... that I thought I should rent when I knew we would be moving furniture that could be easily scraped, scratched, marred, beat up, abused. Thinking that getting some padding from the U Haul store might be the best/easiest solution for keeping stuff from getting banged around in the back of an open truck bed. I stopped by place that sells moving supplies, and has storage units available to ask for details about getting some blankets to cushion the wooden bed frame, dressers, tables and chairs. Right on the way home, headed out towards the east side of town.
The young person working in the office said: 'Oh, we don't have those. Do you want to rent a truck?' I had to wonder if she thought I would start off with the small stuff and work up to transporting my goods? But I said, 'No, just something to pad furniture with.' She said, 'Oh. You have to go down to Tenth Avenue for that.' I asked if it would be OK to say a bad word, as I had just come from Tenth Ave.? She agreed that would be OK. I did. She then suggested I could also find some padding blankets at the office on Box Road, only six miles away instead of ten or twelve, but was unable to provide me with a phone number to call.
After several more bad words on my way home, looked up the number on the internet in this 'post-phone book' world. Called to ask about renting quilts for twenty four hours. Discovered I was required to make a 'reservation' for the loan of a package of six blankets, costing five dollars. But in order to make a reservation, I had to provide them with a credit card number, to assure that they would get my rent money. A great big whopping five bucks, right? That person on the phone kept trying to sell me stuff: 'Do you need to rent a truck? Do you want to add on a storage unit? Are you going to need to get a trailer? Will you need a hitch with that?' She was very well trained, or maybe reading from a script. I politely declined.
I went down to the Box Road U Haul store on Friday afternoon. Stood in line for half an hour, as that was a very popular place for all those people who were planning moving parties on Saturday, renting trailers, trucks, hand dollies, getting hitches installed, etc. It finally got to be my turn, and I whipped out my portrait of Abe Lincoln to pay for renting furniture padding. I thought it would be a quick in and out, since I had given the person on the phone all the info. the day before.
Then he looked at my five dollar bill and said 'If you are paying cash, I will need a sixty dollar deposit.' I said 'Is it OK if I say a bad word?' He did not respond, so I kept it to myself. But ...really?
I pulled out my wallet and got out three twenties, saying 'I will expect to get these same Jacksons back when I come back tomorrow afternoon.' He gave a blank stare. And then, oddly enough, he did not take my fiver. But only took the 3 x 20s, and said I would get back fifty-five upon my return.
OK. So I need a receipt for that sixty bucks you took. He looks down at the receipt he just printed, and said: 'Oh, hmmm.... there is nothing on here about your cash deposit.' I suggested he would include the fact that I just gave him three portraits of Andrew Jackson, not expecting they would go any place other than the cash drawer. I got a new improved receipt and left with my six crappy, cheap, crummy, ratty, ugly blankets.
Upon returning the moving blankets to the store, I got a refund of $54.60. They would have charged me five dollars a day for every day if they had not been back onsite by 6:00 pm on Saturday.
Sunday, January 6, 2019
drove to south...
... Georgia Saturday morning. And did not have a minute of trouble out of my Toyota. That was a very expensive education: paying to get it fixed twice and did not even get any credits towards graduation. I do not expect any more problems and hope to regain full confidence in being able to take it on the road without concerns for it being less than completely dependable.
Apparently the real experts, guys trained to do the work right the first time at Toyota dealership did their job. When I picked it up late Friday night, everything seemed to be in working order. I did not want to drive another vehicle to Valdosta on Sat.- mostly due to knowing I could get down there and back on one tank of gas in my car. Versus paying an arm and a leg at the pump if I drove the big pickup truck with a forty gallon tank.
The auntie was moved to another wing of the facility where she has been living since summer of 2017. Her health, mentally and physically, has declined to the point that she needed more care and a more attentive staff than was available where she has been since moving there. The change is to an area where there is a much higher staff to resident ratio, more eyes on residents and more hands to provide care to people with more chronic and acute needs. Relocating included having her sleep in a hospital bed rather than the one she had at home, that was moved with her when she left home. The decision was made that she would be in a semi-private room, so there was much less space, as opposed to the small, but private room she has been living in for the past eighteen months.
