In view of the fact that we have had a good share of rainy weather already this spring, today I am going to relate a story about the great flood of 1926. This flood occured in Sioux County, Iowa and took the lives of four residents of that county. My dad, his brother and their father narrowly escaped a similar fate on that seventeenth day of September, eighty one and a half years ago. Here is their story.
Harvest time came and Grandpa was having trouble with his grain binder. The binder literally bound the bundles of grain with twine making this a much simpler task than in previous days when it had been done by hand. Pa took his binder over to their grandparents to help with getting the work completed. It was left there until one September day when Ed looked at Bernie and Erwin over the table at lunch time and asked, “How would you kids like to go along to get the binder.” They jumped at the chance to take a ride with their pa and eagerly hopped up onto the wagon. As they rode along, the sky began to cloud over and by the time they arrived at the Vander Zwaags it was quite dark. After a cup of coffee they started for home while the thunder rolled in the background.
As they approached Uncle Henry and Aunt Anne’s farm the wind had started to blow so Pa pulled onto the yard. The relatives weren’t home but arrived soon afterward and of course, another cup of coffee was in order. In spite of the threatening storm, the boys dad decided that they needed to get on home. Aunt Anne gave the group some old coats and they started out once more.
A torrent of rain was falling by the time they rounded the corner and it was decided that they would stop at the Kamstra’s place. No one was home there either, but the trio took refuge in the barn as the storm persisted. After quite some time in the shelter, Pa said, “We need to get going. Ma is home alone with Eugene and we need to get home.” The road was a muddy quagmire and pulling the binder caused an added hardship so they decided to leave it until later. They were still two miles from home and the deluge was unrelenting as the boys huddled together and Pa prodded the horses on.
Presently they arrived at the old bridge near their home and suddenly the horses stopped. The water rushed up the sides of the wagon and soon coverd most of the wheels. Erwin looked over the side and saw the rapidly rising creek as it swirled angrily below. He feared that they would all soon be submerged. Bernie huddled closer to his brother, his face reflecting the fear his brother had silently communicated. His sightless eyes gave him no idea just how perilous was their plight. The boys clung tightly to the wagon and clenched their chattering teeth as they wondered if they would ever reach the safety of their little farm house. It took all he had in him for Pa to urge those horses forward, but finally, knowing they were close to home, the pair slowly plodded ahead. It was dark when they reached the farm and Ma was frantic. She had called Aunt Anne and been told that her family had left quite some time ago. The creek had risen almost to the barn but she had done the chores and milked the cows. In spite of her fear she did what she knew had to be done.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Thursday, May 29, 2008
The Friendly Dentist
I hate dentists! Don’t get me wrong, my dentist is a very likeable guy. It’s not the person that I detest, it’s the profession. I can’t understand why anyone in their right mind would want to spend eight hours a day with their hands in someone else’s mouth. And the dental hygienist is no better. When she is doing her cleaning routine it reminds me of fingernails scraping on a chalkboard.
My first experience with a dentist was when I was quite young. I had acquired a small cavity and it needed to be filled. The family dentist at that time was an older gentleman who had his practice in an equally old building downtown. The place was dark and foreboding. I was filled with trepidation as I opened the heavy wooden door and timidly entered. I guess the doctor thought that the cavity was small enough not to require any type of anesthetic because he did his drilling and filling without the benefit of Novocain or “laughing gas.” From then on, I dreaded every encounter with the “tooth” doctor.
As time went on, of course, I needed to see the dentist again, but by this time the old guy who gave me my first fright was retired. A succession of dentists followed and even though they were more apt to numb my mouth before working on me, they still scared me. The needle that was used to deaden my senses was huge! The “little” poke I was supposed to feel was a long, excruciating stab.
Eventually, the event of my first tooth extraction arrived. I had suffered with a toothache all weekend and on Sunday I couldn’t endure the pain any longer. I called my dentist, a guy who had attended high school with me. “Come on in,” he said, “We’ll take care of it.” Deep down, I knew what that meant. He was going to pull it! At this point, it didn’t much matter. The pain far exceeded my fear, so off I went, to the bright and cheery office so different from my first experience. Once in the chair, I braced myself for the onslaught and within seconds my mouth was hanging open and the dentist’s able hands and tools had entered. He had already administered the numbing agent and I felt a slight pushing. “There you go, all done.” Wow! I didn’t even feel it!
After that encounter, I didn’t fear dentists quite as much, but still do not look forward to my appointments. My present DDS is a pleasant sort whom I can joke with and he really tries to make my dental events painless, but I still don’t like to go see him. I hate lying back with my jaws spread wide while he and the assistant explore the gapping orifice. What do you look at? The eyes peering down at you through magnifying lenses aren't very comforting. The light used to illuminate your incisors is hypnotic. Don't look at the tools. They resemble medievel instruments of torture. I used to count fly specks on the ceiling but now they actually have pictures up there! After awhile those same old scenes become boring and my mind wanders back to the business at hand. My imagination takes over and I wonder if I might swallow something I shouldn't. The more I concentrate on not swallowing, the more I need to do so. Oh, and now my nose is itching!
Over the years I have had numerous fillings and filings. Today my sixth crown was installed and within the past year I have also had my first root canal. The worst of it is, every time I leave that office, I end up with a new pain. Maybe my friendly dentist is not as nice as he seems. Maybe he’s sabotaging another area of my mouth while repairing the current problem! I think the next time I go see him I’ll bring him a little gift. I have this nice little plant in my back room. It’s called the “Audrey II!” I hope he likes it!
My first experience with a dentist was when I was quite young. I had acquired a small cavity and it needed to be filled. The family dentist at that time was an older gentleman who had his practice in an equally old building downtown. The place was dark and foreboding. I was filled with trepidation as I opened the heavy wooden door and timidly entered. I guess the doctor thought that the cavity was small enough not to require any type of anesthetic because he did his drilling and filling without the benefit of Novocain or “laughing gas.” From then on, I dreaded every encounter with the “tooth” doctor.
