Christmas cards

I particularly like Christmas cards.  I like anything that arrives specifically for me whether it is snail mail, email, or FB message.  (Bills are exempt from that, of course)  I send out my Christmas cards early to make sure that nobody fails to send me a card because they don’t know my address.  I pin-up my cards and admire them throughout the month, donating them to a local elementary teacher in January.

The whole month of December is celebratory for my family since both of my children were born in the month of December.  Jack was born on December 7; Georgie, December 23.   I spent the night before Georgie was born addressing Christmas cards and wrapping presents.  The first Christmas with each of my children was exciting and amazing; we were celebrating beyond the traditional.

Three weeks had passed since Christmas, 2008 when Jack died on January 15.  The tree was down, but there were still a couple of gifts for folks I didn’t get to see during the holidays.  A couple of missed decorations remained on table tops.  I put everything away in the weeks after the funeral.  I boxed all decorations and lights and set them high up on the shelves in my closet.  That’s where they still rest.  It is impossible to look at mementos of Christmases past, decorations made together and hung together on the tree.

When you lose a child, you get plenty of advice from well-meaning friends and family.  Some of it is lovingly stupid.  “Life goes on and so should you.”  (“I don’t want life to go on.  I want it to go backwards.”)  “Jack would want you to get on with your life.”  (“And you would know that, how?  He was 20.  He never imagined that he wouldn’t live forever.   I never imagined that there would be a life without my child.”)

My stages of grief-disbelief and numbness, bargaining, yearning and anger, despair and withdrawal,  and acceptance-followed a U-shape, rocking up and down as I rocked up to disbelief, slid down to despair, achieved acceptance, and then slid back to anger.  I thought there was something wrong with me.  One of the most helpful pieces of information I got from a counsellor was that grief isn’t linear and what I was doing was normal. It helped to learn that there wasn’t a timetable and that there wasn’t a right way or wrong way to get through this.

In November, 2009, I decided that I would not put up a tree or decoration, but I would send out Christmas cards.  I usually make my own cards and decided that I would put Jack on the front of the card.  Because Jack’s cat Ginger died 10 months after him, Ginger joined him on the card.

It was difficult to work on the picture.  Studying a picture of Jack, thinking of his quirky and funny personality, and drawing his face were sometimes painful.  I spent much of the time in conversation with him.  When I finally got something drawn that I felt was passable, I felt like we had accomplished something together.

Midway through last year, I got the idea of letting Jack be the Grinch.  His dog, Jewel, died in May and I drew her into the card as Max.  Ginger did a cameo as the cat.  My drawing is sloppy and I use sketchy lines.  I ended up studying manga books so the lines were clear and the design was neat.  Again, I got the experience of talking to him as I drew.  I experienced the regret of parting when I finished the card.

This year, I knew that I would draw the card but hadn’t any idea what it would look like.  Waiting for a friend to finish her doctor’s visit, I was sketching people in the waiting room and got the idea of drawing Jack in the manger setting.  He rarely sat quiet and was often doodling on his guitar late into the night.

The card took more expertise than I have and more time than I could afford, but I am a little OCD when I get started and was willing to overdraft.  Drawing brings such joy that I felt decadent.

I often journal; writing helps me work through resentments and fears.  Drawing has been a god-send for me.  Looking at Jack’s face for an extended length of time is both difficult and healing.  There’s a mixture of thoughts that process as I draw Jack.  Recognizing the beauty of God’s creation and the reality of our loss mix with the joy of memories.  There is a feeling of sad peace.  In the end, Jack has given me a gift that I am able to pass on to those who knew and loved him, too.

thanksgiving

gratitude prayer by e. e. Cummings

i thank you god for  this most amazing day:

for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun’s birthday;

this is the birthday of life and love and wings:

and of the gay great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-lifted from the no
of all nothing-human merely being
doubt unimaginably You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

Thanksgiving gives me a chance to reflect on the amazing gifts that I have been given.  Can’t even start to name them all.  Every day in November Bob’s sister, Shelley, has been sharing something different that she gives is grateful for.  I am so stealing that idea next year because I have enjoyed reading her thanks!

Happy, Happy Thanksgiving!

Good morning.

I got up with Bob this morning at 4:30.  That’s morning.  Saturday morning. A.M.  He’s working today and we generally get going together even though my trek this Saturday ends at the edge of the sidewalk and his ends up at work in Ingleside.

