My poor dog

Woe is Cocky [sic]!

It’s Orlando Public Schools’ spring break, which means we have my nephews.

They adore Kocur, or “Coaster,” as they tend to call her. Zac walks her with me and will just pet her and pet her. Nic likes to play with her tail, but he doesn’t abuse her. They both really do love her.

However, she doesn’t return the emotion. She tolerates it, and for a dog who’s been known to be a bit … um … unpredictable, she is extremely patient with my monster nephews.

She’ll look at me as they pet her, her eyes pleading. When Zac has her on the leash when we walk, she keeps glancing back to me, as if to say, “Just checking to make sure you’re not leaving me with him.”

Nic wanted me to take their picture together, and when I squatted down with the camera to focus it, she jumped out of their grasp and into my arms.

They tease her endlessly. A game of fetch becomes keep away, and Zac, especially, likes to fake her out by pretending to throw the ball. He’s constantly amused by the act; she is sadly, not bright enough to catch on and runs after the phantom ball, which amuses him more.

Their SB revolves around my poor little girl, from the walk when we wake up to them begging me to “make” her sleep with them at night.

Poor Kokey, or as it’s spelled this week, “Cocky.”

They’re distracted here and there, such as when we’ve been doing yard work. Nic in particular is a great little helper, gathering sticks and offering to operate the chainsaw. (If you think for a second that I contemplated the latter, you are dumber than my dog.)

Zac mostly looks for an opening with Kocur, and is slightly irritated that she opts for me, every time. Even if he has food. The boy loves my dog.

Kocur/Coaster/Koky/Cocky mostly got a day of relief today, since the four of us went out to see my little sister’s new digs, Natural Bridge Trails and Arena. She’s taking over as property manager and we checked out the property.

Unfortunately, it rained pretty hard so we couldn’t explore on horseback or 4x4, but it’s a nice place. Wendy and Sean need to move into the house.

Now, we’re back in Havana and Kocur’s being entertained yet again. Nic filled up her food toy, so her tolerance has paid off.

I’ve been cutting down trees, too. Nic’s been assisting with the scissor things (a technical term) but mostly playing with other violent things, such as the spear that Papa made him.

There are two of them and the boys have spear-throwing contests, although today Nic was solo.

Chief Osceola he’s not, but I Fear the Spear. Nic hasn’t quite mastered the whole “throw it away from people” thing and hit me in the leg. Fortunately, he has a bad aim so it didn’t puncture but it did bleed. Yikes.

Two and a half days left. I hope Kocur and myself can make it.

When things that seem familiar aren’t

It’s weird being in Florida after such a long absence. I mean, the last time I lived here was 1996. Everything is familiar, yet many things have changed.

Tallahassee has things that didn’t exist when I left, like half of Blair Stone Road, the Brogan museum and SouthWood in its entirety. I took a wrong turn on campus and got hopelessly lost – when did they redo FSU?

It’s mostly familiar, though. When someone tells me the place I need to go is “off Riggins Road,” I have to close my eyes and ponder it before figuring it out.

It gets complicated sometimes, like when there are street names I remember from Michigan. I hear “Jefferson” and I think “how far from the fist?” and then realize that’s the wrong state. I no longer connect “Woodward” with campus but Foxtown and the Dream Cruise.

I think I know something, then it turns out I know it from another time and place.

That’s happening with people, too. I haven’t haunted around Tally in a long time, but I keep seeing people who look familiar. As it turns out, I look familiar to some people, too. At an event at Cush’s a few weekends ago, this woman selling tickets at a raffle swore she knew me. Instead of saying, “That’s impossible. You couldn’t have been 12 when I left the state,” (which was probably true) I played along.

“Oh, I’ve played softball forever,” (fat chance, since my last 10 or so seasons in Southfield, Michigan, of course).

“Maybe you’ve seen me at church,” (my former Tallahassee church hasn’t existed for at least a decade.)

Basically, it’s just a façade. People try to make me look like I belong here, and I just don’t. I’ve been back a year, but gone so long it’ll take much longer to return as a local. I play along, but something’s just off in that department.

Occasionally, I think I spot a familiar face and I get enthused, ready to rekindle a friendship. Then I get closer, I realize the person merely reminds me of someone from somewhere else, like the time I swore I saw Chuck Klonke and then realized I was in the wrong state for that. (Especially since Grampa doesn’t fly.)

I keep seeing people who remind me of Moroccan friends, too. I did a double-take, thinking I’d seen Amina, my program manager. When I realized it was impossible, it made me sad.

