Burglary or Is This Anyway to Solicit a Yard?

So as we left for dinner a few night ago we saw the police cars before a neighbor's house two doors up. He was on the front yard with two officers. "Hmm, wonder what that is about?" we wondered.

The person is a retired school teacher. I'll tell you how bad times have become. First thought came to my wife's mind was a drug bust. There's been a couple nearby recently. I was even worse. First words out of my mouth were, "Child porn on the computer?" Terrible thing to think of a neighbor, but that's what you see in the news so much these days, some former worker with children arrested for child pornography. No matter where our evil thoughts went, what it was was a burglary.

Didn't know that yet. Looked online and in the paper next day, but nothing about our area in the crime reports. How often do we see a curious situation and never find out what the reasons were? A number of times actually.

The next night my daughter comes home from work announcing as she enters, "Why are the police all over the street."

I looked out and there were a couple cop cars up in front of that neighbor's again. Now a couple hours later, when we had guests stop by, the police were gone.

My visitors didn't stay long, maybe a half hour, and I walked them out to the street as they left. The police were back again. Two officers were across the street talking with the occupants. Meanwhile, I spent sometime talking with my friends, who were my pastor and two elders from my church. They didn't look the stereotypical such. We're not your grandmother's church, I guess. One elder had arrived by Harley-Davidson and they're big fellows with tattoos and such. And while we are gabbing the police amble down and motion me over.

"You live around here?" asks the uniformed officer. The other must be a detective.

"Right here," I say, pointing to my house.

He takes my name, birth date, telephone number and blood pressure. Naw, he really didn't take that last. He tells me there was a burglary two doors up. Then he asks if I saw a person mowing the lawn there a few days ago. No, I hadn't. He didn't tell me anything else. He did ask if I'd seen anything suspicious lately.

Why, yes I did, yes I did.

Maybe it's nothing, but I told them anyway.

It was the other day, I am on the computer and my wife calls me. "There are guys going around people's homes with clipboards."

I  rushed out to see and sure enough I saw a guy wandering from the side of the house on the corner. He indeed had a clipboard and seemed to be making notes. My wife told me there was a guy next door all the way into the backyard. While she says this the fellow came from that house and went to the driver's side of a white car parked on the street.

I hurried back to the computer room to snatch my glasses and my camera. As I returned I saw the white car pulled past our place and stopped and a fellow walking down our driveway. "Did he knock on the door?" I asked my wife.

"No," she said.

I was just going out my front door when the white car drove off with the two guys. I decided to follow and catch them and ask what they were doing. I drive after, but I lost them. They must not have stopped anywhere in the neighborhood. I wanted to get a picture of the car and license. We didn't know there had been a burglary yet, but this was suspicious behavior nonetheless.

As I was returning from my fruitless search for the clipboard guys, I notice the lady in the corner house in her yard. I go to her and ask about the clipboard guys.

"They were Scott's Yard care," she tells me. "They were real pushy, too."

I went in my house and called Scott's Lawn Care and asked if they had crews out surveying yards. The lady who answered said they did.

I said, "Their car didn't have any name on it."

She said, "Our sales crews don't use the trucks." She continued, "They knock on the door and leave a flyer."

Okay, but no one knocked on my door and there was no flyer left. I don't like people walking about my house making notes on a clipboard. I liked the idea even less when that cop told me there was a burglary two homes away.

Next day I went across to the corner house and asked if they left her a flyer. "No," she said. "He held something out, but when I reached for it he snatched it back. 'You're keeping it?', I asked and he said, 'Yeah.'"

As I left her I saw the neighbor across the street was out and about. He's a long time friend so I wandered over and told him my tale.

"They came up the drive," he said, "and I said , 'No, not interested.' They didn't want to take no for an answer, but I don't need them bothering me."

"Did they give you a flyer?"

"No. They said if I you wouldn't hear them out they couldn't give you one."

Is that anyway to try to sell your services, if indeed these guys were really from Scott's. If they were, I suggest Scott's rethink their training. If they weren't, I hope Scott's takes note they are being misrepresented by some people who may be casing neighborhoods for other purposes.

