Dealing With Dementia

My brother Daniel has an advanced stage of dementia which makes for some interesting challenges.  He and his wife live on our three-acre property in the RV we purchased ‘just in case things got interesting’ and our kids needed to evacuate Houston and have a place to escape to.

That scenario didn’t pan out as planned; but in a way, it worked out the way the Lord would have it.  My brother and his wife needed a place to live as they fled an increasingly violent stricken area of Uganda, Africa where they’d been serving as lay missionaries.  Apparently, Daniel had been injured during a fall and his early signs of dementia had accelerated as a result.

We offered them a safe haven and they accepted our hospitality, acknowledging that they’d be helping to offset some of our living expenses like utility bills. This has worked out well going on right at a year now.

Daniel has been keeping up physically, doing lots of exercises, jumping constantly on a small trampoline looking gizmo along with walking the property back and forth.  He’s supposed to stop when he reaches the end of our property and turn around; but this morning Lucy was in the kitchen and noticed as he reached the front gate, he appeared to have it in his mind to go further as he disappeared, going down the private road and out of sight.

I got into the pickup truck and drove off in the direction Daniel had gone.  It didn’t take long to catch up as he was only an eighth of a mile ahead, casually walking in his pajamas while wearing a nice woolen cap; our morning temperature being about fifty degrees.  With the windows rolled down I eased up along side and encouraged Daniel to hop in.

“Oh, Thank You”, he responded, “I’m looking for a friend who has a house over here.” I continued driving down the hard packed dirt road past the Finley’s property.

“Let’s check the mailbox”, figuring he might enjoy going a bit further. I drove the truck onto the county road and used our neighbor’s driveway entrance to get turned around to facilitate access to our mailbox.  Daniel appeared a bit agitated, not being familiar with the landscape he was now seeing.  “There’s our mailbox.  Let’s see what’s inside”.

“Oh, that’s a good idea.  We’re expecting a package today.”  Upon opening the drop-down lid, it was clear the mailbox was nearly full with letters and small packages. 

“This package has your name on it.  See, Daniel Stern”, handing it to my brother who again explained that they’d been expecting this delivery.  The rest of the mail was addressed to Lucy, mostly junk mail from folks looking for donations since Lucy’s a sucker for various charities.

“Oh, this is the one we’ve been waiting for.”  I drove back to our property and into our driveway. I could see Daniel’s wife, Lisa, in front of our house as she played with our dogs while talking to Lucy who was sitting on the porch.  It was plain to see they were glad I’d corralled Daniel and brought him back.

I stopped the truck to permit my brother a chance to get the door open and exit.  He handed the box to his wife Lisa and introduced himself, “Hi, I’m Daniel”, to which she replied, “I’m Lisa”.

“I found another American while on my walk”. Daniel was doing his best to explain his good fortune at having found a friend while he was on our private road. 

While this sounds a bit surreal, I have to wonder how all this must be jumbled up in my brother’s mind as he tries to make sense of this world he’s now living in.  We must be ever so gentle with Daniel as he faces battles we can’t even comprehend.

Meeting Potential Spam

Strange as it might sound, I actually met Potential Spam the other day.  All these years his name would come up on my cell phone, interrupting a quiet afternoon with annoying precision.  I’d learned to ignore the ringing by tapping the dismiss function, returning to solitude and quiet.

Yesterday was different. I needed an electrician to solve an issue on our property.  While looking for a locally listed electrician, the search turned up vendor services companies which promised to find the most qualified or reasonably priced electricians according to my Zip-code.  After entering the required fields, the vendor services company informed me that an electrician would be at my property the following day between 8:00am and 11:00am.  The last detail required was my credit card information so they could charge me in advance for 3 hours of promised work.

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I requested the name of the electrician and a phone number to contact the individual to assist him/her in finding our rural location.  Some versions of electronic maps we’ve found took folks off on a wild goose chase so it was easier to give them directions we knew would get them here.  The vendor service company was reluctant to provide the phone number of the electrician seeing as how they might lose their portion of a pre-arranged contract.

Fast forward to the next morning when I heard my cellphone go off around 7:30am.  Glancing at the information it was Potential Spam.  Before I could dismiss the call, it quit ringing.  A couple of minutes later the phone rang; again, it was Potential Spam.

