Christmas - 2022

 

Let me spin you a tale of unbelievable misfortune, a tale of mishaps and woes that, surely, you will consider to be a farce of reality. Surely, and without a doubt, you will come to the conclusion that this tale is a greatest hits compilation, all consolidated into a single tale for comedic effect…. But I assure you, that is not the case. This narrative is but one weekend in a storm of trials and tribulations that our protagonists faced over the course of months.

We lay the beginnings of our scene upon the morn of Christmas Adam, a wholly useless and unsatisfying day within which a vast horde of people scurry about their lives trying to do the last minute preparations for the coming storm of relatives and friends over the subsequent days. Our protagonists were not so much different from the others in this, with one out doing such preparations and the other working away quietly in his home office, whilst eyeing the wind storm that was raging outside. 

The wind blew and the very air screamed with pain at the intensity of the storm, but all seemed well for our intrepid heroes in their home for they had prepared for the storm. Their backyard hosted a welcoming ring around a rugged fire pit, made so by a ring of brightly-colored chairs who resided in perfect placement for any to watch the fire while sharing beverages and lovely charts. Our protagonists knew the storm was approaching and recognized the fragile nature of their blown-plastic faux Adirondack chairs and, so, they had relocated the chairs to the relative safety of the barn. Joining the chairs within the confines of the ancient barn were all of the other yard accoutrements. So, knowing all was as well-prepared as possible, our homebound protagonist paid peripheral heed to the storm while focussing on his workday. But no, their preparations were unable to prepare them for the thunderous CRACK that resounded through the home, jumping the dogs to their feet and resounding in a chorus of howling as all three dogs sang their dismay in a discordant chorus of disharmonic sounds. The CRACK was of such volume that it overwhelmed, and made silent the following WHUMP that must have occurred. You might ask “Why must there have been a WHUMP” to which the reply is, merely, “physics.” You see, the CRACK was the sound of a vast and ancient limb gaining its independence from its parentage. A limb of such age that its base spanned wider than the average man’s shoulders. A limb whose skeletal, craggy bends branched outward to obscure the front yard in a new forest of tangles and twigs. A limb whose dismembered remnants would go on to provide nearly a half cord of solid firewood and a domed brush pile spanning more than a fathom in diameter.  Following on the heels of a series of events that wouldn’t be out of place to the three Baudelaire children, it would not have been out of place for this giant limb to have crashed down upon the roof of the porch, or worse, the house itself; but, in this instance, our protagonists were saved from such catastrophe for nothing was directly damaged by this limb falling and, as such, the limb did not require immediate attention.

Our heroes know people and some of those people enjoy gathering. One of those people often opens his home for people to gather in and the night of the limb fall was one such night. So our protagonists, four in number, journeyed forth from their home to visit and be merry. 

Then they returned home.

The first indication that there was a problem was visible nearly a half mile away when it became apparent that the driveway of our family was cast in darkness rather than the illumination of the welcoming domes of light which had been intentionally lit upon their departure. Our family’s home is one of four homes that lie at an intersection of two roads; an intersection light by a streetlight each and every night. A street light that is an emblazoned icon of orange spilling into the windows of the homes and brightly announcing the intersection to all who approach it from any direction. They all noticed, the streetlight was, in fact, on and light so, surely, it must be an illusory visage of darkness that they beheld from within their motorized carriage as they approached. Neighboring the streetlight, as it occupied a prominent point at the corner of their lot, is a home whose lights were alight with friendliness. Across from was a home whose porch was alighted with a multicolored sparkle storm of Christmas lists winding their way around and through the styles of their porch and encroaching upon the domain of the handrails. But the home of our family of adventures lacked any such gleeful lights to meet them for it hd been plunged into darkness. 

Our family accepts darkness. It is a natural progression of light reaching its destination. Our intrepid heroes are prepared for short passages of time without the modern conveniences of electrical appliances and, so, fires were built within the wood stoves and extra blankets were gathered for a restful evening of sleep, all while taunted by the lit streetlight outside and the dazzling sparkles of the Christmas lights across the intersection from their home. 

Morning arrives without any sign of electrons moving throughout the metal encased within the walls of the home and, it seemed, the storm that frightened away the electricity had also pushed away the unseasonably warm weather of the day before, having plunged the air into a frigid temperature of 10 degrees. The lack of power, by itself, was not so concerning but the development of such frigid temperatures without power was. Suddenly, our family was in need of a solution that was quicker, and surer, than “the power will come back on eventually.”

So venture forth they did and, by some stroke of fabulous luck, they found generators in stock at the very first store they entered. BUT, and of course there is always such a conjunction in play when something goes right for our protagonists, the store was not only out of the necessary cable to connect the generator to the house but, also, they were out of all of the plug ends that might allow someone to make their own cable. Our family purchased the generator and moved on to another store; another store who was also out of such cables and all of the necessary plug ends to fashion a cable oneself. And another store yielded the same result. The remainder of the stores were not open to customers as they had closed for Christmas Eve and, thus, our family had a means to generator power but no way to pour the power into their home until another twist of fate provided a spare cable from an acquaintance, allowing our family to restore minimal services to their home. Minimal services that included heat, refrigeration, water, and a small selection of lights. At least they, and their plumbing, would not freeze.

The home of the family is ancient. It is, perhaps, more ancient than the tree who shed a limb into the yard. It is so ancient that it has a serviceable dug well in addition to the modern, drilled well. It is so ancient that the dug was attached to the plumbing of the house and serviced the water for many years prior to the drilled well being put in place and remains attached to the plumbing. This, it turns out, is a very fortunate thing as the generator wiring routes not to the pump for the drilled well but, rather, to the dug well. Our intrepid hero, knowing what to do, primed this pump and changed the valves over such that the house could receive water from the dug well rather than the drilled well and the switch was thrown - SUCCESS. Water flowed forth from everywhere it was supposed to flow from. 

For an hour. 

Sitting in darkness, prior to it being late enough for bed, our family heard a rushing sound as if a vast waterfall where nearby. A rushing sound that erupted from the silence of moments before, rather than a sound that merely was present at all times. The sound of running water when there should be none, especially the sound of a vast waterfall that could rival Niagara, is a distressing sound to the ears of modern man. Within moments the sound was amplified tenfold by the opening of the basement door, revealing that the flood of Noah was trying to burst into the modern age within the basement of our family’s home. Quickly the power being fed to the water pump was extinguished, but the gushing continued. Forcing a brave explorer to don boots and descend into the inky darkness of an ancient basement with nothing but the illumination provided by a dying smartphone to locate the source of the sound and do what could be done to stop it. The first order of business was to close the valve separating the pumps from the house, to stop the plumbing within the house from draining entirely onto the basement floor… but this did not stop the water. Our explorer encroached upon the rapidly growing perimeter of the newly-formed lake and found that the water was not gushing from a pipe or hose that had come loose. It was not gushing from a valve that was accidentally left open. It was gushing forth from a new chasm that had formed in the very metal casing of the pump, a canyon of such proportions that hundreds of gallons were able to flood forth from it in mere minutes under the careful and attentive efforts of the ancient pumping mechanism within the casing. Noting that there was nothing further our subterranean explorer could accomplish he ascended the steps and closed the basement door as the remnants of the pressure tank fled containment and sought the freedom of the dirt floor.  Once again, our family was without access to water.

It was at this time that the family was asked to host Christmas the following day. 

Bed time encroached and the entire family went to bed for another night of being taunted by the orange light of the streetlight that was so close, yet not providing a promise of all being well in their home. 

