September 2008, continued

Howdy!

It’s raining outside, so I thought I would give you all an update. Sorry it’s been so long since the last one, but as usual there has been a lot going on, compounded by the fact that for about ten days Stephen was out of town in Columbus, training for his job, leaving house, garden, dogs, and civic duty all in my hands. And for a number of those days I was “on assignment” with Starbucks in Kentucky, which, although only about twenty-five miles away might as well have been another planet. It is interesting: anything over a fifteen-minute drive here is considered a long commute. My trek to Kentucky registered by the locals as the equivalent of driving to, say, San Diego and back daily from Long Beach. Anyway, I am also trying a different format, as there have been vague (perhaps even unspoken?) suggestions that I am somehow hyperbolizing our Ohio Adventure. By including photo-documentation to substantiate my purely literal tale, I hope to banish all accusations of exaggeration, embellishment, or dramatization.
That being said, let me begin with a

SCENARIO FOR A SILENT HORROR MOVIE

TITLE CARD: “A Typical Summer Sunday…”
TITLE CARD: “…or is it?”
MONTAGE: Our HERO arrives home from work. Much rejoicing from dogs, which are let outside. Birds in trees; shining sun; hammock swinging in breeze; burbling waterfall; nodding wildflowers; etc.
Our HERO looks up; perhaps HE has heard thunder.
TITLE CARD: “Could it be thunder?”
Thinks nothing of it, continues to commune with Nature, then goes indoors to begin cooking his dinner, looking over shoulder as HE heads inside. Nothing amiss!
CUT to: Ominously darkening skies.
Our HERO pours himself a glass; dinner almost ready. HE cocks his head to one side, as if listening to thunder.
TITLE CARD: “Perhaps it is thunder!”
CUT to: multiple lightning bolts striking nearby.
TITLE CARD: “Zzzzzt! Zzzzzt! Rumble… Boom!”
INSERT: stock footage, tropical monsoon, pounding rain, etc.
CLOSE UP: Our HERO, apparently having a thought.
TITLE CARD: “Hmmm…. The last time it rained like this, the window well in our laundry room filled with water, popping out the window, and flooding our basement!”
Our HERO snaps fingers, runs down stairs in comical speeded-up motion.
CUT to: window well in the laundry room filled with water. As our HERO stands there trying to decide what to do, window pops open, drenching HIM with gallons of muddy cold water.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
As our HERO reaches up to close window and slow the flood, another burst of lightning, close by.
TITLE CARD: “ZzzBOOM!”
The power goes out.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
CLOSE UP: Water rising to ankles of our HERO. Slow PAN up: HE is simultaneously flinging towels about, trying to close the window, grabbing bits of cardboard to direct the flow into the washbasin, etc.
TITLE CARD: “Gosh! Here I am standing ankle-deep in water, which seems to have already reached the carpet, in the dark, with lightning all about, and no apparent end to the rain. Gee Whiz—could things possibly get worse?”
CUT to: SNAKE rearing up against the glass, just as our HERO has managed to latch the window.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
PULL OUT to reveal our HERO, apparently having another thought. The SNAKE still visible, swimming in the remaining water in the window well, occasionally rears up against the glass in vain attempt to escape.
TITLE CARD: “Wait a bit… I remember now! The last time this happened, we went outside and put cardboard over the window cover, diverting the rain and stopping the flooding! I’ll do that right now!”
Our HERO snaps fingers, runs up stairs, dripping, in comical speeded-up motion. HE reaches for the metal door-knob; a blinding flash.
TITLE CARD: “Zz-BOOOM!”
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
Our HERO quickly puts cardboard over window cover, diverting rain and stopping flooding. HE re-enters house, HIS hand gripping the metal door-knob…
TITLE CARD: “Z-BOOOOOM”
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
The power goes back on suddenly; lights, music, everything starts back up at once.
CLOSE UP: Screaming mouth.
CLOSE UP: dinner, burnt.
Slow fade out.

THE END

And for any of you who may doubt the utter veracity of that last event, which I described exactly as it happened, Exhibit A: the Snake, as photographed in the muddy window well just before his rescue (via long stick) the next morning. Let it be noted that at the time of his dramatic entrance, he seemed much larger and more threatening. And for those of you more moved by the sad fate of the dinner, don’t be. It was only my famous Nine-Minute dinner (I’m thinking of submitting it to the food section of the Enquirer: it’s microwaved Kraft mac’n’cheese and hamburger patties.)
Speaking of the Enquirer (Cincinnati, not National, although in terms of quality, the similarities outweigh the differences), I have had two more letters published (out of two submitted). The first was to comment on the local (all the news here is local, exclusively so. Tell me—are we still at war in Iraq?) student who got perfect scores on both his SAT and ACT tests, reported proudly on the front page, with photo. There was even a quote from him. Here’s my letter of August 22:

Kudos to Ray Wang on his perfect scores; it was nice to read that he did so well. As to his quote about “expecting to do good,” what kind of good is he expecting to do—charity work, helping old ladies across streets, recycling? This from someone who presumably achieved part of his perfect scores in English! Oh well.

My other letter was featured in the “Community Conversation” section on August 18, since the topic was highly charged, although no one else seemed to see things my way. Earlier in the week, the paper’s front-page headline was about how the Archdiocese of Cincinnati had issued a new Decree on Child Protection, listing specific types of physical contact that were or were not considered appropriate by priests, church employees, and volunteers (head patting, yes; lap sitting, no). That same day, the main guest editorial was about the upcoming presidential elections, and how everyone should “vote Catholic” as it was the only moral thing to do, with citations from one of the Benedicts.

I found the juxtaposition of the front-page headline “Church Lists Banned Touches” with the Your Voice column “Some Moral Principles are Not Negotiable” highly ironic. The columnist is urging everyone to follow Catholic dogma in politics (what happened to separation of church and state?) at the same time that the same church is having to spell out behavior to quell the numerous child abuse charges that have been leveled against it. The continued hypocrisy is disturbing.

