tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-58653192257165858972024-03-18T01:42:52.356-07:00Hot Dog Blog by Oscar and Tootsie (and Jimmy, too)Wiener dogs Oscar Mayer, Tootsie Roll and Jimmy Dean blog about life, occasionally allowing their people a word or two.David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.comBlogger95125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-68322997048921893042024-01-21T15:23:00.000-08:002024-01-22T21:47:16.632-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZOu8lVq7cPR7_FkA8U7K2b6fp87HNIP2ao052Nnb3tOZTf8SOhukmY8QrfSJR7Qv4qEnKMVUN9SicFW1M91UcdIGWjQBYW9thZEMJmP6pGH3zN8xL_3As35Bkgka7wOPAdH6wP5tWl3UR1xKO9GV2crIWaYj7_E1EmAoN5eZtv13j98ngG58xNIf-VaI/s4032/IMG_2290.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="292" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZOu8lVq7cPR7_FkA8U7K2b6fp87HNIP2ao052Nnb3tOZTf8SOhukmY8QrfSJR7Qv4qEnKMVUN9SicFW1M91UcdIGWjQBYW9thZEMJmP6pGH3zN8xL_3As35Bkgka7wOPAdH6wP5tWl3UR1xKO9GV2crIWaYj7_E1EmAoN5eZtv13j98ngG58xNIf-VaI/w391-h292/IMG_2290.jpeg" width="391" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><h2 style="text-align: left;">Summary of my children's picture book, "What ARE You, Frank?"</h2><div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">Nearing the end, mutt curmudgeon Frank reflects on his long life and the challenges he had faced. After being rescued as a lost puppy, Frank is rejected by his next two families. When Frank’s forever family adopts him, they are told he is a dachshund. But Frank just seems to be a bit different. When they bring home “a real dachshund”, Frank is hurt but determined. Although none of his families could ever figure him out, in the end Frank remembers that he lives life on his own terms and truly knows what he is.</span></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">This is mostly a true story. In the photo on the left is mutt curmudgeon Oscar Mayer, aka Frank. He is most likely a "doxy-pin", a dachshund-mini pinscher mix. On the right is "real dachshund" Jimmy Dean, aka Pepper. Oscar is 16 1/2 years old, Jimmy is 15 years old. They are both very loved.</span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p><br /></p>David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-85223925465172529022023-12-11T15:57:00.000-08:002024-02-25T13:00:17.393-08:00<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">12/11/2023 - My SCBWI “member bio” on SCBWI.org:</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A Years-Long Journey to Becoming an Author</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">When I was in elementary school, I enjoyed writing funny stories to share with my class. Their laughter motivated me to write more. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Through the rest of school and into young adulthood, I just wrote for me. Except, while in college I did write papers in English on topics and theory in economics, and papers in Spanish on Spanish and Latin American literature.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">After attending my college graduation at age 29 (with wife and children in tow), I landed a beloved job with Nike. For 15 years I corresponded with Nike endorsees – athletes, coaches, universities, professional sports organizations, and their agents. In the beginning, this was in the context of tracking and fulfilling contractual obligations to endorsees. Later, I was part of a team drafting and negotiating endorsement contracts. All this writing was extremely dry. Total accuracy and efficiency over any creativity whatsoever. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I moved on to a much more beloved job as a teacher of elementary grade students and English language learners. When I needed published mentor text to use with my students, but could not find it, I wrote it myself. Total creativity with the necessary accuracy and efficiency. I loved writing for kids and dreamed of someday writing to be published. But I never seemed to have enough time and energy for that. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Today I do.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Whether my years-long journey ends in fame and fortune, or just plain obscure anonymity, that does not matter. I’m having a blast!</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Cheers,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">David Waite</span></p><div><br /></div>David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-60389113115960586482023-12-11T14:35:00.000-08:002023-12-11T15:36:28.304-08:00<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Greetings to the handful of followers of this blog. Oscar Mayer and Jimmy Dean continue to dearly miss Tootsie Roll. You will be happy to know that Oscar is now 16 1/2 years old and Jimmy just turned 15. They are still getting around. If they were people, they would be in an assisted living facility. I guess that's the way it has always been, since they do not like going outside to hunt for themselves. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Their main person, me, is temporarily co-opting their blog because I need a temporary author website. When I can, I will create a proper author website and once again return control of this blog to Oscar and Jimmy. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Cheers,</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">David Waite</span></p>David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-17733007581459954022020-11-21T15:50:00.000-08:002020-11-21T15:50:55.102-08:00A Celebration of Tootsie Roll<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL-rSkNxIr2tcOG8BLaPM1kFUqF0IwZ6UYa_jz-QoG6hIgKU_spqqj6PUTRvFRECSDnqeZy07pxHqKX68Q-9tfjhSVBBkgpl5NLlUgK6u5JOUnL_wRSkP6yCo9pVh9w2jvoKZngIzho0A/s3974/IMG_3258.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1988" data-original-width="3974" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL-rSkNxIr2tcOG8BLaPM1kFUqF0IwZ6UYa_jz-QoG6hIgKU_spqqj6PUTRvFRECSDnqeZy07pxHqKX68Q-9tfjhSVBBkgpl5NLlUgK6u5JOUnL_wRSkP6yCo9pVh9w2jvoKZngIzho0A/w389-h195/IMG_3258.jpeg" width="389" /></a></div><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-large;">A Celebration of Tootsie Roll</span></p>
Tootsie Roll was born in mid-2006. Her first home was on a farm outside of Forest Grove, OR. Being a standard dachshund, she probably had a lot of things to do and small animals to chase. At a lean 17 pounds, she was clearly active and happy on the farm, but her owner could no longer keep her. <div><br /></div><div>So we took our one dog at that time, Oscar Mayer, and drove out to meet… Dixie. That was her name at the time. Dixie didn't seem to think too much for Oscar (or us), but we decided to adopt her. Dixie settled right in with Oscar and us at our home in Beaverton. She immediately started putting on the weight, a problem she had the rest of her life.
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But the name had to go. She was not a "Dixie". So as not to confuse her too much, we renamed her "Doxie". After some time to get used to the new name, we came to our senses and realized that Doxie was a dumb name, too, and that she did not care what we called her. We wanted to give her a name that really fit. You know the saying, “you are what you eat”. In our dog house “you are what you look like.” So, in keeping with the name Oscar Mayer came with when we adopted him, we re-named Tootsie for something she looked like... a great big Tootsie Roll.
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Tootsie was very social and loved to meet new people and other dogs. If she didn't know you, she would come and stand at your feet with "hello, pet me" in her eyes. If you were one of her extended family peeps, then she loved to lick toes if they were not hidden inside shoes. If you were a child, whether family or stranger, she loved to get up on her hind legs and stretch out and up, trying to face lick. This usually resulted in the child falling backward and landing on their bum.
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The funniest thing Tootsie ever did was when we entered both Oscar and Tootsie in a wiener dog race competition at Oaks Park in Portland. There were about 10-12 dogs in each heat and each dog had their own enclosed starting gate. Owners stood just beyond the finish line opposite their dog so that each dog had a "target". Oscar actually won his first heat (but did not advance through his 2nd heat) and won a blue ribbon. Tootsie? Tootsie jogged halfway down the line and then noticed that there were spectators standing along the side. She wanted to meet new friends! Not only did Tootsie come in last, she did not even finish the race. No ribbon for Tootsie, just some new friends.
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Except for one thing that really annoyed her, Tootsie never "yelled" at any person or other dog. After we added Jimmy Dean to the family in 2009, Tootsie had to contend with two male dogs that sometimes took turns humping her. She put up with a lot, but once in awhile she would turn around toward the annoying offender and unleash a bark that said, "if you don't stop that right now, you're going to die!"
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Unlike Oscar and Jimmy, Tootsie was not the best rodent hunter, unusual for a dachshund. While Oscar and Jimmy celebrated their hunting prowess with an occasional field mouse trophy that had strayed too far up from Fanno Creek, or the family of pet rats that a neighbor must have released in the area, Tootsie just wasn't into that. But there was this one time… Tootsie squirted her way though the front door one summer day. I chased down the street after her, but didn't have to go far. I saw that Tootsie had stopped at the curb a few houses down and was sitting waiting for me to catch up. Next to her was a squirrel that had lost a game of tag with a car. Tootsie's eyes said it all, "look what I caught, let's bring this home for dinner!"
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It wasn't that Tootsie lacked a powerful sense of smell. She just preferred a different prey – her peeps. One time, when Zenny spent weeks out of town helping out after the birth of a granddaughter, I set things up so that the dogs would not see her come home. I put them outside and Zenny quietly brought her suitcase inside and then hid in the downstairs coat closet. When I let the dogs in, Tootsie saw the suitcase, ran right up to sniff it, then took off at full dachshund speed looking all over the downstairs for Zenny. As always with the hide-and-seek games we played with them, they found her. But in this case they did not know that we were playing this game. With the sight and scent of the suitcase, Tootsie knew that her Zenny was home.
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Tootsie had the most unusual tail wag. While other dogs do a rapid back and forth, left to right, Tootsie excitedly greeted favorite peeps she had not seen in a while with something special. Tootsie’s tail wagged left to right and up and down all at the same time, in a random order. Her tail could hit every hour on an imaginary analog clock.
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Each dog had their own favorite toys and ways of interacting with them. Tootsie preferred rubbery, chewy balls with a squeak. Unlike Oscar, who would rip the squeaky toy apart until the squeak was dead and gone, Tootsie would run and retrieve her squeaky toy, bring it back, chew gently on it a couple times, then invite you to throw it again.
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Ever the alpha-female, who would barge toward the door to be first in or out, knocking Oscar and Jimmy to the side, there wasn’t much left of the original Tootsie Roll by November 2020. Beginning early 2020, we had Tootsie on medication for heart and kidney function, possibly dog diabetes. Beginning summer and continuing into fall, we began to notice other changes for Tootsie in her trajectory of decline. By the end, she had lost most of her vision, bumping into walls and other objects. She probably could not hear because our touch often startled her. She had lost her bark but, until the last several weeks, kept the “cuddle voice” she used to respond to affectionate touch. By the end she did not respond to Oscar, Jimmy, or us. We had to help her eat, drink water, and go outside or inside to pee and poo. She could still walk, with difficulty, but mostly wanted to walk in circles and find corners to stand in, searching, searching for the path to the rainbow bridge.
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On November 15 Tootsie Roll crossed over the rainbow bridge. She was surrounded by almost all of her favorite peeps, plus Oscar and Jimmy. We all loved her. She enriched our lives.