The new generator kept the critical systems running but it had to be closely monitored so the adults of our protagonist family slept little as they refueled the generator and restarted it when it happened to stall in the middle of the night. They kept the power running enough to keep the heat on and the food safe in the refrigerator but the expense was clear on their minds and in their bodies as exhaustion was overtaking them. Fortunately, a Christmas miracle came as our main heroine of the story sat, staring out the front window for it was none other than Santa Claus who leapt forth from a power company truck and dashed to the electrical meter, throwing the thumbs up sign back to the driver of the truck before both Santa and truck alike dashed off on their way. And, with that gift, the family was able to turn off the generator and restore power to the entire house, switching back over the to the drilled well, and restoring all of the modern services to which they had all become accustomed in their lives. 

Given that we have reached a Christmas miracle and a climax where Santa restored power to our family, it may seem like this is the end of the tale but, I assure, you, it is not yet over. 

In preparation of the arrival of extended family work began on clearing the giant limb that observed access to the front door. This work was performed using the most prevalent wood-management tool in the area: a chainsaw. Many of the smaller limbs were severed from the larger with great ease and efficiency. They were piled off to the side, where they ceased to be an impediment to the walkway. Significant progress was made in the effort to convert the limb’s carcass from a giant edifice into usable wood until the chainsaw bucked slightly and jammed the chain into the nose guard of the chainsaw and yanked the remainder of the chain off the bar. No injuries but, also, no means to dislodge the wedged chain without more tools than our intrepid amateur lumberjack had on-hand. And, since it was Christmas, no stores were open to acquire the necessary tool to dislodge the chain and re-seat it. 

But, they decided, this was fine. The walkway was clear and the house was prepared from company and naps were taken by all. Guests arrived. Presents were opened. Merriment ensued. Guests departed and our family relaxed to an evening of Chinese cuisine which only had a 90-minute wait after the order was taken. And then they all had a wonderful night of sleep. 

I awoke on Boxing Day to a delightful smile upon. My wife’s face as she was merrily assembling a new vacuum cleaner. She awoke before anyone else and decided that it was time for us to have a new machine to manage the hair of  the three dogs in whose home we reside and the hair of the two cats who have overrun the upstairs, tolerating the teenagers who dare infiltrate their domain. She rose early on the morning of Boxing Day and ventured out into the world, braving the vast sea of people who were fighting over the best discount sales now that the big holiday was passed. She braved the crowds and used the portable all-knowing device in her pocket to assess the array of vacuum cleaners available in the store and brought home the highest-rated model of those available. When I rose from my slumber she was attaching the handle (for upright vacuum cleaners are packaged with the handle unattached to minimize the box size). Her smile continued as she pulled out all of the various accoutrements that accompanied the core vacuum. It was truly a delightful experience to behold the happiness beaming forth from my wife as she, finally, would have a vacuum that could manage the pet hair our home produced. Meanwhile, the previous vacuum stood in silence near the door to the barn, waiting for its journey to the retirement home known as “the dump.”

The machine was plugged in. My wife turned the machine on and began to vacuum the little hallway rug. It was glorious. The hair was taken in to the vacuum with such intense veracity as to make one half of the rug look brand new. The vacuum was so vigorous in its efforts that, after mere seconds, acrid smoke spewed forth from the vents followed by flames the likes of which rod-road roadsters emit during car shows, shot forth from the vacuum. My wife, in her crestfallen moment, did naught but begin to laugh at the ridiculousness of our situation leaving me to act. I yanked the power cord from the wall and grabbed the machine, dashing to the porch where I hurled it over the railing into the yard as my wife, yelled “No, we need to return it!” As the vacuum landed far from the house, protecting the house from the risk of fire, I turned around and said “IT WAS ON FIRE! I think they’ll understand that we threw it away from the house to protect the house.” 

While the vacuum was bursting into flames our middle child was calmly making bread a mere 10 feet away. Her efforts were not interrupted by the flaming machinery for homemade bread is serious business and must be done right.

After the bread was done baking, and everyone had partaken of their share, the partially-melted vacuum was put back in the box and four of the five members of the family prepared to venture back out into the sea of deal-seekers to return the vacuum. It is during this process that we realized that each of the line of Pet Vacuums by this specific brand hosts a photo and adoption story of a particular dog on the box. The dog on this box strongly resembled the youngest of our dogs, with his mostly black fur and white shield emblazoned on his chest. Unlike our dog, though, who is named after a beloved character from science fiction, the dog on the box was named…. Smokey. This, of course, broke the family and we all spent twenty minutes laughing hysterically because it was just, simply, too much to bear any other way. 

We rode in silence. We entered the store in silence, We got in line at the customer service desk in silence. We waited for our turn in silence. When it was our turn we approached the counter and said “this was bought this morning and we need to return it.” The predictable question came forth: “is there a reason?” 

“Yes. It caught on fire moments after being turned on.”

The customer service representative’s eyebrows rose and her companion stepped over from the neighboring register. Upon opening the flap they concurred that it had been on fire as the acrid stench of molten plastic and rubber wafted forth and writhed its way around them. 

“Well, ok. Is everyone ok?”

“Yes.” 

And the refund was processed.

My wife and I then wandered the store to reach the display of vacuum cleaners that were currently available. She had acquired the last of that specific model in her earlier journey so we were forced to evaluate the remaining models to see which was best. We brought home a vacuum that boldly told us the adoption story of Spike and joked about how this might cause the vacuum to explode in spectacular fashion, driving a spike into the floor.

As we rode home the anxiety of the previous vacuum began to receded and my wife’s smile began to return. Upon arriving home she opened the package and took out all of the parts. We assembled the vacuum and, once again, we prepared to be excited that we could clean up after our pets. The vacuum was plugged in to the outlet. The vacuum was placed upon the target carpet. The vacuum was turned on. The vacuum worked AMAZING. It was working better than the first one and we were all excited that it was not on fire (such low expectations, right?) and then, as if on cue, smoke erupted from the vacuum in a spectacular pillar of opacity, blocking the living room from view and causing my wife and one of the children to start coughing. I, being ready for such a situation, yanked the cord from the outlet and, again, grabbed a BRAND NEW vacuum from my wife’s possession and hauled it outside. As this one had not yet ignited into flames I did not hurl it forth from the deck to land upon the frozen wasteland of a lawn we possess but, rather, eyed it cautiously as our new smoke machine stopped its apparent function and restored its disguise as a powered-off vacuum cleaner.

You may be wondering, as we did, if there is a problem with the outlet. The wifi mesh extender plugged in to the other outlet of the same receptacle has been operating for a year without bursting in to flames but it is not, exactly, a high-drain motor. So, I recalled the ancient and decrepit vacuum from retirement for one last mission. I went out on to the deck with the ancient vacuum cleaner (better to be safe than sorry, right?) and proceeded to plug it in to the same outlet. 

It is at this point that I must wonder what our neighbors, whom we have never met, must think of us. Do we have some sort of bizarre Boxing Day tradition? For, from their perspective, they saw me running out of the house and hurling a vacuum cleaner into the yard followed by retrieving it an hour later only to run forth from the same door with ANOTHER vacuum an hour after that and, now, moments later, they were to be able to witness me vacuuming my wooden deck in 10 degree weather.  What possible explanation must they have concocted for my bizarre behavior because, surely, they could not possibly believe that not one, but TWO vacuum cleaners caught on fire and had to be rapidly escorted from the premises to avoid losing the home in an inferno. 

While we have yet to return the second vacuum, I’m sure that will be a fantastic experience (especially if the same customer service representatives are on duty), we do have an anti-climactic conclusion to the saga. After verifying that the outlet did not cause the ancient vacuum to erupt into flames (and testing it with a multimeter and outlet tester) my wife went to an alternate store and bough the best of the available vacuums on display from a different brand. She brought it home and assembled it and, as if my magic, all of the pet hair was evicted from the target carpet without issue; without smoke; without flames. Without sparks. The hair was just sucked into the container exactly as expected. My wife went on to vacuum a few other things in the house, using multiple outlets and, boringly, the machine did exactly as it was supposed to do. 

