An Almost-lost Art

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

Every month I gather the necessary materials and engage in what I suspect is an almost-lost art. No, I don’t use a handloom or a forge and anvil. I don’t make a fire by rubbing sticks together. I don’t practice map reading or dead reckoning. I don’t dry fruit, vegetables, and meat on a rack in the sun.

 I balance the checkbook.

I know plenty of people who don’t bother. Some round up purchase amounts believing that will provide them with a financial cushion fat enough to mitigate mistakes. Others eyeball their balance when they make a withdrawal and decide whether it’s safe to take a little more. And many contend that with credit and debit cards and all the other means of paying bills and transferring funds, balancing is just too confusing and too much trouble. They take it on trust and leave it to the bank.

 Although we write darn few checks every month, reconciling the account is not a simple task. Deposits come in from several sources, and money drains away to several more. Then there are ATM withdrawals and debit card purchases—some noted, some not, and others scribbled in a way that makes 3s look like 8s and 2s like 6s.

 That leads to the trust-the-bank-or-dig-through-the-file dilemma. I was never a trusting person and 25 years in the news business coupled with 20 years as a substitute teacher made me even less willing to take anyone’s word for . . . well, just about anything. Over the years, I’ve uncovered transfers made from my account by mistake and deposits not credited. And don’t get me started on computer glitches. But digging through the file could be an exercise in futility if the deposit or withdrawal slip or store tally never made it into my office to be filed. So, when I can’t verify or conjure a hazy memory, if the amount is reasonable, I grit my teeth and trust.

 When all the entries are checked off or circled to show they’re outstanding, I do the math. It wasn’t my strongest subject in school, so I’m grateful that algebra and geometry aren’t required. Simple addition and subtraction are all I need.

 But arriving at an answer that matches the last number in the checkbook is seldom simple. At least half the time the numbers differ. Sometimes the difference is due to a simple mistake and the numbers are off by 10 or 100. Other times the difference is an odd number, like $9.63 or $111.27. Experience tells those discrepancies are the sum or several other errors, mistakes I’ll have to find by going back to the date of the last reconciliation and checking the math on each entry.

 Usually, I track down the problem numbers, correct the math, and achieve that perfect balance.

 But sometimes—and I hate to admit this—I can’t find the error. Sometimes—and I really, really, hate to admit this because I have OCD tendencies—I have to put the checkbook and adding machine aside, suck it up, and trust the bank.

 But only if I’m off by less than $10. Otherwise, you’ll find me at my desk, eyes bleary, head throbbing, fingernails breaking on the number keys, sanity slipping away at an alarming rate.

 I’m starting to think my mental health depends on joining the others who no longer practice this almost-lost art. But then, so . . . 

That’s Zit

 

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

How old do you need to be before you stop getting zits?

 

The answer, at least in my case, is: “Older than a post-retirement age I’d prefer not to mention.” To customize an old top-40 radio slogan, the zits just keep coming.

 

On the positive side, the zits erupting lately aren’t in the same league as those that made my teen years miserable. (Okay, for the record, my no-one-understands-me attitude and general teenage snarkiness also contributed to self-imposed misery, but zits didn’t help.) The zits I get at this age aren’t nearly as large or as bright. And they don’t bring along a crop of friends. But still, despite facial scrubs and special creams, fresh air and healthy foods, they come.

 

Back in those teen years I grew out my bangs to cover platoons of pimples on my forehead. I kept my hair shoulder-length and never shoved it behind my ears because that would reveal lurking zits. I tucked my chin into turtleneck sweaters or scarves.

 

But zits are like lies—they’re often difficult to cover up. Especially when they erupt in extremely visible places.

 

And zits are extroverts. They love to pop up at special events. They never miss the opportunity to show up for a hot date, an important job interview, a conference presentation, or a wedding.

 

A particularly pointy one, the color of a ripe tomato, appeared on the tip of my nose on the morning of a friend’s aisle walk in the 60s. My bridesmaid’s dress was bright green and included a wide hair ribbon to match. The contrast in colors made the blemish more obvious.

