Saturday, June 9, 2012

W.T.S. Keeping the Birds Flying


     W.T.S.… What the… Nope. Worm Tending Station, a perfect shelf to feed and take care of the kitchen compost bin. And, a perfect shelf to pot plants and a perfect place for a bar…. If ever needed.
     A few weeks ago, after using the hood of my car for the third time, I began to mull about a flat place, in the garage, where I could work with my kitchen vermiculture compost bin or re pot a plant and not scratch the car. My first serious thoughts included a hinged board with a chain hooked to the wall bent up, a second idea was a hinged board with the chain going up, but the board going down till I pulled it up, and a third idea was a hinged board that someone else figured out. I turned to my brother.
Luckily we discussed the shelf idea while he multi tasked through a garage sale. He understood the vision of a hinged board and called me back to discuss the merits of using a fold up podium he found at a Rotary Club (or some such) garage sale. His wife had a different vision, told him to grab it, they cleaned it up and doubled their money. Another time he called from a Habitat for Humanity store. I could tell this project grabbed him, he wanted to know preferences… width and depth, table or counter height and he asked for the measurements between the studs in the garage. He’d found something.
     But we hit a snag. He asked for a photo of my garage. Unfortunately, I left my car parked in it to take the photo… with the Obama bumper sticker. I didn’t hear another word for two weeks.
     Last Sunday at his grand daughter’s second birthday party, where we didn’t talk politics, he asked me how to get into my garage. Coming home late last night, I opened the door,  pulled in, put the car in park, turned the car off, turned the car on, put the car in reverse and backed out of the garage trying to decide whether to call the police.
     Once when I lived in Chicago, I returned home from work still in daylight and noticed my apartment window was ajar. I didn’t think anything of it, even though I don’t leave windows open on cold days so I opened the front door and realized within a few seconds, I’d been robbed. When the police arrived, they asked, Why did you enter (dummy)?… The robber (they probably didn’t use that word) might be still inside. That never occurred to me. It was then I asked them to check my closets. That robber got in through the window, went to the left and pulled a pillow case off my bed, filled it with jewelry, went to the next room… the bathroom and utilized it…(I hate the word utilize but I think it gives the word picture veracity; the police wouldn’t take the unflushed evidence for a DNA sample), he walked into the kitchen, swigged some scotch but neither swiped the bottle nor finished it, walked into the dining room, did nothing that I noticed, walked into the living room by the window where he  entered, pulled my bike from the wall, put on my Ray Ban Aviators and rolled out the front door with my stuff. I don’t know the chronology of events for sure, but I’ve watched The Mentalist.
     I didn’t call the police last night because the tip off that someone was in my garage was a plastic bag of phone books hung on the door leading to my mud room. Even an anal retentive robber isn’t going to take the time to hang something on the door. Scanning the garage for more evidentiary clues, I noticed the W.T.S. graffitti on the wall. Though I live in the suburbs, it’s highly doubtful a robber carries masking tape, unless maybe HGTV fired Nate and he’s desperate. I unlocked my now locked doors, got out of the car and examined how Jim constructed the shelf. It is masterful, an efficient use of space, the legs fold neatly under and are hung in a way to give it strength for the heavy bag of soil or case of beer. The worms, my original use for the shelf, weigh like feathers, beer or soil is a better measure of its strength. Which reminds me of a story my dad used to tell about a truck driver who stopped his truck more and more frequently as he neared a weigh station. He’d get out of the cab, walk to the back of the truck and pound on the door. Another trucker saw him a few miles after that weigh station at a truck stop (truckers probably call it “a stop”, like public school kids call it school), and asked him, why he pounded on his truck? “I’m carrying about two hundred extra pounds of birds and I gotta keep ‘em flying.” Clearly that truck driver's ingenuity is a driving force in our family.

Tuesday, June 5, 2012

Garden for Mothers Day


When I was ten, I planted a garden behind the garage on a soggy day in April as a surprise for Mothers Day. I could see it from my swing set and my mother couldn’t from her kitchen window. I got the idea from reading a story in a book with pictures and large black font that told of a boy who had no money and dug a hole in the shape of a heart then revealed it to his mother fully bloomed on mothers day. Clearly,  he didn’t live in the Midwest.

This is how I learned that books were for extrapolating not for literal translations. In trying to cut a heart into a lawn of Marion Blue grass, the weight and strength of my foot could not cut through the sod, let alone create a shape, so she got a ditch. The story, like my experiences since with instructions in assembling toys, furniture and recipes from British cookbooks omitted important steps and information. Like, how did he afford the seeds when he had no money? My babysitting savings held in a white ceramic pig with my name, Mary Beth painted red and written in cursive on the side was an exclusive account for Nancy Drew books. This present bred resentment. and how did he get water to his plot? My dad’s fancy watering system included a tractor the size of a Tonka Truck, with a rotating water copter on top and big wheels with blades that clawed the lawn on a track made by the hose and it cleverly moved with the force of the water pressure. It would stop at a stake with the power of the copter hitting it and the sprinkler continuing to crawlforward… tick tick tick tick tick silence, cutting off the water flow until it tapped it stopped.  Unfortunately the water thrown from the fancy watering system and couldn’t be rerouted, according to my dad.  