I like early mornings and don’t have a hard time waking up.  Back in the day, I didn’t wake up often.  I came to more days than not, lurching awake with a blurred sense of wonder about what I’d said or done the previous night.

These days, a relatively quiet alarm trills with what T-mobile calls “Twilight.”  It’s a happy and upbeat melody that would have made me flush the cell phone if it penetrated my sleep years ago.  Today, the little button on the side gets a squeeze to give me a 5 minute reprieve.

You can only come to the morning through the shadows. ~J.R.R. Tolkien

At one time, I hated mornings.  It took a few years sober to wake up with a first thought that didn’t include a curse word.  If I said God’s name, it usually included what I would have considered God’s last name.  I have found that waking up with a “Thanks, God” usually sets the tone for my day.  And that’s how I started this day.

I used to wake with worries about my children or grandchildren, about money, about work, about who or what had made me mad and how I was going to handle it.  I read that the first thought I had upon awakening was what I worshipped.  Was it money?  Family?  My job?  It wasn’t starting with God, that’s for sure.

I thought that  I had no control over my first thoughts.  Turns out I do.  I can have a quick intervention and sidetrack the committee that must have been meeting in my head throughout the night.  It works to get my first thoughts back to my BFF, God.

Another thing that I use when the day starts is the Welcoming Prayer.

Welcome, welcome, welcome.
I welcome everything that comes to me in this moment
because I know it is for my healing.
I welcome all thoughts, feelings, emotions,
persons, situations and conditions.
I let go of my desire for security.
I let go of my desire for approval.
I let go of my desire for control.
I let go of my desire to change any
situation, condition,
person, or myself.
I open to the
love and presence of God
and
the healing action and grace within.
––– Mary Mrozowski 1925-1993

I was given a copy of it a few weeks after my son Jack died.  At that time, I thought what kind of crazy person in what kind of insane universe would think that prayer was comforting.  (“I welcome this situation?  Are you kidding?  I let go of the desire the change this situation?”)  I had so many days when all I could think was how I had failed him.  There were hourly stretches when I would wish with all the power in my person that my life had become a nightmare and I would waken from it.  Grief became despair and was my constant companion.  I woke with it and fell asleep with it.

I open to the love and presence of God and the healing action and grace within.. . . so that Your Love, Your Light and Your Spirit may be manifested in the ALL of my life; the motives and desires of my heart, the choices I make and the steps I take. –– Ann Starrette

The Welcoming Prayer sat on the end table next to my couch for weeks, maybe months.  I would pick it up and shake my head in sympathy for what I perceived as my friend’s stupidity.  One day, I read it with an open heart and there was comfort in the words.  I read the prayer every morning today and say it at times during the day when I am trying to wrest control and management for the day.

I learned to say welcome to the day as it was. Not how I wished it were.  Grief was on my shoulders and I couldn’t wish it away.  Neither could I wish away anger, guilt, or resentment.   Each one of those visitors needed to sit with me.  In those months after Jack died, there were so many negative emotions swirling in my mind, my heart.

They aren’t my friends, that’s for sure.  But they have a place in my life. Fighting them just seems to make them fight back.  Wishing them away puts me back into LaLaLand which is where I spent A LOT of time when I was drinking.   I will not believe that God caused Jack’s death; that defies everything I believe about the God of my understanding.  Welcoming God’s presence and love in my life with no reservations, however, heals me.  The Welcoming Prayer kicks off my morning and starts the healing day by day.

Movie night

I love going to the movies.  It’s one of the best ways to spend a too hot summer or too cold winter Saturday.  There was talk when VCR’s came out that the movie theater industry would become extinct, but that hasn’t happened.  There’s something exciting about going to a movie on opening day, especially if it is a long anticipated movie.  We punctuate the coming attractions with “That looks like a good one” or “Maybe that will be a good rental” or “Ewwww!  That looks stupid.” 

If a scary movie is the coming attraction, I get popcorn during the previews.  Chicken that I am, even the previews of horror movies give me nightmares.  I was on the computer and in earshot when Jack was watching one of the Saw movies.  That voice kept drifting into my dreams for a few nights.

The first movie I remember seeing was Lady and the Tramp and it was at a drive-in.  I’m not even sure who I was with, but I remember pillows and a blanket so I may not have stayed awake for the whole show.  When we were kids, Mother drove us to the movie theater in Three Rivers, 10 miles away.  There was a movie theater in George West but it had closed by the time we kids were old enough to go to the movies without parents in tow.  The rating determined the movie we got to see.