Normally I don’t get those annoying calls quite so early in the morning; but my brain engaged momentarily, suggesting that it might be the electrician attempting to call.  He had contacted us via the vendor services company’s switchboard and thought it odd my phone number showed me living in California, as he laughed knowing the address given was near Buffalo, Texas.

Sure enough, it was the fellow trying to find our property, sorting through the various County Roads which weave around this area.  He wanted to let me know he would only be a few more minutes in transit, that he wasn’t too far off the mark.

His service truck pulled into our driveway, and I walked over to greet him.

As he opened the door of his truck, I reached out my hand, gaining eye contact as I asked, “Do you go by Potential or by your last name Spam?”  We got along great from that moment on. He diagnosed the electrical issue and promptly had things working.

Turns out Mike was a Camel

 

Each morning, to get started on the right foot, I take my vitamins.  As part of this ritual, I tear off a page from the calendar which acts as a checks and balance later on in the day.  If the page on the calendar hasn’t been changed then it means I forgot to take my vitamins.

The calendar rewards me with a piece of trivia printed on the pages.  For instance, the other day I learned that a Chef’s Hat has 100 folds in it that represent the number of ways an egg can be cooked.  That’s the kind of information that might be found on the old Trivial Pursuit game.

This morning’s information had me chasing a memory from way back as I read, “Camels can hold a grudge and wait patiently for their opportunity to take revenge.”  I’ve never owned a camel; had dogs and cats over the years; but never a camel.  The idea that camels can hold a grudge and then wait patiently for the opportunity to take revenge; now that’s diabolical. 

While working day shift as a police officer there was a Mobil gas station located on Westheimer at Commonwealth that offered shade from the sun and good company to chat with.  It was a great location to set up for red light violations since Commonwealth was a one-way street, making it safer to begin the pursuit of a violator.  The owner of the station enjoyed having a police car present on the property and Mike Koetting, one of the mechanics working there, had a warped sense of humor that matched my own.

One hot summer day while Mike had the hood up on my patrol car checking on something that was making an odd noise, I flipped on the siren to prank with him.  Mike hit his head and flinched, a natural reaction to being startled.  He grimaced and let me know he’d get even.

Each time I’d set up under the gas station’s awning, looking to catch a red-light violator; but in the back of my mind was the warning, a gentle reminder that Mike would find a way to get even for having been startled.  As the days passed it appeared that Mike lost interest in getting even.  Weeks became months and eventually I forgot all about having pranked with Mike.

A year later to the very day, I’d settled in under the awning enjoying a slow traffic day.  While relaxing in my thoughts, comfortable knowing I was surrounded by friends, Mike came up from behind with an air ratchet that he used on my elbow which was casually hanging out the window of my patrol car.  Had I not been wearing a seat belt I might have exited through the window.

“Gotcha!  Now we’re even.”  Mike had penciled in the date on his calendar, the day to get even.  All this time I thought he was a mechanic; turns out Mike’s a camel.

Police Public Relations

 

In the mid-1970s while assigned to the Montrose area of Houston, the City posted a series of No Left Turn signs at the behest of the local Neighborhood Watch group.  There was a pattern of traffic which had cars continuously circling through residential areas, back onto the main thoroughfares and then back through the residential areas.  Basically, these individuals were looking to ‘hook-up’ with like-minded individuals, I’ll let you draw your own opinion.

The Department didn’t want to unnecessarily upset the more ‘tolerant’ segment who regularly frequented that area and so the first week after the new traffic signs were installed, with the intent to alter the annoying traffic pattern, I was sent to provide warnings rather than issue traffic tickets to anyone who failed to comply with the new traffic signs.

I’d no sooner arrived when I observed two vehicles simultaneously make a left turn off of Montrose Boulevard onto Lovett Street.  I stood out in the middle of the street and flagged them over to the curb. 

When I approached their vehicles, I asked each driver for a driver's license and they handed these over to me.  The lead vehicle had been driven by a Catholic priest wearing the customary black shirt with the small white collar.  I explained that he probably hadn’t seen the brand-new traffic sign and asked that he be more aware in the future as I let him go.

The second vehicle was driven by a more ‘progressive’ individual who might have attended Woodstock gauging from his appearance.  The idea popped into my head, have some fun with this guy.

