The U-Haul Game

 

Some of you might be wondering, “The U-Haul Game, what’s that?”  It’s a game we made up when our kids were young to keep them entertained on road trips.  When I was young the game was associated with the Volkswagen Beetle.  The first person to say they’d seen a “Bug” got the point. 

I saw this photograph of a U-Haul truck sometime back but didn't notice who to give credit for it. That reminded me to write down this short item.

Prior to that game we had a similar one we played while on the way to Jones Beach on Long Island. There’s a red brick obelisk that we’d look for as we approached the beach.  From our vantage point in the back seat of my parent’s car we’d intently pay attention for a chance to be the first to shout, “I see the tower”. 

In the movie, The Count of Monte Cristo, there was a medal of honor bestowed upon the hero of the day, “Kings to you”.  There’s probably a variation of this game that goes back in time prior to recorded history, parents figuring out how to keep their kids occupied. “I see the volcano erupting”, might have been said by some kid buried under the ash in Pompei.

Getting back to the U-Haul game, at the time we started this nonsense I did locksmith work for the U-Haul companies in and around the Houston area.  I’d rekey the doors of one of their outlets if a manager quit or got fired. If a customer lost the keys to a rental unit I’d go out and make a replacement key. 

When we, as a family, went on road trips, spotting a U-Haul truck or van became something of interest, even to our kids.  They might not have understood that U-Haul was partly responsible for our being able to afford a road trip; but they knew there was something about seeing a U-Haul on the road made me smile.

Being retired, my locksmith days are long gone. Our kids have all grown up and so Lucy and are empty nesters. For some reason, the game goes on.  We’ll drive into Houston on I-45, paying attention for road hazards or something that draws our interest, a beautiful sunrise, mist hanging in the trees off to the side of the freeway; or a single U-Haul coming from the other direction.

“U-Haul!”, the words landed on my ears.  I was raising my hand to point out the prize; however, as is often the case, Lucy had seen it first, so she got the point.  Imagine that, two old fogies getting excited about a silly U-Haul truck going down the freeway.

 

Now and Then Photograph This Day 2015 to 2025

 

Facebook sends reminders, a photograph of what we thought was interesting enough to post for all to see and then asks if we’d like to compare that with a recent photograph.  

The image on the left is when I attended the Texas Locksmith Convention, representing a wonderful organization, the Society of Professional Locksmiths (SOPL).  For about 30 years I’d been a member of another organization, Associated Locksmiths of America (ALOA).  At some point I no longer wished to associate with that organization.

The problem with ALOA, they were far too politically oriented toward socialism, perhaps the correct term would be corporatism.  They believed the State knew better than individuals how to properly run businesses.  ALOA worked with State legislators and foisted licensing on locksmiths through the Alarm Services Industry without having any locksmiths representing our interests on the licensing board in charge of our industry.  That didn’t set well with many locksmiths.

I tried to launch a startup locksmith organization, Fiercely Independent Locksmiths of America (FILOA); but for one reason or another FILOA never gained a foothold among other locksmiths.  Membership numbers didn’t come in as I’d hoped and so I joined forces with SOPL, their having a similar attitude, that of locksmiths being highly qualified and in charge of their own businesses with a minimum of interference from government.

The image on the right was taken by the camera in my laptop, a ‘selfie’ if you will, this past Thursday evening.  This is my office, a retirement shadow box above where I sit displaying key elements of the Houston Police Department issued uniform along with items attached to that uniform. It’s difficult to make out, but the dark blue material came from a pair of police trousers, complete with the ‘thin blue line’.

I was attending a leadership meeting put on by the Conroe Stake Presidency of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  The beautiful part about our meetings has to do with the ability to attend in person or, if need be, via the Zoom App. It’s an hour and a half drive from my property in Buffalo, Texas to the Stake meeting in Conroe, Texas.  That and I’m getting to where driving at night isn’t a great option anymore.  Being seventy in the twenties isn’t the same as being twenty in the seventies, or something like that.

Thursday I’d been moving boxes out from a closet in our second bedroom, boxes that contained tax return records that no longer seemed important enough to be taking up space in the house.  I loaded them into my truck and relocated them to a storage unit on our property where they’d be safe from the elements, but out of the way.  That’s when I noticed my back was sore.

Lucy, or should I address her as Doctor Lucy… rubbed a concoction of oils all over my back to ease the swelling and pain.  When I pulled my jeans back up, that’s when I noticed how much swelling had taken place.  I couldn’t bring the two portions of the waist fabric together, there was a gap of perhaps six inches keeping me from being able to button my pants. 

Fortunately for everyone, no doubt, the camera on my laptop only captured my upper torso and face during the Zoom meeting.  No one needed to know my britches were gapping wide open as I quietly sat through that important meeting.  That explains the Then and Now images you see here.

