The Costco Crisis

For those not familiar with the mega-market known as Costco, it is a place where the consumer can buy anything and everything from tires to televisions to tooth paste.  It suits to a "T" almost every earthly need, especially for institutions like convalescent homes, food distribution agencies, and the like.
This writer refers to said shopping spa as the "Shrine of Saint Shrinkwrap".  If you would like to buy some "tp" for the "wc", this place has it, but only in packages of forty-eight; swathed in cellophane.   While lingering on the subject of "earthly needs", there is evidence that Costco has even gone into the business of selling burial caskets.  Dare we say, that's a grave undertaking!  
           In the View's efforts to create a vision of size for our readership abroad, the closest comparison we can conjure is the Swedish merchant, Ikea.  However, that comparison falls short in terms of scope, and the absence of meatballs and lingonberries in the cafeteria line.
           But  institutions are far from the only clientele the "Big C" caters to.  They do a thriving, and we do mean THRIVING business with the personal consumer.  It has even gone to the extent of selling things one doesn't, or in our case, shouldn't buy.  Therein lies the crisis...at least for us. 
                                            Let the record show that the editorial staff has "no axe to grind" with this wholesaler/retailer....eleven months out of the year.  It's a variation of peaceful co-existence, to wit: I live in peace with the firm,  as long as the Bride doesn't require my presence when she makes her pilgrimages  there.  When she does, the relationship degrades to "tentative" status.  Then it becomes a matter of survival in the aisles and checkout lines as hordes and hordes of people converge on the same aisles and lines, and at the same times.   It's then that we (meaning "I") lapse into teeth-gritting mode.  The smile through clenched teeth fades only after we exit the parking lot.
                                        It is that twelfth month, during the season of Advent that all

manner of spiritual and visceral restraint is required.  To her credit, the Bride habitually takes with her a list of needs, most all of which can be deemed "practical" in nature.  However, even during the eleven "off-months", she is occasionally inclined toward the impulsive purchase.  (There are vendors, plying their "freebie samples" generously scattered, throughout.)  Again, from January through November, she fetches nary a pout from the patriarch. But December is a "whole 'nother ballgame.  It is then when this Big House Baron becomes our (read that "my") avowed enemy.
                                     Your scribe takes little pride in his domestic  accomplishments.  He performs the obligatory spousal duties, which go unnoticed, as they should...unless of course, they are forgotten.   His guitar-playing, charitably speaking, would be considered "serviceable" by a modest number of friends.  But when it comes to Christmas gift selection for "You-Know-Who", that is when he strives to be a total, uncontested, two-thumbs-up winner.  Year after year, pride is gained from knowing what the Lady wants.  But, it is written: "Pride goeth before a fall".  I believe that quote comes from the 1st book of Hesitations.

                                     My Damsel has needed a desk lamp, but not just any desk lamp would do, owing to the space in which it was to be used.  It is an old-fashioned "secretary" desk, which her mother used for many years.  Shelf area on it is severely limited.  So also were a whole host of options which mandated: no clamps, no holes drilled, and nothing higher than her desktop.  The challenge was assumed by this writer as his Christmas crusade.  He was going to find just the right lamp for his Lady's needs or die the valiant, knightly death in trying.  Ultimately, he succeeded!!  But wait, there's more..........

 

 

             A short, scant two days following the online order, the abovementioned Bride did her monthly C- thing, and feeling in dire need.....a dire need that could only be addressed in one location....that location being the secretary where she attends to practically everything having to do with her computer.  She did the very agonizing thing I so desperately wanted to avoid!!  My reputation as a black-belt gift buyer went out the window as she showed me a box....a box containing a wretched desk lamp.  I could feel the wind, heading south of my sails. 
              Once she had been given the confessional clue, naturally that lamp was never to see the light of day on the hill.  So when presents were unwrapped on Christmas morn, there it was, in all its partially assembled splendor; Allen wrench, provided.  And of course, there wasn't a gasp of surprise or an "oh-my-gawsh".  There was simply a hug and a kiss for a need that was answered. 
           The light is "old-timey" enough to match the furniture's period.  It really does illuminate quite handsomely.  Wound-licking has ceased, and this renaissance geezer will rise up off the mat to resume the search for the next, soon-to-be, most perfect gift. 
                                                       A blessed Christmas and Yuletide season to all our loyal readers.
            
 

 

 

From the Dark Side

           

Let the record show that we are no great fan of that stretch of time between All Saints Day and the Vernal Equinox; roughly, from November 1st to March 30th.  The following parable is intended to illustrate this conviction:

          A team of psychologists conducted an experiment to determine what makes an eight year-old feel happy.  They placed the "control" subject in a room filled with all manner of toys; electronic gadgets, warm and fuzzy stuffed animals, and video games.  Meanwhile, the same team placed the "test" subject in a room; loaded knee high in horse manure.  An hour later, the scientists returned to observe the results of their experiment.