I explained that I only had one ticket left in my book and that it was obvious that, "I couldn’t write the priest, so I had to let him go".  My words landed on his ears and settled in as I pulled the traffic ticket book from my back pocket as if I planned to start writing.

The veins in his neck immediately began to swell, “You can’t do that! You…you can’t do that!” There was a form of righteous indignation attached to his vocal cords as the words came out.

“You’re probably right”, was my reply as I reached into my pocket and took out a quarter.  I flipped it in the air, caught it and then slapped it onto my wrist.  “Call it, heads, or tails.  This way you have half a chance.”

“You can’t do that!”  He was turning red faced, “You can’t do that!”  I let him vent for a moment of two longer as I pulled out my traffic ticket book, showing him I had plenty of blank tickets that could be used.  “Please be more careful and pay attention to the new traffic signs”.

I’m not sure if this falls under Public Relations or simply Jacking with Folks.

Price Gouging or Fair Market Value

 

This past week the connection where the city water hose line feeds into our RV broke. Water was gushing out the end of the hose and I shut off the water, examined the issue and figured it would be a fairly simple repair since a standard water hose is connected to a fitting built into the side of the RV. 

I was mistaken; the connection necked down to fit the half inch diameter hose fitting on the other side of the flange.  I couldn’t simply hook the water hose up without the specialty connector which contained a pressure valve.

It was late in the afternoon on Friday, I had to scramble over to the hardware store before they closed at 5:00pm, only to find they couldn’t help.

Not being a regular fix it yourself type guy, I found out you can’t visit the local hardware store, walk over to their plumbing section and purchase an RV replacement part.  The term ‘proprietary’ was used by the owner of the hardware store as she explained the folks who sell RV replacement products won’t sell those parts to hardware stores in order to force folks to purchase these ‘specialty parts’ from the RV outlets.

I understand the use of proprietary marketing, don’t like that it’s done; but that’s how the free-market system works.  It’s the same reason you don’t go to the Chevy dealership to buy a replacement part for your Honda.  You might find an aftermarket replacement part at Auto Zone; but then it might not be an exact fit, so you end up having to go to Honda anyway. 

The next morning we’d planned on going into Houston anyway and would pass by the RV dealership where we’d purchased our 2022 Keystone Bullet.  Perhaps, we thought, since the RV was less than a year old the broken part might be covered by warranty.  The folks at the parts department explained that they weren’t the ones to ask, that we’d have to take that up with management.

I should mention that I’d called their parts department on Friday to see if they had such a part in stock.  The fellow put me on hold for a few minutes as he checked and then said, “Yes, we have them in stock and, depending on which one you need, it will cost between $25 and $30”.

However, on Saturday morning the fellow who greeted me showed that they only had one RV City Water Fill connector and it was going to cost me roughly $54.  He went to look for others that would be in the back stockroom but explained that the one on display was the only one in stock.  I gritted my teeth, reached into my wallet, and paid cash.

I knew I could get the same product on the internet for less than $20 plus shipping and handling; but since we had family in town for the weekend using the RV, we didn’t want to wait a few days for a replacement part to be delivered. 

The replacement job took only a few minutes. The part needed was the black plastic half inch diameter pressure valve connector which was held in place by two flexible tabs to the chrome ring.  Apparently, many RV units used a separate single flange cover for the city water input whereas the newer RV units now have all these water connections under one elongated oval flange held in place with 8 or 10 screws. 

With a pair of plyers, the two plastic retaining prongs were depressed freeing the connector from the chrome flange.  That connector was then pushed through the elongated oval flange plate and the hose on the RV side screwed on exactly as it was designed.  The standard water hose from our faucet was then connected to the brass pressure reducer piece and the job was done.

Thinking back to Saturday morning’s adventure, the fellow working at the Holiday World of Willis knew I had to have the part and never flinched as he handed me the receipt.  I checked the mirror in my car as I drove out of their parking lot; no, didn’t see any blood dripping from my nose either.

Fifty-Four Dollars for a part that probably cost less than two dollars to make.  Yes, that’s what most folks would consider price gouging.

A True MacGyver Moment

 

My neighbor’s car locked him out after he’d unhooked the battery.  It was then he realized that the mechanical key didn’t open the door, someone having unhooked the important parts of the lock inside the door frame, probably using a ‘Slim Jim’ or similar tool. 