Glory Be, the Lord Must Know How I love Tomatoes!

A lot of people not in the know think Adam and Eve ate an apple. I like apples, too, but if God wanted to challenge my obedience and make it difficult to resist temptation, the Forbidden Fruit would have been a Tomato. (And just recently it was, but more of that later.)

The tomato is a fruit, you know. How do you know? It has seeds. So are cucumbers, green beans and squash - fruit, that is, but this whole vegetable fruit thing gets all confused.

When I was a teenager one of my summer jobs was loading tomato trucks to haul this fruit to the ketchup (or catsup if you prefer) factories. That was hard labor. These were flatbed trailers on 18-wheelers, perhaps 50 feet long and over 8 feet wide and you stacked these bushel baskets well above my head, and I was six foot by then. That is a lot of hoisting and lifting and stacking, all out in the open farm fields of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania in the hot July and August sun.

This was Amish country and the baskets would arrive at truck side on horse drawn wagons. The

bearded-farmer and perhaps his fresh-faced son would hand up the baskets (which usually came on more than one wagon) and the truck driver and I would begin stacking them from the front to the back. For a teenage boy high on hormones the one reward (besides the pay of $10.00 per load) were the spectators. Those rosy-cheeked Amish girls would gather along the side and gawk at us all the live-long day, silent and smiling.  They had rosy cheeks and twinkling eyes and it made you feel quite the little celebrity.

One summer before I had worked the fields of a Chester County farm picking tomatoes. I was the guy shuttling along the vines filling the baskets. It was still July and August and the sun was still hot, and the  tomatoes were lighter one by one than lifting a whole basket, but the job was just plain miserable. It was dusty and every time you plucked off a fruit the Daddy-Long-Legs would come scrambling out of the vines and up your arms. And there weren't any pretty bystander females to boost your ego; nothing but some other dirt-encrusted, sweating guys swatting away the the Harvestman arachnids.

Now you're probably thinking with that kind of background relationship with tomatoes I would hate

them. But you'd be wrong. I love tomatoes. You give me a plate of sliced beefsteak tomatoes with some corn-on-the-cob and it is as good as a Thanksgiving dinner to me. I love tomatoes in my sandwiches, in my salads, stewed or as a soup. You'd be surprised, maybe, by how hard it is to escape the tomato. The stuff is in a lot of sauces, so you get pasta you often get some form of tomato extract draped upon it. They are in that covering under the cheese and pepperoni of your pizza and forming a dark, delicious lake around your franks and beans. There those pieces falling out of your taco and that color in your hoagie; oh man, the hoagie! And how many things go better with the aforementioned ketchup?

But three weeks ago I was told no more tomatoes, not in soups, not sliced, diced or chopped, not fried or stewed, not as juice, ketchup or sauce, probably told not even to look at pictures of them. This was the forbidden fruit along with onions and mustard and coffee and chocolate and...well, basically, if I liked it, I couldn't have it. Speaking, as we did earlier, of Adam and Eve, I kinda felt like they must have after being booted from the Garden. No more tomatoes, utter despair!

And you go to a restaurant and try and find anything on the menu that doesn't contain tomato, mustard, garlic, onions, spices or a whole chorus of joyeous songs of flavors now banned from my concert. Forgit'about it!

But today I went back to the Star Trek Doctor, who went where no man had gone before, peeking

through my body from both ends. That probing had occurred three weeks ago and today was the summarization of the voyage. Captain's Log May 1, 2013, the biopsies were negative. The bleeding ulcer in the duodenum was cauterized, I guess, at least no more bleeding, but the angioectasia in the cecum (dilated blood vessels in the colon) weren't because, "If it ain't broke, we don't fix it". There is nothing cancerous.  The only new medication is a prescription for omeprazole (the active ingredient in Prilosec), which will join my Levothyroxine as a morning ritual for the next 30 years. I know, I'm being awfully optimistic since I am almost 72 now.

