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!