Anyway, for penance, Stephen and I attended the recent annual OktoberFest held by Greenhills’ own Our Lady of the Rosary church, which turned out to be no more Fest than it is October; they have theirs a month early so as not to compete. It was held on the village green, and was a near duplicate of the Pioneer Days hoopla in July, except that the Butt Shack was absent, replaced by a bingo tent (we lost); the food offerings leaned a bit heavier on bratwurst, mettwurst, and German potato salad, which is marvelous. When I ordered a beer, I was offered an orange slice for it. When I said, “oh—like a lime for a Corona” I was met with a blank stare.
Everyone is nice, but it is all a little behind the times, sometimes, and never more so (perhaps appropriately) than the Greenhills Historical Society. We attended one of their big annual hullabaloos, the Trash To Treasures event (and what a fine line between the two, as it turned out), a sort of city-wide yard sale, with “special” tables in the American Legion Hall, proceeds going to the Historical Society. We walked about, eyeing our neighbors’ offerings, and ended up at the Hall, which was a meager assembly of bored merchants and even fewer bored customers. Coming upon the Historical Society table, we chatted with our friends Terri, and Betty Senior (who is so elderly it is impossible to imagine a Betty Junior; why is it that all Bettys are old: White, Crocker, Rubble?) , Corresponding Secretary and Architectural Committee, and Vice-President (Acting) and Art Committee, respectively. We innocently and optimistically offered a few suggestions we had just thought up for improving the event, when Betty, with a knowing glance at Terri, blurted out that it was decided: they wanted—no, needed—one of us to join the Historical Society Board of Directors. Apparently, it didn’t really matter which one of us it was. With a knowing glance at Stephen, I accepted. (Since Starbucks does expect its managers to get involved in their communities, it was not so much about my own personal Glory, no, but a work-related obligation.)
A week or so later I attended a Board Meeting, and after a few relevant bits of parliamentary procedure was moved, seconded and unanimously made Director. There then followed Old Business, which consisted primarily of what I have since dubbed “CSI: Greenhills.” Apparently the sign advertising Trash to Treasures (one of those flimsy plastic things on two wires you stick into a lawn) got damaged, and one of the Board Members (Trash to Treasures Committee) refused to believe it was a lawn-mower accident, which was actually confessed to, but some sort of anti-Historical Society vandalism, that she took to the Police, repeatedly, until she could get The Truth. She actually brought the sign to the meeting, wrapped in cardboard, with its police label of “Evidence” evident; she had badgered (my word, not hers) the police into dusting it for fingerprints! All that were found were hers, her husband’s, and the fellow who admitted to knocking it down with his mower, but no matter. All of this dark muttering took over twenty minutes. As I said later to Terri (the only other sane one on the Board): “Sign damaged? Toss it out and spend the ten bucks for a new one! Next order of business?”
Next there was a great deal of wrangling about the actual amount raised by Trash To Treasures, which was mostly moot, since the GHS Treasurer (and husband to Past President and Special Projects Committee) was not present, and the amount the two factions differed by was on the right of the decimal. Anyway, when it was (finally) my turn, I outlined a few ideas I had drummed up to capitalize on this year’s 75th Anniversary of the New Deal, which is getting a fair amount of national attention, and leading up to the village’s 75th in 2013. Since one of our (I almost write “their” but as a Director I should know better) stated immediate objectives (as opposed to the unstated: endless internecine bickering, opening of old wounds, procrastination, etc.) is to raise enough money to restore the charming WPA murals and bas-reliefs in the Community Building. I outlined a few merchandise offerings (mugs, t-shirts, etc) and suggested we consider putting on a concert of music from 1938 as a fund-raiser at some point. Jaws dropped, eyes popped, and after a reflexive bit of contrariness (“But the High School Alumni Club sells t-shirts! We’ll have to have something else or they’ll be even more against us than they already are!”), the mugs and t-shirts became magnets and calendars and note cards as well, and the concert a Gala. As not merely Director, but now Merchandise Committee and Events Committee, I have my work cut out for me.
Nature continues to fascinate. Although we have just hit September and the weather is continuing in the high 90s (both temperature and humidity), some leaves are starting to change color, and some are falling. Onward to autumn, I suppose, too soon.