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSQzBwL6Dy6_8BtFgyvm8GfZ_k1h3Sk95M_eaXegt1Oq_EWfOT0vk1ou6D7KUlr1TCf-oawnUmvl7UW18Xui3O7s7hnAWWeXQ0DJHachUhce_ftYTYALodbwJcV6z2pjilcKnjeatVuQ/s1600/IMG_1499.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmSQzBwL6Dy6_8BtFgyvm8GfZ_k1h3Sk95M_eaXegt1Oq_EWfOT0vk1ou6D7KUlr1TCf-oawnUmvl7UW18Xui3O7s7hnAWWeXQ0DJHachUhce_ftYTYALodbwJcV6z2pjilcKnjeatVuQ/s400/IMG_1499.jpeg" width="300" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQJMuzSQCjpGh3grUlDV11qTW_A9Irw9otVre8pbK4UBX8W_HjqEid84zQRI-gq4pJqKCI34azEucnkF6XD0YrVyp9Tj2AMpbchtjdLDXgKvCHD4gQGPcQFkJx9Y-sYRsAF9fQSK40hY/s1600/IMG_1428.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglQJMuzSQCjpGh3grUlDV11qTW_A9Irw9otVre8pbK4UBX8W_HjqEid84zQRI-gq4pJqKCI34azEucnkF6XD0YrVyp9Tj2AMpbchtjdLDXgKvCHD4gQGPcQFkJx9Y-sYRsAF9fQSK40hY/s400/IMG_1428.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I feel fortunate to have spent my growing years in 4 completely different and spread out places in the USA: Oregon, Virginia, Guam, and Colorado. As a family we enjoyed traveling to states neighboring our home state at the time, or, in the case of Guam, neighboring islands and countries.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our 1966 move from Oregon to Virginia was actually accomplished with our family of four and our possessions in a U-Haul truck. Mom documented this exciting journey, which roughly followed much of the Oregon Trail in reverse.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I almost forgot about this one, and had to edit it in! While living on Guam in 1971, our family of now 6 spent most of the summer in Oregon and Colorado, while Dad was working on his PhD. at University of Northern Colorado. Our parents bought my brother and me $99 See America 3-week passes on Greyhound. I was 16 and Richard was 14. Starting in Portland, OR, we headed north toward Canada, where we rode from Vancouver, BC, to Winnipeg, Manitoba, then down to Greeley, CO.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Grown, married, and with two daughters, we continued to enjoy family vacation travels from our home base of Oregon. Both daughters roller skated competitively, and won state, regional, and national competitions. With family vacations and skating event trips combined, we traveled to Tulsa, OK, Philadelphia, PA, Lincoln, NE, and Pensacola, FL, as well as other non-skating vacation destinations with kids and without.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As D.I.N.K.'s in 2004 (kids grown), Zenny and I took a trek to the mid-Atlantic states and New England. Besides being a vacation, it was also a history and ancestry pilgrimage to visit old personal places in Virginia and old family history places in MA and VT. By the end of this trip, while mapping this and previous travels, I realized that I had been to 44 states. That's when it went on the Bucket List - I had only 6 states left, AK, GA, SC, AR, WI, and MI.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It took another 15 years, but I made it this June 2019. Wisconsin became number 49. Michigan became number 50.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">(I wonder if Michiganders display that sign in Flint?)</span>David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-51593081093158565152018-05-13T21:36:00.000-07:002018-05-15T21:43:25.608-07:00<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC00X-0nhe5oYx03vc3icuQrfQKSA6AkREk-C6oDgR2JtWiFtNsyBZTPSGfiFFnX368sCixTjSAfliABvCl78C_WpyOQ6iJEFy0EDaISCN8xguG9rMcA0WtWPHp8KA6cvebvRA4SxPD6I/s1600/Screen+Shot+2018-05-13+at+9.26.54+PM.png" imageanchor="1"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC00X-0nhe5oYx03vc3icuQrfQKSA6AkREk-C6oDgR2JtWiFtNsyBZTPSGfiFFnX368sCixTjSAfliABvCl78C_WpyOQ6iJEFy0EDaISCN8xguG9rMcA0WtWPHp8KA6cvebvRA4SxPD6I/s400/Screen+Shot+2018-05-13+at+9.26.54+PM.png" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">In my travels I have thoroughly enjoyed visiting beautiful, historic Catholic churches and cathedrals around the world. We're talking Boston, New York City, St. Augustine FL, San Diego, San Francisco, San Juan PR, Mexico City, Manila, Brisbane, Montreal, New Orleans, and more. In my future travels I will actively seek them out in Europe and Central and South America. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">But I have noticed that the naming of Catholic churches, parishes, and cathedrals seems to be a challenge. There are so many repeats! How do we keep them all straight? For one thing, there are so many Catholic churches that include the names of saints: St. John, St. Mark, St. Catherine, St. This, St. That. Clearly, there are too many churches and not enough saints. Not all names include the names of saints, though. But there's still a lot of repetition. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">I have a solution. I propose the following name suggestions in order to enrich and add variety to the naming of Catholic churches. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Disclaimer: I truly mean no disrespect. Just for fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Our Lady of The Glutinous Communion<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">The Indecisive Blessings Catholic Parish<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Cathedral of The Indentured Messiah<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Church of The Presumptive Baptism<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Basilica of The Obstinate Virgin<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Our Lady of Holy Repudiations<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">The Divine Subterfuge Catholic Parish<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Cathedral of The Endemic Sacrament<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Church of The Conspicuous Redeemer<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Basilica of The Eternal Contradictions<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Our Lady of Glorified Conflagration<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">The Cantankerous Prayers Catholic Parish<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Cathedral of The Immaculate Assumptions<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Church of The Conflated Salvation<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Basilica of The Eternal Obfuscation<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Our Lady of Capricious Servitude<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">The Dubious Redemption Catholic Parish<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Cathedral of The Deceptive Conception<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Church of Extravagant Incantations <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;">Basilica of The Immaculate Contraception<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 16pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Your submissions welcome!</span><span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-73511190725717498322018-04-24T22:31:00.000-07:002018-04-24T22:31:16.319-07:00Memory's Ship by Harry Leslie St. Clair <div style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvnnalbxc-BYHzj7hosgnmD3yOl3ejJfM28Gm0uR8ycrNOp3-WHNY9-6pOFcwiuWGbmijAiYF_c_KG2ZWTWjxZV2vze22avfxz9uz-TZzOSxuxBP-swcNCey5auMb-ipOKbNCUplO_Ro/s1600/Memory%2527s+Ship.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigvnnalbxc-BYHzj7hosgnmD3yOl3ejJfM28Gm0uR8ycrNOp3-WHNY9-6pOFcwiuWGbmijAiYF_c_KG2ZWTWjxZV2vze22avfxz9uz-TZzOSxuxBP-swcNCey5auMb-ipOKbNCUplO_Ro/s400/Memory%2527s+Ship.jpg" width="306" /></a></div>
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Harry Leslie St. Clair, my great grandfather (Mom's Mom's dad), published a short book of poetry in 1922. I stumbled on it by accident while looking online for information about him. </div>
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Memory's Ship</div>
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I'm master of a wondrous ship</div>
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That sails a silent sea;</div>
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I've steered her course on many a trip --</div>
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A phantom ship is she.</div>
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Where'er I choose in thought to rest,</div>
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And view the scenes of yore,</div>
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I'm borne in safety on my quest</div>
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To the desired shore.</div>
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In memory's ship I touch again</div>
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The shores of childhood's joy.</div>
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The world as one big playhouse then</div>
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Seemed made to charm a boy;</div>
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When curiosity was keen</div>
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And every sense alert,</div>
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E'er sorrow's night had come between</div>
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Or sin had left its hurt.</div>
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In memory's ship I sail away</div>
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To lands I've known before,</div>
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Where friendship's joys made glad the day</div>
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And love-light kissed the shore.</div>
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Where starlit skies and summer's breeze</div>
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Were like an angel's court,</div>
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And kindred souls oft met at ease --</div>
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I linger at this port.</div>
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When heart is weary and needs rest,</div>
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I seek a distant shrine,</div>
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Where last a mother's lips impressed</div>
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A kiss of love on mine;</div>
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Where first I breathed a humble prayer</div>
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And answering peace was given,</div>
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My good ship memory takes me there --</div>
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To me the gate of heaven.</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-8771754541854122972015-08-21T21:59:00.004-07:002015-08-21T21:59:41.604-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSyDSJM1K5XqNKnsxLgvF4_vtSQHZzk8VXqteTMMk4fvSkZukpHYinmZvTYF4xOam5w-92XSIO7dWYUehnDCOBxrO6iETwJQq8BcJSslU2-kZ7A8OZDEpPh0UUO5zSEv_tl67gpNt6Xw/s1600/Dad-isms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjSyDSJM1K5XqNKnsxLgvF4_vtSQHZzk8VXqteTMMk4fvSkZukpHYinmZvTYF4xOam5w-92XSIO7dWYUehnDCOBxrO6iETwJQq8BcJSslU2-kZ7A8OZDEpPh0UUO5zSEv_tl67gpNt6Xw/s400/Dad-isms.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Dad - John Braden Waite - was a master of Dad-isms. I'm sure there are more, but here are a few:<br />
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* It's nothing to write home about.<br />
* How about them apples.<br />
* Put that in your pipe and smoke it.<br />
* Let's not and say we did.<br />
* When it's all said and done…<br />
* "I see," said the blind man as he picked up his hammer and saw.<br />
* I couldn't get a word in edgewise.<br />
* Actually from Dad's mom, Julia Braden Waite: Open the window and influenza, open the door and income tax.<br />
* Move it or milk it! (directed at slow drivers)<br />
* What a conspicuous waste! (directed at drivers of 1950's cars with a lot of chrome)David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-84256134991223576042015-08-19T13:02:00.000-07:002015-08-19T13:22:21.936-07:00Eulogy - John & Janet Waite <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgwqgrLLtZZPsOnrwnni6VPKedIixUgRZVmHQmcb6WFYT0OmSu0wSQe_WyFKmhiIJS3TJYXdGdRAKRCEpADfBxpF70INlNeMg0qOe5YpWxKuXb7plDxIY37xs4Agf2XlIpfyD7B57vLc/s1600/John-Janet-DrSeuss.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilgwqgrLLtZZPsOnrwnni6VPKedIixUgRZVmHQmcb6WFYT0OmSu0wSQe_WyFKmhiIJS3TJYXdGdRAKRCEpADfBxpF70INlNeMg0qOe5YpWxKuXb7plDxIY37xs4Agf2XlIpfyD7B57vLc/s400/John-Janet-DrSeuss.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">John Braden Waite and fellow
identical triplets Robert and Ray were born on April 6, 1928, in Toledo,
Oregon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They joined 4 older siblings, in
order of their births, Stephen, twins Erwin and Arabell, and Edith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The parents of John and his 5 surviving
siblings (Ray had died at birth) were Stephen Oren Waite (1884-1934) and Julia
Braden Waite (1892-1980). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Janet Eleanor Waite was born Janet
Rogers on May 30, 1931, in Portland, Oregon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was the older of 2 daughters of Raymond Boyd Rogers (1896-1966) and
Winifred St. Clair Rogers (1900-1985).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Little sister Gayle joined the family in 1935.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Both of John and Janet’s extended
family ancestors came mostly from New England and New York.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both extended families (grandparents and
great-grandparents migrated west in the 1800’s with some “stopping off” places like
Ohio, Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Iowa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All 8 grandparents of John and Janet eventually arrived in Oregon and are
buried or interred in either Multnomah or Jefferson counties. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">John came from a family that farmed
and labored from Central Oregon, to the Willamette Valley, to the Coast Range