I write this with appreciation to those who were concerned for my well-being and for the prayers of those I know prayed regularly for my health and cure.

I prayed, too, and God heard and answered kindly back. He gave me back the tomato!

Got the Ol' Lawnmower Blues

When I was a lad I earned money by going about talking neighbors into letting me mow their yard or wash their car. I had those as chores at home  too. To my mind I didn't get paid to mow my own backyard, although I got a quarter allowance every week. Somehow the idea of that quarter being earned income didn't compute in my pee-wee brain. I was a notorious procrastinator when it came to chores, except burning the trash in the big 55 gallon drum out back. I liked to light a fire and pretend it was a burning city.

Sometimes on those really hot days of August washing the car wasn't so bad either.

But I had little fondness for lawn mowing then or ever after. I considered it one of the great flukes of mankind or was it one of the curses placed on Adam after the fall. What a brilliant idea this, shave down the grasses and create a perpetual labor to be repeated ad nauseum during the hottest months of the year.

Nonetheless, through the decades I have managed to manicure my own grounds to the satisfaction of county codes, if not always to the particulars of some of my more green-thumb cursed neighbors.

As a boy, of course, I used a push mower, you know, no motor, all elbow grease. Very few people around had a power mower in those days, except those some where above the average blue collar families such as mine. Despite the fact that power mowers became to eventually outnumber the old muscle powered devices throughout suburbia, I continued to use such devices halfway into the 1990s.

I probably wouldn't have stopped then if my thyroid hadn't blown it circuits. When that gland decided to go rogue it sapped away my strength, even to the point I could barely walk. I certainly wasn't in shape to force a mower over our less than even grounds. I broke down and bought my first power mower. That was some time around 1995.

I think it ran pretty well for several years, but everything breaks eventually and one day I found it lying still behind the shed, four wheels motionless toward the sky. I tried CPR (crank, pull, repeat), but it was too little too late. It was gone. I went out and bought a replacement.

This time I got one of those self-propelled babies with the big bag on back. Man, it was just more ease on a task I despised, and we found we could suck up autumn leaves in that bag. If there was something I disliked more than mowing, it was leaf raking. Hey, you were dumb enough to jump off that tree, so just lay there and rot!

My wife never quite shared my attitude. She believed in a proper disposal of departed leaves, so crunching up dead leaves in a bag was a blessing.

That mower went belly up as well after a few seasons. It didn't seem to last as long as the former one

actually. The problem was in the self-propulsion. Something kind of went off track there and I couldn't get it back where it should be and the machine became a bear to push. I shoved it aside into the lawnmower graveyard (pictured right) and went out and bought another of its kin, only with more power and bigger bag.

Well, this did me well until two years ago and suddenly it got temperamental. It'd start up instantly, but after I mowed several rows it would sputter out. It would rest a bit and then stubbornly not start until about the time pulling cord had turned my arm into a rubber band. Over the course of summer these rests grew longer and the starts grew harder and finally it gave up the ghost.

I thought this sounded like a clogged fuel filter. I went to Sears and found a fuel filter that I though was for my machine. I even asked the clerk and he agreed, so I bought it. I went home and torn the thing apart and what to my surprise did I find? This model mower did not have a fuel filter.

Thus last year I went up to Home Depot and got a new mower. I stood there and stared at an old-time push
mower for a long time, but since my wife often chooses to go out and mow the front yard (before neighbors begin throwing things), I figured she would prefer an engine. Our budget is an ever shrinking commodity anymore, so I went for the cheapest power mower on display, just over a hundred buck. (I think the non-powered push mower actually cost more.)  This was your basic basic. It had wheels and it had a blade and it had a motor, but you supplied the push. There was no bag. It simply mulched up the grass and spit it out over the lot. It was a cool black.

It was wonderful. Without those self-propellant gears and no bag growing fuller by the row it proved light and fast. I mean I could blaze through all my yards and even do the east side of the house where none of my other mowers choose to go. We use to have to go hack that stuff down with weedwackers and sling blades.