As time went on, of course, I needed to see the dentist again, but by this time the old guy who gave me my first fright was retired. A succession of dentists followed and even though they were more apt to numb my mouth before working on me, they still scared me. The needle that was used to deaden my senses was huge! The “little” poke I was supposed to feel was a long, excruciating stab.
Eventually, the event of my first tooth extraction arrived. I had suffered with a toothache all weekend and on Sunday I couldn’t endure the pain any longer. I called my dentist, a guy who had attended high school with me. “Come on in,” he said, “We’ll take care of it.” Deep down, I knew what that meant. He was going to pull it! At this point, it didn’t much matter. The pain far exceeded my fear, so off I went, to the bright and cheery office so different from my first experience. Once in the chair, I braced myself for the onslaught and within seconds my mouth was hanging open and the dentist’s able hands and tools had entered. He had already administered the numbing agent and I felt a slight pushing. “There you go, all done.” Wow! I didn’t even feel it!
After that encounter, I didn’t fear dentists quite as much, but still do not look forward to my appointments. My present DDS is a pleasant sort whom I can joke with and he really tries to make my dental events painless, but I still don’t like to go see him. I hate lying back with my jaws spread wide while he and the assistant explore the gapping orifice. What do you look at? The eyes peering down at you through magnifying lenses aren't very comforting. The light used to illuminate your incisors is hypnotic. Don't look at the tools. They resemble medievel instruments of torture. I used to count fly specks on the ceiling but now they actually have pictures up there! After awhile those same old scenes become boring and my mind wanders back to the business at hand. My imagination takes over and I wonder if I might swallow something I shouldn't. The more I concentrate on not swallowing, the more I need to do so. Oh, and now my nose is itching!
Over the years I have had numerous fillings and filings. Today my sixth crown was installed and within the past year I have also had my first root canal. The worst of it is, every time I leave that office, I end up with a new pain. Maybe my friendly dentist is not as nice as he seems. Maybe he’s sabotaging another area of my mouth while repairing the current problem! I think the next time I go see him I’ll bring him a little gift. I have this nice little plant in my back room. It’s called the “Audrey II!” I hope he likes it!
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
The City Park
What ever happened to the city park? Today I drive past the park and see a beautifully landscaped area with a lovely gazebo and an awesome memorial to our war veterans. There is still a grouping of baseball diamonds on the north side and a playground with all sorts of entertainment options for the young. There is a very functional brick shelter house along with three or four covered picnic areas and a scattering of tables throughout the grassy expanse. Two rustic looking wooden cabins stand at the west end of the two blocks set aside for recreational activities. However, the public park in my hometown just isn't what it used to be.
My memories come flooding back as I reflect upon this part of town. As a youngster I spent many happy hours there. The ball diamond that lies to the east was once an outdoor swimming pool. Whenever the pool was open, I was there. Back then we didn't know about sun screen and skin cancer and didn't give a second thought to staying under the hot rays all day long. Once summer hit I was perpetually brown. I don't mean lightly tanned... I mean BROWN....dark brown. I never took many swimming lessons but must be part fish because I loved the water.
The pool had three diving boards - a one meter, a two meter and a three meter. I eventually worked up the nerve to dive off the one meter but only ever jumped feet first from the tallest board.
The pool wasn't the only attraction for my friends and me. Though the playground area wasn't nearly as elaborate as it is now we still enjoyed hours of fun on the swings, slides, jungle gym, giant strides and merry-go-rounds. If we became bored with the games we played in our own neighborhood, we would head across town to the park where there was no end to the diversions that kept us occupied. If we tired of the playground we could always go watch a soft ball game. There was always a game going on in one of the fields. Even if you didn't particularly care for soft ball, as we got into our pre-teen and teen-age years, it was enjoyable just to watch the boys!
The two little log cabins, that don't seem to get much use anymore, were at one time teaming with boys and girls as they attended scout meetings. The south bungalow was the boy scout house and to the north was the girl scout house. We sang and crafted, earned badges and learned many new things under the roofs of those little structures. The boy scout house is still in use as such but the girl scout house had been turned over to the American Legion and stands pretty quiet.
The center of the park used to hold two long wooden shelter houses where many family reunions were held. They had screened windows but the reunions were always held during the hottest part of the summer and there was just no way to keep cool within those buildings. As I think back on those gatherings I can still smell the sweat, fried chicken, coffee and cigar smoke. I can hear the clink of the horseshoes as the men challenged each other to game after game. There were no refrigerators in the building but we kept nibbling on the food that had been prepared much earlier in the day and never seemed to get sick. The stiffling heat caused a mighty thirst which we quenched with warm kool-aid from one of the many gallon jugs lined up on the table.
The women gossiped and fanned while the children headed for the pool. On any given day, the shelter houses were packed. If you wanted to reserve a space for your party you made sure to do so months in advance.
The most memorable of all activities the park had to offer were the weekly band concerts. Every Thursday night Grandpa and Grandma would pick us up and off to the park we would go. Once we arrived the problem of finding a suitable parking place was a priority. My mild mannered grandfather would drive around the park while the best back-seat driver of all times, my grandmother, would point out one spot after another. "Go there," she would say, and grandpa would calmly pass on by. "Now, just stop here," she would implore as we cruised past a space that a tricycle wouldn't even fit into. Finally, much to his wife's chagrin, grandpa would settle on the place he wanted and switch off the ignition. Sometimes we would sit in the car as the band played and at other times we would perch on the hard benches in front of the stage. Some towns had an actual band shell but all we had was a raised stage where the musicians sat in a semi-circle around the conductor. The instrumentalists consisted of high school students and adults with a musical background. They played for perhaps an hour or so and the music they produced was wonderful. I was especially fond of the John Phillips Sousa marches. At some point during the concert we would slip off to the little concession stand and get a bag of popcorn or an ice cream cone. I loved that little store! Years later the people who ran the Scout Stand, as it was called, would offer me my first real job.