in Toledo, Oregon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Times for the family
became especially tough when, in the depths of the Great Depression, the father
Stephen Oren Waite died in work accident on February 14, 1934. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The family did the best they could, splitting
time between Toledo and Corvallis, but lost their Yaquina Bay oyster farm to
back taxes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regardless, new safety net
programs of the 1930's helped them to survive.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thanks to older siblings and their spouses, plus the G.I. Bill, John was
able to go to college, graduating from Oregon State University in 1953. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">Janet Rogers Waite grew up in Portland's
Eastmoreland neighborhood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her father,
Raymond, was a commercial artist, inventor, photographer, and carpenter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her mother, Winifred, was a
schoolteacher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both had graduated from
college – Ray from University of Oregon and Win from Willamette University.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While this family was much smaller than
John's family, Ray and Win had come from larger families where family and work
were treasured.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Janet graduated from
Willamette University in 1953.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">John and Janet met as new teachers at
Grant Union High School in John Day, Oregon, during the 1953-1954 school
year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were married in Portland on June
25, 1954. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">That summer they moved to
Florence, Oregon, where John would begin teaching science and math at Siuslaw
High School.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Janet gave birth to David
in 1955 and then to Richard in 1957.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
the boys grew a bit older, Janet began teaching Home-Ec at Siuslaw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While Florence was somewhat isolated from the
larger world, John enjoyed the hobby of ham radio operator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All family members enjoyed the experience of
communicating with people from all over the world. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">By about 1965, John had earned his
Master's Degree from Oregon State University and had begun searching for a
college teaching job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As would be the
case in each future family decision of such a large scale, John and Janet
involved their children in the decision making process.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By 1966, they knew they would be moving from
cozy, quiet Florence to a big city in the south, Norfolk, Virginia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although the family treasured these years
growing in Florence, they were very excited for a major adventure. </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">The big move in July 1966 was an
adventure in itself.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">It involved a
U-Haul truck loaded with only the most important possessions.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">John drove while Janet navigated and kept a
journal.</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="line-height: 115%;">David and Richard
"helped" by staying fairly quiet sitting side by side on the bench
seat between John and Janet. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">John busied himself as a professor of
sciences at Old Dominion University while Janet stayed home and planned the
next big thing for the Waite family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>John and Janet had always wanted to grow the family with a daughter or
two, but were told that their blood types would lead to an increased risk of
birth defects.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So they began the process
to adopt their daughters – sisters to David and Richard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">John and Janet were already progressive
pioneers in many ways.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During these
years both volunteered at a community center in poverty stricken Portsmouth,
Virginia.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As for the adoption, they
found out that they could adopt fairly quickly if they chose children that were
non-white, older, or with disabilities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Or… they could wait years for the completion of an Ozzie & Harriet
or Cleaver family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They chose to just
make it happen, again involving their children in these decisions while
discussing potential consequences. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nancy
Gayle was born in 1967 and joined the family in about September of that
year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Karen Susan followed in 1969.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">While all this was happening, John
and Janet were on the lookout for a new teaching and living adventure. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They wanted a place in which the culture and
diversity of that place would match or exceed that of the family.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Once again, David and Richard were allowed to
help with the family decision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their
choices in 1969 were Sierra Leone in tropical west Africa, or the tropical
island U.S. Territory of Guam. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">This move in the summer of 1969
involved nearly 8,000 miles on jet airplanes, rather than a U-Haul truck.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was equally the adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The family chose Guam, thinking it might be
like Hawaii.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Guam is not Hawaii.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This disappoints many a
"statesider".<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>However, the
Waite family would embrace this place and it's people, culture, food, lifestyle,
and language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">John busied himself as a professor of
sciences at University of Guam.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Janet
stayed home with Nanci and Karen, while David and Richard attended junior high
and high school. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>During 1972-1973, the
family spent the year in Greeley, Colorado, while John earned his PhD degree
and Janet her Master's degree, both in education, at University of Northern
Colorado.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it was back to Guam,
where Janet did some teaching, as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">In 1976 John and Janet and Family
moved to Longview, Washington, where John would teach sciences at Lower
Columbia College.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides continuing to
be mom at home, Janet did some high school and college teaching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">In 1979 John, Janet, Nanci, and Karen
left Longview for a 36-acre farm across the Columbia River in Rainier,
Oregon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides continuing regular
teaching and parent duties, John and Janet's hobby farm had 1 or 2 hay crops a
year, cows, pigs, chickens, and (briefly) garden-munching goats.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">John and Janet spent their last 20 or
so years living at Willamette View Manor in Milwaukie, Oregon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They enjoyed friends, travel, and most of
all, family and each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both spent
years volunteering at the Manor Carousel and Manor Mart, and John as a Manor
audio/visual technician.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They left
behind 4 children, 6 grandchildren, and 4 great-grandchildren.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ironically, for John and Janet who wanted to
ensure that they had daughters, 9 out of the 10 grand and great-grand kids are
girls. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 115%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">John and Janet are greatly missed and
leave behind a better world for having been here. </span></div>
David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-71515683541599714532015-08-18T22:54:00.000-07:002015-08-22T10:41:05.608-07:00Flying With Dad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBlzY5Hpp-C0myQxQkiMw39WHHY1W8cGCuSue7RbGk-SOxcFut1kGCfm-gtPG7hsddAj3KirSItrSNX5B9MfMTrOn4i4G3Eo2RnuEutSxfSER8nlJAqRUOVZNq9WcEJIqZl_mFJRNa6M/s1600/freefly-skydiving-luke-hively-eugene-edwards-dbc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="152" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLBlzY5Hpp-C0myQxQkiMw39WHHY1W8cGCuSue7RbGk-SOxcFut1kGCfm-gtPG7hsddAj3KirSItrSNX5B9MfMTrOn4i4G3Eo2RnuEutSxfSER8nlJAqRUOVZNq9WcEJIqZl_mFJRNa6M/s400/freefly-skydiving-luke-hively-eugene-edwards-dbc.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I "flew with Mom" in my dreams just days before she died on December 4, 2014. Besides really doing that, I had jotted down on paper all those places, all those memories, to later post on this blog.<br />
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At bedtime on Tuesday, January 6, 2015, I decided to "fly with Dad". Unlike with Mom in December, I was not trying to guide my dreams. I just wanted to document for later. So I jotted those memories down on paper, the same paper I had used for memories with Mom. It was of course very emotional, and I felt the same deep sorrow mixed with happiness as I had when I flew with Mom.<br />
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* Dad, there we are. You're holding me, singing all those songs you always sang, "Home On The Range", "Mares'y Dotes & Does'y Dotes" to name just two.<br />
* Your knee is the best place to ride. "This is the way the lady rides, trot, trot, trot. This the way the gentleman rides, gallop, gallop, gallop. This is the way the farmer rides, hobledee hoy, hobledee hoy."<br />
* If it's not a ride, then it's a trap. I always get out of your traps, Dad. But your brothers made "cry uncle".<br />
* We're having a family picnic way up into the Coast Range. Could it be the north fork of the Siuslaw River? Or the middle fork? (See me chuckle… fork… spoon, knife; words are fun). You walk into a deep pool created by a small waterfall. You sink, sink until you are up to your neck. You are a head floating on the water. You ask me if I want to ride on your shoulders. I love you and trust you Dad, but I am scared something could happen. So I say "no", emphatically. Richard, ever the adventurer, takes the ride and returns to tell about it.<br />
* Remember that bike I got Christmas in (I think) first grade? The training wheels are off and you are helping me ride by holding the back of the seat from the side and behind. "Don't let go, OK Dad?" I implore you. We did this a few times and you held on. We try again. I ride about 20-30 feet then stop and look back. Yup, you had let go and I ride by myself.<br />
* The Belt. It wasn't just for holding up your pants. The Belt is so wide it has its own time zone. Mom has The Wooden Spoon, you have The Belt. Together, you and Mom play a pretty good game of "good cop, bad cop". I wonder if she knew. Sometimes you were the strict disciplinarian. "This is going to hurt me a lot more than it hurts you," you say gravely to Richard and me. The Belt glides swiftly through the loops and does its duty. Of course we say…"huh Dad? how could that hurts you more?" But other times you soften things for us when Mom is being the extreme disciplinarian. There we are, you with the same grave voice, yet tinged with a smile and a smirk. "This is going to hurt me…", as you close the bedroom door. The Belt whips through the loops and then makes a deafening "crack" sound as you fold it in half, hold the ends, and snap the two parts together in the middle. As instructed, after every "CRACK" we yell "OOOWWWW!" I wonder if Mom knew.<br />
* Dad, I think I'm like you. When we go hunting or fishing, It's not the actual hunting or fishing I love. Rather it's being out in nature, walking and exploring. There we are in the Coast Range hills near Florence, you toting a rifle. It must be about October and I'm maybe 7 or 8 years old. Richard's too young and not there. You think you see a deer and take a shot. Nothing. You let me hold the gun, and with your help, we shoot a tree.<br />
* 1960's Florence is a bit cut off from the larger outside world. But there you are, Dad, talking to the world via your HAM radio. You talk about "stuff" - seems pretty boring to us - but then you trade HAM radio "cards" with those other HAM's around the world. The cards are kind of like post cards. Your card, of course, was special. There we are on the dune behind our house. You have placed a 20+ foot radio antenna into the sand. You are climbing up with a wire in your hand to make that final connection. Suddenly, you and the tower begin the lean and then fall to the sand. You land with a thud. Richard and I don't know what to do. But Mom runs to your aid. You are stunned but OK. This particular event led to Grandpa Rogers (artist, photographer, inventor, everything) designing your HAM card. Your card depicts you on the tower with Mom holding the wire connected to the tower, pulling you and tower down. I wish I could find one of your HAM cards.<br />
* There we are at the dinner table in Florence and you are saying grace. Richard and I snicker during one part of your standard blessing. "Stoweduponus! Ha, ha! What's that?" we say when you're done. This was a magical word, a word that seemed a glimpse into grown-up world, a word that sounded funny to us. Of course we figure it out later. You always included the phrase, "May your blessings be <b><i>stowed upon us</i></b>." Yes, words are fun.<br />
