There are certain things, actions, or events which threaten to upset the equilibrium of the universe. Occasionally they are seen in real time, and they are the most threatening.
Take for instance people who drive their cars with their doggy in their lap. Just the other day I was driving home from my psychiatrist. Our meeting had resulted in a breakthrough in dealing with my anger and phobias, when I spied this SUV with a dog's head stuck out the driver's window.
I'm not an animal hater. As we all know, there are a lot of dogs out there that should be driving the cars instead of people.
The driver is--almost without exception--middle- or upper-middle class, in an upscale car or SUV. The dog is typically named Princesss or Tifffanee, or a similar gutless name. The dog eats better food than anyone in a rotting third-world nation, and lives in a nice upper-middle-class home. No drafty doghouse for our Tifffanee. Awwwww......
The canines fit a profile too: Small and professionally groomed, white or light brown, and always with a ribbon or two tied around their neck. How about a dog sweater for the dear one!? Another thing: The beloved one is likely smarter than the driver. Hey, who's the one being chauffeured?
Really, do we love our dogs so much they have to be in our laps at all speeds up to 70 miles per hour? I love my kids, but when they were little I put them in the rear seat, well restrained.
When I got home I made an emergency appointment with my shrink.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Sunday, November 16, 2014
Friends in Prison Part 2: What Life is Like Inside, and What Should be Done to Make Prisons Work Better
Having friends in prison has made me rethink what prisons are and what we use them for. Of course prisoners have virtually no freedom, and that's part of their appeal, that is, to keep these individuals away from society at large. What is life like on the inside? Even little things are big deals. Again, pseudonyms are used in this account.
It's said a man's home is his castle, but that doesn't apply to a prisoner, or even his or her own body. As I mentioned in part one, Ron's cell was tossed because I inadvertently walked through a metal detector with my cell phone on, so they went looking for lists of phone numbers in his cell. Cells are routinely inspected for contraband. Contraband can be cell phones,colored pencils, tattoo paraphernalia, drug paraphernalia, alcohol, needles, pornography, or any number of other items. No sexual materials or literature of any kind are allowed, not even the swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated. Suggestive movies or television are forbidden. There are consequences for having contraband, and these infractions earn you 'tickets'. Disobedience to an officer is another path to a ticket, and enough tickets can add up to a loss of privileges, time in solitary, or even more prison time if you don't wise up. A search of the person or his living space can occur at any time.
Ron told me that some months ago their unit was locked down with no notice, and everyone was sent to their cells. Then they were called out by face-covered dressed-in-black guards. Inmates had their hands tied behind their backs with zip ties (locking plastic straps) and made to sit cross-legged on the floor with their faces down. They were shouted at and threatened continually while their cells were turned inside out. When some complained of discomfort they were hit. After an hour and a half they were released, but left in the dark as to the what had caused this event. Several of the inmates filed complaints about their mistreatment. The result was a ticket for disobedience to an officer.
Tina told my wife about her first ticket. She had arrived at the prison as a new inmate, and when she awoke in the morning she did her toilet duties. Immediately afterward, she was summoned for a drug test. Because she wasn't able to pee, she was awarded a ticket, and a loss of privileges. In prison no reason is a good reason.
Mailing items to inmates can be difficult. Just before Christmas last year I sent some books to Ron from Amazon.com. They were sent back because (this is my understand) although Amazon sends such items via the U.S. Postal Service, when they get jammed up, (as during holidays), the postal service will subcontract package deliveries to to outfits like FedEx. However, shippers like FedEx won't deliver to a post office box, and since both Ron and Tina's prisons are post office addresses, the items were returned.
The correctional officers are a subset of people on the outside, which makes sense, since they are a part of the outside crowd. They go home every night, just like the rest of us. Some exert more power than they should, either because they can or because they operate with a cold heart. From my admittedly limited observation I would say the hard-nose types are the exception. Most of them are regular people, just doing a job, albeit one with many of society's worst. There's more of a rapport between the officers and the prisoners than one might think. Ron's unit is quite relaxed, and though structured, the relationship between guard and inmate seems respectful. That's not the case in units that hold violent offenders. Of course, I am speaking in general terms, and one bad correctional officer can poison the well for all of them.
There are two dress codes in prison. The one for the inmates is: Orange--orange shirts, orange pants, no belts. People coming to visit are welcome to wear anything they want except for anything the officers object to. My wife visiting the women's prison has been turned away for wearing a knit top (no way revealing), too low a neckline (must cover shoulders), and having clothes in an inappropriate color (passed the first time, not the second). Underwire bras are a cause for rejection because they set off the metal detectors. I've been rejected for wearing off-white shorts (too close to the guard's khaki uniforms). No glasses except prescription. I could go on for ever. Arguing with prison officials is of no value and should be avoided.
Medical treatment (or lack of) leaves much to be desired. In the book Slumber Party from Hell, author Sue Ellen Allen recounts how her roommate suffered and complained of terrible pain to the officers and the medical staff, only to be repeatedly rejected and sent back to her cell. She died of breast cancer within weeks. Ron told me of an inmate who complained of chest pains and shortness of breath. The officers were were called and dithered about, and finally sent him to a unit with a working EKG machine. The medical staff determined it wasn't a heart attack and sent him back to his unit. Later that day, he again complained of chest pains, but since the medical team had already gone home, he was told he would have to wait until morning. Around 4:30 a.m. an inmate found him on the floor of a toilet stall. He died of a heart attack on the way to the hospital.
There are two recent books on life inside a prison, both by women who have served time. Orange is the New Black by Piper Kerman is a memoir about her time in the federal correctional institute in Danbury Connecticut (read the book, don't bother with the television series). The other, less known but an excellent read, is the aforementioned Slumber Party from Hell in which Sue Ellen recounts her six-year stretch in the women's prison in Goodyear, Arizona (Perryville). Both books are a worthy read and give a glimpse into the frustrations of the incarcerated.
So what's the point of all of this? Hey, I'm a conservative Republican, and I'm not soft on crime. I believe in long sentences for violent offenders, and for that crowd I'm not big on 'second chances'. I also believe the death penalty, properly applied, is of great value. In fact I would argue that it be expanded to include those found guilty of rape. But I especially believe that right is right and wrong is wrong, and after having read the books and heard the stories, I know there needs to be reform in our prison system. In their present configuration, prisons breed hopelessness and despair, and in the long term that is neither good for the inmate or society.