The garden with the seeds that didn’t get water behind the garage and under an eave allowing only an hour of early morning sun was revealed to my mother on Mother’s Day as a plot of hope and opportunity. Sliding down my slide, I noticed that the sod miraculously knit back together in July.

Sunday, June 3, 2012

Connecting the Dots - Not 4


Connecting the dots is not something that should always be done aloud. I’ve learned over time that there are inappropriate times. It always comes down to the act of listening.  
·         If my mind is racing looking around for the dots while I am in conversation, I am not listening.
·         If I make a connection and blurt it out while someone is pouring their heart out, I am not listening.
·         If I finish someones sentence with or before them, I'm not listening. 
·         If I offer a solution when they haven't offered it to me to solve, I'm not listening.



Connect the Dots - Don Draper on Happines



"Happiness is a moment before more happiness." Don Draper 6/3/12

Spots - Ninety Miles Away



I waited with a sign saying “Transportation to the V.... Event” directing people to a product launch party. An invitation, phone follow up and a limo brought people to the tony W hotel. The stakeholders wore suits and cocktail dresses in hopes of communicating a product of high end substance. Most attendees wore suites, dresses or fancy outfits. One attendee wore flowered capri pants and a well worn white peasant shirt. She was a bit over sixty, or, judging by her name tag,  a life in the western big-sky sun may have contributed to aging her face. She smiled brightly as she spoke from her seat on a tufted leather bench and told me she'd been on her feet all day and didn’t sleep well. Turns out, she is the only person I’ve ever met who’s said, “Where I live, the closest traffic light is ninety miles away.” 

Connecting the Dots - Not 2


Mo Rocca asked Michelle Williams in an interview for CBS Sunday Morning (11/20/11) whether she got  into the part of Marilyn Monroe by making a connection to Marilyn Monroe’s many losses. He  referred to Ms William's loss of Heath Ledger in 2008. She said, “I didn’t want to connect those dots. “ Her comment immediately inflicts a contradiction in my thinking. Is it possible to choose to not connect the dots? 

Connecting the Dots - Not 1

Last November, a client told me he was called back to the airline ticket counter in Fairbanks. The agent said, “Is that your comb sir?” He looked at her, “Seriously?” pointing to his completely bald head.

Connect the Dots - With a Bra


Ashley, a co-worker, recounted her shopping trip for undies with her mother and her sixteen year old daughter. They realized that  breast size apparently is passed down and added to with each generation, but not the value of the bra. Ashley stood at the cash register in Kohls when her mother looked at the bras she was buying for her daughter. “Sixteen dollars for a bra? Your breasts aren’t worth that much.” 

Connect the Dots - From Dust to Dust


It never occurred to me until Lindemanns showed up… a chimney sweep’s drop cloth is black. 

Dots - Obama, Al Capone and France; Spots - The Half Shell and the Green Mill


Bon soir. Helene and I agreed to leave work a bit early, instead left at fifteen minutes beyond quitting time. The week, shortened by the Memorial Day holiday felt long and with the extra fifteen minutes… interminable. Turning north from Lower Wacker and up the ramp to the Drive, we saw cop cars blocking the road heading south. While we continued inching our way in normal rush hour traffic, south-bound was completely blocked by another four cop cars and two two-story-garbage trucks with concrete barriers strapped on to each side, clearly meant to stop anything trying to get through. As we passed, going in the other direction, I caught the eye of the driver of one of them, a woman in a neon tennis-ball green vest over a uniform steel colored shirt with gray hair... scary. Two military helicopters chopped the air on the other side of us going south along the Lake Michigan shoreline. "Obama" we said at the same time. Yep, typing into my Google for Android,  “Obama in Chicago” resulted in a blog story from the Tribune that the president landed at 4:39pm and was headed for the Loop for fundraisers. Luckily leaving the very area of his first destination, we headed away for a quick bite and a French movie, the Intouchables.

A cheap bill highlighted dinner at the Half Shell. We discussed sharing frog legs to start a French themed evening, but when Helene, with two umlauts, saw they were breaded not sauteed in butter and garlic, she decided on something less American. 

I learned from Helene that the film won the French Oscar over the Artist and the lead actor won best actor. I loved the Artist, also a French film and looked forward to the movie, subtitles and all, especially because of her homeland enthusiasm.  A couple times during the movie, she leaned over to tell me about a location or a building… I know the excitement of seeing the familiar, if even in a movie. After, driving to drop her off,  the funny, uplifting story, the location, the actors prompted loads of discussion, we decided to stop for a drink at the Green Mill. The bar is Chicago. It's been in tourist guides for years. If you travel abroad and mention you are from Chicago, older people do a machine gun action and say "Al Capone", middle age say "Michael Jordan", now, "Obama." Tonight we experienced two icons, the Green Mill is known for where Al Capone hung out.  Judging by the wood carvings on the wall, the booths that now in most restaurants would be removed to add a couple extra paying tables, (but are saved because that's where Al and his henchmen sat to watch the doors) probably hasn’t changed much since. Whether a speak easy or stage venue, live music remains a constant since the thirties when he frequented the club. We decided to stay, despite the cover charge to hear a jazz quartet. Turns out, the group was the Mouton Reunion at the Green Mill for a couple performances, the band was from France. A perfect connect-the-dot evening.