I spent three summers working in the Scout Stand, and got to know the likes and dislikes of every customer. After an afternoon of swimming, the children would climb up on the bench outside the window in order to get a good view of all the penny candy. Then they would carefully make their choices and still end up trading with their friends after the purchase was made. The junior high boys would always order "suicides," a mixture of every kind of soda pop we had. One of the towns "simple" guys would spend his days watching ball games and always top it off with a cherry nut ice cream cone. The smell of popcorn would bring the older men from the horse shoe pits and the teens would stop by for a frozen Snicker bar. On nights when there was a big concert or tournament game, three of us would be required to take care of business and we would be tripping all over each other in the small confines of the concession stand. After the rush we would collapse onto a stool and enjoy one of the treats we had been serving up all night.
The only time our city park is packed any more is during our annual Labor Day celebration. On that day you can barely manuevure through the crowded walkways. There is excitement and fun and merriment, but the next day all is once again quiet. Oh for the days when the city park was alive with people and activity every day.
My memories come flooding back as I reflect upon this part of town. As a youngster I spent many happy hours there. The ball diamond that lies to the east was once an outdoor swimming pool. Whenever the pool was open, I was there. Back then we didn't know about sun screen and skin cancer and didn't give a second thought to staying under the hot rays all day long. Once summer hit I was perpetually brown. I don't mean lightly tanned... I mean BROWN....dark brown. I never took many swimming lessons but must be part fish because I loved the water.
The pool had three diving boards - a one meter, a two meter and a three meter. I eventually worked up the nerve to dive off the one meter but only ever jumped feet first from the tallest board.
The pool wasn't the only attraction for my friends and me. Though the playground area wasn't nearly as elaborate as it is now we still enjoyed hours of fun on the swings, slides, jungle gym, giant strides and merry-go-rounds. If we became bored with the games we played in our own neighborhood, we would head across town to the park where there was no end to the diversions that kept us occupied. If we tired of the playground we could always go watch a soft ball game. There was always a game going on in one of the fields. Even if you didn't particularly care for soft ball, as we got into our pre-teen and teen-age years, it was enjoyable just to watch the boys!
The two little log cabins, that don't seem to get much use anymore, were at one time teaming with boys and girls as they attended scout meetings. The south bungalow was the boy scout house and to the north was the girl scout house. We sang and crafted, earned badges and learned many new things under the roofs of those little structures. The boy scout house is still in use as such but the girl scout house had been turned over to the American Legion and stands pretty quiet.
The center of the park used to hold two long wooden shelter houses where many family reunions were held. They had screened windows but the reunions were always held during the hottest part of the summer and there was just no way to keep cool within those buildings. As I think back on those gatherings I can still smell the sweat, fried chicken, coffee and cigar smoke. I can hear the clink of the horseshoes as the men challenged each other to game after game. There were no refrigerators in the building but we kept nibbling on the food that had been prepared much earlier in the day and never seemed to get sick. The stiffling heat caused a mighty thirst which we quenched with warm kool-aid from one of the many gallon jugs lined up on the table.
The women gossiped and fanned while the children headed for the pool. On any given day, the shelter houses were packed. If you wanted to reserve a space for your party you made sure to do so months in advance.
The most memorable of all activities the park had to offer were the weekly band concerts. Every Thursday night Grandpa and Grandma would pick us up and off to the park we would go. Once we arrived the problem of finding a suitable parking place was a priority. My mild mannered grandfather would drive around the park while the best back-seat driver of all times, my grandmother, would point out one spot after another. "Go there," she would say, and grandpa would calmly pass on by. "Now, just stop here," she would implore as we cruised past a space that a tricycle wouldn't even fit into. Finally, much to his wife's chagrin, grandpa would settle on the place he wanted and switch off the ignition. Sometimes we would sit in the car as the band played and at other times we would perch on the hard benches in front of the stage. Some towns had an actual band shell but all we had was a raised stage where the musicians sat in a semi-circle around the conductor. The instrumentalists consisted of high school students and adults with a musical background. They played for perhaps an hour or so and the music they produced was wonderful. I was especially fond of the John Phillips Sousa marches. At some point during the concert we would slip off to the little concession stand and get a bag of popcorn or an ice cream cone. I loved that little store! Years later the people who ran the Scout Stand, as it was called, would offer me my first real job.
I spent three summers working in the Scout Stand, and got to know the likes and dislikes of every customer. After an afternoon of swimming, the children would climb up on the bench outside the window in order to get a good view of all the penny candy. Then they would carefully make their choices and still end up trading with their friends after the purchase was made. The junior high boys would always order "suicides," a mixture of every kind of soda pop we had. One of the towns "simple" guys would spend his days watching ball games and always top it off with a cherry nut ice cream cone. The smell of popcorn would bring the older men from the horse shoe pits and the teens would stop by for a frozen Snicker bar. On nights when there was a big concert or tournament game, three of us would be required to take care of business and we would be tripping all over each other in the small confines of the concession stand. After the rush we would collapse onto a stool and enjoy one of the treats we had been serving up all night.
The only time our city park is packed any more is during our annual Labor Day celebration. On that day you can barely manuevure through the crowded walkways. There is excitement and fun and merriment, but the next day all is once again quiet. Oh for the days when the city park was alive with people and activity every day.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Chickens
Today I'm thinking about chickens. Why chickens, you ask? They have been brought to mind lately as I have been researching my father's childhood in hopes of writing his life story. I find that he and I had something in common when were were tots. He didn't like chickens and neither did I! His story goes something like this.
