Tales from the Shark Tank

Outside a blizzard is quite literally howling around the house, rattling the shutters and the sliding doors. It’s cold, in addition to the snow and wind; the temperature has dropped a solid 40 degrees since mid-afternoon.

But we are all safely inside, with everything we need and no reason to set foot out the door. I have a throw blanket my mother-in-law gave me about a year ago wrapped around my shoulders, and a down blanket I found over me. My son is asleep nested in his blankets, and my husband in ours. I’ll go join him in a few minutes here.

Warmth and peace and safety. All is well.

I was cutting out fabric to complete a couple of costumes Friday evening. I’d made some mistakes in cutting earlier, such that I’d had to go get more fabric to finish the sleeves. So I washed and dried the additional, then spread it out to cut on the futon-bed upstairs.

I had it laid out carefully, with the edges precisely aligned, chalk cutting lines drawn and everything smoothed out with nothing hanging over the edge. This is on top of a cotton mattress and bedding, mind you. I stopped and straightened up, reaching for my scissors - only to have a black cat suddenly roll out from under the bed, teeth and all four paws armed and engaged, determined to slay the fabric-monster or die defending me from it.

I tried to gently remove it from her possession a couple of times, but of course as soon as I moved it slightly it “came back to life” and had to be attacked and subdued all over again. But even a human can be trained in time, and I figured out that if I just left Tornado and the cotton alone, she would eventually deem it “dead” and wander away. And so it was. It took about 5 minutes for her to decide that it had no further lives remaining and stop watching it. Then, of course, she had to rub my ankles and be praised and thanked for her defense of her turf and my honor. When gratitude had been expressed to her satisfaction, she wandered out the sewing room door. And having looked under the bed to be sure none of my ninja-cat’s fellow warriors lurked in the shadows, I spread my fabric again. I even got to cut it out and assemble the garment without further “assistance”.

I’ve debated whether or not to post this. I’ve been deliberately trying to focus on humorous things here recently, as much as anything to remind myself to look for positives in the midst of all the negatives and stressful things that are in my life right now. I don’t really expect my blog to change the world, either; it is one small voice out of millions. And yet – the first step in tikun olam, the obligation to make the world better that is so intrinsic to being Jewish – is to be mindful; to notice where there is a need and mark it. So if you’re not in the mood, read no further. I won’t be offended. Probably I won’t even know of it.

I grew up seeing photographs of small children starving in Bangladesh and other places. All my mom’s magazines had ads for the Christian Children’s Fund, which encouraged you to “adopt” an impoverished child in another country and make a monthly payment to help them get what they needed to find their way out of poverty – proper nutrition, medical care, an education, clothing, or whatever else the administrators came up with. I have always known what “third world” meant. But it was always somewhere else, another country, or perhaps, if in the U.S., then in a place so far removed from my experience that it might as well be another country….big city slums, or some isolated region like Appalachia.

I’ve been aware of the increasing problem of homelessness more recently; I’ve seen the men lined up outside the Wheeler Mission on Delaware St. in Indianapolis, for example, or noticed nondescript bundles of cloth-wrapped possessions under bridges as I drove by. And if you read the news at all, it’s difficult to miss that the “homeless problem” includes families, which in turn by definition includes children.

But somehow there’s a visceral difference between seeing it in the news or in journalistic photographs and seeing it unexpectedly, as you go about the ordinary business of living. It was a balmy 6 F. when I went to Chicago for my 1-year checkup with the oncologist. Driving north from the Skyway, I saw a woman walking down the street. She had that classic look that shouts “homeless” - not just the wheeled cart full of possessions with a worn quilt tucked over the top, but the bundled coats and scarves that say the wearer expects to be out all day no matter how cold it is. That would have had impact enough. But she was steering that cart with one hand. The other held the hand of a tiny girl, no more than 3 or 4, equally bundled up. She trotted quietly along, staying with her mother. Clearly this was familiar to her.

That is not only heartbreaking, it is purely, profoundly wrong. In a place suffering the tectonic disruption of war, it is wrong but at least understandable. Not here. Not now. It should not be happening in the United States in the 21st Century. It should not be happening in a first-world country for whom war happens only in far distant places. If we are the wealthiest country in the world, then we have a commensurate obligation to our people, beginning right here at home. So I was taught, and so I believe. To fail to meet that obligation – to not even try – is to repudiate the principles of community and responsibility we try to teach our children.