* Dad, this is my absolute favorite story, partly because I revealed the truth to you 45 years after it happened. In your eyes, your eyes in front of your brain that was descending into dementia, I could see that you understood and that that understanding hurt you. I hope you forgave us. It's a quiet summer day in Florence and Richard and I have nothing to do (except get into trouble). There we are on the dune behind our house, the one overlooking Rhododendron Drive as it winds its way - sort of - along the Siuslaw River on the way to north jetty and the ocean. Besides the sandy dunes all around Florence, there's a lot of sandstone from ancient beaches and dunes. We called these broken pieces of sandstone "dirt clods". So there we are… on top of that dune throwing dirt clods at cars passing on the highway below. We score a few near misses. But then we get a direct hit through the open passenger window of a car heading toward the beach. The car screeches to a stop and begins to turn around. We skedaddle (yes, we used that word in the '60's) back over the dune and down to home. Inside, just as we catch our breath, a knock comes at the door. "Your boys are throwing rocks at cars and they hit us!" Dad, you turned and looked at us. "No, we're not doing that!" we said. Dad, you said, "if my boys say they're not doing that, then they're not doing that." You shut the door. Your eyes, your dementia eyes could still show disappointment. I'm sorry Dad.<br />
* It's a Saturday morning and you have work to at the high school. While you work, I'm in the gym with a basketball. As I dribble, spin, stop, jump, shoot, I imagine that I am Elgin Baylor, Oscar Robinson, Jerry West, and any number of 60's NBA stars. I dream big. During some of those sessions I visit the staff lounge. As a teacher now, Dad, I know staff lounges. The 60's high school staff lounge REAKED of cigarette smoke. And I'm talking on a Saturday when there were no teachers to be seen (except you, Dad). You and your colleagues left ash trays behind on Friday afternoons, heaping with butts! Teachers today only leave scum in the microwave and old food in the fridge. By the way, as of 2015, the old Siuslaw high school building has been torn down and the football field is for sale.<br />
* Richard and I must be old enough to be asking you and Mom about where babies come from. Maybe we're talking family talk about new sisters, or something. You are telling us that the dad gives the mom a seed and that makes a baby. So we implore you to give Mom a seed! I know, what a coincidence: we just happen to enjoying blackberry pie for dessert. So, with a smirk on your face, from your plate to Mom's, you give her a seed. Clever, Dad.<br />
* Family trips. It doesn't matter if it was just to Grandpa and Grandma's house in the ritzy neighborhood of Eastmoreland in Portland, or Grandma's house in the working-class mill town of Toledo, or anywhere else, you are the driver while Mom is the navigator and peace keeper. Richard and I are the annoying twits in the backseat. "Do I have to come back there?" you shout. "Do I have to turn this car around?" you add next.<br />
* In that regard, what an accomplishment. You drive us about 3000 miles across the country in a U-Haul truck from Oregon to Virginia. You couldn't "come back there" because we all sat together on the same bench seat. You wouldn't "turn this [U-Haul] around"… just because we would not do that.<br />
* Dad, in Virginia you're not the high school teacher that must maintain… appearances. (Remember, Mom had to maintain "appearances", too, which is why we had to move from John Day, Oregon, to Florence, Oregon). Therefore… the pipe. And the beard. You are (were) the quintessential 60's-70's college professor. You keep the beard well beyond its stylish'y statement and purpose. In your later years and months the beard appears and disappears, like your memories.<br />
* In Virginia, Richard has decided to run away. Rather than dictate that, "NO, you CAN'T do that", you accommodate him by asking where and when he would like to go. It's dark and the three of us pile into the car. Mom stays behind to take care of baby Nanci. We drive around Norfolk and eventually find a somewhat rural location with a field and a barn. You ask Richard is this place OK? He says yes. So Richard gets out with his few belongings and heads across the dark field. You and I wait in the car. We drive around a bit. After awhile, we stop and wait. Richard comes back and you ask, "are you ready to go home?" So we go home. Dad, this shows your special character and fatherly patience. You allowed the lesson to play out - safely, without possibility of danger or disaster.<br />
* There we are - you, me, Richard - at a TV repair shop in Agana, Guam. The proprietor is a middle-aged Filipino gentleman. We come in behind another customer, a middle-aged Caucasian man, possibly military. The customer is absolutely "ripping a new one" on the proprietor. He is cussing and shouting. He is calling racist names, like "gook". The proprietor, embarrassed, can't say a word. We just watch. Dad, you always knew when it was time to speak up and take a stand vs. when it was best to just let it go. You chose to let it go and not add to the scene. The customer left. I'm sure I wanted to apologize to the proprietor, but I don't remember what happened next.<br />
* Dad, I loved and still love our vacations. Whether it was a quick trip to diverse points in Oregon. Or others around the west and northwest - 1962 Seattle World's Fair, California Redwoods - we had fun and the memories are forever-lasting. Then there were the vacations with Guam as the home base - Saipan, The States, Japan. There was that one vacation to Hong Kong which Richard and I were not included. (Staying behind to keep the house in Dean's Circle, etc.). But Japan during Christmas 1970 was the best! The cultural and esthetic adventures were beyond the pale. When it was all said and done, I announce that I will marry a Japanese girl. I would not. But the natural beauty and culture would have a profound impact on me. Kyoto was and is an amazing place. It remains a shame that the 1960's Bullet Train in Japan has not been replicated here.<br />
<br />
At about 6:00 AM the next morning, January 7, 2015, the phone rang with a call from a nurse at the Manor. Dad had passed away early that morning. You can draw your own conclusions, but I think that when Dad and I flew, he knew it was time to go to Mom.David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-77556791416153919732015-08-12T18:41:00.004-07:002015-08-12T18:43:07.088-07:00John Braden Waite - April 6, 1928 to January 7, 2015<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
In his 60's (and maybe 50's) I think Dad often worried about descending into dementia, as had his mother. Then his two older sisters, Arabell and Edith, did, too. By about his early 70's Dad and Mom knew that Dad was beginning the long, gentle slide. Cancer got twin brother Bob at age 69, so we'll never know if this was to be a shared disease. But then cancer didn't get Dad. Older brother, Erwin, seemed to be dementia free, but died at age 82 partly from complications of an auto accident. Oldest brother Stephen lived to age 89, always sharp as a tack to the end.<br />
<br />
One feature of Dad's dementia in his 70's was that he began to have trouble with short term memory, but could clearly recall many events from his childhood and young adulthood. One defining event in his later 70's was when he decided to drive himself from the Manor in Milwaukie across the Willamette, over the west hills, and into Beaverton to visit us. He ended up at a major intersection about 3-4 miles away and called from a pay phone: "I'm having some trouble here," he reported. "I can't seem to find my way." The keys and car went away soon after that.<br />
<br />
Over the next couple years he began to loose the ability to manage any financial affairs. Mom, bless her heart, and despite her increasing challenges with Parkinson's, was his guide. But Dad still knew and recognized family members. Even into his early to nearly mid-80's he remembered details about family members and asked about them. For example, he still asked about my teaching career, about my daughters - his granddaughters - and about the great-granddaughter he saw in-person several times a year, and more frequently on Skype.<br />
<br />
By his mid-80's, Dad could no longer remember how to sign his name. The dementia caused some personality changes that increasingly wore on Mom - and their fellow Manor residents. For example, Dad would become angry about others getting in and out of "his" elevator.<br />
<br />
Mom was a rock through all of this. She was the anchor chained to Dad. Because of Mom's physical challenges due to Parkinson's, and Dad's excellent physical condition, Dad was the sail that took them where they needed to go. Without any disrespect, I characterized them together as the brain and the body. Neither could function without the other. <br />
<br />
Bless my brother Richard and Mom for taking the steps to get Dad moved into Memory Care at the Manor. Weeks after moving out of their apartment and into the Health Center, Dad seemed to be declining quickly. By later in August he qualified for Hospice Care. But he rebounded and seemed to settle in to the new routines, partly because of a new medication that calmed him. Mom visited him daily, which Dad looked forward to greatly. They chatted and held hands. It was very hard to know how much understanding Dad had of these events. But as we would find out later, he may have had much understanding but was unable to express it. <br />
<br />
As Mom fell and broke her hip in early November 2014, she was no longer able to visit him. Between that event and her death on December 4, we toyed with the idea of bringing Dad to visit her. We felt that Dad would not understand, and especially that the moving about would upset to his routine. Again, based on events to come, I wish that we had tried. <br />
<br />
Because Dad and Mom's out of town children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren were in town in early December (at the time of Mom's death) and again later for the holidays, Dad enjoyed many visitors and many extra visits. Sometimes he was "with it" and sometimes not. We treasured these visits and treasure the memories of them. <br />
<br />
Here are some of the highlights.<br />
<br />
Sister Nanci and friend Brian were back for Mom's graveside service at about Christmas. Brian and a fellow musician played some old folk and bluegrass favorites at that ceremony. Several days later, we had quite a crowd at Dad's Manor Memory Care unit to sing songs with Dad. As we came in, Dad was sitting in the common area in a rolling chair, head down non-responsive. <br />
<br />
We sang a bunch of songs: She'll Be Coming Around the Mountain, Mares-y-dotes, My Bonnie..., Crawdad Hole, and others. Dad really perked up. He even sang along and sang the refrain to Coming Around the Mountain. (A big wish later: that we had sung Home On The Range, which we used to sing as kids with Dad).<br />
<br />
Even weeks after Mom's death, we had still not told Dad about Mom's death. We struggled with this a lot, but felt that he would not understand. But for this visit I had brought a photo of Mom to show Dad. We told him that Mom "had
gone home" (passed away). He looked at me
like a he REALLY did understand. His eyes spoke that he understood. "Good for her," he said. <br />
<br />
Well into this musical session, Dad looked at me and said, "it's time for me to go." We had been there for quite a while, and I assumed that Dad meant that HE was done and it was time for US to go. I looked at Dad and asked, "go where Dad?" Dad looked back and, with his thumb, pointed down to the ground. We knew what he meant because he used to joke about that when his cognitive awareness was stronger. In those days he would add, "down to the ground."<br />
<br />
"Mom's coming to get you," we told Dad a number of times. <br />
<br />
Later, Nanci and Brian's final visit was on their way to the airport on about January 2. With Brian's mandolin, they sang familiar songs. This time in his room, Dad was dressed. He had felt some physical pain, and didn't want to get up. Nan held Dad's hand. He greeted them, said hello, and wanted to kiss Nan. Nan held Dad's hand the whole time and he squeezed back the whole time. Dad hummed a bit, mouthed the words, but was not as animated this time. <br />
<br />
In the middle of it all, during the singing, Dad randomly looked around the room, and started randomly waiving his hand. "I don't need all this stuff. I want you to take all this stuff, this is for you," he said. Without those words, it was like Dad was saying, "I'm ready to go, this is goodbye". He had spoken in complete sentences, something he had not been doing for months. He really seemed lucid, communicating "this is it, I've had it, I'm done".<br />
<br />
When it was time to say goodbye, he perked up. He looked directly at Nan. Nan said, "I love you, Daddy." "I love you too, sweetheart." Dad really seemed like he knew what was happening and he was ready to go, he was done and ready to say goodbye. He said "goodbye" in a very final way, in a strong, Dad voice. <br />
<br />
After Christmas, Maureen, Jon, and the great-grandchildren made a final visit before they had to travel back home. A major highlight of this visit - I wish I could have been there - was that Dad told them, out of the blue, "I have to get back to Janet." Wow.<br />
<br />
Brother Richard heard from Manor staff that Dad was heard having "conversations" with some imaginary person in his room. Maybe Dad and Mom were talking again. <br />
<br />
Dad knew more than we gave him credit for. He just could not express his understanding. I wish for a redo. <br />
<br />
Just as I flew with Mom, I flew with Dad, too. That's coming on the next post. <br />