But not real long into the season something odd happened. I was racing along in the back yard with the mower roaring when suddenly it started going put-put-put. It kept running and it kept cutting, but at a snails pace. I tiptoed along behind. If I sped too fast into high grass it would stall. But then after several more rows of this turtle speed it would kick up into high gear again and we would be back whizzing along lopping off their heads. And then again back to put-put-put. We nursed this thing through the summer and fall, but then it too gasped out one last put-put and died.

Wednesday I was back in Sears looking at lawn mowers. It isn't that I wanted to buy a new mower and my budget is even worse than last year, but the grass is inching up and we must do what we must do. I admit, I stood again drooling over the old powerless push mower, but because of recent health issues I have once again grown weak and need the motorized help.

I next turned my sights on a battery powered mower. Wouldn't that be nice if it could do the job? There
would be no more running to the gas station and no more of that terrible noise. I could be environmentally friendly mowing away in peace and quiet. I inquired of the clerk about this machine. She was very nice, very helpful. It seemed it would do my sized lot, but battery charge (6 hours to fully charge) would depend on length of grass (keep it under 2 inches), and how wet the grass is (keep it pretty dry). I was tempted, but still didn't want to spend the money on something that might not do the job.

I turned and pointed to the cheapest gas-guzzling, plain vanilla, bagless animal and said, "Ill take that one." After paying the $170 (oh yeah this was the absolute cheapest one and on sale no less), I went down to the pickup area to receive my purchase. I dutifully pulled my car up along the loading zone. Inside I ran my receipt over a scanner and my name popped up on a status screen above my head. Shouldn't take long, I was the only one there.

As I waited in my queue of one a stock person came out the flappy doors of the warehouse and passed by me.

What a downcast face he had. His chin was so low it was in danger of being bumped off by his shoe. He looked like the dead walking.  I got the feeling he wasn't overly thrilled with his lot in life, but he was quickly gone before I could offer him any solace. He would have probably eaten my brain if I had anyway.

A time or so later the warehouse doors flopped outward again and another glum young man came out behind a flat cart on which perched a large box. He said nothing. As he angled forward I could see "Lawn Mower" in big black letters on the side of the box. Ah, this must be mine!

He continued mutely pass me and out the door to the sidewalk, then down a ramp in the curb and around my car. Still not a word, no, "Are you Mr. Meredith?", no, "You waiting for a lawnmower?", no simple, "Hello". I walked to the rear of my car and opened the truck. He lifted the box off the hand truck and slid it in. Still not a word. I think Sears has Zombies manning their customer service pickup.  I think he might have mumbled something when I said, "Thank you," but I couldn't make it out. He never even asked to check my receipt. He never even looked my in the eyes. I could have been anyone just snatching up a free lawnmower and he wouldn't have cared.

I worked as a stock person most of the last decade. This is not how I ever dealt with customers. This is not the way any store should want to be represented by their employees. I don't get these young men. With where the unemployment rate is these days (and it is understated to boot) any one having a job should be grateful to have it. If you don't like your job, then look for something else, but don't take your frustration out on the client.

Enough preaching, I drove home to assemble my new acquisition. I soon learned what a sad state I am

in these days. I cut open the box and lifted it out. Construction was not complicated. You know, hook a cable on the handle as well as the pull cord. Pull the handles to full height by loosing and tightening some large wing nuts. Attach the mulch guard and the rear wheels. Adjust the front wheels. Put in oil.

I couldn't even finish. By the time I got to attaching the mulch guard I was too tired to stand. I packed up my tools and called it a day.  I went out this morning and finished up. I still need to get gas, but that's okay. I wasn't going to pull the cord and start mowing today in this heat anyway broke the record by 3 degrees today at 88). The grass isn't that bad yet that it can't wait for a cooler day for its execution.

So I tell the little woman I got a new mower. "Does it have a bag," she asked.

"You thinking about the leaves," I asked.

"Yes."

"That's the fall. Let's worry about the leaves when the leaves fall."