Winter Wonderland

My next-door neighbor, Jim, just went for more gas. The steam rises off my peppermint tea and, looking over the top of the monitor, I see that the snow has painted the sidewalks white again. There are few things I find more meditatively centering than blowing snow. To think that I was almost 50 before I discovered this noisy, yet calming activity.

Jim has a larger 2-stage rig, but I am perfectly content with my Honda Harmony. My HS520AS has the ability to move up to 12 inches of snow up to 26 feet and the capacity to move up to 55 tons per hour. This evening, Jim cleared the sidewalk on our side of the street, so once I finished our driveway and front walk, I crossed the street to blow some other neighbors' snow.

Sure it is white, fluffy and beautiful in a starkly cold way. But it has its drawbacks - when I arrived at the train station this evening the vestibule was full of people dumbly staring at the tracks where the trains were supposed to be. Not to be outdone, I joined them. I have a Dean Koontz book going on the mp3 player, so it was not hard to put a blank look on my place and wait with everyone else.

Although I have not posted for some time, it is not for lack of trying. Once I spotted the "nasty links" comments on my last post I knew I had to be more diligent about maintaining this blog. After deleting those comments, I checked my drafts - there are several, but none ready for publication. There is one with real potential that I have titled "Flirting with Fitness, Redux" where, having successfully resisted Sandy's charms I nevertheless caved in to Carla. I blame it all on the blog reunion at which my extra-largeness became too obvious next to my companions not to mention that our 30th reunion is only months away. There is another one where I point out that Westmont College is searching for its 8th President and encourage everyone to start a write-in campaign for SC. There is also one I call "Comfy Grey Boiled-Wool Slippers" which is not so much a satire of Shilohman's "Little Red Shoes" as it is a tribute to my favorite 2006 Christmas present.

At the root of my bloglessness is no doubt a chronic depression stemming inextricably from my desire not to be working for Canadians but instead to win the lotto and devote my days to blowing snow for charitable organizations and the underprivileged. We are no longer celebrating President's Day and we are also laying off really good people this month. Betsy got the ax. Tom and Patrick and I are hoping she will find work nearby so that we can continue our 10:00 coffee runs. If not we will contact HR and post for a replacement. As so often happens this time of year, the resignations have been plentiful. Cliff, Peggy and Jolene are all leaving and all will be missed. I am currently interviewing candidates for Jolene's position. Last time one of these jobs was open it took 9 months to fill the post, but I am hoping to pirate Colleen away from a competitor. She looks kind of like Jolene and the first names are similar enough that, I'm thinking, the clients may not even notice.

The peppermint tea is one of 20 or so home remedies I am employing to fight off what feels to be the beginnings of a cold. Rather than chase it down with psyllium this evening, I will pull down the Christmas present that Betsy gave me - a bottle of vodka infused with pomegranate, tangerine and cranberry. The label reads: "Winter Shine - chase the darkness away." Only for medicinal purposes, you understand. Then I'm off to bed because there will be lots more snow to blow come the morning.

Oil Change

Thursday morning. I am enjoying a bit of well deserved time away from my office this week and next. We have played countless rounds of Life, Spy Alley, Careers, Whoonu and many other great family games. Even Mrs. OG has notched her velocity down a few units - it is all very relaxing.

I rose early this morning and brought my 14 year-old Honda in for an oil change. I endured Species II for 10 minutes before realizing that this television was also a PC. "Hey," I thought, "why not post to my blog?" It had been so long I was afraid I had forgotten my password. But then I had to make a small effort to catch up on all the other blogs. FYI, Shilohguy, we saw the Nativity Story on Christmas eve, and there was a spotlight out of heaven.

Then I began to worry that they would call my name and I would have to let the guy waiting for this terminal finish this post. Then, even more disconcerting was the thought that I have very little to say.

Friday morning. While I worried about what to write, they called my name. The 3rd brake light is out, the tires are down to 4/32" and the first leak of any kind in 14 years appears to be coming from the valve cover gasket, but I will have to make another appointment to get that checked out. I had a $10 coupon, so all things considered it was a good visit. I logged off and drove home. Today I brought in my 3 year-old Honda for an oil change and, guess what? The very same terminal was available and, there were a couple of chocolate donut holes left - bonus!

Random Acts of Smoking Kindness

Westmont Receives
$75 Million Gift



An anonymous donor has given $75 million to Westmont, the second largest gift ever for a national liberal arts college. Westmont Chancellor David K. Winter announced the gift on Friday, Oct. 27.

“Dudes, this is totally momentous news,” Winter said. “It will enable us to totally endow the Pete Mallory chair in the School of Surfing and provide totally rad boards free of charge to every student who wants to hang ten. We may never be the Harvard of Evangelical Education but this student body can match the bodies at any other institution tan for tan and thong for thong. Cowabunga!"

The anonymous donor wishes to be recognized only as a friend of the college who does not hold a grudge for being expelled from the campus before completing his education at UCSB. "When I was at Westmont," so says this generous benefactor, "I used to tell incoming freshmen that I was a combination Business & Bible major. I would tell them I planned on making a fortune off of the Gospel. That didn't pan out so I went into advertising and although I am now unemployed, I made a killing off the sale of my home in Pacific Palisades. If I kept the $75 million for myself, I would only squander it on cigarettes."