That was before the current rating system.  Back in the day, the U. S. Conference of Catholic Bishops had a rating system for us to follow.  That over-rode any non-Catholic rating system at our house.   The ratings looked like this:

A-I — Morally Unobjectionable for Anyone
A-II — Morally Unobjectionable for Adults and Adolescents
A-III — Morally Unobjectionable for Adults
A-IV — Morally Unobjectionable for Adults, with Reservations
B — Morally Objectionable in Part for Everyone
C — Condemned 

There is still a Catholic rating system; B is now L (Limited adult audience) and C is now O (morally Offensive).  Everything else is still in place.  Last week-end, The Immortals, Footloose, and A Very Harold & Kumar 3-D Christmas received an O rating and Puss and Boots earned an A-I.

The original Rialto in Three Rivers, Texas closed in 1981 but reopened about 20 years later

The process of going to the movies started on Thursday when the newspaper came out and we found out what would be showing in Three Rivers.  The parents didn’t make a decision until we got The Sunday Visitor, the Catholic newspaper, and checked the rating.  IF the movie received an appropriately moral and safe rating, then we could go to the show.  For some reason, I got to go to all the movies with my older sister and Mary Ann did not.  I suspect I was the spy in case Georgie the Elder talked to B-O-Y-S.  Who knows?  I’d have given up Mother Theresa if that meant I got to go to the movies.

I like movies that have a satisfactory resolution.  I do not watch movies where a character I’ve gotten attached to dies.  I prefer movies that make me laugh.  Life is sad enough that I don’t need to go to a movie that makes me cry.   I love exciting stories like the Indiana Jones and Star Wars movies and dislike movies with disturbing images.  I wouldn’t watch The Matrix for years because of that scene when Keanu Reeves’ mouth gets sealed shut.  When I did watch it all the way through with Jack, I had to shut my eyes during that part.

Original In-Laws --- Best Movie Ever

There are some movies that stand out as my favorites for all times.  Some of them, I didn’t see in theaters.  I’m old but not so old that I saw The African Queen and Casablanca on the big screen.  Humprey Bogart is the reason I love both of those movies.  He died long before I came of dating age, but he was the epitome of cool to me.  He and Winston Churchill were two of my first crushes; that really does define me as a weird little kid.

The In-Laws, with Peter Falk and Alan Arkin, wins Best Comedy in Margaret’s world.  I’ve subjected both of my children to that movie on multiple occasions.  Jack and I couldn’t run across the park without one of us shouting “Serpentine!”  and both of us running like mad snakes across the grass.  When the VCR edition got obsoleted, I got a DVD version.  It’s a treasured movie. 

I can’t watch To Kill a Mockingbird too many times nor can I read the book too often.  Harper Lee only wrote that one book and neither Mary Badham (who played Scout) or Phillip Alford (who played Jem) did much acting after that movie. It was the movie debut of Robert Duvall (Boo Radley), William Windom (the DA), and Alice Ghostley (the neighbor).  There’s something charming and familiar about both the movie and the book.

When I smoked cigarettes, I appraised movies by how many times I wanted to step out of the show and smoke.  E.T. was a 4 cig movies; Karate Kid was a no cig movie.  I haven’t smoked for 15 years, but my bladder is my gauge today.  I generally use the restroom more often if the movie is boring or the action gets too intense for me.  

More often today, I rent movies.  I don’t mind going to the movies by myself, but it is hard to carve out 2 hours to watch a movie at the theater.  Easier to put a show in the DVD player and work on a craft project at the table.  Not quite as exciting, but it takes a pretty good movie for me to not want to leave an hour in and go home.  They  might be willing to refund my money, but there’s no refunding my life.

It’s (like) okay

"It's like, you know..."

Like is one of those words that I catch myself over-using.  Unless I am saying “I like your red and purple polka dot shirt,” I am saying the word too much.  I want to (like) poke myself with a broom straw when I (like) say it too much.  I went through a period of life when I said you know just like I say like.  I have relegated you know to the Obnoxious Phrase Hall of Fame. Like is only one word so I’m not sure if it qualifies, but it’s definitely a contender.  It’s not the only contender.  Here are some others.

5.  It’s all good.  Is it?  That puts homeless kittens, cancer, losing the football championship, and over-cooking a roast in the same plane of reference.  Yeah.  I don’t believe it IS all good.  I’m not sure how anybody who says that can believe that’s true.  If that means that I need to accept whatever comes along, I agree.  But that does not make it good and that does not mean that I have to like it.