Prison should do what they are presently not doing: Allow for prisoners to be rehabilitated and make restitution. Therefore, I propose the following reforms:
--Prisoners should have access to proper medical care, not band-aid service.
--Punishment to fit the crime, i.e., non-violent or white-collar criminals should be given shorter in-house sentences and then be returned to society with appropriate electronic monitoring restraints and be made to make restitution to their victims. This will allow those who have abilities to be useful to society and be far less disruptive to the families of both the offender and his or her victims.
--Find businesses in the community who are willing to hire those who are newly released, along with perhaps a subsidy or a tax break, so these people aren't turned loose with no place to go.
--Prisoners must be allowed to have computer time and be able to access appropriate internet services. Of course, inappropriate sites would be blocked. By allowing inmates such access, they will be much more able to fit into the world they are returning to. Many prisons lack any computer access for inmates. Yes, this might be difficult, but it can be done.
--Education is a must, and inmates should be allowed to take mail-order or computer courses from colleges and universities or trade schools.
--A mandatory savings account for all prisoners, taken as a percentage of what they earn or are given while in prison. I propose this not only for short-sentence people but also for long term. A large number of freed inmates end up back inside because they leave prison nearly broke; they have little choice except to violate. This gives the prisoner a leg up on his or her return to society. If an inmate dies while inside, the money could be given to a relative, a victim, or a charity.
Prisons are a fact of life in every country in the world. They probably work as well or better in the United States as anywhere, but even here they are far from perfect--or even good. I am a big proponent of 'better and cheaper.' I believe we can do better and cheaper with our prison population. It will be a win for the people who have served their time, and it will also be a win for society. It's worth a try.
Wednesday, November 5, 2014
Epitaphs
My wife's oldest sister died last week. Janice had a stroke on Saturday and by Wednesday she was gone. It was a shock. She will be greatly missed by our family.
When my mom died in 1999, I decided to say some appropriate things at the graveside service. For inspiration I visited the cemetery where she would be buried. It was and is rather unkempt, weedy and overgrown--the kind of cemetery I prefer. Kind of a back-to-nature place.
While walking among the monuments I noticed the gravestone of a young boy. He had died in the 1880's at around 10 years old. It didn't say how he lost his life, but many of the young were taken by disease in those days.
In my mind's eye I could see a line of carriages coming up the dusty road led by the horse-drawn hearse. I saw the mourners dressed in black gathered at the tomb saying their goodbyes. I could see it. And then it was 1999 again.
Inscribed on the granite was the boy's name and his dates, and beneath them was inscribed the promise for which those of us who believe await: "Safe in the Arms of Jesus".
That child is over 125 years gone, but that hope and that promise remains to this day for those of us who know Christ.
When my mom died in 1999, I decided to say some appropriate things at the graveside service. For inspiration I visited the cemetery where she would be buried. It was and is rather unkempt, weedy and overgrown--the kind of cemetery I prefer. Kind of a back-to-nature place.
While walking among the monuments I noticed the gravestone of a young boy. He had died in the 1880's at around 10 years old. It didn't say how he lost his life, but many of the young were taken by disease in those days.
In my mind's eye I could see a line of carriages coming up the dusty road led by the horse-drawn hearse. I saw the mourners dressed in black gathered at the tomb saying their goodbyes. I could see it. And then it was 1999 again.
Inscribed on the granite was the boy's name and his dates, and beneath them was inscribed the promise for which those of us who believe await: "Safe in the Arms of Jesus".
That child is over 125 years gone, but that hope and that promise remains to this day for those of us who know Christ.
Monday, September 29, 2014
Friends in Prison--Part One: The Power of the Judicial System
No one gives much thought to prisons--unless you're in one or know someone who is. People like you and me don't end up in prison. Prisons are where bad people go--society's rejects. Everyone inside deserves to be there, and that keeps the rest of us safe. The less heard or seen of the inmates the better.
Clear cut.
That was me six years ago, but I've changed my mind. Now Mr. Middle Class has friends in prison, and all the 'clear-cut' in me is long gone. I now see things through different eyes--theirs. Until Ron and his wife Tina (pseudonyms) got caught up in the machine legal system, I always assumed that everyone was truly "presumed innocent until proven guilty." If you went to trial and were found innocent, you went free. If not, you served your sentence and then you could rejoin society, get a job, and all was well. If you were a repeat offender you went back inside.
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| Perryville Women's Prison, Goodyear Arizona |
Logical.
About once a month I drive the 90 miles from my home to the Arizona State Prison Complex in Florence, Arizona to see my friend Ron. Ron and his wife Tina were members of our church. They got into some legal difficulties, and he is now serving a twelve-year prison sentence. She is serving seventeen years in the women's prison for women (Perryville) in Goodyear, Arizona. Fortunately, Goodyear is close to our home, which makes visiting easier for my wife. Neither of us can visit the other prisoner. No one can visit two different prisoners.
Ron has an engineering degree from a prestigious west-coast university and held a responsible position in a nearby city. Tina was a full-time homemaker who home schooled their two natural children. Both were law-abiding citizens with no past history of crime. None.
They had two boys, but they wanted more children, so they decided to adopt four small sisters that were in the CPS system who came from a severely abusive, dysfunctional background. The youngest was four years old and was very difficult, and although child protective services was kept informed of these difficulties, and the methods being used by Ron and Tina in trying to discipline her, there was an incident and they were arrested and accused of child abuse. The rest reads like a horror story because it is a horror story: The state tried to persuade Ron to divorce Tina, and testify against her. In turn they would grant him probation, and Tina would receive a five-year sentence. In addition they would have to relinquish parental rights to their natural children. Believing in their own innocence, they decided to take their case before a jury and risk a full-blown conviction. At this point, child protective services asked for a hearing and tried to persuade the judge to sever their parental rights before their trial. Had the judge agreed to sever their rights (he did not), they would have lost all rights to their children forever--even if at trial they were found innocent. Such is the power of the government. The mandate of child protective services is to look after and protect at risk children, as their title implies. But in my opinion, that mandate often devolves into their trying to look good when they screw up. To them, an accusation amounts to guilt. The only hope for someone accused in a CPS crossfire is to have an expensive and skillful attorney, which most people can't afford.