                       The subject in the room, filled with all conceivable manner of goodies, was totally bored and disengaged.  In fact, he pleaded to be released and returned to the waiting arms of his parents.  However, "Subject B", was dancing and cavorting about his test room in joyous celebration.
                    When the scientists inquired of the second boy what had made him so happy, he responded, "With all this horse poop, there has to be a pony in here,  somewhere!!" 
                     Put in the perspective of what this season of the year brings to our corner of the cosmos in terms of time and weather, we unhesitatingly identify with Subject B.
                     This is when northwesterners simulateously hunker down while searching...not necessarily frantically, but fervently, for something to raise our collective spirit.  First comes the triple whammy:  The day in which most of the country reverts to standard time, and surrenders an hour of light in an already diminishing day.  The second "hit"comes with grudging recognition that sunsets will now happen before dinner-time.  The third tale is told by the thermometer.  This is the time when the average daily temperature starts its annual migration "southward".          
            If the fruit and vegetable garden happens to be a

warm-weather pursuit, it's time to put away the trowels and hoes, and wrap pipes .The same process (call it "drudgery")  applies to potted flowering plants that please the eye, and attract our fine-feathered friends.  Think of this:  when was the last time you saw a bird smile at this time of year??  This is the season of living tough;  to sing a song of rain, snow, sleet, hail and "shiver me timbers".
                    On page 150 of the 1982 Anglican hymnal you will find a composition, penned by George Hunt Smyttan (1822-1870).  It's title: "Forty Days and Forty Nights".  The second stanza begins: "Should we not thy sorrow share, and from worldly joys abstain......."  This hymn, which is sung to the cadence of a funereal procession,  would be the perfect match for the outlook us light-deprived, house-hermits have, were it not for: A) the time at issue being of far greater duration, and B) it's place as a Lenten hymn; not typically sung during Advent, much less Pentecost.  However, it has been known to be hummed, when the weather outside is frightful, windows demand cleaning, or this hummer needs to feel penitential.
                     The staff of The View concedes that there are conditions and situations worse than daily life from mid-autumn to winter's end.  However, they make for a very short list, much quicker to dispatch.  A molar or wisdom tooth extraction; a flat tire, coupled with an empty gas tank; being cornered into conversation with someone you would just as soon avoid come to mind.

                     Now, if you'll please excuse this writer, he needs to prepare for sub-freezing temperatures which are just around the corner.  That means pipe-wrapping, generator prepping, anti-freeze equipping, and all manner of pluperfect pains in the patootie.  A pox on the house of the first person who says, "It's a winter wonderland!"

  

Meanwhile, the search  for that elusive pony continues.........

The Truth, The Hole Truth, and.........

Six years ago, at the onset of our seventieth winter, the Bride and I reached an accord:  in ten years time we would eliminate so much of the material accumulation of the past forty-four years that we would be able to gracefully sashay into accommodations more suitable for a pair of octogenarians. Read that,  "downsizing" and "elderly".  We would tackle one room each year and dispatch to some charity what we couldn't triage to our own offspring.

                          In principle, that proposal was worth-while. In practice it has been about as successful as the Ford Edsel.  Six years later, we are still struggling to check off one room.  As batting averages go, we're below .100.

                        Our dear Son, the number cruncher of the clan has floated discrete suggestions that we ought to be talking to a financial advisor, a realtor, and....(gasp)  research"community-living" facilities.  His counsel is wise, but revolves around the biting of a bullet that could break our teeth.

                       On the other hand,  one and only daughter advocates an alternative, to wit: "Stay as long as you want. In your will, just leave us enough money to hire a dumpster to haul everything off."  My reaction to this was, "a (as in one) dumpster?"  It will require a fleet of dumpsters to merely dispose of the contents of two basement storage rooms!

                      Obviously, Daughter has the more comfortable solution.  It is far more consistent with this rennaisance geezer's work ethic, especially when contemplating a hole in suggestion number one.  The hole in question is located just around the corner from this writer's "man cave"; known alternatively as "The Dungeon".  
                   This cave is our afternoon refuge wherein resides amateur radio equipment, the pc desktop, and a couple of walls covered with "attaboys" and bookshelves filled with "how-to's" and "been-there's" of one kind or another.  It is also the incubator for this monthly blog.   Here is where ideas hatch.
                      But to get here from there, a small ripple in the carpet must be crossed.  That ripple was created by a break in the water line beneath the concrete, years ago.  Since then, the piping has been re-routed, but the ripple remains.  And with it comes the undying, daily reminder of what must be done to make it disappear, and permit this abode to pass the ever-critical eye of a house inspector.  If he sees it, he will doubtless say, "You know, the hole beneath this ripple is a reflection on your character."                
                    That accusation would skewer me to the paneling and carpet, which must be scrapped so that the hole can be patched... to appease that awaiting one-man judge and jury.  Translation:  beau coups bucks, dear reader.  Add to that, a ton of effort to pack and move, and you have all the makings of a twenty-first century Prometheus; bound by the inertia of hard choices.

                It is while contemplating this dilema that I am reminded of the wisdom of my dear friend of many decades, Ben S.: "There are some days when it's too cold to work.  There are some days when it's too hot to work.  And, there are some days when it's too nice to work."
              Riding that train of thought to the next station,  it could be argued that procrastination has very powerful incentives.  Today is much too nice. Tomorrow is another day.  At least that's what Scarlett O'Hara told Rhett Butler. 