Bernie never really had an affinity for the poultry that graced the farm yard. One day when he was about four years old his mother heard a terrible ruckus outside. Peering out the kitchen window she witnessed their mean old rooster chasing a screaming Bernie around the yard. That darned rooster was actually attacking her little boy! After rescuing her son from the cruel bird she decided their dinner that evening would consist of roasted chicken.
Later on the story was a little different. She wasn’t quite as compassionate when having trouble getting her eldest son toilet trained. One day she decided that maybe she could scare him into doing his duty in the right place. The hens of those days were a little different than they are in the present day. Today eggs are hatched in incubators. Broodiness has been bred out of chickens because it reduces egg production. There was a time when the hatching was done by a hen sitting on a nest full of eggs for 21 days Back in those days in the spring time hens would get broody which meant all they wanted to do is find a nest full of eggs to sit on. They would get rather mean and pick at anything that came near. Knowing that Bernie was deathly afraid of “broody” hens, she locked him in the grain bin in the barn with a broody hen. It didn’t work but made the little guy even more afraid of those chickens.
This was not Bernie’s only encounter with farm fowl. One day Bernie was teasing and taunting some of the chickens. After stirring them up and raising their ire he ran for the door of the chicken coop only to find it fastened tight. As he pushed and pushed, trying to escape the angry flock, he heard a tirade of chastisement coming from the other side of the door where his mother was holding the door firmly shut.
When I was a toddler, I remember visiting my grandparents farm and coming away with the same fear and trepidation that my dad encountered there. I don't recall the exact details, as I couldn't have been more than two or three years old, but I must have gone out to the chicken yard with grandma. I imagine she went to feed them and, being the curious sort, I tagged along.
However, once within the confines of the fenced in area where the chicken resided, I wasn't nearly as interested. In fact, I became downright scared! Those feathered fiends all seemed to be coming at me at once and they had sharp little beaks and made a lot of noise and furiously flapped their wings at me. Later, in the safety of my own room at home, with my mom and dad near by, I still couldn't forget that traumatic experience. Most kids think there are monsters in their closets. I thought there were chicks under my bed. I just couldn't rest that night until my mother had gathered the imaginary hatchlings into her apron and tossed them out the door.
I can not imagine where the term "to be chicken" or "chicken out" came from. Those foul creatures are certainly not "chicken." Maybe it's because they are bullies and make others "chicken."
As I was thinking about chickens today I realized that there are countless phrases that refer to poultry. Consider these: Caught with egg on your face. The rooster makes all the noise, but the hen rules the roost! The rooster may rule the roost, but the hen rules the rooster! Fussing like an old hen. Quit your squawking. Nest egg. Scratching out a living. Up with the chickens. Walking on eggshells. Fly the coop. Dumb cluck. Yolks on you. Does a chicken have lips? Hen party. Chicken feed. Birds of a feather flock together. Don't want to put up a squawk. Hatch an idea. Coming home to roost. Pecking order. Henpecked. Rule the Roost. Don't count your chickens before they're hatched. Don't put all your eggs in one basket. Not everything it's cracked up to be. Something to crow about. Hen cackle. To be a Mother Hen. Don't brood over it. Madder than a wet hen. To lay an egg. Run around like a chicken with its head cut off. Ruffle your feathers. Stick in your craw. Bad egg. Nobody here but us chickens. Strutting' your stuff. To bed with the chickens. Feather our nests. I'm going to wring his neck. As scarce as hen's teeth.
Those chickens sure are popular! I think where they're most popular though is in the stewing pot, or on a barbeque, or in the oven. To this day, my dad's favorite meal consists of fried chicken, baked beans and potato salad. I rather like to eat chicken myself! Do you suppose that's our final say over our former tormentors?
Bernie never really had an affinity for the poultry that graced the farm yard. One day when he was about four years old his mother heard a terrible ruckus outside. Peering out the kitchen window she witnessed their mean old rooster chasing a screaming Bernie around the yard. That darned rooster was actually attacking her little boy! After rescuing her son from the cruel bird she decided their dinner that evening would consist of roasted chicken.
Later on the story was a little different. She wasn’t quite as compassionate when having trouble getting her eldest son toilet trained. One day she decided that maybe she could scare him into doing his duty in the right place. The hens of those days were a little different than they are in the present day. Today eggs are hatched in incubators. Broodiness has been bred out of chickens because it reduces egg production. There was a time when the hatching was done by a hen sitting on a nest full of eggs for 21 days Back in those days in the spring time hens would get broody which meant all they wanted to do is find a nest full of eggs to sit on. They would get rather mean and pick at anything that came near. Knowing that Bernie was deathly afraid of “broody” hens, she locked him in the grain bin in the barn with a broody hen. It didn’t work but made the little guy even more afraid of those chickens.
This was not Bernie’s only encounter with farm fowl. One day Bernie was teasing and taunting some of the chickens. After stirring them up and raising their ire he ran for the door of the chicken coop only to find it fastened tight. As he pushed and pushed, trying to escape the angry flock, he heard a tirade of chastisement coming from the other side of the door where his mother was holding the door firmly shut.
When I was a toddler, I remember visiting my grandparents farm and coming away with the same fear and trepidation that my dad encountered there. I don't recall the exact details, as I couldn't have been more than two or three years old, but I must have gone out to the chicken yard with grandma. I imagine she went to feed them and, being the curious sort, I tagged along.
However, once within the confines of the fenced in area where the chicken resided, I wasn't nearly as interested. In fact, I became downright scared! Those feathered fiends all seemed to be coming at me at once and they had sharp little beaks and made a lot of noise and furiously flapped their wings at me. Later, in the safety of my own room at home, with my mom and dad near by, I still couldn't forget that traumatic experience. Most kids think there are monsters in their closets. I thought there were chicks under my bed. I just couldn't rest that night until my mother had gathered the imaginary hatchlings into her apron and tossed them out the door.