I now understand that "innocent until proven guilty" is a rather empty term. Police don't arrest people they think are innocent, and the courts don't prosecute people unless they think they have a reasonable chance of conviction. Their jobs are to convict suspects using all the power and resources of the state.
It's estimated that about six percent of prisoners are serving time for crimes they did not commit. Until recently I would have disputed this, but I've seen first hand the power the state possesses, and their willingness to ignore evidence and facts which might prove a person innocent, and additionally a willingness to embellish or ignore evidence where it advances their case.
Some people are in prison because they are technically guilty. Ron tells me of one inmate who was living with his 17 year old girlfriend--with her parent's consent. While they were together she became pregnant and had a child. Eventually the relationship withered, and they went their separate ways. Eventually she married someone else, and years later brought charges of statutory rape against him. He was convicted and sent to prison. I'm not defending the relationship, but one can see that in such cases there can be mitigating cirucumstances.
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| Perryville Women's Prison: Chain Link and Concrete Gray |
The system does well at bringing people to court, and prisons do a good job of locking people up, but they do a poor job of rehabilitation. Prisons are the most dehumanizing institutions on the planet. They are, simply stated, people warehouses. But that's a story for a future article.
Sunday, August 17, 2014
Requiem for Robin Williams
With great sadness I heard the news of Robin Williams' death. Like so many comedians he used his humor as a barrier to fend off the demons that milled about outside his door--perhaps as an unsuccessful cry for help. I didn't actually care for his humor, but there was something of a connection through my daughter and son-in-law who were acquainted with him in Marin County, California.
I remember a snippet of an interview on, I believe, 60 Minutes some years ago when he was asked why he was the way he was, why he was so frenetic. His answer went something like "It's more fun to pretend than to live in the real world."
John Lennon once said "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans". Perhaps the saying might be changed a bit to "Life is what happens while you're busy trying to keep the demons away from the door."
We all have our means of coping with diversions: Toys, drugs, sex, travel. Others through work. Some dodges work better than others, but the demons are always at the door. For some they tap gently; for others they beat with hammers. Robin heard hammers.
Robin had family, friends, wealth,everything that we are told makes life worth living, but everything wasn't enough: "For what shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his soul?"
I shall miss him.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
The Franklin Auto Museum
We recently took a trip from our home in Phoenix to Tucson, Arizona to spend couple nights at the Ventana Canyon Inn, to relax and do some shopping and some tourist kinds of things. I've always wanted to tour the Franklin Automobile Museum, but for one reason or another I've missed going. This year I made the connection. Actually, we made the connection, as my vivacious wife accompanied me, but then of course I had to go shopping with her. It's a marriage thing, you know, and it works.
The museum is small and relatively unknown, and it's tucked away in--of all places--a residential area. Even some of the neighbors don't know they're neighbors to a museum. The website said they were closed in the summer, but it also noted that one might call "for other arrangements". So using that as my cue I called and left my phone number on the answering machine. I didn't expect a reply, but early the next day (Saturday) the curator called and said he was going to be on the property, and "Would we like to take a tour?" provided we didn't mind the air conditioning being off in the summer. And so off we went.
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| An Early Franklin with a Renault-Style Hood |
Outside of antique and classic car fans, few people are aware there was a car produced called the Franklin. My earliest encounter with the make was as a kid in the 1950's. Just north of our little town in Washington State was a gravel pit, and therein was the bullet-riddled corpse of a Franklin sedan along with its engine. My dad told me that that engine was what made the Franklin unique, because instead of a water-cooled engine, which most manufacturers used, Franklin used a system of forced-air which kept the motor from reaching critical mass. Air-cooling was relatively rare in cars (and still is), but Franklin engineers figured out how to make it work, even with a relatively large engine.
The Franklin was produced in Syracuse, NY between 1902 and 1934. They were quite technologically advanced, and besides their unique air-cooled engines, they introduced a number of other firsts, including the use of aluminum engine components, aluminum bodies (most builders used steel) and the utilization of fully-elliptical springs for suspension, which gave them a better ride than most cars of the day. If you're wondering if Franklins were expensive, you wonder correctly. A deluxe 1930 Ford cost maybe $500; a big Franklin could run as high as $3500.
Like many upscale cars of the 1920's and early '30's, Franklins relied on outside body manufacturers for many of their vehicles. They had standard designs of course, but many of the bodies were made by custom body builders and were one-offs. The metal bodies were internally braced with hardwood frames (a common practice in those days), and that accounts for the relatively low number of survivors. The effects of wind, rain, snow, and summer heat as well as normal wear and tear from driving on the rough roads of the '20's and '30's, took their toll on the hardwood. Unless babied, most car bodies got pretty limber after a few years.
There are about thirty cars in the museum, including a smattering of non-Franklin makes. Most of them are restored, but there are a number of unrestored, running survivors. In fact, almost all of the cars in the museum are operating vehicles. Our guide Sparky was very knowledgeable and even started one of them for us. I expected it to sound like a jet because of that large cooling blower moving all that air, but I was surprised at how smooth and quiet it was. Those Franklin boys knew their stuff.
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| This '32 Open Sedan Was Striking with its Teal Green Fenders and Second Windscreen at the Rear Seat |
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| ThisV-12 Dual-Cowl Touring Sedan is the Only Franklin in the Museum that Wasn't Manufactured by Franklin |
The Franklin Museum was instituted by the late Thomas Hubbard, whose foundation perpetuates the Museum. Mr. Hubbard was from Massachusetts and came west to work for the Magma Copper Company. After leaving there he restored his first car in the early 1950's and did a number of restorations over the years, including some for the Bill Harrah collection. The Franklin collection continued to grow, and after Mr. Hubbard passed away in 1993, the foundation took over the reins.
The museum collection numbers approximately thirty cars of all body types, from coupes to roadsters to the limo. The museum is well laid out and the cars, though they are somewhat confined by limited space, are well displayed. Unlike many museums where the cars are cordoned off, you can get up close and really look them over--although it is understandably a "don't touch" proposition. The grounds are also the home of a Franklin research library for restorers.
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| Thanks to Sparky who Took Us on a Personal Tour Through the Museum |
franklinmuseum.org, and the phone number is (520) 326-8038. Take a few hours next time you make it to Tucson and get a look at a very nice collection of elegant American Iron. For $10 a head--or less--you can't go wrong.