Thirteen Fourths

 

Today’s my wife Lucy’s birthday. I’ll be taking her out this coming Friday at the Texas Roadhouse for a steak dinner.  She already has everything in this world she needs or wants, at least that’s the way things appear.  If she needed or wanted anything she’d have had it by now.

She requested I bake a cake for her, a simple wish that I could accomplish without destroying her kitchen. She made sure to supervise and suggest rather than leave anything to chance.  Bobby Flay has nothing to worry about.

I used one of the store-bought cake mix boxes with simple instructions on the back panel. One package of mix, 1 cup of water, 1/3 cup of oil, and 3 eggs (without shells).  To keep it within my range of abilities, this was all placed into a greased 9 X 13-inch clear glass baking dish.  The photo was taken after it came out of the oven.  I’ll spread some store-bought chocolate icing over it once the cake has had a chance to cool down.

You might wonder about the title, Thirteen Fourths. 

When I was about seven or eight years old going to elementary school, we were learning how to work with fractions.  I’d figured out how they operated and considered myself ‘adequate’ in their use. 

My mother’s birthday was in June, and it would be a nice gift if I were to make her a birthday cake.  I’d watched her make cakes before and it didn’t look all that difficult.  All I’d need to do was find the recipe card and follow the instructions.

I should mention that all my mother’s recipe cards were handwritten, a beautiful example of script as was expected of young ladies growing up in her time period.  She liked to use a shade of blue ink that made it look even more refined; each letter or number being defined against the white index card.

I went down the list of items needed, placing each on the countertop. I didn’t think about anything other than following the instructions to the letter.  If I’d been a chef; but I’m getting ahead of myself.

The cake looked like it was supposed to when it came out of the oven.  I spread chocolate icing over the top, placed candles in a neat circle and presented it for the family to enjoy after dinner.

I noticed right away that it was a tad difficult for the knife to cut into as each piece was placed onto a dessert plate.  Eating the cake was something of a challenge as well.  It took quite a bit of milk to be able to swallow a piece of cake.  I was beginning to think perhaps I’d made a mistake while following the instructions.

Mom, being a gentle woman trying to keep my feelings in check asked me to show her the index card, the one I’d used to make her such a beautiful and thoughtful creation.  If that sounds a bit over the top, she was doing her best to keep me from crying.

I showed her the recipe along with the scratch paper I’d used to calculate how much flour was called for.  Ah, therein was the answer. 

Her handwritten instructions called for 1 ¾ cups of flour; however, since I’d learned how to reduce fractions this was literally a “piece of cake”.  There wasn’t all that much space between the 1 and the 3 / 4.  No problem, that was easy to figure out, 13/4.  Divide 4 into 13, comes to…a whole lot more flour than 1 ¾.

So, now you know why Lucy kept an eye on me while baking her birthday cake.

You must know my father, T F Stern

I was on the phone talking with my son on his birthday a little while ago.  The conversation turned to eating out on Valentine’s Day.  Neither of us had wanted to take our wives to an overly crowded restaurant and decided to stay home or go for fast food. I joked that I’d taken Lucy to Arby’s, a really nice place, one that had free refills on soda.

I should explain the joke.  Lucy and I’d watched a television interview where a young woman from the inner city was asked about the kind of man she considered attractive when it came to dating. She thought one of the ways to determine a quality date was being taken to a really good restaurant, one where they didn’t charge for refills.  Let that sink in for a moment.

William acknowledged that Arby’s made a pretty good Ruben Sandwich; but next time we were in town we should go to Victor’s Sandwich Shop for their Ruben’s.  I’d have to agree, Victor’s Ruben’s was better.  But that’s not what I wanted to write about today.

Several years ago…why is it most of my stories start off with, several years ago?  Anyway, back when we were still living in Olde Oaks we had a family living close by and we would visit with them once a month as part of what used to be called Home Teaching, an older version of Ministering. 

Terrell Hunt was an environmental lawyer as was his wife Karen.  They met and hit it off despite social norms.  It was a mixed marriage; Terrell was White and Karen was Black.  Their politics tended to lean left, which made it interesting since Lucy and I were more conservative politically.  It didn’t matter all that much since all of us had a firm testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ and we treated each other as brothers and sisters.  Any time we’d be shopping and see her mother, I’d openly greet her, “Hey, Mom!”  There was a special acceptance that permitted such a lighthearted meeting in public.

After a couple of years of enjoying a mutual friendship, Karen had become more comfortable when we’d come by to visit.  On one such visit Karen explained that she’d been to Victor’s Sandwich Shop, and you were wondering how Victor’s would figure into this; anyway, that afternoon she went to pick up lunch. There was an informal retirement party going on for a police officer with all his friends at Victor’s Sandwich Shop.

