I See Dead People: Being Part of the Ghoul Squad Has Nothing to Do with Halloween

 

 

I'm not the kind of guy who refuses to learn from experience. Well, at least, usually. Sometimes I plow ahead knowing full well the outcome of the endeavor probably isn't going to be positive. Those who know me well will insist I'm a glass-half-empty guy, but I normally don't view myself that way. If I was, I would have retreated to the blackness of depression or drunk myself into a permanent stupor long ago. No, I have always soldiered along, pushing forward with the expectation things will get better. It's been my experience that they do.

Sometimes I've had to swerve out of my comfort zone to make things happen. I've embarked on several leaps of faith over the years. My move to Greenville 12 years ago being among them. The odds were that a single, 57-year-old guy with few resources, no source of income or local emotional support could plant his flag in a strange land and make good. Well, to date, I wouldn't call where I am “making good,” but I've been successful keeping my nose above the waterline both emotionally and financially. As always, I've leaned on good friends and family to help keep me on the rails and my eye on the ball.

Staying on track through this WuFlu nonsense has been challenging. As I look around at my favorite restaurants, bars and breweries as they struggle to keep their doors open, at least a small staff employed and the wolves from the door, I realize I've had it pretty good since the two-week nationwide lockdown to flatten the curve began, oh, 38-or-so weeks ago.

Land of the free, home of the brave, my ass.

My largest client furloughed me in mid-April. In the world of business, freelancers are always the first to go. Hey, I've been doing this a long time. I get it. That's why businesses employ freelancers: They are easy to jettison when things get tough. They are also easy to bring back as things get better. This client is once again tossing some steady work my way. (Insert sigh of relief here.)

In the meantime, I haven't managed to keep the home fires burning by my good looks and savings. Good friends of mine in Greenville tossed me a lifeline more than three months ago. They own a funeral home. In fact, they own one of the busiest funeral homes in South Carolina. They offered me a job with the provision, I could work as much or as little as I want. I gladly took the offer.

This isn't my first foray into the funeral-home business. I worked at a Louisville funeral home during the summer between my freshman and sophomore years in college. It was 1970, and things in the funeral business were much different. I actually stayed in a small dormitory in the bowels of that funeral home every-other night and every-other weekend. My main job was to answer the phone in the middle of the night, take down the information needed to retrieve a body and call one of the licensed guys to come in to oversee the retrieval. He and I would then go to the private home, nursing home or morgue. I would also work services. On many a quiet evening there, buddies would arrive, pizza in hand, to keep me company. It was an interesting experience for a 19-year old.

Fifty years may have elapsed since my last funeral-home experience, but it's like riding a bike, right? Not exactly. I am still a member of the ghoul squad, retrieving bodies and doing whatever else is needed around the place, but an answering service and a guy who does all the after-dark pickups have replaced the dormitory. A giant leap forward, in my book.

A new wrinkle this go-round is doing cremations. This funeral home has a cremation oven, or a retort in polite company. One of my main responsibilities is everything involved in cremating. We probably average 13 or 14 cremations during a five-day-work week. That's a lot. Then there are the traditional burials on top of that. Yep, it's a busy place.

Do you want to know two things I've learned over the past three months? I'm willing to stick my hand in almost anything as long as I'm wearing latex gloves. Yep. I just wrote that.

The other thing to which I can now attest is, widespread obesity is a thing. I am still suffering from a shoulder tweak I received the second day on the job trying to push a 350-pound lardass into the oven. That's the easy part, though. Trying to get that 350 pounds down three flights of stairs is the hard part. I need to get back to the gym.

I won't say my presence is invaluable there, but I try to make a difference. I've even suggested sort of a happy way to answer the phone: “If you're soon to join the dear departed, we've got the equipment to get you started.” So, far they've declined to adopt this upbeat, informative greeting. I'm not sure why.

Until my inbox overflows with writing assignments, I will continue to work Wednesday through Friday to the tune of about 21 hours a week. Sporadically, I also work a service or two on my off days. I'm not growing rich, but it's always good to have steady money rolling in.

Trails End: A Wrapup of the Great Wyoming RV Adventure of 2020

 

I'm not the kind of guy to jump the gun, but in the case of The Great Wyoming RV Adventure of 2020, I'm wrapping things up a day early. Currently, it's the morning of Day 3 of the 3.5-day return trip home. The truth is, I should have saved this slice of prose to write tomorrow. However, who knows what tomorrow will bring? I certainly won't have time after I arrive back in Greenville to pen a final summary.


My intention was to do a much more thorough job chronicling this boondoggle with video and blogging. The best-laid plans....


My enthusiasm for videoing was stunted by the realization that Eatons' Ranch is a technological black hole. Nearly nothing gets in or out. It's as though the property is encased in a dome resistant to cell phone, Internet or TV communication. Although some may welcome the loss of touch with the outside world as they rough it in the wilderness, it's never been a big selling point with me. No matter where or when I am, as a freelance writer, I must always do at least a modicum of work. That's tough when isolated in a no Wi-Fly zone.

Some of the boys at an after-ride happy hour at the Magnificent Bastard.

This was my 11th Eatons' outing and its familiarity hindered my enthusiasm for noting every little aspect of daily routine there. Compounding my lackluster attitude, I didn't ride this year. Nope. I've looked my mortality in the eye and I blinked. After 10 years of trail rides there, I didn't feel the odds were in my favor. When you ride with any regularity, the question isn't will you get turfed, but when will you get turfed? I have had friends tossed from their saddles there – some with alarming results.


There were only another 20 or so guests at the ranch while we were there. Yet, a lady managed to get bounced off her steed, resulting in a multifracture-shoulder injury. No thank-you. Uncle Russ is precious cargo not to be dropped, thrown, bounced or heaved. Ten fingers, ten toes, right?


