Birthday

Birthdays have never been big celebrations in my life. During my growing up years, there was always chocolate cake - my favorite - and ice cream. A gift from Mom and Dad, one from my Godmother and one from a family friend and sometimes one from Grandma. When I was married, I made my own cake, bought my own ice cream and more often than not had to remind my husband that it was my birthday. I made a list of four or five things that I wanted or would like to have - and usually got something useful - for the kitchen. In 22 years, I recieved 2 gifts that were not tools and work related. One was a pearl necklace and one was a small blue bird in a frosted white plastic and silver chain cage to hang in the window. We went out to dinner a few times. Not that I didn't appreciate the gifts I recieved from I him, but it would have been great not to know what I was getting every year. Useful items for the house and kitchen can be purchased any time of the year. Birthdays, Christmas, Valentines, Mothers Day, anniversary - those should be fanciful days - well at least to my way of thinking! Days just to say - "I love you." "You are special."

In the years that I have been on my own, birthdays have been just another day. But this year, I decided that I wanted it different. If no one was going to celebrate with me, I'd make my own celebration. And I did.

My daughter called when I was at the store. I answered the phone to hear her begin singing - "Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Mo -om. I wish I was there with you! Happy Birthday to you."

"Hey you!" I answered. "I wish you were here, too. We'd have a drink and dance around the room a time or two!"

"Whatcha doin?" She asked.

"Well, I'm at the store buying junk." I replied.

"Junk?" She asked, a tone of surprise and puzzlement in her voice.

"Yeah, junk food to celebrate my birthday. You know - crackers, cheese, candy and wine to go with my whining." I flipped back. "I've never done this before and this year I decided to do things different. It's my day and I'm going to treat myself! Probably shouldn't, but what the heck. I've never had a party, so I'm makin my own!"

"Well, Mom it's your birthday. You celebrate it anyway you want!"

The next morning, I started out by getting my hair done. Then I met a friend, we ran some errands, got a cup of Starbucks mocha and headed for Duke's on the beach. It was my day and I wanted one of Duke's cucumber mojhitos. I had two and the folks at Dukes treated me well with birthday treats.

I didn't really have any plans, I just wanted to flow with whatever. The ferry to Vashon sounded like a good place to start. It wasn't dark yet and I love being on the ferry anyway, watching the waves, the sun across the water. Today, there was lots of debris in the water from heavy storms a few days earlier. Large logs, some with root systems - all dark shadows riding the waves.

I called a bed and breakfast and made a reservation. The Quartermaster Inn turned out to be a homey, friendly place. Troy apologized that the room wasn't ready and poured wine for the wait. A fire in the fireplace of the small lounge gave out a welcome warmth from the damp air outside.

The room was clean and I felt as if I was stepping back into the past with the furnishings and aura. I felt at home with an immediate sense of peace.

Next morning, the place was quiet and peaceful, not a soul moving. Troy came in and offered breakfast choices and built a fire. Scrambled eggs and bacon in front of a crackling fire. What a way to start the day!

A leisurely drive home and my birthday celebration was over. I think I'll do this again next year.

Ford Tempo Fixes

The first car that I ever bought off a lot by and for myself was a 1989 Ford Tempo. I liked my car and I took 'granny' care of it. I got the fluids checked and changed on schedule, babied it, pampered it. One of the first things I looked at when I bought it was that cheap spare doughnut tire. I didn't even like the idea of that, so I bought a full size spare and threw out the doughnut. When I had to replace a tire, I put two new ones on the front since it was front wheel drive, put the best of the remainder on the rear and compared what was left to my spare.

I was driving down the road one day when the car just died. I had it towed home to be looked at. On start, it took right off. A week or so later, going down the road, it died again. This time I had it towed to a repair shop. They had it for a day and couldn't find a thing wrong with it. A week or so later, it died going down the road and once again I had it towed to the shop. They called me next day saying they could find nothing wrong.

"I don't want it back until it's fixed! Something is wrong! The stupid thing keeps shutting off while I am driving down the road! I don't care what you do with the thing! Give it to one of your mechanics so that he can drive it back and forth home. But I don't want it back to break down on me again!" I said emphatically.