All the furniture that once filled her bedroom at her home, and since filled her small space in the assisted living facility was stored on site when she was moved. I had no idea what the storage situation was like, but knew it was temporary, and it had to be remedied. Complicating factors at home caused me to spend a month fretting about who/how/when the remedy would occur. Finally able to devote a day to leaving town and make the run to south GA.
This furniture moving project required a truck, some packing blankets/quilts/pads and a couple of guys with strong arms and backs. After calling a friend to recruit some help, who offered to be the guy with the truck, he also said he could get some men to do the heavy lifting as I knew that the l'ifter' would not be me. They met me at the rest home down the moss draped lane, loaded up dressers, tables, bed and miscellanea, carefully wrapping and securing on the back of the truck. Delivered and unloaded back at her house, where there will eventually be an estate sale.
I left home at 5 a.m., drove for three hours, got that stuff squared away and paid my moving team. Started back north by 11:00, driving another three hours. Thankful that is taken care of, and something I do not have to think, worry, fret about any more. I do not know that there is a date, or if there are any specific plans for wrapping up household goods, just thankful this has been turned over to professional people who are knowledgeable, experienced, willing to handle all the detail. And especially thankful they will take it off my already too full plate.
Apparently the real experts, guys trained to do the work right the first time at Toyota dealership did their job. When I picked it up late Friday night, everything seemed to be in working order. I did not want to drive another vehicle to Valdosta on Sat.- mostly due to knowing I could get down there and back on one tank of gas in my car. Versus paying an arm and a leg at the pump if I drove the big pickup truck with a forty gallon tank.
The auntie was moved to another wing of the facility where she has been living since summer of 2017. Her health, mentally and physically, has declined to the point that she needed more care and a more attentive staff than was available where she has been since moving there. The change is to an area where there is a much higher staff to resident ratio, more eyes on residents and more hands to provide care to people with more chronic and acute needs. Relocating included having her sleep in a hospital bed rather than the one she had at home, that was moved with her when she left home. The decision was made that she would be in a semi-private room, so there was much less space, as opposed to the small, but private room she has been living in for the past eighteen months.
All the furniture that once filled her bedroom at her home, and since filled her small space in the assisted living facility was stored on site when she was moved. I had no idea what the storage situation was like, but knew it was temporary, and it had to be remedied. Complicating factors at home caused me to spend a month fretting about who/how/when the remedy would occur. Finally able to devote a day to leaving town and make the run to south GA.
This furniture moving project required a truck, some packing blankets/quilts/pads and a couple of guys with strong arms and backs. After calling a friend to recruit some help, who offered to be the guy with the truck, he also said he could get some men to do the heavy lifting as I knew that the l'ifter' would not be me. They met me at the rest home down the moss draped lane, loaded up dressers, tables, bed and miscellanea, carefully wrapping and securing on the back of the truck. Delivered and unloaded back at her house, where there will eventually be an estate sale.
I left home at 5 a.m., drove for three hours, got that stuff squared away and paid my moving team. Started back north by 11:00, driving another three hours. Thankful that is taken care of, and something I do not have to think, worry, fret about any more. I do not know that there is a date, or if there are any specific plans for wrapping up household goods, just thankful this has been turned over to professional people who are knowledgeable, experienced, willing to handle all the detail. And especially thankful they will take it off my already too full plate.
Friday, January 4, 2019
arrrggghhh...
... oh, did I say that already? Well, let me repeat myself: Arrrgghhh! This mess with my Toyota has been so frustrating. Yes, I do know it is a mess of my own making - which is the worst kind, knowing you cannot blame anyone else for the sticky situation. Sooooo aggravating, and since I was the one who pulled the trigger when shooting myself in the foot, I will try to be patient in the process of resolution, but it is trying...
