I try to avoid saying, "I told you so." I don't necessarily need other people to know that I was right; I can just be glad that I was.
Sometimes, though, I feel a distinct urge to point it out - mostly when I think others were condescending, especially if they missed something that I thought was obvious.
The subject of bottled water is one of those subjects that prompts me to say, "I told you so."
I was a young adult when bottled water started to gain popularity. Some people laughed at the very idea. "They're selling water! Who'd be stupid enough to buy water?"
Of course, the way to counter that is to convince people that the cleanest, most available water in history is tainted. When I'd ask people why they bought bottled water, they'd tell me how it was filtered, from special springs, so much cleaner than tap water.
I never really understood people who were total water snobs.
I horrified my assistant director once, when I was in a murder mystery. The theater was small, and the only water fountain was in the audience area. The performers shared restrooms with the audience (their door was at the east end of the hallway, and ours was at the west end), so we couldn't use them during intermission. We also couldn't use them, unless it was an emergency, during the last half hour before the show started. I had a water bottle, and I frequently refilled it from the restroom sink, the only sink in the theater.
One night, my water was empty just after the show started. I never like to be without water. Since I couldn't go to the water fountain, and didn't have time to go to the restroom before I had to be onstage, I asked the assistant director, who doubled as the backstage manager, to fill it for me, so that it would be waiting during intermission. "I can't go out to the fountain," she said. "The show's started."
"Yeah, I know. Just go to the restroom."
"The restroom?" The horror in her voice was clear.
"Yeah. That's what I do."
"You don't want to drink restroom water!"
"It's not from the toilet or anything."
"Don't you want to wait until intermission, when I can go to the fountain?"
"No, I don't. I want it waiting here when I come offstage."
The conversation did not go any better as it continued. She was scandalized. She finally browbeat me into waiting until intermission, because she was sure that I'd "feel better" if I had water from the fountain. I was sure that I'd feel better if my water was waiting for me, but I didn't want to keep arguing.
I told a friend about the incident weeks later. "What, does she think that there's a special pipe just for the fountain, one that comes straight from the Alps, and all the other pipes come from the sewer?"
My friend was on the AD's side. "But restrooms are dirty."
"Water straight out of the faucet is dirty?"
"Well, you know, there's germs all over the bathroom."
"Have you ever heard of anyone getting sick by brushing their teeth in their bathroom? It doesn't happen. And even if surfaces were germy, are those germs going up inside the faucet? Because that's the only place that the water touches before it goes in my cup or water bottle." Yeah, germs will multiply where they land, but how are they gonna land inside the faucet?
She looked uncomfortable. "The fountain's water is refrigerated."
Three decades after its introduction, we were pretty clear that bottled water often was tap water, and people talked about convenience, or how it was better for you than soda, but that was not the case in the mid 1980s. Back then, I also ran up against a figurative brick wall when discussing the disposal of millions of plastic bottles.
"Can't people just carry a Thermos, and refill it?" I asked a significant number of people. (Note: a Thermos was an insulated, portable liquid container, originally made from metal with a glass insulating layer. Later, they were made of plastic, with foam insulation. They always had a lid that doubled as a cup, with a little, teacup style handle. Generations of men took them to work, and kids took them to school.) This virtually always resulted in an explanation of how special and filtered bottled water was. You apparently couldn't just pack tap water.
"What about all the waste?" I said. "You can go through dozens of disposable bottles, or refill one."
"You can recycle the single use ones," people would sniff at me, condescendingly thinking what a hick I was.
"Sure, you can. But how many people will?"
"Most of them, I'm sure."
And you know what? Most people didn't, and don't. For at least 15 years, the alarm has been raised - "The Earth is drowning in discarded plastic! Plastic bottles alone could circle the Earth's equator multiple times!" Estimates are that there will soon be more plastic than fish in the ocean.
You can now buy the widest assortment of portable liquid containers ever available: tall, short, insulated, non-insulated, with spouts, with straws, rigid sides, soft sides. They're in just about every store. Fountains often have a spot specifically designed for refilling water bottles.
And yet, we drown in discarded, unrecycled, single use plastic.
I told you so, back in the 80s.
Thursday, July 5, 2018
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
It's Always Something
My brother is 15 years older than I am; he moved away when I was young. I knew the name of the town he lived in, and the state, but not much else about his home. I was in 8th grade when Mt. St. Helens erupted. The next time my brother came to visit, he brought me a jar of ash that looked and felt like gray flour.
"Were you close to the eruption?" I worried. "It's in a whole different state," he told me. "I was a long ways away."
When I got older, I found out that he'd fudged that answer a bit; while truthful, it was sugar coated. That other state was just across the river, and while he was out of the line of sight for Mt. St. Helens, he was close enough that ash fell like rain over his home, his car, his town. Plus, the day before the eruption, he'd been inside the blast zone. Almost as distressing, from his home - from pretty much his whole town - he was in sight of two more dormant volcanoes.
"Doesn't that make you nervous? How do you sleep at night?" I fretted. I adore my brother, and wondered why he chose to live somewhere so "dangerous."
At that point, he hit me with some significant wisdom. He shrugged, and said, "It's always something." And do you know what? It is.
Recently, Kilauea, on the Big Island of Hawaii, went from a picturesque, photogenic window into an active volcano to a destructive one, with huge lava flows ruining houses and roads, causing evacuations, emitting toxic gasses. In the online news coverage, there were comments from people saying things like, "Why do they even allow anyone to live there?" The implication was that the government should stop people from living anywhere that there might be danger, to themselves or to their property.
I can't believe that anyone would think that people should be controlled that tightly. Think about it; if people can't live anywhere that there might be a disaster, we have to abandon vast areas. Can't live near volcanoes; they might erupt. So, pretty much any island is now off limits, as is the Pacific Northwest portion of the United States, where my brother lives. A significant portion of the world's mountains are dormant or extinct volcanoes. Yellowstone National Park is part of a "super volcano" - let's empty out Montana, Idaho, Wyoming.
And speaking of the Pacific, you can't live withing 30 miles or so of the ocean, if you're being careful. Tsunamis can come almost without warning, and wipe out whole cities. You can't live near the Atlantic, or the Gulf of Mexico, either - hurricanes!
You can't live in the Midwest - Tornado Alley! You can't live in most of the American Southwest - drought could kill you, as can creatures that bite and sting. Don't go near the Sierras - earthquakes! The San Andreas Fault! And how many of the huge cities of the Southwest can exist without air conditioning and imported water?
And floods - man, you can hardly get away from flood zones, if the right circumstances arise. Here where I am, in the high mountain desert, even a sprinkling rain can cause devastating flash floods.
We don't have a monopoly on floods. Right now, there's severe flooding a couple thousand miles away from me, in Maryland.
Gracious, I live in a place where earthquakes, floods and drought are frequent occourrences. Every summer, someone dies of exposure in the desert; every winter, someone freezes to death on the mountains. How do I manage?
Of course, I can't go many other places, either. Between insect borne illness, carnivorous animals, sandstorms, monsoons, extreme cold, extreme heat, scarcity of water, scarcity of crops, viruses, bacteria, fungus, and the crime and homicide rate of large cities, it's hard to find a risk free spot anywhere on the planet. We'd all be crowded into a few square miles, even if we could avoid those obvious risks, and that brings risks of another kind.
That's the point, of course. Even if we try to eliminate the obvious risks, something else will get us. And none of us will live forever, anyway.
It truly is always something.
Don't let it get to you.
"Were you close to the eruption?" I worried. "It's in a whole different state," he told me. "I was a long ways away."
When I got older, I found out that he'd fudged that answer a bit; while truthful, it was sugar coated. That other state was just across the river, and while he was out of the line of sight for Mt. St. Helens, he was close enough that ash fell like rain over his home, his car, his town. Plus, the day before the eruption, he'd been inside the blast zone. Almost as distressing, from his home - from pretty much his whole town - he was in sight of two more dormant volcanoes.
"Doesn't that make you nervous? How do you sleep at night?" I fretted. I adore my brother, and wondered why he chose to live somewhere so "dangerous."
At that point, he hit me with some significant wisdom. He shrugged, and said, "It's always something." And do you know what? It is.