Karen waded into their merriment and started off with, “You must know my father, T F Stern. He’s a retired cop too.”  Mind you, Karen is an attractive middle age Black woman and I’m a little past middle age White guy.  Some, if not all the police officers who were enjoying the moment probably knew me as those words rumble around in their heads.

One of them responded with something like, “It must be a different Stern from the one we know”.  The smile on his face must have been too much fun for Karen.

“T F Stern retired a few years ago, you know, he’s also a locksmith, worked night shift for HPD”.  She didn’t wait even half a moment as she added, “He met mom when he busted her for prostitution and, well, they hit it off and here I am.” 

I’d have paid good money to have been a fly on the wall that day.  Karen’s face was all aglow as she related the encounter that evening.  I’m sure there are police officers wondering to this day how much of that yarn was true.

The glue that holds friends together is, in part, a warped sense of humor and the ability to bond despite social norms or expectations.

My friend Terrell suffered a major stroke a few years later and died.  This was about the time we moved to our property in Buffalo, Texas.  We’ve since lost track of Karen but wanted her to know, she always has a place in her old dad’s heart.

  

From Approval to Disgust in Less Than an Hour

 

Various articles get my attention while going down those entered on Facebook.  Today was no different as I stumbled across a photograph of a rapper surrounded by five pregnant women, all of whom he had impregnated.  Most folks would grimace at even the thought of being so reckless, much less bragging about it.  I just laughed, quietly remembering an experience from many years ago.

I had walked Lucy into the front doors of the Maternity Section of Memorial Hospital out off Interstate 10 where the Beltway now crosses.  We were about to celebrate the birth of our second child as I proudly escorted her through the waiting room and left her in the hands of the nursing staff.

When I went to find a chair to spend the rest of the afternoon in, I couldn’t help but notice there was an older gentleman sitting across from me, probably a WWII aged veteran.  He had watched as I escorted Lucy, proudly giving her a hug as she disappeared with the nursing staff.  He gave me a big thumbs up as he nodded in approval for having stood by my wife during her time of need.

A few minutes later, it might have been closer to half an hour, my sister-in-law came to sit by me in the Maternity Waiting Room.  She was also nine months pregnant as she leaned over to give me a hug.  The fellow who’d given me a big thumbs up earlier was no longer thrilled with my having ushered my wife past the hospital doors.  No, he was decidedly not thrilled.

It got even better when my partner’s wife, that being my partner at the police department, strolled into the Maternity Waiting Room.  She was also about nine months pregnant as she came over and gave me a hug in support of our anticipated arrival. 

The look of disgust from across the room was palpable.  I’d gone from, “Way to go young man”, to, “You low life scum” in less than an hour. 

Fortunately, I didn’t let my warped sense of humor take over at that moment.  I was tempted to go over and ask the fellow if he’d like to know more about the Book of Mormon. I’m sure my Bishop would have been proud of me for remaining silent as well.

It’s 908

While cranking up my laptop this morning to catch up with email and news items, the familiar warm-up screen presented itself letting me know what day and time it was.  You know how us old people can never be too sure what day of the week it might be, even wondering what year we’re in.  It was reassuring to see President Ronald Reagan addressing the press.

A bright blue screen announced that it was 9:08 on Saturday, February 8^th.  Silly as it might sound, that always brings a smile to my face.  It’s 908, much more than telling me what time it might be; 908 was the badge number on the blue uniform I wore as a police officer for the City of Houston until I retired in 1992.

When working the near west side of town in the Montrose area, there was a young vendor who frequented some of the same places I liked to visit for lunch.  I couldn’t say what his product was other than he got around on a bicycle instead of a motor vehicle. He was a pleasant individual whose lifestyle was a bit different than my own; nothing too wild, just that he made it a point to let me know I was considerably more conservative.

His greeting was genuine each time we’d cross paths, “It’s Nine Oh Eight!”, as if he didn’t see my name tag, only my badge.  I’d smile back and we’d continue our acknowledgment of each other.  I’d go on to explain that the local banker and I were good friends, that each day he’d flash my badge number up on a big sign atop his bank, once in the morning and then again in the evening.  He’d smile while shaking his head at such a dumb response.

So, yes, anytime I see a clock display the time, 9:08, I smile and remember having worn the uniform, having stored so many memories and been able to share them with folks who might enjoy a momentary distraction.  

Reality Checks and Bad Habits

 

While watching the movie, A Beautiful Mind, there was an interesting exchange between a fellow named Martin who was interviewing Professor John Nash to see if he might be an embarrassment were he to be awarded a Nobel Prize due to his documented life of mental issues which included a full-time cast of imaginary characters.  When asked about the possibility of becoming an embarrassment, John responded, “I’m still crazy”, then he added an important thought regarding his never-ending struggle to separate imaginary individuals from reality.