After two trips across town, and a payment of nearly two hundred bucks, I was (sadly misplaced) optimistic the problem had been resolved. When I went to the curb store to fill the tank, I could only pump about four gallons. Convinced it should take more, as the gauge on the dash was showing the fuel level in the tank was less than half, I was baffled. But stopped when the nozzle on the pump quit, indicating that the tank was as full as it could get. There is a little button on the steering wheel that will reset all the numbers on the dash to go back to zero for miles driven, let you know what amazing mileage you are getting in a Prius, and also provide info about how many more miles you can travel before needing to stop for more fuel. It also resets the fuel level indicator, to show that you did guy gas, added more to move the level from low to full. Therein lies the problem. That little fuel indicator device will not reset.
This is akin to driving a car with the indicator missing, so you have no idea how much gas you have. You could be safe to drive three hundred miles in the efficient little Prius, or you could not even get through the intersection to coast into the nearest gas pump. No way to know where you actually are between the full line and the running on fumes mark on the dash.
Upon calling my new BFF James who has tried to help me through this vehicular crisis, I asked him what he would have done if his own personal wife had come to him with a ridiculous, foolish, stupid, dumb, half-crazy problem like the one I started with. Brought on by my own ignorance. His response was he would have likely done nothing! Nothing? Nothing! Just let that gunk in the system work it's way out - it was a petroleum product, and would probably do no harm. Which means all my efforts to resolve have only compounded.
I took it to the dealership this morning, and left it, with the service guy agreeing he would pray over it before turning it over to the mechanics. I expect to pay about two hundred more bucks just to have the diagnostics run. A best case scenario is having nothing more than a computer glitch, and the fuel gauge easily reset by the guys when they connect it to the computer. Worst case is pulling the gas tank again, and replacing a defective part that is probably the size of your thumbnail, a wee bitty computer chip that provide the info. for indicating the level of fuel in the tank. Without which just driving around the block is risky business. Arggghhhh.
After two trips across town, and a payment of nearly two hundred bucks, I was (sadly misplaced) optimistic the problem had been resolved. When I went to the curb store to fill the tank, I could only pump about four gallons. Convinced it should take more, as the gauge on the dash was showing the fuel level in the tank was less than half, I was baffled. But stopped when the nozzle on the pump quit, indicating that the tank was as full as it could get. There is a little button on the steering wheel that will reset all the numbers on the dash to go back to zero for miles driven, let you know what amazing mileage you are getting in a Prius, and also provide info about how many more miles you can travel before needing to stop for more fuel. It also resets the fuel level indicator, to show that you did guy gas, added more to move the level from low to full. Therein lies the problem. That little fuel indicator device will not reset.
This is akin to driving a car with the indicator missing, so you have no idea how much gas you have. You could be safe to drive three hundred miles in the efficient little Prius, or you could not even get through the intersection to coast into the nearest gas pump. No way to know where you actually are between the full line and the running on fumes mark on the dash.
Upon calling my new BFF James who has tried to help me through this vehicular crisis, I asked him what he would have done if his own personal wife had come to him with a ridiculous, foolish, stupid, dumb, half-crazy problem like the one I started with. Brought on by my own ignorance. His response was he would have likely done nothing! Nothing? Nothing! Just let that gunk in the system work it's way out - it was a petroleum product, and would probably do no harm. Which means all my efforts to resolve have only compounded.
I took it to the dealership this morning, and left it, with the service guy agreeing he would pray over it before turning it over to the mechanics. I expect to pay about two hundred more bucks just to have the diagnostics run. A best case scenario is having nothing more than a computer glitch, and the fuel gauge easily reset by the guys when they connect it to the computer. Worst case is pulling the gas tank again, and replacing a defective part that is probably the size of your thumbnail, a wee bitty computer chip that provide the info. for indicating the level of fuel in the tank. Without which just driving around the block is risky business. Arggghhhh.
Wednesday, January 2, 2019
misplaced...
My dad was very convincing when he told me years ago that once a spring bulb had been 'forced' to bloom at a time that was not normal/natural for flowering, they would never perform well again. Not disagreeing with him, but trying to give those hardy, persistent, determined bulbs every possible opportunity to put on a show. I have brought home dozens of pots over the years and dug holes to put them in the ground, randomly scattered out under the hardwood trees all around the house. Narcissus, multiple colors of tulips, different sizes and shapes of daffodils, hyacinths in a variety of colors.