As this tale is already quite lengthy, I won’t go into the difficulties we encountered later in the day while cutting up the rest of the fallen limb, not the difficulties my wife had when she tried to inflate one of her car tires. You, dear reader, can be assured that the chaos of our life has returned to the normal levels of ridiculousness and is no longer at the level of cracking water pumps and flaming vacuum cleaners. For now, anyway.

Mandatory Phones

My life changed when I reached ten years old; that's when my parents split.
The next few years brought a variety of changes including the injection of the man who is, and has been for the past 20 years, my second father.

This man owned one of the first mobile phones in the area I grew up in. It was a bulky bag phone that had almost no talk time in the battery capacity and even less in the service plan.
By today's terms it was complete garbage.

But it was a phone IN HIS CAR!

I recall a variety of conversations about this including one in which we discussed calling the car in front of us because they had the telltale cellular phone antenna on the roof of their vehicle and the resulting realization that there was (and still is) no directory of cell phone users; especially not one that cross-references the cars into which the phones are in (now this is a moot point because they are not permanently installed in the cars).

The most intriguing conversation I recall happening brought out a shortcoming in my young vocabulary.

We were driving along and I was contemplating the reality of the phone in the car and the reality of how much the usage of phones was changing as cordless phones were becoming more reasonably price for homes and as long distance phone charges were becoming cheaper and cheaper. Extra functions, like call waiting, were being added and were reasonably priced.

It occurred to me, at that moment, that there would be a future in which the mobile phone was a major part of everyone's life.
"I think, in the future, mobile phones will be much smaller and be mandatory." I said.

The rebuttal was immediate. Mobile phones would NEVER mandatory; no law would be passed to force people to have them.

I outlined that that is not what I meant. I described that they would be so incredibly useful that everyone would have one for their own convenience because they would be small enough and cheap enough to replace, or, at least, supplement, the home phone.

My prediction was met with less forceful rebuttal than my use of the word "mandatory" but it came with a "well, this phone is not nearly as useful as I thought it would be. I wish I had never bought it."

The word I was trying to use is "ubiquitous," but I had never seen, nor heard, that word before so I could not use it. I went on to describe the very nature of the word and how I think things will play out for a bit longer before I realized that neither other party in the car cared, nor even believed what I was saying COULD be true.

Approximately seven years later I acquired my first cell phone. It was a Motorola Startac.
Approximately two years later I converted to ONLY having a mobile phone (banks had trouble with this concept for an additional two years or so).
Approximately four years after that I was handed a phone for work. It was required that I have one and that I keep it on me while at work. It was, in essence, MANDATORY for me to have that phone.

A couple years later the cell phone penetration rate in the U.K. exceeded 100% and in the U.S. it has approached it meaning that, statistically speaking, there is more than one cell phone for every adult in the country.

So, without even realizing that I was misusing the word in my prediction both my intended prediction and my accidental prediction based on the misuse of a word also came true.

Years later I predicted that the PADD from Star Trek would become a reality in my lifetime. That, too, was laughed at by people I know. But, at this point, I can say I was right on that, too.

Collateral

Sometimes you want to help others but can't trust them.
Sometimes they have something you want but you cannot buy.

Sometimes these two realities align in such a way as to make a tenuous situation that devolves into a miserable experience for one of the parties.

 In sixth grade I had such a situation occur to me.

Tesla did a cover of the song Signs and it was a song I liked.
A kid in my class, Mark, had the single cassette of this song.
One day, when he happened to have the cassette with him he had a need for cash.
I happened to have $6 on me and he, somehow, knew this.

I found him to be untrustworthy and I did not want to comply with his request to loan him the $6.
This is when he produced the single cassette and offered it as collateral.
This, being a song I actually really liked, became a difficult deal to resist. I like helping people, I wanted him to like me and there was some additional pressure to accept the deal from another classmate, Nick.

I borrowed the cassette and I enjoyed the tape for some time; through until the prearranged day that I was to get my $6 back and return the tape.

I remember it clearly. I remember which of the "secret" pockets in my jacket I had stored the tape and I remember the conversation.

A slyly smiling Mark and a smirking Nick told me that Mark had the money and they showed it to me.

I went to get the tape from my jacket... and it was not there.
I searched my cubby (we didn't have lockers) and it was no where to be found.

"What's wrong? Did you forget it?" was the sarcastic and snarky response.

I knew, then, exactly what had happened but I had no way to prove it.

Either Nick or Mark had gone through my stuff, including my jacket, and found the tape.
They stole the tape back prior to presenting the money for the return exchange.

It was solidified for me when Mark put forward the final comment of "oh, well, if you'd taken better care of my tape this $6 would be yours again."

This incident, along with countless before it that Nick had been involved with, outlined that I could not trust Mark, either.

Sadly, my options of peer interaction were incredibly slim in number.

Hide and Not Seek

I grew up in a small town.
It was so small that my 8th grade graduation harbored 13 students, one of whom was skipping 8th grade to graduate with us.
There were not a lot of people whom I could choose from as friends as a child.

This is a single example of how poorly some of those options were.

Ben and Nick were two of the five boys in my class. I, obviously, was one of the remaining three.
Ben and Nick's mothers were close friends and they spent a great deal of time together. In fact they were the closest thing that either of them had to a sibling for each other.

This, of course, did not bode well for those who were to spend time with them.

I recall a specific point in time in which I was spending the day with them at Ben's mother's house.
We played for a bit and then we were left alone.
I cannot recall if it was Nick or Ben that suggested be go outside to play but it was one of them. After a short while they suggested we play "Hide and Seek" in the woods near, and surrounding, the house.

To me this seemed like a game that would work well for the three of us and wouldn't be something in which they could gang up on me, as they had a history of doing.

And I was right; they didn't gang up on me in the game at all.

They just didn't even play.

I was one of the two that was to go hide and I ran off into the woods and found a spot to hide in.

And I waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
I peeked out from my hiding spot and saw no one; affirming that I had a good spot.
I waited.
And waited.
And peeked out again, this time listening to the dead silence of the world around me being, occasionally, broken by the sound of a passing car on a nearby road.

I began to wonder if I had, in fact, found a great hiding place or if some trickery were being played upon me so I departed my hidden den.

I quietly walked through the woods and approached the house.

I found that I had not really been selected to hide, but rather, to seek.

And I was suddenly successful in finding both Nick and Ben in their hiding spot.

Their hiding spot was sitting on the floor in front of the TV, playing Nintendo.

Here my memory of this event ends; but I know it was not the first, nor the last time that I was betrayed by the pair.
Yet, for lack of any other options I had to continue to play with them for the remainder of my childhood.

I find I occasionally wonder what level of damage such situations inflicted on my permanent psyche and whom I would be if I had not suffered at their hands so often.

Sunset over the river

The mirror breaks the stillness of the forest as its shimmering surface glides seamlessly by.

The dappled colors of autumn reflect the trees that overhang the water on the surface.

Both high above and deep below the rose-tinted clouds drift past on a lazy course, each harboring a deep violet core.

Dusk is climbing up the river and into the woods, chasing the orange orb further and further upstream as the world sits idly watching.

Fire Privilidge

When I was in college I had two particular friends, Adam and Robin.
Adam was from New Hampshire and Robin had spent the first decade of her life there before her family moved away. Robin has a younger brother and the catalyst for this story was his visit to our college to see if it might be a fit for him when he finished high school.

That, of course, is not where this story begins.
The reality of this story is that it begins before I met Adam. It begins before Adam even finished high school.
This story begins in the basement of Adam's home in New Hampshire when he was in high school.

Adam, like many of my friends, was involved in theatre. He did less (none) acting and more (all) technical aspects of theatrical production. He did lights and sound, he occasionally did set work; but, most importantly, he was fascinated by pyrotechnics. Adam liked fire and the process of things burning whether it was a slow burn or a fast burn.

