Going on 80

This is the first year since 1969 that the IRS considers me to be among the ranks of the unemployed. Unless I can land a new job, (which, for a 91 year-old offers skimpy-to-few alternatives), I’m going to have to face life as an out-of-work, down-on-her-luck loser of the Great American Dream. But maybe not.

I had my first payday when I was five. It was the summer of 1936. I had just shelled a whole bushel of peas for canning, and my Aunt Mary gave me a nickel to reward me. I was euphoric. I had a proud new status. I had done work of value and discovered the dignity it gave me of being paid for it.

I never got over it. l’ve been chasing that satisfaction ever since in every job I could get. The greatest attribute of the Great Depression I grew up in was the work ethic it imprinted on its children, and I definitely got the message!

But today, here I am. Out of work! Not only did we shut down our Ford Video company last year, but due to my tricky walking and balance issues – which I’m blaming on earwax buildup – I also had to gradually transfer most of my disabled son Matthew’s daily care to my daughter Susy.

As for the caregiving now being provided by Susy, if I were Matthew, I would definitely look on this as a step up. Kinda like transferring the services of Nurse Ratched to Florence Nightingale.

As it turns out, perhaps because of her years of wrangling the care and feeding of four-footed creatures, Susy quickly learned how to sling the hash when it comes to the care of two-footed humans too, even ones who need peritoneal dialysis, personal hygiene, and physical therapy every day, and buttered popcorn at least once a week during football season. And like any successful drug dealer, you would be amazed to observe her casino-worthy skill in dealing out all the pink, white, red, yellow, and multi-colored pills and potions to her sort-of-innocent victim. Walter White would be proud of her.

And so am I. However, Susy’s successful new nursing career is all well and good for her and Matthew, but since my caregiver role is being “terminated”, how’s this going to look on my resume? And on my LinkedIn account?

Now, pay attention here, boys and girls – you might want to take notes – just because I got demoted doesn’t mean I don’t still have a job. I Do still have a job. And a re-vamped job description.

My updated job is that of a Canary in the Coal Mine. In case you’re not quite familiar with that respected and time-honored profession, let me explain.

At long last, the birds had achieved the professional respect they deserved in the workplace. They were soon lobbying for Equal Employment Opportunities, and Social Security and Medicare benefits, but in 1986, their jobs were phased out when a newfangled carbon monoxide detector was introduced. They are now looking for new jobs. I can certainly relate to that. According to their recent Facebook updates, many are now auditioning for America’s Got Talent, and some have infiltrated the Mafia on behalf of the FBI. There’s always a good job available for an ambitious canary. Like me, for instance.

I still can’t sing, but as the resident Canary here on Kartar Ridge Ranch, I have many new responsibilities, such as keeping Matthew’s birdseed fresh and properly served, along with a bowl of pretzels and a can of beer. It’s the presentation that counts.

My main responsibility however, is the time-honored service of one of the miners’ canaries. As soon as there’s trouble lurking – for example, such as the patient’s need for the urgent elimination of bodily fluids, my job is to yell as loudly and stridently as possible — S – U- S -Y ! This is extremely effective ninety-seven percent of the time. Plus, no oxygen mask is necessary: I can be easily resuscitated with a glass of wine.

The immediate problem facing me is what to do about updating my LinkedIn account with my new employment status. Thank goodness, I am considered a world class expert on how to do this. To be modest though, anyone can excel at LinkedIn writing as long as they are gifted in fluent lying and selective plagiarism.

Below are copies of Susy’s and my now out-of-date LinkedIn accounts. Notice the photograph of me. It’s important that you must always submit a photo which was taken of you at least 25 years ago so your potential new employer will recognize what you might look like in the workplace if you weren’t overworked, underpaid, and sexually harassed.

The information you present in LinkedIn needs to be crisp, impressive, and, if possible, based on something that could pass for reality. The following is what I will be submitting for my own update:

“I am honored and thrilled to announce that I have been selected from among the top four candidates to serve as the distinguished Canary in the Coal Mine at the famous Kartar Ridge Ranch. The Ranch is not known for the coal it mines, but for raising some world class asses. My important role will be to yell, bark, scream, or growl very loudly when danger looms. I cannot wait to see what the next chapter holds and I cannot express my appreciation enough to my superior officers or to my teammates who will help me keep the household safe for democracy and the American Way, at least until I can find better-paying employment.