You want photos, we got photos

There appears to be an alarming tendency to post photos with blog entries in order to divert attention away from banal and stultifying narratives. Here at OGWND we stridently decry such tactics and vow that any photos posted will be germane to the issue being discussed.

Happy World Egg Day!

Where have you gone Mr. OGinson?

So anyway, my audiobook ended sooner than I expected and I was caught book-less on my train ride home last night. It was later than usual since the second class I teach each week goes until six o’clock and the next train doesn’t leave until six-forty. Looking for a way to avoid interacting with my fellow riders who had no intention of interacting with me, and feeling just a wee bit guilty for ignoring this blog for far too long, I pulled out my Blackberry and attempted a mobile entry. My thumbs began to cramp as I entered amazing thought after amazing thought stopping only occasionally to “save draft” as the entry field filled to capacity. It was undoubtedly an epiphanous revelation because now, looking back, I cannot remember those amazing thoughts. I do know that when I moved into my neighborhood two years ago, I was told that there were more than 75 years left until the next hundred-year flood. I am glad I will be dead by then. My thought was to stitch together all of those Blackberry “save draft” entries from my home computer and then post my amazing thoughts in one, dare I say it, amazing blog post. Imagine my dismay when I discovered that, after all, nothing had been saved. All those amazing thoughts gone – forever lost in the ether. Imagine my dismay when, a week ago Monday evening, the power went out some time before nine-thirty p.m. and water began to trickle under my basement door. As I thumbed those amazing thoughts into my Blackberry, my throat was sore from three hours of lecturing. The topic of the week was Methods of Property Transfer at Death and we had eventually found our way to various statutory restrictions on inheritance. When the topic of the Slayer Statute came up, I broke down and told them the story of Adelle; not the feature length unabridged version you, dear friends, are being treated to here but only the Reader’s Digest version. That shut them up. Imagine this image, forever burned on my memory: Mrs. OG and I in the basement, the small flashlight in my mouth as we broomed water towards the drain when suddenly, as if kicked in by a storm trooper, the basement door slams open and a chest high wall of water comes crashing in. It eventually settled to calf-height and was all but drained by one o’clock in the a.m. but, after getting the door shut and bolted, Mrs. OG and I baled water from the outside stairwell until after midnight while lightning erupted in the skies above us. Like I said, I am glad I will be dead when that really big flood comes back around.

Maybe if I sneak up on it

In case you keep track of these things, I am having trouble getting back to the saga of Adelle. Maybe the really interesting part of the story is over, maybe dredging up those days stirs up too much personal muck, maybe I don’t have what it takes.

I was working for a large wealthy family. By that I do not mean that they were large people, although some were. There were 125 of them when I eventually left their employ. We employees all had framed family trees hanging in our offices listing every member. To qualify for our services you got in by birth or marriage, you got out by death or divorce.

This is where Mary Kaye, Adelle and Diane worked. Now that I think about it, Jim and I – the two managers – were the only (non-client) males in the office.

I hired Tammy as a staff accountant. It was the day, and she was a strident women’s rights proponent although her work ethic and perpetual whining kept anyone from taking her seriously. These were the days before smoking was outlawed in public buildings and everyone took a morning and afternoon break to play cards, chat, drink coffee and smoke. If secondhand smoke is a harmful as they say, I may beat SC into a lung cancer grave.

Tammy insisted on sitting in the break room and whining about the smoke. I could not take Tammy seriously and decided to have a little fun. One day, over lunch, I casually mentioned to another employee that I was enrolled in and would be attending a conference entitled “Managing Women in the ‘80s.” Tammy overheard this comment and went ballistic, insisting that there was no appreciable difference between men and women for management purposes. Over the next few weeks I got more mileage out of this by casually mentioning (within Tammy’s earshot) the titles of various workshops at the conference, such as “Mentoring the Premenstrual” and Hiring Women – What Their Hairstyle and Makeup Tell You about Their Work Ethic.” Tammy bought the whole thing and everyone else was in on the joke.

Before Diane there was Hope. Hope was a 50-something former teacher who had left the workforce to raise her family and was then left by her husband. Hope was a little high strung, but she taught me an important lesson. We had those old Lanier Dictaphones with the original floppy disks. I will never forget her second day on the job when she marched into my office, slammed the disk down on my desk and said, “Mr. OG, if you do not enunciate more clearly I will not transcribe your dictation. Every secretary since Hope has commented on how easy it is to transcribe my dictation.

Of course there are no more secretaries, and I type this blog myself.

Berto - Gone but not forgotten

Tom, Betsy, Patrick and I are toying with the concept of a second coffee break, sometime early to mid-afternoon. And, although we feel extreme loyalty to Mary and our other friends at the Starbucks a block and a half away, we have been walking across the street to the new Starbucks for our afternoon pick me up. It’s not that we are being unfaithful, certainly not to the shareholders. But if you want something other than what you always order every morning, you need to go to a different Starbucks so as to avoid the embarrassing moment where they push the already prepared morning drink across the counter to you with that we-know-you-and exactly-what-you-want smile on their face. From then on they will always hesitate every time you come in. It is not worth upsetting the equilibrium, especially when 5 other Starbucks are all less than 2 blocks away.