I explained that I no longer had any locksmith tools, having given those away when I retired several years ago.  I still understood how to by pass the system; just that I’d need to be creative, I think that’s the term, in deciding how to attack the challenge.

I had a nice long antenna out in the connex storage building along with some empty plastic kitty litter containers.  I went to the kitchen and borrowed two Teflon coated spatulas to use for wedges and figured that might work.

I cut the kitty litter container into flat sheets and started to insert these one at a time, bypassing the tight seal of the passenger side front door.  Then another and another until the first spatula was able to get past the upright post.  I placed sheets of plastic from the kitty litter container along the edges of the door so the antenna, while being inserted, wouldn’t scratch or mar the door edges.  My neighbor had two small pieces of trim wood that had enough strength to gently pry the door edge, just enough to permit the antenna access to where the door lock was located.

This was when I started to sing a church hymn, mostly in fun; but I think the Lord was helping all this time, “Guide Us, O Thou Great Jehovah”.  I had my neighbor help guide the antenna’s working end by looking through the window until it landed squarely on the lock’s pivot point.

The whole operation didn’t take that long and it was quite exhilarating to be able to walk in the footsteps of the master of modified tricks.  Thank you, MacGyver, for an inspired moment.

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First Aid Training

This Wednesday the Young Women and Young Men attending the Madisonville Branch of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints will hold a combined meeting where they will have training on basic First Aid.  This kind of activity will be beneficial since one never knows when such training might be needed.

I was reminded that while working for the Houston Police Department, all officers were required to complete at least eight hours of First Aid training each year as mandated by the State of Texas.  Night shift officers would be asked to show up during the day for this training and receive overtime pay.  This later was changed to where the training was done on night shift at the Police Academy.

There had been a scandal of sorts in the late 1980’s where an officer from the Northeast Substation had been accused of stealing money from those he’d arrested for being drunk.  This was an embarrassment for every police officer as the Houston Chronicle had fun printing a couple of articles painting the entire Department as if it were common practice for officers to steal money from prisoners.

Internal Affairs figured out which officer was involved, set up a situation where he’d be the one to arrest an individual carrying marked bills and let the incident play out.  Sure enough, upon finishing the booking of the prisoner, the officer was found to be in possession of the marked money. 

Hopefully that’s the last time he was permitted to wear the uniform; but what has this got to do with First Aid training?

Upon showing up at the Police Academy building over by the airport, there were about 2 officers from each substation seated around a large conference table.  The First Aid instructor was from Social Services; but not a police officer, and he decided to find out how much each of us knew without having been given training, at least not as yet.

He pointed to one officer, having looked at his name tag, and asked, “Officer So and So, you’re on patrol and come upon a man bleeding severely, his having fallen through a plate glass window.  What’s the first thing you should do?”   That officer gave a reasonable response, and so it went as the instructor made it around the table.

Pointing in my direction he asked, “Officer Stern, while on patrol you come across a man lying face down in the ditch.  What’s the first thing you should do?”

Without hesitating my response was, “Well, if you’re from the Northeast Substation the first thing you do is go through his wallet looking for money.”  A round of muffled laughter broke out around the conference table, that is, all except from the two officers from the Northeast Substation who didn’t think it was funny at all.

The Hot Sheet

 

A fellow retired police officer reminded me that at one time patrol officers were handed a Hot Sheet while in Roll Call.  This was a list of currently reported stolen vehicles which could be useful while on patrol.  It must be remembered; this was before the advent of the computer age and most police cars didn’t even have a ‘good time radio’ as they were considered a distraction.

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There were any number of ways to fold these Hot Sheets to make them more accessible when they were stashed above the sun visor.  Since these were printed in columns and there were so many stolen vehicles to be listed, that meant at least two Hot Sheets, sometimes more to be carefully folded to make the most of this information.

When I was a rookie, recovering a stolen vehicle was one of the items on my ‘Bucket List’.  You have to have recovered at least one stolen vehicle to be able to look in the mirror and hold your head high.  Weeks went by and nothing; but each day I’d religiously scan the lists hoping to score.

The senior police officer would drive around to check different known drop locations hoping we’d stumble across an abandoned stolen vehicle.  Some officers seemingly had a magic touch as they’d call for a wrecker almost daily to haul off their find.  I wasn’t that officer.