 

Now, trust me, there are places on your face where you can apply a thick layer of zit-hiding cream and it will stick because the skin is smooth and dry. And there are places where the facial terrain is pitted, creased, wrinkled, or oily, and those skin-toned creams crack, clump, or slide off.

 

There are instances where hot packs can speed up the progress of zit, or cold packs can slow it. And there are instances where taking a drastic step and popping a pimple can mitigate the problem. But, trust me once again, the zit has to cooperate. It has to be ready to give up. And that one wasn’t.

 

As the hour approached, the zit swelled until it felt like I’d taken possession of Pinocchio’s lie-activated wooden nose and spent the day claiming to like beets and Richard Nixon. When it was my turn to walk down the aisle, I felt like that little reindeer guiding Santa’s sleigh through the fog.

 

I destroyed my copies of the wedding photos the moment they arrived. But memories of that day, like zits, keep popping up.

 

 

The Dudette Abides

 The first thing I should make clear is this. The arrival of our adopted ladydog Nicolette Dudette, alias Nikki is not intended as a replacement for the gone but never forgotten Max. 

Max, the hyper-entitled Maltese is the only purebred dog we've ever owned. He hung out with us for more than a decade. Our vet, Dr. Ferguson commented, upon first examining him; "this dog's got attitude. He will bend you to his will." People would drive by us when we walked him doubtless saying to one another; "Hey, who's the girly-man with the little white dog?" Max rode all the way to New Mexico, via Southern California with us, quivering and slobbering all the way. Max insisted on designer dog food. I tought him how to howl on our front landing. Carolyn was not amused. When a horse appeared on TV. Max would skitter back and forth and warn them, low in his throat, against stampeding in our living room. He learned a handful of tricks, but soon lost the knack when we failed to make him demonstrate them. Max, it goes without saying, has earned his spot in the doggie hall-of-fame.

We had not set out to adopt a new dog. But I made the mistake of mentioning to our friend Merlene that we might eventually think about another furry friend. Next thing I know there's a Facebook page devoted to finding us a new pooch. And Kathy, another friend sent links to a number of sites devoted to finding homes for canine orphans. They somehow knew that a steady diet of doleful doggy eyes would break us down. Sure enough, a female dog named Nova showed up and we (Carolyn says I need to correct that to I) were hooked. 

Nova, soon to become Nicolette Dudette thanks to the intervention of two grade-school aged neighborhood girls we call "The Minions." was very easy to love. And her story was fascinating. She started in Mexico, had pups, survived a flood, (although sadly one of the puppys didn't make it) had a prior home in California and ended up being fostered by a very nice lady named Becca in SE Portland. We met, noted how friendly and smart she was and decided to go for it. She's been with us for almost a week. She hasn't replaced Max in our hearts. She's just augmented our affection for him. 

Our first days with the Dudette have been slightly altered by a dog-sitting assignment for our friends Sky and Lori. Their doodle-dogs Huck and Daisy have made the Nettleton/Rose abode a flying, furry flurry of canine clamor. Walks with the three of them are the doggy equivalent of red rubber-nosed clowns piling out of an impossibly small automobile. Fun!!!! 

Bottom line. The doodle dogs will make their way home to Troutdale. Max's legacy remains unvarnished. And Nicolette Dudette, Nikki, the Nikster,  is here to stay. 

Nikki is a rescue dog from the doggie adoption agency Underdogs Rock. 

The Sons of the Beaches

 

They say you can never go home again. Yet, here I am, staying in an inn (a motel, really) on the bluff overlooking downtown Bandon, Oregon. We're maybe half a mile from the house I grew up in. Later I'll drive over to that house to wallow in nostalgia for the old neighborhood.