Recently, Kilauea, on the Big Island of Hawaii, went from a picturesque, photogenic window into an active volcano to a destructive one, with huge lava flows ruining houses and roads, causing evacuations, emitting toxic gasses. In the online news coverage, there were comments from people saying things like, "Why do they even allow anyone to live there?" The implication was that the government should stop people from living anywhere that there might be danger, to themselves or to their property.
I can't believe that anyone would think that people should be controlled that tightly. Think about it; if people can't live anywhere that there might be a disaster, we have to abandon vast areas. Can't live near volcanoes; they might erupt. So, pretty much any island is now off limits, as is the Pacific Northwest portion of the United States, where my brother lives. A significant portion of the world's mountains are dormant or extinct volcanoes. Yellowstone National Park is part of a "super volcano" - let's empty out Montana, Idaho, Wyoming.
And speaking of the Pacific, you can't live withing 30 miles or so of the ocean, if you're being careful. Tsunamis can come almost without warning, and wipe out whole cities. You can't live near the Atlantic, or the Gulf of Mexico, either - hurricanes!
You can't live in the Midwest - Tornado Alley! You can't live in most of the American Southwest - drought could kill you, as can creatures that bite and sting. Don't go near the Sierras - earthquakes! The San Andreas Fault! And how many of the huge cities of the Southwest can exist without air conditioning and imported water?
And floods - man, you can hardly get away from flood zones, if the right circumstances arise. Here where I am, in the high mountain desert, even a sprinkling rain can cause devastating flash floods.
We don't have a monopoly on floods. Right now, there's severe flooding a couple thousand miles away from me, in Maryland.
Gracious, I live in a place where earthquakes, floods and drought are frequent occourrences. Every summer, someone dies of exposure in the desert; every winter, someone freezes to death on the mountains. How do I manage?
Of course, I can't go many other places, either. Between insect borne illness, carnivorous animals, sandstorms, monsoons, extreme cold, extreme heat, scarcity of water, scarcity of crops, viruses, bacteria, fungus, and the crime and homicide rate of large cities, it's hard to find a risk free spot anywhere on the planet. We'd all be crowded into a few square miles, even if we could avoid those obvious risks, and that brings risks of another kind.
That's the point, of course. Even if we try to eliminate the obvious risks, something else will get us. And none of us will live forever, anyway.
It truly is always something.
Don't let it get to you.
Friday, May 11, 2018
Bookish
More than once, I've served as one of the leaders in the nursery at church, spending just over two hours every Sunday with children ages 18 months to 3 years. We're supposed to have play time, story time, snack time, singing time, activity (coloring, etc.) time, clean up time, and a "waiting for parents" activity like blowing bubbles for the kids to chase.
It's busy. It can be loud. It's definitely high maintenance - someone usually wants held, there's frequent crying and/or hitting, dirty diapers and/or trips to go potty down the hall in the restroom. The kids are adorable, but it's a lot of work.
Consequently, I like anything that makes the job easier. For instance, the children are more likely to listen to their scripture story and answer questions like, "Who created animals?" if they're also eating a snack, so I deliver the lesson during snack time.
Easygoing kids also make my life so much easier. I love all the nursery kids, but I appreciate the sunny, cooperative ones a wee bit more.
One day, we had a visitor, a two year old who was visiting her grandparents, members of our congregation. During play time, she got a stack of board books, and sat by herself, quietly paging through a book, then setting it down to choose another one.
I watched her, thinking two things: 1. It's so nice to have a happy, self contained child in class. No crying, screaming, shoving, hitting, taking toys, needing all the adults' attention - a child like that is very nice to have in class. 2. She reminded me of myself and my own children, who spent hours with books, from the time that they sat up by themselves.
Just as I was thinking how happy it made me to see such a happy, self contained child, the other leader looked at her, frowned and sighed, and said, "It always makes me so sad to see children like that."
Sad? Children "like that"? Was there something that I didn't know about? Was she sick? Was there something going on with her family, something I didn't know about - illness, job loss, some other kind of loss?
I asked, "Like what?"
"Children who don't mix with the other children, children who sit by themselves instead of joining in. It's so sad."
Wow.
OK, if this was an older child, one who wanted desperately to join in but was too frightened, or who'd been deliberately rejected, yes, that would be sad. I don't think that two year olds are capable of that kind of thinking, though. They do what they want to do, regardless of how the other toddlers feel about it. She was doing what made her happy, and what made her happy was to be by herself with a stack of books.
The idea of someone deliberately choosing to separate from noise and rowdiness to read is so ordinary, so expected, to me, that I forget that it might not look that way to everyone.
The nursery incident reminded me of a time when my husband and I stopped by my mother's house. We were still dating; it was a time when he didn't know my mother that well yet, apparently.
We came by Mom's house (going in the back door without knocking, because in my parents' day, family and good friends went to the back door; only strangers and salespeople went to the front door). I don't remember why we went by, just that it only took about 15 minutes. Mom was sitting in her favorite chair reading when we came in. She rested the book on her lap while we talked to her, then began reading again as we left. This was a completely ordinary interaction with my mother, and, frankly, with me.
It unnerved my husband. "What's wrong with your mom?"
"Nothing."
"Something has to be."
"You just saw Mom! She's fine!" I mean, she wasn't weeping, or sneezing, or coughing, or in a cast, or bruised, or giving any other indication that there was cause for concern. She hadn't been gruff or angry; she was cheerful and pleasant. I could not imagine where he'd gotten the very odd idea that something was wrong.
He was sure that something was wrong. As time went on, and the encounter was now days in the past, he seemed to be getting more and more upset, as I continued to assure him that nothing was wrong. I was completely at a loss to figure out what had him tied in knots.
Finally, he verbalized it (his communication skills are not fantastic). "If my mother was sitting alone in a silent house, something would be really wrong!" She'd either be very angry, or very sad, he said. Plus, she'd expect her loved ones to know, or find out, why, and take steps to fix it. Plus, he was sure that breezing in and out in a few minutes was more offensive than never stopping by, and the fact that Mom hadn't jumped out of her chair to offer to make us something to eat had to be a bad sign.
Whoa, there; cool your jets. "None of that is true of my mother."
"Of course it is. That's how people are."
Au contraire. I assured him that alone in a silent house was my mother's normal state of being, that she was happy as a clam, and she hated to play hostess; short visits were good. Plus, given the fact that we'd come by unannounced, expecting her to drop her book and entertain and feed us, especially for an extended period of time, would have been very rude, and made her miserable.
He was convinced, for quite a while, that I was just too self absorbed to know what my mother wanted; when he finally conceded that I was right about this, he still found it to be "very abnormal." (Which is funny, because that's exactly what I thought of his interpretation.)
Of course, having had children together, we're also occasionally baffling to, and baffled by, our children.
Our teenage daughter once took a book to a church dance, and sat over in the corner or out in the foyer reading during the dance. She thought that, if people really liked her, they'd notice that she was missing, come hunt her down, make her put away the book, and insist that she dance with them. The fact that everyone had left her alone to read her book had her in tears, convinced that nobody liked her.
Oh, dear.
"Honey, reading a book at a social occasion is the clearest possible way of saying, 'Go away and leave me alone. I don't want to be here.' If you want to spend time with people, you have to put the book away and join in, on your own!"
She was convinced, as children are, that I had to be wrong. "No! That's not what it says!"
"Yes, it does. Any time I step away from a party or event to read, it's because I want to be alone. I'd be furious if someone came along and insisted that I go back."
"That's because you're an alien!"
I repeated that yes, pulling out a book in a social situation was the equivalent of holding a sign that said, "Go away." We talked about the fact that it's a really bad idea to set up tests to try to determine if people like you ("If they like me, they will do this..."). It's a bad idea to expect that people who like you (or people who don't) can read your mind. A person who will try to tell you what to do and how to behave, making you stop what you're doing to do what they want you to do, is a controlling, unsympathetic person, and you should never wish for one or more of those in your life.
"If you want to dance, dance! By yourself, with your friends, ask a guy to dance. Don't put it all on other people. Talk to them, and more importantly, listen to them. Do not hide out and hope that they'll hunt you down. And if you don't want to dance, don't go to a dance! Stay home."
She was sure that I was wrong about this. After hearing the same basic thing from at least 4 other people, she conceded that I might be right, but still thought it was "weird."
