Meanderings

Hello again. We have returned. Perhaps not to normality, but returned. Here we present Friday Letter #51. (There was no #50. There were two #49's. I was asleep at the switch. So was my editor.)

The Lowes' Story

We thought we had a good thing going. There was a young salesman named Rodrigo in the door department at Lowe's. He knew his stuff. The price was right.

We thought we cut a big fat hog in the ass. Lowe's would also install our brand-new, tenant-resistant fiberglass patio doors in a four-plex. We paid for this service up front.

Longtime problem solved. We thought.

Then we began attempting to schedule the installation of the four beautiful doors with the Lowes' contractor, Dan. He was hard to pin down at first, which is to be expected, I guess.

But things didn't get better. Eventually, we hit a snag. An immovable snag. Lowes' corporate policy stopped Dan in his tracks. Lunacy ensued.

"Lowes' policy," Dan and everyone at Lowes' insisted, "requires a person over 18 on premises while the installation takes place."

Somehow Dan and his co-workers thought that the Lowes' policy required some sort of action on my part. Like, I was going to be the person over 18. You can imagine me standing around for five or six days, watching Dan work.

My own thinking was that Lowes' policy was Lowes' problem. Not so. Lowes' management was so insistent over so many weeks that I finally had no alternative but to fire the Lowes' installer. It gave me pleasure. I hadn't fired anyone in years. Begone, Dan, said I, clapping the sawdust from my hands.

Now I have four brand-new custom-made patio doors. They patiently await, what? An installer who doesn't require a babysitter, that's what. Stay tuned.

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When the Teton Dam burst in Idaho in 1976, the family and I were on a vacation in Vancouver Island, Canada.

That left me out in the cold as far as "being there" to fulfill my job as a newspaper photographer, writer and editor during one of the greatest disasters ever to hit Idaho since the dinosaurs roamed the desert and the volcanoes were active.

By the time we got back, the paper I worked for had already printed a special edition on the flood, and one of the circulation guys had already stolen the money the edition brought in.

I guess we were gone too long. The fact is, I wasn't there when it was perceived that I should have been. Eventually, this purely coincidental absence became one of the complex factors that led to the end of my job in Idaho. Goodbye volcanoes. Goodbye potatoes.

Fast forward 32 years.

I was out of town on a vacation when the tornado struck Windsor and threatened the lives and property of my loved ones here.

Coincidence? I missed another disaster? At least this time, I'm not working for a newspaper so nobody can blame me for being on vacation when I should have been at home taking pictures.

The Inquisition

The woman was pleasant enough, handsome, well-appointed, self-assured.

But the hairs went up on the back of my neck. After all, nobody had told me there would be a test. All I was told was that I had an appointment to see my podiatrist.

My Inquisitor interrogated me from behind a desk in a cubby in the innards of North Colorado Medical Center. I was thoroughly unprepared. I thought I was just going to see a doctor about my sore feet.

"Name? Insurance? Date of birth? Address? Phone number? Family member? Co-signer?" She wanted to know lots of personal details, and after a while I became irritable and balky. Me? Balky? Couldn't be.

Finally, I put a stop to this nonsense. "Middle name?" she insisted. I said "E." "No, no," said she, "I need your WHOLE middle name. With as much resolve as a man can have while his feet hurt, I said, "E."

She gave up. I had won. One of those small victories, to be sure, but I won.

By the way, for the first time ever, I hereby reveal my WHOLE middle name to you, my dear readers: It is Edward.

Dad said he gave me that middle name because when I was born, I was so ugly I reminded him of Edward G. Robinson, the actor with the flapping jowls. So I've resisted revealing my middle name for all these years.

That sign-in ordeal at the hospital, though, relieved me of the pressure. While I was refusing to obey the Inquisitor, I realized I'm just lucky I didn't look like Imogene Coca when I was born.

Tenant Nightmare #13

Here's a new one for ya. We evicted a fellow last week – removed his belongings from a rental unit and cleaned up his mess.

What makes this one unique is that the fellow didn't live there. He just moved in. He had an acquaintanceship with the legitimate tenant, but no approval or legal basis to move in.

His stuff just appeared. Three large closets and one entire bedroom were filled with personal belongings, floor to ceiling. It was the case of the mystery squatter.

The police were called, and they were supportive of the tenant – who could show a lease limiting tenancy to one person only. So far, the moocher has steered clear of here. That's good.

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Word of the week: Hypochondria. It's Greek. It means the abdomen, or the non-boned portion of the trunk. In English it means abnormal anxiety over one's health, often with imaginary illnesses and severe melancholy.

I hadn't thought of my Mom's friend Gladys for some time – until I looked up "hypochondria."

In the '50s and '60s, it was a heyday for hypochondriacs, especially ones like Gladys. Almost every day, scientists would announce the discovery of new diseases.

Every time Readers' Digest would come out with a story on a new malady, Gladys would soon have it. We began to realize that hypochondria is in itself a disease.

It's no joke. What happens to classic hypochondriacs is (drum roll please) they get sick and die. It happened to Gladys.

Next week's word: Ambush.

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Gripes? Complaints? Whines? or Comments? Adoration? Puppy love? Feel free to express yourself in the comments!