, which left the pavement and rolled, ejecting two children. A 7-year-old, sleeping on the back seat, and an 8-month old, who was placed in an infant seat but not belted in, died in the accident.

The local press is reporting that the mother may be charged with manslaughter. A letter to the editor asks, “Hasn’t this young mother suffered enough?” The plea is for no charges to be filed as the mother has to live with the grief of losing her two children in the same accident, an accident that she caused.

My first thought was that if those two children had been the letter-writer’s two children who died as a result of the driver’s negligence, the letter asking for no charges would never have been written. If that mother killed another mother’s children, there would be a hue and cry for prosecution to the fullest extent of the law. Why is it not the same when it is her own two children that she kills?

The mother’s grief is off-set by her guilt: the law clearly states that all passengers must be fastened securely with a seatbelt, and the laws regarding children are specific and stringent because a parent is responsible for children’s safety while they are in a vehicle. Any parent who drives without securing children into safety seats or fastening seat belts puts those children at risk for injury or death when/if an accident occurs, and if the accident results in death, the driver is guilty of a crime: manslaughter.

The letter writer presents a case for leniency that includes the fact that the mother was alone and solely responsible for supervising the children, who may have unfastened the seat belt without her knowledge. Perhaps the older child took off the seat belt so she could more comfortably sleep on the seat, but I’m not convinced that an 8-month-old baby can do likewise.

The letter-writer does not mention the fact that the mother was driving 80 mph, a full 10 miles above the posted speed limit.

The mother walked away from the crash with minor injuries, as would her children have had a chance to do had they been properly secured by their mother prior to her speeding to her destination at 80 mph. There is no ‘sorry’ or get out of jail free card to atone for the deaths of two young children, deaths that may have been prevented had the mother simply seen to her legal and moral obligation to transport her children safely.

My Way Eateries

Sunday morning, a friend and I shared our mostly weekly breakfast chat at Denny’s and yesterday, another friend and I enjoyed lunch at Baker’s Square before she heads off for her first day of a new school year and I enjoy my actual first day of not returning to work. At both restaurants, it struck me how inefficient the process of ordering is, even with a really complete menu, perhaps because the process is server-driven, rather than customer friendly.

My brain popped into gear and imagined a restaurant with a hand-held menu similar to a PalmPilot. The newly-seated customer would send an initial beverage request directly to the kitchen or bar, where it would be filled and delivered by the server. My experience this weekend was waiting for the server to get “a round tuitt” and include our table in the multiple meaningless tasks being performed in the restaurant. The time spent sitting in the seat with no food, no beverage, and no server in sight ties up a table for longer than the turn-around time could be in a busy restaurant.

When placing an order, the server either has to commit to memory or write on a pad what each patron wants, how they want it, and in what order. It would be so much easier for the diner to program that information into a hand-held, print out a receipt much like a gas station receipt, and then wait for the order to be delivered. There is no need for me to read the menu, make menu decisions that I then relate to the server, then sit back and wait to see if my order is going to be my way or what the server brings to the table.

A hand-held device could tell me what choices are available and I could make my own meal from the git-go. The menu could be by the item or by the meal, with pictures of the dishes part of the menu listing. If I want a hamburger, I could begin with the choice of bun, the size/doneness of the burger patty, and then the add-ons, such as lettuce, tomato, onion, sauce, and so on. Instead of the requisite fries, the hand-held menu would tell me the choices I have for a side dish. I could describe my perfect salad and select my dressing directly. If I need a beverage refill, I could send that request without going through the gymnastics required to catch the eye of the person who came to my table but has not returned since I was seated.

I have come to learn that there is a reason the employees of a restaurant are called “wait staff,” but it’s not part of the process I enjoy, especially when the wait often culminates in an incorrect order. Programming the order myself can be easier and more accurate than going through a third party to the kitchen staff. If I’ve completed the ordering process, the server can serve my order and fulfill the job description for which (s)he was hired.

The same hand-held can probably also total the bill, suggest a tip strategy, and alert the server to come by and pick up my payment method. I hate just sitting there after finishing my meal, sitting there with nothing to do, waiting for the server to notice that I’m ready to depart—but cannot do so until I have the check. Believe me, that wait time does NOT add to the tip!

Yeah, it’d be great if the hand-held had the option of reading my credit card, but in this day and age, that enhancement would probably do more for credit card and identity theft than it would for the payment process.

So, it’s time for a chain of My Way eateries, restaurants that are embedded in the 21st Century and electronically focused on providing better customer service. Believe me, I’d be the first in line to order my meal!