Berto is gone, and this time I fear he is gone for good. The building management recently completed some renovations in the lobby which evidently spilled over to the security services. Berto and his light-blue shirted friends are gone. In their place are a tougher looking bunch of guys with midnight blue uniforms. For the most part, these new guys look like the kind who know how to use the guns on their hips and are not afraid to use them. Still, as you may recall, I had cultivated a passing friendship with Berto as part of my “know the guy with the gun before the shooting starts” program. Now I am faced with chatting up one of these thugs, none of whom have been overly friendly. In some respects it is like switching the channel from Andy Griffith to The Shield, and maybe I should find comfort in that instead of grousing.

Washington House Redux

These are musings from the past weekend – if you are looking for more stories of murder and gore from my past, skip this post.

In spite of the recent ratings slippage noted by our tough streetwise and tattooed pastor, I am still a big fan of my alma mater. The swallows returned to Capistrano this weekend, and in houses, apartments and dorm rooms all over my neighborhood the post-summer dramas ran like Shakespeare in Ashland. Are they still together? Did you see her ring? She is so not getting the bigger bedroom. He/she put on/lost weight over the summer.

Echoes of Washington House 1976-1977 rattled around in my brain as I gave of my plumbing gifts to a group of young men. In so many ways they are just like we were. But they do have more stuff – lots more stuff. The cars are generally nicer (although none I’ve seen are as cool as the Z cars of that Washington House). Where we had stereo gear they have multimedia set-ups that rival a Best Buy showroom. And clothes – these guys have more clothes than girls should. I hope they are able to find jobs that will support the lifestyle they now enjoy.

Not all of these guys are so materially endowed. Two in particular I have come to know over the past couple of years. One of them, John, is paying 100% of his way through school. That is something I did not have to do, but having one of my own in college gives me the perspective to really respect this kid. He and some buddies found a house to rent on – you guessed it – Washington Street. I considered regaling them with the escapades of Washington House 1976, but realized they do not have the depth yet to truly appreciate those tales. They live in the here and now. In 29 years they will look back.

Washington House 2006 is a dump; slated for demolition at the end of the school year, this place appears not to have been cleaned or maintained since Charles took over the presidency from his father. The lone bathroom was moldy, gross and water damaged. So I spent the day replacing leaky pipes and fittings and supervising the installation of a new vinyl floor. Tonight I will reseat the toilet and hook up the new pedestal sink. All told I am out of pocket a little over $200 - my gift and one that I am happy to give.

As in any multi-person living arrangement there are those who do most of the work and those who do the bare minimum. And, for the most part, their girlfriends are good matches – the hard working boys have hard working girls and the do-little boys have do-little girls. I think the girls are generally better looking now than they were back then. This is probably due to the fact that I look at them with a father’s charitable eye that can appreciate what they will eventually grow into. They are all, male and female, pretty clueless - how can you not be at that age?

A few parents stopped by – I think they did not know what to make of the sweaty, balding, overweight, middle-aged plumber who was unrelated to any of the house’s inhabitants. One mom, someone you know, asked me in her most confrontational voice if I was the owner. I think she wanted someone to sue. Not that I blame her, I would turn the landlord over to the city but that would only mean that these guys would lose their cheap place to live.

About midnight the love of my life called to tell me that I was too old to keep college student hours and to remind me that my day job was only seven hours away. John and I, with the scent and patina unique to disgusting bathrooms, climbed into my car for the short ride home. I am looking forward to this evening.

Yak, yb, C, Reeser, Noswad & Toad - thanks for the great memories.

Elevator Music

I was devastated. Crushed. My world had collapsed. The words, “I don’t want to be married to you” echoed around in my head. I hovered perpetually on the brink of nausea.

For months I had hidden this news from all except my family but moving out of the house was a fairly public event. One of my staff members commented, “If you two can’t stay married, who can?” But that statement only shows how no one really knows what is going on inside your house, maybe not even you.

What had begun as casual laments that we were “not soul-mates” had degenerated into what an HR professional might call a “hostile homeplace environment.” Maybe there were things I could have and should have done differently but now it was too late, I was a piece of flotsam being tossed about in the surf.

I wanted to blame the arsenic. I really wanted to blame him, but at that point I did not know what he had done and how depraved he was.

About this time, only days after I informed my staff of the separation, I noticed an interesting phenomenon in the elevators at my office building. Women who worked in the building, not in my office and heretofore unknown to me, started making eye contact. They began smiling at me, saying “hi” or “good morning” and even attempting the 45 second elevator conversation. When I mentioned this to Diane, my saucy and faithful executive assistant, she explained it to me in her Texas drawl as follows:

“You got a good job, you’re a family man and you’re not butt-ugly.”

Well, I was indignant. After all, I was in mourning – the ring was still on my finger, there was still some hope, wasn’t there? And already the vultures had begun circling. I asked how these women found out and Diane shrugged, “word gets around.”

Most interestingly, the phenomenon lasted only as long as my world was falling apart – evidently I was exuding some pheromone that they picked up on. Even before the final decree was signed by the judge, once I faced reality and emotionally pulled myself together the smiles faded and the eye contact dwindled to nothing.

The scent had dried up and I was invisible again.

Okay, so it wasn't open heart surgery. . . .

September 19, 1984.

Today is the birthday of both my first girlfriend and my best friend during junior high school. I am careening toward my 29th birthday. I have not yet hired Adelle. Today my tonsils will be removed.