4.  It happens.  Of course it happens; otherwise, you wouldn’t be saying that it happens.  I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.  It happens?  Is that  a consolation?  I wrecked my car…it happens.  My dog bit the mail carrier…it happens.  I won the lottery?  IT must not happen if something good happens.

If it is what it is, then what is it?

3.  It is what it is.  As opposed to It is what it isn’t?  Or It isn’t what it is?  I’m not always sure what it is so it’s hard for say if it is or isn’t.  This Obnoxious Phrase qualifies as stupid, over-used, and too subjective.  If it IS for you, it might not be for me. 

2.  I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but…My friend, Dan D., told me that it is what you say after but that you mean.  As in, “I really don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you look horrible in that dress” or “I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but I saw your husband dancing with your next door neighbor at a bar and they were dancing c-l-o-s-e.”  Really.  You don’t want to hurt my feelings?  Then, shut the heck up. 

1.  God never gives you more than you can handle.  First of all, how would you know that?  Second of all, if I can handle it, why would I need God?  Yeah.  Think about it.   There are some things in this life that are WAY more than I can handle.  I’ve been through divorce, cancer and death of a husband, and the loss of a child.  ALL those things were more than I with my limited human strength could handle.  After Jack died, I heard this phrase at least once a day.  I wanted to pummel the consoler-if that’s what you can call someone who utters such words-with a bath sponge and tell them to get a better phrase book.   God might not give you more than you can handle but LIFE sure the heck does.

Drive

I can’t understand what evil genius devised those roadside information signs.  Sometimes there’s a simple message:  “Hurricane in the Gulf.  Be prepared.”  Or “Ice on road.  Drive with care.”  Usually, it is a silver or amber alert that reads like this:  “Missing elderly.  Male.  Driving 2002 Chevrolet Impala.  License plate XYZ112.  Needs medication.  From Houston.  Believed to be heading to Rio Grande Valley.  Call DPS if spotted.”  (“Oh and the car is red with a dent on the left fender.  And he’s wearing a blue plaid shirt.  That is all.”)   I end up with whiplash trying to read the entire message and wonder what I would do if Ollie Old Guy passed me.   They never publish a notice that says what happened to the elderly soul, whether they’ve been found or perhaps were just visiting a friend and forgot to pass the word to the kids.  Maybe they are just stopped on the side of the road or continuing to circle the city like some earthbound buzzard.

Which way do we go, George?

The same wishy-washy thinking that confuses me when making major decisions in my life can devil my driving.  My indecision with signs caused me to fail my driving test the first time.  I decided the Left Turn Only lane couldn’t really be the Left Turn Only lane because there was a car parked in that lane so it must be a parking lane and the turn lane must really be the center lane that looks like it isn’t but it is.  Maybe it’s not.  Oh, maybe it is.

When the DPS cop said, “That is the end of the test.  You broke the law by turning from the wrong lane and that’s an automatic failure,” I tried to explain the confusion.  He immediately looked like English was not his first language and all but put his fingers in his ears and started whistling “Dixie.”

The reality is that I am not a very good driver.  I am so grateful for other drivers who pay attention that I ought to have a printed “THANK YOU FOR NOT CRASHING MY SILLY REAR” sign that I can hold up when I’ve nearly changed lanes into another vehicle.

I read maps and drive.  Even slowing to 50 doesn’t make that a good choice.  I turn my phone off when driving because I am so compulsive that I will answer calls and texts.  It isn’t like I am good at returning calls.  I just can’t hear the vibration of a message alert or the ring of the phone without grabbing it.

All this confusion and all my bad habits mean that I should not spend much time in the driver’s seat.  But I do.  It is a rare day that I drive less than 100 miles between leaving home and getting back for the night.  That isn’t something that I just started.  When Jack was rehearsing for a play, I would pick him up, take him to practice, come back home to Portland, and return to get him at 10.  Long night.

The record for miles driven in a day is 315.  That’s miles between my house, work, job sites from the office to Ingleside to Texas A&M-CC and back to the office, Portland, Del Mar, Portland, the Substance Abuse Treatment Facility, Del Mar, Portland.  I thought about getting a chauffeur’s license or going to CDL school about that time.

According to FHWA, I drive more than a 35 to 54-year-old male, the age/gender category most likely driving a car.  The average for women is about a third of the miles per year that I drive, but the miles I drive per year are about a third of the miles that a cross-country truck driver would drive.