Food at the ranch is always a roll of the dice. My first couple of years going there (Beginning in 2003, I think.), a married couple wrangled the kitchen. He cooked and she baked. For our money, it was a marriage made in heaven. The meals were exceptional, accented by homemade rolls, bread and breakfast pastries. The third year was a bit of a disappointment. The couple had moved on to open a restaurant in Surprise, Arizona. The food was fair, at best. Then came the Dark Years.


We always go to Eatons' in September beginning the weekend or so after Labor Day. We arrived that year to learn the ranch had fired its dining room chef two weeks before. Manning the kitchen fell to the lady who tended the garden. If you have even once operated a microwave oven, your skill level is equal to hers. Often having described the food scene there as that of a cruise ship, we were horrified by the gruel being dished out three times a day. On the next visit, the food was marginally better. This year we were greeted with some seriously good grub prepared by a twenty-something guy. There wasn't a miss among the 11 meals we consumed this visit.


Our days were punctuated with after-dinner sessions on the porch. With 10 bottles of bourbon and single malt scotches, as well as a variety of craft beers and a tequila, at our disposal, our evening bull sessions were well lubricated. I turned the main room of our cabin into a video studio and a few of us shot two bourbon and a craft-beer videos over the course of our stay.


Our trip home got underway after breakfast on Saturday. One of the brothers had to ferry us and our gear to the RV, which was parked in a field roughly half a mile from our cabins. As we spooled up the RV's many systems, Hal discovered the power driver's seat, which was positioned as near to the steering wheel as possible, wasn't operating. Hal stands at 6 ft 6 in.


In the early planning stages of this trip, we thought Ports and I would spell Hal behind the wheel. This was before Hal had driven the Magnificent Bastard for the first time. Once that happened, we all realized he would be the only driver. I could have managed to drive this beast with the seat in the full forward position, but I'm nearly a foot shorter than Hal. So, here we were, parked in an open field with a 15-minute walk to the ranch office and no phone service. We couldn't search for solutions on the Internet because we had no service.


Hal opted to squeeze behind the wheel and drive us off the ranch. Because I was streaming video when we arrived a few days earlier, we knew there was Internet mere feet outside the ranch entrance. So, with his knees nearly touching his chin, Hal coaxed the Magnificent Bastard down the 3-mile driveway to roughly 50 yards beyond the gate. Bingo! We had a connection. Hal put in calls to everyone he had contact with at the RV dealership, as well as the driving instructor he spent two days with and the technicians at a 1-800 number he had. He left messages all around.


We then discovered the power passenger seat was also dead. After checking the circuit breakers, Hal began checking the wiring under the passenger seat and found a connection that wasn't secure. Both front seats rotate to face the rear of the RV. We had rotated them around upon our arrival at the ranch and then back to their driving positions when preparing to leave. Apparently, that had disturbed the wiring. Making that adjustment made both seats operational, but we had lost nearly 45 minutes.


Rolling into our overnight RV-park accommodations in North Platte, Nebraska at 9:30 that night, we were tired, frustrated and cranky. Here's a tip about RV parks: They aren't designed for after-dark arrivals. No lights, site locations with no rhyme nor reason, unintuitive hookups and so forth don't make 9:30 setups optimum. When we finally found our appointed site, the surface was a thick layer of gravel. The RV's automatic leveler doesn't cotton to gravel. Twenty minutes, several attempts to level and two repositionings of the RV later, we were able to level it and extend the slideouts.


Oh, but there's more. Where the RV finally came to rest was farther away from the electrical hookup than our power cord was long. Hal has read every piece of literature on the infinite situations one might face when RVing. He accumulated several lists of the must-have things for every RV and purchased them all. “We do have an extension cord somewhere, boys,” he exclaimed. “I just have to find it.”


A quick search through two or three of the storage bins under the RV was rewarded with a 25-foot 50-amp extension cord still in its unopened box. It says “50 amp” right on the box and on a tag attached to the cord. It is, however, not a 50-amp cord configured for extending the reach between the RV's power cord and the hookup. It has some sort of bastardized fitting on the female end that is neither 50 amp, 30 amp or any other amp we have been able to identify. It's a mystery amp. There we were leveled, but sitting six feet short of the power source. Now it's after 10 p.m. and we can't run the generator out of respect for our neighbors.


What transpired next is just one of those episodes of serendipity leaving you both grateful and scratching your head. As we stood there considering our next action, the door to the RV next door to us opened and out stepped an older guy in his bathrobe with a dog on a leash. “You guys all right?” he asked. Hal explained our situation. “What you need is an extension cord,” he responded. Hal noted we had an extension cord, but it had the wrong female connection. “I have one,” he offered, “but I'm leaving tomorrow.” We told him we were as well. Thirty seconds later he handed us a 10-foot extension cord and we were in business. Not exactly loaves and fishes, but a miracle in our eyes, nonetheless.


Fierce and relentless, the 15- to 20-mph crosswind through most of Nebraska challenged Hal for hours. A Class A RV presents a similar target for the wind as a mizzen sail on a boat. It is one large, light slab that a strong wind pushes all over the road. Conspiring with the wind was the legion of 18-wheelers whizzing by at 70 miles per hour. That was our Sunday.


This three-man squad, though, has transformed into a well-oiled pit crew. Whether it's refueling where one of us, armed with a walkie-talkie hops out and provides real-time directions when positioning at the pump, to the actual act of fueling where one of us goes inside to purchase snacks as another pumps the fuel and the third finds an extended length squeegee and washes the windshield, or its setting up at an RV park, things unfold much more smoothly than they did a few days ago. We rolled into our campground in Columbia, Missouri at 7:30 on Sunday evening, by 7:50, we were plopped down in the RV munching on popcorn and watching TV. Setting up, once parked, took no more than 10 minutes to level, as well as hooking up power and water. A high-five-worthy accomplishment.