                 

Deja Two - St. Petersburg

Our travels across the Baltic Sea resume...
           The reader may dismiss everything previously learned on arrival at other ports-of-call.  Russian immigration is an entirely different ballgame, sports fans.  Authorities there roll up the welcome mat, and figuratively slap you about your backside with it.  Do the math: 2,000 passengers divided by 3 passport inspection booths equals 80 minutes of weight-shifting; from left foot to right, and back again.  It's within The View margin of error to declare that more muttered expletives were uttered  per/passenger between the hours of 9:00 am and 10:30 am on that day than in all of greater St. Petersburg.  It's as if the Ruskies were sending the message, "You're on our turf- now, play by our rules, and smile; even if it has to be through personal discomfort and clenched teeth.   We did.
Once outside the passport-immigration "botique", the traveller must, at all times, remain in the presence of a licensed tour guide.  Under the circumstances, how could anyone feel less than a media celebrity?         
                   Our guide, Juliana, and her driver, Edward, greeted us in their big, black Mercedes van, for visits to Pushkin, and the palace of Queen Catherine, then to Peterhof; the summer palace of Peter the Great.  But the day's journey began with a dock-side stop along the Neva River, where we rubbed the tooth of a brass griffin while whispering a wish in his ear; an old St. Petersburg tradition.  Juliana has first-hand knowledge that this quaint little practice has brought good luck  to some of her friends.  Time will tell if it does the same for her and us. 
              The river and adjoining docks along the promenade appeared surprisingly clean, and the walls were totally free of graffiti.  It was a great feeling to walk amongst the common people in a land that had made itself virtually inaccessible to casual, foreign travellers.

Even though Hungary and the former Yugoslavia were still communist satellites when we visited there,  restrictions weren't nearly so tight.

        It's all too obvious: In her "summer cottage", Catherine,  wife of Peter the Great, surrounded her-self with all the opulence befitting a queen of state. Gold leaf embellishes every wall and ceiling; murals included. 

            Virtually every room in the palace has a monumental heating "fixture" in a corner, covered by blue Delft china.  For the House of Romanoff, money was not an object.  Small wonder that the monarchy was ultimately overthrown.  Their daughter, Elizabeth, had no appreciation for the ornate tastes of her mother.  Her section of rooms were finished in subdued tones of light green with white wood and stucco trim.

 

          Peterhof, the summer home of Peter the Great,  graces the top of this month's entry.  It displays his fascination with water, which ventures far beyond ship-building and navigation.  He loved fountains; fountains of all shapes and sizes. 
          His most elaborate design showed him to be the king-turned-practical joker.  There is a grotto, excavated from a hillside in one section of his sprawling garden.  Over its entrance cascades a waterfall.  Guests and visitors were invited to inspect the grotto's interior after their host had shut off the flow.  Once inside, he would turn the water on again, sending a goodly amount through jets concealed in the rockery,  leaving all "captives" thoroughly drenched.   Only heads of  royal families could be above retaliation for such a stunt.  This man would have been a joy for any sixth grade teacher to have in his classroom. 
           Springs and reservoirs provided the estate, "Peterhof", with an endless supply of water for "The Great's" fetes of aquatic engineering.  Once spent, it was diverted out to the Baltic,  which Peter could see from virtually every room in his summer abode.  The Baltic played an important part in Peter's perception of his role in Russia's place in world affairs. Because of his and it's proximity to that sea, he became a navigator and shipwright of no mean skills.

              Even though one cannot see and enjoy all of Catherine's palace in one day, and even though Peter's haunt is a second-place finisher in most itineraries,  no one can give St. Petersburg a been-there-done-that if they haven't seen the tribute to the working man, which lies many meters deep below its streets.  That would be its well-conceived  and wondrous subway stations.   
         Completed in 1955, which was a very, very good year for those of us of a certain vintage, every arrival/departure point is like walking through an art museum.  For openers, the citizens of this fair city hold these places in the highest regard.  As in other venues, there is not a single speck of graffiti to be found, anywhere.  One might argue that the unblemished surfaces owe to the looming presence of the law and its enforcers. But still others might say that those who built these tributes to the working class command respect and admiration.
                  Brocaded columns abound. Beneath each is a bas-relief of a laborer, engaged in his daily work. Crystal chandeliers line the ceilings of every station. Where are the white ties and tails? When the Oregon Symphony has a night in town, their concert hall looks almost....but not quite as good.
                One cannot do justice to St. Petersburg in a couple of days, which for those visa-deprived and guide-dependent among us is all that's available. Still it might well be worth a place on a bucket list.   HLR

                                             

              

            

Pay It Forward

The Delta journey started like all do; the airport equivalent of the Chicago stockyards.  After negotiating the lines awaiting flight confirmation, and luggage handling, one trudges  through the boarding pass inspection chutes,  the full-frontal search,  provided by the x-ray scanner, and then, ah yes,  the video review of all your carry-ons.  Having  been thus far stamped and certified, the traveller secretly prays that he won't be shunted out of the herd by Transport Security, and dispatched to one of those stainless steel inspection tables where even dirty underwear passes in review.  Of course, if you have "bionic knees", laden with metal parts, as the Bride has, there are additional complications.  

                      It could have been much, much worse. We both passed muster with hardly any prolonging.  That turned out to be the easy part of the process.  Next came the thumb-twiddling exercise in the boarding area; C-5 of Portland Airport, as I recall.  It was to be a 1:00 pm departure, which was extended to 1:20, then adjusted to Limbo Standard Time.  Owing to a plane crash on the tarmac of our destination, San Francisco International airport, our flight was indefinitely delayed.  Personnel didn't know quite what to say...except that they wouldn't be saying much.  Not with certainty, that is, until the braintrust of corporate headquarters,  crew, and flight control could weigh in.  As we all know, big wheels turn slowly.  Two hours/worth of slowly.