Only last week Elaine, the office administrator, reminded me that I was just a 28 year-old snot-nosed punk. Ace Garrion, MD, only a couple of years older than I am, is scrubbing for surgery. Elaine likes me and, if I was not blissfully married, she would not be unhappy to have me date her daughter who is in such a dead-end relationship. The drugs they put in the IV have made me very comfortable. Elaine reminds me of Lainie Kazan and the line “Welcome to my humble chapeau” flits through my mind and I giggle as they wheel me down the hall to the OR. Then I am Scott Free, Mr. Miracle, preparing to escape as they bring the mask close to my face and the last thing I remember is someone saying, “Count backwards from 100…”

Back up several years.

I never experienced pain, swelling or inflammation. What I had was fairly disgusting. The doctors (and I saw several of them) called them crypts. I had crypts in my tonsils where matter accumulated and bacteria grew resulting in chunks of halitosis. In my experience, people with extreme halitosis or body odor move blissfully through life, apparently oblivious to their potential to offend. Adelle was like that. Perhaps they don’t know or perhaps a well-meaning friend has told them and they either did not care or gave up trying to correct the problem.

I was hyper-aware of my problem and perfected a method of talking without exhaling. At least bi-weekly I had to harvest the crypts. This was even more disgusting than it sounds. I eventually made myself a tool for this task. As I mentioned, I had seen several doctors over the years about this and they all agreed that the only sure solution was to remove the tonsils, but none of them would do this, mumbling something about risks and elective surgery. After a brief bout of despair contemplating a lifetime of tonsil harvesting I knew that I had to take matters into my own hands.

Performing the surgery myself was a non-starter, so I set out to find a doctor who would do this for me. And I wanted a licensed, board certified surgeon – no back-alley tonsillectomy for me. I knew the doc had to be young and hungry, just starting a practice. I also knew that he or she needed some European education or training because US doctors had pulled away from surgery, preferring antibiotics and appliances to cutting. But in Europe, the tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy were still as common as influenza.

September 7, 1984.

And so my search eventually led me to Ace Garrion, MD. After listening to my tale of woe and a thorough examination he agreed, “those babies have to come out.” And, with a legitimate diagnosis of tonsillitis, the surgery would be covered by insurance.

September 12, 1984.

My only tonsil experience to date has been Bill Cosby’s album “Wonderfulness” and the week before surgery I find myself chanting, “ice cream, we’re gonna eat ice cream!”

September 19, 1984.

Throat dry … and sore… on fire. Can’t swallow… mustn’t swallow. The room came into focus. The blinds were drawn and the late afternoon sun left luminous stripes on the opposite wall.

I was not alone. In the other bed was a small snoring Asian man. A large matronly nurse offered me a sip of lukewarm water through a straw. Where was my ice cream?

Evidently there was a time limit on this outpatient surgery recovery room. As I was preparing to leave, the nurse woke my roommate and asked him who she should call to come and drive him home. Completely without comprehension, groggy and probably nauseous to boot, the little man stared back at her. Using the universal technique of communicating with those who do not speak your language, the nurse raised her voice. This continued, and each increase in volume level yielded nothing except increased apprehension on the poor man’s face. When the nurse grabbed the phone’s receiver and brandished it over his head while yelling her question again, a look of sheer terror spread across his face.

I should have intervened but I, too, was groggy and my throat really hurt and there was no ice cream and, honestly, the lady scared me. From that day forward my throat problem was gone and I have enjoyed excellent blood pressure, much as I did before the surgery. Ace still practices there, and I highly recommend him to anyone needing an ENT doc.

Thanks for stopping by. You guys are, for the most part, way above average!

You Can't Go Home Again

Now that everyone has decided to protest my blog by not checking in, it is probably a good time to return. Like Superman from space after five long years of looking for a long dead Krypton. Some of you have moved on with your lives and I can accept that.

As my friends will not be reading this, let me take a moment to welcome you perfect strangers, and thank you for abiding my long absence or showing up just as I was ready to recommence. Whichever the case may be you know who you are and you have my very deep appreciation.

This is also a good time to reappear because I have just returned from a two-week vacation, not the one-week elsewhere reported by YB. I have decided to slowly re-immerse myself so as not to go into WRS (workplace related shock). Sadly, Tom, Patrick and Betsy were all unavailable to go to coffee at 10:00 this morning, so I made the journey alone. Mary was happy to see me. Tom did suggest a mid-afternoon coffee run, and he even paid as a welcome-back-to-work gesture of goodwill. He also suggested that I leave the office early today so as not to “over do it” my first day back. Smart guy, that Tom.

Less than a week ago I drove through the very dead landscape that lies near the sight of those horrific events about which I have previously written. The landscape is dead because copper smelting plants have an unfortunate byproduct – arsenic – that tends to inhibit the local animal and vegetable population. Only the strangest of weed vegetation has grown there since long before Adelle was murdered and I resided a few miles away on a hill overlooking the water. The smelting plant has been gone for decades and now, I am told, they are going to build luxury condominiums overlooking the bay and starting in the low $800s. The local joke is that they won’t need to light the parking lots since they will glow in the dark.

As we cruised along the waterfront, I resisted the urge to make the four block detour up the hill to see the first house I ever owned. In the early 1980s, $90K bought 4 bedrooms, 2 baths, an almost 180 degree view of the water along with a five minute drive to work downtown. It was a time of double digit interest rates; I paid the seller 10% and gave my note for interest only at 13% and I felt fortunate to be in the market.