“They are my past. Everyone is haunted by their past.”

We all have issues that would be embarrassing were they to be brought out on the public stage. I suppose it would make a huge difference if that public stage were broadcast to a worldwide audience as would be the case with accepting a Nobel Prize.

Nash then clarified his ability to fit in with society, despite his ongoing mental issues.

“I’ve gotten used to ignoring them, and I think, as a result, they’ve kind of given up on me. I think that’s what it’s like with all our dreams and our nightmares, Martin. We’ve got to keep feeding them for them to stay alive.”

That one line could be applied to most of the bad habits we might have picked up over the years.  It doesn’t eliminate bad habits; however, it does place it into an isolation room, a place where bad habits are less likely to be a daily challenge.

I remember back in the mid-1970s being told by a doctor that because of having a collapsed lung (Spontaneous pneumothorax) I had to quit smoking cigarettes.  That was a bad habit I’d had for years, and I’d tried quitting without success.  Being faced with a rather bleak future, were I to continue smoking, it was much easier to place the urge to smoke in an isolation room way back in my mind where it could be ignored.

I took up chewing tobacco as an alternative, dipping Skoal was a natural extension of my newest bad habit.  Being crude and not really caring about what anyone thought of my bad habit was an unexpected bonus.  If you wanted someone unpleasant to leave, just spit and without much fanfare the individual would find an excuse to leave.

Then in 1978, when I was about to join the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, the missionaries teaching me of various rules and customs informed me about the “Word of Wisdom” as found in the Doctrine and Covenants, Section 89.  Turns out tobacco products were not to be used for smoking or chewing. 

Some folks would have had a problem deciding how to proceed.  Would they continue using tobacco products and ignore the newly discovered admonition to abstain or would they accept reality, join the Church and live in such a way as to be in accordance with the will of the Lord?

The young missionaries were a bit surprised when I reached into the refrigerator for a newly purchased roll of Skoal that I’d purchased the day before.  Upon handing the Skoal over to them I explained that I’d just quit and for them to do me a favor and dispose of it for me.  I later found that they’d tossed the Skoal over the edge of a bridge into the bayou below while on their way home.

As far as my former bad habits regarding smoking or dipping Skoal, “I’ve gotten used to ignoring them, and I think, as a result, they’ve kind of given up on me.”

Parrot and the Plumber

 

I thought I’d written this story down years ago; but it isn’t in my files.  Either it was misplaced or filed under a title that didn’t match up with my memory.  The cartoon image posted on Facebook reminded me of something that happened back in 1979 or 1980 soon after joining the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Back then there was a program called Home Teaching, basically ministering to members by assignment in the hope that each would feel connected to the Ward through a monthly visit. I had an elderly woman under my stewardship and learned that she was dating a fellow who was deaf. From what I could figure, she intended to take the relationship to a higher level and perhaps even marriage.

The idea occurred to me that I should take steps toward being able to communicate with this fellow in order to more effectively complete the Home Teaching assignment.  That led me to find out where to take a course in American Sign Language (ASL).  It turned out such a course was offered via the Houston Community College that used the Waltrip High School building for night classes; that was only a couple of miles from our house in Oak Forest where we were living at the time.

I can’t remember if there was a charge to take the course, more than likely; but it must have been nominal or I wouldn’t have gone forward with taking the class.  I showed up at 6:45pm for a class that was scheduled to start at 7:00pm.  Before entering the classroom, I noticed several pink slips stuck to the frame indicating classes which failed to meet the required number of students and would be cancelled.  I didn’t see ASL as one of the cancelled classes and so I went in, finding there were only two other individuals who’d showed up as yet.

I took a seat behind them while continuing to wonder if this was the class for ASL since neither of them seemed to notice my entrance.  I quietly asked, “Is this the class for ASL?”  There was no reaction from either; “Must be” was the thought that came to mind as I let out a soft chuckle.

The ASL class was a hoot from day one.  I learned the alphabet along with a smattering of commonly used signs with each new lesson.  The instructor, make that instructors, since members of the deaf community often gave the lessons that were wonderfully entertaining; almost as if this were a late night television show.  They passed along jokes that could be made along with cautions to avoid making signs near your nose as those often-had sexual implications.

We were encouraged to attend a deaf community’s performance of some Russian play that was put on at a small theater near Washington Avenue.  I’ll admit up front that most of the performance went way over my ability to read their spelling of Russian names that flashed by me eyes so quickly as to be a blur. 