Two days later, the shop called me. The car was fixed. The mechanic had taken it home and on his way back to work, it shut down on him just as he was turning into the shop so they were able to get the diagnostic equipment on it immediately. The fuel pump, which is located in the fuel tank, was going out and acting up intermittently so it had not showed up on earlier tests.

Another time it needed a wheel job and my son did the left rear and then decided I should take it to the shop. I took it in and explained to the mechanic that all the wheels needed done except the left rear. It was already done and I didn't want to be charged twice, but I'd like to have the work done so that I could get to work that evening.

It wasn't ready so the shop gave me a ride to work. The mechanic brought the car to work for me late that evening and told me that I needed to bring it back because it was making a noise he hadn't had time to check out.

I got off work at one in the morning, got in my car and started out of the parking lot, but noise caught my attention and I stopped, then started slowly again. I stopped, got out and walked all around checking tires, but in the dark could spot nothing out of order. Out on the highway, the howling increased, so I pulled over to the side of the road and walked around again and again found nothing. I got in and once again started down the road, but the howling was grating. I slowed down, speeded up, but the howling remained constant. I rolled the window down, moving slowly to see if I could tell where the sound was coming from. I couldn't isolate it. It was an unnerving 15 miles home and then thinking of the sound kept me awake.

Next morning, I got up early to go into town and back to the shop. Before leaving home, I walked all around the car and still could see nothing amiss. The howling started as soon as the car moved. I couldn't figure it out, it didn't make any sense to me. It hadn't made that sound before it went into the shop, so it had to be something they had done. I was determined that they were going to fix it.

I drove slowly because I didn't understand the sound and its cause. Eleven miles into town and at the first red light, a pick up pulled up on my right side, the horn going incessantly. I looked over and the driver made a wavey motion with his hand and pointed down to my right rear wheel. I nodded and when the light turned green, I made a left turn and pulled immediately over to the side of the road. This time when I walked around and checked, I noted instantly that all of the lug nuts on the left rear wheel were nearly off. I shook as I first hand tightened them and then got out my tire tools to tighten as best I could. I stopped at the first service station to have them lock the lugs harder and I kept shaking until the moment I reached out to open the door of the repair shop. The door opened as I placed my hand on the knob and the mechanic who had worked on my car the day before stood startled in front of me.

I raised my hand, pointing my finger at him and began telling him exactly what I thought of him and his mechanical ability. He kept looking down at me and backing up as I kept advancing. When I finished, I turned, still shaking and left vowing never to return to that shop again. I don't recall ever having been so publically angry, nor had I ever told anyone off before, but his negligence could have resulted in an accident. He had put safety and lives at risk and I was furious at his slipshod work.

At noon, the owner called me and asked what had transpired that morning. I told him and he replied. "That explains it."

"What?" I asked.

"He cleaned out the till and walked out and no one knows where he is."

When I bought my truck, I gave the car to my son, but he is tall and lanky and it didn't work for him, so I gave it to my daughter. She drove it for a year before calling to ask me if she could sell it. "How much are you asking?" I asked.

"Well, I checked Blue Book and and the paper and came up with a price." She replied.

"Is that what you want for it?" I asked.

"I think that is all I can get, Mom."

"Fine, but if that is your top figure, advertise it for more and let them take you down to that price."

She sold it to the first caller who looked at it for the price she was asking in the ad. It was still clean, no body damage and well taken care of and the man wanted it for his son's first car.

Vehicle Maintenance

For the past two years I have had my brakes inspected since my truck is 8 years old. Two years ago, the servicemen said, "Still good."

Last year they said, "Time for new front brakes, the back are good for another year."

A week ago, those rear brakes started to let me know they were there, so today I took it to the shop. It was time for an oil change and the windshield wipers needed replaced. I wasn't going to mention the wipers, but the mechanic did and I decided I might just as well go for that repair while I was there.

I retired to the waiting room to work on an afghan I am making or read my book or just sit - I wasn't quite sure what. I got out the bag of yarn, hook and project and started to work. The door opened and another mechanic came in holding the air filter. "Do you want to replace the air filter?" He asked.