<br />David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-51133287560913437302015-06-29T16:23:00.002-07:002015-08-12T18:43:54.352-07:00Janet Eleanor Waite - May 30, 1931 to December 4, 2014<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0HF5RRuFXBGp7T9BeIWd9FW8JVm_YKIuk3P0aApqA_gdiVJjHhdp_UGCPjn4oRPxNiGF6ewZhjb-bKggvXs-Zzy-sMMmHlht6p2mo5VfMjj6gXDKuY6BZww2_5sOJxDd8AGNL5dNIwZU/s1600/Mom+%2526+Dad.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0HF5RRuFXBGp7T9BeIWd9FW8JVm_YKIuk3P0aApqA_gdiVJjHhdp_UGCPjn4oRPxNiGF6ewZhjb-bKggvXs-Zzy-sMMmHlht6p2mo5VfMjj6gXDKuY6BZww2_5sOJxDd8AGNL5dNIwZU/s400/Mom+%2526+Dad.jpeg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Janet Eleanor Rogers Waite and John Braden Waite, June 25, 1954</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Mom fell and broke her hip on November 2. At first it did not seem to be a serious fracture. It did require surgery, though. She spent a little over a week in the hospital and was doing fairly well with physical therapy. There were some moments of confusion, which we assumed was the result of pain medications. <br />
<br />
So they moved her back to Willamette View Manor, but this time in the Health Center. She would be ready for her apartment again after some more recovery time and physical therapy. <br />
<br />
Parkinson's Disease had slowed her down over the past 10 years. But with adjustments in medications, she had been doing better up to this point in 2014. With Dad's declining mental state due to Dementia, 2013 and 2014 were more difficult for her in other ways. By August 2014, Dad had moved into Medicare Hospice, out of their apartment and into a memory care unit at WVM. Up until November 2, Mom was able to go upstairs to visit him on an almost daily basis. <br />
<br />
Mom continued the recovery and physical therapy at WVM Health Center during the middle of November. But she seemed to be losing some momentum. The physical therapy became more of a chore. She was no longer able to go across the hall and up to visit Dad. It was more difficult for her to swallow her Parkinson's meds. As we would find out soon, those meds were only available by mouth, not by I.V. Mom spent Thanksgiving in bed at the Health Center. <br />
<br />
I believe it was the day after Thanksgiving, November 28, 2014, when the Health Center nurse called. She had been off for a few days and upon her return was worried about Mom. Mom had been running a fever and had some unusual swelling in her neck. The Health Center sent Mom back to Providence Milwaukie Hospital. They immediately recognized something much more serious than they could deal with and sent her by ambulance to Legacy Emmanuel Hospital. <br />
<br />
Mom went into surgery (I think it was Saturday morning) for a huge abscess infection in her neck. The next day and a half Mom remained heavily sedated and monitored. She had a breathing tube and could not speak. She was able to understand and squeeze hands to communicate. She began to refuse food down the feeding tube, as well as suctioning.<br />
<br />
By Monday, December 1, the breathing tube was out. The doctor called my brother Richard and I that Mom was refusing care. Richard and I went in on Monday evening. With a strong, but raspy voice, Mom said, "just let me go." She said it several more times, for good measure. <br />
<br />
The next day they discharged Mom to Hopewell House, a hospice home owned by Legacy in Portland's southwest hills. What a beautiful but sad place. But the beauty evoked so many happy family memories. Mom was still able to understand, smile, squeeze hands, etc. By Wednesday night and Thursday morning, Mom became less and less aware. By the time she died mid-day on Thursday, December 4, most important people in her life had been able to visit and be with her. Dad, of course, was not. <br />
<br />
Monday night. We knew the inevitable. As a teacher, the most annoying thing is when work/school take over dreams and thoughts during sleeping hours and waking moments when I can't get back to sleep. I dream about school situations. Dream voices tell me, "you need to..." and "don't forget to..." and "what about...". In my dreams I plan. In my dreams I do report cards. In my dreams I create lessons and units. In my dreams I make mistakes so I don't make them the next day, week or year.<br />
<br />
Monday night. I REFUSED to dream of school. I decided to take charge of my own dreams. I decided to fly with Mom through my memories. Here's where we went and what we did:<br />
<br />
* In 1957 we flew to the bus station in Florence for our Greyhound trip to Portland for my eye operation at Emmanuel Hospital. On the bus I ask you why that man had a big nose. You shush me and tell the man, "sorry." (You're there now). Then I am on a cart. You tell me you are there and everything is OK. A man tells me he is going to put a bell over my nose and mouth. I go to sleep.<br />
* We fly over ourselves, you, me, Richard, walking to the library. It's quiet there, while we look for books to carry home.<br />
* There we are, you holding me and telling or reading stories.<br />
* Here I am visiting you in your classroom at Siuslaw High School. You are teaching. I stand and look at myself (and your class) in a large mirror.<br />
* Here we are at our old house in Florence. You are taking a bath. I am about 4 or 5. I open the bathroom door and you scream for me to get out. Come on Mom!<br />
* At the old house still. I ride my trike down the driveway hill of Mrs. ?? (her last name was the name of a bird, and Dad always said that she drove a Lark). I turn in and land on my face. Two neighbor girls take me inside and you clean me and patch me up. I never do that again. <br />
* Still there. You are reading. Richard wants your attention. He keeps crawling around on the living room floor while saying, "roar, I'm a tiger!" You ignore him. So he bites your leg. You pull down his pants and he gets a good lickin'. I feel bad and am glad it's not me. <br />
* There we are on Sunday at the EUB church. You sit with me, Dad, and Richard. Except for when you sing in the choir. (Once Dad said he heard fire alarms while you were singing). Before and after we visit with people. Sometimes we have church picnics. The hymns always make me yawn.<br />
* You are cooking Sunday dinner after church. We always have something special. I'm watching NBA basketball on our 5-channel TV. The meat, potatoes and veggies are always separated on the plate. Over the years, Mom, we came a long way in the food department.<br />
* Now we're at the drive-in movie. Dad takes a funny looking speaker thing off a post and attaches it the driver-side car window. Richard and I watch the first feature (maybe). We have popcorn. When we're tired, or when the late feature comes on, Richard and I climb into the back of the 1956 Chevy wagon and into our sleeping bags.<br />
* The wooden spoon. It wasn't just for cooking. The threat of the "wooden spoon" was usually enough to get us to toe the line. We've come a long way here, too, Mom.<br />
* I'm home sick from school and you're taking care of me. A blanket, hot tea, mother's love.<br />
* It's summer and Richard and I come in for dinner. We tell you that we're not hungry. We had our fill of huckleberries along the miles of trails behind our Florence house.<br />
* We fly through a Viking football game in 1965. The old field looks so small. The stands are barely enough for spectators of a small town. But the sounds and smells are the same: cool coastal fall air, popcorn and hotdogs, glaring field lights, amateur announcer, number 32 and 44.<br />
* I take you to the places you never knew about. The trail to the airport. The trail to the garbage dump. The trail to the Siuslaw River. The trail to the dunes with small bodies of water; quicksand? we knew to stay away. The trail to the construction site where I started up an earth mover. Our adventures on bikes all over town and across the bridge to Ada. We never got lost, we always made it back. Did you worry?<br />
* It's summer 1961 and we have a new house being built off Rhododendron Drive, the highway to the beach and north jetty. The fresh pitch on new 2x4's smells devine, the taste a bit piney. We have our own sand dune behind the house. <br />
* It's October 1962 and I'm at school. The principal's voice comes over the classroom loud speaker. (I don't remember his name, but some kids called him "Your Highness"). "There is a storm coming. The school is closing early." You, Dad, and Richard come to pick me up. Winds are already stronger than anything I've ever experienced. We stop at Bray's IGA for food we can cook without electricity. Dad runs in while we stay in the car in the parking lot. A large piece of plywood flies through the air and knocks out the windshield of the convertible sports car next to us. I look over at the car/airplane model shop (a kid's dream!) and see a huge tree topple in front. We drive the 5 minutes to home. Dinner is hot dogs cooked in the fireplace and cans of shoe-string potatoes.<br />
* It's July 1966 and there's a U-Haul truck backed into the driveway. We get to carry the little things. Dad and friends carry the big things. We leave friends and our cats (Mimi and Annie) behind forever. Oregon to Virginia! You would be the navigator and journal scribe. Thank you for the 8 page record of our amazing trip. <br />
* Before we get in the truck, we fly through all those familiar places. The beaches and their tide pools; Devil's Punchbowl; Yachats and Reedsport; north jetty and south jetty; Coast Range and beach parks, picnic areas, and covered bridges; and best of all, Cleawox Lake and miles and miles of dunes. We fly the best dune buggy ride ever!<br />
* Oregon to Virginia in just minutes, not days! We fly around and see the sites of our new home. There's Old Dominion University; the military bases; the big city downtown; segregated neighborhoods; historical sites dating back to the 1600's and before; WW1 and WW2 vets with missing limbs begging on street corners; a new kind of beach with a wooden boardwalk and warm water, but no rocks, no tide pools, no waves to chase.<br />
* We fly by our house on Monaco Court. The bomb shelter is right there in the backyard! It still smells dank, dark, and musty. <br />
* We find a new church, the United Methodist on the border between Norfolk and Virginia Beach. The people are friendly. My old friends are there. We attend a church fish fry. The fish and hush puppies are excellent. The hymns still make me yawn. <br />
* There I am at school, 6th, then 7th, then 8th grades. The kids are different here, but not only because they are stupid pre-teens and teens now. We overhear one bragging about killing Ni*g**s when the Poor People's March comes through on the way to D.C. in June 1968. It's the end of 7th grade. <br />
* Adoption. You always said that you wanted daughters, too, but because of mis-matched blood types there were risks. So here we are on Nanci's first day with us in 1967. Then there's Karen in 1969. They don't look like us. You tell Richard and I that some people might react negatively, that we should be ready. They do and we are. There at the church... some turn away and refuse to talk to you and Dad. <br />
* 1969 and it's time to move on. You trust Richard and I with helping to make the decision - Guam or Sierra Leone. Wow what a contrast! In my 8th-grade-ishness, I worry about finding a wife (I didn't even think about girl friends first). Tropical beaches on a tropical island vs. the unknown in Africa? We choose Guam. <br />
* Before we pack all our possessions for the container ship trip to Guam, we fly over all those historical sites. (Dad called them hysterical sites). Thanks, Mom, for the love of history and genealogy you've given me.<br />
* No U-Haul truck this time, even if we could put pontoons on it. We fly to Portland, visit Grandma Waite in Toledo and Grandma Rogers in Milwaukie - the Manor is so cool! We didn't know it would later become your home, too. Then we spend 3 glorious (NOT!) weeks at the El Rancho Motel in Milwaukie. There's nothing to do, so we listen to the radio - Led Zeppelin, Credence Clearwater Revival, Jimi Hendrix, etc. We wait for our tickets and clearance to fly to Guam.<br />
* We retrace our flight to Guam through Honolulu. We fly around the airport complex and, sure enough, there it is. That really weird spigot outside on the side of a building. We pull it and pineapple juice still comes out! It must be for airport workers, but we found it in 1969 and we find it again.<br />
* Guam. We spend a few months in a furnished rented house in Tamuning. Roosters wake us up at sunrise, no alarm clock needed. Mom, do you hear that "garage band" playing The Doors the next street over? They're really good - they sound like The Doors! (Remember, Jim Morrison's dad was an admiral at the navy base on Guam). <br />
* Later we fly to Dean's Circle. The houses we lived in there are still there, but now they are University of Guam offices. We fly around the campus, especially Dad's science classrooms, the planetarium, the Marine Science Center.<br />
* Here we find a new kind of beach. The water is always warm, there is no boardwalk, and most of the beaches are protected by a reef. The waves are good enough for body surfing. <br />
* We experience new adventures in food, language, and culture. We are the minority, the newcomers, the statesiders, the Haoles. We learn, we grow, we understand, we adapt. <br />
* There I am in school, 9th grade at George Washington Jr. High, then 10th and 11th at George Washington High, home of The Geckos. The kids are a whole different kind of kids. About 10% look like me, and many of the rest look something more like Nanci and Karen. It's a whole new world. <br />
* On to Greeley, CO, Mom, for my senior year of high school. Thanks Mom (and Dad) for all these experiences. I feel that it's easy for me to adapt to new places and situations. Since we've carried a beach theme throughout this Mom, we re-discover that there are no beaches here. <br />
* Then back to Guam until 1976. Mom, we could fly to all those places I went, and things I did, after I flew the nest. But you weren't there then, so we won't go there now. Sorry Mom!<br />
<br />
Tuesday morning. I woke up with a different feeling. I went to school and, among the usual things, prepared sub plans for the rest of the week. Emmanuel Hospital would be moving Mom to Hopewell House for her final hours or days.<br />
<br />