I know what those currently in power would say: that it is indeed a pity, but that it “isn’t the Government’s business”. But to those in power who make much of what “good Christians” they are, especially when it is politically expedient? Allow one who is not and has never been Christian to remind you of something your own Teacher said.

“Whatsoever you do unto the least of these, you have done also unto me. And whatsoever you do not do unto the least of these, you have not done unto me.” That little girl and her mother, surely, are the least of us.

A newsgroup my husband belongs to has been having an involved and evidently somewhat acrimonious discussion concerning internet usage. It has next to nothing to do with the focus of the newsgroup, of course, but one of the members is obsessing about it.

The person in question is a computer analyst with delusions of attorneyhood. He posted a statute that he found that he considered to be on point for the issue. My husband read this, looked at the citation, and pointed out that it was Australian and so did not apply. But the wanna-be-lawyer persevered. He came up with another statute - this one not particularly to the point, but from Pennsylvania.

My beloved husband found the statute discussed, putting the correct citation in his response and actually quoting the language, pointing out its utter lack of applicability. Then he added “This time you did not attempt to rely upon Australian law, which at least demonstrates that your legal research skills are improving. I recommend the old formula ‘RYFS’ - Read Your Friendly Statute….or words to that effect.”

My husband is a grand master at the art of the snarky remark.

My husband and I are going out to dinner tonight.

A year ago yesterday, I had surgery for cancer. I saw my doctor today, and, as she put it, “everything looks perfect”. That is worth celebrating, I think.

It seems very likely that I’m going to have the “pleasure” of looking for a new sewing machine pretty soon here. I suppose it isn’t before time. I’ve had my current one for 28 years, and I sew quite a lot. Costumes, clothing, curtains, quilts - if it is created with fabric and needle and thread it’s likely I’ve at least tried it. What I’ve done the most of that on is the Kenmore my parents got for me when I graduated. It was top of the line for its time, and once we got past its general lemon tendencies and got it adjusted properly it’s done reasonably well for me.

Not that I didn’t consider others along the way, especially as different capabilities were developed. The problem was that I’d actually seen and sewn on the Rolls Royce of sewing machines. My mom had gotten a Bernina when I was about 10, taking me along and showing me how to choose a sewing machine in the process, lessons I’ve never forgotten. If I was going to spend the money for a current-model machine, I wanted a Bernina of my own, and I could never quite afford that. I still want one, and I still can’t afford it, though now that owes more to the exchange rate and balance of trade. Something about a price tag in excess of what I’ve paid for some of my cars along the way sort of makes that seem a bit less than reasonable. Even the used ones are out of range for the most part, and that’s if you can even find them. Like my mother, people who own those machines love them and keep them forever. So although I know what I would like, I still get to go shopping.

The problem is that my old Kenmore may have finally bitten the dust for good and all. That gremlin it acquired seems likely to be more serious than I’d thought. I took it in to a repairman I’d found, to be told that either it’s a very simple fix in the form of a stuck foot control, or else it’s the electronic needle position control and essentially unrepairable because Sears no longer makes the part and there is no aftermarket. Given what I’d noted in its function over the past year or so, he and I both suspect strongly that it will prove to be the electronic control. In theory the machine is still under warranty for another couple of years. But Sears isn’t good about honoring those, it turns out. Last time I tried to get service that way, they said I couldn’t because I wasn’t listed in their computer database. Huh? What part of “no buyer database in existence when purchased” isn’t computing? But really, while that is aggravation enough that I stopped shopping there long ago, it’s kind of moot anyway. They no longer make the part. The only thing they could do now is give me credit toward a new Kenmore machine, and I don’t want one, as the current crop aren’t worth the plastic they’re printed on. It’s not worth fighting about, pure and simple.

So I get to go shopping. If a Bernina remains out of my reach, at least an Elna or Pfaff or Viking isn’t now. I have my little back up machine, which removes the sense of urgency this project would otherwise have. It would drive me crazy if I had to use it as my primary forever, but does nicely for basic stuff and certainly will do until I find one I really like. (Best 35 bucks I’ve spent in a long time, that baby machine…..) Mom and I would never have gone to Sears in the first place, had we known what we learned over the course of the next several years. But that’s how one learns such things, by unfortunate experience, and having learnt the lesson I’m doing my homework so I don’t have to try to learn it again about another manufacturer. And Sears and their worthless warranty? They can go chase their own tail.

1. DEARHEART! I need help now! We have a plumbing emergency.

My beloved husband did not overstate. A valve had become devalued, and water was pouring out all over the bathroom floor. The only good thing was that he happened to be standing there when it started. But he didn’t know how to turn off the water at the pump; I’ve always done it. So I got that, and we called the landlord.