Average Annual Miles per Driver by Age Group

Age	Male	Female	Total
16-19	8,206	6,873	7,624
20-34	17,976	12,004	15,098
35-54	18,858	11,464	15,291
55-64	15,859	7,780	11,972
65+	10,304	4,785	7,646
Average	16,550	10,142	13,476

When I was younger, I told folks that the only reason I would re-marry was to have someone who would drive me around.  Cars can make me run screaming into the arms of a man well before any natural or man-made disaster.  Cars sentenced to my ownership usually get 100,000 miles on them before they are 3 years old.  I resent the fact that tires wear out or batteries go dead.  One more of the nice things about Bob is that he preps my car for a road trip before I leave town.  He’s diligent about oil changes and routine maintenance and gives me the hairy eyeball when I answer “5,000 or 10,000 ish miles, I think” when he asks how long it’s been since the last oil change.

Considering the mileage I cover on a yearly basis, I should have seen the entire United States two or three times.  The farthest I’ve driven by myself is Shreveport, LA.  That was once.  Beyond that, I’ve been a south to central Texas driver and I’ve flown if I wanted to tackle a distance greater than 1,000 miles.  And here’s the sad thing about my travelling life:  I was born in Rockport, raised in George West and Bishop, and have lived my entire adult life near Corpus Christi.  That means I haven’t lived more than 50 miles from my place of birth in my whole life.  But I’ve driven that distance by noon most days.

Do I have a desire to get in my car and drive for miles and miles?  Good golly, no!  For me, one of the rings of Hades is one where folks are just driving and driving until they get home.  Oops, got home and have to go to the store or pick someone up and drive and drive some more.

Wait. A. Minute!  That’s my life now.  Maybe I need to invest in Exxon or Valero.

Quitting time

That’s as opposed to “closing time” which was when people like me used to rush the bar to get the last shots of alcohol.  The time came when I didn’t wait for closing time because that would mean I was too drunk to drive.  Did I quit drinking?  No!  I carried my drinking rear home and continued a party of one.

Now you would think that would have been a sad and lonely way to party, but by the time I had gotten to that point, I wasn’t much of a fun party girl.  Besides, I had the committee in my head to talk to.  (“When he said that, I should have said…” or “Let me tell you what happened…”)  The voices in my head always agreed with me and if they didn’t I shut them up with another drink.  There’s a point where even the voices in your head have had enough.

A smart woman like me should have known that I had passed the magic hour of quitting time with my drinking.  Overstayed my welcome.  Was the veritable guest who smelled like stinky fish.  But no. Knowing when to say when has never been a talent of mine.

I used to play “Uncle” with my sisters.  There were two actions that might make you call “Uncle.”  One was to pinch an inch of skin and twist.  The other was an Indian rug burn.  That’s when you grasp the victim’s (a.k.a., sister’s) forearm firmly in both hands, and then twist your hands in opposite directions about her arm, causing the skin to stretch, making it red and sore.  In the U.K., Australia, and New Zealand they call it Chinese rug burn.  In India and China, it’s called buffalo rug burn.

We perpetrated those actions on one another until you couldn’t keep twisting or your sister cried “Uncle.”  I rarely cried “Uncle.”  I learned that toughness from my sister, Georgie the Elder, who would pit the two of us against our four boy cousins in china berry pelting wars.  The war usually ended when our cousin Matt would burst into tears and get his dad because my sister had an accurate and deadly pitch and would brave china berry bullets in the face so she could get a good aim and maim the “enemy.”  It never ended because we two girls surrendered.

Refusing to quit has held me in good stead at times and kept me in the stew at other times.  I persevered at construction estimating even when I didn’t have enough knowledge to do a good job.  Then I thought I would know more if I had either gone to college for estimating or worked on a construction site.  Today I know that it takes years of experience and mistakes to learn how to do a half-way accurate job of estimating work.  I know that the most detailed estimate still depends on factors beyond my control.  Weather, spiking fuel prices, budget constraints, or an intransigent and inexperienced engineer can explode the costs and sink the budget.

I might have walked away feeling that there was no point to even trying this career.  It is a career that has helped support us for years.  It is both challenging and rewarding.  I wouldn’t have known that if I’d just quit and taken up something different.

When I continue an argument well past quitting time, I have put myself into a stew.  Determined to have the last word, I have injured others directly with my words.  Sometimes I say the words face to face; more often, and most injurious, have been the words spoken behind someone else’s back.  The last word in those instances have had a painful ripple effect that I didn’t foresee.  I am a verbal hit man.