This story begins with Adam in his basement with a very specific set of supplies. Among that particular inventory were a 9 volt battery, some steel wool, and some flash powder.
The experiment that Adam was conducting for amusement was, and remains, dangerous.
It's a simple experiment and can be conducted, to an extent, with only two of the ingredients: steel wool and the battery.
Steel wool is a conductor but it is a jumbled mess of a conductor and it has individual threats that are so incredibly small that they will ignite and burn under a very light electrical current load. This, in itself, is interesting to witness. It also creates a volatile situation as the metal rapidly oxidized under the current load induced by rubbing both terminals of the battery with the mass of steel wool. The steel heats to orange and evaporates into the air in a small trail of sparks. In essence, the steel wool portion of the experiment is a perfect ignition source for anything that is flammable. This include flash powder.

A tiny sprinkle of flash powder on the steel wool before introducing the battery forces the wool to burn and the powder to *POOF* in a sudden little flash. The key words being "a tiny sprinkle."

As Adam relates the tale he sprinkle some powder on and rubbed the battery: nothing happened.
So he did it again and nothing happened.
He repeated this a few times until something happened.
A large something.
Something that sounded like a shotgun blast and nearly burnt the house down.
A something that cost him the use of his arm for a few months.

Fast forward to Robin's younger brother visiting.

Robin's brother, in addition to wanting to see the college, also wanted to go see the town that haunted his memories. He wanted to see the house who had a shadow on his earliest childhood. He wanted to reclaim those shadows in his mind before they went extinct.

So the four of us headed to the town, which neighbored the one that Adam had grown up in, to visit.
The drive there, and the visit through the town, were uneventful. It was a pleasant drive and it satisfied the needs of Robin, her brother and Adam. I was just along for the ride.

As people do, we approached a time in the day when we were hungry. Adam suggested a place to eat and we went there to fend off the mortal needs for raw caloric intake. We forced the menu to testify to the specialties of the kitchen and cross-examined it for what we might like for food that evening and we placed our orders.

While we waited for the meals to be conjured from the elemental particles of food that they were constructed from we discussed a myriad of topics.

We chatted and joked and discussed when, suddenly and without any warning, there was a stifled cry from the younger companion that accompanied a frantic waving of hands; one of which was suddenly holding a fireball.
The brother, it appears, had been slowly shredding corners from his paper napkin and exposing them to the flame of the table's center candle but the flame got a bit more hungry than he expected and began to devour the entirety of the bountiful harvest that resided in his had.

The flame was quickly extinguished, leaving a small puff of smoke to explore the restaurant followed by the bold proclamation from Adam: "I'm revoking your fire privileges."

That's right, the man who had blown up his basement had to revoke the fire privileges of the visiting younger sibling.

Racism and Racial Profiling

Racism is a problem in this country.
It takes multiple forms and manifests in multiple ways.
Overtly, racism is a terrible thing that affects millions of people.
Covertly, racism is a terrible thing that affects everyone.

But racism is not limited to white people being prejudiced against those of any other color. Not even in countries where white people are the majority.

Racism can be exhibited by anyone. It's merely the process of judging another being by the color of their skin. White people can do it, black people can do it. Anyone can do it.

I've often heard that I cannot know or understand what it is like to experience racism. That I cannot fathom the situation that exists and how the world is stacked in my favor (it's not: it's stacked AGAINST others. It's a subtle, but VERY important difference) because:
I'm white.
I'm male.
I am exactly the average height for a man in my country.
I have dark hair and blue eyes.

But those people are wrong. They are making the assumption that someone of my physical appearance will never experience the receiving end of such behaviors.

They're wrong.
I have been racially profiled and I have been deliberately targeted for overt racism.


I know what it is like to be discriminated against unfairly. My first exposure to it preceded any racial profiling and racism by several years. My first experiences with it were from tourists in my home town who believed themselves to be better than the locals due to their wealth and the relative poverty of the area I grew up in. This, while not racism, is economic discrimination. It did not happen often, but I experienced and witnessed it many times nonetheless through sheer volume of tourists.
Starting in high school I encountered a different type of discrimination. I enjoy science fiction and I enjoy cosplay (although I despise the term and have been costuming for longer than the term has existed). If you go to a science fiction or popular culture convention and wear a costume outside of the convention grounds, especially when I first started doing this, you would observe a different level of treatment than those who are dressed normal. The volume of this level of treatment would diminish greatly if one only wore a t-shirt decorated with one's favorite show but the "nerd" (or "geek") discrimination still flourished out in the local shops and streets surrounding the cons I attended. (This has lessened considerably since my first conventions but there are some areas that it is still blatant). One time a hotel had such a level of disdain for the geek culture convention that they canceled the con's reservations three days before the con in the hopes that the convention would be canceled completely. Fortunately, a neighboring convention could absorb the situation and did so. (Rumors abound about this situation but I know nothing other than the basic facts I just outlined to be accurate).
When I went to college I stumbled into an opportunity to fulfill a fashion desire I had held for many years. I invested in a black leather biker's jacket. This, coupled with some black leather harness boots, generated a new means for discrimination to follow me. Law enforcement and security personnel followed my path anywhere I went. I was, to them, the epitome of danger. I was the epitome of the highest crime potential. I was, in reality, a perfectly law abiding citizen. (I have another story about this to publish later).

This followed me without remorse through malls, airports, bus or train stations, electronics stores, pretty much anywhere I went that was not already filled with similarly-clad people. Until September 11, 2001. It all changed that day because I ceased to fit the core demographic that everyone worried about. From that day, until I retired that jacket from service, I was never bothered again. Discrimination can be powerful; and it can be changed.

Many people who might read this anecdote will, at this point, outline that none of what I have typed is racial and I will agree. So far I have merely outlined the preamble that let me know what was happening when I did get discriminated against. I know what it feels like to be shunned and I feel the anger when it is over something so trivial as what I am wearing. I know, too, what it feels like when it is something as basic as the way I look.

When I was in college I spent a summer in Ohio. For work I waited tables. The restaurant I started at was a Long Horn Steakhouse just south of Cleveland. This venue was, quite literally, on the wrong side of the highway.
The kitchen crew was made of white men. The dining room manager was a white man. I was a white man. The bartender was a white woman and two waitresses were, too. Everyone else was not white. I was the only white male that waited tables in the restaurant. This, of course, didn't phase me in the slightest. I didn't care. I still don't care. I also did not care that about 80% of the clientele of the restaurant were black. This, too, didn't bother me. It also didn't bother me when, every single time I went to a table, they needed something. It only bothered me a little when I was busting my ass all night and getting about 10% in tips BEFORE tipping out to the bartender. I can work hard, I have always been able to. I figured it was just harder than I remembered it from when I had previously waited tables.
So I paid attention. I watched the waitresses and the black waiter. I watched the other waiters who were neither white nor black. I watched everyone. They all had the experience I expected to see. They all got 15 - 20% tips before tipping out.
And there I was; busting my ass at every table for a meager handout.
So I began to pay closer attention. Surely there was something I was doing, or not doing, that made me less effective of a server. I started to catalog what it was I was being asked for. I began to catalog what the questions I was asked were. I began to observe and a pattern emerged:
I was asked to get more bread when there was plenty on the table.
I was asked for more butter when the existing butter had not been touched.
I was asked for refills when the current glasses were still full.
I was asked for replacement silverware that was not even unrolled from the napkin.
I witnessed silverware being "accidentally" dropped on the floor so that a replacement could be requested; sometimes it was a utensil that was not even used.

I looked at the attire of my customers and it became apparent that eating out at this chain restaurant was a special thing for them. This pushed their budget. This was a rare treat.

I realized what was happening. I was part of their treat. Some of them knew it. Some of them might not have. But, for most of them, it was a special experience for them to make me serve them.