There was a final exam that we needed to take to obtain a passing mark in the class.  We were to stand in front of everyone and give a talk about anything we felt comfortable with, using only those signs we’d learned in class.  I thought about what I could talk about for a few minutes during the week prior to the scheduled exam.  That’s when I remembered a couple of the long-winded jokes my father would drop on us while we were a captive audience driving toward a vacation spot.  Dad could draw out a joke for a very long time, miles and miles of Texas roads to work with gave him all the time in the world to drop a really lame joke on all of us.

Let’s see, which one would be a good fit?  There’s the ‘Beer that made Bill Famous walk me’? No, how about the ‘Cush Maker’? No, even that’s too lame; what about the ‘Parrot and the Plumber’?  Bingo! That one could last at least four minutes.

The night of the exam we found out the judges would all be from the deaf community.  They’d determine if we’d learned enough to pass the course. 

I stood up in front of the classroom and began explaining about the plumber who had to walk up several floors carrying his heavy toolbox to reach the apartment where his customer was waiting.  Upon reaching the top of the stairs and being nearly exhausted, he knocked on the door.

The customer apparently was not in the apartment; however, there was a trained parrot who inquired, “Who is it?” 

“It’s the plumber”, came the response.  Waiting for the customer to open the door and waiting some more since the customer wasn’t in the apartment, the plumber again knocked on the door a bit more forcefully this time.

“Who is it?”  The parrot inquired as the scenario played out time and time again to use up the required number of minutes in front of the deaf community.  I could tell from the positive responses on the judges faces that my dad’s joke was being well received.

Getting to the punch line, the plumber’s frustration culminated in his having a heart attack and dropping to the floor outside the apartment door.  The paramedics arrived to treat the man and were asking if anyone knew who he was.  The parrot quickly responded, “It’s the plumber”.

I passed the test according to the judges from the deaf community.  One of them came over to me expressing his delight in my story about the talking butterfly.  You guessed right, I’d used the wrong sign all through the entire joke.

Oh, in case you were wondering; that dear Sister didn’t continue her relationship with the deaf fellow.  I’d had a lot of fun getting to learn ASL and used those skills only sparingly over the years, to the point of nearly forgetting most of what I may have learned so long ago.

 

Between Three and Five Worked

 

Yesterday the Check Engine light came on in our Hyundai Sonata while we were driving near Palestine, Texas.  We didn’t panic as we were only a mile or so away from Walmart where they have an automotive department.  They checked things out and found we were a quart low on oil and suggested that rather than add a quart, perhaps it might be better to do an oil change, replace the filter and check all the fluid levels.  That sounded reasonable and we handed them the key while we went inside the store to purchase some sneakers and blue jeans.  They were finished before we had even cleared the cash register.

The Check Engine light was still blinking; but the fellow said that it didn’t appear to be associated with anything major.   That didn’t sound too reassuring so we decided to drive to O’Reilly’s on our way home where they could put their fancy computer diagnostic thingy on and tell us exactly what was wrong. 

There was definitely something wrong as we couldn’t get the car to accelerate properly.  We managed to get the car up to sixty-one miles per hour; but no further.  The speed limit on the road between Palestine and Buffalo is 70mph; going only 61mph made the hair on my back stand up.

The fancy diagnostic thingy didn’t give much of an answer, only that it might be several items that only the Hyundai folks would be able to fix; but…and this was something of a peace of mind moment…the car could be driven down to Houston without damaging anything, just no faster than 61 miles per hour.

It should be noted that here in Texas, if the speed limit reads Seventy-Five then folks interpret that to mean Eighty to Eighty-five.  Folks in a hurry or just bored tend to push that up to 90 or 95mph which tends to be the speed where the DPS steps in and reminds them to be a little less aggressive. Anyone going less than 70mph is fair game for abuse or worse. 

I decided the best way to get the car into Houston with the least amount of abuse would be to wait until all the bars had closed before heading toward the freeway entrance in Centerville. This strategy was gained from working as a night shift police officers; most drunk drivers have either been arrested for DWI, hit a tree and gone to the hospital or gotten home before 3am.

I hit the on ramp headed south just before 3am going exactly 61mph.  Traffic was very light, mostly commercial trucks that were widely spaced.  I figured I could be on the north side of Houston near the Hyundai dealership before morning rush hour started around 5am.

Most of the time while tooling on down the freeways the idea of having so many 18 wheelers to contend with wasn’t one of my favorite choices; but since these trucks are, for the most part, driven by professional drivers who know the rules of the road, then having them escort my crippled car down to Houston was just what the doctor ordered.

When I’d see headlights moving up from behind at a quarter mile or so, I’d flip on the emergency flashers for a few moments and then switch them off.  Then, as the headlights got closer, I’d flip the flashers on again so they’d figure out I was having some kind of issue.  They were courteous, using blinkers and moving over as they passed.  I flashed my high beams letting them know they’d cleared sufficiently to return to the slower lane.  This went on all the way until I reached Conroe or about an hour and a half from when I left Centerville.