In sobriety, I’ve had to make amends for my inability to just quit talking and leave the fight alone.  I wish I could say that stopping drinking caused this character defect to go away, but I am still guilty of wanting to have the last word by whatever means are available.

I do glass cutting for both concrete inlay and stained glass.  Sometimes I make my pattern and sometimes I am idiot enough to freehand cut the glass.  There have been many times when I’ve wanted to throw my hands up and quit.  Often the offending design will sit on my drafting table waiting for me to come back to it.  Inevitably, I go back and finish.  It would be easier to quit, but I would never get to see my vision in 3-D.  I was talking to my niece about times when I want to walk away from a project.  Easy work.  Won’t quit.  Repetitive work?  Want to quit.  Impossible work?  Want to quit.  Impossible work once I’ve figured out how to make it work?  Can’t stop for sleep or food.  (Which never happens.  The food part, not the sleep part.  I can do without sleep.  When I quit eating, I will be in a ceramic urn.)

It has taken me a few years to believe that I have no control over anything that is beyond the tip of my nose.  I’ve spent-oh, heck, I still spend-time trying to manage my life and the lives of those around me.  And the lives of other people, places and things nearly always run counter to my happiness.  Maybe not all of them, all at once, but I’ve never been able to get a unanimous “Margaret’s way is right” from the universe.  I make myself miserable when I insist on universal approval.

If you surrender completely to the moments as they pass, you live more richly those moments. Anne Morrow Lindbergh

I went to a meeting this morning and a friend told about a time when his life was in tatters.  He said he ran into an acquaintance at HEB’s who asked him how things were going.  “Everything’s going according to plans,” he told her.  “Oh!  Isn’t that nice!  I love it when that happens,” she trilled.  “It’s not my plan,” he added.

We all laughed.  If I can quit playing God and know that God’s taking care of things, I can release my death grip on my concept of how things ought to be and I can have some measure of serenity no matter what is happening in my life.

That’s when yelling “Uncle” is a good thing.

Customer service update

The backhoe loader made it to Corpus Christi 30 minutes late.  We had gotten updates from the haul truck driver who should be their customer service manager.  He called when he left Laredo and when he was delayed by a flat tire.

Mentirosito’s boss came by the office to ask what he should be doing better.  I was enough of a jerk-face to give him a printed list of suggestions.  I had enough time between the phone conversation and the office visit to get over my tendency to be out of bounds obnoxious.  That’s a little different for me.  I often have to apologize when I have a legitimate complaint because I either cuss or act like a self-righteous jackass.

The company brought over a backhoe loader for Max to use while they service his machine.  They provided and furnished it for free.  Most of all, they were very nice to Max as they should be.  $51,000 is a chunk of change for the company to spend.

Was the new machine everything Max thought it should be?  It needs a couple of things fixed, some cheap and some a little expensive.  After Max checked it out, he said that “There’s nothing that can’t be fixed.  And they’ll fix it.  They are the best.”

The equipment company’s website has some strong promises of customer service.  It says:  Today, the Cat brand is one of many brands owned by Caterpillar, and it represents the largest and most respected family of products and services in earth-moving industries across the world. Backed by the unmatched support of a global network of Cat dealers, Cat products and services deliver superior quality and long term value, helping to accelerate the success of our customers worldwide.

I think the equipment company will try to keep Max’s confidence.  I hope so.

Customer service?

The company I’m working with turned 1 year old on 10/18.  That’s the day we got our first contract to actually build something.  The company’s owned by two brothers who got their start in utility/drainage construction more than 30 years ago.   For years, people told them to start their own company and when our previous employer closed their doors, Max and Manuel decided the time was right. 

Knowing Max, who shares my birthday, he took a poll of 20-30 people and went with the opinion of the last person he consulted.  Max says we are wishy-washy because we are Libras and that’s as good an excuse as there is.  A whole line of people can tell him one thing and he’s sure that they are right.  When one person offers an opposing opinion, he changes his mind.  Sometimes.  Usually.  And then has to ask another line of people to see what they have to say.

Max’s wife, Diana, is his office manager, bookkeeper, and receptionist.  She is the better half even though I don’t think Max will admit it.  She has been instrumental in getting Max to the digital age and educating herself on which government agencies are likely to work with a newly organized business. 

Back in June the need to buy a rubber-tired backhoe loader became apparent.  We had rented one almost continuously and renting heavy equipment is like renting a house.  It serves a purpose but it isn’t always wise in the long run.  These machines cost from $50k (used) to $75k (new) so the need to get financing was also apparent.  And in case you have been in a 41 month coma, banks are not quickly lending to small, emerging businesses.   