I was "whitey" in a game of "make whitey run."

The harder I was worked the more hectic things got in my section. The more hectic they got the less clean my service was for them. The less clean it was the greater their likelihood of making a comment to the dining room manager.

I was there about a month. In that time I had him comment to me that customers mentioned I was "hurried," "flustered," "scattered," and a few other things several times. In the rest of my entire working career combined I have received fewer "constructive" comments about my performance than that single month. But, I had no choice but to keep taking the abuse until I could find something else.

Luckily, my girlfriend at the time was working at another restaurant and they were short on staff. Her venue offered a a similarly priced menu and she had been bringing home about 15% in tips AFTER tipping out to the table bussers and the bartender. She told their management about me and I got a call. Two weeks later I was working, literally, less than two miles down the road; on the other side of the highway. The clientele was much more varied racially and the wait staff was less non-white.
With the racial pressures removed I, immediately, began taking home 20% after tipping out to the appropriate parties. Two things readily became clear: my hypothesis had been correct and I was an awesome waiter.

The following January I went to London for an entire academic term. I lived in a flat relatively near Baker street with two other students from my school in a building that was entirely populated by students from my school. I worked at "The Museum of Science and Industry" (I learned one does NOT call it the "Museum of Science" or the "Science Museum"). The experience of working in the museum is unrelated to my event of profiling; it is merely the conduit for why it happened.
In preparation for our trip we had to take a class. The class had a variety of factors in it and, at the end of the class, we were provided a letter from the president of the school that outlined our lodging arrangement, that we would be affiliated with King's College while in the country and that we would not be paid. It, in essence, outlined that our claim of entering the country and staying for a significant duration was legitimately backed by a valid organization. We were warned to ensure we had this letter, and our passports, etc, upon deplaning so they were readily available when we came through immigration.
To understand the next process it is important to note the physical characteristics I outlined above: average height for an American male, white, blue eyes, dark hair.
It's also important to note that, due to where I grew up I had worked very hard to NOT have an accent. As such my English does not place me as an American, nor a Canadian, nor a Brit, nor anywhere (I have another story about this that can be read).
I was traveling alone.

Upon answering how long I planned to be in the country I was scrutinized thoroughly. The officer in the booth looked me up and down and asked me a few more questions before looking directly at the address listed in my passport. A bit more conversation and the big question came out. "Do you have a letter from your university or any other proof of your claim?"I handed over the letter and it, too, was scrutinized thoroughly.
At this point it was approximately 8:00 am local time and I had not slept. At all. Since I rose at 6:00 the previous morning. For me, it was about midnight and I was tired. For me the immigration process seemed only to be a minor scrutiny.

At the flathouse members of the group arrived in small groups. Some flew together and others encountered one-another in the airport by chance. Some people gave in to their exhaustion and napped and others, determined to defeat jet lag, stayed awake.

We had a group-wide meeting at 2:00 in the afternoon and, during it, we were asked if we had had any troubles with immigration. No one, not even I, raised our hands. We were asked if any of us had needed the letter. I, alone, raised my hand.

It appears that the combinations of facts about me, coupled with the sordid and violent history of violence in London being conducted by the IRA created a unique situation.

My lack of accent, coupled with my decidedly Irish appearance, had generated a great deal of concern among the immigration officer. Enough, it would seem, that he felt a need to thoroughly assess my credentials where the remainder of the group experienced no additional efforts.

I looked around the room and noted that I was the only one who carried the combination of bright blue eyes and nearly black hair.


I, a white man from America, had been racially profiled.

So, when people tell me I can't know what it is like to experience racism they are wrong. I can.
I may have only experienced the tiniest taste of it but I understand.
I have been there.

I know how it can damage a person. I know how it can anger them. I know how it can be incredibly unfair.

I know.

And I hate that it exists as much as anyone who experiences the receiving end of racism on a regular basis. The world should hold no place for such; yet, sadly, it does.

Bad Parking Revenge

I've seen them; you've seen them.
Everyone has seen people who park miserably.
It's a fact of the modern world.

I've also seen people who appear to intentionally park badly.
People who feel that their status in the world, or their car, grants them an automatic guarantee  of privilege in the parking lot; a right to more space.

People whose sheer narcissism makes them truly believe that they are better than everyone else.

I hate these people.

For the last half of my college career I worked in retail (plenty of other stories on that can be found in my writing). When I finished school I moved to Ohio to be with my (then) girlfriend while she was in grad school. I had no job prospects so I transferred to a store local to where we were going to live. I couldn't afford a newer car so I was still using my beat-up, 10-year-old Honda Civic. This car had dents in all of the panels on the driver side and half the panels on the passenger side. The rear bumper was hanging. There was no passenger side mirror (never had one). The hood had a dent in it and it would not open without someone pushing down on it when the release was pulled inside the car.
My car was a solid and reliable piece of junk.

Now, I'm not a "car guy" and I never have been. I can't identify specific makes and models easily without reading the insignias off the car directly. I'm ok with this and I have always been ok with this. But I can tell a fancy, shiny sports car when I see one. I can guess at an expensive car when I see one.

One day, as I arrived at work, there was such am expensive sports car in the parking lot. The car itself would, and has, faded from my memory. It was black (that's literally all I remember about it). The parking job, however, was a masterpiece of asshattery that I shall never purge from the bowels of my recollection.

The parking lot was mostly empty so this particular car was easy to spot. It was the lone usurper of the block. It was standing in its glory; a beacon to wealth and self-importance. The sun was glistening off its perfectly clean exterior. It was also parked directly on the line dividing two spots.

The car, in and of itself, was not something I took offense to but the audacity of conscripting two spaces in a lot that would soon be full to protect its shiny exterior from the slightest ding infuriated me. So I decided I would make a point of the situation.

The shiny bastion of conceit was not perfectly centered between the two spaces and that provided me my opportunity. My car, small as it was, left a wide margin of space around it when I centered it into a single parking space the size of those in this lot (it had to accommodate a lot of large pickup trucks). I lined my car up and stopped, stepping out to examine my work carefully. When I was certain of my positioning I slipped quietly into the space I had chosen. That space was the very same space that the driver's side of the shiny monument of presumptive pride was trying to usurp for itself.
My car fit perfectly in the center of the spot with the other car where it was. My car fit so perfectly that I still had the full margin around it to get out of my driver's door with ease. My car fit perfectly with about three inches to spare between it and the shiny assholemobile.

I took a moment to admire my work and strolled over to my store to open.

Within a half hour the parking lot was filling and both cars were still there.

I wish I had been able to see when the owner of the other car came back to see what I had done because the look on their face would have been priceless. Their realization that I had called them out on their egocentricity and vanity should have elicited a vengeful peak of rage. That rage should have elicited an intent to vandalize my car which would have generated a crestfallen moment when they realized that my car was so shitty that there was little they could do to it that would make it appear any worse. Sure, they could dramatically vandalize it but they must have known that I, quite likely, took their license plate. They could call the police and reveal that my car was parked perfectly. They could try to have me towed and find the same statement of reality about my parking being perfect.

I know that they had two potential solutions to their self-created predicament: have their own car towed out of the spot so they could get in OR climb in through the passenger side and carefully back out of their space.

I know not which path they chose to take and I do regret I never got to observe it happen.

I hope, though, that this experience was as significant to them as it has been to me. I hope, too, that it was significant in the right way although I am certain that they just have a story about "that asshole who parked me in" instead.

Debbie in Purchasing

Like many people, if not most, I hate homework.
Especially I hate homework that has no purpose other than to inundate the student with busy work.
By the time I finished sophomore year I had had enough. I was burnt out. I needed a break.
I felt the impending wave of despair and desperation that would envelope me if I went into another semester of pointless homework and reading for classes whose ultimate purpose in my life was unclear to me.
The obvious escape route to this unending torrent of pointless busy work was to withdraw from school for a semester. But this was not a simple matter. There were two channels and only one of them was cost-effective: a co-op job or paid internship.
Before school let out in the spring I was reviewing all of the opportunities I could find and, eventually, I settled on one that met my needs and whose requirements I met. I interviewed for the position and I got it.
I commuted an hour each way, into the next state over, and I began my first "real-world" work experience in the realm of Management Information Systems.