Our “prairie garden” has moved from the yellows of black-eyed Susans into a variety of purples, including ironweed and sensitive plant, of the few I have been able to identify, and is attracting giant swallowtail butterflies, monster bees, and hummingbirds. Moles are running rampant through our back lawn, chasing after the cicada grubs (which is fine by me). We also discovered an unusual mushroom that looks like a piece of leather.
Apparently, we are going to need a weed treatment, followed by some reseeding anyway, so the moles’ aeration actually is a good thing, according to the gardener. Thankfully, our front yard has been spared, so we are still keeping up appearances for the neighborhood. And my legs continue to be an insect buffet, perhaps because I don’t ever seem to be wearing shoes or socks; when I do, the bites just move up to my calves. As for bug spray, I can’t find one that’s organic and/or unscented, so I do without. Stephen shows a bit more sense, so a lot fewer bites. Although I have gotten off comparatively lucky, as one of my uncles was recently in Africa and got some kind of tropical tick bite on his butt (we didn’t ask…). It was so unusual that his doctor invited the rest of the medical staff in to look at it. Good ol’ Uncle Bruce, always the showman.
The last piece of wildlife news involves our newest addition: Coco. She is a ten-week old (mostly) German Shepherd pup we adopted. Since we got both Maisie and Rosie in previous Septembers, we had already talked about getting another dog sometime mid-month, and had been sporadically checking classified ads for prices and so on. At first it was a bit confusing, because I had never heard of labrapoos or puggles or shih-chis. It seems I have just not been keeping up with the AKC. Anyway. I happened to see an ad for collie/shepherd puppies, breeds I recognized, for just $45, and upon calling to see if there were any left was happily told that there were three girls, and that it was not a private owner, per se, but an animal rescue, which was even nicer…. The puppies were acquired when a Shepherd breeder’s dog had an unplanned visit from a neighbor’s collie. Because they were not purebred, the breeder meant to destroy them (old-fashioned Nazi eugenics lives on in Zinzinnati). We got directions from Carol, and decided to drive out “just to look.” Her directions took us down the freeway, past a local mall, past a hospital, with the turn-off just a few miles after the traffic light. What she failed to mention was that there was a gap of about twenty miles between each of those steps! We left Hamilton County, Clermont County, another county whose name I missed as I was mesmerized by the endless cornfields on both sides, and ended up in Brown County, passing through Batavia, Mt. Orab, and ultimately, Sardinia. It was becoming clearer why Rte 32 is known as the Appalachian Highway as we turned off the main highway, passing trailers and small farms. We finally reached the Love Pet Farm, which turned out to be a trailer and out-building (the “kennel”), surrounded by kitsch and guarded by two wizened wiener dogs, who barked incessantly. We assumed the owner would come out, hearing the noise, but the din of her television inside must have masked the barks. Stephen finally braved the dachshunds, went up the steps, and banged on the door. Out came Carol, an elderly (and admittedly somewhat deaf) woman, who IS the Love Pet Farm. She and her deceased husband (Pa Kettle having passed on earlier this year) bred and boarded dogs for many years in Missouri, and when they retired to Ohio, began rescuing puppies that were unwanted or meant for destruction. She puts ads in the papers, drives around picking up the dogs, then caring for them until she can place them; so far this year she has found homes for eighty-two dogs! She keeps very careful records, and ensures that they have all their shots, etc. Carol took us out to the kennel, which despite its appearance of a decrepit barn, turned out to clean, smell-free, and containing numerous pens, most occupied. We settled on she who would be named Coco (Carol suggested Sheba), Stephen singling her out immediately and not letting himself be seduced by the other ten or so dogs in the kennel, smartly resisting the impulse to “take two, they’re small.” Carol gave us detailed instructions on Sheba/Coco’s diet, and even gave us some of the food and vitamin gravy she had been using. We then paid up (making an additional small donation to the Shelter); the money cannot possibly cover Carol’s expenses. All she wanted for herself was a picture of Coco when she is grown up, in her new yard. We will definitely keep in touch with wonderful Carol, Dog love her!

I must close, as I have to run to the store to get champagne and cheddar goldfish, as we want to officially christen the fish in our pond (Holly, Lloyd, and Tickle, names courtesy of nieces and nephew Lauren, Emily, and Matthew, respectively) before the weather turns, again.

Love, Robert

Rosie 2, Nature 0 -- September 2008

Howdy!

The Wild keeps calling, and Rosie keeps answering. This time it was a possum. Sunday night we had let the dogs out after dark, as we always do, for one last romp, and Rosie did not come back in quickly, as she usually does, nor when she was called. I grabbed one of our flashlights (do you know where yours are, and do the batteries really work? It’s an Ohio necessity), and went outside to find Rosie standing over the corpse of a possum, gloating. (And do not expect me to write “opossum,” as they are just possums here, or sometimes “vittles.”) After we hauled her inside, Stephen tried to brave it out and suggested that maybe Rosie hadn’t killed it, and that maybe it had just sort of crawled into the middle of our lawn and died. At which point our proud, dark-brown warrior queen promptly barfed up a mass of grey fur, which seemed fairly conclusive. Maisie just looked embarrassed by the whole thing.

Nature is fighting back, however. We had purchased a second bird feeder, inexpensive, plastic with short perches, as a number of large birds were crowding our primary one. Within a few days, the plastic had been pecked to bits and the perches detached. The squirrels, for whom we are kind enough to supply dried corncobs, have learned that it is much easier to unclasp the holders from their hooks, knocking them to the ground, and dine from there. Sometimes they will even take the entire holder with them, and we find it later under a shrub. Our attempt at a compost pile has become something of the neighborhood buffet: no matter how deep we dig in the eggshells or produce, we find bits later, somewhere in the immediate vicinity.

Local politics remain just as messy. The consternation now is about the non-smoking ban that was put into place just last year in Ohio, and is being considered for Kentucky. The ban won in an election in 2006 by a good-sized majority, which is surprising because this state also has one of the higher percentages of smokers in the U.S. (Likewise, obesity and illiteracy, though I am not suggested that there is necessarily causality among the three.) People are still in an uproar, however, and there are constant letters to the paper, etc. The consensus seems to be that the people have had some “right” taken away. One man wrote a lengthy letter about how he had served in two wars, so consequently should be allowed to smoke wherever he pleases, which logic I cannot quite follow, but which did lead to my getting another letter published, thus:

The writer of the letter “Ban should exempt Veterans” (July 23) states: “I disagree with the law because it takes away my right to make a decision myself.” Isn’t that exactly what laws do? Does the writer believe that he should be allowed to drive at any speed, not stop at intersections, or walk around in public naked? After all, he should be allowed to make those decisions for himself!

My letter provoked a great deal of online discussion through the paper’s website, mostly people going off about which side of the smoking argument they support, which really was not my theme at all. One person suggested that I was an idiot, because speeding is illegal and smoking is not. I defended myself by explaining that I had not written “speeding,” but “drive at any speed,” because both driving and smoking are legal, but with certain restrictions, so I felt my analogy was apt. Another man wrote that I was clearly ignorant, as are all letter writers (and by extension, everyone?) from Greenhills. He might have had more credibility, but he wrote Greenhills as two words twice, and misspelled the words argument, privilege, and from.

Anyway, despite a majority vote, many of these vocal opponents now want to have the vote overturned. Ironically, one of the other hot topics, although to a much lesser extant, is California’s and Massachusetts’ stances on gay marriage. The over-riding cry is: the people of California voted against gay marriage, so that should be it, no activist judges! Apparently, the message is, if affects “us” (smoking) ignore the vote; if it affects “them” (gay marriage) the people must be heard! Whatever.