There must be something about getting into a major metropolitan area that brings out the beasts.  I had to be extra careful as Mario Andretti’s kin folk darted in and out from behind large trucks that were only going 75mph.  I had no idea that many race car drivers were up practicing impromptu lane changes at half past four in the morning. 

I arrived at Denny’s at 5am, right across from the Hyundai dealership where I had my appointment scheduled for 7am.  I managed to loosen my grip on the steering wheel long enough to let the blood flow back into those fingers. 

It’s hard to beat a Grand Slam breakfast after passing the advanced driver’s test in Texas.  It was quite peaceful catching a nap in the parking lot there at the Hyundai Service Department waiting for the sun to come up and be greeted once they opened for business.

 

Another Dr Pepper If You Please

Some gifts keep on giving long after first being shared.  For example, this morning, as part of a habit after taking my vitamins, I tore off a page of the calendar which has a trivia message as part of the incentive to keep up to date.  If I’d taken my vitamins, I get to read that day’s trivia.

Today I read, “Vending machines kill more people than sharks per year”.

I was reminded of an old police incident involving the “Killer Dr Pepper Machine”.  Some of this incident was included in an unpublished novel, Pecaw’s Gift; but that’s a whole other story as they say around here. 

Upon using the search engine on an older thumb drive I was surprised to find my Field Training Officer’s (FTI) report, the original as sent to the police academy while a Probationary Police Officer (PPO) was in training. If memory serves, the rookie officer was Dan Starr, a fine officer and well worth having as a friend all these years.

There were 25 areas of interest that needed to be addressed on a regular basis, documented to show the department had fulfilled its obligation to properly train each rookie police officer; his or her knowledge of laws, procedures, familiarity with locations, map use and so on, each item matching a given number 1 – 25.

It was fun reading the summary as it was written, not complete sentences; but sufficient information to cover the training.

 

Self initiated investigation Accidental Death of a Juvenile 1601

Pech at 01:47 hrs. # 56396886.  FTI heard call being dispatched

to unit 5f22 and had PPO volunteer to take it (3,12,13,17,25). 

PPO was familiar with the location (10) and drove to it in

reasonable amount of time.  FTI and PPO arrived to find that an

attempt had been made to burglarize a soda machine but that the

machine had fallen on one of the suspects causing his immediate

death (6). PPO talked to HFD and determined that it was necessary

to call the ME and JUV.  PPO was given instruction over the phone

as to how to investigate and protect the crime scene (23).  FTI

called for CSU and protected the scene while PPO was on the

phone.  PPO talked with witness/(suspect) to determine what had

happened.   PPO showed good judgment and command bearing while

interviewing both family members and other police officers who

were at the scene (1,4,24).  PPO kept extensive notes so that he

would be able to make a report later on.  PPO and FTI had to hold

back the mother of the dead juvenile when she arrived to keep

her from disturbing the body (22).  After the scene was secure

and all the other support units had conducted their investigation

PPO and FTI transported "witness" to central so that he could

make his sworn statement.  FTI and PPO stood at a safe distance

to avoid being stuck by lightning when statement was signed (4).

PPO then finished his report (14,15,16). PPO left off weather

on the front of report and also that the soda machine was a

damaged article.  PPO then took the complete report to records

so that it could be entered into the system right away (5). PPO

and FTI then took witness home and completed the call (18).  PPO

stated he understood what was needed in homicide reports (2).

PPO also looked up locations in Key Map (9)._____________

 

I’m told the family of the deceased young man, the suspected burglar of a coin operated machine, the one who got crushed under the soda machine; his family tried to sue for damages on the grounds the soda machine had not been properly secured to keep it from tipping over.  I never bothered to find out if that information was accurate or not; I was too busy laughing.

Choose Wisely

 

While drifting back and forth between getting up and starting my day or remaining under the covers enjoying the last vestiges of dreamland, I was supposed to be thinking about a meaningful message to share with everyone, one that might soothe anxieties left over after this past week’s presidential election.  The longer I enjoyed the comfort of my surroundings, the more it became clear what I was to write about; and it had little if anything to do with politics.

I was reminded of a talk given by Douglas Callister many years ago, Your Refined Heavenly Home.  His introduction to that talk continues to hold my attention and acts as an anchor for my hopes and goals.

“The nearer we get to God, the more easily our spirits are touched by refined and beautiful things. If we could part the veil and observe our heavenly home, we would be impressed with the cultivated minds and hearts of those who so happily live there. I imagine that our heavenly parents are exquisitely refined. In this great gospel of emulation, one of the purposes of our earthly probation is to become like them in every conceivable way so that we may be comfortable in the presence of heavenly parentage and, in the language of Enos, see their faces “with pleasure.”’