Oh, dear. Human interaction: what's "sad" is that what one person hates is exactly what another person craves.
I will not feel loved if you get between me and my book.
It's busy. It can be loud. It's definitely high maintenance - someone usually wants held, there's frequent crying and/or hitting, dirty diapers and/or trips to go potty down the hall in the restroom. The kids are adorable, but it's a lot of work.
Consequently, I like anything that makes the job easier. For instance, the children are more likely to listen to their scripture story and answer questions like, "Who created animals?" if they're also eating a snack, so I deliver the lesson during snack time.
Easygoing kids also make my life so much easier. I love all the nursery kids, but I appreciate the sunny, cooperative ones a wee bit more.
One day, we had a visitor, a two year old who was visiting her grandparents, members of our congregation. During play time, she got a stack of board books, and sat by herself, quietly paging through a book, then setting it down to choose another one.
I watched her, thinking two things: 1. It's so nice to have a happy, self contained child in class. No crying, screaming, shoving, hitting, taking toys, needing all the adults' attention - a child like that is very nice to have in class. 2. She reminded me of myself and my own children, who spent hours with books, from the time that they sat up by themselves.
Just as I was thinking how happy it made me to see such a happy, self contained child, the other leader looked at her, frowned and sighed, and said, "It always makes me so sad to see children like that."
Sad? Children "like that"? Was there something that I didn't know about? Was she sick? Was there something going on with her family, something I didn't know about - illness, job loss, some other kind of loss?
I asked, "Like what?"
"Children who don't mix with the other children, children who sit by themselves instead of joining in. It's so sad."
Wow.
OK, if this was an older child, one who wanted desperately to join in but was too frightened, or who'd been deliberately rejected, yes, that would be sad. I don't think that two year olds are capable of that kind of thinking, though. They do what they want to do, regardless of how the other toddlers feel about it. She was doing what made her happy, and what made her happy was to be by herself with a stack of books.
The idea of someone deliberately choosing to separate from noise and rowdiness to read is so ordinary, so expected, to me, that I forget that it might not look that way to everyone.
The nursery incident reminded me of a time when my husband and I stopped by my mother's house. We were still dating; it was a time when he didn't know my mother that well yet, apparently.
We came by Mom's house (going in the back door without knocking, because in my parents' day, family and good friends went to the back door; only strangers and salespeople went to the front door). I don't remember why we went by, just that it only took about 15 minutes. Mom was sitting in her favorite chair reading when we came in. She rested the book on her lap while we talked to her, then began reading again as we left. This was a completely ordinary interaction with my mother, and, frankly, with me.
It unnerved my husband. "What's wrong with your mom?"
"Nothing."
"Something has to be."
"You just saw Mom! She's fine!" I mean, she wasn't weeping, or sneezing, or coughing, or in a cast, or bruised, or giving any other indication that there was cause for concern. She hadn't been gruff or angry; she was cheerful and pleasant. I could not imagine where he'd gotten the very odd idea that something was wrong.
He was sure that something was wrong. As time went on, and the encounter was now days in the past, he seemed to be getting more and more upset, as I continued to assure him that nothing was wrong. I was completely at a loss to figure out what had him tied in knots.
Finally, he verbalized it (his communication skills are not fantastic). "If my mother was sitting alone in a silent house, something would be really wrong!" She'd either be very angry, or very sad, he said. Plus, she'd expect her loved ones to know, or find out, why, and take steps to fix it. Plus, he was sure that breezing in and out in a few minutes was more offensive than never stopping by, and the fact that Mom hadn't jumped out of her chair to offer to make us something to eat had to be a bad sign.
Whoa, there; cool your jets. "None of that is true of my mother."
"Of course it is. That's how people are."
Au contraire. I assured him that alone in a silent house was my mother's normal state of being, that she was happy as a clam, and she hated to play hostess; short visits were good. Plus, given the fact that we'd come by unannounced, expecting her to drop her book and entertain and feed us, especially for an extended period of time, would have been very rude, and made her miserable.
He was convinced, for quite a while, that I was just too self absorbed to know what my mother wanted; when he finally conceded that I was right about this, he still found it to be "very abnormal." (Which is funny, because that's exactly what I thought of his interpretation.)
Of course, having had children together, we're also occasionally baffling to, and baffled by, our children.
Our teenage daughter once took a book to a church dance, and sat over in the corner or out in the foyer reading during the dance. She thought that, if people really liked her, they'd notice that she was missing, come hunt her down, make her put away the book, and insist that she dance with them. The fact that everyone had left her alone to read her book had her in tears, convinced that nobody liked her.
Oh, dear.
"Honey, reading a book at a social occasion is the clearest possible way of saying, 'Go away and leave me alone. I don't want to be here.' If you want to spend time with people, you have to put the book away and join in, on your own!"
She was convinced, as children are, that I had to be wrong. "No! That's not what it says!"
"Yes, it does. Any time I step away from a party or event to read, it's because I want to be alone. I'd be furious if someone came along and insisted that I go back."
"That's because you're an alien!"
I repeated that yes, pulling out a book in a social situation was the equivalent of holding a sign that said, "Go away." We talked about the fact that it's a really bad idea to set up tests to try to determine if people like you ("If they like me, they will do this..."). It's a bad idea to expect that people who like you (or people who don't) can read your mind. A person who will try to tell you what to do and how to behave, making you stop what you're doing to do what they want you to do, is a controlling, unsympathetic person, and you should never wish for one or more of those in your life.
"If you want to dance, dance! By yourself, with your friends, ask a guy to dance. Don't put it all on other people. Talk to them, and more importantly, listen to them. Do not hide out and hope that they'll hunt you down. And if you don't want to dance, don't go to a dance! Stay home."
She was sure that I was wrong about this. After hearing the same basic thing from at least 4 other people, she conceded that I might be right, but still thought it was "weird."
Oh, dear. Human interaction: what's "sad" is that what one person hates is exactly what another person craves.
I will not feel loved if you get between me and my book.
Saturday, April 14, 2018
When You've Gotta Go
There used to be a Pepto Bismol commercial that started with a nervous man saying, "I'm here to talk to you about... diarrhea. Don't change the channel!" That's kind of how I feel right now. I'm going to talk about public restrooms. Please don't leave.
I'm going to let you know, too, right up front, that I'm going to be talking about how other countries do this better than we do.
On the one hand, I tend to dislike and dismiss people who whine that this or that place is better than here - wherever here is. It's pretentious, and begs the question, "Then why aren't you there?"
On the other hand, something that's far more annoying, and damaging, is clinging to an idea or practice that doesn't work, just because it's "ours," and "this is how we do things here." The inability to assess, learn from, and implement new ideas is crippling, personally and societally.
So let's talk about how other countries handle public restrooms better than we do.
Let's start with the name. We call these rooms "restrooms," but there's no resting being done in them. It's a ridiculous, inaccurate euphemism, because we're apparently too embarrassed to discuss the fact that we have bodily functions. It makes us, collectively, look like we're children.
I remember the first time I heard the term "restroom." I was a child, and I was in a restaurant with my family. We didn't eat out often, so this was not an ordinary occurrence; I wasn't used to the way things worked. My mother got up and left the table, which puzzled me, especially when she didn't come right back.
"Where's Mom?" I asked Dad.
"She's in the restroom."
A whole room for resting? That sounded great. As a kid I didn't take naps (I make up for that now), but I've always been easily exhausted by crowds, noise, excessive human interaction (even when it's positive and fun), so it was easy for me to imagine that Mom had just reached the point that she needed a room in soothing blues and greens, with soft music, chaises and cold compresses. I mean, who doesn't? But at a restaurant? In the middle of lunch?
"Could I go, too?"
"Do you have to?"
"Well, I don't have to, but I could."
I was so disappointed. The "restroom" was a tiny room with two toilet stalls and a sink, in faded white paint. No potted plants, no gentle flower fragrance, no resting. Just cramped toilet stalls in gunmetal gray.
We make fun of other countries' euphemisms - oh, those silly British and their "water closets." Hey, it's a tiny room with plumbing - "water closet" is a far more accurate description than "restroom."
Most other countries get it right - if you need to tend to your bodily elimination functions, you ask for the toilets, or look for the sign that says "toilet." Straightforward, no childish snickering, the way humans should act.