In other news, we attended the hundred-and-somethingth annual Hamilton County Fair. We had read that attendance was down considerably; perhaps it was due to this year’s theme: “A Rural Fair for an Urban Society,” which to me sounds more like a doctoral dissertation than a fun family outing. What happened to “Cow-abunga!” or “Let’s Pig Out at the Fair”? No matter what the theme, it was dismal. I had laid out my plan to Stephen on the way: I wanted to ride a rusty ride, win an ugly stuffed toy, eat something unhealthy, and pet an enormous animal. If I could somehow combine two or more of those things, even better. Although the heat was ungodly (prize-winning chickens lying on their sides panting in their coops, curdled blue-ribbon desserts, wilted arrangements), I don’t think it made much difference. The whole thing was just dusty and meager and sad. The signs in the “Crafts” area were written by hand in marker on what looked like the back of box lids. The “Fine Art” photographs and drawings were hung askew on pegboard, over what looked like dirt planter boxes (why?) with no sense to groupings; those with ribbons were obscured, as the ribbons were hung on the same hook as the art! Many things only had a few entries, so nearly everyone “won”: the gardening section looked like someone had just made a few cuttings of whatever was in bloom in their yard that morning, and stuck them into empty beer bottles. We briefly considered entering in nearly every category next year (barring livestock) to see if we could sweep the whole thing, but decided against it. Although if you feel the need for any glory, feel free to send us photos, drawings, crafts, “collections,” vegetables, preserves, etc for next year as we can almost certainly guarantee you a prize.

That’s all for now.

Love, Rob't

Wild Kingdom -- August 2008, part 2

Howdy--

Be careful what you wish for! Here I was rhapsodizing about all the wildlife when I wrote last, and then the following two things occurred, on Monday and Tuesday, respectively:

1) I let the dogs out in the morning like always, not noticing that the shed door is open. The next thing I know there are shrieks and barks from inside, and I race over (barefoot, after a night of rain, of course!) to discover that Rosie has cornered a small raccoon, Maisie close behind. Now I'm screaming, just to add to the mix. Somehow the four of us make it outside the shed (maybe the fact that I am swinging a broom at anything with fur and screaming "OFF!! OFF!!" through my tears...), and the next thing I know, Rosie has slaughtered the raccoon. I'm not sure what Stephen must have thought when he first came downstairs -- having been in the shower and missed the whole thing -- to find me hoarse and tearstained, wiping blood off Rosie's face, both dogs hyperventilating with glory, and all three of us covered in mud. Luckily, the dogs had all their shots updated before we left. And in retrospect, although it was horrible to behold, I think it was fortunate that Rosie killed it, rather than leave it half-alive on the lawn, because then what would we have done?

2) While sitting out on our balcony in the late afternoon, which we almost never do (probably to avoid being in the backyard, facing the scene of the previous day's mess), Stephen points out some bees, crawling into a small gap under the eaves of our garage roof. As we sit there and watch, we counted over fifty bees go in. Oh yes, we have a hive in our garage crawlspace! I spent part of this morning calling around to see who can take care of it, and it isn't going to be cheap, but versus going to the hospital for stings—yes, I’m allergic—is probably worth it.

And although not animal-related, we lose power intermittently due to thunderstorms at least once a week, usually for just a minute or so. However, I discovered that if you are recording six hours of obscure Rosalind Russell films overnight on TCM, and your power goes out just for a moment during the last few minutes, that nothing gets "Written to Disk" and you can't watch any of it. I guess we'll make some popcorn and revisit "His Girl Friday" for the umpteenth time.

Ah, the joys of home ownership! These are the things they don't tell you about.

Love, Rob't

Summery Summary - August 2008

Howdy!

Yes, Ohio has a Kalahari. The place names are a bit confusing. Here within Hamilton County (although the city of Hamilton is the seat for Butler County, immediately to our north), we have a Glendale, Springdale, Springfield, Fairfield, Greene, Greenhills, etc. At least there are not a lot of Beverlys, and absolutely no Spanish names whatsoever. You can, however, find Mainstrasse, and Over-the-Rhine. The first few weeks we were here, everyone kept talking about going to “The Beach,” which caused me to think that the poor, deluded Buckeyes must be referring to the Ohio River, (which not that many years ago was still known to occasionally catch fire), but in fact is a local water park. An indoor water park, as so many of them are. Everything here is indoors, including pools, and even miniature golf, which they quaintly refer to as “putt-putt golf.” Stephen and I frequently feel like time-travelers from some advanced civilization.

Speaking of advancement, the NAACP just concluded their annual weeklong convention in Cincinnati, and, (along with the arrival of “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition” in nearby West Chester) has been, almost literally, the only thing in the newspaper. Apparently, there were some small riots in 2001, somehow involving the Cincinnati Police, so this was a way for the city to make amends and show how we’ve improved, race-wise. Anyway, one of the numerous, lengthy articles talked about what a boon the convention was going to be for “black businesses.” This provoked me to write another Letter to the Editor, which follows:

Reading the article about black businesses as a non-black person, I couldn't help but wonder: would I be welcome in a black business? Do they use different currency? How can I identify such a business, or do I have to? Are they located in a Black Pages directory? This way leads to absurdity. I cannot imagine the Enquirer running the headline "Convention helps white businesses."
Regarding Carol Ruffin's comment suggesting a boost in her business would be “a blessing," I have to ask: would more money be a bigger blessing? How much money would she need to make to move from Blessing to Miracle status? Is she talking about God or Mammon?
Finally, the article raises a host of questions about racism and separatism.
Thank you for continuing to provide such thought-provoking articles.


Since the letter has not yet been published, I can only imagine that the Editors of the “Enquirer” do not appreciate either irony or sarcasm. Although there was a follow-up article that reported that, in fact, black businesses [sic] were not helped by the convention. (Fortunately, the Extreme Home Makeover did turn out to be a blessing, according to several sources, so southwest Ohio must still be favored, hallelujah.)