It looks way smaller than my memories of it. But realistically it was just a two- bedroom, one bath home. My older brother Bob and I shared bunk beds in a back porch area. My sisters, Lana and Birdie had one bedroom, the folks occupied the other. I could hop the back fence to go to Junior High and High school. Ocean Crest elementary school was a grueling half mile walk away. Just for grins, we looked up the address to see what it would go for in today's inflated real estate market. $460,000!!! But it is a 2 bathroom house now. Somewhere back in time someone got tired of yelling "aren't you done in there yet???" and tacked on another one. I didn't snoop, but I'd also guess the chicken shed we had in back is probably gone. I can still hear them clucking in my minds ear. 

Bandon has exploded, population-wise since my childhood of the 50's and early sixties. From a dying timber town to the home of one of the world's ritziest golf resorts is a drastic change. Our only golf course used to be a raggedy 9-holer my father referred to as "that glorified cow pasture out on the beach loop." California retirees moved to Bandon enmasse creating luxury condos where once were sand and gorse. It's not all bad of course. The new library alongside the city park is impressive. What used to be the library (with a 3 book check out rule for kids) is now a nifty little historical museum. 

The town still has a ton of charm. Much of what I loved growing up is still there. People still pick up their mail at the post office; the docks, the funky downtown, the jetty jutting out into the sea. I'm told whales sometimes come in to rub against the rocks. Hey, if you've got an itch, scratch it. And, of course, the iconic lighthouse. 

Another memorable part of the coastline near Bandon is the monumental assortment of big rocks. We spent a ton of time scrambling up and down them as kids. A fan fave is Face Rock. 

Sadly, I kept seeing the profile of my least favorite American president. Shake it off Mike.

We enjoyed a lovely early dinner/happy hour nostalgia fest with Sharon Ward Moy and Bill Smith, two people I've known since elementary school. Our spousal units were kind enough to allow us to wallow, while occasionally interjecting something nonhistorical. The food and conversation were both top notch and memorable. 

Ah, yes, I should probably explain the title of the blog "The Sons of the Beaches." My dad, Carroll was very active in the local Lion's club. And that was their nickname. They had the letters stenciled onto jackets and sweaters and wore them proudly around town. Here's my pop in action. 

And just so I can embarrass a living relative, here's my older sister Lana marching and spinning her baton as the high school band marches through town.

So Thomas Wolfe was wrong. You can go home again. And you can enjoy the memories and the places you hung out. To top off this wonderful trip, on the way home, my amazing wife wangled us a room with a jacuzzi at Sailor Jack's, right on the beach in Lincoln City. We ate take-out clam strips from Mo's, I luxuriated in a hot water massage and we watched an insanely beautiful sunset over the Pacific. 

Life is Good !!!!!

The Queen of Overkill Packs It In

 

Carolyn J. Rose

 

When it comes to packing for a long vacation or extended road trip, Mike and I aren’t on the same page. In fact, we’re not in the same book or even on the same shelf in the same bookcase.

 He often fondly recalls the simpler days of the late 60s when everything he owned fit in his car. He fails to recall that the car had bald tires and the inventory of his possessions ran to a few ratty T-shirts and jeans, some even rattier underwear and mismatched socks, a TV with foil on the antenna, and several hundred vinyl records. While he admits preparation can pay off, he still subscribes to the toss-a-few-things-in-the-suitcase-and-go philosophy. He clings to the belief that a forgotten item—no matter what it may be—can be done without or easily purchased along the way.

 I freely admit I deserve to be called the Queen of Overkill. Weeks before a trip to unexplored territory I research the geography of our intended travels, note projected temperatures and precipitation, and consider events we might attend. I consult the Internet for advice about auto maintenance, overnight accommodations, and recommended emergency supplies. Then I survey my wardrobe, check cabinets for personal care products, note vitamins and meds on hand, and make lists of what to take along and what I’ll need to purchase before we depart.