The other obvious way in which other countries get it right is their stall doors and walls. Last year, we took a trip that took us across 8 countries, and do you know what every non-US nation had? Actual doors and walls in their stalls, as in up to the ceiling, down to the floor, doors that close fully. Genius!
The most obvious advantage is that they didn't have to close the facilities for cleaning, no matter what sex the janitor was. My children mock my bladder, and tell me that I have the bladder of a two year old, because I need toilet facilities frequently. I tell them that they can talk to me after their bladder has been squashed by repeated pregnancies, as well as fibroids up to the size of a cantaloupe. But the thing is, I have been deeply inconvenienced on numerous occasions by really needing a restroom, and having it closed for cleaning. AUGH! The first time I was in a public restroom while a man was cleaning it, I was surprised and then delighted. It was fantastic! He didn't have to wait for me, and I didn't have to wait for him! Woo hoo!
Another plus is the added privacy. I remember being seriously stressed when I was in a fast food restaurant during a road trip, in one of those towns that is two hours or more from the next town, so the facilities are packed. We were in year 5 of an extensive drought, with reservoirs and rivers dry, and serious water rationing in place. A woman using the toilet insisted that those of us waiting run the faucets in the sink, so that we couldn't hear what she was doing. I wanted to scream, "We KNOW what you're doing! Especially if the sound of water will muffle it! We're all here to do the exact same thing! There's only two real purposes for this room! If you're doing something not intended, please find somewhere else to do it!" But I didn't. I just watched the water run down the drain as my blood pressure rose. There is no reason to waste finite resources because you are embarrassed by ordinary bodily functions. Solid walls and doors will let those people avoid the waste.
That leads me to a third advantage - it's not soundproof, but it's a whole lot harder to hear or smell what your neighbor is doing, which should make both of you more comfortable. And no more worrying about how awkward the open row of urinals is.
Yet another advantage, in my opinion, is that it should also end the need for sex segregated facilities. If I, and everyone else, are in our own room, there's no reason for us to worry about who's in the next room. No more worrying about the fact that the line in the ladies' room is always longer than the line in the men's room. No more stressing about which restroom transgender people should use. (Having spent their lives with enclosed facilities, Europeans probably think that Americans sound silly arguing about that.)
I really have little patience for the reasons people have given me to not like full doors and walls.
One is, "But I also want to arrange my clothes, and fix my hair and makeup." Fix your clothes behind the door, and quit worrying that fixing your hair and makeup are acts that you must hide from others. Seriously.
"You don't want things totally enclosed like that, because child molestation and sexual assaults will go up!" Wow; if you seriously believe that the only reason people are not assaulting others is the gaps in stall walls, you have a view of humanity that deeply concerns me. You are also advocating a society in which it is impossible, and inadvisable, to have any privacy in public, and I am not a fan. You're also overlooking the fact that many public restrooms, in places like parks, end up closed or with restricted hours because of frequent prostitution taking place there, with the gaps in the stalls. I'm not making this up; it happens in my area more often than I want to think about. Trashy behavior does not depend on walls.
Plus, many foreign restrooms have a small fee for usage, and with that, they often pay attendants. There will be far fewer shenanigans of any kind with watchful eyes in place. (It also means that the rooms are comparatively spotless and well stocked.)
"But the construction will cost more." I don't think that cancels out the plusses, but if you do, again, usage fees. Plus, drywall is cheap, and doesn't have to be custom manufactured.
Yes, finding coins in order to pee can be annoying, but obviously, there are advantages. And, you can install card readers, like those on parking meters.
The only thing other countries don't do better: water fountains next to the restrooms. The only time I have ever been more dehydrated on a vacation than I was this last trip, I required medical attention. Water, people! Free water! You have the plumbing already in place! Most of the restroom sinks were even too shallow for me to refill my water bottle in them.
There you have it: the recipe for perfect public toilet facilities. Listen up, America!
I'm going to let you know, too, right up front, that I'm going to be talking about how other countries do this better than we do.
On the one hand, I tend to dislike and dismiss people who whine that this or that place is better than here - wherever here is. It's pretentious, and begs the question, "Then why aren't you there?"
On the other hand, something that's far more annoying, and damaging, is clinging to an idea or practice that doesn't work, just because it's "ours," and "this is how we do things here." The inability to assess, learn from, and implement new ideas is crippling, personally and societally.
So let's talk about how other countries handle public restrooms better than we do.
Let's start with the name. We call these rooms "restrooms," but there's no resting being done in them. It's a ridiculous, inaccurate euphemism, because we're apparently too embarrassed to discuss the fact that we have bodily functions. It makes us, collectively, look like we're children.
I remember the first time I heard the term "restroom." I was a child, and I was in a restaurant with my family. We didn't eat out often, so this was not an ordinary occurrence; I wasn't used to the way things worked. My mother got up and left the table, which puzzled me, especially when she didn't come right back.
"Where's Mom?" I asked Dad.
"She's in the restroom."
A whole room for resting? That sounded great. As a kid I didn't take naps (I make up for that now), but I've always been easily exhausted by crowds, noise, excessive human interaction (even when it's positive and fun), so it was easy for me to imagine that Mom had just reached the point that she needed a room in soothing blues and greens, with soft music, chaises and cold compresses. I mean, who doesn't? But at a restaurant? In the middle of lunch?
"Could I go, too?"
"Do you have to?"
"Well, I don't have to, but I could."
I was so disappointed. The "restroom" was a tiny room with two toilet stalls and a sink, in faded white paint. No potted plants, no gentle flower fragrance, no resting. Just cramped toilet stalls in gunmetal gray.
We make fun of other countries' euphemisms - oh, those silly British and their "water closets." Hey, it's a tiny room with plumbing - "water closet" is a far more accurate description than "restroom."
Most other countries get it right - if you need to tend to your bodily elimination functions, you ask for the toilets, or look for the sign that says "toilet." Straightforward, no childish snickering, the way humans should act.
The other obvious way in which other countries get it right is their stall doors and walls. Last year, we took a trip that took us across 8 countries, and do you know what every non-US nation had? Actual doors and walls in their stalls, as in up to the ceiling, down to the floor, doors that close fully. Genius!
The most obvious advantage is that they didn't have to close the facilities for cleaning, no matter what sex the janitor was. My children mock my bladder, and tell me that I have the bladder of a two year old, because I need toilet facilities frequently. I tell them that they can talk to me after their bladder has been squashed by repeated pregnancies, as well as fibroids up to the size of a cantaloupe. But the thing is, I have been deeply inconvenienced on numerous occasions by really needing a restroom, and having it closed for cleaning. AUGH! The first time I was in a public restroom while a man was cleaning it, I was surprised and then delighted. It was fantastic! He didn't have to wait for me, and I didn't have to wait for him! Woo hoo!
Another plus is the added privacy. I remember being seriously stressed when I was in a fast food restaurant during a road trip, in one of those towns that is two hours or more from the next town, so the facilities are packed. We were in year 5 of an extensive drought, with reservoirs and rivers dry, and serious water rationing in place. A woman using the toilet insisted that those of us waiting run the faucets in the sink, so that we couldn't hear what she was doing. I wanted to scream, "We KNOW what you're doing! Especially if the sound of water will muffle it! We're all here to do the exact same thing! There's only two real purposes for this room! If you're doing something not intended, please find somewhere else to do it!" But I didn't. I just watched the water run down the drain as my blood pressure rose. There is no reason to waste finite resources because you are embarrassed by ordinary bodily functions. Solid walls and doors will let those people avoid the waste.
That leads me to a third advantage - it's not soundproof, but it's a whole lot harder to hear or smell what your neighbor is doing, which should make both of you more comfortable. And no more worrying about how awkward the open row of urinals is.
Yet another advantage, in my opinion, is that it should also end the need for sex segregated facilities. If I, and everyone else, are in our own room, there's no reason for us to worry about who's in the next room. No more worrying about the fact that the line in the ladies' room is always longer than the line in the men's room. No more stressing about which restroom transgender people should use. (Having spent their lives with enclosed facilities, Europeans probably think that Americans sound silly arguing about that.)
I really have little patience for the reasons people have given me to not like full doors and walls.