We are favored too, apparently. We have discvered that the previous owners created a “prairie garden” of wonderful native plants along one side of our back yard. Working from both a guidebook and trips to Winton Woods’ Nature Center, I have identified some, but not all, including the wonderfully named Self-Heal, spiderwort, purple loosestrife, and trumpet creeper. The Black-Eyed Susans I did know, but there are still many that remain a mystery.

It is such a difference from Long Beach: despite being here two months, we still cannot get used to seeing deer alongside (or even on) the freeway off-ramps; Canada geese in grocery store parking lots (hissing if the carts get too close); and enough unrecognizable road kill to feed a small Appalachian village. Passing a tree or shrub, we might encounter a primary burst of red, blue, or yellow, making California’s sparrows and mourning doves seem a bit drab. This being Ohio, so notoriously behind the times, the June bugs have just arrived – in July. Even our own backyard is becoming something of a Nature’s Wonderland. Rosie discovered a box turtle in our wildflower beds, and a wasp has started a paper nest in a wind chime. There are minuscule orange eggs affixed to a window (which we hope turn out to be a butterfly’s), and I found a beautiful blue robin’s egg on our lawn.

And on the subject of gardens, I must mention that Stephen got a job, which he began earlier this week, as an Assistant Manager at a store called Garden Ridge, which is one of a chain of garden/home furnishing warehouse stores. Although, with what they sell, and the discount he receives, we may not come out that far ahead financially!

Well, by the calendar we’ve been here already two months today. It’s still somewhat hard to imagine that it was only back in January that we came out here “just looking,” and now here we are, with a house and everything! Before the next thunderstorm begins, and we possibly lose power (again!--albeit briefly), I will post this.

Love, Rob't

July 2008

Howdy!
I am sitting in the basement listening to the rain (again!) today, the 4th of July, and the beginning of a three-day weekend, having just finished my 4-day “RMT University” with Starbucks. It was interesting, in that on the second day of the gathering of eleven recently hired or promoted Managers and Assistants, we learned that six hundred Starbucks stores will be closing over the next nine months. To say there was a bit of anxiety in the room would be an understatement, as some of the trainees could have received a call that day saying that their store was on “the list.” Fortunately, so far, no one received that call, and we were later told, fairly reliably, that none of us would be affected, and that, in fact, Starbucks is also planning to open 200 new stores in that time. The problem was that when Howard Schultz, the big-deal CEO, stepped down a few years ago (and has since returned this February, to everyone’s relief), his successor went nuts, opening far too many stores in markets that did not need them. (You may have heard the joke: they just opened a new Starbucks… in the restroom of another Starbucks.) To give some perspective: there are as many Starbucks in southern California as there are in our 17 state region (excluding Chicago); Long Beach has 27, vs. the Ohio River Valley, with only 37, despite comprising most of Ohio, Kentucky and Indiana.

Anyway, on a more personal level, I found out from Sara Beth, the Regional Recruiter, and one of our instructors, that I was the last non-hourly hired in the company (!), as Starbucks put a management-level hiring freeze into effect five days after I accepted. I told her I hoped it wasn’t cause-and effect. I also got showered with glory at the classes, as the caliber of management Starbucks has had (particularly in this area) is not the same as what we had at Disney, so many of my observations and “best practices” caused a sensation. That was one reason Sara Beth was anxious to get me, because so many of Starbucks’ management have moved up from within, which, while in itself a good thing, often means that the people do not necessarily have as much perspective or experience as those from the outside. It was nice to get the recognition, of course, and offset some of the humility I have had to learn since, only six weeks into my training, there are still plenty of high-school age employees who can make a better mocha than I can! And Starbucks certainly remains a good choice, as Disney Store has also just closed 120 stores, including the last one in this area, at Tri-County Mall, where I had thought of transferring. Our closest Disney Stores now are in either Columbus or Louisville. It’s tough times in retail-land!

In other news, I seem to be following in my Mom's footsteps, by writing letters to the editor, and just had my first one published (which is not all that big a deal, since the Enquirer writes that they receive “dozens of letter a week,” which I think puts it on par with most throwaway neighborhood rags, but I digress…). The upshot is that twice recently, religious groups have tried to meet at public places, and when being denied have sued or threatened suit. The first one was a “Bible-based Financial Planning Seminar” that wanted to use a local library’s community room. They were denied and are now suing for discrimination and “damages” into the hundred thousands. Here is my letter:

Regarding “Clermont Co. couple sues library after Bible-based seminar rejected” (June 7): Why are these religious groups insisting on meeting in public places? Don’t they have their own places, which I believe are called churches? And how likely is it these groups would allow other nonprofit groups that don’t hold their beliefs to meet in those churches? Finally, how very “Christian” that these groups are suing or thinking about lawsuits. I believe the message is “What Would Jesus Do?” and not “Who Would Jesus Sue?”

So far, we have not received any burning crosses on our lawn, or threats of lawsuits, which we think is a good thing.

The newspaper is horrible, although we get a great deal of enjoyment from it nonetheless. Here is recipe from the other day that was featured on the front page of the Lifestyle section, with color photo:

“4th of July Dessert”
Ingredients:
One box, Little Debbie Stars and Stripes Cakes
Cinnamon red hots
Instructions: Cut Little Debbie cakes into triangles, and arrange on plate. Sprinkle with red hots.
Serves 16.

This is so funny by itself, I do not even need to make a joke about my sister's cooking! The Gardening and other columns are about as remedial. Stephen actually wondered if we were getting a children’s edition of the paper by mistake.