Friday, July 4, 2014
Why We Need the Second Amendment
"A well-regulated militia being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms shall not be infringed."
The possession of arms by the private citizen is not only for defense against aggresive acts by criminals, but also as a hedge against unwarranted and/or unconstitutional acts by their own government. Some have argued that since the government (or, the "state") is so powerful, any opposition to it would be suicidal. I don't agree.
(I am somewhat reluctant to post this. I've worked long on this article, trying my best to keep it rational and moderate. There may be some on both sides of this debate who will try to misconstrue what I am trying to say. I hope my comments are not taken "unadvisedly or lightly...[but rather] advisedly and soberly...").
The citizen should retain the ability to make the government carefully consider its actions. If the difference between being armed and not being armed persuades the government to be prudent and judicious, then we as citizens must not cede that power to the government.
I once believed our nation would benefit if private ownership of guns was outlawed or severely restricted. My rationale: If the kids can't play nice with their toys, the toys must be put away. But over time I realized I was not only wrong--I was dangerously wrong. That line of reasoning presupposes that every armed citizen is a potential criminal, and that the state always acts lawfully and virtuously. Both suppositions are wrong, and therefore I am unwilling to cede such power to the government.
Now, don't misread what I'm saying. I am not an anti-law, anti-government type. I am not a survivalist. The citizen must also tread lightly and carefully consider his actions. Possession of firearms must not be used as an excuse for lawlessness.
I don't anticipate a day that government forces will come to my house, and kick in the door, but the line between a free state and a police state is thin and fragile, and disarming law-abiding citizens moves the former a large step closer to the latter.
The founding fathers were wise to write and include the second amendment to the constitution. They were certainly aware of the difficulties and injustices presented by an overreaching government, because they were dealing with an overreaching government--that of England. They recognized that threats to freedom can come not only from outside our borders, but also from within. So far, on this planet--in this nation--the ability to defend ourselves with arms is guaranteed not just by a document, but also by an armed citizenry with the potential to give weight to that document.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
Remote Car Keys
Life used to be so simple. Now it isn't. For instance, when I was a kid, and you wanted a Coke, you went to the store and you bought a Coke. There was no Diet Coke, no Coke Zero, no Cherry Coke, no Cherry Coke Zero, etc., etc. And Coke came in a proper glass bottle, as mandated from the beginning of the universe.
So it was with car keys. You own a Chevy? You get a Chevy key, and there was just one kind.
But not no more.
A couple months ago I took my car to the local car wash. They ran it through, and when they had dried it they called me out with a big smile, and said good bye. Gave the guy a tip! All well and good, except when I went to start the car I realized someone had broken the plastic head off the key, the plastic part with the remote door and trunk buttons on it. It was just dangling there.
Me: "Hey, my key is broken. You guys broke my key".
Car wash guy: "No, it was already broken"
Me: "No, you broke it. Where's the manager?"
Guy: "Who?"
Well, I finally corralled the manager and then this:
Me: "Your guys broke my key."
Him: "No they didn't."
Me: "OK then why didn't they tell me it was broken when they got in to run the car through the wash?"
Him: "It's a bad design. They break easily."
Me: "It's a good design, your guys broke it."
Him: "I think you can glue it."
Me: "Not interested. I want a new key."
Him: "I can't authorize a new key."
Me: "Then I want to talk to the general manager."
Him: "Who?"
Which is what I did. The general manager (who is clear across town), after making 'tear your hair out' sounds on the phone, said to find out how much it costs, and then we'll see. So I went to Toyota, and that key is $200 just for the key blank and the little shell that holds the electronic gizmo that makes the door open. Made me wish I was in the car key business.
So I sent the general manager a letter with all the information and the estimate paper, but I guess he wasn't all that excited about replacing a $200 key, because a couple weeks went by, and no word. I called again and left a message which he didn't return. I sent another letter asking when this would be resolved, and still no answer. Finally I sent a registered letter and gave him a deadline, and--nothing. So as a last resort I sent all my information over to the Better Business Bureau and the general manager finally sent me a check for $200.
Didn't end there. After some looking on the internet I found an aftermarket key was available online for about fifteen bucks. Now, that's more like it! Sent for it, and took it to a locksmith to be cut. They cut it for a buck, and I walked out to the car, happy as a kid with a bag of Skittles, and pushed the unlock button. Worked fine, got in, stuck it in the ignition. Turned in the ignition without any hesitation. Did everything it was supposed to except: Start the motor. Opened the doors, opened the trunk, turned in the ignition, and cranked the motor.
But no start.
So I took the damn thing apart (the key, not the motor) and discovered a tiny little compartment inside the new shell I hadn't noticed before. The space was empty, but in the old one, there was something glued in it. And if I held the old key shell next to the new key shell, the engine would start. Had to be some sort of chip to make the car start. So after about 20 minutes of cutting, grinding, shaving, and peeling the old key shell, I managed to dig that little demon chip out and install it in the new key shell. Worked fine--and it was so easy!! Gaaaah!
As a reward to myself for navigating this purgatory, I went to the store and bought myself a Diet Coke.
So it was with car keys. You own a Chevy? You get a Chevy key, and there was just one kind.
But not no more.
A couple months ago I took my car to the local car wash. They ran it through, and when they had dried it they called me out with a big smile, and said good bye. Gave the guy a tip! All well and good, except when I went to start the car I realized someone had broken the plastic head off the key, the plastic part with the remote door and trunk buttons on it. It was just dangling there.
Me: "Hey, my key is broken. You guys broke my key".
Car wash guy: "No, it was already broken"
Me: "No, you broke it. Where's the manager?"
Guy: "Who?"
Well, I finally corralled the manager and then this:
Me: "Your guys broke my key."
Him: "No they didn't."
Me: "OK then why didn't they tell me it was broken when they got in to run the car through the wash?"
Him: "It's a bad design. They break easily."
Me: "It's a good design, your guys broke it."
Him: "I think you can glue it."
Me: "Not interested. I want a new key."
Him: "I can't authorize a new key."
Me: "Then I want to talk to the general manager."
Him: "Who?"
Which is what I did. The general manager (who is clear across town), after making 'tear your hair out' sounds on the phone, said to find out how much it costs, and then we'll see. So I went to Toyota, and that key is $200 just for the key blank and the little shell that holds the electronic gizmo that makes the door open. Made me wish I was in the car key business.