Delighted to see what ever they want to produce, every single bloom making me smile as I turn off the street onto my driveway. Admiring daily new blooms as they pop up, when I drive down the hill, looking out at glorious smiling spring colors surprising me as they peep out of the drab brown winter accumulation of leaves. I am sure all this rain in recent days and weeks has had a effect, as well as unseasonable warm temperatures - which is why that daffodil I saw two days ago, now has more buds opened and there are four of them blooming in that little clump.
even though...
... my funds are lighter by $185, the problem with my car is not resolved. It sat unused in the carport for several days without going anywhere. I was either driving that big honking pick-up truck, or riding with someone else, leaving my car to rest at home. It was Monday the 31st before I had reason to take myself someplace, and drive the Toyota that had been in the shop last week. With several errands to run, I organized myself planning my route, that would include a stop at the gas station in front of the nearby wally world.
This Murphy Gas is where the sad incident occurred that left me with a gunked up gas tank, fearful of driving any place besides home, where it sat for days before I decided to turn the mess over to someone else. Where upon I called a friend, told my embarrassing, distressing tale and said: 'can I just give you this problem to resolve?' My plate is too full and I do not want to deal with it. He immediately agreed, and set about making arrangements. A tow truck, and a shop on the south side of town that specializes in radiators, fuel line mishaps, with a willingness to take on issues related to owner stupidity on the side. It was in the shop two days before I got it back.
And it sat in the carport again, for several days while I was chauffeuring The Man Who Lives Here to appointments. On Monday, I decided to go back to wally world and fill it up, along with several other activities that needed my attention. Started to pump and soon found a huge puddle of fuel under my car, and deadly gas fumes in the air. Oh, s#!t. After telling the clerk in the kiosk about the mess on the apron, I drove home and parked it again. But not in the carport: out in the yard, where it would not burn the house down if it decided to spontaneously combust. Where it has been since Monday afternoon.
I called the friend who was so willing to jump in and help, to ask him if the shop might be open on New Years' Eve. No such luck. It remained parked out in the trees, dripping or not, over New Year's Day, waiting for the shop to reopen. I've kinda kept an eye on it, out there, sitting under the trees a bit fearful it might burst into flames. With great reluctance I drove to work, about four miles away. Smelling the very distinct, unique odor of gas fumes the whole way - wondering how it could be such an overwhelming odor after sitting in the fresh air and rain for two days.
We made a plan to take it back to the shop as soon as possible, when the guys would be back in the shop, open for business today. Where it sits now, hopefully having the problem really resolved. The Man Who Lives Here just suggested it might smell so strong,like a busted fuel line, because the gas leaked into the back seat, soaking carpet in the flooring. Oh, great. Just great!
This Murphy Gas is where the sad incident occurred that left me with a gunked up gas tank, fearful of driving any place besides home, where it sat for days before I decided to turn the mess over to someone else. Where upon I called a friend, told my embarrassing, distressing tale and said: 'can I just give you this problem to resolve?' My plate is too full and I do not want to deal with it. He immediately agreed, and set about making arrangements. A tow truck, and a shop on the south side of town that specializes in radiators, fuel line mishaps, with a willingness to take on issues related to owner stupidity on the side. It was in the shop two days before I got it back.
And it sat in the carport again, for several days while I was chauffeuring The Man Who Lives Here to appointments. On Monday, I decided to go back to wally world and fill it up, along with several other activities that needed my attention. Started to pump and soon found a huge puddle of fuel under my car, and deadly gas fumes in the air. Oh, s#!t. After telling the clerk in the kiosk about the mess on the apron, I drove home and parked it again. But not in the carport: out in the yard, where it would not burn the house down if it decided to spontaneously combust. Where it has been since Monday afternoon.
