Small Minded People

I live in an area governed by the USA, the state of South Carolina, the country of Dorchester, the city of North Charleston, and the megalomaniacs of the Home Owners Association. 

I can access informational and forum boards for the USA, SC, Dorchester, and the N Charleston without much trouble. To access my HOA website, I have had to sign in with a password that it WILL NOT STORE. So each time I have to tell it I am still at my computer in my house and I would really like to see what is behind Door Number Two. 

They have a message board there and they almost took it down after I posted a few things I found wrong with the management of the HOA. Only nice things are to be posted. No one posts anything there. The last message was from months and months ago. They have REAMS of rules for us to follow, most making no sense whatsoever. The rules can be found there, but the actual list was scanned in and placed a PDF and since it is scanned and not text, it is not searchable.

They have disorganized yelling matches once a month and dub them Board Meetings. Then a month later, they approve the minutes from the previous meeting and about two to three weeks later, they are finally posted on the website. It is now February and there are still TENTATIVE minutes there from the Annual Meeting, held in November. There was no meeting in December. Nothing is from January. February is a lost cause. 

That's what I went to see - if there were any communiques from the brilliant, efficient, hard-working people who RAN FOR OFFICE and begged to be on the f*ckin board so they could boss me around. 

I find, instead of my retained password that Chrome keeps handy for me, a new interface they are gleefully bragging about. 

Please remember this is an INFORMATION only site. There is nothing monetary going on there. I asked once what we were hiding other than all the stupid nitpicking squabbles over insignificant and pointless rules. (That's why they don't like me posting on the forum, a habit I have stopped no matter how stupid or egregiously inane they become.)

To sign in today I need to answer THREE (3) security questions and change my easy to type password into something with at least one uppercase and one lowercase letter and one numeral. This is not a high security site. I have no idea why anyone can't see where the link is to my garbage collection schedule calendar. 

These people are complete morons. I was going to send THEM this note, but it is full of polysyllabic words and I'm sure they wouldn't understand it. So instead, I'm venting. I know it does no good. I knew better than to buy with a HOA. I've never seen one that did anything useful. They are horrid institutions giving small people with tiny minds (I will not comment on physical aspects, but will privately surmise) powers over normal people. They should all be disbanded realizing they are a scourge upon the Earth. HOAs are works of the devil. 

Thank you for reading this far. I needed to say this. 

I'm a Writer

I'm not sure if I'm an author, but I know I am a writer, because I write. I'm not certain I know how to auth.

I write a lot. I write history essays that are published three times a week. I write a lead article once a week. All for RGQ. I have over a dozen short stories published in two different MWC books. I got a little short, true story published at Milspeak.

I'm finally convincing myself I'm a writer. Now I've hit the next hurdle.

Now I find I'm not a marketing expert.

The history essays are what I enjoy writing the most. I've described them as follows:

I write 400-500 word essays on one historical event for each day's date. Most "On This Day" articles are a list of birth dates, death anniversaries, and/or one sentence descriptions of events. Instead, I select one topic for the day and expound on it. I then add four quotations at the end of each essay to either illustrate the subject matter or give a voice to the historical person.

Each day of the year holds a variety of possible topics. I choose subjects ranging from the sublime to the ridiculous, from horrifying to redemptive, and representing the global community while spanning recorded history. Some of the essays deal with topics of far-reaching consequences; some are stories of the "I didn't know that" variety. All of them are entertaining and enlightening snippets of the larger, grander human experience. 

I think that says it nicely. What I would like to do is be published for pay. I thought writing a book including 365 or 366 essays would make a great bathroom book, trivia book, or educational book.

I think the daily essays would make a great start to a social studies class at the junior high or high school level. Since each class starts with everyone getting settled and some clerical work deemed necessary by the paper pushers of the world, there are a couple of wasted minutes just begging for some form of instruction. Reading one of my essays each day would take up those few minutes without undue strain and actually set the mood for the class to follow.

A friend suggested they would make a great article in a newspaper. As listed above, most of the On This Day articles out there simply list who was born and sometimes add who died on the date. I bring one story to life.