So I sent the general manager a letter with all the information and the estimate paper, but I guess he wasn't all that excited about replacing a $200 key, because a couple weeks went by, and no word. I called again and left a message which he didn't return. I sent another letter asking when this would be resolved, and still no answer. Finally I sent a registered letter and gave him a deadline, and--nothing. So as a last resort I sent all my information over to the Better Business Bureau and the general manager finally sent me a check for $200.
Didn't end there. After some looking on the internet I found an aftermarket key was available online for about fifteen bucks. Now, that's more like it! Sent for it, and took it to a locksmith to be cut. They cut it for a buck, and I walked out to the car, happy as a kid with a bag of Skittles, and pushed the unlock button. Worked fine, got in, stuck it in the ignition. Turned in the ignition without any hesitation. Did everything it was supposed to except: Start the motor. Opened the doors, opened the trunk, turned in the ignition, and cranked the motor.
But no start.
So I took the damn thing apart (the key, not the motor) and discovered a tiny little compartment inside the new shell I hadn't noticed before. The space was empty, but in the old one, there was something glued in it. And if I held the old key shell next to the new key shell, the engine would start. Had to be some sort of chip to make the car start. So after about 20 minutes of cutting, grinding, shaving, and peeling the old key shell, I managed to dig that little demon chip out and install it in the new key shell. Worked fine--and it was so easy!! Gaaaah!
As a reward to myself for navigating this purgatory, I went to the store and bought myself a Diet Coke.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Vacationing In a Lighthouse, Part II
Late last year (2013) I wrote that we were planning to go to Washington State in April to vacation as lighthouse keepers at the New Dungeness Lighthouse. Now I write to tell you of our experience.
The friends we had planned to go with had conflicts and couldn't make the trip, so it ended up being just my wife and myself. Because of the logistics involved in flying to Seattle from Phoenix, then renting a car and driving from the airport to the Olympic Peninsula, we decided to drive the 1700 miles to Washington. We have relatives all along the Pacific Coast, so we were able to freeload off them the whole way, and we were also able to see our grandson.
After a few day's travel we arrived at the assembly station just outside of the town of Sequim, Washington where we met our fellow keepers for the first time: Dean and his daughter Krystal from eastern Washington, and Dean's older brother David, from Vancouver. Dean--who bears a striking resemblance to Jack Nicholson--is the unofficial historian of the lighthouse, so we spent the week well informed.
We were driven from the assembly station to the base of the Dungeness Spit and then along the steep, rocky beach in the association's four-wheel-drive vehicles. The spit itself is an oddity of nature. It's a narrow strip of sand and logs and rocks created by tidal action which extends out into the Straits of Juan de Fuca for over five miles. The lighthouse is at the far end of this finger The drive must be made at low tide; otherwise it's impassable. If you're not a keeper--you walk.
The lighthouse looks like a tiny chess piece in the distance when you start out, but it slowly grows as you get closer, and after a drive of about 20 minutes, you're there.
The lighthouse has a long history. It was built in 1857, and originally all the keepers and their families were housed in the main building. A residence house was built in 1904 to facilitate additional keepers and their families, and this is where present day keepers stay. The tower was originally over 90 feet tall, but cracks were discovered in the structure in the 1930's, so it was reduced to about 65 feet tall. Over the years a number of other structures have come and gone, like the fog horn building, a dock for ships to land provisions, and an observation tower built during World War II. The foundations for these and other structures remain, although the buildings themselves are long gone.
The keepers in the earliest days led a lifestyle divided somewhere between ho-hum routine and once-in-a-while terror, what with days of relative calm giving way to violent storms and the like. In the 1860's they were unwilling witnesses to a bloody battle on the spit between rival Indian tribes, which left the losing tribe massacred, save for one woman who was able to make her way to the lighthouse.
Storms occasionally wash over the spit, leaving the lighthouse on a temporary island. And of course, every so often somebody runs a boat or a ship aground.
About twenty years ago the Coast Guard decided to board up the buildings and mechanize the light. Fortunately, an agreement was reached with the newly-formed New Dungeness Lighthouse Association to operate the light and maintain the grounds, and so it has been to this day. It has been a good arrangement which has kept the facility free from vandalism.
This was our first turn as lighthouse keepers, but not our first visit. We hiked out in 1997 on an anniversary trip, and I made the trek with friends in 1961 as a twelve-year-old, my signature in the Coast Guard log book bearing witness.
Our time there in April was rather chilly for us Arizonans, but we did fine. We got a lot of reading done, as well as walking and talking. The comfortable and nicely-furnished house has one bedroom on the ground floor, two upstairs and yet another in the basement. A small library and reading room upstairs is well stocked with books of all kinds--including not a few about lighthouses. There are puzzles and games for those so inclined, and the basement has a pool table. The kitchen is spacious and modern, with all sorts of gadgets and utensils. If you go hungry, it's only because you're on a diet, or you didn't bring enough food.
Our stay passed quickly, and I don't say that lightly, as I am easily bored. But there's so much to take in and to do. In the span of seven short days we observed seals and whales and a variety of birds, including bald eagles. Ships large and small pass day and night, and identifying them is interesting pastime. The whole spit is a wildlife refuge and bald eagles are very common, as are many varieties of shorebirds. We spotted a whale one day, as well as seals and although we didn't observe any, skunks, foxes and otters are occasionally seen.
Magical and timeless--that's the best description I can give. The property is well documented in photographs, and it's a joy to gaze at a century-plus of photos of the keepers and their families, as well as handprints and initials and dates pressed into the cement in various places on the grounds. Now we're a part of that lineage.
Our duties included giving tours of the lighthouse, and maintaining the building and grounds. There was some brass to polish, a rather large lawn to mow, and a bit of housekeeping, but nothing too strenuous or time consuming.
There's a signpost near the beach which greets visitors as they come onto the property. One sign points back to the mainland, and says 'reality'. the other points towards the lighthouse, and it is marked 'serenity'. I suppose that sums up the essence of the place. But I came close to finding a hammer and making both signs point towards the light; and that about sums it up.
.
 |
| The New Dungeness Lighthouse |
The friends we had planned to go with had conflicts and couldn't make the trip, so it ended up being just my wife and myself. Because of the logistics involved in flying to Seattle from Phoenix, then renting a car and driving from the airport to the Olympic Peninsula, we decided to drive the 1700 miles to Washington. We have relatives all along the Pacific Coast, so we were able to freeload off them the whole way, and we were also able to see our grandson.