Diana made use of Accion Texas, a nonprofit organization that provides “solutions to business owners’ financing needs.”  They partner with SBA to offer loans for machinery and buildings to companies that might not qualify for traditional financing.  The paperwork requirement was huge.  Just about the time that Diana would think she provided Accion all the info they needed, they called with “just one more thing.”  She and I decided that they just didn’t want to make the loan and didn’t know how to tell us.  We joked that if this were accion, we wouldn’t want to see in-accion.

At the end of August, our Accion contact called wanting us to get accurate, up to the minute pricing for the backhoe.  At the end of September, they called to say they had approved Max for a loan.  It wasn’t for the amount we requested; it was for about 65% of it.  I’m not sure why they asked for us to verify, but it turns out they only have X number of dollars to lend on any given month and that was as much as they had at that time.  Waiting until they were more flush with $ wasn’t offered as an option.

Max thought about buying the machine that we had on rent, but Manuel only likes one particular brand and the machine we had did not carry that name.  After a couple of weeks of polling and re-polling, Max decided to go with Manuel’s brand and bought a used machine, sight unseen.  When Diana asked him about it, he snapped, “They are all good.  I don’t need to see the machine.”  She questioned whether he might not want to just look at a photograph of the machine, and his response was “NO!  I know what they look like.  I don’t need to look at another one.  They all look the same. And they are the best!”

End of that discussion.

The equipment company sent the invoice to Diana and told Max that the backhoe-loader would be at their shop for clean up and service on the 2nd.  Accion said they would have the check and loan papers for Max and Manuel on the 4th.  On the 3rd, Max called the salesperson whom we shall call Mentirosito; the machine hadn’t come in.  I put my camera in the car so I could take pictures of Max and Manuel with their new machine as soon as it appeared in Corpus.

I won't say the name of the company that sold us the backhoe-loader, but the animal pictured will give you a hint

When Accion came through with the check on Friday, the machine still hadn’t come to town.  “The people who had it on rental haven’t brought it in yet,” they said.  “It will be in late today and we’ll have it for you on Monday.” 

Over the week-end, Max and Manuel cleaned out the equipment bay that adjoins our office, sweeping it out to make it ready for the new machine.

Monday:  Took Brand X backhoe back in anticipation of the new machine coming to the job.  At noon, Mentirosito called and said that the machine hadn’t been brought in but they were sending a truck for it.  “It will be on the job tomorrow after lunch.”

Tuesday:  Max asked me to call the company and see if I could get a straight answer.  At 10 a.m., the salesperson said that they were sending a truck after the machine and it would be in their shop after lunch.  When I explained that we had sent our rented machine back to Brand X rental company because we thought we were getting our purchased machine, he was “so sorry.”  The best he could offer was free rental if we would haul the machine.  Hmmm?  Rental for $280/day; hauling for $350/each way.  Not much of a favor.

After lunch, Mentirosito wouldn’t return phone calls so I guessed (correctly) that the machine wasn’t there yet and most likely would not be there on Tuesday.  Left him a message to call me back with the name of his boss.  He called Max and said he didn’t want me to call his boss and that the machine would be in their shop on Wednesday.

Wednesday:  By noon, we hadn’t heard that Max could go look at the machine.  Max tried to get the salesperson to call him.  No answer.  I called and talked to Mentirosito after lunch.  The problem, he said, was that the company that rented the machine had kept it to clean it up.  “We charge A LOT of money to clean the machine.”  To my question of how much his company would back-charge the renter when our sales contract fell through, he didn’t have much to say other than he wasn’t really making any money off this sale.  Really.  Really?  Told him that he needed to check his company’s 501 (c) status so we could charge off the machine as a charitable donation.  He hung up on me.

Thursday:  Mentirosito’s answering machine message was new and said that callers should call his main office if he didn’t call back in 30 minutes.  After leaving him a message and waiting 60 minutes, I called his boss.  His boss was apologetic and said that they had sent a haul truck to get the machine.  Since I had heard that before, I asked for the haul truck driver’s phone number.  After verifying that there was (1) a haul truck driver and (2) a haul truck heading to Laredo to get the machine, I called the boss back. 

He said the machine would be at their yard by 3 and that he would call Max and Manuel so they could inspect the machine.  (I knew the ETA since I’d already talked to driver.)  Will the boss have to get the name “Mentiroso?”  I will know by 3:30.