I've written about the day SpaghettiOs by Franco American hit the shelves. I've written about the end of World War I. I've written about patents being applied for, lawsuits reaching conclusions, and cartoons being broadcast. I've learned a tremendous amount of trivia and actual history as I've written up my daily ditty.

But now, I find that newspapers probably won't be interested in this unless I can show that it is worth their time to even look at it. I'm not to send samples, but I have to send samples. I need to be published in order to get published.

I am probably going to end up publishing a book through a self-publishing or vanity press place. And the problem with those is that anyone can and does do that. I see the writing that can and is offered to these places. It makes me cringe. A "wrighter" I've met via the Internet has four books published, according to the wrighter.

It is difficult to take these publishing houses seriously because such seriously horrible writing is published by them. There are some decent things published as well. There are more good writers than publishing houses can or are willing to fund.

I have no answers. I have issues and concerns. I know my essays are entertaining and well-researched, as well as well-written. I know I'm going to end up with them in print some way. All I need is some luck. 

Field Jacket

The year was 1971. I was fresh out of high school and attending a local community college. A friend of mine had a crush on a newly discharged Marine. She pressured me into accompanying her to the table in the cafeteria where six to eight green-clad men sat.

Each day we arrived in the cafeteria to a chorus of catcalls and wolf whistles. The men seated at the table (today I would refer to them as boys, but then they were men) were not always the same ones. Sometimes they actually attended their classes. Sometimes they were off somewhere else.  

But it was always a group of young men freshly discharged from the Marines. They were usually quite nice and yet there were bouts of anger. Especially when some conscientious objector objected to their presence. They were a little older than the other students. They were far more worldly and even world-weary.

Eventually my friend fell out of infatuation with her young man. I, however, kept returning to the Marine table. They didn't seem to mind.

One of the young men was smaller than the others, but seemed very good natured. He had a charming sense of humor and could tell a great story. He had joined the USMC, much to his father's chagrin, after breaking up with a girlfriend. The young man, not the father. The father had been wounded twice while fighting in the Pacific theater during World War II. The father was also ex-Marine.

But the young man joined The Corps and was promised two years, Vietnam, and a hard time. He got the two years and the hard time, but somehow – through the kindness of a Colonel who liked him – managed to stay stateside. The other young men at the table had all served in Nam. One, the small man's best friend, had been discharged after being seriously wounded.

There were stories at that table. There were confrontations at that table. There was one young lady falling in like with one young Marine at that table.

Eventually, the Marine asked me out and we had a really nice time. We went on to regularly date. We were in some classes together and we arranged to have even more classes together for the next quarter. All seemed to be going fine.

And then, one day, I committed a mortal sin. As I sat at a table full of combat hardened Marines, and my own sweet darling, I said something innocuous about their Army jackets.

I will never, ever forget the lecture about the difference between Army jackets and field jackets. Marines do not, little lady, ever wear – under pain of death – Army jackets. Marines wear field jackets. They also do not wear Army boots. They wear combat boots. Fatigues are just that, there is no Army in the name.

The lecture continued for several strained minutes. I sat blinking in stunned silence as I was instructed about the life and rules of the military in general and the US Marine Corps in particular. I never made that same mistake again.

In the years since, I have lost touch with several of those at the cafeteria table from many years ago. I lost one to death, exacerbated by his war injury. I lost contact with others as our lives took divergent paths. I still remain in contact with a rare few.

Somewhere over the years, in many moves around the country, the field jacket disappeared. It was disposed of, with reverence, I'm sure. I've kept the Marine.   

Grandpa's Jacket

My grandfather died in 1962. I was ten that year and my memories of him are dim. I know that Grandma slipped on the ice and broke her hip. I don't know when, but I have no memory of her walking without a walker or eventually trapped in a wheelchair.

I remember Grandpa gently and tenderly taking care of his wife. I remember him making the house more accessible for her before handicapped accessible was widespread. They lived over 500 miles away from us and we didn't see them often. Every time we did see them, Grandpa proudly asked if I remembered having the chicken pox and being so miserable. He was the only person who could make me happy. I was about one and a half years old at the time and I remember nothing. But he was always so happy to remind me that once in my life, he had been my hero, my savior. He, and he alone, even more than Mommy or Daddy, he had comforted me.