After a few day's travel we arrived at the assembly station just outside of the town of Sequim, Washington where we met our fellow keepers for the first time: Dean and his daughter Krystal from eastern Washington, and Dean's older brother David, from Vancouver. Dean--who bears a striking resemblance to Jack Nicholson--is the unofficial historian of the lighthouse, so we spent the week well informed.
We were driven from the assembly station to the base of the Dungeness Spit and then along the steep, rocky beach in the association's four-wheel-drive vehicles. The spit itself is an oddity of nature. It's a narrow strip of sand and logs and rocks created by tidal action which extends out into the Straits of Juan de Fuca for over five miles. The lighthouse is at the far end of this finger The drive must be made at low tide; otherwise it's impassable. If you're not a keeper--you walk.
The lighthouse looks like a tiny chess piece in the distance when you start out, but it slowly grows as you get closer, and after a drive of about 20 minutes, you're there.
 |
| A View Towards the Mainland From the Lantern Room |
The keepers in the earliest days led a lifestyle divided somewhere between ho-hum routine and once-in-a-while terror, what with days of relative calm giving way to violent storms and the like. In the 1860's they were unwilling witnesses to a bloody battle on the spit between rival Indian tribes, which left the losing tribe massacred, save for one woman who was able to make her way to the lighthouse.
Storms occasionally wash over the spit, leaving the lighthouse on a temporary island. And of course, every so often somebody runs a boat or a ship aground.
About twenty years ago the Coast Guard decided to board up the buildings and mechanize the light. Fortunately, an agreement was reached with the newly-formed New Dungeness Lighthouse Association to operate the light and maintain the grounds, and so it has been to this day. It has been a good arrangement which has kept the facility free from vandalism.
This was our first turn as lighthouse keepers, but not our first visit. We hiked out in 1997 on an anniversary trip, and I made the trek with friends in 1961 as a twelve-year-old, my signature in the Coast Guard log book bearing witness.
 |
| The Author Holding the Lighthouse Log Book Which He Signed in 1961 on His First Visit |
Our stay passed quickly, and I don't say that lightly, as I am easily bored. But there's so much to take in and to do. In the span of seven short days we observed seals and whales and a variety of birds, including bald eagles. Ships large and small pass day and night, and identifying them is interesting pastime. The whole spit is a wildlife refuge and bald eagles are very common, as are many varieties of shorebirds. We spotted a whale one day, as well as seals and although we didn't observe any, skunks, foxes and otters are occasionally seen.
Magical and timeless--that's the best description I can give. The property is well documented in photographs, and it's a joy to gaze at a century-plus of photos of the keepers and their families, as well as handprints and initials and dates pressed into the cement in various places on the grounds. Now we're a part of that lineage.
Our duties included giving tours of the lighthouse, and maintaining the building and grounds. There was some brass to polish, a rather large lawn to mow, and a bit of housekeeping, but nothing too strenuous or time consuming.
 |
| One of Many Ships Which Make their Way Through The Straits of Juan de Fuca |
.
Tuesday, March 18, 2014
Pit Bulls Are Dangerous Animals
Just this past week it happened again--a pitbull attacked a child at a daycare center, and chewed her up so badly it will take many surgeries to repair damage that included broken facial bones and lacerations.
I don't know what's worse--owning a dog that was a known killer (it had killed a neighborhood dog just months earlier), or an owner that was stupid enough to have an animal like that in a daycare setting.
I know what some of you will say: "You just don't understand the breed", or "They weren't handled/trained well by their owner" or, "The dog had never showed any aggresiveness before." Well, that's all well and good, but pitbulls account for the vast majority of dog-related deaths in the United States.
The website dogsbite.org give statistics that are frightening: During the period between 2005 and 2013, pitbulls killed 176 American citizens, or about one person every 18.6 days. The next most vicious breed were rottweilers, who in that same time period accounted for 33 deaths during the same period. From January 2006 through December 2008, pitbulls were responsible for 59 percent of all dog-related deaths--despite the fact that they account for only 6% of the dog population.
So, you think the problem is with some poor bloke wandering onto someone's property that owns a pitbull? Well, there is that (though I have trouble understanding why anyone would care to keep a lethal weapon like that roaming a yard), but 18 percent of all dog attacks happen off the owner's property, and of those deadly attacks, pitbulls were responsible for more than four of five fatalities.
No thinking person would allow an aggressive, unstable person to walk around his front yard or in the street waving a loaded gun at neighbors, but somehow a "pet" with the same potential is given a pass.
I think that pitbull owners are either simple-minded or are living out a power trip. I don't care that they are someone's pet who has "never been aggressive". They are a menace to society, and they should be severely--severely--controlled or eliminated. My position: See a pitbull roaming free, call the cops. See a pitbull attacking another animal or a human, shoot to kill.
After that comes the lawsuit.
I don't know what's worse--owning a dog that was a known killer (it had killed a neighborhood dog just months earlier), or an owner that was stupid enough to have an animal like that in a daycare setting.
I know what some of you will say: "You just don't understand the breed", or "They weren't handled/trained well by their owner" or, "The dog had never showed any aggresiveness before." Well, that's all well and good, but pitbulls account for the vast majority of dog-related deaths in the United States.
The website dogsbite.org give statistics that are frightening: During the period between 2005 and 2013, pitbulls killed 176 American citizens, or about one person every 18.6 days. The next most vicious breed were rottweilers, who in that same time period accounted for 33 deaths during the same period. From January 2006 through December 2008, pitbulls were responsible for 59 percent of all dog-related deaths--despite the fact that they account for only 6% of the dog population.
So, you think the problem is with some poor bloke wandering onto someone's property that owns a pitbull? Well, there is that (though I have trouble understanding why anyone would care to keep a lethal weapon like that roaming a yard), but 18 percent of all dog attacks happen off the owner's property, and of those deadly attacks, pitbulls were responsible for more than four of five fatalities.
No thinking person would allow an aggressive, unstable person to walk around his front yard or in the street waving a loaded gun at neighbors, but somehow a "pet" with the same potential is given a pass.