Everybody thinks the word that strikes terror in the hearts of trembling Seattlelites is the “E” word, but it isn’t. For Pacific Northwesterners, “E for Earthquake” is sorta high on the fear wordlist, all right. But in Seattle, it’s nowhere close to the shudder quotient of the “S” word. SNOW!

A flurry of snowflakes is usually welcomed by the Seattle school kids who dream of wiggling out of school for a “snow day”. When the snow starts “sticking” though, a strange phenomenon occurs. Not just the schools, but the entire city shuts down.

There are good reasons for this. According to Octo-woman’s sophisticated investigations, – revealed here – they are listed below.

1. Snow that ”sticks” means Seattlelites can’t go anywhere. Seattle’s average winter snowfall is (gasp) a little over one inch. Because of this catastrophic expectation, and because they can’t find any listed to purchase on amazon.com, the city of Seattle doesn’t own any snowplows. When an actual “blizzard” happens, they just have a few trucks they can hurriedly retro-fit with some kind of large dustpans, and there’s not enough of them to sweep the street you live on unless you happen to be on the city council.

2. It’s no problem visiting the city during a “snowstorm”, though. The SeaTac Airport is the proud caretaker of 45 snow machines of their very own that are supposed to clear the snow from the runways. Until it melts though, it might be best to remain at the airport for your visit. Good luck on getting scheduled for a return flight, but enjoy the coffee, the kiosks, and the bargain marked-down price of the Seahawks Super Bowl Winners 2023 T shirts.

3. Seattle is perpendicular. It was built on 7 hills. When 1 inch of snow melts, guess what happens. Like Octo-woman’s own driving history, it’s slip and slide and crash time. Most responsible citizens decide to stay home where the level ground, hot chocolate and Irish whisky are.

4. The ones that don’t though, – due to lack of practice – don’t know how to drive on anything other than bare payment. They have a habit of abandoning their vehicles hither and yon and then struggle home on foot through the “towering snow drifts” to await their towing fees. Many cars are orphaned and are awaiting the tow trucks that will haul them to the repair shops or to their final resting spot at the Scraps for Cash junkyard.

Now that we live an hour away from our former abode in Seattle, I would like to brag about how this week’s snowfall at Kartar Ridge Ranch has been completely uneventful. This is thanks to son-in-law Curt’s chain saw to chop up trees that fell across the driveway, and his 30 years of experience as the professional driver of 18 wheeler semi-trucks that know all about how to chew up chains.

Unfortunately, Curt isn’t home right now. A phone call alerted him to make a hurried visit to a nearby ditch which is currently containing his car-bound daughter Josie and son-in-law Caleb. Stuck in an unfriendly Enumclaw ditch. Curt was to be accompanied by the archangel named Saint Harry who lives next door to us with his gigantic getter-outer-of-snow machine. I hope the children can be extricated safely before the snow melts and I eat all the doughnuts and hot coffee I was saving to celebrate their rescue.

As the drama played out, though, Curt’s trusty truck and chain was actually able to extricate the car without Harry’s heavenly assistance, and he hauled it and its passengers home. At this time, Josie has made a sacred vow that she will never again travel in an automobile. We’ll have to see how that goes.

Usually the snow melts by now, but it hasn’t. That’s why we’re missing Mass tonight in fear of disappearing into another ditch. Instead, how about joining our prayerful viewing enjoyment with some of the snowy scenes we’ve been looking at on the farm this week. It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Yes, times are tough. It’s tricky enough finding the dollars to pay for the peanut butter and the Hamburger Helper these days, but now, it’s time to help Santa fill the Christmas stockings with something other than all that stale Halloween candy. As always, however, you can count on Octo-woman to step forward to save the day and your empty pocketbook. Thanks to her impeccable taste, she is here to help you find the perfect – and affordable – gift for everyone on your list.