The house was always “Old Man Black’s Place.” Old man Black was long dead and we bought it from his widow’s estate. There was evidence of the fire that started in the closet where widow Black smoked in secret – the fire department had to go through the roof to extinguish the blaze. The house readily accepted all of my sweat equity and served as my classroom for home repair and remodeling 101.

It was the party house on July 4th with an unobstructed view on the back porch of the Blue Angels and the fireworks. The police closed off the neighborhood at 9:00 a.m. that day, and friends would have to hike in from wherever they could find to park.

There were great neighbors in this hood. Ed and Molly lived next door. An elderly 100% Irish couple, they were friendly, small child-tolerant and kept an eye on the house whenever we were away. Molly eventually took ill with the cancer and Ed had the main floor coat closet converted into a bathroom (an idea he got from our home) and rented a hospital bed, turning the living room into her final bedroom. Ed was lost without Molly. Even after I moved far away to be closer to that candy covered cottage in the deep dark woods, I still picked up Ed every Wednesday and drove him to the Elks club where he would flirt with the waitress in her mid-50s and insist on us each having 2 or 3 Stingers before ordering lunch. Eventually we would both get misty-eyed as he spoke of Molly and I thought of my recently-crumbled family. I miss Ed.

There were many other great neighbors on that block. The 7th Day Adventist family was wonderful, but my son never understood why they didn’t give him any treats on Halloween. The family on the corner was Irish too; he was a psychologist and family therapist and a great guy in spite of that. Their house and ours were considered for interior shots in a Tom Selleck film called Divorce Wars: A Love Story. High-powered divorce lawyer Jack Sturgess discovers that his own marriage is failing and must juggle his own domestic conflicts with his clients' problems. Their house was eventually chosen and the hassle they endured plus the damage left behind made me glad Old Man Black’s Place was not chosen.

We had awesome block parties. On Halloween weekend we would get sitters for the kids, put on costumes and dance until 3:00 a.m. when someone from a different (and petty & jealous) block inevitably called the police.

But then my marriage ended. So did the marriage of the couple on the corner. So did the marriage of my associate at the office – he lived a couple blocks away. Adelle never woke up from that fateful night's sleep. And all the time that hypocrite was abusing the trust of so many people.

I have been tempted to blame the arsenic, but life is never that simple.

The neighborhood holds many memories: some good, some not-so-good. Truthfully, there’s no longer much of an urge to drive those four blocks.

Anyway, it is good to be home.

R.I.P. Adelle

The service was fairly well attended. Many people from our mutual former employer were there, along with the press, a number of friends and acquaintances and gawkers. And her mother; she did not speak our language and I did not speak hers.

Such services should be a celebration of the decedent’s life, but it is hard to celebrate a life that ends so tragically and violently. It was my first time for all of this. I picked out a nice urn which was surprisingly expensive. For myself the complimentary cardboard container would be sufficient, but this was all that was left of Mrs. A’s little girl, and I felt she deserved better. The minister on retainer to the mortuary appeared to have never read the Bible and delivered a few banalities. If I had it to do over I would have left him off the agenda. I gave a rather stirring eulogy and peppered it with scriptures of hope, although I knew that Adelle was now beyond hope. This was before the era of “open mike” funerals, so the service was short, and then it was over.

The meeting with Mrs. A was scheduled for after the service. I made an appointment with a lawyer who spoke her language. We were no more than five minutes into the meeting when she told the attorney that she did not want to work with him. Adelle had trusted me, so she trusted me and she wanted me to do all the work. What followed were many years when my office staff excitedly looked forward to the Christmas holidays when Mrs. A would, without fail, send a huge box of goodies from her country.

Not a week after the police discovered Adelle’s body, her son was apprehended. He was not far away and seemed to have no real plan of escape. I’ve watched enough TV over the years to know that you replace your license plates, change your appearance and then drive the speed limit in a straight line as far as you can before making a right angle turn for either Canada or Mexico. I really do not think any of it was planned. Spontaneity can be a good thing, unless you feel the urge to do or say something hurtful. In that case I would suggest really thinking over the pros and cons of your considered actions.

Mrs. A asked me to help her grandson. She said she could never speak to him again because of what he had done, but she wanted me to help him. Although I knew the difference between homicide and manslaughter, I was a stranger to the criminal justice system. This is where you realize the value of attending alumni functions. One of my classmates, Seth Metrone, had distinguished himself as a criminal trial lawyer. Several years earlier, I had to take a foreign professional athlete to Seth’s office to have him explain the law of statutory rape. I turned the young man’s case over to Seth.

Every state has a “slayer statute,” a law that says you cannot profit from a death that you cause. If you kill her, you cannot inherit from your mother’s estate, even if you are the only named beneficiary in her will. The standard is not “beyond a reasonable doubt” as it is in a criminal trial; the state cannot convict you unless a jury of your peers finds you guilty beyond a reasonable doubt. But the slayer statute is not a criminal statute, it simply defines a property right so the standard is “the preponderance of the evidence.” Many people who kill another are never convicted, yet are kept from insurance proceeds and inheritance by this rule. While the young man’s fate had yet to be decided, it was pretty clear he would never see a penny. Or would he?




At the state capital, in the Department of Licensing, a complaint is filed. The first of many.