Hand-made-in-America Christmas

Jack's Christmas Eve message, 2004

Bob’s sister, Shelley, posted an article on her FB page about making Christmas personal.  It starts out like this:

As the holidays approach, the giant Asian factories are kicking into high gear to provide Americans with monstrous piles of cheaply produced goods — merchandise that has been produced at the expense of American labor. This year will be different. This year Americans will give the gift of genuine concern for other Americans. There is no longer an excuse that, at gift giving time, nothing can be found that is produced by American hands. Yes there is!

It’s time to think outside the box, people. Who says a gift needs to fit in a shirt box, wrapped in Chinese produced wrapping paper?

The article goes on to suggest giving gift certificates for local restaurants, car washes, and maid services.  There were recommendations for friends and family of all ages.  The writer advocates buying crafted gifts from area artisans or hand-making gifts yourself.

I like the idea!

Our hearts grow tender with childhood memories and love of kindred...

Of course I do.  My family and friends have been recipients of my hand-mades for several years.  And I’ve been lucky enough to get their hand-work, too.  I have a great collection of  artwork made by my children and grandchildren.  This year I won’t think about framing them and hanging them on the walls:  I’ll do it!  Some of my most treasured possessions are hand-made gifts.  They make me smile whenever I use them.

I checked out buying American made and using local merchants for purchased gifts this Christmas.  One website, www.madeinusa.org, states, “Back to School and Gift Shopping begins with MADEinUSA Search Engine & Database.  Patriots start all their Holiday shopping looking for Made in America products to help out economy recover by creating and keeping more jobs here at home.”

and we are better throughout the year for having...

I felt a little guilty just reading the website’s statement.  The statement made me look at the assembly location of  my favorite tools/appliances.  I drive a Mazda Tribute (Japanese & Mexican parts/US assembly), treasure a Panasonic camera (China or Japan), watch a Sony TV (China or Japan), and use an LG phone (South Korean); but I am typing this on an HP computer (mostly US parts/US assembly) with a cup of coffee brewed on my Keurig (US).  Still, that doesn’t make me much of a Patriot so far.

in spirit, become a child again at Christmas-time. ~Laura Ingalls Wilder

Wanting to build up my Patriot soul, I started looking at toys that are helping the economy recover “and keeping more jobs here at home.”  There was an interesting choice, but many of the ones that I thought would be ideal had sold out.  I guess there are more Patriots out there than I imagined.  The MIA toys that were in stock ranged from a little to a lot more expensive than the MIC or MIJ toys.  Most of the good ones were A LOT more.  I find that my Patriot soul has the same price tag as my Eco-Geek soul.

Rats.

I want to act environmentally aware, but I used my recycling box as a planter until it got UV’d to splintereens.  I can’t keep track of my re-usable water bottles and end up buying plastic water bottles at Stripes.  I ended up donating the remaining rolls of recycled T’paper to the Salvation Army.  And I buy environmentally unfriendly cleansers because they clean better than the ones that don’t impact the environment.

Is there a middle ground that doesn’t make me squirm whenever I see displaced Polar bears and unemployed manufacturing plant workers?  I think there is.  Or at least there is a start.

1.  I’ve found that clothes shopping at resale shops works.  So does furniture shopping at my local curb just before the garbage truck rolls through.  I draw the line at unders and shoes, but pretty much anything else is fair game.

This is the message of Christmas: We are never alone. ~Taylor Caldwell

2.  I will continue to make gifts.  I find it a beautiful exercise to create and pray for the person I’m making a present for.  Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not a holy-roly, but I like using that quiet time thinking about why I love a person enough to make them a gift.  It’s a little hard to give that positive energy when I toss down Benjamins at Best Buy.

3.  I will buy American when I buy gifts.  That means I will make sure that I am really buying American and not foreign parts with a Made in USA stamp after import to our shores.

4.  I will continue GE’s tradition of recycling wrapping paper, tissue, and sacks.  She set me up with a starter box last year as a gift and I’ve used it all year.  (I’ve restocked it, too.)

5.  I managed to keep my live Christmas tree from last year and she’s still green.  I will use that tree again unless I can coerce Bob into hiking through a tree farm.  The problem with cutting a tree in south Texas is that you are wearing shorts and slaps and swatting mosquitos while you meander around the trees.

6.  I will celebrate this time of love with the knowledge that this season is about so much more than gifts-even great gifts.