Inflation, Maybe?
By Betty Simon
September 10, 2008
Something Geets said in class tijfs Thursday reminded me I have seen my monthly bills increase—creeping up little by little. I decided to do something about it.
AT&T is my telephone company of choice, and I have a beef with them. When I bought my new computer in January of this year, an AT&T agent was hovering around the sales desk hoping to sign up people for high-speed internet service on their computer purchases. And, so, he did convince me and promised me my charge would be $19.95 per month. I said, "For how long?" He said, "Always." That is not so. The charge is now $25.00/per month. So far I have not done anything about this increase.
I noticed on the same telephone bill I have a charge for long distance service. I never call long distance except on my Tracphone. The charge has been $$6.02, and the latest statement was $7.46~creeping up little by little. "Why should I pay for long distance when I do not use it?" I asked the telephone representative. She assured me she would take the long distance charge off my bill. That should save between $6 and $7/per month.
Comcast is my cable company. I received a letter with the promise of an increase in new channels to watch on TV. I have had the luxury of watching all channels under limited basic and expanded basic programs. My new bill is now $66.59, an increase of $11.41/per month—creeping up little by little.
There are only three channels added to the expanded basic program: Food Network, Galavision, and the Golf Channel. There is no one in this house except me, and I do not care about the new channels, nor do I care about the majority of programs that are offered on TV. I called a Comcast representative and canceled the expanded basic service and kept the limited basic. My bill will be $19.09/per month. That should save $47.50/per month.
I have no problem with P.G.&E. I figure I pay for what I use, which is not much.
The water bills in my apartment complex are divided among the tenants, not necessarily fairly, I might add. The water bill is an average of $35/per month, and there is not anything I can do about it.
This was the clincher. Yesterday (April 6) when I wrote a check to Chevron for gasoline, I thought the bill was high even with the increase in gas prices. Listed below the bill was a finance charge of $25 for paying the previous bill late. Late? I never do that. Chevron bills were always marked due on or about the 22nd of the month. Not any more. In checking back billings, the due dates changed from the 22nd in February to the 19th in March, the 15th in April, the 16th in May, the 11th in July, and the 10th in August. I never noticed the changes. Now I was going to be in trouble again.
I picked up the phone prepared to give argument to the finance charge and literally told the young man what I thought of them changing the due dates at will. Furthermore, I said, "I have been a Chevron customer since 1956. That is 52 years of being a faithful customer, and I am not going to pay a finance charge on my gasoline bill." He apologetically agreed to wipe the finance charge from the bill and would wait for my current check to arrive without charging me for being late again.
I forget that my needs change, and I do not need a lot of things I used five or six years ago. Some months ago I canceled my Verizon account for a cell phone that I never used and saved $25/per month. Now I am considering canceling the newspaper; that's another $15.12/per month.
Altogether I figure I can save $64.50/per month to spend on groceries, because they have gone up in priceTOtle by little\oo.
Last Rites
By Susan Reed
September 10, 2008
The last Wrights were all cremated. 1969 was a tough year for my dad. His father died in June, just about the time my mother’s cancer was diagnosed and she was given six months to live. Dad moved gently and dutifully through the web of funeral arrangements, always trying to make sure whatever was done would give my grandmother some comfort – no matter the expense. Granddad’s ashes were
secreted in a small marble vault where Nana could go visit, next to which her ashes would someday
be.
But losing my mother was harder for Dad, and there were more of us for whose comfort he felt
responsible. Even though Mom had had time to make her wishes known, I know he felt he had to
please those left behind – so there was a viewing before cremation (which none of us children could
bear to attend), a standing room only funeral at our neighborhood church, a large reception at the
family home in Seattle, and then, just two days later, a gathering at the family beach house an hour
away, where we would scatter Mom’s ashes with the minister in attendance.
My sister Sally and I had arrived from the east coast with not just our two year olds in tow. She was six months pregnant and I had just had my first son, then ten days old. We arrived at the beach house fairly exhausted from all the ceremonies and celebrations, not to mention night feedings, but
there was still work to be done. We borrowed Dad’s car to head for the local country store to stock up
on food for the family reception and the weekend to follow.