 As I packed my bag during the early years of our marriage, I also tossed the basic things he’d need into his suitcase—a hat, a fleece, a golf shirt, and spare glasses. I’d remind him to take along toothpaste, mouthwash, a hairbrush, and antacid tablets. In return for my efforts, I’d get eye rolls and hear mutterings about the strain of living with an annoying person prone to micromanaging others and thus strangling spontaneity and the spirit of adventure.

 In my defense, I believe being prepared and having adventures aren’t mutually exclusive. I don’t research every mile of our trip to the point where I feel we’ve been before we even depart. I don’t stress about whether to fold or roll clothing. And I don’t pack heavy. I don’t take a kitchen-sink approach. On a bus tour of Great Britain I won praise for a suitcase weighing only half of the 50 pounds allowed.

 In Mike’s defense, he packs light, but in a random and chaotic kind of way, and not with the same priorities I set. If he made a list of what he had to have, headphones, snacks, and crossword puzzles would be at the top. Pajamas and spare socks might not make it.

 Lately, to avoid his muttering, I assume the task of packing only the basic things we both may need—passports and tickets, credit and health cards, vitamins, flashlights, and roadside emergency supplies. Then I arrange my own bag and, often biting my tongue to prevent that dreaded micromanaging, leave him to fill his.

Our different approaches lead to some Titanic-iceberg moments along the way and/or when we arrive. Scenarios often unfold something like this:

Him (alternately plowing through his suitcase and glancing out the window at the pool): “Did we remember to pack my swimsuit?”

Me (rolling my eyes as I unpack my own swimsuit and goggles): “No. We didn’t. Your swimsuit wasn’t on our list.”

 You may note the use of the plural pronoun in the exchange above. I suspect Mike uses it because, after 30+ years, he thinks of us as a team, a unit. I, however, employ it as an imperial pronoun. If he’s going to disregard my suggestions and call me the Queen of Overkill, then I’ll act like entitled royalty and pack an attitude.

Look, you can see right up his kilts.

 

So, my new book is out. It’s available as a Kindle at Amazon.com : Angus McHaggis and the Bashful Sasquatch.

Very soon the paperback will also be up and for sale.

After my wife set me up with a wonderful writing space in a corner of our living room where I enjoyed tons of sunlight and kept my SADDs at bay, I managed to turn the Covid pandemic isolation into a full-length novel, with chapters and everything.

So, I’ll take questions now. You, in the back, there, Nurmish. What would you like to ask?

Nurmish: So how is it your wife Carolyn Rose has written or co-written more than 20 books in the time it’s taken you to write 7?

Good question. And I’m sure you’ll be able to hear the entire answer before you’re escorted all the way out of the room. It has to do with how different people channel their creativity and how long it takes some people to nurture their ideas before putting them on paper. But honestly, the short answer is much simpler. She’s an industrious get-er-done driven human being and I’m a lazy sod. Next question? Yes, Glycemia?

Glycemia: Where did the idea come from? A retired professional wrestler private detective? A sidekick, also a retired wrestler of the little-person persuasion? A legendary cryptid who’s being pursued by a missing Sasquatch hunter? I mean, that’s really out there.

It started a year or so back during an acid flashback. (chuckles) No, not really. Its roots are in an ongoing debate between my wife and I about the existence of Bigfoot. She believes it’s possible and I’m a “get the hell out of town with that B.S.” kind-o-guy. Add in a conversation I had with a friend about professional wrestling in the Pacific Northwest in the “good old days” and I employed my usual approach of “throw it up on the wall and see what sticks” and I had the bones of a story. We’ve got time for one more question. Nurmish? How’d you get back in the room?

Nurmish  Fire door. So are you planning a sequel?

Possibly. But you’ve hit the nail on the head with several of the problems. First of all, planning. Carolyn is the planner in the family. I’m the “Get up, have three cups of coffee and see what happens” kind of person. The second issue is with the word “sequel.” That implies I’d have to sit in front of the computer and write another book. As I said earlier, the creative process germinates differently in different human beings. Plus, I’m a lazy sod.

If there are no more questions, I’ll be sprawled on my recliner, munching some jerky and playing online cribbage.

