I Finally Get My Own Bailout

According to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, the term “bailout” has been used since about 1951 to describe “the act of saving or rescuing something (such as a business) from money problems.”  This noun is different from the intransitive verb, “bail out” which can mean jumping from an airplane (hopefully with a parachute) or ironically, “to abandon a harmful or difficult situation.”  Of course, any news article that states that the Government “bailed out” the banks does NOT mean they abandoned them or jumped out of an airplane with them. A closer meaning of the expression would be that we the taxpayers paid to keep the bankers out of jail. With bail.

Say it a couple of times: bail, bail, bail, bail. It becomes a tongue twister just like “toy boat.” And it is from a boat that a bail comes from.  A bail is a small bucket used to scoop water from a sinking vessel and dump it overboard. Hopefully, there are enough bail and bailers to dump the water faster than it is coming in.  Scoop and dump, scoop and dump — as fast as you can, you Bail Out the boat. Scoop and dump money and you bail out the banks, or the car manufacturers, or a foreign government.

Today I was reminded that I should not be complaining that I have never been bailed out. All this time I had forgotten the many meanings of “bailout” and have been waiting for my chunk of tax funds to rescue me from money problems. But apparently, my bailouts, and yes, there have been more than one; have come in a different form.

Back in the late 70s, I lived my bell-bottomed, Huck-A-Poo shirt-wearing life in a basement apartment.  To maintain this level of luxury, I worked two jobs while I eagerly waiting for Reagan’s trickle down economy to benefit me. His use of a water metaphor should have warned me.

One night I came home to find four inches of water throughout the apartment. Water was spewing from the toilet and the sink drain. Neighbors above me continued to shower and wash clothes, unaware of what was happening underneath them. While the plumbing was eventually fixed, I still had to spend many hours, scooping up water, dumping it by the potful into my washing machine. With the drain hose looped out the window, I was able to finally, bail out my apartment.  Thanks, President Reagan, for that massive trickle down effect.

All this came back to me today while we were busy doing Saturday household chores — a large part of which is laundry. Yes, the washing machine broke, and of course it was mid-cycle and full of water. We had to remove an entire load of wash, piece by piece, and wring them out. Then, we scooped water out of the washer, by the potful, and dumped it in the sink.  In addition to the distinct feeling of deja-vu came the realization that our long-wished for a bailout had finally arrived.

At least no one had to spring us from jail.

Walk by Story #2 - Trapped Like Rats

Truth in advertising: rats are becoming harder and harder to trap, especially those who have had their intelligence and fearlessness ramped up in the laboratory.  So, it is probably not the best comparison to say that, recently, there has been a rash of trapped-like-rats humans in my circle. In fact, it may be a cautionary tale that humans may be becoming increasingly easier to trap than rats.

The first person I know who was trapped in the past two weeks fell victim to something that apparently is more common than I realized. The story opens with a frightening scene in my house - the LOML (love of my life) collapsing in the bathroom. I ran to the sound and found him on the floor, unconscious and bleeding from a cut on his forehead. While dialing 911 I gave him a couple of chest compressions until he took a big, gasping, breath and began to wake up. Police and EMS arrived and an attack of atrial fibrillation was suspected. Off to the hospital we flew, picking up paramedics along the way.  At the hospital we were met by my son and the LOML's sister - wonderful and caring support for both the patient and myself.

The long night in the ER is a tale for another time, but by 2 AM things were stable and calm. I stayed at the hospital, my son and LOML's sister went home.  I imagined them both snuggled into their beds like the children in "The Night Before Christmas" while I shoved two chairs together in the tiny, makeshift acute care cubicle and tried to sleep myself. Little did I know that a drama was taking place that wouldn't be resolved until almost 5 AM.