One is, "But I also want to arrange my clothes, and fix my hair and makeup." Fix your clothes behind the door, and quit worrying that fixing your hair and makeup are acts that you must hide from others. Seriously.
"You don't want things totally enclosed like that, because child molestation and sexual assaults will go up!" Wow; if you seriously believe that the only reason people are not assaulting others is the gaps in stall walls, you have a view of humanity that deeply concerns me. You are also advocating a society in which it is impossible, and inadvisable, to have any privacy in public, and I am not a fan. You're also overlooking the fact that many public restrooms, in places like parks, end up closed or with restricted hours because of frequent prostitution taking place there, with the gaps in the stalls. I'm not making this up; it happens in my area more often than I want to think about. Trashy behavior does not depend on walls.
Plus, many foreign restrooms have a small fee for usage, and with that, they often pay attendants. There will be far fewer shenanigans of any kind with watchful eyes in place. (It also means that the rooms are comparatively spotless and well stocked.)
"But the construction will cost more." I don't think that cancels out the plusses, but if you do, again, usage fees. Plus, drywall is cheap, and doesn't have to be custom manufactured.
Yes, finding coins in order to pee can be annoying, but obviously, there are advantages. And, you can install card readers, like those on parking meters.
The only thing other countries don't do better: water fountains next to the restrooms. The only time I have ever been more dehydrated on a vacation than I was this last trip, I required medical attention. Water, people! Free water! You have the plumbing already in place! Most of the restroom sinks were even too shallow for me to refill my water bottle in them.
There you have it: the recipe for perfect public toilet facilities. Listen up, America!
Saturday, April 7, 2018
Kids Your Age
One of the things that I didn't understand about adults when I was a child was their assumption that all kids would, or should, get along. I hated it when they'd pitch some event to me by saying, "There will be kids your age there!" Then they'd look either expectant or pleased, obviously thinking that they'd just provided me with instant friends. It was baffling.
I wondered how they had forgotten what it was like to be a kid. Did all kids their age automatically get along with them? I assumed that the answer had to be "no." Then why would they assume that all kids my age would like me?
I've never mixed easily or well with other people. It's a skill that eludes me. And, especially as a kid, I was the odd, badly dressed one with body odor who didn't laugh at the standard jokes; no one really gravitated toward me. If I was going to get along with other people, they were generally adults, who liked my rule following, studious nature.
Saying, "There will be kids your age" translated to me as, "It will be really uncomfortable, and kids will make fun of you."
When I'm an adult, I thought, I'll remember, and I won't assume that all kids will love each other, just because they're kids.
So, of course, my children frequently wanted to know, "Will there be kids my age there?"
Again, I was baffled. And my older kids especially were annoyed when I'd say, "There will be kids there," but couldn't specify that there would be kids their ages there. My homeschooled younger two were used to hanging out with kids who might be a mix of three or four years older to three or four years younger, but that's not what life is like in public schools. Two of my high school best friends are three months older than I am, but they were in the grade above me. Several of my other best friends were between 7 and 10 months younger than I was, but because they were in my grade, they counted as "my age," whereas the kids a grade above me were "older." My older kids were frequently annoyed that there were no kids in their exact grade or their exact number - age 7, 10, 15, whatever - at any given function.
That's OK, I thought. They'll grow up and get over it, and realize that age is not really a big deal. (And to an extent, they did, because most people do.)
When I was in my late 20s or early 30s, I was talking to a friend from church who was probably in her 70s. She had been gone when the leaders announced an event - I think it was a dinner - for our congregation, so I and another friend, a few years older than I, were making sure that she knew about it. "That sounds fun," she said. "And I don't mean to be rude, but do you know - will there be people my age there?"
I probably looked stunned. She was afraid that she'd hurt my feelings, I think, because she was very quick to explain - "I mean, you young people are nice. I enjoy being around young people; it keeps me young. But sometimes, I just need to be around people my own age. They understand me. They've experienced the same things I've experienced, and they remember the same things I do."
"Oh, of course." I assured her that there would be people her age there, and sincerely hoped that there would be. Then I went home pondering the fact that here was obviously another instance where I'd interpreted the rest of humanity incorrectly. Or had I? What if other people her age didn't feel the same way?
I watched people. I asked people. People of different ages. And holy cow, there are a significant number of people who feel most comfortable with other people close to their own age. And the people I asked thought that this was obvious.
It just had never been my personal experience. Who knew it was everyone else's? I mean, what about all that talk about age being just a number?
It's just me, isn't it?
I wondered how they had forgotten what it was like to be a kid. Did all kids their age automatically get along with them? I assumed that the answer had to be "no." Then why would they assume that all kids my age would like me?
I've never mixed easily or well with other people. It's a skill that eludes me. And, especially as a kid, I was the odd, badly dressed one with body odor who didn't laugh at the standard jokes; no one really gravitated toward me. If I was going to get along with other people, they were generally adults, who liked my rule following, studious nature.
Saying, "There will be kids your age" translated to me as, "It will be really uncomfortable, and kids will make fun of you."
When I'm an adult, I thought, I'll remember, and I won't assume that all kids will love each other, just because they're kids.
So, of course, my children frequently wanted to know, "Will there be kids my age there?"
Again, I was baffled. And my older kids especially were annoyed when I'd say, "There will be kids there," but couldn't specify that there would be kids their ages there. My homeschooled younger two were used to hanging out with kids who might be a mix of three or four years older to three or four years younger, but that's not what life is like in public schools. Two of my high school best friends are three months older than I am, but they were in the grade above me. Several of my other best friends were between 7 and 10 months younger than I was, but because they were in my grade, they counted as "my age," whereas the kids a grade above me were "older." My older kids were frequently annoyed that there were no kids in their exact grade or their exact number - age 7, 10, 15, whatever - at any given function.
That's OK, I thought. They'll grow up and get over it, and realize that age is not really a big deal. (And to an extent, they did, because most people do.)
When I was in my late 20s or early 30s, I was talking to a friend from church who was probably in her 70s. She had been gone when the leaders announced an event - I think it was a dinner - for our congregation, so I and another friend, a few years older than I, were making sure that she knew about it. "That sounds fun," she said. "And I don't mean to be rude, but do you know - will there be people my age there?"
I probably looked stunned. She was afraid that she'd hurt my feelings, I think, because she was very quick to explain - "I mean, you young people are nice. I enjoy being around young people; it keeps me young. But sometimes, I just need to be around people my own age. They understand me. They've experienced the same things I've experienced, and they remember the same things I do."
"Oh, of course." I assured her that there would be people her age there, and sincerely hoped that there would be. Then I went home pondering the fact that here was obviously another instance where I'd interpreted the rest of humanity incorrectly. Or had I? What if other people her age didn't feel the same way?
I watched people. I asked people. People of different ages. And holy cow, there are a significant number of people who feel most comfortable with other people close to their own age. And the people I asked thought that this was obvious.
It just had never been my personal experience. Who knew it was everyone else's? I mean, what about all that talk about age being just a number?
It's just me, isn't it?
Thursday, March 15, 2018
Still Not For Sale
I've already written about this once ("Not For Sale," April 2014). It would quite literally never have occurred to me that I'd be talking about it 4 years later.
A recap: My father passed away in 1988; my mom passed away in 2012. Their home is not particularly desirable by today's real estate standards - only one bathroom, gasp! - but it sits on over an acre of land.
Everything my mom owned was held in a family trust, with a successor trustee, that dictated passing of her assets to her children without probate. Family agreement, not on paper, was that the house would go to my brother. He's the oldest, and he rents his home. So, even though the trust owns the house, we all referred to it as belonging to my brother.
The thing is, he didn't particularly want it. He lives in another state, and has absolutely zero desire to move back to his childhood home. So, the trust rented the house to one of Mom's grandkids. The money went straight into the trust account, to be used for taxes, repairs, etc. on the house while my brother mulled over what to do.
OK. So you're caught up.
Over half of Mom's property - not to ignore my dad, but she lived alone for 25 years, and we got used to calling it "Mom's" - is vacant land that used to be a horse pasture. It's not visible from the street, but the neighbors certainly know that it's there. In all, there's 10 lots that touch the property boundaries. Mom's is actually valued at less than any of her neighbor's properties, except for one vacant lot; the extra land in a long, awkward shape, actually knocks down the valuation, as it's "difficult to use."