Saturday and Sunday were 500-plus miles days. Today, however, is mapped out at fewer than 400 miles. Tuesday will be a 200-mile as we make the final leg into Knoxville. Time to relax.

Wyoming or Bust: Day 3.5 or So

The brothers at happy hour 30 minutes after our Eatons' arrival. From the left: Scott Spayd, Rick Fowler, Bruce Kirkpatrick, finally a handsome guy, Hal Mclean, Randy Porter and Pat Hillard.

 

I'm not the kind of guy who splits hairs over an hour or two, but, in reality, Day 3.5 of our journey from Knoxville to Eatons' Ranch in Wolf, Wyoming was more like Day 3.8 or 3.85. How's that for splitting hairs? When I mapped this trip out, the final driving day was to be four to five hours long. I expected to roll into the ranch around 1 p.m. A variety of factors foiled the successful completion of that schedule.

As with every morning, we got a later start than I had anticipated. Even with eating breakfast in the RV, rather than stopping at a restaurant, we didn't get on the road until about 9:30. We decided the day before that we would take a side trip to Mt. Rushmore, involving roughly 60 additional miles of driving. Moreover, we lost another 45 min or so getting as close to the spectacle as possible once parked.

Here's the secret to fast-and-easy parking at Mt. Rushmore: Pull up in a 38-foot, Class-A RV. Upon entering, after our old-timers' 50-percent discounted entry fee, we were directed to the bus parking right at the walking entrance to the monument. Once out of the RV, we had a 20-step slog to the entrance. Sweet! We spent a little time milling around, snapping photos of the quartet of stoned presidents. And, then it was time to boogie. In other words, we didn't channel our Clark Griswald visiting the Grand Canyon, but we didn't hang around for an undo amount of time, either.

Achieving RV maneuvers, like positioning at a gas pump and backing up, requires one person outside eyeballing the situation and reporting the RV's exact relationship to unmoving objects via a walkie talkie, as one person in the passenger seat conveys that information to Hal. We had to kick this operation into gear backing out of our Mt Rushmore parking space. There was plenty of room, but there was also mucho traffic of the vehicle and pedestrian varieties. I was outside and after successfully completing the backup, I noticed the 30-something guy from the rig next to ours standing behind his RV with a cup of coffee studying the process. “Wow,” he exclaimed, “Walkie talkies. I never thought of that. I'll have to add it to my list.” Apparently, we weren't the only RV pilgrims loose in South Dakota.

 

Never get tired of seeing this.

We lost our bearings getting out of the park and back on to I-90. This involved an extra half hour to reorient ourselves and get back on the road. Tick Tock.

I forget whether it was Day 3 or Day 3.5, but at some point, we had to pull over and perform a bit of battlefield surgery on the Magnificient Bastard. A metallic flapping sound suddenly arose. As we rolled down the highway, the two nondrivers wandered all around the RV's interior searching for the culprit. We saw a bit of vibration in the galley ceiling fan cover and attributed the racket to that. We were in the process of Paper-Rock-Scissors to see who would climb on top of the rig with duct tape to seal the cover when I suddenly realized the issue was somewhere outside the rig. Glancing in the passenger-side outboard mirror, I could see an outside cover flapping away. Looking at it through the convex, wide-angle mirror, I believed it to be a storage-bay cover.

After finding a safe place to pull off the road, we dismounted to check the covers. They all seemed secure. Shrugging our shoulders, the other two guys were climbing back into the coach when I noticed a screw missing on the panel covering access to the refrigerator. Sure enough, that was the issue. Applying a strip of duct tape solved the problem and we were back on the road.

Because my Sometimerz does kick in sporadically, I mistakenly related the Mt Rushmore adventure as part of Day 3. In reality, it was part of Day 3.5. If you missed it, you can catch yourself up by reading the previous Clanging Bell.

No longer fighting the 15-20-mile crosswind we dealt with during our trek across South Dakota, our drive through Wyoming was quite pleasant and uneventful. The hours and slightly rolling landscape passed quickly enough. 

 

This is only half of the bourbons, single-malt scotches and whiskys on hand. Yes, a bit of high-end siping is on tap.

We rolled into Eatons' Ranch around 4:45 p.m. Hal found an out-of-the-way spot to park the RV. Sadly, it was a quarter of a mile from our cabin. Using one of the other guy's vehicles, we transported our luggage and my video gear to the cabin. The next morning we had to move the RV even farther away, which was okay because it was a larger, flatter area where we could extend the levelers and deploy the slideouts.On the other hand, it was a real pain to access as we discovered must-have items left behind.

Here endeth the summary report for Day 3.5.

Wyoming or Bust Boondoggle: Days 2 & 3

 

I'm not the kind of guy who always works and plays well with others. I've spent the past 30-or-more years on my own only needing to consult with myself about impending decisions, and only worrying about myself when it comes to setting a time to eat, shower and shit – plus nearly anything else that crops up in my life. If that makes me a curmudgeon, so be it.

So, here I am slogging along in a 38-ft RV with two fraternity brothers (both, by the way, roommates in our college days) on a trip from Knoxville, Tennessee to Eatons' Ranch in Wolf, Wyoming. We are currently in day 0.5 of this 3.5-day mission. How am I holding up? Let me just say, I couldn't pass the psych evaluation to serve on a submarine. My mood has evolved from “Oh What a Beautiful Morning” on morning one three days ago to “Somebody Give Me a #*$@$ Drink” today.

I'm an early riser and have been the first out of bed each morning (about 5:30 or 6, regardless of the time zone) of this boondoggle. If I were alone, I would have been on the road an hour later. This morning, three hours evaporated between my rising and pulling out of the RV site at the KOA in Rapid City, South Dakota. Tick-Tock.

Because of this rig's mammoth size, there is a lot of storage; yet, there really isn't enough. We spend a fair percentage of our day moving things from here to there to there and then back to here, as we proceed through our day. Because there are three of us playing object roulette, there is also a lot of “Hey, where did you put this thing or that?”