LOML's sister had been unable to park in the filled-to-capacity hospital parking deck, so she parked in a municipal parking deck. The hospital security guard, fearing for her safety at the late hour, offered to drive her there and wait while she got into her car, and then would follow her out of the deck.  Using the automatic machine in the parking deck, LOML's sister paid her parking fee, got her car and then, with security officer in tow, headed for the exit. The exit with the gate. The gate that requires either a special electronic card or the paid parking receipt to be inserted. The guard inserted his key card in lane 1. The gate did not open. He waved LOML's sister over to Lane 2, just thinking that Lane 1 was not working and surely Lane 2 would. She inserted her paid receipt. The gate did not open. They were, essentially, trapped in the municipal parking deck at 2:30 in the morning.

Calling the displayed emergency number on the gate dispatched a mechanic to take care of the problem. Unfortunately, he showed up with only his own keycard, which did not open the gate. Eventually, the manual or emergency way to open the gate was discovered and both LOML's sister and the by-now-very-MIA-from-the-hospital security guard were released from captivity. I can't say for certain, but I think the city rats, who are able to get in and out of the parking deck with impunity, enjoyed the entertainment.

This morning, I see this Facebook report from my friend, environmental writer John Platt. 

"I went down into our basement yesterday to change the furnace filters. The good news: I did not see any evidence, which I had feared, that we have mice.

The bad news: We have a lot of very big, well-fed spiders."

Now, one might conclude that the spiders ate the mice - but that would be a silly Stephen King horror story conclusion. Spiders don't eat mice. At least regular house-type spiders don't. I am not sure about giant jumping desert spiders or hairy tarantulas; and the only man-eating spiders I know of populate forests and mines in The Lord of the Rings and other "fantasies."  On the other hand, are spiders capable of setting traps other than webs, say, for example, fixing a door so it can't be opened? I say this because of the next line from John:

"Oh, the worst news? Apparently our basement door is broken and I got trapped down there for an hour and a half until Colleen came home."

I know where the mice were. They were out in the yard feeling proud of themselves. No broken door kept them from escaping the spiders in the basement.  And lucky for John, the spiders were so well-fed that they were in no hurry to pounce.  At least for an hour and a half.

Walk-by Story #1 - Who Stole My Sunsets?

I have several options for my drive home from work, my favorite being some two lane back roads that wind through a little pocket of rural New Jersey, complete with farmland, horse stables, and homes set back from the road surrounded by acres of woodland. It is a pocket that is shrinking; the low speed limit roads are becoming commuter thoroughfares, and on the edge is slowly being eaten up by an epidemic of cavernous warehouses.

Since moving to this area of New Jersey at 11 years of age, these roads have been my go-to place for fantasizing about rural serenity. Long stretches of farmland gave uninterrupted views of sunrises and sunsets and a horizon of shifting colors as trees paraded through the seasons. At one crossroad, a magnificent, 3-story Italianate house, complete with cupola reigned majestically. And while townhouses and shopping malls and fast food drive-throughs sprouted up with more and more frequency, this area was spared. Until now. Until the unrelenting march of development rolled through, the horizon became blocked with huge square, nondescript buildings, and roads became home to tandem tractor-trailers.

Last week, I could tell that an unusually colorful sunset was setting up, just from the color of the sky I glimpsed through the trees as I drove home from work. The sky was cloudy but obviously there was a break somewhere. As I emerged from the wooded area and passed the horse farm, I caught a quick glimpse of the sun, a stark, flaming red ball with defined edges defying the clouds that were trying to hide it. A long, dark finger of storm cloud slowly rose in front of the sun, a perfect dragon silhouetted against the crimson sun. And then, the warehouses rose into view, and the sun was gone. Cars around me prevented any type of slow down- no smelling of the roses for these road warriors. I wondered how many of them had even seen the dragon in the flaming circle.

The light streamed over the top of the warehouse, then began to fade. I knew the clouds were thickening in front of the sun. By the time there was enough sky visible to me the sun, the light, and the dragon were gone. I felt as if something rare and beautiful had been stolen from me.

I remember when I first moved to New Jersey that “old-timers” at the county fair would complain about the development that was happening then. They would point to the street I lived on and tell me that it used to be a potato farm. The county road that bisected the town had been a two lane residential street. And thanks to the giant high school on the hill and the expanded NJ Turnpike overpasses, someone was stealing their sunsets.