               During a lull such as this,  your fearless spectator finds it interesting to observe how people engage themselves.  Some remained absorbed in their laptops, Kindles, and other screen-oriented stuff.  Others, in obviously dizzying heights of corporate heirarchy, engage in "vital" conversations with colleagues and underlings at headquarters.  Still others use the time to participate in a fast-food feeding frenzy.  Amazing to note how many love those Cinnabons. Surprisingly, a precious few still read hard-bound books.
              While sitting victim of this time-stretch, people become very insular.  Gazes are averted, smiles ignored.  It is a rare passenger who is willing to engage in any kind of conversation that extends beyond "small talk". Naturally, we are on the lookout for such an individual.  Enter "Greg."

             A long-time resident of the City That Knows How, Greg  occupied the seat next to us in our C-5 holding pen.  (Sorry, the urge to continue the livestock imagery was just overpowering)  He is a businessman, world traveller, and over the course of the next few hours,  proved himself to be a gracious, classy ambassador of my town;  San Francisco, that is.  
         During the time the desk attendants were issuing guarded declarations about progress toward un-postponing our flight, "We're still waiting to hear from corporate about an alternate destination".....  cotton-candy stuff that defies digestion,  Greg kept us briefed with his trusty I-phone.
                         Between late-breaking, non-developments from HQ, we shared some personal history.   He lives south of Market Street in the Mission district, and regularly flies hither and yon for business reasons.  He knows Frankfurt well, and has seen St Petersburg;  cities to which we can relate.   His dress was subdued,  but tasteful;  befitting a gentleman.  By contrast,  our garb for the trip was better than grunge, but a distant hollar from fashionable.  

                        Once delivered to our plane, we lost sight of our waiting-room neighbor.  Greg was seated in first class, and we, being the last to receive a pair of adjoining seats, were assigned to "the back of the bus." Our teeth were gritted, but only for a short while.  The flight lasted less than an hour and a half.
                        Now comes the dilema for which Greg came to the rescue. In San Francisco Airport, the logistics of the game enable one to board a BART train and resorting, if need be, to plastic payment for fare.  However, this was Oakland.  As San Francisco native Gertrude Stein once put it, ever so succinctly, "There is no there, over there."  The bottom line was cash on the barrel-head for transit from the airport to a BART station; $3 per rider, exact change only.  Under normal circumstances, this isn't a beastly sum....even if it is just a reasonably short walk from the airport to BART in SAN FRANCISCO.  What was off-putting was the stipulation that payment had to be the exact fare.

                          To complete the perfect transit storm, neither the Bride nor your scribe had anything in our wallets smaller than a ten-dollar bill.  Up steps Greg, just short of the steps to the bus.  He confides that he will cover our bus fare, whereupon I promise to repay his kindness, once we arrive at the BART station.  His reply will remain forever embedded in my consciousness:  "Don't do that, just pay it forward".

                          In all my years, I've never heard that phrase before, and I asked our benefactor to explain.  He replied, "Somewhere down the road, you're going to meet someone in need.  Just do the same for him that I have done for you; that's all."

                         That charge led me to think of the number of times angels have come into our lives for the very briefest of times, do their good deed, then vanish as quickly as they appear.....never to be seen again.  It's all very reminiscent of listenting to the radio version of the "Lone Ranger" before the advent of tv.  At the conclusion of each episode the eternal question was posed, "Who was that masked man?"  No one ever had an answer, as the doer of good deeds rode off on his white horse, "Silver", into the sunset.

                       Greg and the Lone Ranger seem like good role models to emulate.

                

                      

                                                                                           

Deja View

The Hub is a Pub

In Paris, it's the Champs-Elysees.  In New York City, it's Times Square.  In beautiful, downtown Boring, it's the intersection of State Highway 212 and Wally Road.  In their own way, each of these locales is a focal point of activity in their respective corners of the globe.  Each is where the pulse of life beats the strongest.
               Many has been the day, in the late afternoon when the God-fearing and faint of heart dare not go to make a left-hand turn onto the highway.  It's better to wait for five minutes, work a crossword puzzle, or read an advice column, and hope to heaven that the line of traffic starts to show breathing space.   This may not be the "crossroads of America", but for those who live and work here, "Crossroads of Clackamas County" feels like almost too tight a fit.
        The vintage Cadillac, parked next the building to the left fronts the main artery through town, highway 212.  It is home to a sign company, a real estate office, an antique shop, and several apartments.  Once upon its time, the building housed the post office and the town hall.   As readers of this blog are very much aware, Boring has never reached city status.
              To the right, and across the highway is the buff-colored two-story known as McCalls General Store.  This establishment was spotlighted in a previous issue of The View.  The owner/operator, Ben, still holds forth; wishing this intrepid patron "a nice day" as he leaves, toting his one gallon jug of low-fat milk.
             And to the left, directly across from McCalls and Wally Road is the place where locals-in-the-know go to hob-knob,  quaff a stein of Boring IPA, and munch on the specialty of the house; the "Not-So-Boring" burger.