I tell you all of this simply to convey my state of mind at this point.

 

Here kitty, kitty, kitty. Up close and personal.

Having established that I'm a bit cranky, we did make it all the way through day three without consulting the often-viewed “walk-around video.” That's a huge leap forward. At the end of the day, there was much cheering and high fiving. Hooking up at last night's KOA park looked like an Indy pit crew. Good thing because it was close to 9 o'clock at night when we rolled into our slip. This was thanks to a much-appreciated side jaunt into the Badlands National Park; during which, we turned up a dirt road to take a closer gander of some bison we saw next to the road. Getting within about six feet of one of these magnificent animals was our reward for making that error in judgment. We had given no thought to how we were going to turn around.

This washboard road eventually would dump us out on another secondary road that went all the way into Rapid city, roughly 40 miles away. OK, but not optimum. Fortunately, we came upon a Viewpoint with an entrance and an exit. We turned around and headed back to our preprogrammed route.

The most exciting activity on Day 2 was dumping the waste tanks. This is not intuitive. There are hoses to connect, reconnect and disconnect. There are valves to throw, a sewage line to hook up and much swearing to be achieved. We were about an hour later getting underway that morning than scheduled. We ate at the same truck stop for breakfast as we had for dinner the previous evening. Yes, it was that good. Among the food we snarfed down were two cinnamon rolls: one regular and one with icing. Oh, Momma, they were good. So good, in fact, I ordered an iced one to take with me for breakfast on Day 3.

Day 2 was a haul from Mt. Vernon, Illinois to Nebraska City, Nebraska. It was, for all intents and purposes, uneventful. We skipped dumping the waste tanks on the morning of Day 3, and got off to a somewhat timely start. Not timely enough, however, to accommodate our side trip into the Badlands.

 

What the heck? Actual condiments on the table. What is this 1955?

Northern Iowa and South Dakota were a breath of fresh air. Traffic all but disappeared and the quality of the paved surfaces improved dramatically. The Butterfield Trail was better maintained than the freeways in Illinois. I'm still searching for one of my fillings. Although the paved surfaces were primo, Hal had to fight a 20-mile-per-hour crosswind most of the afternoon. We arrived in Rapid City around 7:30 pm. We stopped at a Flying J (Hals preferred fuel stop) fuel station and topped off the tank. We then moseyed into the restaurant for dinner. To our amazement, there were actually salt-and-pepper shakers, as well as condiments, on the table. God Bless South Dakota. We ate some better-than-average truck-stop grub and set off in search of the KOA Campground where we had a site reserved.

The drive from the Flying J to KOA was Hal's maiden after-dark-driving experience in the Magnificent Bastard. He did fine. We rolled into the KOA around 9:00, after closing time. There was an envelope with my name on it in a rack on the outside office wall. After a bit of searching in the dark, we found our slip. After all of our success setting things up and taking them down on Sunday night and Monday morning, we stumbled attempting to hook up to the city water at KOA. There were leaks galore that we simply couldn't overcome. Our solution was to let it leak, finish cleaning up for bed, then turning off the water supply for the night.

No one wanted to hang out last night. We were beat. It was lights out before 10 to prepare for Day 3.5.

The Great Wyoming RV Expedition: Day One

 

Everyone looks good at the starting line. Well, nearly everyone. From left: me, Ports and Hal.

I'm not the kind of guy who shies away from an adventure. In fact, in the case of an RV trip from Knoxville to Wolf, Wyoming, I actually instigated it. You may think to yourself, what's the big deal? It's just like driving a big truck, right? Ummm, no.

Here's the thing, we are in uncharted waters. I helped my fraternity brother Hal pickup this 38-ft monster two weeks ago. Up until that point, he hadn't done anything, but research it, walk through it and ask the salesman a few questions. If you are among the RV unwashed as I was a scant 36 hours ago. I did have the benefit of going through the technician walkthrough before Hal actually closed on the deal, but, by in large, I am an RV virgin, a novice, a fledgling, a plebe – you get the picture.

Hal and Ports, my other fraternity brother on this boondoggle, aren't much ahead of me. So, every process is a learning experience. Every issue a Chinese fire drill. As Hal and I followed around the technician as he explained each system on closing day, I videoed the entire walk through. The following week, I edited down more than two hours of video to a more manageable 75 minutes. I have had to drag out my laptop and open up that video file at least five times in the past day and a half to determine how to switch electric sources, get the cabin AC running, drain and flush the waste tanks, and so forth.

Hal spent two days between picking up the RV and leaving on this trip at RV-driving school near Nashville. He has done an amazing job of piloting this battleship down the highway. I, meanwhile, have done a little writing for a client, read, relaxed and napped. I restrained myself from having a beer or a pull from the bottle of James E Pepper 1776 bourbon I brought on this trip until we docked at the Archway RV Park around 4:30 on Saturday. Yes, I'm a saint and an inspiration to my fellow travelers.

So far, we've spent a lot of time doing this.

Besides the fact Illinois has the worst paved surfaces this side of Texas Hill Country, the one thing I've learned is that everything you need to do in operating this vehicle, which I have christened the “Magnificient Bastard,” requires a procedure. Flip this, turn off that, and turn yourself about. It's nuts. As we get deeper into the experience, our hope is the veil will be lifted and things will become ever easier. Hope, however, as my daddy always told me, is for missionaries. So, we'll see.

Today we have miles (470 to be exact) to ge before we sleep, miles to go before we sleep. Destination: Victorian RV Park in Otoe, Nebraska.

WuFlu Blues: A Personal Ode to the Months-Long Lockdown

I'm not the kind of guy who wants a solid 30 minutes of creativity to go unnoticed. Therefore, I decided to publish a poem I wrote answering the request of one of the car companies for short notes, videos and audio recordings offering a diary of what each of us did during the WuFlu lockdown. Attention has turned away from the WuFlu, but my verse, I think, still resonates.