After Mom died, several of the neighbors inquired, with varying degrees of intent, whether the property was going up for sale. All were told "no." OK, well, the least emphatic statement was this: "He (my husband) said, 'Probably not.' (He has an almost pathological aversion to uttering definitive declarative statements.)" ("Not For Sale")
So, they should have all been well aware that we were NOT selling it. And yet, at least three of them kept asking - and KEPT ASKING. In person, in notes, in phone calls - "Are you sure?" YES, we are SURE!
Not to sound too much like The Godfather about things, but this is a family decision. My brother had the final word on keeping or selling the house, but all of us weighed in. When I say, "we," I mean my mom's children and grandchildren - and our spouses, who are all in agreement.
Any of the inheriting siblings could, in theory, have taken the house as their share of the inheritance; none wanted to. The trust could have sold it, and split the proceeds, but that's not really what Mom wanted. She always talked about dividing the land and giving her children - or grandchildren - a piece to build a home on. (And we were informed by accessors and surveyors that a buyer would likely tear down the house, put a road straight through where the living room and kitchen used to be, and construct an apartment complex.) So, we decided to see if it was feasible to split up the land, and if any of the children or grandchildren would want a piece.
We consulted the city, and learned that yes, indeed, it was very possible, and not very expensive, to re-zone and divide the land. There is enough square footage for 8 separate lots, but making it into any more than 4 constituted "building a new subdivision," with lots of restrictions, environmental impact studies, etc. So, four pieces it would be, with the existing house on one of them, and with a short street (the old driveway into the pasture) and a cul-de-sac for access to the pasture; the city requires that a fire engine be able to turn around.
We talked with all the children and grandchildren, and there was enough interest that a decision was made: subdivide.
The inspections and paperwork went without a hitch. All the neighbors in about a half mile radius were informed of the zoning changes. The road, cul-de-sac and new property lines have been approved by the city. Grandkids made plans to build houses.
Now we've hit our first snag. When the neighbors had subdivided their property in the past - remember those 10 lots around Mom's house? - they had simply graded and put in a gravel road. That's what we intended to do. The city no longer allows that - a gravel road "isn't permanent." (We live in the American West - tell that to the still visible wagon trails from the Gold Rush.)
So, we're stuck in a holding pattern. We have to have the money to put in a paved street, sewers, and gutters, and THEN we can place the houses. The road has to come first - it's the law. We can't do houses first, paved road last.
And now, as an aside to the conversation, the only reason it's not done is money. We have to raise the money in cash, because banks will not loan us money for this - it's considered "too risky." The banks don't want to end up reposessing a hunk of land that it can't sell at a profit, and that's what they see here. We can't get loans to put in the homes until the road is in. The one local bank that will even finance "unimproved land" loans - most won't - won't touch us. We even tried to get a home equity loan - no dice. (I get the feeling that they'd go for the tear down and new apartments scenario more easily.) So, the land sits and waits, and the grandkids hoping to live there rent elsewhere. We have to try to come up with a ridiculous amount of money in cash - and THEN get another loan (or loans) for the houses. It's frustrating.
But do you know what is MORE frustrating? That several of Mom's neighbors seem unwilling to part with their plans to own Mom's land themselves.
I understand asking, as either a matter of curiosity or as an offer to buy, once. Maybe twice, if you're pushy. Beyond that, it's just aggravating.
It's looking more and more as if people moved in next to my mother specifically because they wanted to buy her land. One informed us, in a bit of a huff, that he'd be moving if the land wasn't for sale. Well, dude, sorry, pack your bags. Others - at least three households have been insistent - have gone from asking to buy all of it to asking us to parcel it out. "You're not selling any of it? How about just a piece?" One wants the lip that extends to the street corner; one has taken to asking for "just a few feet" of the pasture. And they ask over and over and over, seeming astonished and disappointed every time someone says NO.
My son went by the house the other day to drop some things off, and in the amount of time he was there, one neighbor phoned three times, asking to buy part of the pasture. Three times! In one day! No, pardon me, in a few minutes.
Nobody has actually come out and said so to us, but it really looks as though they'd been counting on this for years. Mom was elderly, she lived alone, and with the last of the horses gone, the pasture isn't in use. So, they apparently reasoned, when she died, no one in the family would want the property - in fact, they'd be itching to get rid of it. I can picture them sitting around discussing it with their friends and family, and their friends and family agreeing - "Oh, I'm sure you're right. They'll jump at the chance to unload that." Now that they are actually speaking to the only people whose opinions matter, the people who own the property, they seem distressed and puzzled by our failure to follow their script. Apparently, we were supposed to be just giddy about greedy neighbors.
I can even understand a bit of what they're thinking. One house has a back yard that's all of five feet deep - they can practically stand in their doorway and touch the fence. One family has children, and a postage stamp yard that is meticulously landscaped. One is, unaccountably, terrified of the trees - Mom's property has more than a dozen mature trees - and keeps telling me how terrified they are that the trees will fall and squash them and their house; I think they want to own it just to cut the trees down. But my understanding only goes so far. The thing is - I did not buy any of those homes, and their owners shouldn't have bought them either, if the only reason they lived there was the hope that some day, they'd have our land, too. If you don't like your property, or if you hate being next to vacant land, or if you fear trees, don't buy homes with those conditions! I mean, that's pretty self explanatory, right?
What kind of self serving, opportunistic, vulture moves next door to an elderly person because they want the elderly person's land? And worse, what does it say about their character that they cannot take "NO" for an answer?
The fact that we're "not even doing anything" with the land seems to stoke the craziness. News flash: if we wanted to let it sit vacant for generations to come, that's our prerogative. And, as I noted, if we had bundles of cash, or a bank that would finance us, the road would be in now, and the houses going up or already lived in.
One neighbor who keeps asking us for "just a few feet" of the pasture is apparently ignoring the fact that they live in the bottleneck, so to speak, next to the narrowest part of the property, so giving them "just a few feet" would mean that we no longer had the required clearance for the road and cul-de-sac - selling those "few feet" would render almost an acre useless to us. Given a choice between making the neighboring yards bigger, or having our family use the land for their own residences, is it really any surprise that we chose family residences?
The current residents of Mom's home are tired of being badgered, and respond to all inquiries with, "We don't own it." That causes a near feeding frenzy - "Well, have you asked the owners? Can you just ask your landlord?" Yes and yes, and the answer is still "NO." But they seem just positive that the messages aren't getting through, because, well, why would anybody want to keep owning something when someone else wants to buy it?
I growled the other day, "I want to put up a big, two sided sign in the pasture that says, 'No, it's not for sale. No, not even part of it. No, not even a few feet. Back off, vultures.' I should print form letters that say the same thing, and hand them out every time someone asks."
My son replied, "Well, I think 'vultures' is going over the top a bit."
My reply: "My first choice was 'opportunistic jackals,' so 'vultures' is already toned down."
My sister says, "Tell them that if they continue this behavior, you'll file a harassment suit." That sounds better every time they ask the same questions again.
This really isn't tough, folks: if there's no "for sale" sign, it's not for sale. If you ask and are told no, it's not for sale. If it ever does go up for sale, it will be through an agent of the owner's choice, not negotiated through persistent notes and phone calls - and, at this point, even if it ever were to go up for sale, none of us want to reward bad behavior by selling to harassers, so we'd probably leave word for our grandchildren to avoid their grandchildren, and so on, indefinitely..
Once again, for those in the back: No "for sale" sign means it's not for sale.
We've had almost three thousand days to think about it. The answer is still no.
Yes, the family members are all on the same page here.
What kind of self serving, opportunistic, vulture moves next door to an elderly person because they want the elderly person's land? And worse, what does it say about their character that they cannot take "NO" for an answer?
A recap: My father passed away in 1988; my mom passed away in 2012. Their home is not particularly desirable by today's real estate standards - only one bathroom, gasp! - but it sits on over an acre of land.
Everything my mom owned was held in a family trust, with a successor trustee, that dictated passing of her assets to her children without probate. Family agreement, not on paper, was that the house would go to my brother. He's the oldest, and he rents his home. So, even though the trust owns the house, we all referred to it as belonging to my brother.