I started on a Monday.
I began with a tour of the facility and introduction to the rest of the team.
Then, without much additional fanfare, I was tossed "to the wolves."

I worked on things that could be handled via phone for the remainder of Monday and through Tuesday.

Wednesday morning I arrived to work and, promptly at 8:00am, the phone rang. All of the other team members looked around and smiled. "Let's let the new guy take this" the sysadmin named Dave said.

Admiral Ackbar, with his most famous line from Return of the Jedi, popped into my mind as I replied "ok" and answered the phone.

The call was from Debbie in purchasing. Her computer would not turn on and, yes, it most certainly was plugged in. I promised her I would come down to check it out and got off the phone.

"Where's purchasing?" I asked.
"Go that way" Dave pointed "and stop at the end of the building. She's, literally, against the far wall."

I began my trek down the building, passing through accounting then the main lobby. I passed through manufacturing and shipping. I passed through service and another area of offices that I have either forgotten who they are or never knew and entered into the domain of purchasing.

Debbie was easy to find as she was standing, impatiently waiting for her solution. Her expression of sternness melted a bit when she realized that I was there to help her and that I was new.

I took a look around and verified that the computer would not, in fact, turn on.

My investigation ended a moment later when I discovered that the plug for her computer was only barely in the outlet, enough that a haphazard glimpse made it appear to be plugged in but loose enough that it was not making any significant contact with the terminals inside the outlet.
I reseated the plug into the outlet and tested the computer.
It sparked into life and Debbie was able to begin her workday.

I began my trek back through the various departments, pausing momentarily to note the terminal in manufacturing with the Budweiser Frogs screensaver that was burning frog images into the screen and the machine operator that was playing solitaire over the front of the CNC operation program.

I logged the case of Debbie and went about my day.

8:00AM on Wednesday, the following week, I answered the phone. It was Debbie. Her computer would not boot.
The process was identical in every respect. My journey, the nature of the problem, the solution, etc.

8:00AM on Wednesday, the following week, I answered the phone. It was Debbie. Her computer would not boot.
The process was identical in every respect. My journey, the nature of the problem, the solution, etc.

After the second repeat of this I inquired as to what was causing this and my colleagues provided me the answer. Apparently the housekeeping crew vacuums Purchasing on Tuesday nights and they fail, every week, to properly plug Debbie's computer back in. No amount of effort has managed to make them accomplish this simple task so, each Wednesday, Debbie calls MIS with the same problem.

8:00AM on Wednesday, the following week, I answered the phone. It was Debbie. Her computer would not boot.
This time, though, I deviated from the routine. I explained to Debbie what we had discovered and what we thought was causing the issue. I outlined that it was as simple as pushing on the plug to ensure it was fully in the wall. Debbie, accepted that this was possible, and watched me prove it.

8:00AM on Wednesday, the following week, I answered the phone. It was Debbie. Her computer would not boot.
I realized, then, that Debbie was never going to do the simple task of plugging her computer in to I began my trek.
The process was identical in every respect. My journey, the nature of the problem, the solution, etc.

I repeated this journey every Wednesday for the duration of my experience with the company and I had the great fortune to have my replacement and I overlap by a week at the end of my time.

On Wednesday, that week, at 8:00AM the phone rang. This time I got to be the one to say "How about we let the new guy handle this one?" as everyone else smiled.

He began his journey to Purchasing moments later.

The Rogue DHCP Server

Some things are best learned through experience.
The horror and frustration of them is a far more valuable lesson than the actual knowledge if read from a book. Losing data is one such lesson and there is really no way to make light of that event.
One of the horrors of losing data is that it can affect anyone.

Another such lesson, though, only affects network managers. Only plagues those who are responsible for the smooth operation of the network and the reliable access of resources for their users.
What makes this issue so insidious is that it is not obvious and it can plague the most well-prepared individuals; even more so those who are learning the eddies of troubles that managing a network can bring.

Imagine, if you will, a basic network built of the most basic networking equipment.
A network that is working perfectly and reliably. A network that maintains access to the core resources used by all of the users and which allows them to pass through to the outside world for general internet access. Imaging this should be no special task because, as you read these very words, you are using such a network or you used such a network to gain access to them. Such a network is seamless and the users make no notice of it just as they make no notice of the hallways or streets that they use until there is a problem.

The first indicator that I had that there was a problem was a routine helpdesk request. One of my users was unable to log on to the computer. Investigating the issue yielded a message that, at first glance, seemed a bit odd for my network but which was in the realm of possibility: an IP conflict.

The users could not access the network because the workstation had been shut off from the network because it had an identical address to another workstation. A simple reboot solved this problem and I verified that the workstation was getting its address from the network itself, as intended. I made a note of the address and began my investigation.

I checked my sheet of static addresses and found no matches.
I checked all of the devices that were supposed to have static addresses and they all had the addresses they were supposed to have.
I noted other machines around the building and none of them were having an issue.
I chalked the issue up to a random fluke and continued on.

Until another user informed me of the same problem the following morning.
And another.
And another.
And then several more.

I knew, then, that I had a serious problem on my hands but I had no idea what it could be.
I also knew that I had a limited window to find and solve the problem before my professional reputation was damaged and my "personal capital" in the organization would be completely and totally, and irrevocably, spent.

I examined the problem and found no inherent and obvious cause.
As I could not treat the disease I began preventative measures on the symptoms.
I reduced the range of assignable IP addresses and began statically assigning addresses to every affected user. I did this on the network side and hard-coded the addresses into the workstations themselves.
This, it turns out, was exactly the measure I needed to buy myself some more time.

With that time I turned to some online resources, which in the time of this tale were greatly diminished as compared to today, to get assistance on the root cause.

Reading and testing; more testing and more reading. I spent considerably time trying to understand where the problematic addresses were coming from but, regardless of my lack of comprehension they were still there. They still were being issued to anything that requested them. I was merely preventing things from asking for them.

The main clue that I received was that computers still pulling the addresses automatically were trying to use a different gateway than I had configured on my network. This little clue allowed me to deduce some more information, now that I had a few moments, as to the originating entity.

Most routers, if not all, have an interface that is visible to the network from the "inside." This interface is accessible by pointing a web browser at the address of the router. Unless otherwise specified this is the address that the router will hand out as the gateway.
So took the gateway address that I was seeing and entered it into the web browser of my affected machine.
BOOM. I was fed back a web interface to configure a router.
I now knew what I was looking for. I knew what the device was and how it was destroying my network.
What I didn't know was WHERE it was nor who had installed it in my building.
Somewhere, in my domain, was a Rogue Router.
And so began the great hunt.

After hours I went on safari, seeking the beast that was destroying the stability of my equipment and which was poised to consume my career prospects.
There was no better way, with the limited equipment I had to work with, to hunt this beast than to roam the vast halls; exploring room by room. I sought the beast.
For three nights I spent time migrating through the wilds of the network, physically examining the devices attached to the network in each of the many rooms I connected.

Until I beheld it.
In a room on the back wing I found a table.
On that table lay four additional workstations.
Four machines that were not supposed to be there.
Four machines that were not in my inventory.
Four computers that, combined with the other two in the room, could not POSSIBLY, connect into the four network ports that existed in that room.
Six machines simply could not use four network connections: the math just did not work.

I climbed under the table and followed the leads out of the wall. I moved around the edge of the table so that I could examine where the lines went as they moved from beneath to above the table.

I traced the line and I found my quarry.