That day finally arrived, and I remember the feeling of pride.  In my mind, the right to wear the blue uniform had been penciled in.  It felt like a beam of sunshine was created especially for me as I called the listed owner to announce my success.

“Sir, this is Officer Stern with the Houston Police Department calling to let you know we’ve recovered your stolen truck.”  I was awaiting cheers, maybe even some confetti tossed in my direction.

“I bet my bass boat wasn’t with it.”  A dark cloud blocked out all the excitement as his words landed on my ear. Not only was this guy not going to recommend me for Rookie of the Year for having recovered his shiny new Ford F-150, but he was flat out disappointed in how long it had taken to give him the bad news; his prized fishing boat was never going to be found.

The senior officer smiled as he watched my reaction, “You’ll get used to that.”  Becoming a hero police officer wasn’t going to be easy.

Checking 3622

 

I was in a meeting at church the other day and the topic turned to the advent of the computer age.  We take for granted that our cellphones have many built-in conveniences to include a fully operational computer with more capabilities than the computers used to place a man on the moon.

(Image of Touch Tone Telephone courtesy of Bing)

Back when I was a young police officer in Houston working the street, if we wanted to have a detailed background check on a suspect, we’d ask the dispatcher to check 3622, for us.  If we were at the station, we’d simply dial 3622, that being the last four numbers of the phone number for the folks who had the only computer hooked up to the national system. 

It might be hard to comprehend how different access to the computer room was in that period.  The room was basically a high security vault and only rare few individuals were permitted to enter that room. 

‘Old Head’ police officers knew two numbers, 3622 and 3611, to check for outstanding warrants.  The newer crop of officers might not have heard of the antiquated means of accomplishing this task since every police car has its own computer tied into the national system. 

That part of the history lesson leads to the next part of the story. 

It was somewhere in the mid-70s when I had to work light duty due to an injury.  They put me behind a desk doing menial paperwork.  The Department was in the process of installing computer terminals in most every office, a decided break from having to contact 3622 for such tasks.

My first day working light duty was the same day the computer terminal was installed at the desk where I was to work.  The fellow invited me to become acquainted with all the features and explained, “Don’t worry about damaging anything, just have fun figuring what it can do”.

Wow!  This was neat, getting to have hands-on experience with new technology.  (I can hear the younger generation giggling since they grew up in a different era.)

I set about pushing the keys that ran across the top row and found there was an application built in for creating letters up the chain of command, something I’d become familiar with much more than I would have liked. 

Most officers, when they needed to explain an incident which might lead to disciplinary action, wrote out their thoughts on a yellow legal pad. That information was then handed to the division’s secretary who’d type it out, the officer would then sign that letter and submit the finished version up the chain of command.

With the word processing function available to officers, they could, if so inclined, write and edit their letter until it best matched the desired way it would be received as it went up the chain of command. 

Curiosity took my attention to the last key along the top row of buttons to push.  It was a large Red Button.  Offhand I couldn’t say if it had anything to indicate its function. The invitation offered by the technician came to mind, “Don’t worry about damaging anything, just have fun figuring what it can do”.

(Image courtesy of istockphoto dot com)        

It might have been two, perhaps three minutes before two technicians came hurriedly toward me, a panicked look on their faces indicated the building was about to explode. I’m guessing they came via the stairwell rather than having to wait on the elevator.  My hitting the large Red Key to find out what it did shut down the entire computer system of the Houston Police Department.  Every single computer terminal had been returned to the Stone Age, to include the folks working 3622. 

The technician, the same one who’d earlier been so pleasant as he’d explained, “Don’t worry about damaging anything, just have fun figuring what it can do”, carefully adjusted that to include, “…but never, under any circumstances, touch the Red Key!”

By The Book

One of the character traits desirable in police officers has to do with being able to do things ‘by the book’.  It implies a desire to adhere to standards designed to protect the integrity of the department while establishing boundaries for those working within the ranks.

(Image courtesy of istockphoto dot com)

Back in the mid to late seventies I apprenticed as a locksmith, working for free in order to learn the ‘tricks of the trade’, so to speak.  I’d show up on Saturdays and do whatever I was able during those hours.  Most of the time I’d get a free sandwich as part of the deal. 

At a certain point it became clear that I was able to do some of the simpler jobs and could actually go out on jobs to prove my talents.  Any money collected belonged to the shop since I was there as an apprentice.