             Constructed originally in the early 1920's, the building which houses the Not-So first served a dual purpose as post and electric company offices.  It is one of the three oldest buildings in the village.
             Following those early days, the Hub of downtown saw a succession of taverns.  Some were reputable establishments, and some were not. The last of the latter appeared just before its current proprietors.  Called the "FullMoon", every intention was expressed by management to keep it a "family tavern"...one of the greatest oxymorons of all time.
            That noble effort continued until the cash drawer told the tale of
shrinking patronage.  The owner then decided to spice up the venue by appealing to the lowest common denominator of society.  A bevy of dancers was hired who, literally and figuratively, had nothing to hide.  The results were predictable.  Following a spike in business came the sparring amongst the clientele.  There is a suburban legend that the local fire department was dispatched to "the Moon", armed with fire hoses to break up brawls.  Thus far, nary a denizen disputes the legend.  In the aftermath, the owners liquor license was revoked. Ultimately, the Full Moon was eclipsed.
             Six months or so later, the Hub that is a Pub rose, like a phoenix from the ashes; under the new ownership of Mike and Vickie.  Their friendliness and goodwill have been the principle factors in the restoration of their business.  Of course, time, a fresh coat of paint, and a sign declaring, "No More Nude Dancers", have done their part to restore the trust of the local constituency.

           For a thirty-one year old, Vickie has logged a lot of miles.  Born and raised in LaGrande, Oregon, she had a promising future as a professional basketball player until she blew out a knee in her junior year, playing AAU ball.  Upon graduating from high school, she "hit the road", gaining experience on the highway of life while earning a living in  locales like Las Vegas, Alabama and Utah, before returning to Baker City in eastern Oregon.  Since the age of fourteen, she has acccumulated seventeen years of experience in the food and beverage industry.  Mightily she tried to talk her betrothed, Mike, out of ever venturing into this business.
                       However, Mike was of a different mindset.  Twenty-five years as a general contractor, specializing in window and door installation had taken a heavy physical toll on him.  He needed to find a way out of the demands of his day job.  When the opportunity to buy the Full Moon surfaced, his vote outweighed Vickie's...by just enough....despite the understanding that he had no previous experience in this line of work.
                    "Not-So's" demands do not deter Vickie in the pursuit of her own ambition.  Having already received a certificate as a certified nurses' assistant, she is now actively studying to earn a credential as a certified surgical technician.  While straddling these two entirely different worlds, she avers, "I love helping people, not serving people."  Until the days come when her hopes can be realized, she is satisfied while being the"Mom of the Bar".  When it comes to resolving disuputes which occasionally erupt, she is the terminator; reasoning rightly that guys respond more readily to a woman in authority in those situations.  Moms seemingly always have the last word.

                The co-owners agree that the most satisfying aspect of this new vocation is the support of the clientele.  Bit by bit, and little by little, the base of patronage has been restored to the point where Mike can now look longingly at a second establishment.
                 The downside, for the both of them has been the constant effort to retain good, reliable help; especially on the grill-side of the operation.  At present, they are looking for another replacement in a very transient profession.
                  Meanwhile, both remain quite optimistic about their own futures, and that of the Not-So-Boring Bar & Grill.  That's something we can all drink to.  Cheers!
                                      

Bullet Points - Part II

        This month's issue of the View features the second of two interviews with former law enforcement personnel.  The topic once again is gun-control legislation in the United States.  The subject of this interview is "Terri".  The questions she will be asked are the same that were asked of "Mark" in last month's issue.
         Terri was involved in law enforcement for close to twenty years, serving first as a patrolman, then as a detective.  Prior to that, she was in the Oregon Army National Guard for nine and a half years; leaving with the rank of Sergeant.

The View: What is your overall attitude towards current proposed national legislation regarding gun-control, ie: background checks, assault weapons, limited capacity clips, etc.?

Terri: I think they are a good idea, but like all things that the government is involved in, there will be too many loop holes and exceptions.  Currently, we do background checks for buying a new gun, but allow anyone to buy at a gun show.  The laws have to be very black and white.  I don't see this happening.

The View:  Many changes have taken place since the days of muskets, militias, and the drafting of the second amendment to the constitution.

Terri: This is true, however, the second amendment is still in effect, and we are obligated to protect and uphold it. I know that is a short answer, but really, as police officers and government officials, we take an oath.  So, until that changes, we have to stand by it.

The View: Do you believe that all "qualified" citizens are still obliged to bear arms for the sake of self-protection?

Terri: Absolutely! If I were a bad guy, I would think twice about burglarizing or robbing someone who could "potentially" have a gun.  We would be in a world of hurt if only the "dirt bags" had the guns.  It is kind of like saying, "The guy with the most gold makes the rules."  I take some comfort in knowing that my neighbors and friends, and family have guns.

The View: Do arms-bearing citizens help or hinder the cause of law enforcement?

Terri: Help. There are not enough cops out there to take care of everyone and every situation.  We need to police ourselves more and more.  I have never had a problem with an armed citizen.  (Only bad guys)  I worked swing-shift on Mt. Hood by myself for 7 years.  I had a good relationship with all the local truck drivers, and I know that a few of them carried guns.  I also know that they would cover my back if the (expletive) hit the fans.

The View: Can you conceive of a justifiable reason for anyone not employed by the military or law enforcement to own an AR-15, AK-47, or any other type of assault weapon?