Buried in a nest of cables it lay, lurking and waiting. Eating the productivity of all and consuming my reputation little by little.

There was the netgear router that was not supposed to be there.
It had one port that was not in use with one feeding into the wall and the remainder going to the computers. But the one that was not in use was the NOT a downstream port. It was the uplink.
Whomever had installed this router didn't know what they were doing and had uplinked my entire network into this router.
This was the source of the wrong addresses. This was the source of my pains.
This was the cause I consumed so much Tylenol in the previous week.

I unseated the cable that fed to the wall from the port it was nestled into and I seated it into the uplink port.

I made this change and I waited.

A week passed without any additional problems.
A week in which I could not find any trace of the issue.

A week in which I rebuilt my confidence and allowed others to believe I had contained, and eliminated, the problem.

A week that lasted an eternity while I waited, hoping that I had resolved the issue.

The following week I began the slow restoration of systems back to the proper configuration now that the danger had passed.

And then I went to the user who had built the mini lab in their room.
I went to her and I asked her why she had built it and where she had received the equipment.

I also, kindly, let her know the specifics of how it could disrupt the entire network in the future and that I needed her to ensure, if she hooked it up again in the future, that she matched how it was plugged in now.

My first IT crisis was averted.
One of the most important lessons was learned and I learned it the hard way.

Self-Powered

Sometimes, as an IT Professional, one encounters users that are happy to try to reassemble their computer on their own.
Given the reputation of scary IT people and those who are condescending to users, I have always found it important to allow users who wish to try the opportunity to try it out. Nothing reduces fear of the equipment faster and better than demystifying it.

Once upon a time, in my journey through a career as a technology manager, I encounter a user that was happy to reattach all of their equipment after a room move. I was asked, prior to their efforts, if I found it acceptable for them to undertake the effort and I assured them I was. I even stated that  if they encountered any trouble to please let me know.

Later that day the user appeared in my door with an expression of concern adorning their face.

"I have a problem" they informed me, "it won't turn on."

I rose from my seat and escorted them back to their office area. Of course, the first question I asked was "is it plugged in" and the answer was an affirmative.
I began my troubleshooting, examining first, and last, if it was plugged in.

I found, to my acceptance, that all of the necessary cables appeared plugged in to the appropriate spaces. Network to network, USB plugs in USB ports (side note: a USB plug WILL fit into a network jack so "plug it in where it fits" doesn't work for all users). Monitor attached correctly. Everything seemed to be plugged in correctly; that is, until I looked at the wall socket.
There was nothing plugged into the electrical outlet in the wall. I knew, suddenly, that this MUST be the problem but where was the plug that needed to go there?
I traced all of the cables with my fingers until the culprit became clear. One of the plugs that is plugged into the surge protector was also the source cable for the surge protector. I gently unplugged this and slide it home, into the wall socket.
I rose, out from under the desk, and sparked on the system with the power button.
Everything fired up exactly as expected and my user was back in service.

Upon being asked what had been wrong I merely answered "one of your connections was arguing with us. It wanted to take a nap. I woke it up."
My user found this response amusing and accepted it.

I left their office and returned to my own to continue the tasks of monitoring servers and standing by for additional help as needed.























This is another true story tagged as "fiction" due to the story-telling nature of it.



The tale of the office move and the computer that wouldn't turn on because the power strip was plugged into itself

Shattered Life - Part 2

When I decided to make the initial journey south I was at my mother's home. I was there doing my laundry so that I could make use of her hot tub while I waited. This was a not uncommon experience as, at that time, I was renting a trailer with two friends. They, as a couple, usurped much of the appliance time. Since I had the opportunity to utilize better appliances AND use a hot tub I was not shy about the half-hour journey to my mother's.
It was not far in the future from the initial meeting that this couple and I made a move into a full house. This, of course, required a lot of time and many trips hauling a great deal of stuff. This, of course, was best done when we were not at work; meaning evenings and into the weekend.

As I could not surrender my time to head southward she decided to surprise me and come northward.
We got to spend the weekend together and I got to work harder to free up my time for when she arrived.

It was a wonderful visit. Spock, her dog, came with her and we spent the weekend in my new home.
She and I ran out to the place I had just quitted and tried to recover the nice trash barrel that I owned but, we soon discovered, it was too stinky to transport in her nice car (or any space that was shared with a breathing entity) so it was left in the yard of the trailer that was being departed for the next individuals to utilize as they saw fit.

On Sunday we decided to breakfast with two of my closest friends; a couple whom I had introduced to one-another while I was dating the woman. Their attraction was immediate and unstoppable and, while I didn't like that I was edged out I understood that one's heart is not something one could control so I did not try to interfere with their relationship (Author's note: they are happily married with a seven year old). During the breakfast there was a great deal of pleasant conversation. I engaged in conversation with both of my friends and I felt that my new love was enjoying the meal as well. It was only afterward that her wrath rained down upon me.

The accusation was concise and very terse. I was told that I was still in love with her and that I could no longer be friends with them. There was no discussion. There was no opportunity for debate. My new love had seen what she saw and come to the conclusion that my friend was the enemy. I had always said, and still say, that if anyone ever made me choose between someone else and them that the choice would be easy: I would choose "them" because they would be the party who did not make me choose. I was surprised, therefore, that my new lady was able to put forth this ultimatum without actually making the ultimatum. To this day I cannot recall HOW she did it but the end result was the same: I was coerced into severing my ties with my two friends so that I could keep my love.

I should have known then that I was in for trouble. But I was too blinded to see it.

Instead, I surrendered that part of my life and started to build relationships farther south. I had already ceased my fencing practices in the norther region because they happened on a weekend and I was choosing to go south to spend time with my lady. I was then forced to cease my normal Wednesday night outing, where I went to a local restaurant to socialize with a variety of people near my own age, because the female half of the couple we had dined with was the one who convinced me to join that crowd and she, sometimes, was there.
My life was, after this northward visit, more in her control than it had been to that point but I simply was unable to see it nor was I willing to believe it.

---

As I became more and more entrenched in her life, by surrendering my own, we began trying to socialize more and more with her friends. Two of these friends, a couple, lived in an apartment in Portland and they invited us over for awhile for dinner and a visit.

Something that, through a combination of latent anxiety concerns and reinforcement by external sources (e.g. my lady friend) that provided me with a great deal of troubles was navigating in a place I am not familiar with. I've always been a bit uncomfortable with it but, until I started spending time with her, it was manageable. Her reactions in the car greatly exacerbated the underlying issue and created a situation in which confusion of roads could become overwhelming to me.

This was a problem that she was aware of. This was a problem she "helped" me with when we drove about together.

When we went to visit her friends I drove and she navigated.

The highways were, and remain, roads that I know well through the Portland area. As such I needed only have direction as to what exit I was to take and all of the steps after that point in the journey. On the way to the residence of her friends she provided the information as to what exit to take and then went about not giving me advanced warning on when I would need to turn for the upcoming streets. She provided the information as the turn was approaching, making it difficult for me to anticipate the turn; increasing my anxiety over not knowing what was around me nor where I should be going.

Prior to this point I had prided myself on knowing how to return to a place after visiting it once. The process of getting TO it and then tracing the steps FROM it were enough to ingrain the path into my mind. She also knew this.

The path to the residence took one highway to a particular exit and then followed an fairly major road in until it crossed with the road that her friends lived on.
This, however, is not the path she allowed me to drive to leave.
I have since learned all of the roads that we took and I can recreate the entire path I was taken on that day. I can say, with total clarity, that the path was not the most efficient path to take: neither to nor from this residence. Taking two different routes, neither of which was efficient, served no purpose other than to increase my anxiety and prevent me from learning the roads in greater detail.
In short, her navigation choices reinforced my anxiety and my dependence on her to navigate around the metropolitan area that was to become my new home.
Once again, I was unable to see what was happening because I did not know the roads well enough to see what she had done; it was only years later, when I saw the apartment we had visited, that I put all of the pieces of that day into their true context.