WuFlu Blues
by D.R. Heaps

I like me the way that I am.

I like bacon more than ham.

I like the Steelers of the NFL.

Belichick and his Patriots can go to hell.

I like good bourbon and I like beer.

I like pizza and the flank of a steer.

I like writing about and videoing cars.

I agree: Women are from Venus, Men are from Mars

All that seemed to matter mere weeks ago.

That was before the pandemic. WuFlu, you know.

What transpired in a short amount of time

Brought the world to a halt; it stopped on a dime

Doc Fauci took over; man, what a tool.

Shutter every business. Close every school.

Close the parks and the beaches, too.

Wear a mask or shame on you.

Like obedient little serfs we hunkered down.

Stayed in our homes, stayed out of town.

We did it in the name of flattening the curve.

Those medical resources must be conserved.

Back at home, we lounged about.

We didn't work, we didn't go out.

Frustrated and furloughed from my biggest gig

I was gaining weight, fat as a pig.

Sitting on my ass is never okay.

If only there was an alternative for spending the day.

A voice began screaming inside my head.

Do a project, get busy, don't wait, it said.

For years, renovating the kitchen lurked in the back of my mind.

But, where to get the money, and where to find the time.

Money can be borrowed, the devil on my shoulder cried.

And you've got time spilling from your ass, the angel replied.

Determination and a shed full of power tools are all you need.

When it comes to home improvement, I can do it, that's my creed.

Ripping out cabinets, tearing things up.

Demoing a kitchen doesn't suck

The fridge, the oven, it all must go.

Are new appliances expensive? I don't know.

Out with the old, in with the new.

Something borrowed, something blue.

Don't hesitate. Don't stop to think.

Step on the gas. Wait, take a drink.

A sip of bourbon every day.

That's the spirit. Was that a cliché?

I spent money as if I was making it.

Dumping cash by the bucket down the kitchen pit.

What I didn't know how to do, I faked.

Not spending a nickel on labor at stake.

This house is old, built on a wing and a prayer.

How old, you ask. Apparently older than the level and square.

With nothing level and nothing plumb,

Renovating is a fool's errand. Man, I'm dumb.

Relocating the sink was a dicey chore.

Plumbing is tough, there were leaks galore.

Flooring down, cabinets set, appliances in, it's nearly done.

Not so fast, cowboy. There's more to do and more to come.

More than the cabinets, appliances or floor,

The countertop nearly broke the store.

Then there's the backsplash remaining to do.

I think maybe I bit off more than I can chew.

Renovating was a job needing done.

Now, the kitchen war is nearly won.

Yes, I spent too much money with no income in sight,

But, hey, it's only money, right? Holy Christmas, I hope that's right.

WuFlu Revisited

I'm not the kind of guy who sees the benefit of throwing water on a drowned man. No point in recovering ground once covered. But, hey, I'm essentially trapped in my home office with nothing better to do. I'm becoming a bit cranky over this WuFlu lockdown. The longer it drags on, the less in favor of it I become – and, I wasn't a true believer to begin with.

I think 50 years from now when history takes an objective look at this pandemic, it will be referred to as the Great Toilet-Paper Famine of 2020. Every textbook for sociology, economics and political science will frame this virus and our over-the-top reaction to it as the killer of the most robust economy in a generation. Is “killer” too harsh a characterization? I guess we'll see, but consider this....

In what we now call the Great Recession that began in 2008, basically, one element of the economy took a dump: the housing market. I won't go into the whys of how so many bad loans were made, but the easy-mortgage market created a false demand for housing that drove values far beyond fair market. When the defaults began pouring in, the housing market collapsed, taking a huge chunk of financial institutions and the stock market with it. Getting the economy booming required nearly a decade.

Look around today. Following recommendations from the Feds, state and local governments have shuttered any and every business deemed nonessential, cutting across a wide swath of the economy. Most of those not closed are operating under some sort of duress. Sixteen million workers are sitting on their duffs at home hoping the unemployment checks begin soon. Who knows how many small businesses will never reopen their doors?

Although I have little regard for “experts,” some have lined up to predict the unemployment rate will reach 15 percent before this is all over. That rate averaged less than 10 percent at the height of the Great Recession in 2009. You do the math.

Even as someone in the higher-risk pool, none of this makes any real sense to me. I still don't know anyone who knows anyone who is sick from this. Our (U.S.) experts have admitted to inflating the death numbers. Even at that, I don't know anyone who knows anyone who knows anyone, well, you get the picture, whose death was attributed to the WuFlu.

There is still no clear picture on how many have been infected because in some people the symptoms are very light and others don't even exhibit symptoms. Hell, half of us could already have had it and don't even know it. The first reported case in China was in mid-November, but that wasn't patient zero. Reportedly, the Chinese can't find patient zero and have no real clue how long the virus was spreading through China before the first case was reported.

We know we can't believe the virus numbers coming out of China. The hysterical media in this country are claiming reported U.S. virus deaths now surpass China's. “Reported” being the key word in that headline. Knowing how the virus spread in this country, is it reasonable to think fewer people died there, when China didn't even know what it was dealing with in October and November? If you do, I have some beachfront property in Iowa I'd like to unload on you.

(Here's a math problem for you to ponder: How is it that Beijing, China, with 21.5 million people sitting 700 miles from Wuhan, only reports 8 WuFlu deaths? Shanghai with more than 24 million people lying 500 miles from Wuhan only reports 6 deaths? And, New York City with its measly 2.4 million people that is 7,500 miles from Wuhan reports more than 5,500 WuFlu deaths? Let's see, carry the one.... Really, how is that even possible? Hmmm.....)

My point in all of this is, it has become clear that the early models for this pandemic are wrong. Remember the 2.2 million U.S. death-toll prediction? Do you know how many are being treated on the hospital ship sent to New York City? Zip, zero, zilch. Nary a one. What about those desperately needed ventilators Gov Andrew Cuomo continues to whine about? New York still has a stockpile of thousands of unused ventilators.