Just two little words

Not an hour from where our friend, the SC, sits in his garage smoking and pondering the imponderable is an evangelical center of faith and learning where people study God's Word and pursue His calling in their lives. This center offers degrees in theology, intercultural studies and psychology. The focus of their school of psychology is the integration of the Christian faith with today's mental health services.

These are noble sentiments, and I am certain the school strives mightily to maintain this focus. I am not an expert on these subjects. I know a psychologist who appears to be normal. And that first Bob Newhart show was pretty darn funny. But it seems to me that there is a certain amount of arrogance in any one human attempting to control or claiming to understand another.

Never forget: “therapist” is just two little words shoved together.

If SC were to hop on “the 5,” as the Californians like to say, and head north for a spell, he would come to the campus. With a little research he would discover that this school was the first of its kind, and that it grew out of a series of lectures given 45 years ago next month. Those lectures were given by a consulting psychologist from Tacoma, Washington. The school was named for this consulting psychologist.

But, SC will not find the consulting psychologist’s name on any sign or building.

Mary, Jackie and Delmar

When Tom and Betsy and I (and sometimes Patrick) go for coffee, we go to Starbucks. Where else would we go? There we are greeted by our Starbucks friends. Mary, who is less than half our age, calls us "baby." "Hi baby, how are ya today?" If one of us goes for coffee without the others, Mary will rat that person out. While less demonstrative, Jackie was named manager of the quarter for the downtown area, and always greets us with a smile. Delmar has our orders ready almost before we walk in the door.

A Starbucks friend learns your name and your drink. That's why when you make a Starbucks friend you never throw them a change up, you always order the same thing. If you want something different, you go to a different Starbucks. You tip your Starbucks friends - not some left over change coins, but paper money. You use your auto-reload shareholders card to buy the drink, but you tip well, at least once each week.

Our Starbucks is very small and located two blocks from our building's entrance and it is a point of pride with Tom and me (Patrick doesn't get it yet) to go in shirt sleeves no matter what the weather or temperature. There is a big new Starbucks opening up across the street from our building entrance, but I don't think we will abandon our Starbucks friends.

Memorable Starbucks friends I have known:

• Bitsy - at my last job, before everyone decided to go to Joelle's, we followed Bitsy to two different Starbucks stores, we liked her so much.
• Nancy - for several years I spent one or two days each week in Portland, Oregon. Nancy managed the store on SW Washington and never forgot my quad grande nonfat latte which is my I'm travelling on business and need something a little more expensive drink.

P.S. The cups in my part of the US tend to leak from the rim at the seam.. This was not a problem on the west coast, so I assume that some union is to blame.

I Smell a Rat

Freud once commented that a child would destroy the world if it had the power.

Finding time to write is always a problem. It is compounded by the many unpleasant emotions that underlie the memories of those days. I find it a real effort to focus clearly on the events of that time without being repulsed by the feelings that accompany them. Not just the feelings related to Adelle’s death, but those that were part and parcel of my life falling apart. While my narrative of Adelle’s demise is accurate, I find that the time-line of that tragedy and the concurrent events in my life are not synchronized. I offer no apology for these minor discrepancies.

The facts were pieced together later. While she slept, her son assaulted her first with a baseball bat, then a gun and finally with an axe or hatchet. Evidently it took a lot to kill her. For the next week or two he continued to live in the house, and even had a bunch of friends over for pizza. When one commented about the rank smell, he told them it was a rat that had died behind the wall. Finally he ran away with a friend. He had a new pickup truck, a gift from Adelle, in which to make his getaway.

You are, like so many people at that time, assuming that he was a surly, moody, bedraggled, disrespectful, class-cutting juvenile delinquent. On the contrary, he was a straight-A student. His employer described him as the best employee ever. He was a well-liked, good looking, clean cut, friendly and respectful young man. He called his mother faithfully at 3:30 everyday after arriving home from school. The company that Adelle and I worked for was small, and office parties were usually family affairs. He was a nice kid and was always willing to play with the smaller children. No early warning signals could be seen outside the home.

His father became anxious when, after a week, the phone was not answered and messages were unreturned. He finally drove to the house, found it locked and dark. Peering through the window of the garage he saw the totaled car and called the police.

I was able to answer the coroner’s question about body disposal; I knew from the papers she left that Adelle requested cremation. The difficult job of contacting her mother, who lived in Europe and spoke no English, was done by Adelle’s ex-husband to my deep gratitude. The next obvious job was planning her funeral service. This was not easy because, to risk a suit for trade name infringement, Adelle was the Smoking Non-Christian.

During this whirlwind of several days I made other trips to the house. Did you know that Servicemaster offers a complete array of bio-hazard cleaning services? I completed my inventory and had the safe in her closet drilled. I met with a realtor who opined that selling a home where a murder had occurred could prove to be challenging.

Two or three times a week, I dropped Hansel and Gretel off at that candy-covered cottage in the deep dark woods. I cried every time.

Still, less than a 20 minute drive away, that old man continued to do those unspeakable things. Our paths had crossed once, and they would soon cross again.

Explanations, excuses and apologies

I love anagrams. Most of the names I use blogging are anagrams for the real name. Sharp cookies in the use of search engines, like Mrs. Yak, have likely identified the real name of my dead assistant, who I refer to as Adelle. You can still read some newspaper accounts online, but they are not as scintillating as my "behind the scenes" look.