"Does it need it?" I returned.

"Well, it is getting pretty dirty."

"And how much for that?" I asked. When he told me how much I said, "Go ahead." Hoping it might help the slight hesitation I was beginning to notice.

I turned my attention back to my project. The fellow behind the counter spoke up next. "Your truck is gonna need a transmission flush soon, the oil is getting a bit dirty. And both the front and rear differential need serviced."

I got up and walked over to the service window. "What are we talkin here?" I asked. He got out his book and sarted looking up figures.

"Depends on what kind of fluid they put in to begin with. Uh oh."

"What?"

"They put the most expensive in yours. Now lets see how much its gonna need."

Turned out that transmission and differential service would add another two to three hundred to my bill which was already at five. "Can it wait?" I asked.

"I don't know. I did not look at it."

"Well look at it as if it were your vehicle and be honest with me." I said.

He left and returned in a few moments. "If you are looking at a long trip, I'd say do it. But if you're not planning on anything, it can hold off two to three months. It's not really bad. The color is just beginning to change." He went on to explain what that meant and together we decided that it would wait a month.

I like a mechanic and a shop that is willing to talk to me, explain and work with me.

I had a Ford Tempo before I got the truck. One winter, the heater quit working. I was working for a taxi company at the time and the shop mechanic looked at it. "Let's see if it is the motor or the switch." He said. He wired around the switch and the heater motor came to life. As soon as I got a chance I called the Ford dealership and made an appointment to get the car in.

"What's the problem?" The service tech asked when I arrived. I explained that the heater didn't work because the switch was bad.

"It's the motor." He said and began looking up the cost.

"It is not the motor." I replied.

"How do you know?" He asked.

"Because I had a mechanic friend check it out. He wired around the sitch and the motor works."

"It's probably the motor." He went on.

"I am not a mechanic, but if the motor works when you bypass the switch with power, then the motor is still good and the problem is in the switch. Am I right?"

"I don't know. I am not a mechanic. We'll have to pull it in and have a mechanic look at it."

My car was dutifully pulled in and a mechanic came over. "Need a new heater motor?" He asked.

I walked back to the car with him. "No. The motor works. Right now power to it is provided around the sitch and it works just fine. But if you reconnect the switch, the heater doesn't work."

"You need a new heater motor." He replied. "I really don't think it is the switch. But if it turns out to be, it is a major repair."

"What do you mean a major repair?"

"Well, the steering wheel has to come off and the whole dash has to be taken out to get at the switch. We'll have the car a few days."

"To replace the heater switch?" I asked.

"Yes. The whole dash has to be taken out and it takes time to disconnect all the wires and make sure they are connected right again." He explained. I went with him to check with the service tech to see what this would cost. I found out that the bill would be close to a thousand dollars mostly in shop time to replace a piece that cost just a few dollars.

I opted out of the deal and drove away deciding to call another friend whose son had a shop. "Bring it up and let's take a look." He said.

I drove the car into his shop and told him the story. He sat behind the wheel and looked closely at the dash set up. "This panel looks like it is set up just like the radio. I bet I can get it out with the same tools as I would to take that out. Let me see." He left and a few minutes later came back with small tools and in less time than it took to tell me, he had the panel off and the switch in his hand.

"We'll have to call Ford for a new switch." He said as he dialed their number.

"Is that a white Ford Tempo?" The dealership serviceman asked.

"Yup." My mechanic replied.

"She was just here less than half an hour ago. How do you know the switch is bad?"

"Because I am holding it in my hand."

"You need to take the dash out to get at that switch! You can't be holding it."

"Want to come over and I'll show you how this is done?" My young mechanic returned. "That switch panel comes out just like the radio and with the same tool. I can show you and your mechanics how to do it."

An hour later, I paid thirty five dollars for a job that took about ten mintues total for panel removal, new switch slipped in as easily as a fuse and panel replaced.

Sharing Memories

I got a call from my daughter today that touched me deeply. I hadn't mentioned to her that I was writing a blog, but last night, alone for while, she went on line and found a link to this blog site. She sounded a bit tearful as she said, "I learned things about my Mom that I never knew."