It’s not likely I’ll ever get back to those places, and my chances for seeing these folks in the flesh is gone. It’s not nostalgic; it’s just weird.

On the way home from Cush’s, I had a similar encounter. With Mackenzie in the car, my mom and I headed back to Havana on 27.

Just past the cemetery, I started wondering if Mackenzie had ever seen the house where her father grew up. I asked and she said no, so I hung a right at the light at Faulk (which wasn’t there when I grew up) and drove down the hill to 2139.

My mom had driven past it before, recently enough to see the new family had Volkswagon buses, which she found funny since my father lived and died by the fried-out Kombie as well as the 1969 Beetle.

I drove past it, noticing that there was a guy in the yard. We turned around in what used to be John Labie’s house (which had a for rent sign in front of it) and decided what the heck, we’d get out and show Mackenzie.

She, being 10, embarrassed easily and didn’t surface out of the car the whole time, which turned out to be awhile.

I climbed out first and walked to the front door, calling hi to the man I’d seen. Turns out his name was Ryan and he and his wife Bonnie had bought the place a year ago. They said it was in terrible shape (I’d heard it’s a former HUD house) and had spent the year fixing it up.

And honestly, it hasn’t looked better. Bonnie, a young mom of four (I’d be surprised if she and her husband had seen 30 yet) was sprouting plants and had fire ant-proofed the yard.

Zippy talked to her and explained that my father had built the extension and said we were trying to show a shy Mackenzie the room where her father climbed out the window in order to avoid a butt-whoppin’ sometime during his adolescence.

We got individual tours of the yard, which included FOUR VW buses (one was for sale, as was the Plymouth (?) minivan). Ryan said he crawled around in the attic and discovered some VW engine parts and knew he’d bought the right house.

It’s weird going back. Everything is vastly different, but so much the same. The boxwood hedges that bordered the property line are HUGE, and the ditch we had running through the property is now somehow county property even though the owners own both sides of it. Some weird law – they can’t even have anything on their property because it’s an official cut through.

There’s an above-ground pool and soon there will be a chicken coop. The huge stump that was outside the back door (deep in concrete) is gone, as is the overhang where we, at one time, had a swing.

Bonnie and Ryan, who had previously lived as missionaries in Senegal, gave us individual tours and we met up in the kitchen, which is completely new. Honestly, I couldn’t even envision what it used to be like because it’s totally redone.

After trying to focus, I came up with the fact the refrigerator is on a different side of the kitchen than it was. Now, the stove and sink are there. It’s just weird, but in a good way.

Going down the hall, I could see my old bedroom, the big place in the floor where my father took out the oil heater or whatever it was and put in a hardwood floor. Just as when we lived there, you could tell the new floor.

Looking around and then closing my eyes, I could visualize … nothing.

Really, not a thing. I’m not sure if I blocked it out, but I couldn’t come up with many memories of the house.

I tried to remember, like when I dropped the scissors on my foot and it bled and bled. I remember that happening in a closet (not a clue as to why) but can’t think back to the moment itself.

Not everything’s been blocked: I told Ryan about the time Bandit, the ugly terrier, for about a week kept jumping into the dryer and barking. Fool dog, we thought, at least until my father pulled the vent out and found a family of squirrels living there.

I remember there being a way to get under the house from the study (which wasn’t a real study; it was a cement room) hall going to the garage. Scary place. I remember opening that one time and finding a squirrel tail collection, courtesy of my cat Cleopatra.

It was fascinating, really, to go back to a place that’s no longer yours. It was very detaching, not at all like the song “The House that Built Me.”

From time to time, I had wondered about one thing in the house, though: what we called The Thing Panky Built.

This Thing, built by one Haskell Panky, divided the living room (I guess it would be – where the front door led to) and the dining room. It was probably 6-8 feet long and four feet tall, with pillar things from the top to the ceiling.

I have no memory of the house before TTPB, although I do remember Panky (as we called him, a friend of my grandmother) taking us for ice cream then eating it as we visited the Sparkling Water (as we called it) in Monroe, La.

Somehow, it materialized at the house at 2139 Faulk Drive and became an important reference. Things were usually found either in, on or around “The Thing That Panky Built.”

The wood was stained dark and it smelled like varnish.

It, more than anything (and for what reason I have no idea) is the one thing that I’ve wondered about at Faulk Drive.

Did the new owners appreciate it? Did they sniff it? Did stuff disappear in it? What on earth did they call it, anyway? They didn’t know Panky, or eat ice cream with him, so how did they even know what that thing was?