For most of Tuesday evening and all day Wednesday, Mom did not speak a lot. She mostly communicated with smiles and hand squeezing. I got the chance several times to share with her parts of our flying trip through my memories. It was very difficult and I choked up too much to really be able to tell anything. I guess it was more for me than Mom, anyway. She had her own memories to fly through, if that's what she was able to do. By late Wednesday night she was still existing, but in a different, secret, unknown world, a world where she would not return to tell us about. <br />
<br />
During these days and into Thursday, we let her know that she should go get Dad. It was OK to go home, but get Dad, too.<br />
<br />
But back to Tuesday night for a special non-Mom moment. Nanci had arrived that day. Nan and I were visiting Mom. I wanted to let Mom know that her great-granddaughters, Elsa and Azara, would be arriving later in December. I held out hope that she would be able to see them one more time. When I mentioned this, Mom looked up at Nan and I and said, "you're not going to get rid of this old bitch that easily!" I looked at Nan and asked, "did she say what I thought she said?" "I don't think she said she had an itch!", responded Nan. This was so out of character of Mom. She had never allowed herself to BE "naughty" (in her words). I'm glad she got that one in there. <br />
<br />
This in and out continued into Thursday morning. There seemed no way to predict when Mom would leave her new state of being, either. In the morning Zenny, Nancy, Karen, and I drove to the Manor to wrap up some business and pack up some things between the Health Center and her apartment. We visited Dad. We did not think Dad would understand what was happening with Mom, so we told him nothing. Later, in late December and early January, we found out that he could have understood. We should have told him then, not later.<br />
<br />
Done at the Manor, we headed back toward Hopewell House, thinking about stopping somewhere for a quick lunch. My cell phone rang with a call from Maureen. Knowing about my flying memories with Mom, her words were, "Grandma flew." I wish I could have been there. So did Maureen and Lorna, who had walked away for 10 minutes for a bite to eat. Fortunately, Mom passed while surrounded by other loving family members. <br />
<br />
Headed up the winding, wooded driveway of Hopewell House I flashed my headlights into her window. We could see someone changing the bed for the final time for Mom. In the room Mom was now quiet, peaceful, no more raspy, rattly breathing, a flower placed in her folded hands.<br />
<br />
We said our final goodbyes. David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-7643706003014800422015-01-31T20:36:00.000-08:002015-01-31T20:36:38.056-08:00Journal of an Infrequent Journal Writer<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
January 31, 2015<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Earlier
this month Maureen found an old photo album with fast fading handwritten pages
I wrote years ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She suggested that I
type them up before they are lost forever to fading time. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So…<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
September 22, 1979<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I've been
threatening this for a long time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
haven't kept a journal since 1972-1973 when I was a senior in high school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm starting one now for several
reasons:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I see an interesting, exciting
life ahead for me, a baby on the way!, and I'd like to record it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And, I'd really like to write a book or books
in the future and I'm sure this will help.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I threw
away my first journal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I'll regret
it someday, but I don't think so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
alot [1-31-15 I finally did learn how to spell a lot] different person back
then.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn't like myself too much, and
reading that old journal reminded me of that – so I didn't like the journal
either.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The more I changed – and I have
changed – the more painfull [and painful, too] reading it became. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hope that
won't happen with this journal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One rule
(or non-rule) will help:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll write only
when I have something to write and as little or as much as I feel like writing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No minimums or maximums.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No finger-tapping or brain-wracking, trying
to come with something to fill in every day of the year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
October 15, 1979<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I tried for
thirty minutes to get to sleep, but I couldn't.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was my traditional nap-before-going-back-to-work-after-my-night-off
nap.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I couldn't sleep so I thought I'd
write.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>(I want to
interject something here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I was
laying in bed thinking, I was really ready to write, I was rarin' to go!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But now I can't get my thoughts
together.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took twenty minutes to write
that first paragraph – really struggled with it, wracked my brain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That's exactly what I promised to avoid.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe I'm warmed up). <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I layed
[laid] in bed and came to two conclusions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>One, that Zeny has an aire of childlike innocence when she sleeps, her
face free of wrinkles and worries. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not
earthshaking, but that's what I was thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Two, having a baby is really mind-boggling and mysterious!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It's all hard to comprehend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll take any chance I can get to hold my
hand on Zeny's stomach and feel the baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This sleepless thirty minutes was no exception.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could feel a little body right there in
Zeny's stomach, our baby!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Fascinating!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
November 14-15
(written December 28, 1979)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>November 14
at 11:30pm, just as I was leaving work to home, Zeny called to say she was in
labor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I whizzed home and found her
complaining of intense pain lasting 45 seconds, about 2 minutes apart – our
baby was on the way!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I waited
outside the Delivery Room area, while Zeny went in for the standard enema and
cervical dilation check.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After about 20
minutes of pacing and worried excitement, I was allowed in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A concerned
looking maternity nurse handed me a scrub suit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"We're not getting fetal heart tones," she said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"It may be the machine, or it may be
more serious than that."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Zeny lay on
the delivery table.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I walked into the
delivery room, a step of confidence, a step of fear, then a step of hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A blue-green surgical suit, mask and cap hid
much of my feelings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My eyes probably
broadcast the fear and hope I felt, but all were too busy to notice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Zeny rested
on the table – briefly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She motioned
that a contraction was beginning and the doctor ordered "push".<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The contraction subsided and Daisy, maternity
nurse, again attempted to pick up our baby's heart beat with the Doppler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Silence.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hopeful
eyes became worried eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I placed a
hand over Zeny's tummy, where our baby lived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"I think I feel movement!"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Hope shone in my worried eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>"But maybe it's just her uterus moving."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Worry prevailed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Zeny – what
a sport!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She knew nothing of what was
really happening.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The nurses talked in
low tones and I kept silent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She pushed
during contractions, rested in-between, barely a peep out of her, working hard
at birthing our baby, indifferent to all else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>During
contractions the doctor performed the episiotomy – local anesthetic and
"snip, snip, ship," thus a larger opening to help the baby make its
debut without ripping mom's vagina.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
November 15 (written
January 16, 1983)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some more
contractions and then she was born.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
didn't have to wait for the doctor to turn the baby when the head was out to
make it easier for the shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
was born all at once, very quickly, but all motion was the result of the last
contraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The nurse
held a stethoscope to our baby's chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
traditional spank to promote breath would not be necessary because the nurse
looked down and shook her head "no".<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I will
never forget that scene – how Teresa lay lifeless, how the nurse used the
stethoscope and shook her head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor will
I forget Zeny.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She strained to lift up
her head to see, still oblivious to it all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The nurse had wrapped Teresa in a white towel and were laying this
bundle on her chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>"What did I
have?" asked Zeny.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My feelings
at this point were of shock and disappointment, little grief, which would come
later – and still comes on occasion. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"It's
dead, hon." I said painfully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"Huh?"<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'll never forget the way she said it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was not what she expected to hear, she had
no idea, and the words belonged to a television show – to Dr. Welby, or
whatever – and not in this delivery room where she had just delivered our
baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>"She's
dead, hon."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Zeny frowned in
disbelief, straining to see the lump of baby, Teresa Jean, being held by nurses
on her chest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My had was on her shoulder
and I was down closer to her ear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
kept frowning in disbelief and shock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They took the baby away to wash it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We just stayed there in silence, Zeny staring at the ceiling, me at
Zeny. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>November 15 (written November 15,
1985)<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the time
I couldn't grasp the seriousness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
thought the grief would be at a minimum and be brief.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I though we could move right on to other
things and forget all about this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the
very first instants I envisioned that there would be no burial, no funeral, no
name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought the hospital would just
"take care of it."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well, I'm
glad that it didn't end up that way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I'm
glad we handled things – and continue to do so – as if she had lived a few
months and then died.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Almost as if.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always keep the "almost" in
perspective.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And yes, we
did move on to other things – to Maureen and Lorna!!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I do not feel the least bit embarrassment
about remembering Teresa on her birthday, visiting her grave, etc. – even six
years later.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
January 31, 2015<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After that
last paragraph I rambled on for another two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our friend from Guam, John Wilson, had just died a week before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of what I said seems weak and irrelevant