We filled two grocery carts to the brim and the grocery clerk was eager to help us out to the car. But just as I started to put the key in the trunk, Sal said with a start, “Oh, no, Suse. Mom’s in there!”
The store clerk helped us fill the back seat with groceries as we did our best to stifle our giggles.
Even the next day I never saw Mom’s ashes. My father and my uncle carried them in a large canvas bag and rowed out to scatter them on the waters of Puget Sound. I had no idea what they were like or what volume they would have. I was surprised to find, a full fifteen years later, that the remains of a normal human body would barely fill an eight inch square box.
It was 1985. Back at home in Vermont, I answered the doorbell through the din of a houseful of boisterous boys. There stood a serious-looking man in a dark suit, holding an eight-by-eight inch box wrapped in brown paper.
“Are you Mrs. FitzPatrick?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.” He leaned forward to present the box to me. “This is the Reverend FitzPatrick. I was asked to deliver him to you.” My son Jamie came running. “What is it, Mom? What’s in the box?”
“You don’t really want to know.”
“Yes, yes, I do. C’mon, Mom.”
“It’s Grampy.”
“Oh, cool! Hey, guys, come here. Guess what this is! This is my Grampy’s ashes right here in this box. Wow!”
How bitter-sweet, how wonderful it is to be able to find some humor, and some relief, during otherwise tough times. When my father died in 1997, cremation was a given. But now there was a new problem. He had remarried, and he had been married to my stepmother for almost thirty years, just as long as he had been married to my mother. We four children wanted him to be at the beach with Mom, but we also wanted to honor my stepmother’s wishes. We were a bit underhanded, but symbolically he is with both wives. And, since my little sister Rodie spilled some ashes making the transfer, a part of him was also vacuumed up and spread under a young magnolia tree he had given her the year before.
I think Dad would have smiled at all this. A modest man, however, he may have felt a bit abashed at the memorial service at the church attended by over four hundred people , the large catered reception at a private club, and a second memorial service the next day, for the business and legal community, in the Grand Ballroom of a downtown Seattle hotel. My stepmother gave his ashes to the church to be among the first in their new courtyard “columbarium”. We children gathered at the beach at sunset after all the more formal ceremonies and celebrations were over.
On a beautiful calm evening at sunset, we four children each scattered a handful of ashes on the water. Our children floated roses they’d been given at the memorial service. As they drifted out into the bay, shimmering pink and orange in the setting sun, a bald eagle flew down, skimming the surface of the water.
Who has the last rights when we die? Who decides what the last rites will be? I am the eldest of the last Wrights now. I know I want to be cremated and I know where I want to be. I require no last rites or ceremony or large celebration. But it will perhaps take a sense of humor and certainly a light heart to fulfill my wishes, but here’s the recipe: one third on the beach with my parents, one third in Vermont with my children, and one third wherever John is. And it’s okay to spill a few. Ashes are ashes. I just hope there’s some laughter and a story to tell afterwards.
Addendum: John’s one word response when he read this: “taxidermy"
Copper Canyon Adventure
Kay Turner Greczkowski
August 22, 2008
This is the story of a 1983 adventure to Mexico’s Copper Canyon. We were young, Ed and I, in our fifties, retired and carefree. We often went off on travels, our biggest worry being where to park the dog, Ginger, our beagle mutt from the animal shelter. (She was half beagle and half idiot, but we loved her.) Daughter, Karen, usually kept the dog and checked on our house.
We went in October, to the Copper Canyon, to avoid the heat and the crush of the tourist season. The first leg of our journey was a flight from San Francisco to San Diego where we were met by our son-in-law’s parents, who took us sight-seeing and out to lunch and later drove us to the Mexican border.
We pulled our small suitcases across the border to Tijuana. The Mexican immigration official, when he found we were hoping to catch a flight to Chihuahua, walked us to a nearby travel kiosk where the helpful agent immediately phoned the airport. The last flight of the day was boarding. “No problema, they will wait for you.” The immigration official called a taxi, and off we went to the airport. The tickets awaited us at the gate and the plane took off as we buckled into our seats.