So, as I entered the back door, no longer obstructed by a giant tree stump and without an overhang to fear falling roaches, I curiously craned to catch a glimpse of TTPB, perhaps hoping to take another sniff.

And it’s gone. Ryan told me it wasn’t there when they bought the house. It just went away, I guess, which kind of makes me sad.

Without it there, it was even harder to try to come up with a memory of the living room or dining room, but without TTPB, it just didn’t make sense.

It’s about the same thing as those times when I run into familiar people: I get a little rush of adrenaline and hope to light a little fire in my heart somewhere.

Instead, it turns out it’s wrong somehow: not the right person, place or thing.

And it leaves me a little empty.

Trying to change the subject

I’m still unemployed. It’s getting old.

But by “unemployed” I don’t mean not working. Far from it, actually. I think I am working harder (not necessarily smarter) without a job than most people do with.

This past week, I felt like Flo from “Alice.” Remember that show?

I’ve been filling in at a little café here called The Marinated Mushroom, which is now owned by a really awesome lady and her son, who are both fabulous cooks.

They haven’t had as much luck with employees as they have recipes, and just over a week ago Lia called me in a frantic state, saying the “Betty Boop” (her description) girl she’d given multiple chances finally imploded and she needed a fill in.

Enter Flo. I’ve washed so many dishes this past eight days or so it’s scary. And kiss my grits, I think my hands have aged about a month for each day I’ve been there.

But the ownership is awesome, the food is fabulous and the clientele is really fantastic.

There have been no other job possibilities save for one interview this week. I liked the opportunity – not my field but within the realm of my skills and I involved helping people – but I haven’t head back.

So that’s the update there; I’m tired of dwelling on unemployment so I’m changing the subject.

The new subject: someone else’s former employment and former boss.

My mom retired a year ago last July. She’s only 66, and she wanted to work longer several years ago, a woman got placed above her department as the second in command. The command guy is great, from what I hear, but this woman is referred to as “The Bitch,” and not just by my mother.

But the stories I’ve heard. Man, they go on and on. The little department the woman controls (the head guy kind of hopes she’ll fade away is the picture I got) is still encumbered by rules the rest of the company doesn’t have to obey, such as not a second over 45 minutes or whatever for lunch and basically all this stuff.

Essentially, The Bitch is, as I’ve been told, full of shit.

This has only been theorized, of course, by lowly “clerks” who operate under the goddess herself, but those multiple “clerks” (the quote marks are an inside joke – TB recently introduced a staff member with a four-year degree as a “a clerk in the office.” Freaking insulting.) have substantiated the fact that she is full of shit.

Until recently, this was the only corroboration offered. Not that I disbelieve my mother or the other shall-remain-anonymous people who’ve also stated such, but hey, as a former AP person, I realize that’s a bit one-sided. You have to get independent verification.

Well.

For some reason that wasn’t explained to me, the shrinking department (at least one person has up and quit on TB because he was tired of her shit) has taken up some health offer and is working out together at some gym.

One morning, the “clerk” overheard a conversation with the personal trainer and TB. I’ve heard multiple accounts of the story, and from what it sounds like, it went something like this:

(Note: I am told the personal trainer speaks in short sentences and sort of punctuates her speech with a bobbing of her head, so try to picture that.)

The scene: at the gym. I don’t really know (or perhaps I do and just shouldn’t put out there publicly) the events that precluded this. I think it had something to do with working out and not losing justifiable weight.

PT: How many times do you go to the bathroom?

TB: Oh, I drink lots of water every day! I must go five, six times!

PT: No, I mean how many times do you GO to the bathroom? (Remember to punctuate and bob your head. It’s better that way)

TB: What? Five or six times. I drink lots of water because it’s healthy.

PT: No, no, no! I mean, how many times do you GO. Bowel movement! (Bob head)

TB: (Obviously thrown): Um, oh. … Once a week. … I think.

PT: Oh! That is why. You are full of it. (Bob, bob)

TB: (Incoherent stammering, flushed cheeks)

PT: Yes! At least three pounds backed up! (Bob, bob)

So there you have it. Independent verification that The Bitch is indeed, full of shit. With an estimate of how much.

Now, doesn't that just make you hungry? I can show you to a cafe with fantastic food.

Please tip your waitress generously. (And if you don't, kiss my grits.)

FDR and Korean War memorials in D.C.

I went to D.C. in order to attend a career seminar but stayed through the weekend in order to get a little R&R away from the job hunt.

Previously, I've visited most of the district highlights (though I haven't coughed up money to do either the Capitol or White House), so this time I took in a few of the newer memorials.