I think that pitbull owners are either simple-minded or are living out a power trip. I don't care that they are someone's pet who has "never been aggressive". They are a menace to society, and they should be severely--severely--controlled or eliminated. My position: See a pitbull roaming free, call the cops. See a pitbull attacking another animal or a human, shoot to kill.
After that comes the lawsuit.
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Unconventional Believers
A few months ago I gave money to a homeless guy who was soliciting funds at an intersection in Tempe. A while back I gave some money to a young woman at a freeway onramp. And last week I gave money to Mike, a worn-out guy who shows up from time-to-time at 35th Avenue and Interstate 10.
I wasn't always generous towards the homeless, used to pass them up regularly with the idea they should 'get a job'. So why do I mention this? Will I be remembered as being generous to the poor? Probably not; an occasional buck or two or five isn't going to gain me any measure of recognition. But it did make me think about those who are not like me.
Many people survive under difficult circumstances. Some of the body of Christ live on the streets. Not all of us are middle-class Americans, with green lawns and Toyotas. It reminded me of the story Jesus told in Luke chapter 16 about Lazarus the beggar and the rich man who lived only for himself.
Lazarus was a homeless man who survived by begging at the city gate. If Lazarus was living today he'd be camped on a freeway overpass somewhere in Phoenix or some other big city with a cardboard sign that would say, "Need work/Vietnam Vet/God Bless". Just another bum to many of us.
But when Lazarus died, he went to what's described as "Abraham's side". The other guy in the story, the man with the lawn and a Lexus and status wound up in hell.
I'm not here to diss people with a green lawn and a Toyota or a Lexus (since I am one of them--minus the Lexus), but to draw attention to those people whom we perceive as not having value or merit, who are unvalued in this world. Next time you dismiss someone who is down and out by the side of the road, remember Lazarus. Not much to look at, probably smelled, but he was God's child. Sure, some of these folks are on the take, or they may have made decisions that landed them out there. But let God work that out. Be generous in the name of Christ.
I wasn't always generous towards the homeless, used to pass them up regularly with the idea they should 'get a job'. So why do I mention this? Will I be remembered as being generous to the poor? Probably not; an occasional buck or two or five isn't going to gain me any measure of recognition. But it did make me think about those who are not like me.
Many people survive under difficult circumstances. Some of the body of Christ live on the streets. Not all of us are middle-class Americans, with green lawns and Toyotas. It reminded me of the story Jesus told in Luke chapter 16 about Lazarus the beggar and the rich man who lived only for himself.
Lazarus was a homeless man who survived by begging at the city gate. If Lazarus was living today he'd be camped on a freeway overpass somewhere in Phoenix or some other big city with a cardboard sign that would say, "Need work/Vietnam Vet/God Bless". Just another bum to many of us.
But when Lazarus died, he went to what's described as "Abraham's side". The other guy in the story, the man with the lawn and a Lexus and status wound up in hell.
I'm not here to diss people with a green lawn and a Toyota or a Lexus (since I am one of them--minus the Lexus), but to draw attention to those people whom we perceive as not having value or merit, who are unvalued in this world. Next time you dismiss someone who is down and out by the side of the road, remember Lazarus. Not much to look at, probably smelled, but he was God's child. Sure, some of these folks are on the take, or they may have made decisions that landed them out there. But let God work that out. Be generous in the name of Christ.
Monday, February 10, 2014
The Lessons of Willbank's Well
I've made a number of trips with friends deep into the deserts of Arizona, to mines that went bust, to abandoned mountaintop observatories, and to ghost towns, and I always come back knowing I'm hopelessly spoiled. I drive to these places in my modern four-wheel-drive vehicle, equipped with a two-way radio and air conditioning. Such comforts detract from the rugged macho image I am trying desperately to project. The ranchers and miners of past years had no such dilemma. They traveled in horse-drawn wagons--at best--and worked much of the time with hand tools in the hot, dusty desert or in dangerous dirty mines, and afterwards came home to a shack and a plate of cold beans. I admire their grit.
Our objective (January, 2014) in the Kofa Wilderness in western Arizona was Wilbanks Well, home to a family of the same name, that operated a cattle ranch from the 1930's forward. We had visited the wilderness some months before in March, 2013, going to the abandoned homstead of the Hovatter family. The Hovatters were miners that operated a manganese mine in the area from the 1940's until the early 1970's. Except for a few graves and the remains of the arboretum on which Mrs. Hovatter toiled there's little left of their compound. An explosion from a leaky propane tank in the late 1960's killed one of their daughters, severely burned another, and not long afterward they gave it up.
Though rough and bumpy by city standards, the road we traveled to the Hovatter digs wasn't bad. Since this was in the same general area, some in our group thought this trip might be "boring". It wasn't.
After departing the waypoint of Kofa Cabin, a few miles south of I-10 we got our first surprise--more roads than were mapped, and no way to know which to follow. After a short hesitation we applied Yogi Berra's timeless advice: "When you come to a fork in the road, take it." We turned left, and by luck of the draw it was the right choice.
If one is headed to Willbanks Well, logic would seem to dictate taking Willbanks Road. Although correct (actually there are two ways in; more on that in a moment), it was by far a more difficult trip than the Hovatter run. The map registered landmarks that were hard to discern, sometimes not evident at all. Straying a bit we went up Alamo Wash, and a wrong turn took us to nowhere. With some difficulty, we got turned around and found the trail a half mile to the rear and up a rocky hill, which even in four-wheel-drive took some engineering and guidance on the part of my son Mark. Progress was slow, and I began to wonder if we would have enough daylight to make it all the way through, but we had by then entered Bighorn Pass, and we were beyond the halfway mark (I might have said, "point of no return", but that sounds, you know, kind of like "dead").
Some people think the desert to be dull and uninteresting. Maybe it's because they're dull and uninteresting. Rugged, colorful, arrogant and unforgiving, but never dull; never uninteresting. Bighorn Pass is a spectacle, with ragged ledges, towering mountains and natural bridges. Thanks to recent rains the desert was a green purgatory of bizarre shapes and terrain. We came out of the pass to a marshy area that looked like like the devil's own golf course: Trees and brush, grasses and the muddy footprints of all manner of wildlife, of bighorn sheep, mountain lions, deer and the like. Though none were seen by us this day, we were surely seen by them. Multi-colored outcroppings, fields of teddy bear and cholla and sahuaro cacti were everywhere.