That thought seemed to comfort him. I got so sick of hearing that same tired story. He never tired of telling it and I listened. Probably without much grace.

It was late fall/early winter when he died. I came home from school and learned that he had suffered a heart attack and died in his green recliner. I can still remember the first thought that ran through my head. "Who will tell me that story now?" and I knew I would miss hearing it.

I have.

I don't know how, when, or even why, but my own father came to own Grandpa's jacket. It is a tan suede and buttery soft confection. The tag in the lining says it  was made by Sportswear with Grace by Grais. I just looked it up on the Internet. Rubin Grais was a Russian Jew who emigrated to Chicago and made leather goods. I can attest to his skill. He produced jackets and coats in the 1940s and 1950s. I still have no idea how old Grandpa's coat is, but now I know a little more.

By the 1960s it was my Dad's jacket. He didn't wear it every day, but he wore it often. The coat eventually came into my possession. I wore it for a while and then I had to do something. The coat was now at least 40 years old and the collar and cuffs were frayed. And so I took it to a tailor and paid probably more than Grandpa paid for the jacket itself. I got a new collar, cuffs, and waistband put on. The color wasn't exactly the same as the old ones and at first it made the whole jacket feel "wrong."

It got cold again recently and I got Grandpa's jacket out. It is still buttery soft, maybe even more than when it was new. The new collar, cuffs, and waistband now look normal to me. The lining is in perfect condition. The jacket is a little big for me, but that gives me plenty of room for a sweater underneath.

Rubin did a great job in making his jackets. This one has lasted for decades. It has lasted through three owners.

I did make one mistake. I thought back in 1962 that I would never hear Grandpa tell me how he was the only one who could comfort me when I was sick. But, instead, every time I put on the jacket, I can feel his arms around me, see his smiling face and hear the words, "Remember when …"

Good Luck; Bad Luck

I have been wearing contact lenses for nearly forty years. I've lost a few over the decades, but never enough to justify the cost of insurance on the little buggers. Usually, when I drop one or it leaps to freedom, I manage to relocate it and return it to its proper resting place. Usually; not always.

Over the years I've had various problems with my eyes. I used to be a little bit of a jock and played an inordinate amount of racquetball. I injured myself on a fairly routine basis. I got hit in the eye and eventually developed a cataract. I had surgery for that when I was 39 years old - so it's been a while. 

Since then, I've had various types and kinds of contacts. I am terribly near sighted and even with an implanted lens in one eye, can't read without some visual help. At the time of my surgery, implanted lenses could not correct astigmatism. So I have always also had a contact. Then I can't read with that eye because of the way eyeballs normally work is altered with the surgery. My vision is better than it was pre-op, but it is not perfect. 

So, for the first few years, I had an implant, a contact, and wore reading glasses to read. Lens build-up, I called it. I couldn't read a price tag while shopping unless I got my reading glasses out. I couldn't walk around a mall wearing the reading glasses or I got nauseous. 

Then I got mono-vision contacts and I could read and see distance. Neither one crystal clear, but functional. Then, because others I knew had a great deal of luck with bifocal contacts, I tried that. But only for one eye. Since my surgery eye is odd, they won't work. I was supposed to be able to read with these really expensive contacts. I did this last fall. I have been wearing reading glasses ever since every time I want to read anything. 

Saturday morning, I lost my expensive bifocal contact. It would be cheaper to pay for a new eye exam and go back to mono vision contacts than to replace the expensive contact. I was free of the odious terrible choice. 

I did look all over for the missing piece of plastic. It was gone. My job for today was to call the eye doctor and make an appointment. 

I have never, ever found a contact three days after I lost it. Until today. 

I am still going to get rid of this non-functioning lens, but now I don't feel so pressured. 

I may buy a spare contact this time, just in case. 
And why do I keep losing the right one? If I lost the left one, I have a newer spare and it really doesn't matter, since it isn't as strong a prescription. 

If I knew how, I would put in the little notes here
I can see clearly now .....

When is luck good and when is it bad?