And, allow me to drift into the political for a paragraph. Isn't Andrew Cuomo the chief executive of New York? I've got that correct, right? If I ever had the misfortune of being elected governor of New York, knowing that the numero uno target of every aspiring great-infidel-hating terrorist is New York City, I think I would ensure warehouses outside of the city are filled to the brim with ventilators, gas masks, medical supplies, hospital tents, hazmat suits, bags of rice, and so on and so forth. The fact that New York was caught as flat footed as every other state, is the fault of, wait for it, Andrew Cuomo. I get why Lincoln, Nebraska or Minot, North Dakota wouldn't be prepared, but there's no excuse for New York to not have stockpiles of stuff in case of a terrorist attack, biochemical or otherwise. Cuomo can point the finger at Trump, but in fact, making sure New York is prepared is Cuomo's job.

So, here we are heading into month No. 2 of the Great Toilet Paper Famine of 2020. It's time to climb out of our bunkers, stretch our legs and get back to work. Anyone who is still worried can stay hunkered down at home. Otherwise, head out, buy some Schweppes Tonic Water and zinc tablets, and let's get things rolling again.

WuFlu Panic: Are You as Confused as I Am?

I'm not the kind of guy who believes everything he hears. Even some things that play into my preconceived beliefs, I look at with a cynical eye. I don't believe in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy. I don't believe Lee Harvey Oswald was the lone shooter. I don't believe George Washington chopped down a cherry tree as a lad. I don't believe FDR saved us from the Great Depression. I don't believe Jonah was swallowed by a whale and then spit out again fully intact three days later.

I do believe in the Holy Trinity. I do believe Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon in 1969. I do believe Stalin murdered 20 million of his own people. I do believe Muslim terrorists crashed planes into the Twin Towers on 9/11. I do believe Ted Williams is the best hitter in the history of major league baseball. I do believe the Road Runner is smarter than Wile E. Coyote. And, I believe in the resilience of the human spirit.

In the end, what I believe shouldn't matter to anyone, but me. No matter. I use Clanging Bell to let you know what I think anyway.

I am no physician. I didn't even stay in a Holiday Inn Express last night. I am just an old guy who tries to put life into some sort of perspective. And, as I sit back and watch us turn our world upside down in response to the WuFlu. I continue to ask myself, What in the hell is going on?

I am composing this post on Friday morning, March 20. As of this morning, there are just over 14,000 reported WuFlu cases in the U.S., translating into nearly 220 deaths. This among a population of over 327 million souls. World wide the number infected is 255,000 with 10,500 deaths among a population of nearly 8 billion.

Italy, the country of 60 million souls with the most deaths from WuFlu, today has 41,000 infected with 3,405 deaths. What these infected/death numbers don't tell us is that the average age of the dead in Italy is 80 years and 99 percent of them had previous health conditions. So, basically, Italy reflects what the experts have been telling us about WuFlu all along: Fatalities will be primarily among the elderly and those with preexisting immune or respiratory issues.

If you can find an average age for those WuFlu has killed in the U.S., it will be somewhere between 75 and 80 years, depending on the date released. But, the best of luck in finding a news source publishing the average age in the U.S. Apparently, our “need to know” doesn't extend to this important statistic.

Again, from the get-go we have been told that this virus is most likely to kill the very young, the very old and those already suffering from some sort of immune or respiratory issues. Seems like the medical experts were correct about that, right? Or am I missing something?

At the risk of sounding cavalier, I have no dog in the fight where the stock market is concerned. That it has lost most of its gains of the past three years has no direct impact on me. I have no stocks, nor do I have any retirement accounts tied to the stock market. I am generally affected, though, because major drops in the market affect how businesses invest and spend money. When the market drops, so does investment and spending. All of that is to say, I'm not wringing my hands over the recent losses. The market will recover at some point. When that recovery comes is more a function of how much panic can be whipped up and how long that panic will last. Right now, I don't see an end. Certainly, the media isn't going to calm down any time soon.

No, my economy concerns rest more on the retail (pedestrian) level: People being able to work and businesses being able to function. This seems like basic stuff to me. We want people employed and businesses thriving. Most of my family members and other people I know have limited savings and at least some debt. These folks need to be able to earn a living to pay the bills and put food on the table. No income, no food, no car, no home, no hope.

So, here are four my questions relating to the WuFlu and, what I think is, our rather radical response to it....