I’m sure you have been breathlessly awaiting it, and now, here it is: Octo-woman’s Practically Perfect Christmas Shoplifting Guide for 2022. Every suggested gift has been thoroughly vetted for its charm, practicality, reasonable cost, and even for its barter value should you acquire jail time as an end result of one of your shoplifting expeditions.

Clothing is always a practical choice. Who among the men on your list wouldn’t turn heads in a fine new tailored suit such as this one. (On the Shinesty website for $130) Try to imagine how proud you’ll be sashaying in on his arm at the company cocktail party. Especially when he could be sporting this snappy new hat with it (amazon.com $9.99) And it’ll look good in the office, too. I bet even the boss will notice.

One of the reasons cats hate people, is because of the “gifts” they are forced to receive from them. Such as the one below. Reindeer antlers are no substitute for a decent can of sardines.

Finally, after accomplishing all your shoplifting, you deserve a gift for yourself. And maybe a promotion. This book could help. After all, Octo-woman can teach you EVERYTHING.

Daughter Susy, granddaughter Josie, and I just got home from Costco with the car stuffed with the turkey and the fixings for our Thanksgiving meal. While we were plowing our carts through the store – everybody in the county seemed to have joined us – and afterwards, putting all the stuff away at home, my mind kept drifting toward the Fitzpatrick side of our family.

It will be a bleak Thanksgiving this week for everybody who loved my nephew, Dennis. His Requiem Mass and burial were held Thursday in Iowa. His death was unexpected, and way too soon. This won’t be a week of much celebration for his family and his siblings.

But the Fitzpatricks know how to face hardship and sorrow, and they’ll manage it with their usual forbearance. You can count on their gentle Irish humor and their resilience to sustain themselves, and everyone around them.

As for me, I’m just going to keep remembering them all as they were when it was the best of times. I started digging through my old blobs hoping I’d remember cranking one out about one of their Thanksgiving holidays. The only one I found is this kinda goofy one about a Thanksgiving dinner Dennis’s big brother Tim and his wife Denise hosted in 2010 for a few members of the family.

The blob is really about the antics of my nephew Tim, but I especially like seeing the photo of the guests present for their Thanksgiving Day dinner. My nieces René and Denise and their families weren’t present for this turkey dinner 12 years ago, and niece Chris was taking the photo, so you won’t see her, but Dennis is alive and well in it, (he’s the one at lower center front) and I really like looking at it today. Their usual clowning, laughing and horsing around don’t show in the photo but that’s what always happened when they were together.

Here’s the blob: https://goingon80.com/2010/12/22/107-timothy-the-terrible-elf/

And please check out Tim’s “Comment” that follows the blob. He’s always had a knack for using his Irish humor to try to sneak in the last word. (Nice try, Timothy).

Yesterday, I had one of those heart-wrenching phone calls you never want to get. My niece Chris called. I knew by the tremor in her voice that it could only be bad news, and it was. Her youngest brother, Dennis – my nephew – had died earlier that morning. Peacefully but unexpectedly. He was 58 years old.

Losing a younger sibling or any of our younger loved ones always seems odd and unfair, if you ask me. They’re supposed to take their turn in the queue. Dennis, what were you thinking, child?  I, myself, for instance, as your elderly aunt, was way ahead of you in the line you just muscled in on.

Part of the pain of learning of his death is my failure to be in contact with Dennis after his mom – my sister Joan – recently died. It was something “I always intended to do”, but I didn’t. Like they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions. And deep regret.

I knew how important my sister was to him. On my last visit to her at the independent living home she lived in, Dennis visited her every single day – that week and every other day of every other week previous.

Dennis was part of a set. When he and his twin sister Denise were born, my brother Richard learned that the family had started calling Denise – Dee-Dee. The “legend” has it that he feared that if Denise was known as Dee-Dee, Dennis would become known as “Doo-Doo”. So instead, he thereafter referred to the pair as “De-Niece” and “De-Nephew”. 

I have no idea why that pair of twins wasn’t kidnapped, shortly after birth. It wasn’t just their adorability, those urchins also had the market on showing genuine affection to anybody with a lap to sit on, and the experience was downright irresistible. Same with all the Fitzpatrick brood, in fact. When you were there, you didn’t want to leave.