The first two photos are from the Korean War memorial, and the rest are from FDR's, which is essentially a park.



From the National Parks Service:

“Freedom is not free.” Here, one finds the expression of American gratitude to those who restored freedom to South Korea. Nineteen stainless steel sculptures stand silently under the watchful eye of a sea of faces upon a granite wall—reminders of the human cost of defending freedom. These elements all bear witness to the patriotism, devotion to duty, and courage of Korean War veterans.

From Tour of DC.org:

"Viewed from above, the memorial is a circle intersected by a triangle. Visitors approaching the memorial come first to the triangular Field of Service. Here, a group of 19 stainless-steel statues, created by World War II veteran Frank Gaylord, depicts a squad on patrol and evokes the experience of American ground troops in Korea. Strips of granite and scrubby juniper bushes suggest the rugged Korean terrain, while windblown ponchos recall the harsh weather. This symbolic patrol brings together members of the U.S. Air Force, Army, Marines, and Navy; the men portrayed are from a variety of ethnic backgrounds. "

FDR's memorial, from National Parks Service:

"The only thing we have to fear is fear itself." These are the words of our 32nd President, a man who embodied the meaning of the word courage. Despite being stricken with polio at age 39 and paralyzed from the waist down, he emerged as a true leader, guiding our country through some dark times: the Great Depression and World War II. The memorial honors this man, his story, and his era. "

From Wiki:

"Considering Roosevelt's disability, the memorial's designers intended to create a memorial that would be accessible to those with various physical impairments. Among other features, the memorial includes an area with tactile reliefs with braille writing for people who are blind. However, the memorial faced serious criticism from disabled activists. Some of the braille and reliefs were placed well above the reach of even a very tall person, rendering the braille pointless because no blind person could reach high enough to read it."

The FDR memorial was pretty phenomenal. It's over seven acres and even has public bathrooms. There are four open rooms with different galleries (one for each presidential term) and you kind of wander through history. (Only I did it backwards.) I'm not sure if it was because it was winter or what, but the waterfalls in each gallery was turned off. I didn't even realize there were ponds until I saw signs saying "Throwing coins damages fountains." I just thought they were strategically placed rocks.

The memorial sits on the Tidal Basin, or something like that, and is quite a hike from L'Enfant Plaza, which is where I got off the bus. I only took one sightseeing day and walked a ton, and I am glad I'd caught the tip on sportsjournalists.com to go visit this one, as well as the Korean Memorial -- especially since my knowledge of the Korean War mostly comes from "M*A*S*H."

Catching up: More photos of Palm Springs

More photos from Palm Springs and the area. From the ride down the aerial tramway. Solid rock. Glad those cords held.

Zippy really liked this, so I figured I'd take a photo.

From the top of the mountain. I wished I'd seen some animals but they weren't out.

The 30-degree temerature difference meant there was snow -- most of it frozen solid at this point -- at the top.

This is a long-distance shot of what seemed like a million windmills. They were everywhere in the valley.

I found the camera cord

The camera cord's been located, so I am now free to post photos of Palm Springs and D.C. Plus I can send our photo to that Havana Herald that shows us reading the paper in Palm Springs. Ha.
Here's Zippy at the Palm Springs aerial tramway, which is a 10-minute, 2-mile ride up a mountain in a little car that holds 82 people. The floor of the car rotates slowly so you can see all around as you pass through zones.

We didn't see any animals, but you could see over to the dessert and up the mountain. There was something like a 30-degree difference in temperature between the bottom and top. I think it was about 10,000 feet.

Here's the way down on the tramway. I was kind of crammed in the back on the way up and couldn't snap any photos in that direction so I'm sure this is headed back to ground level. You can see the little tower (really a big tower) where the tram went over. When it hit the other side, it wobbled in the wind.

View from 10,ooo feet. I think this was in the direction of the desert, or at least that's what I was aiming for.

We were that close to Pasadena, so I we figured we might as well stop by. This was Valentine's Day and they'd already trimmed the rose bushes.

My pet peeve, or one of them. I am so convinced men are the sole designers of bathrooms like these. It's not the first time I've seen them, but God, it's annoying.

My church in Detroit built a whole new building and the first time I used the bathroom, I banged my leg on the TP holder. I've used other ones where I my knees bumped the door. There's just not room to sit down without banging the crap out of your legs.

So I'm sure it's men who design the things like this. Obviously, it's far easier to use if you don't sit down.

I had a hell of a bruise on my leg from smashing the beejeezus out of it. Come on architectural gurus, leave clearance for the TP holder!