1. What are we so damn afraid of? Yes, WuFlu is deadly, but so is whichever strain of the flu sweeps this country annually. There are tens of thousands of deaths from that flu (for which hudreds of thousands have been immunized) in this country each and every year. Why now? The Hong Kong Flu in 1968-69 killed more than 2 million people around the world with around 34,000 of those deaths in the U.S. I was around for that. I was going to college at the time. We weren't sent home from college and I don't remember restaurants being closed. There was no panic. People got sick, some of them died, but life went on. It was the flu!
2. Is the prevention more devastating than the disease? I don't think any sane person will argue that shutting down half of the economy to “flatten the curve” of this outbreak isn't a radical measure. It is. The government (in this case federal, state and local), urged us to stay home. Almost no one followed that directive. For one, humans are social animals. We like to mingle. We like to make contact. Secondly, most of us need to earn an income, which involves a majority of us heading to a job somewhere. The result of our indifference: The government shut the doors of many businesses, throwing their employees out of work. I have service-industry friends sitting at home wondering how they are going to pay the rent, the car payment and, maybe, buy formula for a newborn. Meanwhile those shuttered businesses are also at risk. How long can they sustain closed doors? I have friends who own breweries that won't survive if this lasts longer than the end of the month. It's one thing if this lasts two weeks. It's another if it goes on for months. Even if the $1 trillion bailout is passed, bureaucrats will pick winners and losers. How much of that will really trickle down to the street level? Very little, I wager.
3. What is the obsession with WuFlu testing? In the early stages of this breakout about all we heard was the shortage of testing kits. There aren't enough kits to go around! What will we do, what will we do? The only people showing symptoms who need testing are those at the highest risk. For the rest of us, it doesn't matter if we have the virus or not. There is no cure. Have you ever been tested for the flu? I never have. When we get sick, we stay home in bed and a few days later we feel better. Anyone showing symptoms, who is tested, is supposed to follow the same procedure whether the test is positive or negative for WuFlu: Stay home, get plenty of rest, and so on and so forth. It's the flu! There is no cure! The only reason for widespread testing is to keep track of the spread rate. But, is that really important? To be tested, you have to go somewhere for the testing, right? If you do have WuFlu, you risk infecting others while out and about getting the test. And, to what end? Now you know you have WuFlu? It doesn't matter unless you are one of the high-risk people, requiring extra care or hospitalization. Otherwise, it's go home, stay home, get plenty of rest and wait for it to play out.
4. What are the chances the population continues to voluntarily follow government orders if the government-imposed economic shutdown goes on for longer than three or four weeks? Right now most of us are willing to go along with all of this self-imposed quarantine silliness because we can put up with just about anything short term. But, at some point, our patience will run out. This will be particularly true if it becomes more and more apparent that nearly everyone who is infected recovers. If the death rate remains statistically low, confined primarily to the elderly and, indeed, the vast majority of those infected recover, how many of us are going to be willing to stay cooped up at home? How many of the surviving businesses will be willing to keep their doors closed? How many of those unemployed by the government shutdown will quietly remain docile? And, if we don't continue to tow the government line, what will be the government's response? There are already cities with curfews. Is Marshall Law on the table? I shudder to think what the public's response to that would be.

As you can probably tell, I am really confused and frustrated by what is going on right now. I think government reaction is way over the top. This isn't Smallpox or the Black Plague. It's a unique strain of the flu. I'll turn 69 years old in a few months. I'm relatively healthy and probably not in that top tier of at-risk Americans. But, I am at higher risk than most of the population. More than a week ago I was in a crowded bar in Boca Raton, Florida. There were probably 250 people in the joint. Thirty of them were part of a pipe-and-drum corps from Boston. I met a table of three couples from Iowa and there were many others there from around the country. They were in South Florida for the Delray Beach St. Patrick's Day parade and celebration originally scheduled for that following Saturday. It had already been canceled, but a lot of people traveled in anyway.I did.

Strangers hugged, shook hands and toasted one another. I was party to all of that. Guess what? Neither I nor any of the several friends I was with is sick. I don't know anyone who is sick from WuFlu. Do you? Do you know anyone who knows anyone? Do you know anyone who has died from it? We could Kevin Bacon that question, as well with probably a negative outcome.

As someone who is in the higher-risk pool, I'm ready to end this shutdown today. I want my friends and family back to work. I want the restaurants open. I want kids back in school. I want to go back to the gym. I want to see the people in charge to stop politicizing this thing, stop trying to one-up each other and get the country back on track. And, as a higher-risk person, if that happens, I'm more than willing to take my chances. It's the flu!

Park City, Utah in Winter: Toyota Throws a Snow-Driving Experience and I Live to Tell About It

All ready for a day of snow adventures.

I'm not the kind of guy who looks death in the face and laughs. There was a time when I was more adventurous. You know, when I thought I was bulletproof. Those days are long gone. No more do I long to jump out of a perfectly good airplane simply for the adrenaline rush. The group of fraternity brothers that I join every year or two on a trip somewhere have pretty much decided we will return to Eatons' Ranch in Wyoming this September. This will be my 11^th visit there. I, along with one or two other brothers, announced that we will attend, but won't be climbing aboard a horse this year. As anyone who rides with any regularity will tell you, it's not a matter of if the day will come when your noble steed tosses you to the ground, it's a matter of when that day will be. Having never been thrown, the odds aren't with me. Nope. Not going to do it.

Actually, if I knew the outcome of doing something dangerous was either coming out the other side unmolested or being killed, I would be more inclined to do it. At this point, I'm on the downhill slide of my life. I've lived a rich, fun-filled run. I wouldn't change much of anything. My fear isn't termination, it's being maimed doing something silly. I'm old. I don't mend nearly as quickly and easily as I used to. Not to mention, there are those injuries from which you literally don't walk away. You may still be breathing and your heart still beating, but that's about it. So, I've opted to sit on my cabin's porch, sip some bourbon and read a few chapters of whichever book I happen to have with me as most of my brothers ride off into the Wyoming mountains. Godspeed, boys.

For nearly 15 years I've followed the advice of Sir Richard Branson: Life is more fun when you say, yes, than when you say, no. I still do, to a certain extent. Adhering to those sage words provided the opportunity for having some great times. But, now I usually draw the line at things that just seem a little nuts. “Usually” being the operative word.

In mid February, Toyota invited me to a snow-driving event in Park City, Utah. It served as host of the 2002 Olympic Winter Games, and for good reason: There's always plenty of snow. More of a boondoggle than anything else, this event did provide the attending media the opportunity to pilot its sedans and car-based crossovers armed with all-wheel drive on a rather challenging snow course.

2021 Toyota Avalon AWD.

The stars of the show were the 2020 Toyota Camry AWD and 2021 Toyota Avalon AWD. Camry hasn't offered AWD since 1991, and 2021 will be the first-ever AWD Avalon. As other carmakers are abandoning sedans, Toyota is working to give more folks a reason to buy a sedan. Because of the widespread use of the Toyota New Global Architecture across a variety of models, Toyota was able to swipe the engine, transmission, transfer case, rear differential and some other underpinnings from the AWD RAV4, dropping them into the Camry and Avalon. The result is two surprisingly competent AWD sedans.