I DON’T DO MORNINGS

 Mike Nettleton

 I’m not a morning person. That’s a shoo-in for the understatement hall-of-fame. It would be inducted in the same ceremony as “Mitch McConnell looks constipated,” and “pumpkin spice in coffee is an abomination.”

I’m more of a late-mid-morning-creeping-up-on-lunchtime person. I require processing time before I lay claim to human being status.

Oh, I still get up early. Years of performing morning radio stripped the gears on my body clock. Sleeping in means pillow wrestling until 6:15. But opening bloodshot eyes doesn’t translate to sharply honed reality coping skills.

M’lady is a morning person. By the time I drag my rear end down the hall to the breakfast table, Carolyn has likely started a load of laundry, received and answered half a dozen texts, checked her e-mail, eaten breakfast, read the paper, written three pages in her current book, and installed a new carburetor in the neighbor’s Plymouth. (Okay, I made that last one up, but it wouldn’t surprise me.) I, on the other hand, can almost manage nuking water for instant coffee and tossing a slice of wheat bread in the toaster oven. Remembering I have to turn the little knobby thing to create heat takes a little longer. 

“Good morning, sweetheart!” She chirps, smiling and patting my arm. “How’d you sleep?” 

“Bmurfbgle,” is my witty and urbane response.

“Good,” she beams. “Wipe the drool off your chin, dear.”

She consults her handwritten list and recites her plans for the day, several of which involve me standing upright and exhibiting some semblance of muscle memory. I nod, knowing any indication of resistance will end badly. My personal mental to-do list begins and ends with deciding if I’ll stir in the coffee creamer clockwise or counterclockwise. I listen for the smoke alarm to signal my toast is ready and calculate the time until my afternoon nap. Who says I can’t multi-task?

My body clock issues began when, out of economic desperation, I accepted an offer to host a misnamed wake-up radio show in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Until then I was strictly a graveyard shift or late afternoon kind of pronounciator.

In pursuit of a paycheck, I found myself driving to work at 4:00 a.m. with frigid wind blowing in wide-open car windows, singing at the top of my lungs. This training regimen not only helped get my blood pumping but led to several interesting one-on-one encounters with Albuquerque police officers. My backfiring Mazda misbehaving as APD was keeping an eye out for an armed robber led to me being sprawled across the hood of my car and being groped by the head-frisker-directly-in-charge.

Arriving at work, I’d scrape the ice off my mustache, swill the first of multiple cups of toxic metal urn coffee, and doze at my desk. At a few minutes before 6:00, my on-air partner would zap me with a cattle prod and away we’d go to the studio.

There, I’d drain my seventh coffee, take a deep breath, and start my snappy deejay patter.  “Bmurfbgle,” I’d tell my vast listening audience. (Or perhaps my listening audience was only half vast. I don’t quite remember.) “Mmmkrffuffmub.”

Getting in the swing of things, I’d then mentally assemble several coherent sentences. “6:05 in the Land of Enchantment. 37 degrees. Let’s get things going with the Bee Gees. Oh, and don’t forget to Nyaaaarlgurg.” I’d meant to say “boogie down,” but hey, it was early.

I’m retired now, so this particular morning I rescue my toast without a visit from the fire department and swig my caffeine delivery liquid. My head begins to clear, and I gather my wits to speak my first complete sentence of the day. Carolyn smiles, awaiting the dropping of a pearl of wisdom.

“Have you . . . Have you . . .?”

“Have I what, dear?” she asks. “Made the bed? Yes. Ten seconds after you were out of it. Swept out the garage? An hour ago. Made banana bread? Next on my list.”

“No.” I scold, then stab the newspaper with my finger. “Have you read the obituaries?”

She gets that puzzled look on her face I adore so much. “Right after the comics. Why do you ask?”

“Just wondered,” I mumble, “if mine is in there this morning.”

“No,” she says. “But if you don’t get moving, I’ll start writing one for them to run tomorrow.”