It dawned on me that if I wanted to be self-employed, even for very small jobs, I needed to obtain a sales tax permit in order to be within the law.  Doing things by the book was important, especially since I was also a uniformed police officer representing the City of Houston.  It wouldn’t do for me to violate the law as it would be fodder for the local news media.

I drove over to the sales tax offices during my lunch break while on duty.  After filling in a form I handed it over to the young lady sitting at her desk.  She glanced it over, making sure all the spaces had been filled in; but stopped when she got to the line, ‘estimated monthly income’.

I’d done a rough calculation in my head, considering how much I might make doing a job every now and then.  I think the ‘estimated monthly amount’ I wrote down was, $250.00.  The young lady asked if perhaps I’d meant to write, $2,500.00; but I assured her that $250.00 a month would be about right.

She had a look of bewilderment as she lowered her chin slightly and asked, “You mean to tell me you’re going to quit the police department so you can be a locksmith and make only $250 a month?”

Rather than go into details about my locksmith business being mostly a hobby, something to do for fun on Saturdays, I replied, “Oh, yes Ma’am, I really enjoy locksmith work”.  I think she winced and took a deep breath as she stamped the form.  I posted a minimal deposit to cover expected sales taxes to be collected.  The next 40 years in business is, as they say, history.

Doing things by the book was a good idea since that hobby became a primary source of income that supplemented my employment as a police officer until I retired from the Houston Police Department.

That brings up another story regarding doing things by the book.  A couple of weeks prior to retiring from the department I wanted to make sure all my ducks were in a row, pardon the expression. There were things like continuity of medical insurance for my family to consider along with other payroll oriented issues that had to be properly addressed.  The forms were turned in and all that was needed was to finish out the last week on duty.

The next night, after being assigned my regular beat and shop (police car), I turned on the MDT (a fancy term for a laptop that’s attached to the police car).  The login screen wouldn’t cooperate, asking in bold print why a retired officer needed to login.

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I took a deep breath and managed to convince the dispatcher that I had not retired yet, that I still had a few more days to go.  Somehow the dispatcher was able to convince the system to accept a retired officer for active duty that night.

Then, when it was time to fill up the police unit with gasoline prior to going home at the end of shift, the computer at the gas pumps wouldn’t accept my information; again, asking why a retired police officer was trying to obtain gasoline.  Fortunately, my shift supervisor was close by and used his information to convince the system to let me fill up with gas.

The next night, rather than worry about why a retired police officer was on duty, our supervisors agreed that it would be much easier to assign me to desk duty the remainder of my active duty.

Some might argue or question my being a by the book kind of individual; but, for the most part, I did try to stay within the lines.

Spilled My Yeti

 

While looking forward to the Saturday Morning Session of General Conference, I’d topped off my Yeti with lots of ice and water.  This isn’t an average size Yeti, and in fact, it’s a competitor’s version of a Yeti that holds sixty-four gallons; we picked it up at the Bucky’s store in Madisonville.

Growing up in my era, folks called their vacuum cleaners, Hoovers.  It didn’t matter what company manufactured the device; Hoover was a commonly known device.  I suppose the folks at Yeti should be thrilled to have had a similar fate.

Rather than set the huge honking container on a table, we have food storage spread around the house, and so…there are three cases of canned ground beef next to the sofa.  It’s covered with a bath towel that makes it ‘invisible’, a mind game that permits us to use the living room as part of the pantry.  These cases of canned goods are placed on bath towels to keep moisture from ruining the hardwood flooring.  The cats think the top layer of bath towels are for them to sleep on, providing a strategic location for staring out the window.

General Conference started and the first speaker was Dallin H. Oaks.  I reached over to take a sip from the Yeti; but accidentally tipped it over, sending several hundred gallons of water and ice to the floor.  It’s possible the amount of water and ice has been exaggerated.  I didn’t get to pay attention to the message being shared by Elder Oaks about how much humanitarian aid was produced by members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

We have a supply of older bath towels that are kept next to the washer and dryer room and I made a hurried dash across the house to retrieve several towels to mop up the mess.  It was easy picking up chunks of ice and placing them back into the Yeti; however, the water had spread quickly.  A local fisherman had taken up position on the shore in hopes of catching a big one.  The towels under the stacks of canned ground beef along with the towel that’s under a stack of popcorn bags had soaked up some of the water; not good.