Isn’t that an odd thought to have lingering in your mind prior to getting out of bed?  It gets worse, that thought was coupled with a scene from the movie, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, specifically the part where the ancient knight who’d been guarding the Holy Grail cup observed the drinking from the ornate cup rather than the true Holy Grail cup. “He choose, poorly.”

It didn’t take much imagination to figure out that Christ would have had a simple cup, not some fancy or elaborate cup.  Sometimes the simplest of items are exquisitely refined.  

Look at the nearly invisible purple flower that springs up in the middle of your lawn and consider its beauty.  If you were too busy while mowing the yard its intricate design might have been overlooked; but you weren’t too busy and stopped momentarily to appreciate its creation, no more or no less than an orchid on display at the local flower shop.

Elder Callister’s promptings were intended to have us expand our thoughts, our aspirations to a higher level, to see ourselves as offspring of Heavenly Parents.  Why settle for mediocrity when we’re supposed to be heirs to His Kingdom.  He then quoted Brigham Young to drive home the idea of the need for spiritual refinement.

“We are trying to be the image of those who live in heaven; we are trying to pattern after them, to look like them, to walk and talk like them.” To prepare us to do this, the 13th article of faith encourages: “If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” Refinement is a companion to developed spirituality. Refinement and spirituality are two strings drawn by the same bow.”

It was at this time that I wondered how we would be dressed in His Kingdom.  Would we be in fancy clothes that are custom tailored from the finest materials?  The answer came back quickly, no; we’d probably be dressed in pure white or perhaps we’d be in the robes of the Holy Priesthood.  We’d be happiest dressed that way, the symbolic garments worn while performing ordinances in the Temple, the House of the Lord. Yes, that’s the way the Lord would have us while in His presence.

Would there be a grand piano with Rachmaninoff or Tchaikovsky playing their favorite pieces? Maybe there’s a never-ending bookshelf containing works by imaginative writers like Robert Heinlein, Ray Bradbury and William Shakespear; each book being read aloud by the author in such a way as to carry us into his world?  I sort of doubt that.

God tends to limit His words; being an individual of action, not needing to, perhaps not having to explain the magnificence of creation.  When God described the grand creational process of this earth, He said in measured tones that “it was good.”  God left the flowery language for poets and writers so they’d have something to do instead of punching a time clock at the steel mill.

Being aware of the thoughts of others as they try to describe His creations is the ultimate library. It’s hard to beat listening to the creation story while attending the Temple, “Here is matter unorganized”, how’s that for an understatement? Then there’s one of the more important statements made by our Father in Heaven, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness…”

Appreciating thoughts expressed by someone who has a completely different point of view, that is one of the goals we should reach for, spirituality at the highest level.  We are expected to take all these wonderful expressions with us after we leave mortality.  Isn’t that what Elder Callister wants us to understand?

There you have it, grounds to have me committed.  I’m caught between mortality and the eternities, hoping we all arrive in one piece, our testimonies of the gospel of Jesus Christ leading us home.  Oh please, choose wisely.

 

 

Difference Between Jubilation and Gloating

 

Donald Trump has proven victorious in the presidential elections; it would be difficult to condense the political snobbery into a short sentence.  Yes, the candidate I voted for won and, along with that, the country also put Republicans in control of both the House and Senate.

Those who supported Democrat candidates are a bit down in the mouth and don’t appreciate the rhetoric being tossed around on social media outlets, basically claiming to hold the higher ground of civility. Come again? (That’s a way of saying BS here in Texas)

These same folks ignored inflammatory and divisive attacks aimed at anyone supporting Donald Trump or folks wearing a MAGA cap. They didn’t complain when a Democrat member of Congress stood before a microphone and bellowed loud and clear that even if Donald Trump won the election, they wouldn’t validate the vote or allow him to take office. 

I posted a simple response to one of them, “We should behave more like adults. That said, there is a relief valve going off, one that lends hope to the idea of our Constitutional Republic having survived for the moment.” 

Since that moment, a few other thoughts have surfaced regarding the feelings being expressed today.  There is a difference between Jubilation and Gloating, but how can we tell the difference?

Several of my friends and family have been diagnosed with various forms of cancer.  The mere mention of the word cancer left them hollow through their spirit.  After months of treatment which tormented them physically, mentally and spiritually; a few of them were told their cancer was in remission.

Their whole demeanor changed as they left the clinic.  Some clinics have a bell affixed to the wall by the exit door for patients to clang when they are told such great news.  That’s the definition of Jubilation.  These individuals are relieved that life will return to a more normal existence.  Then, on their way home the idea hits them, “How long will my cancer be held in remission?”