I called the friend who was so willing to jump in and help, to ask him if the shop might be open on New Years' Eve. No such luck. It remained parked out in the trees, dripping or not, over New Year's Day, waiting for the shop to reopen. I've kinda kept an eye on it, out there, sitting under the trees a bit fearful it might burst into flames. With great reluctance I drove to work, about four miles away. Smelling the very distinct, unique odor of gas fumes the whole way - wondering how it could be such an overwhelming odor after sitting in the fresh air and rain for two days.
We made a plan to take it back to the shop as soon as possible, when the guys would be back in the shop, open for business today. Where it sits now, hopefully having the problem really resolved. The Man Who Lives Here just suggested it might smell so strong,like a busted fuel line, because the gas leaked into the back seat, soaking carpet in the flooring. Oh, great. Just great!
Tuesday, January 1, 2019
my mom said...
... you should not start anything on New Year's Day that you are not willing to do all year long. The thing I specifically recall was subject of conversation had to do with sewing. I had intentions for cutting out some article of clothing I had purchased pattern and yard goods for, to start the process of making something to wear. She cautioned me about proceeding with the project on the first day of the year, saying it would cause me to be doing that same type of work throughout the weeks and months ahead. I think I was young enough to accept her adminiton without question, but now will think of it as one of those 'old wives' tales' that get passed down from one generation to the next. A hundred years ago, or even more recently, when nearly everything we wore was had made, I can understand the desire to avoid being stuck with ongoing assembly or repairs every single day of the year. What a seemingly unending project spending day after day, week after week cutting out and sewing could be.
She also warned me about doing laundry: washing, drying, ironing, folding, putting away. I assume the process was such an onerous chore before mod. cons, no one wanted to doom themselves to an entire year facing a mountain of dirty clothing. I do recall when Monday was the designated laundry day, and homemakers would devote an entire day to getting a week's worth of dirty clothing ready to be worn. Clearly remember my mom taking a load of cold wet laundry out on a blustery winter day to hang on the clothes line. And then bring it back in to iron every piece when it was dry. It is a rare day when I do not appreciate all the electricity we use and all the modern appliances that power is used to operate. As well as daily thankful for the ability to turn a faucet and get a seemingly endless supply of potable water for cooking, bathing laundry.
Even with just two people living here, I could get up a load of laundry every day of the week. I am often baffled as to where it comes from, as we are not particularly dirty people. When daughters were small and could go through half a dozen outfit changes in the course of a day, the necessity for daily washing and drying was a fact of life. But with only two of us, I am have to wonder if the neighbors might be smuggling in their things to add to ours. A seldom seen friend told of being convinced that her neighbors were bringing in dirty dishes to pile up in the sink: she could wash everything and by the time it was dried and put away, more would mysteriously appear. Two small children likely explains everything.
So what to do on this damp,dreary first day of the new year? I was planning to clean out a closet full of who-knows-what, sorting and trashing, possibly donating to non-profit. But it stands to reason this type productiveness would come under that same heading of excessive, and something no one would want to do over and over and over all year long. It has been stacked with stuff since the interior of the house was painted about ten years ago, forcing me to get everything out. And then just meticulously re-filling, as if doing a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle to make it all fit. I guess today will be the day to sort and donate: that sounds like a good thing to be doing through out the next twelve months, with the ultimate goal of less stuff in my life.
She also warned me about doing laundry: washing, drying, ironing, folding, putting away. I assume the process was such an onerous chore before mod. cons, no one wanted to doom themselves to an entire year facing a mountain of dirty clothing. I do recall when Monday was the designated laundry day, and homemakers would devote an entire day to getting a week's worth of dirty clothing ready to be worn. Clearly remember my mom taking a load of cold wet laundry out on a blustery winter day to hang on the clothes line. And then bring it back in to iron every piece when it was dry. It is a rare day when I do not appreciate all the electricity we use and all the modern appliances that power is used to operate. As well as daily thankful for the ability to turn a faucet and get a seemingly endless supply of potable water for cooking, bathing laundry.