It was dark when we landed in Chihuahua. We had read in the guide book to take a bus from the airport that stopped at hotels on the way into the city. We found the bus and got off at a hotel we had picked out from the guide book during the flight, knowing that if there was no room available at that time of night, about 10:00, we would be at a loss as to where to go or how to get there. We got the last room and it became our headquarters for the next two days as we sought out the train station for beginning the journey on this special rail line, The Chihuahua al Pacifico, through Las Barrancas del Cobra: the Copper Canyon.
The Copper Canyon is a series of gorges through the Sierra Madre, the rich copper color of the lichen on the canyon walls giving it its name. There are few roads, being most accessible by train.
By taxi, we found our way to the train station the next day, and made reservations for the following day’s journey. The tickets included the entire length of the line from Chihuahua, west to Los Mochis on the Gulf of California. Returning to the hotel, we arranged with the taxi driver to come for us at the hotel, “manana por la manana” to take us back to the train station. I had reviewed my conversational-mostly-present-tense Spanish before leaving home.
The rest of the day we spent sightseeing in Chihuahua: Pancho Villa’s mansion which houses the Museo de la Revolucion Mexicana, the cathedral, and omnipresent ornate churches and picturesque plazas.
We were the first passengers to arrive at the station in the morning, and I wondered if the train really would go. It stood there, unattended, dust and grime covered, needing a bit of care. When we realized no one would come to wash it down, we joined some other passengers trying to clean the large windows on the outside. It was disappointing: the windows, touted to afford panoramic views, were grimy, and our efforts to clean them were only a little successful. They were too high to reach and our cleaning supplies little more than spare Kleenex. We picked out comfortable seats in the car with the cleanest windows and eventually we were on our way.
On the way to Creel, the town we planned to stop at, we saw mostly flat farm land, small villages with waving, barefoot children, and desolate way-stations. When the train paused at some of the villages to take on passengers, villagers would scramble aboard hawking homemade dishes of tamales, tacos, miscellaneous roasted meats, chunks of fresh fruits, and cool drinks. They looked delicious, but we stuck to the snacks we had brought and our bottled water. Too early to tempt turista problems.
Eventually reaching Creel in the afternoon, we crossed the tracks to find the accommodations recommended by friends who had recently stayed there. It was a private house, rustic and modest. Our sparse room boasted its own wood burning stove and clean but dilapidated linoleum floor. Not charming, we thought, but living native style. We put down our bags and walked back across the tracks to explore the village. Almost immediately we spotted a motel. A motel? Admitting we had doubts about living primitively, trying to stay warm through a cold night keeping a wood fire burning, we did not hesitate to enter the motel office and investigate. Yes, there was a vacant room; and yes, it had a bathroom and central heating. The motel also had a restaurant and sponsored tours down to the canyon and to local villages and spots of interest. This was our kind of place. We booked in. It was awkward, but we went back for our bags and told the disappointed landlady to please keep the one night’s tariff.
The next morning we set out to explore the surrounding area. We were welcomed aboard a dust covered white Chevy Suburban bearing outdated Texas license plates. Our only other companion was Jose, a Mexican man, also a motel guest, vacationing from Veracruz. The driver spoke almost no English but had mastered the language of fluent gestures, aided by universal facial nuances from beneath his well seasoned, wide brimmed leather hat which he subtly tilted to shade his brown, lined countenance from the sun. He deftly maneuvered the battered van around pot holes, across landscape bereft of roads, and forded small streams to reach our destinations.
This is the land of the native Tarahumara people. Jose became our translator and together we visited this beautiful region of small villages; a lake; the small church and community of a Jesuit mission; a goat-raising farm family living in caves; and a woman waiting with her small children to sell her handcrafts. We bought a basket she had woven and colorfully dressed, carved wooden Tarahumara figures.