I am back in my office having spent the last two days at home finishing up the new copper plumbing supply system I built, and tearing out all the old corroded galvanized pipe. I love my Ryobi reciprocating saw - cuts through those pipes like butta. The water pressure is now where it should be: at full force the shower will peel the skin off your back.

After I return a few calls, wade through a mound of paper and go for coffee with Tom and Betsy (and maybe Patrick) I hope to get back to the narrative.

But first, an apology. Thoreau said that tradition is a more interrupted and feebler memory. Well, my feeble memory interrupted a fine and longstanding tradition, and I feel terrible. For years I faithfully sent a package of Peeps to the YB of the SC every Easter season. Several times in the last month I thought, "gotta get those Peeps." Sunday morning I realized that no Peeps had been sent. The chain has been broken, and likely all sorts of bad things will befall me. This is my public apology, and I am sorry. Very sorry.

A Short Red Leather Skirt

and a short red leather jacket to match. That’s what she wore as she entered the New Orleans. I had been sitting with Tessa and Sam, yakking, laughing, sipping a local brew and enjoying the zydeco. À propos of nothing, it was Tessa I had originally had some interest in, but that was before I knew that Sam was headed in her direction. Sam and I shared office space and, well, a good smoke as the saying goes. Less than two years later I would perform Tessa and Sam’s wedding ceremony and they remain, to this day, happily married.

I do not remember her name. She was tall. That and her almost-platinum blonde hair garnered her more than a few second looks. I cannot remember her face, only an aura that was what – closed, cold, nervous, unapproachable? She was Tessa’s friend and Tessa thought we should meet. Another blind date.

At least I had some support on this one. But the yakking and laughing temporarily gave way to a stilted question and answer session. I felt like a dentist trying to extract a painful molar sans anesthesia. There was so much strangeness during that period of my life that this seemed just one more surreal experience that I could blog about later in life. Thankfully, good beer and good company prevailed and soon Sam, Tessa and I were yakking and laughing as SRLS smiled and nodded. The seafood etouffee was excellent (as always).

After dinner we took a stroll around Pioneer Square, before piling into Tessa’s Subaru for a drive to the Famous Pacific Dessert Company. Each table had a box of Baby Boomer Trivial Pursuit cards, and I proceeded to quiz the three of them since I literally knew all the answers. That was when it became apparent that I was running with the wrong crowd, a frog among tadpoles. How can you have a meaningful relationship with someone who doesn’t share any of the trivia of your youth? Paul McCartney was in a band before Wings? I resolved then and there never again to date anyone more than 12 years younger than me.

Dessert was over and, thankfully, I lived in the opposite direction so they dropped me at my car and Tessa and Sam would drive SRLS home. I cheerfully proclaimed the evening to be “fun” and told SRLS that it was nice getting to know her. I scrupulously avoided any mention of “we’ll have to do this again.” Being a guy, I figured that mine was the next move, and that was a move I was not going to make. SRLS was not my type, but more importantly I did not need any additional work to do.

Imagine my surprise when the phone in my office rang two days later and SRLS was on the other end of the line. It seems she had great time the other night and wondered if I wanted to get together. I hate to disappoint people, even people I don’t care that much about; it’s one of my many character flaws. So we agreed to meet for a movie and dinner the next weekend. Movies are great, especially with someone who is not easy to talk to. I still can’t remember her name but the movie was Cyrano de Bergerac starring Gérard Depardieu. We had dinner at Duke’s, my regular hangout. I notified the staff earlier that day so whenever there was a lull in our conversation, someone would come and sit down to chit chat.

What I learned about SRLS was that she was just coming off a long-term relationship that ended badly and that she was finding it difficult to trust men. Smart lady. I would have told her that I had no interest in a relationship, and just wanted a little company. But she made the last call putting the ball in my court and I knew I would never call her.



It seems that after I left our mutual employer, Adelle paid a lawyer to draft a new Will and other estate planning documents that superseded the ones I had drafted for her, gratis. The new documents gave me total control of her estate and directed any interested parties (i.e. medical examiners) to contact me in the event anything happened to her. Now I had a funeral to plan, an estate to probate, a mother to contact and a lengthy murder trial ahead of me. Not to mention that blood-soaked mattress.

And now, back to our story

Let’s see, where was I? Oh, right: dead assistant, bloody mattress, dark night, killer still on loose.

To be more accurate, Adelle was no longer my assistant before she died. I had left our common employer almost 23 months earlier. Unlike most of the other faithful subordinates who, over the years have declared to me, “when you leave this place, I’m resigning,” Adelle was good to her word. She had started her own business, based out of her home aka scene of the crime.

How to describe Adelle? She was maybe 5’5” brown hair, brown eyes, caps in front with a slight overbite. She wore a skirt suit with hose and matching pumps everyday; I stood in her closet looking at those dozens of outfits that would soon be sold or given to charity. She had curves, the kind that Dashiell Hammett could describe so well, but which have never done much for me. She had a hard edge, and smoked as only a European or Fullerton resident can. Finally, and it may be uncharitable, were the sporadic episodes of halitosis. The smoking, combined with the kava she continuously drank (and, I suspect, less than complete attention to dental hygiene) made her breath potent enough to bring tears to your eyes even as she sat on the other side of your desk. Fortunately, these episodes were not a daily occurrence; it is easier to fire someone than to have the personal hygiene discussion.