The paper also misuses the word “diversity,” but in that it is reflecting the community. In January, when we first visited, our Realtor and others we talked to warned us against some neighborhoods because they were “diverse.” We couldn’t figure out what the big deal was; we like diversity, and as a gay couple in the Midwest, we kind of thought we were bringing a little diversity in. How boring and sterile if everyone is all one thing, whatever it is. Anyway, what we found out is that in Ohio, diversity does not mean variety or difference, but Black. This was apparent in the paper when they wrote about how the Cincinnati Conservatory of Music was creating several diversity programs: all seven were for African-American groups, exclusively. Which is admirable, but not truly diverse. Talking to our neighbors, who are also non-natives, we discovered that apparently Cincinnati has had a long history of racial tension, but is doing its best to turn around, however awkwardly. There still looks to be a long way to go, as we have observed firsthand. Despite there being a decent amount of black residents in Greenhills, at the outdoor concert we went to last week the audience was exclusively white; likewise in Riley’s, the local restaurant we eat breakfast at once a week or so. Go down to the lake, however, and it is almost exclusively black families walking or picnicking. Who knows why? Even at Starbucks, in my different classes I have met about forty other managers, DMs, etc., and there is not one non-white face. Sara Beth and I were talking about that, and she said that in Alabama, which is about 40% black, Starbucks has zero black managers, despite being a company that really does want to embrace inclusiveness and diversity.

Which somehow brings me back to where I started. And with the rain letting up (for now!), I think I’ll conclude. This evening, if the weather stays clear, we will walk up to the Pioneer Days festival, where there are carnival rides and hoopla, before fireworks. I hope you all have a safe, fun, and sunny Fourth!

Love, Rob't

June 2008

Howdy!

More updates. Nicely enough, the weather has settled down, although we still have random thunderstorms (sometimes just the rain, sometimes just the thunder beneath sunny skies, sometimes a combination) for about an hour, every other day or so. The humidity comes and goes, but we are getting used to it. We do a lot the first and last hours of daylight, which can be challenging at nightfall, because it does not really get dark until about 9:30 or so.

We still spend a lot of time outside: breakfast and the newspaper (such as it is) in the morning, walks around the lake or the neighborhood in the evening. And our yard keeps revealing itself. We have identified many more plants, and new things pop up all the time; we’ve even started a compost heap. There were these wonderful flowers coming up in several places; it turned out they are astilbe, which Stephen discovered because it was featured in the newest “Martha Stewart Living.” Our magnolia on the side of the house has started to bloom, which is just as well, since the roses are already done. It’s nice that we have so much going on, since nothing ever seems to last for more than a week or so, except for the tons of daylilies that have been going strong (excepting the ones Maisie and Rosie have trampled in their pursuit of squirrels) and look likely to continue. A few nights ago, to our delight we found that we have fireflies at dusk; they are magical, but baffle the poor dogs. And we also get a lot of pleasure discussing future (Immediate, One Day, Never) plans for the backyard, everything from a hammock to building in terraces and low stone walls on the grade at the back. Today we dragged our patio chairs all over, trying out spots for a hypothetical future bench.

Not that we have to do anything anytime soon. Nevertheless, the pressure is on, as the former owners left us a lot to live up to. We have discovered by meeting several of our neighbors that almost all of them are familiar with our yard, and admit it is one of the nicest on the block. And apparently, our street is considered one of the “better” streets: two City Council members and the former City Manager live on Bayham as well. We went to a specially held board meeting for the Historical Society (although we were not yet even members, but were invited by two of the board!) because the new City Manager, Jane Berry, was going to be there. In the past, there has been some friction between “The Village” and the Historical Society, so this was a chance to get someone on “our” side. Anyway, it turns out she has lived here just three months, having moved here from somewhere in New York, and upon being introduced, and learning that we were newcomers on Bayham, shocked us by telling us that we had taken “her” house: she and her husband had seen it online and were seriously considering it, but we bought it just before they were able to look at it! It is all so small-town: the President of the Historical Society lives on Handel Lane, just two doors down from my old house (although they didn’t move in until 1987). He also continued the chain of coincidence by producing some Greenhills memorabilia from the 'fifties that had just been given to him at church (of course!), by a nice woman named Alma Muller who used to live on Gambier Court. Bear in mind, I only know a few people in Ohio, either members of the Historical Society, or working at Starbucks. Alma Muller is the grandmother of a friend of mine at work! I only knew that because he had mentioned that his dad had grown up in Greenhills, on Gambier, which was the only reason he had heard of our little village.

Speaking of work, I am midway through my training, and although Starbucks itself is great, I’m not sure that my trainer, Todd, and I are a good fit. Although a Store Manager himself, I am the first manager he has trained, and he doesn’t seem very well prepared. He has also told me (more than once) that he is burnt-out by his job; I am wondering if the District Manager gave me to him to give him something new to do. I am training in a store in Loveland (really—the names here are great. There is also a Mt Healthy, Rabbit Hash, and so on), which is a fairly affluent area near to a lot of recreational areas. The other claim to fame for Loveland is that it is the home of Tom Wilson, creator of the cartoon “Ziggy,” who is one of our regular customers (Tom, not Ziggy). Stephen is still looking for work, but has interviews all the time. We anticipated that it would take him a little longer since his job doesn’t really have an applicable equivalent, so we’re not too worried.

I’ve got to go, as Stephen wants to run over to Jungle Jim’s, this enormous four acre grocery store that defies description (it’s the one that has the twelve-foot butter case, a six foot singing soup can over the Campbell’s aisle, and offers alligator meat, among other things), and then we have to get our picnic dinner ready to walk up to the Concert on the Green, held on alternate Wednesdays during summer. Tonight is some big band group from 7 until 9, which should be fun.

Remind me about how happy we are these days when I call sometime crying about being snowed in!
Love, Rob't

Packing, Driving, Arriving - May 2008

Howdy!

I’m not big on all this high-tech stuff, but with so many of you expressing (or at least feigning) an interest in our Ohio Adventure, here is a blanket update about our first few weeks. Future missives will be personal, and perhaps hand-written, if one still remembers how (and can find one’s stationery amidst the still too-numerous unopened cartons).