Terri: Well, yes.  I think all guns are the same.  It is the person holding it that makes the difference.  I can inflict as much, if not more damage with a shot-gun.  The magazines for most guns can be altered and jerry rigged
to hold a lot of bullets.  I can take my Glock 40, which is a semi-automatic, the same as an AR-15, and rig the magazine to hold 30 bullets.  So it is now what is referred to as an assault weapon.  It really is just a label.

(Ed. note: The opinions expressed in this interview are not necessarily those held by the editorial staff of The View.  HLR)

Bullet Points

Prologue: With this post, The View will take a two-month hiatus from its usual form and substance to address a serious topic.  Aside from matters of government finance, there is no more controversial or divisive issue in the United States today than gun control legislation.  The View has invited two former law enforcement officers to express their opinions on five identical questions relating to the subject.  The first interview with "Mark" will be posted this month.  The second, with "Terri" will follow in the April posting.  Now, the disclaimer: The opinions expressed therein are not necessarily those of this editorial staff.
                  Mark was a sworn police officer for 33 years; serving as a patrolman, detective, court enforcement (civil law). and state certified crime prevention specialist.  He also spent twenty-seven years in the US Army and National Guard as a Military Police officer and Investigator.

View: What is your overall attitude towards current proposed national legislation regarding gun-control, ie: background checks, assault weapons, limited capacity clips, etc.?

Mark: I believe that any legislation that makes it harder for convicted criminals and the mentally ill to get guns is a huge step forward.  Combine that with mandatory gun safety classes before gun ownership, and education efforts regarding the effect of entertainment violence, and we'd be on our way.  This would also include a little talked about part of the federal legislation that would make it a federal felony crime to "traffic"in both legal and illegal weapons and sales.  This impacts people stealing guns, and selling/trading them for drugs or cash.  Also, it should be a crime to leave a weapon unsecured, and a felony if it falls into the hands of a child.  Gun owners need to be held accountable.  Last, we cut off the flow of illegal gun sales at "gun shows" - everyone gets a background check, and applicable waiting periods.

View: Many changes in weaponry have taken place since the days of muskets, militias, and the drafting of the second ammendment to the constitution.

Mark: Militias are organized groups established to protect citizens and the country.  Our US military forces and state National Guards are examples of organized militias.  Militias protect people from other people that threaten them with realistic ability to kill.  In today's world, there are weapons of mass destruction that exceed even the wildest imaginaiton.  When England's first protestant king passed a law to disarm the civilian populace in 1698, he was not well received, and it is still as issue there.  That laid the groundwork for many folks who fled England for the New World.
              The U.S. Supreme Court does its best to interpret the Constitution and the Bill of Rights, according to the original intent, but tempered against current mores.  It does not have an obligation to protect the US.  That falls to the Executive Branch (of government).  The last major decision by the Supreme Court was in 2008. when it ruled that the states must follow the same guidance regarding gun ownership as the federal government. We saw the restrictions on concealed handgun licensing in Oregon, for example, cut back to allow any citizen with a clean record to get one.

View: Do you believe that all "qualified" citizens are still obliged to bear arms for the sake of self-protection?

Mark: Yes, with a good definition of "qualified" (as previously talked about).  I honestly believe that the rest of the world is totally terrified of the concept of invading our country, mostly because of our constitutional right to own guns - and a lot of Hollywood!  They can pinpoint where our military strengths and weaknesses are, but our entire population being armed is a huge deterrent.  An invading force would have extensive supply lines, and a challenge to replace losses in its ranks.  If every American had the ability to get a gun, and shoot one invader, attrition would decide the conflict in our favor.  Sadly, I think that if some country feels that it is strong enough to take us on, we won't have a chance to use our guns in the face of a nuclear war.  Also, remember that in today's wars, you can win by destroying the economic ability of a nation to care for itself.   That's one of the reasons that the World Trade Center (09.11.2001) was specifically attacked. 

View: Do arms-bearing citizens help or hinder the cause of law-enforcement?

Mark: This is a tough one.  Guns have only one purpose - to take life - human or animal.  Target shooters and gun collectors take issue with that, saying they are for fun and hobby. That's crap. A gun is a gun is a gun. Because of their lethality, guns can dissuade others from hurting someone, but they are still guns. I've talked to true "bad guys" who are terrified of being shot during a home burglary.  Not many burglars do get shot during a home break-in, but the chance they might, I believe, does cause a lot of bad guys to find less dangerous ways to get property or money for drugs.

View: Can you conceive of a justifiable reason for anyone not employed by the military or law-enforcement to own an AR-15, AK-47, or any other type of assault weapon?

Mark: Yes, it they are sane, and undergo proper gun-safety classes and background checks, and go to jail on a federal charge if they sell or give the gun to someone else without the same background checks.  Magazines (clips) should be limited to whatever is the standard issue for that weapon.  Even the military does not use magazines with huge amounts of bullets, for many reasons.  The shooter at Clackamas Town Center (12.11.2012). and others who had illegally purchased high capacity magazines, had a serious weapons-jam because that type of gun and magazine are not designed for shooting large amounts of bullets.
         In the same way that I've said "a gun is a gun is a gun", I apply that to assault weapons, as well.  Yes, citizens should be entitled to own an "assault weapon", but the magazines should be restricted to no more than eight (8) rounds, which is less than many semi-auto handguns, and the same as most pump shotguns.
                                              ~         ~         ~        ~       ~


                        

Cosmic Questions

Premise:  At some time in our lives, each of us has posed at least one question for which we have never received a satisfactory reply.  Typically, the answers have been: a) inadequate, b) oblique, or c) totally non-existent.  Choice c) likely is due to the fact that it would be a waste of breath to pose the question to anyone in the first place.  So, we press on with our lives, abiding with a mild form of frustration, for want of finding that which has to be out there....somewhere in the cosmos.   A litany of the most hackneyed, or threadbare of questions would begin with offerings such as, "Why do bad things happen to good people?" Conversely, "Why do good things happen to bad people?"  Then, there is always the elementary school standby, "How high is up?"