I can not imagine where the term "to be chicken" or "chicken out" came from. Those foul creatures are certainly not "chicken." Maybe it's because they are bullies and make others "chicken."
As I was thinking about chickens today I realized that there are countless phrases that refer to poultry. Consider these: Caught with egg on your face. The rooster makes all the noise, but the hen rules the roost! The rooster may rule the roost, but the hen rules the rooster! Fussing like an old hen. Quit your squawking. Nest egg. Scratching out a living. Up with the chickens. Walking on eggshells. Fly the coop. Dumb cluck. Yolks on you. Does a chicken have lips? Hen party. Chicken feed. Birds of a feather flock together. Don't want to put up a squawk. Hatch an idea. Coming home to roost. Pecking order. Henpecked. Rule the Roost. Don't count your chickens before they're hatched. Don't put all your eggs in one basket. Not everything it's cracked up to be. Something to crow about. Hen cackle. To be a Mother Hen. Don't brood over it. Madder than a wet hen. To lay an egg. Run around like a chicken with its head cut off. Ruffle your feathers. Stick in your craw. Bad egg. Nobody here but us chickens. Strutting' your stuff. To bed with the chickens. Feather our nests. I'm going to wring his neck. As scarce as hen's teeth.
Those chickens sure are popular! I think where they're most popular though is in the stewing pot, or on a barbeque, or in the oven. To this day, my dad's favorite meal consists of fried chicken, baked beans and potato salad. I rather like to eat chicken myself! Do you suppose that's our final say over our former tormentors?
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Mistaken Identity
This week the pages of my life seem to have been ripped from an episode of the Twilight Zone. Last Friday my assistant at work confronted me with the question, "Are you quiting?" Her worried inquiry made me laugh outright as I have been employed at the same business for more than twenty five years. Why in the world would I consider looking for employment elsewhere at my age? There is nowhere in this small, northwest Iowa, rural community where I could start anew and receive the same compensation I now receive. My pay is very reasonable, the insurance is good and I get five weeks paid vacation per year. Not only that, but I like my job ... it is what I know and what I wanted to be when I grew up!
I countered my friends inquiry with, "Where did you get that idea? Don't you think you would be the first to know?" Well, it turns out that a former employee had put the same question to our customer service clerk. She had been very straight forward when she told the employee, "I hear Audrey isn't working here anymore." The clerk was somewhat dumfounded as she knew that I had been at work every day that week and had not mentioned anything about leaving. She tried to correct the bearer of the news and at that point was told that this report came from a very reliable source. As the week went on I tried to find out who that source had been, to no avail. I then started making my own assumptions. Could it have been wishful thinking on the part of an employee who isn't crazy about me? Could that person have discretely put the notion in someone else's head that maybe I wasn't happy here and that I was possibly thinking of resigning my postion. I began to get a little paranoid about that possibility as, for the most part, I feel that I am fairly well liked. Then another possiblity occured to me. My husband started a new job in November and was actually hired by a staffing service. This company pays him on a weekly basis so I stop each Friday and pick up his check. That had to be it! Someone had seen me going into the employment agency and assumed that it was because I was looking for new employment opportunities.
Yesterday the icing on the cake was applied. I decided to ask another long time employee about the rumor and see what he knew. Yes, Larry had heard the same rumor and was frankly quite shocked at the onset simply because, he also was told that the source was very reliable. We had no sooner finished our discussion than he went into the sit-down deli area to chat with some customers. He immediately came back to where I was standing and told me yet another amazing story. One of the customers he spoke with said he was surprised to see Audrey here. One of his friends from Omaha had called him this week and told him that, after all these years, Audrey had changed jobs. How that rumor got down the road 150 miles to Omaha, I will never know! I searched my brain for answers to this very perplexing quandry I had been thrown into. It was no big deal except, what if my boss got wind of this and thought I was abandoning my duties?
All of a sudden it was as if a one hundred watt bulb enlightened my thought processes. It had to be a case of mistaken identity. I reflected back over the past few months. I recalled a day about a year ago when I stopped at the jewelry store to pick up a ring I had left there for repairs. When I inquired about it the clerk said, "Oh, we have your Mother's Ring ready too." I told her that I hadn't left my Mother's Ring there but she insisted and produced a lovely ring that I would have liked to claim, but it simply wasn't mine. She looked at the tag and said, "Well, it says Audrey Winter here. That's funny, there must be another Audrey Winter." A couple months later I received a piece of mail from a local surgeon with the results of a procedure I supposedly had done. Since I was positive that I hadn't had the procedure, I called his office to tell them they had sent the mail to the wrong person. I had to do a little convincing with them too, but when I told them my date of birth they were persuaded to agree that the report did indeed belong to a different Audrey Winter.
A couple of months after that incident I came home from work to a message on the anwering machine telling me to call the hospital. They needed to discuss the procedure I would be having the following day. Once again, I knew nothing about this test and had to convince the admisssions clerk that it wasn't me she wanted.
The identity crisis continued as I stopped at the pharmacy last week to pick up a prescription for my husband. The window attendant informed me that they had my prescription ready too. I knew that I had picked up my bottle of pills a few days prior to this, so was rather confused. I expressed my bewilderment to the clerk and she took a better look at the package. "Oh," she exclaimed, " this is one we owed you." From that comment I made the assumption that I hadn't noticed, but my prescription must have been short and they owed me a few more. Thinking nothing of it, I proceeded home only to find, when I arrived there, that the pills were not mine after all. They belonged to an Audrey Winter in a neighboring town. I returned the bottle to the pharmacy and am hoping that this mistake will make all the health care providers a little more aware of the fact that there may be two patients with the same name.