Each of the stacks of canned goods had to be moved along with two hundred pounds of popcorn to keep the water from damaging the wood flooring.  This was accomplished and fresh towels have been placed where the others had been, canned ground beef cases stacked as they had been and the washing machine will get another load of towels.

General Conference continued and the local fisherman decided to go home since the lake dried up.

 

The Algorithm Two Step

 

USS Nimitz

I must admit, I spend too much time on social media outlets like Facebook, time that could be more productive elsewhere, such as creative writing; hmmmm.  I suppose looking at entries of friend’s cats and dogs beats watching the latest news and is good for my spirit.

Interesting paths are created by social media which rely on algorithms, as if the computer memory banks recognize my desires, found a need or simply want to sell a product made by one of their advertising sponsors. Simply hit the Like Button on an item, any item, and the journey begins.

I happened to view a photograph of an aircraft carrier some time back…and for the next several weeks my daily visits on Facebook brought many more images of…you guessed it…aircraft carriers.  There were aircraft carriers from other countries, aircraft carriers with aircraft taking off, landing, short videos of aircraft on approach to land or take off, aircraft carriers doing high speed maneuvers and so on.  This is starting to sound like a rehash of Forrest Gump learning the many uses for shrimp.

About a week ago a friend posted an image of a rustic log cabin nestled in an autumn country setting with trees ablaze in splendid fashion, and I clicked the Like Button.  Now I’m being flooded with images of rustic log cabins, tiny homes, hunter’s shacks along with full size mansion sized country styled houses.  This doesn’t touch on how many photographs on the beautiful fall landscapes on display with winding country roads lined with split railed log fences.

I needed directions to a transmission repair shop for my 2003 Dodge truck.  I’d already talked to them over the phone and arranged for their services; but Google shared my information so now when I start up the internet it has several suggested transmission repair locations, advertisements from those who support Google and would dearly love my business.

A spin-off on having notified Facebook that I own an old Dodge truck, even though it’s not an antique, at least not yet; I get to see images of really old pick-up trucks that have been restored to pristine condition.  I’m not complaining, just making an observation.  Maybe Google thinks my truck needs a paint job to go along with the transmission repair job.

Admiring a beautiful woman can be illuminating as well.  According to social media, I have a crush on several actresses: Wonder Woman’s Lynda Carter, Bewitched’s Elizabeth Montgomery, Friends’ Jennifer Aniston and several others.  At least they got this part right; but who could blame me on these choices?  I’m sure there are dozens of attractive female images to click the Like Button on. Will I have to sacrifice my love of aircraft carriers to make room for movie stars showing too much skin? 

About a year ago I saw a finely crafted violin displayed, you bet…the algorithm has me down to eventually purchase a violin, learn to play and, as a bonus, sends me classical music videos featuring violin solos. 

…And you thought I was only interested in being adopted by lonely puppies and kittens, said the man with two dogs, two matured cats and the newest member to the family, an 8-week-old kitten we named, Thumper, because she pounds the wooden floor while charging with reckless abandon to stir up trouble.  We might have gotten her name wrong; Terrorist Kitty might be more suited for her.

Walking down the hallway at night requires an acquired skillset similar to young parents trying not to step on Lego blocks in the dark.  As a senior citizen, that’s evolved to avoiding freshly regurgitated food, scattered grains of cat sand or any number of toys that at one time had squeakers embedded within their bodies.  I guess this new dance could be called the Algorithm Two Step.

 

HPD Honorably Retired Patch

Not too long ago, while thumbing through the Retired Houston Police Officer’s page, a photograph of an HPD Honorably Retired Patch appeared.  I was unaware that such a patch had ever been created.  Perhaps this was simply a ‘possibility’ of something that might become available.

I suggested that such a patch could be applied to a jacket, specifically an old Eisenhower styled wool jacket that was popular at one time.  I remember being lucky enough to have been given a ‘hand-me-down’ original “Ike”.  A senior patrol officer was retiring, and he wanted someone to continue enjoying it.  This was a dark blue jacket with light blue epaulets.  It came with the original large chrome “PDs” on the collars and chrome buttons.