now, compared to all that has happened since.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The only relevant thing I said in those two paragraphs was, "I
think of Teresa and I think of what could have been.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think of John and I think of what <u>was</u>,
<u>and</u> what could have been."<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Here's why
that matters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With a stillborn baby,
there is only "what could have been".<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But on November 15, 1979, and the days that followed, Zenny and I
promised ourselves, and the World, that we would never forget Teresa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would be an equal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would be more than a lost baby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She would never be forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would think of her on November 15 every
year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would visit her every year. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And we have kept our promises and never missed
a year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We gave her
a name, not just "baby Waite" like I had imagined was the
protocol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We gave her the name we had
planned to give a daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We didn't
save the name for the next daughter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That was her name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Teresa Jean
Waite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was what <u>was</u> and <u>what
could have been</u>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Some more
"never forgets":<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In our time
after the delivery, as we visited together with Teresa on Zeny's delivery bed,
I will never forget how warm she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
wondered, I hoped… had they made a mistake?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Was she still alive?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Was she
really dead?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On about November 16, 1979,
my mom and dad came to visit us at Kaiser Hospital on North Greeley in
Portland. I will never forget the obvious surprise of Kaiser staff when we
asked that they bring Teresa up to Zeny's room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our request must have been unusual at that time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I like to think now that we helped change the
usual. I remember my co-worker at St. Vincent's Hospital who was shocked that
we took pictures of Teresa that day they brought her up to us, as well as a
picture of her in her little baby coffin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I don't think that's unusual now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I think we helped change the usual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>(Of
interest, this would be the hospital where Maureen and Lorna would be born, in
1980 and 1982 respectively.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This
building is no longer a hospital, now Adidas USA headquarters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Also of interest, the hospital in Prairie
City, OR, where I was born on January 12, 1955, is now a nursing home; I like
to think that I could do as salmon do, if I wish).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So much has
happened since November 15, 1979.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>New
lives have been created and old lives have passed away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maureen and Lorna were born, grew up, and
married wonderful sons-in-law.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now there
are grandchildren, Elsa and Azara.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two
first cousins passed away prematurely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Grandparents have passed on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most
of my aunts and uncles are now gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mom
died on December 4, 2014, and Dad five weeks later on January 7, 2015.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was once young, fulfilling my role with the
old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Now I am among the old, fulfilling
my role as uncle and grandfather to the young.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And then
back to Teresa, in her special place as our first, our oldest daughter, where
this journal entry began. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Teresa remains
an equal, who truly <u>was</u>, and <u>was what could have been</u>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
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David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-33085768038641094822012-12-15T09:34:00.001-08:002013-09-17T19:56:05.606-07:00Revolution! 1987 Nike Letter to Apple Records - by David<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Wow, it's been over 25 years since Apple Records sued Nike for using The Beatles song "Revolution" in its advertising. At that time I was about 3 years into my 14 1/2 year long career at Nike. Nike had published print ads condemning Apple Corps for the suit, as Nike had bought the rights to use the song from its owner (Michael Jackson!) and publisher (EMI). </div>
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In August 1987 Phil Knight was actually in the USSR working on negotiating a huge tennis endorsement. I love word play (thanks dad!!). The light bulb went on. Hhmmm, Phil in the USSR, Nike ad response, Apple Records, Beatles, etc. So here's what came out of that, below. I hope no one can sue me over this. It's been 25 years.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
August 1987<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Now that Phil is Back In The
USSR, here is an open letter to Apple Records:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Dear Prudence:<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
John would Twist And Shout in his
grave if he knew what you were doing. We at NIKE don't want a Revolution, we
just want to make a Rubber Soul.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
Your lawsuit has created alot of
Helter Skelter here at NIKE, where the average employee works Eight Days A
Week, moonlights as a Paperback Writer and works summers in the Strawberry
Fields. NIKE's Legal Department has now been diverted away from the protection
of our new Norwegian Wood mid-sole.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
The fact is, we negotiated and
paid for all legal rights to use "Revolution" in our ads. And we did
so with the active support and encouragement of Rocky Raccoon, Eleanor Rigby,
Mean Mr. Mustard and Polythene Pam. In fact, we even have the signed release of
every member of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. We also believe we've
shown a good deal of sensitivity and respect in our use of
"Revolution." It is not now, and never was, NIKE's intention to
somehow connect NIKE and the Beatles in the mind of the consumer.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
But the last thing we want to do
is upset the Beatles over the use of their music. That's why we've asked them
to discuss the issue with us face-to-face. No lawyers, critics or
self-appointed spokespersons. Let's Come Together over a friendly plate of
Savoy Truffle. Let It Be now, Here There And Everywhere, Any Time At All, Across
The Universe, in a Yellow Submarine, even at Abbey Road. In fact, Why Don't We
Do It In The Road!<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
End your frivolous suit against
NIKE. Don't let another Hard Day's Night go by. Let us Help! Get Back from the
Long And Winding Road of litigation.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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Love Me Do,<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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The Walrus<o:p></o:p></div>
<!--EndFragment-->David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-76729793064337721342012-11-17T08:36:00.001-08:002012-11-17T08:36:52.229-08:00Whole Brain Teaching: 3rd Grade: Mode and Range<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/HHRqHLxzDY0?fs=1" width="459"></iframe>David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-30028557911436503062012-11-12T10:50:00.005-08:002012-11-12T10:53:18.479-08:00Goodbye Forever, KPOJ!!!<a href="http://www.wweek.com/portland/blog-29441-kpoj_cancelling_political_talk_radio_on_monday.html">http://www.wweek.com/portland/blog-29441-kpoj_cancelling_political_talk_radio_on_monday.html</a><br />
<br />
Good-bye KPOJ! Clear Channel Radio, thanks for the past 6 years of progressive talk radio in Portland, OR. I can't imagine that Fox Sports Radio will improve your listenership. Are you sure it's not political?<br />
<br />
Hello AM760, Colorado's Progressive Talk Radio!!! You've been linked.<br />
<a href="http://www.am760.net/main.html">http://www.am760.net/main.html</a><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7yH_I_Jmi3k3JXBf9uDwfTVdmMSKq51RPGpSFIa_Lf1zCWIQI2oCKAbUpmaI62XmPKG5MCM7-bfZGxNjJNIamUiWPzxrMk1h_MPflElYkK2ba_5PkwYNqRKM9Qu2WtY34Y71YkFJc9Mg/s1600/Screen+Shot+2012-11-12+at+10.49.18+AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="109" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7yH_I_Jmi3k3JXBf9uDwfTVdmMSKq51RPGpSFIa_Lf1zCWIQI2oCKAbUpmaI62XmPKG5MCM7-bfZGxNjJNIamUiWPzxrMk1h_MPflElYkK2ba_5PkwYNqRKM9Qu2WtY34Y71YkFJc9Mg/s200/Screen+Shot+2012-11-12+at+10.49.18+AM.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-49896091436157291102012-10-20T08:12:00.000-07:002012-10-20T10:25:46.050-07:00Window Sticker<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTAX9QS7ML-dqEhkFkvszzu6O41PHgo5NrHWonVLIk1yfr37kqUkdxi0UK0fsucQVrcJde19ezWaNCxPPk9Ztb9aCRsSYz7WGo_SG9VrTYhO-qx7bpbQCAMBeOZmpJp_9tjtg9cmcRUxA/s1600/BumperSticker-Sm.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="75" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTAX9QS7ML-dqEhkFkvszzu6O41PHgo5NrHWonVLIk1yfr37kqUkdxi0UK0fsucQVrcJde19ezWaNCxPPk9Ztb9aCRsSYz7WGo_SG9VrTYhO-qx7bpbQCAMBeOZmpJp_9tjtg9cmcRUxA/s400/BumperSticker-Sm.png" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-77662597475673125272012-08-01T18:22:00.002-07:002012-08-01T18:27:10.750-07:00Great Moments in Right-Wing Ignorance - by David<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My political policy is, "it's the policies not the person". Making fun of right-wing wackos is... fun... and easy... but mostly counterproductive. So, make no mistake, I am not making fun of Mitt Romney, only the untenable position of the right-wing on health care.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Romney in Israel on July 30, 2012: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;">“When our
health care costs are completely out of control. Do you realize what health
care spending is as a percentage of the GDP in Israel? 8 percent. You spend 8
percent of GDP on health care. And you’re a pretty healthy nation. We spend 18
percent of our GDP on health care. 10 percentage points more. That gap, that 10
percent cost, let me compare that with the size of our military. Our military
budget is 4 percent. Our gap with Israel is 10 points of GDP. We have to find
ways, not just to provide health care to more people, but to find ways to
finally manage our health care costs.”</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;">Is Romney calling for the end of ObamaCare (yes, well established) to be replaced with the Israeli health care system? Oops. Health care in Israel truly is a "government take-over" system. (ObamaCare is nowhere close to that). Health care in Israel is universal and its funding is compulsory, paid for via a progressive tax system. As Romney correctly noted, Israel spends about 8% of its GDP, while we spend almost 18% of our GDP. Israel has better health outcomes, e.g., life expectancy and infant mortality. </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;">The table below is from </span>Stephen L. Taylor at:</span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="http://www.outsidethebeltway.com/romney-praises-israeli-health-care-system/">http://www.outsidethebeltway.com/romney-praises-israeli-health-care-system/</a><o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRaQdLnQXd1loGHVBGT7SqlPZj6_NyxkhTiAR9XddaAJG9T184Navw8GQ08MSoSAj67y34qoxiZgbYxLkrNc7QDK2Ty6D1NCIUt0Q6EVO3-sHDBCdaqAsEjBb2LF6gBpupRi2sBigE76Y/s1600/image1.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRaQdLnQXd1loGHVBGT7SqlPZj6_NyxkhTiAR9XddaAJG9T184Navw8GQ08MSoSAj67y34qoxiZgbYxLkrNc7QDK2Ty6D1NCIUt0Q6EVO3-sHDBCdaqAsEjBb2LF6gBpupRi2sBigE76Y/s400/image1.png" width="365" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626;">You can find more information at: </span></span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Health_care_in_Israel">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Health_care_in_Israel</a><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Remember: Facts are more fun than character assassination, and just as easy. </span><br />
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<o:p></o:p></div>David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-6409379034848142232012-08-01T08:45:00.001-07:002012-08-01T14:24:39.617-07:00No Right Wings, Left Wings Only Please - by David<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJtOJTzICSKjLh-7_I3oPgXQOSn1Lz_VhfR5O8IL_mnX0M89moDfmabSWrOl-gdIqkqoyxeVBDmwEDuNig_qmqytRiZ8NqxLcQs88v5r7VSVl4ci9BMtEjtM4plGn_Q5wTfeoUUBrZDGg/s1600/bakedchickenwings1_550.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJtOJTzICSKjLh-7_I3oPgXQOSn1Lz_VhfR5O8IL_mnX0M89moDfmabSWrOl-gdIqkqoyxeVBDmwEDuNig_qmqytRiZ8NqxLcQs88v5r7VSVl4ci9BMtEjtM4plGn_Q5wTfeoUUBrZDGg/s320/bakedchickenwings1_550.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The nearest Chick Fil A's to avoid today (Governor Huckabee's ridiculous Tea Bagger August 1 BuyCott) is in Idaho and California. No problem. It turns out that the <a href="http://www.afa.net/BuyCott/index.html">American Family Association</a> helped organize a previous BuyCott in April 2011. I'm about half through my lose 15 pounds diet, so no wings for me today under any circumstances. For the future, I'll find someone - KFC, Buffalo Wild Wings, et al - who can fill my special order.David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-16677831293323103862012-07-17T21:44:00.003-07:002012-07-18T13:17:58.205-07:00Keeping Your GPS Happy and Yourself Safely on the Road - by David<div class="MsoNormal">