Shortly after my discussion with Larry at the store I spotted my cousin doing some shopping. She works at the pharmacy so I asked her if she knew of another person, that frequented the drug store,with the same name as me. Yes! In fact she had been going though records one day when she ran across this other person and thought they had the wrong address on my records. After closer inspection she discovered that this was an entirely seperate account. The name was the same but the birthdate was different. "But," she said, "her handwriting is exactly like yours! The signatures are almost identical!" Well, this really got me thinking.
When I got home yesterday I accessed the internet and started searching. Indeed, there is another person with my name living close by. I soon found her husband's name, her address and phone number. Not only that, but I found her age and was astounded to discover that we are both 57 years old!
Today I called my twin. She was aware that she has a name twin but hasn't encountered the incidents that I have. We had a nice conversation and I found out that she is working at a fairly new fast food joint in the same town where I work. Someone put that information with my name and came up with me and a new career. The mystery has been solved.
I countered my friends inquiry with, "Where did you get that idea? Don't you think you would be the first to know?" Well, it turns out that a former employee had put the same question to our customer service clerk. She had been very straight forward when she told the employee, "I hear Audrey isn't working here anymore." The clerk was somewhat dumfounded as she knew that I had been at work every day that week and had not mentioned anything about leaving. She tried to correct the bearer of the news and at that point was told that this report came from a very reliable source. As the week went on I tried to find out who that source had been, to no avail. I then started making my own assumptions. Could it have been wishful thinking on the part of an employee who isn't crazy about me? Could that person have discretely put the notion in someone else's head that maybe I wasn't happy here and that I was possibly thinking of resigning my postion. I began to get a little paranoid about that possibility as, for the most part, I feel that I am fairly well liked. Then another possiblity occured to me. My husband started a new job in November and was actually hired by a staffing service. This company pays him on a weekly basis so I stop each Friday and pick up his check. That had to be it! Someone had seen me going into the employment agency and assumed that it was because I was looking for new employment opportunities.
Yesterday the icing on the cake was applied. I decided to ask another long time employee about the rumor and see what he knew. Yes, Larry had heard the same rumor and was frankly quite shocked at the onset simply because, he also was told that the source was very reliable. We had no sooner finished our discussion than he went into the sit-down deli area to chat with some customers. He immediately came back to where I was standing and told me yet another amazing story. One of the customers he spoke with said he was surprised to see Audrey here. One of his friends from Omaha had called him this week and told him that, after all these years, Audrey had changed jobs. How that rumor got down the road 150 miles to Omaha, I will never know! I searched my brain for answers to this very perplexing quandry I had been thrown into. It was no big deal except, what if my boss got wind of this and thought I was abandoning my duties?
All of a sudden it was as if a one hundred watt bulb enlightened my thought processes. It had to be a case of mistaken identity. I reflected back over the past few months. I recalled a day about a year ago when I stopped at the jewelry store to pick up a ring I had left there for repairs. When I inquired about it the clerk said, "Oh, we have your Mother's Ring ready too." I told her that I hadn't left my Mother's Ring there but she insisted and produced a lovely ring that I would have liked to claim, but it simply wasn't mine. She looked at the tag and said, "Well, it says Audrey Winter here. That's funny, there must be another Audrey Winter." A couple months later I received a piece of mail from a local surgeon with the results of a procedure I supposedly had done. Since I was positive that I hadn't had the procedure, I called his office to tell them they had sent the mail to the wrong person. I had to do a little convincing with them too, but when I told them my date of birth they were persuaded to agree that the report did indeed belong to a different Audrey Winter.
A couple of months after that incident I came home from work to a message on the anwering machine telling me to call the hospital. They needed to discuss the procedure I would be having the following day. Once again, I knew nothing about this test and had to convince the admisssions clerk that it wasn't me she wanted.
The identity crisis continued as I stopped at the pharmacy last week to pick up a prescription for my husband. The window attendant informed me that they had my prescription ready too. I knew that I had picked up my bottle of pills a few days prior to this, so was rather confused. I expressed my bewilderment to the clerk and she took a better look at the package. "Oh," she exclaimed, " this is one we owed you." From that comment I made the assumption that I hadn't noticed, but my prescription must have been short and they owed me a few more. Thinking nothing of it, I proceeded home only to find, when I arrived there, that the pills were not mine after all. They belonged to an Audrey Winter in a neighboring town. I returned the bottle to the pharmacy and am hoping that this mistake will make all the health care providers a little more aware of the fact that there may be two patients with the same name.
Shortly after my discussion with Larry at the store I spotted my cousin doing some shopping. She works at the pharmacy so I asked her if she knew of another person, that frequented the drug store,with the same name as me. Yes! In fact she had been going though records one day when she ran across this other person and thought they had the wrong address on my records. After closer inspection she discovered that this was an entirely seperate account. The name was the same but the birthdate was different. "But," she said, "her handwriting is exactly like yours! The signatures are almost identical!" Well, this really got me thinking.
When I got home yesterday I accessed the internet and started searching. Indeed, there is another person with my name living close by. I soon found her husband's name, her address and phone number. Not only that, but I found her age and was astounded to discover that we are both 57 years old!