Some years later, just by chance, a large box containing a slightly newer version of Ike jackets was discovered in the Uniform Supply Division.  It’s been quite a while since then, making my recollection of exactly how I obtained a second Ike jacket blurred.  I can’t remember if we had to pay anything for them; but I latched onto the brand-new jacket and was proud to be able to sport it during those months of the year when mildly cool nights made wearing a light jacket preferable to the standard issued winter coat.

As I recall, the Department wasn’t thrilled with the Ike jackets being worn; but didn’t make a big deal out of it since many officers took advantage of the opportunity.  That, and the fact that the Ike jackets looked so much better than anything else the Department had come up with, it was like having a ‘going to church’ uniform.

When it came time to retire, both of my Ike jackets were handed off to younger officers who considered themselves quite fortunate.  That was thirty years ago, my goodness, has it been that long ago?

So, where is this going now that I’ve brought you up to speed?

Why not make the Honorably Retired HPD patch available to all who have earned it?  Then take that to another level and come up with an updated version of the Ike jacket?  I’d recommend the jacket be a solid dark blue, to include dark blue epaulets.  The buttons might look better with the original chrome ‘clip from the back’ style; however, that’s just an option and standard buttons might be more cost effective.  Such a jacket could be worn to almost any function which normally would require a sports jacket or suit such as church meetings, special occasions, funerals or national holidays.

If someone in the uniform purchasing department put together an order for enough Ike jackets it would bring the price down.  In a perfect world the City/Department would recognize the service of their retired police officers and issue one of the afore mentioned jackets; but knowing the mindset of those controlling the money…no need considering that option.

How much would a new Ike jacket cost?  I haven’t a clue; maybe a hundred dollars, perhaps even less.  But the idea might be worth following up on.

Asked for Help and Got It

 

A while back I went to write a blog post; but upon clicking on the button that normally took me to the webpage that was designed to do that, it no longer had the information I was used to seeing.  It didn’t have a button to indicate anything about adding a new article; instead, it had references to various improvements to help with “my blog experience”.

After having attempted to find the “+” button which would have shown me the last several articles posted along with the opportunity to add a newer post…I gave up, having found an endless loop taking me back to the same gibberish on how to improve “my blog experience”.

My neighbor is something of a computer guru and has helped me on several occasions.  I waited until he’d gotten back from vacation and asked if he would help once again. 

This time I had two challenges for him.  The first had to do with Microsoft 365 and that the little icon at the bottom of my monitor no longer functioned.  It only brought up a blank box that was supposed to have other small icons; Word, Excel and so on.  If, on the other hand, I double clicked on the small icon for Microsoft 365, it showed the box with all the proper icons; but when I clicked on Word…again, nothing happened.

I’d already figured out a round about way of bringing up a blank Word document page to work on.  All I needed was to bring up a Word document that I’d already filed away, erase everything on that document, type in a title for the new document and then save that document under the new name so as not to erase the older document.  Not exactly efficient; but it works.

Turns out that Microsoft screwed up, at least that’s the information gleaned from the internet by my computer friend.  According to what he found, this issue must be affecting anyone who is using Microsoft 365…and it won’t be fixed until Microsoft sends out a new update.  Imagine, if you will, how many customers are trying to figure out how to make their computer open a blank Word document.  That’s a lot of unhappy customers.

Back to getting my blog back to where I could add a new article… It took a while, trying various logical avenues, none of which were helping.  What happened?   Apparently, Google had taken over Bloger.com.  Then when I went to sign in it showed my Gmail address and asked for my password.

Well, that should have been easy since I only use that Gmail for church business, and even then, only for certain aspects of church business.  So, I typed in my password and…nothing, no help and back to the screen showing how to better enjoy “my blog experience”.

Then he asked for the original email used when I opened the Blog. Fortunately, I keep index cards showing all the old passwords and things like that.  Turns out Google wanted to log me in using an ancient email address, one that got hacked years ago so it was abandoned.

Google sent a challenge code to my cellphone; thankfully that number is still active.  Upon clicking on the proper challenge code everything snapped back on and the “+” button reappeared.

I did have to update the saved URL button on my tool bar, the easy access button that takes me to a blank Blog page ready for a new article.  I had to do this for Chrome’s tool bar as well; but that’s all taken care of now. 

My neighbor has a great billing system for when he solves computer issues for me.  He only let’s me pay him with Dr Pepper.