Even with just two people living here, I could get up a load of laundry every day of the week. I am often baffled as to where it comes from, as we are not particularly dirty people. When daughters were small and could go through half a dozen outfit changes in the course of a day, the necessity for daily washing and drying was a fact of life. But with only two of us, I am have to wonder if the neighbors might be smuggling in their things to add to ours. A seldom seen friend told of being convinced that her neighbors were bringing in dirty dishes to pile up in the sink: she could wash everything and by the time it was dried and put away, more would mysteriously appear. Two small children likely explains everything.
So what to do on this damp,dreary first day of the new year? I was planning to clean out a closet full of who-knows-what, sorting and trashing, possibly donating to non-profit. But it stands to reason this type productiveness would come under that same heading of excessive, and something no one would want to do over and over and over all year long. It has been stacked with stuff since the interior of the house was painted about ten years ago, forcing me to get everything out. And then just meticulously re-filling, as if doing a 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle to make it all fit. I guess today will be the day to sort and donate: that sounds like a good thing to be doing through out the next twelve months, with the ultimate goal of less stuff in my life.
book review: "Southernmost"...
... written by Silas House published in 2018. Lately several books I have picked up at the library have been recently printed, found on the shelves of newest additions to the collection. A published author, he is also a contributor to the New York Times and was a commentator on Public Radio. The jacket only provides a brief biography, listing awards won, but I suspect he lives in the South, possibly Tennessee, as this is the setting at the beginning of the book.
Asher Sharp is a minister of a small church in the Cumberland Valley. The book opens with continuous rain, causing a massive flood. Houses, vehicles, livestock, mobile homes, people all washed away unless they were safe at the top of the mountain ridges. Asher's son, Justin, goes out looking for is missing pet, Roscoe, who ran out the door and disappeared into the rain and the dark.
Justin returns with two men, neighbors who had their newly built house carried away in the gushing waters. Asher's wife believes the men to be gay, and refuses to allow them to take shelter in their home. Asher begins to recall when his brother Luke left home years ago, when no one in the family could accept him. Luke has lately been sending cryptic messages on cards, with glossy photos of sunny scenes, posted in Key West.
Asher is removed from his position in the church, and finds himself at loose ends. He is changed by the men who moved to the valley from Nashville, wanting only to live in peace, but finding no sense of community in the small town where no one can accept their alternative life style.Asher tells his wife he cannot continue to live the way he has, in a narrow-minded, judgmental environment. She flies for divorce, and is granted full custody of their son.
With an 'I'll show you' attitude Asher takes the youth and drives to Key West, desperate to spend more time with Justin, hoping he can find his estranged brother and make amends. The title of the book is a reference to the Keys, with the tip of the Island chain being the southern most point in the US. It is a well written story, peopled with interesting characters, thought-inducing conversations. I enjoyed it so much I will try to find some of House's other books to read.
Asher Sharp is a minister of a small church in the Cumberland Valley. The book opens with continuous rain, causing a massive flood. Houses, vehicles, livestock, mobile homes, people all washed away unless they were safe at the top of the mountain ridges. Asher's son, Justin, goes out looking for is missing pet, Roscoe, who ran out the door and disappeared into the rain and the dark.
Justin returns with two men, neighbors who had their newly built house carried away in the gushing waters. Asher's wife believes the men to be gay, and refuses to allow them to take shelter in their home. Asher begins to recall when his brother Luke left home years ago, when no one in the family could accept him. Luke has lately been sending cryptic messages on cards, with glossy photos of sunny scenes, posted in Key West.
Asher is removed from his position in the church, and finds himself at loose ends. He is changed by the men who moved to the valley from Nashville, wanting only to live in peace, but finding no sense of community in the small town where no one can accept their alternative life style.Asher tells his wife he cannot continue to live the way he has, in a narrow-minded, judgmental environment. She flies for divorce, and is granted full custody of their son.
With an 'I'll show you' attitude Asher takes the youth and drives to Key West, desperate to spend more time with Justin, hoping he can find his estranged brother and make amends. The title of the book is a reference to the Keys, with the tip of the Island chain being the southern most point in the US. It is a well written story, peopled with interesting characters, thought-inducing conversations. I enjoyed it so much I will try to find some of House's other books to read.
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