As Dennis grew up, he acquired the goof-ball comedy we’ll all remember him for, but under all that slapstick was a kind of sensitivity and thoughtfulness that I’ll always remember.

I can only imagine what Denise feels today. My heart aches for her, and for her other siblings, Chris, Tim, Jeff, and René, and for Dennis’s wife, Teresa, daughter. Hannah and granddaughter Chelsie. 

The last time I saw Dennis was at that visit with my sister. Because I was going to be gone from home for a week, I figured I’d be “playing hooky” from going to Mass since I had no way to get to a church. But one day, Dennis said, “Aunt Patty, do you want to come with me when I go to Mass on Saturday?” 

I was flabbergasted. Not many his age seem to go to church much anymore, and it was certainly an unexpected offer I couldn’t refuse. I figured he was doing it just as a kindness, but when we got there and I eye-balled his obviously comfortable associations with other parishioners, I understood. This was where he went to find strength and it was his way of sharing it with me. Among other things, I’ll always remember that and his kindness to me.

Requiescat in pace, Dennis.

The November 11th date for Veterans Day was originally chosen because it was intended to mark the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918 when the armistice for World War I went into effect – “the war to end all wars”.

Today that description breaks our hearts because that glorious, hopeful dream never became a reality. ‘The war to end all wars” was followed by six major wars our country has fought in: World War II, and the Korean, Vietnam, Persian Gulf, Afghanistan and Iraq Wars, along with other devastating conflicts.

Most of our American families had members who served our country in those struggles and during our brief interims of peace. Just to remind us, I’m still trying to construct/maintain/update our own family’s list of all those boots on the ground, in the skies and on the seas. It’s a humbling experience.

To make additions of those I left out, or to make corrections or add detail, please use “Comments” on this blog, or email me at fordvid@gmail.com, If you can contribute a photo, especially good would be of the person in uniform, or at least, the approximate age they were when they served.

These are the names compiled so far, along with whatever details or photos we could find. I’ll list them by family group.

THE FORD LINE:

THE GORMAN LINE:

THE FITZPATRICK LINE

If you’ve read this far, you have probably noodled out that this is still a “work-in-progress”. Much of the heavy lifting was provided by my nieces Rene and Chris and by their Aunt Lola. And also by the amazing genealogical biography of the Fitzpatrick family that was compiled and published by Kelly Fitzpatrick. It’s known in the family as “the Green Book” and it’s a treasure.

Finally, for this Veterans Day, here’s a 21 gun salute to honor all living veterans and those who died for us. https://youtu.be/4fiPZBQqRFY

Today is Saturday. I usually post my blob after midnight on Saturday nights, but now I’m running late because of something that happened an hour ago. It was really painful.

This is a copy of my receipt for 5 Powerball tickets for tonight’s drawing. It’s been quite a few years since I owned a lottery ticket, but when I saw that tonight’s drawing was for 825 million dollars, it sounded like an offer I couldn’t refuse. Five 2 dollar tickets – one of which was likely to win 825 million dollars. What a bargain!

I was very confident. I began drawing up a list of how I would – judiciously, of course – spend my winnings. I decided I would either buy the state of Washington, Costco’s meat department, or fund humanitarian research dedicated to solving world hunger as well as hair loss in elderly women. I would even buy some new socks. 

The Powerball drawing was scheduled for 11 pm and by then I was aglow with my visions of the riches awaiting me. At 11:02 pm, I googled the drawing results and this was what appeared:

It really hurt my feelings. After all I did for it, the Powerball machine didn’t include a single number from all the ones on my ticket. And it didn’t even say “I’m sorry”.