In Long Beach, the movers were very nice, as we were not remotely ready to be moved, still packing even as they were loading; although they were amazed that we had done so much in so little time. They assumed we had been packing for over a week, when in fact we had started Sunday night and worked pretty much continually until that Thursday, more randomly and haphazardly with each succeeding carton. The movers were even nice about the fact that Maisie and Rosie would insist on helping: “Uh, Sir, there goes that dog again….”

As someone once said, “Books do furnish a room.” But they didn’t mention that they also weigh a ton, or more—literally. Our final total weight was in the mid-thirteen thousand pounds, and those of you who have visited our apartment know how little furniture we own. And the couch stayed in California. Anyway, we ended up with over three hundred and fifty cartons, bins, and “miscellaneous” (that bundle of birch branches, to pick just one example, was going to look so good next to the fireplace there was no thought of leaving it). The van left and we went out to eat (they had taken the 'fridge, after all), backs aching, hands shaking, eyes akimbo… but done. With the packing.

We left early the next day from my Mom’s house for our two thousand-plus mile sojourn, our poor XB packed to the gills with all the things the movers had not taken (because we had not yet packed them, alas), with no room left for such basics as the dogs, or luggage for the five day road trip. Jettisoning all kinds of valuables in Mom’s garage (here I am with the biggest yard I’ve ever had and no croquet set!), we finally fit in the dogs and snacks and innumerable CDs so necessary for our journey.

We had plotted the drive out as five easy-ish days, partly based on not knowing exactly how well the pooches would take to the car for such long periods. Our route was simple: get to the 15N, shoot through Vegas and up into Utah, then hang a big left once we got to I-70, which would take us cross-country and nearly to our front door. Our route was the reverse of one driven by my mother, sister and me along with some friends when returning to California after living in Ohio briefly many years ago.

The highlight of that earlier trip, the source of numerous and profane family stories over the years, was when our station wagon broke down in Wakeenee, “Blink and You’ll Miss It,” Kansas, stranding us for a few days while waiting for repairs. And the highlight of this current trip—but you’ve guessed. Closer to Topeka than to Wakeenee, true, and not a random engine part, but a freak accident involving a wild turkey and our front windshield. The really remarkable part was the reaction from the repair shop: not that it had happened at all, but that usually the turkeys go clean [sic] through the windshield. Apparently, drive-by poultry is not unknown in the Midwest. While waiting for a new windshield, mercifully just a few hours rather than days, the townsfolk all attempted to “relate” to us by sharing their stories about raccoons and headlights, or deer and radiators, et cetera and truly ad nauseum.

Beyond that, the drive was delightfully uneventful, despite the dire warnings of the Weather Channel, which we watched religiously each morning. We were lucky enough always to be a day ahead of or behind the tornadoes, floods, heat waves, and so on. The dogs enjoyed the ride, enjoyed the rest stops even more, and the few plants I insisted on bringing from our patio survived, hoorah.

We reached our new home fairly late on Tuesday afternoon, and the movers were due to meet up with us the next morning. Luckily, we had bought a small bed and a few other necessities on our brief visit here in April, so we were able to play house convincingly until all the rest of the three-hundred and fifty boxes and goodies arrived. We took the dogs into the back yard for the first time, and it was marvelous, confirming every impulse we had to buy this house, this yard.

And what a yard. Or to reach closer to the truth: what a meadow. What with all the April showers, and no one to mow the lawn for about three months, the grass was about two and a half feet high. When Rosie ran through it you could barely see her, akin to seeing a cheetah ripple the weeds on the savannah. Well, not too much akin, as no self-respecting cheetah would spazz around (and there really are no other words for it) the

way Rosie did. Maisie, of course, maintained her usual dignity, until she went behind some unidentified shrubbery and rolled in something horrendously noisome. She had the first of many subsequent baths that evening. There was one lovely smell under the arbor coming from a large shrub, which we later found out was lilac, just finishing its bloom until next year, alas.

We slept wonderfully that night, for the first time all in our new home. Blissfully quiet and wonderfully dark, until the next dawn, when we were given reveille by the innumerable birds. It is astounding how much sound can come out of something so small.

Anyway. The movers arrived to unload our stuff, again with patience to spare, as we were never quite sure in which room which boxes were meant to go, due to our inadequate and perfunctory labeling. We finally just stood aside and let them sort it all out, which they did in just a few hours. And again we went off to eat, as although we now had our 'fridge back, there was nothing in it.

Any place you hang your hat is home, but once you’ve hung that hat (and usually changed your mind at least twice, lost the screws to the hook, hit your thumb with the hammer, then had Stephen come in and suggest that the hat rack would look so much better over there…) there is still plenty to do. The next few days were a blur of boxes, stairs, and remembering that you had just seen x, y, or z… but where? Every day included a trip to Ikea, Target, or Home Depot for some necessary or, more frequently, unlocateable item. Gradually we have been able to make sense of it, and three weeks in, we are nearly done: utensils located, pictures hung (then rehung), knickknacks displayed.

There has been plenty of activity and discovery outside our four walls as well. Our pond, it turns out, actually has three fish, not just one. And raccoons get into it nearly every night, as they are extremely partial to water hyacinth. Fortunately for us, water hyacinth is not too expensive, unlikely nearly every other plant out here. A visit to a local nursery nearly gave me sticker shock, as plants that are $2.99 in California are $6.99 or more here, if available at all. One nursery we saw was offering nothing but geraniums, which are perfectly pleasant, but…. Happily, after having a gardener come and mow down our meadow (there being no scythe in our shed, and already having made one trip to Home Depot that day), we discovered our yard does not seem to need any additions. Besides the lilac, we find we have peonies (whose cut blooms perfumed our house for a week), blue salvia, day lilies, astilbe (wonderful!), hydrangea, and much more, still to be identified. What is taking some getting used to is the –I guess you’d call it—seasonality of the plants, particularly in contrast to California. We missed the tulips, which were just coming up when we visited in April, but now finished. We had spectacular climbing roses blooming… for a week, concluded for this year. A hydrangea I had smuggled in from California went onto the front porch, to the amazement of the neighbors, since it was already blooming, and those here will not bloom for several more weeks.