"And what was that?" I asked thinking about 'Railroader's Daughter.'

"You never talked about your childhood." She said. "About living along the tracks. I learned things about my Grandfather and your life with him. And it touched me, Mom. You know I don't really read a lot, but I read that and it touched me."

"What made you read it, then?" I asked.

"The way you write, Mom. You should really be writing. You are good. The way you write caught and held my attention."

I hung up thinking more about what she had said about not knowing much about my childhood. While we are busy raising children we often set aside the memories of our own childhood. And while they are young, they are too busy learning, growing up and having fun to be curious about it or ask questions. It is not, sadly, until many years later that we turn our attention to our heritage and history and often it is too late to learn much of it.

Many times, we talked of writing the story of our parent's lives, but somehow we were always too busy to take the time. I am fortunate to have this precious time with my father to listen and write. How I wish I could turn back the hands of time and do the same with my Mother. Most of her stories are gone with her.

I remember coming home to visit while I was pregnant with my daughter. My son was six years old and before we arrived, I warned him that his Grandmother liked to talk about her past. "Be patient with her. Listen politely or tell her you are tired, but be respectful."

The first night, I came into the livingroom where the couch was made out for a bed for him. Mom sat on the edge of the bed telling stories about World War II. "Son, don't you think it's a little late?" I asked.

He looked at me, a bit irritated, I noted. "Shshsh, Mom! Gramma's telling me stories!" He exclaimed and I realized that he was genuinely interested. It was the last time I interupted their bedtime story time. But it also brought back memories of other nights and night time stories.

Dad was gone a lot during the summer months on some railroad gang. Eastern Montana summers were often hot and generated violent thunder storms that struck in the night. Large windows were set in either end of the long combined dining/living room. When a storm drew near, lightening lit up the night sky like daylight and thunder rattled windows and woke us all up. We children would get up and stand momentarily in the doorway from our rooms until darkness took over between lightening flashes and then make a mad dash for the kitchen and then rush to the haven of Mom and Dad's bedroom. There we all piled onto the bed, Mom turned on a lamp and sat up to regale us with stories of her childhood in England, meeting Dad there during World War II and her own war stories living through bomb raids and working in a factory. When the storm abated, the thunder had faded into the distance and the lightening was back on the distant horizon, we reluctantly crawled off the bed and went back to our own.

How often I have thought that I should sit down and write my own stories, in my own words. What will I do with them and who cares, I wonder. When I look back over the years, I don't see much that would hold anyone's interest, but then I listen to Dad and know how many of us care and want to know more. My daughter's words gave me food for thought about my own past. Then I smile to recall the words I had heard so many times over the years driving a tour bus through Alaska and the Yukon - "You have led such an interesting life, you should write a book!"

Maybe some day I will

Railroader's Daughter

My father had a series of mild heart attacks this summer and since I had time off work, I spent some time with him. We had talked about writing the story of his life and this seemed the perfect opportunity. So I spent hours at his bedside in the hospital and taking care of him at home listening and writing.

We started - you might say - in the middle - with World War II. I can recall sitting beside him in the hospital as he recounted a story about Patton and a bridge on the Rhine River. My father was a motorized courier attached to General Omar Bradley's Headquarters. The bridge over the Rhine River had been blown up, Dad picked up mail going to Hiedleberg, Germany and was assured before he left Bradley's Headquarter's that a temporary pontoon bridge would be completed across the river by the time he arrived. They were still working on it when he arrived. He parked his jeep and waited. Patton arrived by jeep with a voice - according to my Dad - that could be heard for blocks. Patton jumped out of his jeep and walked over to the bank of the river.

"What happened then?" I asked.

With a twinkle in his eye, my Dad looked at me for a moment before speaking. "You can't write it." He said.

"What do you mean, 'I can't write it'?" I asked again, watching his facial expressions. That smile, that expression of mischief.

"You just can't!" He replied.

"Well! What happened, Dad, that I can't write?" I asked again.