2. “The only way to control that is to turn the water off completely.”

True. And I had wanted a shower, having gotten thoroughly chilled looking for something in my car.

3. “That doesn’t go anywhere? That’s just crazy!”

So quoth the plumber this morning, looking at the end of a pipe sticking out of the wall, with a bucket under it and the valve that failed attached. That stub used to go to the toilet, but that now has a new water pipe courtesy of last winter’s replumbing kluge. It being as cold as it is, removing the pipe entirely wasn’t feasible, so he just put a new valve on it. And really, that should hold it.

But when I told the plumber we had no water, they put us at the top of the morning’s list, arriving about 30 minutes after I called. Considering that it’s 20 - 25 minutes drive from town and they had just opened, I was very impressed. And having drained the pipes when we turned the water off, nothing froze overnight in spite of the 5 degree F. low. So all’s well that end’s so, in the latest saga of the old farmhouse.

Murphy’s Law of Costuming is that your sewing machine will break down in some fashion beyond your ability to repair for yourself on a weekend when you’re sewing with a deadline. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had that happen. Right now I’d swear it has gremlins; if it is turned on, it will occasionally take a random stitch or two with neither hand, foot or paw anywhere near it. I at least have a good repair person up here, so Monday’s project will be taking it to him.

But this time Murphy can’t stop me. I have a back-up sewing machine, a little tiny thing I got for $35.00 because - get this - the color was discontinued. I don’t care if it’s baby blue! It’s small enough to carry easily, and works well, and if it’s not what I’d want for my everyday machine, being geared toward a ranker beginner than I have been since I was 10 and so lacking in adjustability, it will serve for this. It’s the equivalent of a point-and-shoot camera. And like that camera, the best machine for the job is the one available. I have this available. Life remains good.

Thinking this morning was just plain strange. I woke up with a migraine, which is never a good way to start a day. But I’d promised to sub at the high school, so I took something that wouldn’t make it go away entirely but would at least let me keep my eyes open and drove off. When I have a migraine my thoughts sometimes seem to whirl as if run through a blender, and today was no exception. I started out thinking that if I knew which deity attended to headaches I would be petitioning for their intervention. That drifted into thoughts of role-gaming, wherein a character of mine once learned the limitation of a “spell” to locate something when she got an arrow pointing toward her goal - straight toward it, without regard for mortal limitations in getting from point “A” to point “B”. Then a raven flapped up from the field and settled on a tree by the road just ahead of me. Drift from there to the “100 word story” challenge my friend Li is working on, to write complete stories of 100 words or less.

Strange things happen when the mental blender turns itself on. This is one of them.

As The Crow Flies

“How am I to cross this?” I asked irritably as the arrow flashed at the bluff’s edge. Goddesses don’t whisper well, but She tried. “You asked for a direction. I’m pointing. What’s wrong?”

“If you hadn’t noticed, I lack wings, feathers, or flight. This is the Boundary Sea for a reason.”

“Why?” She seemed genuinely curious.

“It’s impassible, that’s why!” I shouted in exasperation. Deities! I should have tried to find a boat. Next thing I knew, sea winds ruffled my feathers. “Morrigan” I shrieked, but heard only a harsh “Caw!”

“Now what?” came querulously. “You can cross. What more do you want?”

I shut my beak and flew.

It seems that another mouse with a death-wish has moved into our kitchen. I found the unmistakable signs of its presence in the usual locale yesterday morning. Then I noticed that Cloud was watching a certain spot at the base of the kitchen cabinet fixedly, silent and uncharacteristically motionless.

Ultimate confirmation came at the behavior of the three girls in a group. They weren’t lounging together in the kitchen, nor playing. Oh no. They were all crouched together, three noses triangulated on the same spot and three sets of feline eyes fixed on that cabinet like laser beams. Like spokes of a wheel, there they were, with Sophia, the Queen Mother, in the middle, Princess Tornado at an angle to her right and Cloud, usually the Court Jester, at precisely the same angle to her left. The only muscles twitching were the tips of their tails. You could tell what they were thinking. “We hears it. We smells it. We knows it’s in there. We just have to be patient. Now just poke that whiskery little nose out for half a second, you lovely little snack. Come on, mousie mousie mousie.”

Come to think of it, after cleaning up the mouse detritus yesterday, I have seen nothing new today. I would guess that either the mouse departed for safer pastures, or it has met its ultimate fate. Either way, I won’t need to worry about it any more.