The same might be true for how many of us feel this morning. There is a glimmer of hope being expressed through our Jubilation, the hope that our Constitutional Republican form of government still has a chance to survive.  But how much longer will it survive with of all the efforts to reduce this once great nation to its knees and be no better than a third world communist regime.

If our Jubilation sounds like Gloating, perhaps it is; but for today at least, Make America Great Again is the phrase on our lips.  God Bless America!

Are We Reaping the Whirlwind?

 

Today is Election Day and about half of our nation’s inhabitants are unable to discern political ideologies on the ballot.  Too many think we are voting for a President, an individual we can all admire.  The real test for voters is figuring out what is being offered by the political powers behind these candidates, Capitalism and a return to a free-market system or Socialism which is nothing more than a precursor for Totalitarian Communism; it really comes down to that choice. 

Are we voting for an arrogant individual who lacks social finesse or for the promises he’s made to Make America Great Again through capitalism and hard work?  MAGA has become an interesting combination of letters.  For those looking to return America to being powerful and worthy of the Lord’s blessings this is a battle cry for righteous effort.  On the other hand, MAGA is a dirty word, a label used when taking out the garbage as some have said.

We could vote for a woman of dubious character, an admitted prostitute who claims to be Black to sway a portion of the public purely along racial association; but who has proven to side with socialistic programs which redistribute wealth to gain votes, supports murdering unborn children in the womb while claiming to support children’s rights and the rights of women. 

The massive media outlets can no longer be called news outlets as they are nothing more than propaganda machines for the party currently in power. So much information to take in; but can any of this information be trusted?

What are we to do?

In the Book of Mormon, 2 Nephi 1:6 there’s a warning attached to the blessings associated with all who dwell in this country. Each time the news comes on revealing the state of degradation which has overrun society, and worse, has been proclaimed the norm legally and approved by those in leadership, this one verse haunts me.

Wherefore, this land is consecrated unto him whom he shall bring. And if it so be that they shall serve him according to the commandments which he hath given, it shall be a land of liberty unto them; wherefore, they shall never be brought down into captivity; if so, it shall be because of iniquity; for if iniquity shall abound cursed shall be the land for their sakes, but unto the righteous it shall be blessed forever.

From listening to or reading the opinions of my friends and associations, there is something which troubles me.  Those who have shown support for the Democrat’s candidate ticket are highly educated individuals; but unfortunately, their education was an indoctrination process put in place through a carefully orchestrated agenda put in place by the Soviet Communist Party almost 70 years ago.

The bullet points of the Communist agenda were carefully carried out seamlessly; taking over public schools, universities, the entertainment industry, news media outlets, the courts and every aspect of our society until we’ve become unaware of who we once had been because we no longer resembled our old society.  

Some of you are shaking your head wondering what kind of pills I’ve taken.  Don’t take my word for it, these warnings are part of the Congressional Record dated January 10, 1963. Or, you can read about them in, The Naked Communist, written by Cleon Skousen, there isn’t much wiggle room for interpretation.

The problem, at least as I see it, those warnings, the ones from the Book of Mormon and those in our Congressional records have been ignored or swept under the rug, mostly by those in charge of educating each successive generation until the present day.  The perfect storm has formed, and this Election Day might well be when We The People find out if the judgements of our Lord are about to come down on us for having become so rebellious and sinful a nation.

You and I Can Still Be Neighborly

 

As Election Day and all the political challenges are at peak, let’s remember to be neighborly regardless of which candidate we support.  I read a short post from a friend of mine who had political signs stolen from his yard simply because he supports a presidential candidate that one of his neighbors thinks is a total disaster.  I’d rather he didn’t support that candidate either; however, stealing a political support sign from his yard doesn’t say much for the neighbor’s character.

I remember driving past a friend of mine’s house during a previous presidential election season. We differed on our political values and didn’t let that interfere with our friendship. He’d erected a huge banner over the entrance to his house declaring his support for Obama; that didn’t surprise me as I glanced over at his home situated at the edge of a well to do residential community. 

The next morning, I called him, mostly to joke with him for having supported the wrong candidate as I said, “Hey, somebody went by and vandalized your house”. 

“Yes, they did and got spray paint all over our front door too”.  That didn’t sound right as I listened to my friend explain how his Obama for President banner had been spray painted over night by someone who didn’t appreciate his political leanings.  I had no idea that my wanting to joke with him about our differences had become a criminal act by someone else who strongly disagreed with his political choices.

Stealing political posters and signs isn’t being neighborly, doesn’t advance the notion that our country invites different political ideologies to compete for public support.  Regardless of which candidates are elected or, as many suspect, which candidates are installed despite popular voter counting, we will continue to be neighbors and should act accordingly.