            What follows are the contributions to this pursuit of the unanswered; as offered by our steadfast, loyal readership.  Last names have been withheld to protect the innocent.

            If the pen is mightier than the sword,  then why do actions speak louder than words?               
                                                        ~ Ben, Portland ~

            Why are Americans so obsessed with dying healthy?
                                                        ~ Peter, The Netherlands ~

            Is this all there is?
                                                        ~ Gary, Hood River, OR ~

            Why, if I am standing in the store, and change checkout lines, does it always take longer than if I had never moved?

                              ~ Tyler, Battle Ground, WA ~

             Will we ever see the transcripts?
                              ~Ben, Springfield, MO

             Why are we, as a human race, improving on obtaining and dispersing information, yet failing to meaningfully translate it into "knowledge", let alone consistently discern amid it all, truth vs. falsehood?
                                                        ~Alice, Richmond, VA ~

             When is dinner?
                                                        ~ Rees, Portland ~

             If simplifying the tax structure would save huge amounts of money, hassle, and mean reduced monitoring of the government in our lives, then why can't we have a simple flat tax?
                                                        ~ Ken, Portland ~

             Is it only a coincidence that the cars which are crowding my tailpipe, or which pass on the right at slightly under the speed of light, that such cars are red?
                                                       ~ Susan H., Portland ~

           What is Atlas kneeling on when he lifts the world?
                                                       ~ Margaret, Danville, CA ~

Do all husbands leave small change in every room of the house?
                            ~ Sarah, Fort Collins, CO ~

Astronomically speaking, what happens to missing matter?
                                                       ~ Larry, Reno NV ~

Vye is it der is so many more horses aziz in da vorld den der is horses?
                                                       ~ Al, Boise, ID ~

How did the ancient mariners know that one nautical mile would exactly equal one minute of a degree?
                                                       ~ Gaylord, Spokane, WA ~

As a train passes cows standing in a field, why are the cows always facing the train?
                                                       ~ Chuck, Portland ~

What's the big deal about thumb-sucking, anway?

                                                       ~ Cyndi, Portland ~   

Why is it that no one likes any governement except when they want something?
                                                        ~Joe, Surrey, ME ~

Now what do I do?
                                                       ~ Pat, Portland ~       

Is there life after birth?
                                                        ~ Charles, Columbia, MD


      
   

The Music of our Laughter

        Every teacher who spent as many years in front of a chalkboard as your scribe has a wealth a stories to tell; some triumphal, some tinged with sadness, and some downright laughable.  What follows is a smattering of the last.  Joy has a way of embracing laughter, and even if it can't always be that way,  joy is what life should be about.

                        "Dune Buggy", whose real-life name bears the same initials, was the designated pistol of the classroom.  It's a  given that every teacher is provided at least one; that's the administrator's solemn duty.  D.B. was a street-smart kid, knew how to play the angles,  yet likeable, in his own mischievous way.  This son of a preacher man saved most of his talent as a rabble-rouser for basketball practice.

                    During one such session, he couldn't resist baiting a lesser-talented kid, even though he himself was on the scrub-roster.  The "baitee" would blow a layup from here to eternity, and there D.B. would be, to ape and laugh at the poor kid.  His coach, namely moi, warned him not once, but twice to leave the victim of his scorn alone.  Twice he ignored.  Following his third "performance", he was banished from the court, and told to shower-down, and head for home.

                          Shortly after D.B. departed the premesis, yours truly visited the locker room,  only to discover that all the floors were dry;  not a trace of water anywhere.  It didn't take a forensic scientist to determine that the guilty party had violated a cardinal coaching rule, to wit: you practice, you play,  you must then shower!

                         The next day, before the start of class, I pulled the boy-buffoon aside, and inquired of him, "David, did you take a shower after practice last night?"  Without a waver or a blink, he looked unhasitatingly at me and said, "Yes, coach."   Hmmm.  "Then why was it that when I came in the locker room a few minutes after you left that I didn't see water anywhere, not even wet footprints?"  His reply was the most incredible of defenses: "I didn't wash my feet".  The kid, who dared to go walking on water one better, then spent a few noon hours on the gym bleachers;  pondering certain physical improbabilities.

..............................................................................................................

                  "Back to school" was something that was greeted with mixed feelings.  There was the excitement and anticipation of a fresh start, a new batch of students, and the eternal promise of a year that could be the one to top all years previous.  But, for most male teachers at the elementary level, there is a definite downside. It has to do with classroom decor.  Most guys in the profession look like total klutzes next to their female counterparts, especially when it comes to matters of bulletin board-design.   The square feet of cork , demanding to be dressed up, seems like miles of daunting and taunting for those of us who are....shall we say....artistically challenged.