Rereading this description, I see that you might get the impression that she was not attractive. To the contrary, I think many men found her attractive - there certainly appeared to be many men in her life. Now she was dead. As I wandered through the house I noticed it was dark, even with every light turned on, lots of dark wood and carpeting. Most of the walls were festooned with kiddy art, drawn by her son and not unlike the colorful items that decorate cubicles everywhere.

“I Love Mommy.”

“Happy Mother’s Day.”

Well, I thought, there won’t be any more of those. I tried to remember the name of the last guy who lived with Adelle. After I left our common employer we kept in touch, but not frequently. There was almost always a guy living with her. She would go out on Friday nights to drink and dance, bring some guy home and he would stay for six months. Pizza cartons and beer bottles littered the family room. A late model import sat in the garage - totaled.

I found the liquor cabinet, which appeared untouched and full of exotic liqueurs from Europe. I thought I needed a drink, or at least deserved one. I grabbed a bottle of Bols Advocaat but, I wrongly assumed, the eggs had gone bad. I later discovered that there are two varieties of Advocaat: a more liquid "export" version found in the U.S. and the "thick" Advocaat which is sold mostly on the Dutch market and eaten with a spoon. Not the time to be drinking, I thought, best to keep your wits about you.

I would have had that drink if I had known that this was not to be a one time event. Adelle’s son had done this. A decade later, the son of yet another of my employees would also commit a cold blooded murder.

Not far from where I stood, an elderly man, a man I knew, was committing unspeakable wrongs on the people who trusted him the most.

Tom and Betsy and Patrick

The problem with using a blog to recount a lengthy episode in one's life is that the day to day commentary gets pushed aside. There ought to be two columns, one for the history lesson du jour and one for everything else.

This week our coffee triumvirate was breached. The three of us, on many occasions, have passed Patrick on our way to or from coffee. He goes to the same Starbucks we do, he works in the same suite of offices and for the same person. But we have never invited him to join us. Perhaps Tom and/or Betsy felt that inviting a new member to our coffee run would be a betrayal of the trust and solidarity that we have constructed among ourselves. Or, maybe they are like me and the thought never crossed their minds.

This week Patrick invited himself. He stopped by my office at half an hour before the appointed time and asked if it was time for coffee. I told him the correct time and, with a smile, suggested he join us. When the time arrived, Patrick was at Betsy's desk, ready to go. It was a sunny day so we eschewed the through-building shortcuts and used the sidewalk the whole way. I was vividly reminded of many walks to Joelle's Java with Bob and Linda and Charlie, fellow employees at my former employer. We went to Joelle's because they liked the place, even though I thought the coffee was sub-par. There was a daily trivia question - a correct answer got you a hole in your "buy 10 get one free" punch card. Between us, Bob and I could always come up with the answer. I miss those guys.

Patrick's presence changes the group dynamic and he still has to learn some of our coffee team etiquette. We will have to see how it goes.

Yes, Virginia, there is a BOB

It was twilight and I was more than a little creeped out. After I finished my conversation with the medical examiner I called the Sheriff then left my office in a daze, telling Joyce that I would be gone the rest of the day. An hour later I picked up the house keys from the Deputy assigned to the case and, with frequent stops to check the map, arrived at the house around sundown.

Yellow police tape was stretched across the front door, and the prime suspect in Adelle’s death was still on the loose. I circled the house looking for any signs of forced entry or exit. I was not playing CSI, I was taking inventory. I was now responsible for, well, everything and I wanted to do it right. A deserted house, especially one that the cops have sealed off, is like a magnet to neighborhood punks and other lowlife looking for a quick score. After all, if the lady of the house is dead and the cops have left, who is there to say “don’t take that”?

Adelle had been one of my best hires, one of the good choices I learned to make after the Mary Kay fiasco. Adelle was born and raised in Europe; she married a member of the U.S. armed services, moved with him to the land of the free and bore him a son. Sometime after their return to the U.S. it became apparent that this man’s love for the bottle outweighed all other loves. Adelle despised weakness and my guess is that the existence of this weakness, more than the drunkenness and philandering, doomed the marriage.

She was a single mom, and single moms make great employees. Couple that with her ambition and Teutonic heritage and you get a real workhorse. She drove everyone around her crazy because she held them to the same impossibly high standard to which she held herself. Of course, she did not hold me to that standard, because I was the boss and could do no wrong. People like that you don’t need to manage; you just give them a little course correction now and again. And listen to everyone else complain. But the work got done, it was done well and on time and I and my little fiefdom looked great to my superiors. All that seemed like yesterday as I broke the yellow tape and slid the key into the front door lock.

I took a breath and pushed the door open. It was the smell of death hanging in the air but, since I had never smelled death before all I could think of was rotten meat. Like when you accidentally cut the power to your fridge before leaving on vacation. The place was a shambles – food, garbage and the detritus of suburban life lay everywhere. In the bedroom, where the brutal act took place, little strings hung from every blood spatter trying to make sense of the trajectory of each blow and shot. The mattress was saturated, oozing with blood. I had a bad feeling or, more accurately, a feeling that something bad was there with me. I gave “it” the name BOB, a nod to the evil demon of Twin Peaks. Beware of Bob. It occurs to me only now that Christians, who have allied themselves with the purest of good, should be acutely sensitive to the purest of evil, especially when it has shed its angel of light costume. This was really bad. I had never before sensed anything so malevolent.