Today I called my twin. She was aware that she has a name twin but hasn't encountered the incidents that I have. We had a nice conversation and I found out that she is working at a fairly new fast food joint in the same town where I work. Someone put that information with my name and came up with me and a new career. The mystery has been solved.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Dreary Day
The rain assaults my window as the wind howls through the trees surrounding our farm. It is a gray and dismal day causing even the cheeriest soul to wither into solitude. As the blustery weather continues beyond the confines of my home I feel fortunate to be sequestered in my warm cocoon. Even so, I sense that the circulation to my extremities is not what it should be. My toes are so cold I can barely feel them and my fingers refuse to obey the signals sent from my brain. My knees shriek out in protest each time I bend or straighten them and the bursitis in my right shoulder is definitely responding to the foul weather conditions. After my burst of energy yesterday when I tackled the bathroom cabinets, today brings a depression that makes it difficult to even perform the most menial task. A cup of hot tea sounds delicious, but the basic and simple chore of running the water and punching the microwave button just seems too challenging at the moment. I've always been quite self sufficient, but at times like this I think Scarlett O'Hara's mammy would be a great addition to our family. She would tuck a blanket around my shoulders, bring me a cup of tea brewed to perfection and coo words of comfort in my ear. I wouldn't have to be assailed with the bitter north wind as I opened the door to let the dog out ... she would do that for me. I think I'll take a nap and dream of the old south where the magnolias scent the air and the weeping willow trees gently sway with the breeze. I'll be sitting on the wide veranda sipping a mint julep and the rays of the sun will be tanning my pallid skin. Wake me when the Iowa sun is shining and my tulips are blooming.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Stuff and Nonsense
I have disposophobia. It's not something that keeps me home bound or from boarding an airplane. It doesn't leave me cowering in fear at the sight of a snake or a trembling mass of jelly when I encounter an insect. I can enter an elevator without breaking into a cold sweat and suffering from shortness of breath. Nevertheless, I am a disposophobic. This malady makes me fearful of getting rid of stuff. Now some may call me a pack rat and I will agree. Some may even go as far as to say that this is an obsessive-compulsive disorder. I don't think my problem has quite reached that level. A person who is an obsessive-compulsive hoarder can barely walk through his home. He has acquired so much stuff that he must travel from room to room via narrow paths winding through the mountains of things he just can't live without. The windows offer no view of the great outdoors because of the accumulation piled in front of the panes. Though I have some "artistic" clutter I can still move freely through most of my home. My closets, computer room and basement are the problem areas.
The first obstruction I meet when getting rid of things is nostalgia. I have many items that I just can't seem to part with because of sentimental value. On my closet shelf are two sweaters, knitted for me years ago by my ex-mother-in-law. They are no longer in style and my daughters have assured me they will never want them. Even so, the garments remain on the shelf. In the basement are boxes full of toys that gave my children years of joy and now do nothing but collect dust. I keep them just in case my future grandchildren want to see what entertained their mom or dad as a youngster. I have piles of duplicate photographs because the price was the same whether getting one or two sets. You never know when someone may want a copy of Scott making funny faces or Sarah hanging from the monkey bars or Tobi modeling her cheerleader outfit.
Rationalization presents my next dilemma. I am convinced that there is a direct correlation between throwing something out and needing that exact item the very next day. I believe this rational comes from my mother. She saved everything. If I needed a coffee can, an egg carton or a cottage cheese container for a school project or girl scout craft, all I had to do was ask mom. Not only did she have one for me but she could supply said item for the entire class or troop. Following in mom's footsteps, I find that when my friends have need of an unusual item, I am the one that has it all. Whether it's a get-up for a costume party or a spring-form pan, I can supply it.
I am confidant that if I keep my clothes long enough they will come back into style or I will have lost enough weight to fit into them once more. Periodically I do purge my closets and dresser drawers, but it usually ends up being a very stressful task and I don't eliminate even half of what I should.
Along the same line as "I'll use it someday" is "I'll fix it someday." Scattered around my house are purses with broken handles, picture frames with no glass and garments with broken zippers. It would be a shame to throw those things away just because of one little flaw that is so easily remedied. It just seems that I never get to the repairs.
I'm an avid crafter but have such varied interests that I need a whole room to hold my crafting paraphernalia. I started to organize it but had to make a greeting card in a hurry and the supplies from that project never got put away. Then I had to do a quick craft for children's church and those things are still spread over the counter. In the meantime, I decided to make a gift for a friend at the last minute and just never got around to putting that stuff away either. While the craft room was a great idea, it has become a jumble of paint, paper, ribbon, rubber stamps, decorative scissors, stencils and various other accouterments of an artist.
Adding to all the aforementioned confusion are magazines dating back to 1995 which have many great recipes and tips that I will someday clip and store in nicely organized notebooks. Next to my sewing machine are stacks of fabric that will be sewn into lovely outfits. Laying across the table saw is a partially finished shelf for the kitchen. All I have to do is sand it and paint it and then talk my husband into putting it up. The family room we have planned and started will be great once I get all the overflow of crafts, sewing and rarely used kitchen appliances moved to a better place.
Now should we talk about food? My two refrigerators and large chest freezer and packed to to gills. All my kitchen cupboards are filled to overflowing and the pantry room in the basement looks like a small grocery store. I don't know why I tend to hoard food. It's not a matter of having starved as a child. Though my family wasn't rich, we didn't lack for anything we needed and always had plenty to eat. With my storehouse of provisions you would think I feed an army every day, or at least a large family. Not so. I prepare daily meals for only my husband and myself. We entertain periodically but not on such a regular basis that I need to be prepared at all times. And guess what? I never know what to make for dinner!
When I got home from work today I decided that it was the time to get at least one cleaning project completed. I chose the bathroom cupboards as my victims. We have two bathrooms, so I thought it would be good to do both at once. I pulled things out of those cupboards that I had forgotten we had. Some made me stop and think, "Why did I ever buy that?" After everything was out of the cabinets and strewn across the floor I found that I had: twenty five little purse sized tissue packets, at least five various and sundry wrist braces - all for the right hand, seven bottles of toilet bowl cleaner of which most had been opened, eighteen toothbrushes, five containers of baby powder, four scented powder and two medicated powder, five aerosol cans of air freshener, three opened five hundred count boxes of cotton swabs along with another bag of one thousand, also opened and .... a partridge in a pear tree! Now, I will admit that some items just got shuffled from one bathroom to the other and I did still keep items that will probably never get used, but at least it is all organized. I actually filled a large garbage bag with refuse and loaded a box for the Goodwill. I will give my bachelor son some of the many bath towels that have been accumulating over the years and the worn ones that I received as wedding gifts in 1973 will be put to better use as shop rags.