              One year, I made the decision to "reduce the field of play", by purchasing some posters;  huge posters, that were big enough to cover closet doors.  There were photo-stills of sports celebrities in action that I knew would appeal to the athletes in the room.  Also purchased was a nice woodsy, environmentally-themed poster.  But the coups de grace was the portrait of a classic, maternal type; similar to Whistler's Mother, captioned with what I perceived to be words to the wise: "Express Thyself".  How could one miss with that?!

            Two days before school was to begin, a former student happend by to say "Hi", and have a look about the room.  As he was finishing his grand tour, he paused, and studied the matronly figure in the rocker.  "Coach, are you sure you want this poster?" In a Clackamas County heartbeat came the response: "Of course, I do!  It has just the right message for a caption, don't you think?!"  Billy shuffled in his shoes, and replied, "Well, I'm just not all that sure you really want that poster."  Shortly following, we parted company, and I resumed work on the finishing touches that would welcome all my kids to Mighty Room 5.
           The following day was the final prep day before summer vacation's last big weekend, and its last hurrah.  Traditionally that is  the day when the building principal passes in review of all the classrooms for a round of inspection.  Teachers aren't required to salute or stand at attention, but we'd jolly-well better be ready!
          "Dean" gave everything in my room the thorough once-over, before he, too, stopped and looked critically at the rocking madonna.  "This poster has to come down, Hal".  "Why, Dean?" was all that came to mind while being caught totally off-guard.  "It is just a picture of a lady seated in a chair with what is a very appropriate (most important term in "educationese") caption encouraging expression.  "Take another look at the woman's hands", the principal directed. 
             There, the lady pensively sat; hands resting on her lap, one atop the other.  The top-most hand was nestled open-faced, with the middle finger...... fully extended..... and.... pointing skyward.  In no more time than it took to say the verbal equivalent of "OMG", the offending poster was dispatched; never again to see the light of day.
            Came Tuesday and the first day of school, and along with all the other observances, the school secretary hand-delivered the morning bulletin.  At the bottom of the page was the following declaration by the principal: "From now on, all posters must pass an inspection by the poster inspection committee before being displayed in any classroom.  I am that committee."  The notice generated laughs, as intended,  but the edge to it was only too obvious to at least one of the faculty.
...............................................................................................................

               The first day of April is not a day teachers generally look forward to, and with good reason.  It is the day for mentors to play the victim of playful pranks, perpetrated by those who have absorbed seven months of savvy.  Savvy that goes into figuring out the behavioral patterns of the guy (or gal) behind that big desk in the front of the classroom. 

               Yours truly has been the recipient of salt and pepper-spiked molasses cookies, and whoopee cushions*; skillfully hidden on my '48 model swivel chair.   Though when it comes to out-foxing the teacher, kids tend to forget that we were once students ourselves.

               7:30 of an April 1st marked my arrival at school; as was my custom.  "Teach" wanted to get there early enough to prepare, have a cup of coffee with the colleagues, and catch up on any building gossip that was circulating.  This was THE fatal flaw in my students', "The Mighty Room 5 Rhinos", planning for my April Fool's come-uppance.  While they could peg when I would leave the building, they hadn't figured out when I'd make my return.  No student, in his right mind, ever willingly comes to school at the un-Godly hour their teacher did.

                      Waiting for my 4:00 pm exit on the thirty-first of March, they must have hovered around in stealth for the critical moment.  Then, they pulled their ploy.

                     What yours truly beheld upon his return to Room 5 on that first day of  April was a setting, totally absent  any furnishing:  student desks, teacher's desk, overhead projector and cart, paperback book rack, couch and carpet; the whole enchilada was gone.  I could almost hear my gasp, echoing in the void.

                     Footsteps were quickly retraced to the entrance, then to an empty classroom at the end of our wing.  There, the stash was discovered, every last piece the kids had "relocated" after I had left the afternoon before.  The lead custodian at our school feigned ignorance of the caper, but obligingly helped me return all the goods to their rightful place;  just as they were when the boss left the building the afternoon before.          
                    As my Rhinos filed into the classroom, the look of disbelief in their eyes was unmistakable.  It was like someone had just told them that they would all have to repeat 6th grade the following year.  Even at that age, girls can pretty well mask their feelings,  and boys of any age are as easy to read as giant billboards, but all of the kiddies were absolutely stunned.
                   Of course, their mention of any skullduggery afoot would have been an admission of collusion, at best.  One and all remained mute.  After the pledge to the flag,  the whole herd sat down in their desks, more or less meek as mice.  They were denied their April Fool's joke, and the laughing satisfaction of "a good one, well-played" on Mr. R.
                   But to carry off an academy award winning performance of my own, I had to press on with the agenda of the day as if nothing...absolutely nothing had happened that was out of the ordinary.  Not a hint of a "ha-ha", nor a smidgeon of a smirk could betray the "blissful ignorance" of my behavior.  Arugably, it was the best acting job in my entire teaching career.
                    It wasn't until I had driven off  the parking lot at the end of the day that I luxuriated in the last laugh,  a window-rattling guffaw.  From that spring day until the close of school for the summer, not a word was spoken by anyone about that April Fool's fiasco.  The kids got their "just desserts", and I had mine.

                    (*Ed note to our readership from distant lands: This prankish device functions like a bellows,  producing a sound generally associated with the W.C.)