After I pulled myself together, I decided to do some research on how I had been so abused. One of the most helpful sites I found – northjersey.com – gave a list of 12 things that are more likely to happen to me than winning the lottery. I’ll summarize them here:

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1. Odds of being audited – 1 in 160.
2. Odds of finding a pearl in an oyster – 1 in 12,000.
3. Odds of finding a four-leaf clover – 1 in 10,000.
4. Odds of getting struck by lightening – 1 in 15,300.
5. Odds of getting killed by a venomous plant or animal – 1 in 44,459.
6. Odds of getting killed by a bee sting – 1 in 44,562.
7. Odds of an asteroid hitting the earth – 1 in 75,000.
8. Odds of dying in a plane crash – 1 in 188,364.
9. Odds of having conjoined twins – 1 in 200,000.
10. Odds of getting attacked by a bear – 1 in 2.7 million
11. Odds of getting attacked by a shark – 1 in 3.7 million.
12. Odds of getting killed by a vending machine. 1 in 112 million.

The odds on winning the Powerball lottery are 1 in 292 million. That’s a lot of zeroes.

I guess I’d better contribute my own statistic:

1. Odds of squandering $10 on 5 infertile Powerball tickets – 1 to 1.

Well, live and learn. But like they say in Hunger Games: May the odds be forever with you!

Happy Anniversary, husband! 

Today – as I’m scribbling this –  it’s our 71st wedding anniversary.  It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? I just wish you were here to celebrate it with me. 

I know I haven’t been writing to you often enough, but, as you know, I’ve been pretty busy for the past 17 years. Been thinking, though, that in case you haven’t been keeping up, I need to update you on what’s been going on here.

I hope you’re not worried that I’m still upset about how you died and left me. After all this time, I’m finally okay with that, more or less. I just never expected to be – you know – deserted. It’s okay, though, Hon. I know you didn’t do it on purpose.

A mitral valve replacement. That’s what the doctor called it. Kinda like giving your heart a tune-up. Or so we thought. 

If the surgeon had only been paying attention, we could have avoided what happened. I still haven’t forgiven the guy for it. Yes, I had even considered putting a curse on him, but then I realized I would have to go to Hell for it, and then, we would never be getting together again.

It still seems so simple to me. All the doctor had to do was to say “If the anesthetist administers protamine sulfate to you during this surgery, your shellfish allergy can cause a catastrophic reaction resulting in your death”. Upon hearing this, we would have responded – not No! –  , but “Hell, No! Use another method, Doctor Brainless!”

If only we could go back and do it over again. If only . . .

Do you remember how you always kept urging me to learn to swim? I wish I had listened. It might have spared me from drowning in the tears that still keep welling up. Can you believe they’re even dripping right now as I’m writing this? It’s really embarrassing. 

But enough with the waterworks! Here’s what you need to know right now. 

I know you remember that for our 50th wedding anniversary, we had the whole family gather at a photography studio to have a family portrait captured. The only person missing was our son Mark who died 30 years earlier. Lots of copies of the photo were made for the family but this gigantic one was made for over the fireplace in our family room. The only time it was removed while we lived there was to appear on the altar at your requiem Mass.

But here’s the problem. Since you left us 17 years ago, so many new members have “creeped in”, it’s not a photo of our family any more. There’s 11 more souls in it now than when you left, so it’s not exactly a photo of “our family” any more, if you see what I’m saying.

The only newcomer you already met is Sean who got married to Elizabeth a month after you died. When they got engaged, we were really on cloud nine. Remember? If we were subversively able to make an “arranged” marriage for our granddaughter, that would have been IT. 

To show you how right we were, Sean and Elizabeth were both here one day last week, when Elizabeth and granddaughter Josie decided to make a quick run to the grocery store. I was on the back porch, when I heard Sean call her name. Elizabeth turned around and ran back to meet him for a quick goodbye kiss. Just a “normal” event in the life of a couple who’ve been married 17 years! Any marriage that can survive the separation of a trip to Safeway, is surely going to last!

The wonders of every other “newbie” in our family would also knock your socks off (if you still wear them). We don’t have time at the moment though, to do any more mutual bragging about our exceptional good taste in acquiring family members. I need to help daughter Susy, and our great-grandson Asa carve some pumpkins for a birthday party tomorrow for our great-grandson Wesley Gene, age 3. (Yes, he’s named after both you and his maternal grandfather Wesley.)