The thing is, he didn't particularly want it. He lives in another state, and has absolutely zero desire to move back to his childhood home. So, the trust rented the house to one of Mom's grandkids. The money went straight into the trust account, to be used for taxes, repairs, etc. on the house while my brother mulled over what to do.
OK. So you're caught up.
Over half of Mom's property - not to ignore my dad, but she lived alone for 25 years, and we got used to calling it "Mom's" - is vacant land that used to be a horse pasture. It's not visible from the street, but the neighbors certainly know that it's there. In all, there's 10 lots that touch the property boundaries. Mom's is actually valued at less than any of her neighbor's properties, except for one vacant lot; the extra land in a long, awkward shape, actually knocks down the valuation, as it's "difficult to use."
After Mom died, several of the neighbors inquired, with varying degrees of intent, whether the property was going up for sale. All were told "no." OK, well, the least emphatic statement was this: "He (my husband) said, 'Probably not.' (He has an almost pathological aversion to uttering definitive declarative statements.)" ("Not For Sale")
So, they should have all been well aware that we were NOT selling it. And yet, at least three of them kept asking - and KEPT ASKING. In person, in notes, in phone calls - "Are you sure?" YES, we are SURE!
Not to sound too much like The Godfather about things, but this is a family decision. My brother had the final word on keeping or selling the house, but all of us weighed in. When I say, "we," I mean my mom's children and grandchildren - and our spouses, who are all in agreement.
Any of the inheriting siblings could, in theory, have taken the house as their share of the inheritance; none wanted to. The trust could have sold it, and split the proceeds, but that's not really what Mom wanted. She always talked about dividing the land and giving her children - or grandchildren - a piece to build a home on. (And we were informed by accessors and surveyors that a buyer would likely tear down the house, put a road straight through where the living room and kitchen used to be, and construct an apartment complex.) So, we decided to see if it was feasible to split up the land, and if any of the children or grandchildren would want a piece.
We consulted the city, and learned that yes, indeed, it was very possible, and not very expensive, to re-zone and divide the land. There is enough square footage for 8 separate lots, but making it into any more than 4 constituted "building a new subdivision," with lots of restrictions, environmental impact studies, etc. So, four pieces it would be, with the existing house on one of them, and with a short street (the old driveway into the pasture) and a cul-de-sac for access to the pasture; the city requires that a fire engine be able to turn around.
We talked with all the children and grandchildren, and there was enough interest that a decision was made: subdivide.
The inspections and paperwork went without a hitch. All the neighbors in about a half mile radius were informed of the zoning changes. The road, cul-de-sac and new property lines have been approved by the city. Grandkids made plans to build houses.
Now we've hit our first snag. When the neighbors had subdivided their property in the past - remember those 10 lots around Mom's house? - they had simply graded and put in a gravel road. That's what we intended to do. The city no longer allows that - a gravel road "isn't permanent." (We live in the American West - tell that to the still visible wagon trails from the Gold Rush.)
So, we're stuck in a holding pattern. We have to have the money to put in a paved street, sewers, and gutters, and THEN we can place the houses. The road has to come first - it's the law. We can't do houses first, paved road last.
And now, as an aside to the conversation, the only reason it's not done is money. We have to raise the money in cash, because banks will not loan us money for this - it's considered "too risky." The banks don't want to end up reposessing a hunk of land that it can't sell at a profit, and that's what they see here. We can't get loans to put in the homes until the road is in. The one local bank that will even finance "unimproved land" loans - most won't - won't touch us. We even tried to get a home equity loan - no dice. (I get the feeling that they'd go for the tear down and new apartments scenario more easily.) So, the land sits and waits, and the grandkids hoping to live there rent elsewhere. We have to try to come up with a ridiculous amount of money in cash - and THEN get another loan (or loans) for the houses. It's frustrating.
But do you know what is MORE frustrating? That several of Mom's neighbors seem unwilling to part with their plans to own Mom's land themselves.
I understand asking, as either a matter of curiosity or as an offer to buy, once. Maybe twice, if you're pushy. Beyond that, it's just aggravating.
It's looking more and more as if people moved in next to my mother specifically because they wanted to buy her land. One informed us, in a bit of a huff, that he'd be moving if the land wasn't for sale. Well, dude, sorry, pack your bags. Others - at least three households have been insistent - have gone from asking to buy all of it to asking us to parcel it out. "You're not selling any of it? How about just a piece?" One wants the lip that extends to the street corner; one has taken to asking for "just a few feet" of the pasture. And they ask over and over and over, seeming astonished and disappointed every time someone says NO.
My son went by the house the other day to drop some things off, and in the amount of time he was there, one neighbor phoned three times, asking to buy part of the pasture. Three times! In one day! No, pardon me, in a few minutes.
Nobody has actually come out and said so to us, but it really looks as though they'd been counting on this for years. Mom was elderly, she lived alone, and with the last of the horses gone, the pasture isn't in use. So, they apparently reasoned, when she died, no one in the family would want the property - in fact, they'd be itching to get rid of it. I can picture them sitting around discussing it with their friends and family, and their friends and family agreeing - "Oh, I'm sure you're right. They'll jump at the chance to unload that." Now that they are actually speaking to the only people whose opinions matter, the people who own the property, they seem distressed and puzzled by our failure to follow their script. Apparently, we were supposed to be just giddy about greedy neighbors.
I can even understand a bit of what they're thinking. One house has a back yard that's all of five feet deep - they can practically stand in their doorway and touch the fence. One family has children, and a postage stamp yard that is meticulously landscaped. One is, unaccountably, terrified of the trees - Mom's property has more than a dozen mature trees - and keeps telling me how terrified they are that the trees will fall and squash them and their house; I think they want to own it just to cut the trees down. But my understanding only goes so far. The thing is - I did not buy any of those homes, and their owners shouldn't have bought them either, if the only reason they lived there was the hope that some day, they'd have our land, too. If you don't like your property, or if you hate being next to vacant land, or if you fear trees, don't buy homes with those conditions! I mean, that's pretty self explanatory, right?
What kind of self serving, opportunistic, vulture moves next door to an elderly person because they want the elderly person's land? And worse, what does it say about their character that they cannot take "NO" for an answer?
The fact that we're "not even doing anything" with the land seems to stoke the craziness. News flash: if we wanted to let it sit vacant for generations to come, that's our prerogative. And, as I noted, if we had bundles of cash, or a bank that would finance us, the road would be in now, and the houses going up or already lived in.
One neighbor who keeps asking us for "just a few feet" of the pasture is apparently ignoring the fact that they live in the bottleneck, so to speak, next to the narrowest part of the property, so giving them "just a few feet" would mean that we no longer had the required clearance for the road and cul-de-sac - selling those "few feet" would render almost an acre useless to us. Given a choice between making the neighboring yards bigger, or having our family use the land for their own residences, is it really any surprise that we chose family residences?
The current residents of Mom's home are tired of being badgered, and respond to all inquiries with, "We don't own it." That causes a near feeding frenzy - "Well, have you asked the owners? Can you just ask your landlord?" Yes and yes, and the answer is still "NO." But they seem just positive that the messages aren't getting through, because, well, why would anybody want to keep owning something when someone else wants to buy it?
I growled the other day, "I want to put up a big, two sided sign in the pasture that says, 'No, it's not for sale. No, not even part of it. No, not even a few feet. Back off, vultures.' I should print form letters that say the same thing, and hand them out every time someone asks."
My son replied, "Well, I think 'vultures' is going over the top a bit."
My reply: "My first choice was 'opportunistic jackals,' so 'vultures' is already toned down."
My sister says, "Tell them that if they continue this behavior, you'll file a harassment suit." That sounds better every time they ask the same questions again.
This really isn't tough, folks: if there's no "for sale" sign, it's not for sale. If you ask and are told no, it's not for sale. If it ever does go up for sale, it will be through an agent of the owner's choice, not negotiated through persistent notes and phone calls - and, at this point, even if it ever were to go up for sale, none of us want to reward bad behavior by selling to harassers, so we'd probably leave word for our grandchildren to avoid their grandchildren, and so on, indefinitely..
Once again, for those in the back: No "for sale" sign means it's not for sale.
We've had almost three thousand days to think about it. The answer is still no.