Toyota had me driving these AWD machines on the snow course, as well as paved roads on the first day. The second day Toyota offered a number of snow-related activities in which we could participate. I checked the box next to snowmobiling. Somewhere between making my pick and arriving at the Montage Resort in Park City, my name was also added to the list for the bobsled run. Neither of these events seems well suited to someone who has become a bit squeamish about his fragile health in his advancing years. But, nothing ventured nothing gained, right? Er, right.

All dressed up in snowmobiling gear.

Snowmobiling was my morning event. Toyota packed six or seven us into a van and we headed off the resort property to some snowmobiling vendor. There are several in Park City. There we dismounted, signed the usual “don't sue us” form and donned vendor-provided snowsuits, helmets and boots. Then we loaded into one of the vendor's vans for the ride to the trailhead. The vendor blended a young family with two little kids, as well as two older ladies from parts unknown into our merry little band.

Our snowmobiling group taking a break. Where's Waldo?

After a brief tutorial on snowmobile operation by one of the two guides tasked with overseeing our adventure, we chose a machine, climbed aboard and followed nose to tail, single file a mile or two to what the guides called “the meadow.” From the moment we cranked up our machines, one of the small children began wailing, which commenced and terminated with the ignition on the snowmobile on which he was riding being engaged and switched off. The kid's bawling was like a GPS: We always knew where that particular snowmobile was. We stopped at the top of a steep hill and climbed off our machines to get another tutorial on what the next 45 minutes would bring. Basically, we were turned loose.

Although this area is called the meadow, it's composed of some flat land, woods and hills. The biggest hill was the one on which we were standing. It was so steep, you couldn't see the bottom until you were over its crest. Then it was like the big summit at Cedar Point's Top Thrill Dragster roller coaster. So, for roughly 45 minutes we went as fast as we wanted on, what was basically, a closed course. During our initial instruction, we were told that if we lost control and the machine wound up on its side, to keep our feet locked into the footholds and not try to use our legs to keep from going over. I found this to be handy advice as my machine went over after taking a corner a bit too fast.

We had been out for about two hours when we returned to our starting point where we turned in our gear, hopped in a van and headed to the resort.

Around 2:30, nine of us loaded into a van bound for Park City's Olympic Park and the bobsled run. Upon our arrival, we again signed the appropriate paperwork, this time at a computer kiosk. We also had to answer a few health questions. Then for the third time in this process, someone droned on about all the physical ailments that would disqualify us from the ride. Heart issues, back issues, neck issues and on and on and on. I doubt the list would have been any longer had we been there to be shot out of a cannon or to have a heart valve replaced.

We were in the staging building for about 90 minutes as we were signed in, questioned, tutored, helmeted and so forth. Some of the downtime was spent simply strolling around the Olympic exhibits on display. Finally, came the moment to mount up. Because Toyota arranged this event (And, obviously I'm too much of a slacker to research it.), I don't know how many times a day Olympic Park offers this experience. I suspect only two or three times. The course must be groomed and repaired at the start of every day. As with our snowmobiling adventure, we shared this one with a number of civilians unrelated to our group.

Also because Toyota arranged this for us, as well as another wave of media the following day, our group was pushed to the front of the line. Each bobsled group consisted of an experienced pilot and three of us. I was part of the first three of our group that probably numbered 18 or 20 people in total. There was a group finishing up ahead of us and we queued up waiting for the next sled to roll over the finish line. Yes, this is the same bobsled course that hosted the 2002 Olympic competition. For safety's sake, we weren't going to run alongside the sled pushing it and then jumping in; nor were we going to experience the entire course, which would have propelled us to roughly 90 mph. For the public experience, they utilize about half the course.

I can't imagine the practice and athleticism required to push one of these sleds and then jump in. We were packed in this thing, spooning the person in front and behind. When we finally got to the point to situate ourselves in a stationary sled, getting the three of us lined up behind the driver took three or four minutes. There are metal handholds attached to the floor that we grabbed once seated. That's good because there isn't a back on a bobsled. Before actually being seated in this contraption, I had visions of us popping out the back one by one like candies from a Pez dispenser. Once seated, however, it became clear that only the Jaws of Life could sufficiently free one of us to bounce out the rear.

In the back of the truck awaiting the trip to the top of the run.

Getting a bobsled and its crew to the top of the run is an ordeal in itself. With only two sleds in operation, one is always being carted back up the course as the other is racing down it. Once the sled is stopped and unloaded of its shell-shocked passengers at the bottom, two attendants drag it off the track and place it on ski-like runners. They then maneuver it into the back of what looks like a midsize U-haul truck that is also fitted with a bench seat along one wall for the passengers. Once loaded with sled and passengers, the truck is driven to the staging area where the operation is reversed. This, folks, is how they do it at the Olympics, too: Sled and team are transported to the starting point in the back of a truck.

Once situated in the sled, the pilot reminded us how to position ourselves throughout the ride. We were to sit upright with our shoulders hiked up as far as possible, as if frozen in mid shrug. Our helmets, he added, would protect our noggins and the mid-shrug thing our necks. Oh boy...

Cheated death once again.

I have no clue who the first person was who thought racing down a twisty ice track in, what amounts to, a fiberglass canoe was a good idea; they must have had a screw loose. But, of course, what does that say about me? The entire ordeal occupied a mere 48 seconds with a top speed of just under 65 mph. That section of the course contains 10 turns, which means 10 times we were somewhat perpendicular to the floor of the track. It was zero to sheer terror in about five seconds flat. But what a rush. My buddy Javier Mota had a camera attached to the front of our sled. You can watch the video he posted to his YouTube channel here.

At the finish, extricating ourselves from the sled proved a bigger challenge than getting into it. Slowing my heart rate to something close to normal probably required four or five minutes. Simply, it was an almost unbelievable experience. Sir Richard Branson, you magnificent bastard!