It occurs to me that I finally understand what William Gibson said, ”Time moves in one direction, memory in another.” And my sunsets will always be with me.

Infographic - The Importance of Humor at Work

Thanks to www.humorthatworks.com for this graphic.

How Many Stories Have I Walked Past?

I saw this quote by Orson Scott Card, and it made me stop and wonder. Wonder if it was true, wonder if "good writers" really pick up on that many stories in a day, and wonder if I have fallen into the "most people" who don't see any.

I suppose "most people" would qualify as seeing one story — their own. In fact, it is probably their own story that eclipses the rest of the stories happening all around them. A type of tunnel vision, perhaps, that is not always a narcissistic, helicopter parent, micromanaging boss, bad thing. Hyper focus that results in the next breakthrough invention, diplomatic achievement, artistic expression or social reformation. Yet, for each one of those things there comes of time of sharing with others, the literal telling of the story — which apparently, most people miss.

All this wondering has led me to try an experiment, to see how many stories I can actually "see" in a day. For example, I was recently in a gym where many gymnastic classes were going on at the same time. That controlled chaos is a story — how is that managed? Quick observations revealed an overload of stories. In one corner a parent sharply corrects a very young child. "Do it the right way or we are going home," the parent says. In another corner, a lone gymnast repeats the same trick on the parallel bars, over and over.  Personal goal? Competition coming up? And who is that bundle of energy leading the toddlers through a maze of jumping and climbing? Not a complete thought among the observations, but plenty of story sparks. Fiction of all kinds (zombies doing gymnastics?), athletic profiles, gym management articles, advice for parents of young gymnasts, how a balance beam is made — a year's worth of writing in 5 minutes of hyper focus — of living in the moment as a writer.

Stalking Sixty - The Grandma Moses Gambit

A folk artist who started painting in her 70s, Grandma Moses has become the symbol of the ultimate late bloomer. Several generations have had her as proof of the old adage that it is never too late to start something new.

Part of my thinking process as I stalk 60 is trying to decide — not what new things to start necessarily — but what things I currently do or try to do should be continued or abandoned.

Growing up, growing older, means dealing with the  acquisition of skills, the exploration of life paths and the narrowing down of those choices to the precious few that offer that golden combination of personal satisfaction and moderate success.

We may turn former vocational interests into hobbies when we realize that something we love to do is never going to pay the rent. We may become fans of, or a patrons of, sports or arts; to keep involved in things we enjoy or appreciate but have no aptitude for. The hardest realization however, may be the one that tells us it is time to give something up altogether.

Maybe I am too young to be having these thoughts. After all, the Grandma Moses gambit tells us that one can be in your 70s or beyond and still be viable in a field of endeavor. Then again, the reason Grandma Moses began painting was because she gave up  embroidery — an art she was talented at.

So that tells me that I may — or I should — examine what things, interests or activities I need to stop. Things to step out of as an active participant or presenter; taking up a place on the sidelines as a fan or supporter. Perhaps then as the dust settles there will be something left behind. Something that will fulfill me but not drain me — something that will provide pleasure and satisfaction without stress, expectations, or financial risk.

Sissy Spacek narrates "Carrie," a story that still resonates today

Carrie by Stephen King

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I actually listened to the new version of the audiobook, read by Sissy Spacek. As the actress who played Carrie in the original movie, her reading adds nuances to the story that perhaps could not be achieved by anyone else.

For some reason, I never read this book before, despite having read many Stephen King books. After reading his "On Writing" book and knowing the back story about the book's creation, it made me want to go back to it, along with other early King books that I missed along the way.

King has grown as a writer, for example, Doctor Sleep is a very different creature from Carrie. Yet, you see in Carrie, King's ability to spin a tale of horror that is fully supported by an intriguing and fleshed-out "how we got here" story.

This was enjoyable to listen to and still scary enough to raise goosebumps. In many respects it almost forsees current issues, when bullying, and the violent acts that some victims of bullying are driven to, are in the forefront of news. A supernatural story with roots in the very real horrors that many people still live in.



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