Several hours of crawling through Bighorn Pass brought us to Mid Well,, one of a number of watering spots maintained by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. We were pretty bushed, but our map told us the Willbanks cabin was only about a thousand yards away, so we backtracked a bit and found it on a bend in the wash.
The wash is wide and runs hard when there's a significant rain, but despite its near location the cabin still stands as it has for eighty years. Years ago there was a barn, but a carelessly tossed cigarette took care of that. The house (read: shack) is small even by the standard of the 1930's--maybe three hundred square feet, including a kitchen, and a bedroom, enough room to squeeze in the five Wilbankses. The shower stall was on the front porch, and it must have felt awfully good to get wet after a summer day's work in the dust and sand. Winter showering might have been problematic. There are still a few cabinets, a couple of bedframes and an old iron stove in the place. Iron stoves seem to be the last thing to leave anywhere. There's also a binder of reminisces and remembrances which have been placed by the Wilbanks kids for your enjoyment.
The Willbanks family lived at the ranch through the 1930's, but eventually moved to Vicksburg where there was a school. The years have taken their toll on the cabin, and "you could throw a cat through the south wall", but it has a good roof, and it's available for camping on a first-come first-served basis, as are a number of cabins scattered about this remote area.
We followed Kofa-Manganese Road out. If you want to bypass the difficulties of Bighorn Pass, this is the easier way to get in and out. Easier, but boring.
A worthwhile adventure, and I recommend it. It's a real lesson in how much easier our lives are today compared to what many of the pioneer-types put up with. I'm eager to go again, and perhaps spend the night out in a cabin or under the stars. A word to the wise adventurer: Don't go without reliable four-wheel-drive vehicles, take plenty of water (I take about five gallons), and make sure you tell someone on the outside where you're going--and then go there. There is no cell phone service, and we saw no one else the entire day of travel. Allow plenty of time to get anywhere. I've found the maps to be less-than-accurate, and it's easy to inadvertently rabbit-trail yourself off the road. Did I mention taking plenty of water?
Our objective (January, 2014) in the Kofa Wilderness in western Arizona was Wilbanks Well, home to a family of the same name, that operated a cattle ranch from the 1930's forward. We had visited the wilderness some months before in March, 2013, going to the abandoned homstead of the Hovatter family. The Hovatters were miners that operated a manganese mine in the area from the 1940's until the early 1970's. Except for a few graves and the remains of the arboretum on which Mrs. Hovatter toiled there's little left of their compound. An explosion from a leaky propane tank in the late 1960's killed one of their daughters, severely burned another, and not long afterward they gave it up.
Though rough and bumpy by city standards, the road we traveled to the Hovatter digs wasn't bad. Since this was in the same general area, some in our group thought this trip might be "boring". It wasn't.
After departing the waypoint of Kofa Cabin, a few miles south of I-10 we got our first surprise--more roads than were mapped, and no way to know which to follow. After a short hesitation we applied Yogi Berra's timeless advice: "When you come to a fork in the road, take it." We turned left, and by luck of the draw it was the right choice.
If one is headed to Willbanks Well, logic would seem to dictate taking Willbanks Road. Although correct (actually there are two ways in; more on that in a moment), it was by far a more difficult trip than the Hovatter run. The map registered landmarks that were hard to discern, sometimes not evident at all. Straying a bit we went up Alamo Wash, and a wrong turn took us to nowhere. With some difficulty, we got turned around and found the trail a half mile to the rear and up a rocky hill, which even in four-wheel-drive took some engineering and guidance on the part of my son Mark. Progress was slow, and I began to wonder if we would have enough daylight to make it all the way through, but we had by then entered Bighorn Pass, and we were beyond the halfway mark (I might have said, "point of no return", but that sounds, you know, kind of like "dead").
Some people think the desert to be dull and uninteresting. Maybe it's because they're dull and uninteresting. Rugged, colorful, arrogant and unforgiving, but never dull; never uninteresting. Bighorn Pass is a spectacle, with ragged ledges, towering mountains and natural bridges. Thanks to recent rains the desert was a green purgatory of bizarre shapes and terrain. We came out of the pass to a marshy area that looked like like the devil's own golf course: Trees and brush, grasses and the muddy footprints of all manner of wildlife, of bighorn sheep, mountain lions, deer and the like. Though none were seen by us this day, we were surely seen by them. Multi-colored outcroppings, fields of teddy bear and cholla and sahuaro cacti were everywhere.
Several hours of crawling through Bighorn Pass brought us to Mid Well,, one of a number of watering spots maintained by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. We were pretty bushed, but our map told us the Willbanks cabin was only about a thousand yards away, so we backtracked a bit and found it on a bend in the wash.
The wash is wide and runs hard when there's a significant rain, but despite its near location the cabin still stands as it has for eighty years. Years ago there was a barn, but a carelessly tossed cigarette took care of that. The house (read: shack) is small even by the standard of the 1930's--maybe three hundred square feet, including a kitchen, and a bedroom, enough room to squeeze in the five Wilbankses. The shower stall was on the front porch, and it must have felt awfully good to get wet after a summer day's work in the dust and sand. Winter showering might have been problematic. There are still a few cabinets, a couple of bedframes and an old iron stove in the place. Iron stoves seem to be the last thing to leave anywhere. There's also a binder of reminisces and remembrances which have been placed by the Wilbanks kids for your enjoyment.
The Willbanks family lived at the ranch through the 1930's, but eventually moved to Vicksburg where there was a school. The years have taken their toll on the cabin, and "you could throw a cat through the south wall", but it has a good roof, and it's available for camping on a first-come first-served basis, as are a number of cabins scattered about this remote area.
We followed Kofa-Manganese Road out. If you want to bypass the difficulties of Bighorn Pass, this is the easier way to get in and out. Easier, but boring.
A worthwhile adventure, and I recommend it. It's a real lesson in how much easier our lives are today compared to what many of the pioneer-types put up with. I'm eager to go again, and perhaps spend the night out in a cabin or under the stars. A word to the wise adventurer: Don't go without reliable four-wheel-drive vehicles, take plenty of water (I take about five gallons), and make sure you tell someone on the outside where you're going--and then go there. There is no cell phone service, and we saw no one else the entire day of travel. Allow plenty of time to get anywhere. I've found the maps to be less-than-accurate, and it's easy to inadvertently rabbit-trail yourself off the road. Did I mention taking plenty of water?
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