The neighbors have been amazing us right back as well. First off, we have met some of them! When we were having our “everything must go” garage sale just before leaving California, we had customers who turned out to have been neighbors of ours for years that we had never even seen, let alone gotten to know. Hello and goodbye. Just a few days after arriving, Susan from next door came over with a plate of still-warm brownies (her husband, John, had kept our front yard mowed, but was too polite to go into the backyard uninvited), and a “Cincinnati Welcome Kit” which included cans of chili from both Skyline and GoldStar, the city’s two big-deal rivals, so we could decide which camp we belonged in. It turned out, neither, as Cincinnati chili bears no relation to anything known out west, having neither beans nor discernable meat, and whose primary spice is apparently nutmeg. Another western transplant we met referred to it as “liquefied Alpo,’ which, if crossed with the flavor of gingerbread, would not be far from the truth. Still, Susan’s was a kind gesture, a token of small-town life.

“How small is it?” you are no-doubt asking. When I called the city offices a few days after our arrival to find out about trash pick-up, the woman on the other end of the phone knew what street we were on as soon as I said we were newcomers. She even knew our names, then apologized that they had not yet dropped off (yes--versus mailing) the village welcome/information kit. When the former owner of our house stopped by a few days ago with some additional information for us, he remarked on how nice the roses looked, but added he wasn’t surprised, since he had heard from one of the neighbors back in April that I had pruned them. It’s not that we have anything to hide, but we are seriously considering getting heavier drapes for all the front windows.

Despite some lingering paranoia (is our little Mayberry really more Stepford?), we are doing our best to be civic. Our first weekend here, we attended the (second) annual Art Show in the historic Community Building. Although the “art” per se was not much, the Greenhills Historical Society was also present, showing off the WPA murals throughout the building, and their small museum. The aptly named Betty Senior, one of the GHS mucky-mucks, glommed onto us as new blood, and deserting her post, showed us around a lot of the building. We also met Lisa the Librarian (it does sometimes seem rather “Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood”...), who was proudly pointing out a just-released book about Roosevelt’s New Deal, which included a section on Greenhills and the other two Greenbelt towns.

The following weekend, having our choice between a steak dinner at the American Legion Hall, or “Chili for God” (as Stephen called it) at St. Mary’s, we opted for the former. Entering Legion Post 530, we immediately lowered the average age in the room by about ten years. We chose our table, after making sure we knew the whereabouts of the bar (which is a permanent fixture of the hall, not just put up for the event. There is also, we were told, a second private bar known as the “Club Room” in the basement). The only other person at our table was a nice fellow named Howie, with whom we eventually hit it off. It did not begin well, though. Having gradually gotten used to the fact that we were from California, he was then further disappointed to discover that: a) we were not veterans; b) did not hunt or shoot; and c) did not operate ham radios. We appealed to his ego by having him explain Cincinnati to us dumb clucks, which, along with his pitcher of beer, seemed to placate him, and soon enough we were all chums. He even introduced us to, or at least pointed out, several other Legionnaires and persons of consequence, including Greenhills’ mayor of about twenty years, Oscar “Ockie” Hoffman.

This was useful to know, as Stephen inadvertently discovered just a few nights later. He was walking up to the green to attend a meeting on proposed bike and walking trails for the Village, as well as other improvements, prepared by UC (and I still wait for an additional letter or letters) students, when he met up with a small group heading the same way, including Ockie and Mrs. Ockie. Stephen chatted with them briefly, and Mrs. O, like any well-trained politico’s spouse hardly batted an eye after enquiring about Stephen’s wife and having him reply that Robert was not able to attend because he was working. The meeting was interesting, and one hopes the proposed plans will go through, although this may not be likely.

For even in so small a village, there is quite a bit of intrigue and a number of factions, as we subsequently learned while visiting with a shop owner, Linda. (Stepford out, Peyton Place in?) She explained about the different groups, some pushing for “progress,” others trying to retain and restore the history (the entire village is on the National Register of Historic Places, but may lose that status if too much more is altered or torn down), and we were chiming in on the side of History. The Council doesn’t like the Historical Society, the Junedale and Catholic Church groups compete with everyone, and no one likes the Kiwanis, although all of them are vying for the attention of a newly installed Town Manager. We offered various ideas and solutions based on our admittedly brief occupancy. She seemed to like most of them, and as Linda was saying that we ought to meet Terri, President of the Neighborhood Association, and Secretary of the Historical Society, in she walked. She had, of course, “heard all about us,” and seen us out walking, and at the various events. She liked our ideas, too, as well as our enthusiasm, and hoped that as new voices in town we might be able to help get things done. We’ll see. (As I am writing this, she just dropped off an invitation to attend the next Historical Society board meeting Monday, and a “Village Clean-up” event Saturday.)

As conflicted and changeable as the village politics seem to be, they are as nothing compared to the weather. Although most days have been sunny and grand, in our few weeks here we have had heat waves, pouring rain that ends as soon as it begins (enough once to pop out a basement window and let in a torrent; luckily, it was on the unfinished side, and everything stored there was in plastic bins), and tornado warnings. You will soon learn there is a difference between a “warning” and a mere “watch,” and although the natives seem curiously apathetic about both, the local news is another story: constantly interrupting programs or inserting “crawls” for weather updates, like a televised boy who cries wolf. Our only potentially serious tornado incident occurred while we were at Target (naturally), but looking about at the other shoppers who continued nonchalantly to fill their carts while sirens blared convinced us to relax a little. And while checking out, waiting for a break in the rain to hurry home, the checker suggested it would be a good night for a chicken dinner, and didn’t we think it would be a good idea to stop at the market on the way home to pick up some asparagus! I guess I’m still a crazy Californian at heart, but I don’t immediately associate asparagus and tornado warnings.

And did I mention the cicadas? Next time….

Love, Rob't