Before I sign off this scribbling today, I just looked out the window. If you’ve been paying attention, the smoky air in and around Seattle has been terrible this week due to forest fires. Our good old rain would have fixed it, but guess what!  It’s finally happening. Raindrops are a-dropping at last, and it’s supposed to keep going for at least 24 more hours. The marine air is supposed to clean up our air in a hurry.

Whenever we have a really heavy rain like this one’s predicted to be, doesn’t it remind you of how much it poured on the day we got married in Cedar Rapids 71 years ago? It came down in torrents all day. By the time we got to the depot and boarded the train for our honeymoon trip to Chicago, we were drenched!  Anybody observing you- the unfortunate bridegroom – with his bedraggled bride in tow with her hair in strings, her limp corsage drooping, her soaked shoes squeaking, and wearing her soggy, wrinkled suit, would have guessed that this must have been the nightmare wedding from hell. But it wasn’t, was it?

According to my Irish ancestors, “Happy is the bride that the sun shines on!” I don’t have any Hindu relatives, but their view seems more sensible to me. In the Hindu tradition, rain on the wedding day is considered lucky, as it is believed to foretell a strong marriage. The logic behind this belief is that a wet knot is more difficult to untie. (Getting married is often referred to as “tying the knot.”) So if it rains on somebody’s wedding day, they will have a long, happy marriage. Sounds like ours, if you ask me. The rain was certainly followed by a whole lot of sunshine!

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Oops! Possibly that doesn’t explain how the happy marriage of Elizabeth and Sean happened on a bright sunny day. There wasn’t a wet knot in sight. Hmmn. It seems to be another of life’s mysteries which I have not yet resolved. 

Nonetheless, if anybody ever asks me for advice on the best day to get married, I’d probably hear myself saying “Pray for a rainy day!  You can maybe schedule it to be celebrated on an ark!” (I planted that little joke here so you can pass it on to Noah.) 

Truth is, though, that any day I got married to you would have been my brightest day. Maybe we can repeat it once I can get there. I’ll bring an umbrella.

Meanwhile, stay tuned. I’ll send another update soon. Try to stay out of trouble.

Love you forever.
From the wife you left behind but who still loves you anyway.

Couldn’t think of anything to blob about this week. Sometimes the well runs dry.

But then, during the homily at Mass today, our pastor was saying how his sister is engaged and she and her husband-to-be have been taking a class getting them ready to get hitched.

His sister told him how during one session, she was asked what a sacrament is. After 16 years of Catholic school education and catechism study, she demonstrated her erudition by drawing  a blank. Duh! And, come to think of it, so did I.  A sacrament in our church or in any other faith, is, well, it just IS.

According to the dictionary though, a sacrament is: a Christian rite (such as baptism or the Eucharist) that is believed to have been ordained by Christ and that is held to be a means of divine grace or to be a sign or symbol of a spiritual reality. 

Father Lou went on to talk about how to define a sacrament. But then he said  “Well, it’s also been said that an easier way to describe a sacrament is that it’s really just God’s way of saying ‘I love you’.” 

Like after every Saturday 5 o’clock Mass, Susy, Matt and I started our journey home in the car at 6 P.M. We were accompanied all the way by this sunset. It seemed like just another love note. Thank you, God.

Ernest Hemingway probably never lived at Kartar Ridge Ranch, but among the noticeable daily events that happens here is that “The Sun Also Rises”. Every morning. 

I always miss the spectacular show, since it happens during my snore time. Daughter Susy never misses it. She or Curt are out there at dawn every morning giving a fine breakfast and wake-up routines to all the fauna who live amongst us on the farm – donkeys, horses, a pony, and any assorted rabbits, ducks, dogs or cats who show up.

They never seem to be too occupied to observe the show that nature puts on in their behalf. Susy often pulls out her phone and grabs an image to show us later. It’s another extravaganza every morning, and there are no two alike. Take a look.

But here’s the thing. Nature puts on a double feature every day, and at no additional charge. We need to let Hemingway know that “The Sun Also Sets.”  Personally, I think it’s God’s way of letting the world’s sleepyheads in on some of the show as a daily second feature!

Sunrise/Sunset take your pick. And have a happy day! And evening!