The Tarahumara people have been driven deeper into the canyon through years of exploitation starting with the coming of the Europeans and then the Mexicans and Americans. The men are renowned runners, once hunting deer by running them to the point of collapse. They still compete in world running competitions. Some families lead a nomadic life, living part of the year deep in the canyon for winter warmth and moving to the cooler regions at the top in the warm season.
Next day the three of us started early, on an all day trip destined for the village of Batopilas at the bottom of the canyon. The route down was over real roads, some paved, some not. We were joined at times by other traffic on the narrow roads: trucks laden with logs or waving passengers clinging to the open side rails, or a very occasional small bus. Curvy roads challenged our torsos. Scenery became spectacular gorges and rock formations and large tropical plants and forests.
The real adventure was our vehicle. Every several miles the Chevy Suburban pulled to the side with a thumping, flat tire. The sound became a familiar tune accompanied by three collective groans. There was no spare. The driver would get out, inspect the tire, take it off with makeshift tools, and spend a time musing over a solution. If he was in the unlikely vicinity of a friend’s house, he would be sure it could be fixed there. If we were near a stream, he would roll the tire down to it and dunk it in the water to watch for telltale bubbles. Patches were sparse. We learned to take advantage of the flat tire episodes, of which we lost count, and get out and hike ahead on foot to enjoy the scenery up close. Occasionally a wild burro would clomp by. At one point we reached a “friend’s” house and had a bit of respite. The friend sold cold sodas. Being the lone woman, I had not been able to make convenient pit stops along side the road as the men did so easily, so at this house Ed announced, “My wife has to go to the bathroom.” The woman motioned for me to go with her and she took me out in the field to a spot near an almost shielding rock. It was the only time that day I had bathroom privileges until we got back to the motel. I chatted, as best I could, to the kind woman in my conversational Spanish, curious about her life here in this remote place. She indicated that it was a boring life and she would rather live in town.
Later in the afternoon we had still not reached our destination of Batopilas. It was getting to be too late to go all the way down the canyon and as it was also getting very warm, we pulled to the side of the road in the shade and the driver unpacked lunch from a large ice chest I hadn’t noticed in the back of the van. What a delicious and welcome respite: ice cold Cokes, thick ham sandwiches and bags of potato chips. A woman we had picked up as she waited for a bus with her young son, shared a jar of scalding, small, hot peppers for the daring amongst us. We had several times stopped to offer rides to locals along the roadsides. We would murmur, “I hope you’re not going far.”
So, that was the day trip almost to the bottom of the Copper Canyon. Even though we never got there, it was an unforgettable day with many beautiful slides to show on the wall when we got home. We could hardly complain for our money back.
At night we stumbled along the unpaved main street of Creel, avoiding the wild horses that thundered through in the dark. It was cold at night at the top of the canyon and the darkness was absolute, only one dim streetlight in town and we had no flashlight. We had gone out, for variety, to see if there was another place to eat besides the motel restaurant, but the little place we thought we had seen in the daytime had disappeared. We returned to the motel and shared a brandy with Jose.
The rest of the train trip west to Los Mochis was the most scenic and we often stood between the cars to gaze. Traveling east to west afforded us the entire trip in daylight, except for the very last bit into Los Mochis. No napping on this trip: our eyeballs became saturated with gorgeous tropical plants, waterfalls, curving bridges, mountain vistas and rushing rivers.
In Los Mochis we boarded the bus that waited at the terminal to take us to a hotel. We grumbled about being captive to this one hotel, but as it was late, we were tired and knew no other place to go. We went along and stayed the night.
In the morning we found the bus station and boarded a bus for Mazatlan where we planned to catch a ferry bound for La Paz. On the advise of our trusty guide book, we carefully chose a “first class” bus for a ride that kept us giggling or terrified all the way. The “first class” choice touted air conditioning. We found the air conditioning to be an open roof ventilator that sometimes banged shut, and the rushing air from the wide open window beside us, which swept in with a hot breathed vengeance and hair blowing, eye watering fervor, as the bus hurtled down the two lane highway, passing slow moving trucks, swerving for stray cows, horn blaring. Being the only Gringoes aboard, we tried to stifle our hilarity lest we appeared disrespectful of the first class circumstances. Our fellow passengers were gracious and the driver assured us he would not leave us if we wanted to get a bite to eat at the restaurant on the rest stop.