Dad laughed softly and began hesitantly in order to find the right words. "Well, Patton turned to look at the troops and said loudly, "Just what I've always wanted to do!" P--- in the Rhine River!" And with that he turned back to the river, unzipped his pants and did just that. Then he turned back to holler, "Now lets get these #@*#@ tanks across the Rhine!"

I looked at my father and the expression on his face. I had already heard about his landing on Omaha Beach. Now I watched him closely. "But remembering how you came off the barge on Omaha Beach, you were already waiting and gunning your jeep motor, weren't you Dad?" It was more a statement than a question.

"Yup." He said softly and slowly. I knew before he spoke the words, what he was going to tell me and I had to laugh.

When we finished the story of World War II, we went on to his return to civilian life, his marriage, his struggles as a rancher and then the opportunity to work on the railroad. I had the opportunity to go back to my childhood days growing up along side the railroad tracks of Eastern Montana as I listened to my father recount his days working on the old Great Northern Railroad. I have sat for hours writing his memories of those days while he recovers from heart problems. His first day of work on the Great Northern was my sixth birthday.

I don't remember moving in - I was only about 6 1/2 years old when we did - but just like it was yesterday, I can see the two houses our family lived in. The railroad crew houses were two room buildings - not quite big enough to accommodate a family with two adults and five children, so we moved into two of them. One building had a long front room which served as kitchen, dining and living room. The small room in back was Mom and Dad's bedroom. Next door, the long front room was the boys bedroom while my older sister and I shared the small bedroom. There were no indoor facilities - that little building was out back - on the bank of the irrigation ditch which ran behind the railroad houses.

A roadway separated the houses from the railroad track, so we learned safety first early. The station master's house was next to the 'bedroom building' and across the drive from that was the depot. I loved going into the depot and listening to the sound of the telegraph keys. On cold winter days, a big pot bellied stove in the center of the room was warm and welcoming. The depot had a unique aroma that to me smelled like the railroad.

Across the tracks was a stock yard, an old beet dump and a grain elevator. The stock yards was a good place to play Cowboys and Indians and hide and seek when it wasn't full of cattle or sheep waiting to be shipped out. During the winter, the beet dump ramps became a sledding hill. I was never in the grain elevator, but I can recall the sounds it made when it was operating.

The school and the general store were on the hill above. Whenever we children crossed the tracks, we took the opportunity to walk the siding rail as far as we could. We stayed off the main line, that was no place to play.

The work locomotives came through often. An engine and caboose and a few cars. The engineers knew the children along the track. We watched for them eagerly because often the engineer would throw a handful of candy as they passed by slowly. When the train had passed, we ran to collect the goodies.

I remember one Christmas, Mom and Dad bought a set of yellow play phones - one for the main house and one for our bedrooms. Dad strung the line between the houses. When they wanted lights out or quiet, the phone was put to good use. They didn't have to bundle up and go out in the cold winter weather.

I can still remember lying in bed on cold winter nights and listening to the wailing of a distant train whistle. It was a lonely sound that hung in the air long before the rumble of wheels could be heard and then the house shook as the train rushed past.

There was an empty lot between the main house and the section foreman's house. How I envied them that big house. A huge rambling two story building with large rooms and a big fenced yard with trees. When I grew up, I was going to have a house just like that.

We lived along the tracks for about five years before Dad bought property up on the hill, bought the two houses from the rail road and moved them to sit side by side on a foundation. The space between the buildings was closed in and became a long room - combined dining and living room. But still no indoor facilities - we didn't get that luxury for a few more years and no real phone until I was in high school. The family grew to include eight children and we certainly needed a bigger house.

Dad's story goes far beyond that small area - he worked on the section gang there and later was often gone most of the summers working on steel gangs or tie gangs all over Eastern Montana. He went on to become a track inspector working into North Dakota and the was promoted to road master and transferred to Washington state where he eventually retired after 30+ years of service.

Listening to and writing his stories down gave me a unique opportunity to relive my early years growing up as a railroader's daughter. It also gave me an insight to a side of my father's life I would otherwise never have known. The time I have spent with him in this task is a treasure of immeasurable value.