Yes, the family members are all on the same page here.
What kind of self serving, opportunistic, vulture moves next door to an elderly person because they want the elderly person's land? And worse, what does it say about their character that they cannot take "NO" for an answer?
Friday, March 9, 2018
War Is Bad
I was scrolling through a social media site, and said out loud, "Oh, I'm not even gonna read that one."
"What?" my son asked.
"An article titled, '20 TV Character Deaths You Still Haven't Gotten Over.'"
My son knows me. "Henry?" he said.
"YES. Henry."
Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake was the first commanding officer on TV's "M*A*S*H." I loved Henry, in spite of himself. He wasn't really the kind of person I generally admired. He was bumbling, he was easily bulldozed over by those with stronger personalities, he cheated on his wife. But putting all that aside, he was well intentioned (one of my "musts" for people), he was a good surgeon, he was a loyal friend. The company clerk may have been the organizational brains of the outfit, but you couldn't really hold that against Henry; he may have been its heart. He cared about those under his command, and he cared about the wounded who came through their hospital. He could behave like a parent frequently, and like a commander when he had to, but he was always a good doctor.
My age was in single digits when "M*A*S*H" premiered, and I was only 10 when Henry got his orders to head home.
Home; they all wanted to go home. He'd miss the men, we'd miss him, but Henry was excited to go.
Maybe the story lines were kind of heavy for a kid in elementary school. My parents kept me - all of their kids - from things they were afraid would traumatize us or be over our heads, but "M*A*S*H" didn't fall into that category. We only had one TV, so whatever was on, we watched together, and we discussed it. It was one of my favorite shows. I understood the horror of war, the great lengths they went to in order to keep the horror at bay, the humor.
I understood that Henry was going home because the actor, McLean Stevenson, hadn't renewed his contract; that made me a bit sad, but it was OK. I'd watched the cast be shuffled on shows before. We'd have all summer to get used to the idea before the show returned.
I watched Henry say his goodbyes, watched him call his wife back home. He had a child he'd never met, born while he served in Korea. "Let's not tell anyone," he said to his wife. "Let's just show up for dinner at the club." He was so excited to think about the surprise his friends would experience.
He took off his uniform - he took off his ubiquitous fishing hat - and he put on a suit. He saluted Radar, his clerk, and he climbed on to the helicopter.
That's where the script they'd all been given ended. During filming, the producers told the cast, "We have one more scene. Gary (Burghoff, who played Radar) is the only one with any lines. Just react to Gary." They set up a scene in the ER - then they handed Burghoff the script.
We, the viewers, found out through interviews that Burghoff gave afterward that he looked at the lines and felt punched in the stomach. "You sons of b*****s," he says that he told them. "You're going to win an Emmy for this."
The reaction you see when Radar walks into the ER - that's the actor's reaction to the lines he was given only seconds earlier. He walks through the door, and Wayne Rogers, taking to the direction to "react to Gary," says, "Radar, put a mask on!"
Burghoff reads the lines. I know them by heart. "Lt. Col. Henry Blake's plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan. It spun in. There were no survivors."
OH. Oh. Oh.
It was so painful. I cried then. I cry now. I cry every time I see the episode, every time I talk about that moment.
The reactions you see from the other actors - those are their actual reactions. Loretta Swit weeps.
I was not prepared for the reaction of some fans, though. The producers got nasty letters - "How could you? There was no reason for that!" "How can you treat your fans this way? We've been so loyal, and you hurt us!" "This is entertainment! We watch this show to laugh, not to cry!"
Even as a 10 year old, I understood what they were doing. This is why war is bad. This is why it is a thing to be avoided. Because people you love, people with everything to live for, people with wives and children and babies they'd never met, with friends and relatives and jobs waiting for them at home, die. Many of them are still too young to have wives and children, and they die anyway. War is indiscriminate; it takes everyone. And yes, TV is entertainment, and the show is a comedy, but it would be remiss if it didn't show that war takes lives, and not just the lives of soldiers, and not just people you don't know.
So, yeah, they ripped my heart out. Yeah, it still hurts. That's how I know they did their job. Because if there was a single sentence, with words of one syllable, that summed up "M*A*S*H," it would be, "War is bad." Because too many people die.
So, thanks, 20th Century Fox - even though it hurts.
And oh, yes - that episode won an Emmy.
"What?" my son asked.
"An article titled, '20 TV Character Deaths You Still Haven't Gotten Over.'"
My son knows me. "Henry?" he said.
"YES. Henry."
Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake was the first commanding officer on TV's "M*A*S*H." I loved Henry, in spite of himself. He wasn't really the kind of person I generally admired. He was bumbling, he was easily bulldozed over by those with stronger personalities, he cheated on his wife. But putting all that aside, he was well intentioned (one of my "musts" for people), he was a good surgeon, he was a loyal friend. The company clerk may have been the organizational brains of the outfit, but you couldn't really hold that against Henry; he may have been its heart. He cared about those under his command, and he cared about the wounded who came through their hospital. He could behave like a parent frequently, and like a commander when he had to, but he was always a good doctor.
My age was in single digits when "M*A*S*H" premiered, and I was only 10 when Henry got his orders to head home.
Home; they all wanted to go home. He'd miss the men, we'd miss him, but Henry was excited to go.
Maybe the story lines were kind of heavy for a kid in elementary school. My parents kept me - all of their kids - from things they were afraid would traumatize us or be over our heads, but "M*A*S*H" didn't fall into that category. We only had one TV, so whatever was on, we watched together, and we discussed it. It was one of my favorite shows. I understood the horror of war, the great lengths they went to in order to keep the horror at bay, the humor.
I understood that Henry was going home because the actor, McLean Stevenson, hadn't renewed his contract; that made me a bit sad, but it was OK. I'd watched the cast be shuffled on shows before. We'd have all summer to get used to the idea before the show returned.
I watched Henry say his goodbyes, watched him call his wife back home. He had a child he'd never met, born while he served in Korea. "Let's not tell anyone," he said to his wife. "Let's just show up for dinner at the club." He was so excited to think about the surprise his friends would experience.
He took off his uniform - he took off his ubiquitous fishing hat - and he put on a suit. He saluted Radar, his clerk, and he climbed on to the helicopter.
That's where the script they'd all been given ended. During filming, the producers told the cast, "We have one more scene. Gary (Burghoff, who played Radar) is the only one with any lines. Just react to Gary." They set up a scene in the ER - then they handed Burghoff the script.
We, the viewers, found out through interviews that Burghoff gave afterward that he looked at the lines and felt punched in the stomach. "You sons of b*****s," he says that he told them. "You're going to win an Emmy for this."
The reaction you see when Radar walks into the ER - that's the actor's reaction to the lines he was given only seconds earlier. He walks through the door, and Wayne Rogers, taking to the direction to "react to Gary," says, "Radar, put a mask on!"
Burghoff reads the lines. I know them by heart. "Lt. Col. Henry Blake's plane was shot down over the Sea of Japan. It spun in. There were no survivors."
OH. Oh. Oh.
It was so painful. I cried then. I cry now. I cry every time I see the episode, every time I talk about that moment.
The reactions you see from the other actors - those are their actual reactions. Loretta Swit weeps.
I was not prepared for the reaction of some fans, though. The producers got nasty letters - "How could you? There was no reason for that!" "How can you treat your fans this way? We've been so loyal, and you hurt us!" "This is entertainment! We watch this show to laugh, not to cry!"
Even as a 10 year old, I understood what they were doing. This is why war is bad. This is why it is a thing to be avoided. Because people you love, people with everything to live for, people with wives and children and babies they'd never met, with friends and relatives and jobs waiting for them at home, die. Many of them are still too young to have wives and children, and they die anyway. War is indiscriminate; it takes everyone. And yes, TV is entertainment, and the show is a comedy, but it would be remiss if it didn't show that war takes lives, and not just the lives of soldiers, and not just people you don't know.
So, yeah, they ripped my heart out. Yeah, it still hurts. That's how I know they did their job. Because if there was a single sentence, with words of one syllable, that summed up "M*A*S*H," it would be, "War is bad." Because too many people die.
So, thanks, 20th Century Fox - even though it hurts.
And oh, yes - that episode won an Emmy.
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