---

Like most people I have an appreciation for sweet things.
So, too, did my new lady friend.

Particularly she enjoyed Rice Krispie treats with butterscotch in them.
So I made them.
Nearly every weekend I made a batch of Rice Krispie treats or some variant thereof (note: substituting Fruity Pebbles for Rice Krispies is also tasty) and we would eat some of them during the course of the weekend and she ate the rest during the week.
This addition to her dietary consumption yielded an expected, but undesirable, side effect. She gained a small amount of weight. To me she went from hot, sexy and beautiful to being hot, sexy and beautiful. To me there was not change. To her, however, this minor increase in weight was a HUGE catastrophe that was my fault. I was screamed at and I was scolded. I was told that all of the treats I made were the cause and that, because I made them, it was my fault.
That weekend we spent some considerably time talking. Her outburst seemed, to me, to be completely unfair and it seemed to have a readily-available solution.
That weekend we avoided making any treats.
By mid week she apologized and said she missed having the treats to snack on.
I was asked to make them again the following weekend.
During the next few months I have a vague recollection of this exact scenario playing out a few times. She would be unhappy with how she looked at it would become my fault for cooking for her.
She would have a minor outburst and we would talk about it and reach a reasonable decision on how we could improve the situation. This would be followed by an apology later in the week.
Had I known then what I know now I would have known that this pattern would continue and could never be broken. That this behavioral pattern would escalate in amplitude of response while having a decreasing severity of trigger and an increasing frequency overall.
But, I did not know then what I know now so I did not choose to walk away.
I'm not sure, had I known, that I would have been able to anyway. I loved her too much.

---

There was a point where she started sharing stories of her exes with me. She had several, including a previous fiance. In retrospect the tales I am about to relate probably should have been a warning sign to me of some sort; but I knew I was not a bad person. I knew that I didn't match the pattern. I didn't realize that the pattern was not the men: it was her. I am sure, now, I am included in the wave of terrible men who have mistreated her when she tells others her tales. I, too, am sure that the story of the men before me is exaggerated well beyond the facts of the situations. Take those as a disclaimer as to the nature of these events for I cannot relate many facts about them: only what she told me.

My lady had had a growing career as an on-air personality. She was doing well and her reputation was growing. Then she got sick (more on that later). After her sickness she decided to start a new life and moved out to Michigan.

While there she met a man. I don't have many details on the story of their meeting but it seems to closely mirror my experience thus far. He fell madly in love with her and they had a whirlwind romance. He proposed and she accepted. She then decided she missed home. They moved back to Maine and got established. From her telling the story it seems that she then broke it off with him due to lack of passion in their life. She claims she loved him deeply but there was no fire or passion, especially in the bedroom. She kept the ring.
In short, she seduced this man and uprooted him from all that he knew to move back to Maine with her where the relationship was severed and she kept the main asset that had been a manifestation of the importance of the relationship to him.
Later, one night that we had ordered take-out from the local Amato's, I was texted from my car. She was in my car and this man was standing next to me in line inside. She slinked down and hid in the car when he left. Again, I should have interpreted this as a sign.

After, what I am sure, was a string of dating, a new gentleman caller entered her life. This man actually cooccupied the very same apartment she had been living in when she and I met with her. This man was a brilliant graphics designer and web programmer. This man had built a business doing web design, construction and hosting. This man taught his business to his beloved girlfriend so that she could work with him from home. She learned programming and the graphic arts programs. She rapidly understood the business functions.  This mad had a falling out with his business partner and reincorporated with his new girlfriend to make a new business.
Over the next couple of years, as she tells it, this man oscillated through phases of insanity. His brilliance in both design and coding was the result of some sort of schizm in his mind that made his an explosive personality. Through many events, as she tells the story, the relationship was ripped apart and she had to sever the ties with him for her own safety. In doing so she ran through a legal battle resulting in him being completely severed from the company that he had built, broken and reforged with her. When the ashes cooled on their relationship she had control of the apartment, the assets and the company. He was left with nothing, not even the business of his parents; whom had been customers of the company.
In short: she seduced this man and stole his livelihood from him, forcing him into a well of depression and financial ruin.

Again; this story should have been a warning for me. Instead it was a sympathetic narrative in which she was the victim of a boyfriend who went insane and tried to steal what she had contributed to his life.

I'm certain there were a variety of other men before she met the next man who was to be a steady boyfriend and, from some evidence, he was in the initial stages of moving in with her.
This man was bad news.  I love books and so did he. After his departure there were many boxes of books left behind. As I loved books they were given to me as he was not allowed to come back for them due to a retraining order. The boxes reiterated what the restraining order told: this man celebrated violence. The books were filled with gritty fantasy centered around violence and dark horror volumes. Normally I will not judge a person solely by the books that they read and choose to own but the volume of books included, and the singular focus of them was a bit disarming. Coupled with the restraining order and, what I was informed, the upcoming court date I knew that this person was likely to be a bad person whom would be prone to explosive violence. As the court date approached she related the story to me.
During their relationship this man had been a forceful and dominant individual. There were arguments that escalated to pushing and shoving. There were many instances of yelling and screaming. The culmination of this tumultuous romance was a physical confrontation. As she tells it he was physically assaulting her directly and through pushing her all around the apartment. As she tells it she picked up the wall phone and dialed 911 to ask for help. As she tells it he then ripped the phone off the wall and threw it across the room; disconnecting the call. As she tells it he threw her across the room and proceeded to continue his assault when the police arrived and arrested him. As she tells it that is the end of the incident and the end of the relationship. As she tells it that it the origination of the restraining order and the subsequent need to go to court to push the order forward and, later, a repeat court appearance to have the order renewed.
Many years later, due to a "Criminal Records Check" advertisement that was fed to me via Google I discovered a hint that there was more to this story. The line in the ad, for criminal records, showed fragment of a paragraph of a police log. In that fragment, which contained no complete sentences but, rather, appeared to be a small photo of the corner of the police beat column of a paper, where three words. Her first name, her last name, and the word "arrested." The context of the words implied, quite heavily, that she had been arrested but the fragment did not contain enough information to verify it. I Googled the entire sentence fragment and was directed to a paywall for the local newspaper's archive. I paid the $3 fee for access to the article and obtained a revelation. During the incident that she imparted to me the man had, in fact, been arrested and the home's state was much as she described.
The part she had omitted from her story, though, was equally important. The fact she omitted was that she, too, had been arrested. Both parties had been arrested for their part in the domestic violence. This means that the police did not believe that she was innocently being beaten nor that she was merely defending herself. The officers on the scene believed that she had been an active participant in the situation and had been committing as much assault as she had been receiving. This, had it been imparted at the time, MIGHT have made me reconsider the relationship. It certainly would have alerted me to the dangers of this woman and made me more aware of what I was about to go through as it happened rather than allowing me to be self-deluded into thinking that she was not insane.
This, as you will see later, would have been good foreshadowing had my story been a movie and the audience, without me knowing, been made aware of her arrest.

Then, of course, there was me. This is my tale and I am sure, from her perspective, it differs greatly. I'm sure that there is a chapter in her previous relationships narrative in which I am a villain and in which I was a terrible individual that abused her trust, tried to take her life away and threatened to destroy her in some way. because of what I went through, including the parts that have yet to be revealed, I am sure that my appearance in her tale is greatly exaggerated much as the appearances of these men has likely been warped and twisted to benefit her the most.
I feel sorry for the man who was uprooted from Michigan and forced to Maine to be abandoned.
I feel bad for the man whose livelihood was stolen from him.
I even feel bad for the misogynistic asshole who was prone to fits of assault; maybe I don't feel bad for him. His life deserved to be shredded.