We stayed at Mazatlan only long enough to seek out the ferry terminal and book passage. Referring again to the guide book, I was adamant I would not get on the boat for its overnight crossing if we couldn’t secure a first class cabin. The guide book had warned of dirty berths and generally filthy conditions, especially in the lower class cabins. Standing in line to the ticket window we read the posted information for the various accommodations and found there to be only two, first class cabins. My heart sank, fearing we were too far back in the line to find a vacancy. I was ready to refuse a lower class. No problema, one was still available. The next evening when we boarded the ferry, still not expecting lush accommodations, we were astounded to find we had reserved a two room suite. Not lush, but definitely a cut above. We enjoyed dinner in the dining room before retiring for the night. We docked in the morning at La Paz.
A couple of years later this ferry burned at sea in the Gulf of California.
We lingered a few days enjoying the beaches of La Paz and finally flew to Tijuana, bused across the border to San Diego, and flew back to San Francisco. The end of a wandering journey, remembered as much for the connections that always seemed to work out, as for the country, the people, and the adventure. I also remember it for having talked Ed into the scheme in the first place.
There'll Be Some Changes Made
By Mary Klien
August 22, 2008
As my 86th birthday approaches, I realize the remaining years are limited; my prayer is to try to live these years with a positive attitude and a grateful heart. An incident occurred a couple of weeks ago that was both sobering and shocking. Pm embarrassed to even write about it, but I learned a lesson from it. If I want the remaining years to be good ones I have to set new goals for myself and in order to accomplish that I have to make changes in my life.
I had a wake up call a couple of weeks ago. John found my cell phone cleansed and consequently "dead" in the dishwasher. I know he didn't do it, so it had to be me. I kept asking myself, "How could I have done such a stupid thing!" - "Is this the beginning of Alzheimer's, or dementia?"-" Am I over the hill?" - I was depressed! My dear children offered the explanation that perhaps it fell off the sink into the dishwasher. That was a comforting thought, the children were kind to suggest, but I don't think that was possible.
I did a lot of soul searching—also looking for excuses and I came up with quite a few: I started to reminisce about the years I was raising seven children and how during those years it seemed as though I was always rushing around and doing many things at the same time. "Multi tasking" the new buzzword, is something all mothers have been doing since the beginning of time.
Today I don't have to rush so much, yet, I'm still doing it! Will I ever learn! The time has come for me to slow down, to focus, to concentrate and be deliberate about my actions. To take it easy! It's OK to take a nap during the day and to read a book during the day instead of waiting to read at night as I used to do after the children were in bed and John was still at a city council meeting. Above all I need to concentrate on what I am doing- to be deliberate and conscious of where I place things!
" A place for every thing and everything in its place" is a great goal. I now have a small basket on my desk and in it are my cell phone and eyeglasses. When I leave the house I place my cell phone in a little leather pouch and my keys go in another leather pouch into my purse. When I return home I place my cell phone back in the basket, along with my eyeglasses and leave my keys in the leather pouch in my purse. I've heard horror stories from some of my friends who have left their checkbooks on the counters where they've been shopping. I double check my purse twice before I leave the stores to make sure I have my checkbook in my purse.
I have a long way to go. Organizing my piano music and books is an on-going venture—but keeping the music in order for the three different musical groups I perform with has not been a problem— maybe because "music" is one of the great joys in my life and is truly fun. Also it might be because I am accountable to these groups. Accountability is a great motivator to becoming organized.
In the meantime, the bookshelves need re-organization, so do the closets, the bureau drawers - - -and some day I will get around to reorganizing the kitchen cabinets along with many other things. I should live so long! I wouldn't be surprised if my husband puts on my tombstone:
"She's gone to Heaven to get organized."