Now that I've started, I think I'll keep going. Perhaps the kitchen cupboards will be next ... or the top of my husband's dresser ... or the computer room! It's such a hard decision! Maybe I should put in a call to that popular TV show "Clean Sweep" or have a professional organizer come over to give me some guidance. No, I don't think so. I happen to like all my stuff! There's an idiom about "stuff and nonsense" meaning that it is senseless or without meaning. Many would say that all my stuff is a lot of nonsense. My husband's friend comes over and asks why we have all this junk. I always say, one man's junk is another man's treasure!
The first obstruction I meet when getting rid of things is nostalgia. I have many items that I just can't seem to part with because of sentimental value. On my closet shelf are two sweaters, knitted for me years ago by my ex-mother-in-law. They are no longer in style and my daughters have assured me they will never want them. Even so, the garments remain on the shelf. In the basement are boxes full of toys that gave my children years of joy and now do nothing but collect dust. I keep them just in case my future grandchildren want to see what entertained their mom or dad as a youngster. I have piles of duplicate photographs because the price was the same whether getting one or two sets. You never know when someone may want a copy of Scott making funny faces or Sarah hanging from the monkey bars or Tobi modeling her cheerleader outfit.
Rationalization presents my next dilemma. I am convinced that there is a direct correlation between throwing something out and needing that exact item the very next day. I believe this rational comes from my mother. She saved everything. If I needed a coffee can, an egg carton or a cottage cheese container for a school project or girl scout craft, all I had to do was ask mom. Not only did she have one for me but she could supply said item for the entire class or troop. Following in mom's footsteps, I find that when my friends have need of an unusual item, I am the one that has it all. Whether it's a get-up for a costume party or a spring-form pan, I can supply it.
I am confidant that if I keep my clothes long enough they will come back into style or I will have lost enough weight to fit into them once more. Periodically I do purge my closets and dresser drawers, but it usually ends up being a very stressful task and I don't eliminate even half of what I should.
Along the same line as "I'll use it someday" is "I'll fix it someday." Scattered around my house are purses with broken handles, picture frames with no glass and garments with broken zippers. It would be a shame to throw those things away just because of one little flaw that is so easily remedied. It just seems that I never get to the repairs.
I'm an avid crafter but have such varied interests that I need a whole room to hold my crafting paraphernalia. I started to organize it but had to make a greeting card in a hurry and the supplies from that project never got put away. Then I had to do a quick craft for children's church and those things are still spread over the counter. In the meantime, I decided to make a gift for a friend at the last minute and just never got around to putting that stuff away either. While the craft room was a great idea, it has become a jumble of paint, paper, ribbon, rubber stamps, decorative scissors, stencils and various other accouterments of an artist.
Adding to all the aforementioned confusion are magazines dating back to 1995 which have many great recipes and tips that I will someday clip and store in nicely organized notebooks. Next to my sewing machine are stacks of fabric that will be sewn into lovely outfits. Laying across the table saw is a partially finished shelf for the kitchen. All I have to do is sand it and paint it and then talk my husband into putting it up. The family room we have planned and started will be great once I get all the overflow of crafts, sewing and rarely used kitchen appliances moved to a better place.
Now should we talk about food? My two refrigerators and large chest freezer and packed to to gills. All my kitchen cupboards are filled to overflowing and the pantry room in the basement looks like a small grocery store. I don't know why I tend to hoard food. It's not a matter of having starved as a child. Though my family wasn't rich, we didn't lack for anything we needed and always had plenty to eat. With my storehouse of provisions you would think I feed an army every day, or at least a large family. Not so. I prepare daily meals for only my husband and myself. We entertain periodically but not on such a regular basis that I need to be prepared at all times. And guess what? I never know what to make for dinner!
When I got home from work today I decided that it was the time to get at least one cleaning project completed. I chose the bathroom cupboards as my victims. We have two bathrooms, so I thought it would be good to do both at once. I pulled things out of those cupboards that I had forgotten we had. Some made me stop and think, "Why did I ever buy that?" After everything was out of the cabinets and strewn across the floor I found that I had: twenty five little purse sized tissue packets, at least five various and sundry wrist braces - all for the right hand, seven bottles of toilet bowl cleaner of which most had been opened, eighteen toothbrushes, five containers of baby powder, four scented powder and two medicated powder, five aerosol cans of air freshener, three opened five hundred count boxes of cotton swabs along with another bag of one thousand, also opened and .... a partridge in a pear tree! Now, I will admit that some items just got shuffled from one bathroom to the other and I did still keep items that will probably never get used, but at least it is all organized. I actually filled a large garbage bag with refuse and loaded a box for the Goodwill. I will give my bachelor son some of the many bath towels that have been accumulating over the years and the worn ones that I received as wedding gifts in 1973 will be put to better use as shop rags.
Now that I've started, I think I'll keep going. Perhaps the kitchen cupboards will be next ... or the top of my husband's dresser ... or the computer room! It's such a hard decision! Maybe I should put in a call to that popular TV show "Clean Sweep" or have a professional organizer come over to give me some guidance. No, I don't think so. I happen to like all my stuff! There's an idiom about "stuff and nonsense" meaning that it is senseless or without meaning. Many would say that all my stuff is a lot of nonsense. My husband's friend comes over and asks why we have all this junk. I always say, one man's junk is another man's treasure!
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