Background Music

Once it was called elevator music, maybe because the only place you heard it was on an elevator. But it has migrated to every corner of the public now. I have noticed that recently, it is no longer a soft, soothing background music. In the rest room of shopping centers and chain stores, the volume is high enough that you could not hold a conversation without raising your voice to be heard and when a sales announcement interupts, forget the conversation. your voice has been drowned out by the announcer.

A few months ago I went into a huge shopping mall and exited a major store into the mall itself and was bombarded by a cacophony of babbling from overhead speakers as well as the swell of voices in the mall itself. I approached a small snack stand to order a hot dog and had to wait for a moment for the end of an announcement and then raise my voice to nearly a shout to speak to the attendant across the counter.

"How do you deal with this all day long?" I asked

He shrugged nonchalantly and said, "You learn to tune it out."

"It makes me want to leave and never come back." I replied.

The major store I had just exited had its own background music, which I could still hear. In the last clothing department near the mall doors was a TV facing the mall. A major sports figure was giving a continual dissertation about an item of clothing and I could hear his voice. (Remind me not to shop in that department or buy whatever he was pushing!!) Back ground music from adjacent stores, the sounds from a rain forest cafe and the overhead mall's background music added to the jumbled mess of indistinguishable gibberish. Add to that the voices of people trying to talk to each other and be heard over the din and the sound was nothing that would encourage me to spend any time here window shopping or any other type of shopping. I only wanted out as quickly as possible in order to hear some semblance of order and find peace and quiet.

I use to like being at the airport prior to a flight. I always bring a book or two and curl up in a quiet corner to get lost in the world between the covers. Even that is no longer possible. Several TV screens have been added to the waiting rooms, each on different channels and each blaring volume to be heard over the others. Airport loud speakers have never been loud and flight announcements are lost in the din of a sports game or news replayed endlessly. I tucked my book away and let my thoughts drift back to a book I'd read years before about how the public would some day in the future be bombarded by propaganda at every turn, never to escape the unending sounds. Then I had thought it would never happen, that people valued peace and quiet. How wrong I was!!

Hospital waiting rooms and doctors offices offer no peace either. A television hangs suspended from a wall usually tuned to a channel I would never watch and now cannot escape. Whether I am waiting for a loved one undergoing some procedure or in pain and not feeling well myself, I am now forced to endure sounds when I'd rather have silence and peace. If I was stressed when I came in, I leave far more so.

Even at home there is no peace. Everyone likes something different and must have the volume turned high enough to damage their own hearing as well as those within the structure. A television in the livingroom plays and replays the same news stories every fifteen minutes 12 hours a day. From the family rooms comes the thrum of sounds from video games or movies played on high def speakers. In a back bedroom, the voice of a country music singer tries in vain to be heard over his own background music.

If you think that peace and quiet can be found in the woods, think again. I have driven back country roads and then hiked to the peak of a mountain, sat down on a protruding rock and watched the world in mineature below and whether I am facing the freeway or on the backside looking down at a tiny lake, the roar of traffic fills the air.

I went to Alaska after a year in the states and laid down in a bed that first night for only a moment before sitting up, listening intently - to the sound of silence. Not a siren, no rumble of wheels on cocrete, no roar or thrum of aircraft overhead, no thudding and bumping of heavily loaded trucks, no squeeling tires, no TV, no loud stereos, no voices. Just blessed silence - the absence of sound.

Surviving Disaster

I awoke this morning and again the news is filled with the situation in Haiti. Two weeks ago, I pulled the door closed on a storage unit that held nearly all of my worldly goods. I had kept the barest minimum to load into the back of the truck and I turned to face the world - no job, no home, no place to go. Depending on unemployment benefits to pay for gas, insurance, food and truck payment. I look at the world around me. I look at my options and though I feel as if the world has fallen apart around me, I know that it is nothing compared to the loss of those who went through the quake in Haiti. There are times when I feel my situation is completely hopeless, but I look at the scenes on TV and I know that those people who have lost so much more have far more hope than I feel. Out of the dust and debris of every disaster has come hope and heroism and the determination to survive and move on, creating a better world for those who have made it through.