We’ve enjoyed almost 8 months now with our Garmin Nuvi 2555. She (“Navi” as we call her) has taken us to the Wenatchee-Leavenworth, WA, area for Christmas 2011. At this moment we are 2/3 of the way through our summer circle trip down through Southern Oregon and Northern California, then up through Idaho and back home.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2JGae6Ju3_BAqjflsOjUN1d8heyVFMgmtiAEALCbZGD4WU5RdWi9I0HNMBBPX6ADyslqHWprE1A7_qLX9mVaxipJMJiSF2udeu4tJFInYoduCncyOvDAJuwhuJnbRDVB-U4tJ_4xh8g/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-07-18+at+12.59.08+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja2JGae6Ju3_BAqjflsOjUN1d8heyVFMgmtiAEALCbZGD4WU5RdWi9I0HNMBBPX6ADyslqHWprE1A7_qLX9mVaxipJMJiSF2udeu4tJFInYoduCncyOvDAJuwhuJnbRDVB-U4tJ_4xh8g/s320/Screen+shot+2012-07-18+at+12.59.08+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Life with Navi has been mostly wrinkle free, but we’ve had our moments with her. Through it all we’ve figured out several very important lessons, plus stumbled upon the next great idea in advertising. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Lesson 1 is that your GPS is much smarter than she lets on, and usually much smarter than the driver. I swear that Navi just likes to piss me off. The “voice command” feature is particularly exasperating. She has trouble understanding my pronunciation and then she pronounces many town and street names oddly. For example, she completely mangles “Wenatchee”. On our current trip, as I asked Navi to lead us to the zoo in Sacramento, she could not understand “Sacramento”! “Did you say ‘Lemon Grove’? Navi asked politely. I tried every way I could think of to say Sacramento – in perfect Spanish, Gringo, east coast, west coast, all long vowels, fast, slow, emphasis on the last syllable, etc. No luck. As I got more frustrated, I started yelling at Navi, calling her stupid, and worse. She clearly dug in her heals (if she has heals) and had a little fun with me. “Did you say ‘Salmon Quiche’”, Navi asked in her polite voice, this time dripping with sarcasm. I finally had to type it in, and it’s not the easiest or shortest name to spell. Navi was fine with easy names, like Davis, CA. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Lesson 2 is that you must speak nicely to your GPS. See Lesson 1 above. During our stay in Davis (daughter and son-in-law, with granddaughter, were attending a conference on the UC-Davis campus), we all took a day trip to San Francisco. We know our way around SF, and it soon became clear that Navi was taking us on very out-of-the-way routes to get where we wanted to go. With Jon on his iPhone in Google Maps, this was easily confirmed. Google Maps would have taken us on the most direct route every time. I’m not sure if Navi was still mad at me, or if she was gearing up for this next great advertising gimmick. (See below). But I’m not taking any chances. You know all those stories about drivers that drive off a cliff or drive into a lake? I felt like Navi was speaking to me subliminally and I started imagining us driving off Pier 39 and into the bay! I am convinced that these tragic incidents COULD involve people who were not kind to their GPS. I’m being very patient with Navi from now on.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIfbAUeuq1l9IFvj8AIoSh41XR-TVA-bmKVVHLt0jGCuuHorSqxzZKSUlPEOlbidP3uNsOdQKlmBwSleRyAJ4AuNGRji0fIIlOR4a8-UVCFSFlbudw-F29q77i4EcwiLFnMaCpjCIaZM/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-07-18+at+1.03.13+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBIfbAUeuq1l9IFvj8AIoSh41XR-TVA-bmKVVHLt0jGCuuHorSqxzZKSUlPEOlbidP3uNsOdQKlmBwSleRyAJ4AuNGRji0fIIlOR4a8-UVCFSFlbudw-F29q77i4EcwiLFnMaCpjCIaZM/s320/Screen+shot+2012-07-18+at+1.03.13+PM.png" width="320" /></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtLy3ihgWNcI9N0P8yLDEOhJDdkgh2T6mF_KdOsLyXPfEd3hM0TbKYaT49u_ohWO7xla4DVIVTRaeNlHT17z3xOgQ7M46_JYyw5mlC-QSH9RUiKYTNzWUCa3lTAk32RLK6ZZFKnryD_E/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-07-18+at+1.03.52+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZtLy3ihgWNcI9N0P8yLDEOhJDdkgh2T6mF_KdOsLyXPfEd3hM0TbKYaT49u_ohWO7xla4DVIVTRaeNlHT17z3xOgQ7M46_JYyw5mlC-QSH9RUiKYTNzWUCa3lTAk32RLK6ZZFKnryD_E/s320/Screen+shot+2012-07-18+at+1.03.52+PM.png" width="320" /> </a><br />
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Now for the next great idea in advertising. There <u>was</u> that whole weird routes thing in SF. But most strange of all was a little unplanned detour on the way to SF. I swear on a stack of satellites that Navi was directing me to an exit off I-80 in order to continue across the bay. Then came Navi’s most irritating feature: whenever you stray off the course set by Navi, she shouts “recalculating” in the most annoying and obnoxious voice. If you really deviate a lot in a short amount of time, then she yells a whole string of “recalculating”’s, one about every 4 seconds. (I've pushed her to her limit a couple times - the AC shut off and the interior lights started flickering). Anyway, I couldn’t figure out why she was yelling the R-word – I was just following her course! And the course set by Navi had by now disappeared from the screen. Very suspicious. I stopped the car and there it was: a new Six Flags near Berkeley, nearly ready to open. (We were right at the gate, with no one else around; it was very much a Chevy Chase-Walley World-Vacation movie moment). Then there was that little subliminal voice again, “this detour brought to you by Six Flags.” We’re convinced that Navi has been partially programmed for this new form of advertising and the next time we run an on-line update we expect the complete program to be implemented. (Should I run this update? If I don't, we COULD someday drive off a cliff or into a lake... you know, that whole "bridge to nowhere" thing. But then if we run the update, Navi gets to choose the detour, as many as she wants, which COULD be a cliff, a lake, or even a McDonald's. What to do, what to do...). <o:p></o:p><br />
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So lessons learned: be nice to your GPS (it knows what you're thinking) and just get used to the next wave of advertising with a lot of detours. "This detour brought to you by the San Francisco Tourism Commission", "This detour brought to you by Denny's", "This detour brought to you by ___________." Fill in the blank. <o:p></o:p><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSgLEq9jCRtPx4Ui5tSGrRXR1fAZNgrPDUqN1fUeHBX3Rh4-NA5hNx3F-LD7EWzMPAkigCprHj633utz2jJScYFx5Fi1Arxw6qxQz4PjoWwwM3EDAuayFGlLGVvnZdoTAyFdDvKD3gz4/s1600/Screen+shot+2012-07-17+at+9.17.18+PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSgLEq9jCRtPx4Ui5tSGrRXR1fAZNgrPDUqN1fUeHBX3Rh4-NA5hNx3F-LD7EWzMPAkigCprHj633utz2jJScYFx5Fi1Arxw6qxQz4PjoWwwM3EDAuayFGlLGVvnZdoTAyFdDvKD3gz4/s320/Screen+shot+2012-07-17+at+9.17.18+PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>
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Would anyone like to buy a slightly used GPS with a name and an attitude?</div>David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-85368978351436989152012-07-03T11:27:00.000-07:002012-07-03T11:36:23.164-07:00Raymond Boyd Rogers' Rocking ChairElsa Rose is only the latest to sit in Grandpa Rogers' childhood rocking chair (circa 1896).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnazuijLW74noXhzTzcc2smQSPMw6tnD6arlbvnQjCJQDVlDYsWQseIrkh9G9VRgHlnZzPVpwMReDfWg6wv9eOkO9CL7W0-FIjpg1sKRthQvZaFrb_subA3YFzEpfUCl1CX0sE98jcos/s1600/Elsa-Rocking5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOnazuijLW74noXhzTzcc2smQSPMw6tnD6arlbvnQjCJQDVlDYsWQseIrkh9G9VRgHlnZzPVpwMReDfWg6wv9eOkO9CL7W0-FIjpg1sKRthQvZaFrb_subA3YFzEpfUCl1CX0sE98jcos/s400/Elsa-Rocking5.JPG" width="265" /></a></div>
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Others that I know of:<br />
Raymond Boyd Rogers<br />
Janet Rogers Waite<br />
Gayle Rogers Lockwood<br />
David Waite<br />
Richard Waite<br />
Nancy Waite Villegas<br />
Karen Waite Boursaw<br />
Linda Lockwood Geissler<br />
Lorna Lockwood Fast Buffalo Horse<br />
Maureen Waite Hess<br />
Lorna Waite Chandler<br />
Brittany LaFortune<br />
Taylor Villegas<br />
Laurel Villegas<br />
Kayla Boursaw<br />
<br />David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-91167567849047717142012-07-03T10:26:00.000-07:002012-08-01T18:31:51.317-07:00Give Us Back Our Blog!! - by Oscar, Tootsie, and Jimmy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePHGcoNEjnjQFswcEhPCPBgMQJE1xgCSOnzJrFn-33ZPTthIP1PtU_lJUKto_jNHFo_bjDxY9l3z9RULHlle1n8G0nwy8XrsYTIU4D5ndz9wiVco2inHjPh_DEsyxSQIArA-gMpjdjo0/s1600/DSC_0470.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiePHGcoNEjnjQFswcEhPCPBgMQJE1xgCSOnzJrFn-33ZPTthIP1PtU_lJUKto_jNHFo_bjDxY9l3z9RULHlle1n8G0nwy8XrsYTIU4D5ndz9wiVco2inHjPh_DEsyxSQIArA-gMpjdjo0/s640/DSC_0470.jpg" width="424" /></a></div>
<br />David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-89251881137139134762012-07-03T10:18:00.001-07:002012-07-03T14:17:56.589-07:00Great Moments in Right-Wing Hysteria<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia; font-size: large;">The quotes below are just a few of the ridiculous reactions to ObamaCare and the recent Supreme Court ruling. At least they have an air of reasonableness, correct spelling and grammar, because they spring from sources of right-wing talking points (Cato Institute, Heritage Foundation, et al). You should REALLY check out the hilarious comments posted by "regular people" on right-wing blogs! The best, repeated by many: "I'm moving to Canada." Boy, I hope this ObamaCare universal health care idea doesn't spread to Canada and the rest of the industrialized world! </span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;">Louisiana
Governor Bobby Jindal:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;">“It really
raises the question of what’s next, what’s allowable. Taxes on people who
refuse to eat tofu or refuse to drive a Chevy Volt…this whole ruling I think is
ridiculous. It’s a huge expansion of federal power.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;">Dr. Keith
Ablow, "America's Psychiatrist", on Fox's America Live:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;">"It
absolutely infantilizes Americans because listen, even adolescents or younger
kids – they dream of the day when they’re in charge of their own money. Why?
Because we know that money has that significance… To treat the American public
as though they are pre-adolescent slingshots them back that way psychologically
so that they say to themselves, ‘My decision-making capacity isn’t so good.’
…What it does is deposits us back as children, when economically more than ever
we need to be adult. You think that Occupy Wall Street looked like a spectacle?
Imagine tens of millions of adult children of Barack Obama deprived of their
direction, of their monies, right? 99 weeks of unemployment, lots of food
stamps, lots of bailouts… Guess what, when the piggy bank ain’t there, these
are the people who’ll take to the streets with rocks. Trust me."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;">Michael
Savage<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;">“I’m going
to tell you something that you’re not going to hear anywhere else, that you
must pay attention to,” Savage said. “It’s well known that Roberts,
unfortunately for him, has suffered from epileptic seizures. Therefore he has
been on medication. Therefore neurologists will tell you that medication used
for seizure disorders, such as epilepsy, can introduce mental slowing,
forgetfulness and other cognitive problems. And if you look at Roberts’
writings you can see the cognitive dissociation in what he is saying,”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;">Bryan
Fischer, American Family Association, in a Tweet:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;">"Constitution
is no longer the supreme law of the land - black robed tyrants are.
Constitution now just a piece of paper."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;">Rep.
Michele Bachmann:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #262626; font-family: Georgia;">“It’s a
terrible day for the American people. This was an
activist court that rewrote the law to make it even more ineffectual, and even
more expensive. So this is a sad day.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-10285506098791407622012-02-20T21:13:00.003-08:002012-02-20T21:21:53.130-08:00Snowmobiling in Leavenworth, WA<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWSIBPFaM5VtEwqNku6fqfA8dItFRhpGsCILhGERRE8dK_1yI4196LmBydX1iH9FKadFizhdeR1oVoviCPW2Tuj9orhdj6luhtWuCIesmbdePz29oON0EJMfpvUGDFBKdAQGn7wz7P7E4/s1600/DSC07263.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWSIBPFaM5VtEwqNku6fqfA8dItFRhpGsCILhGERRE8dK_1yI4196LmBydX1iH9FKadFizhdeR1oVoviCPW2Tuj9orhdj6luhtWuCIesmbdePz29oON0EJMfpvUGDFBKdAQGn7wz7P7E4/s320/DSC07263.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711454713040037938" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcKEJDz9rhg9FK_5BcSmVYDOk_kId0fD58gheBsivXOakTjjj9bSvHUVcB4nf3ZprGZWX_wEoxs0n6a8TSb5gl3i1Y0LQNn_Rdz3l0TENHBLv0M9w1U__so-hTfSFnzjQOsKI125eJXJc/s1600/DSC07256.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcKEJDz9rhg9FK_5BcSmVYDOk_kId0fD58gheBsivXOakTjjj9bSvHUVcB4nf3ZprGZWX_wEoxs0n6a8TSb5gl3i1Y0LQNn_Rdz3l0TENHBLv0M9w1U__so-hTfSFnzjQOsKI125eJXJc/s320/DSC07256.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5711454711756838818" /></a><br /><div>We spent Christmas 2011 in the Wenatchee/Leavenworth, WA area. The snowmobiling was great (for me) and the shopping great (for her). But now I can add snowmobiling to the list of things I'm glad I've done, and don't need to do again. Funny how shopping is not on that same list. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgIEtZbeHb1ArpLcXGJpj36iupjtUQou0TMWn87diM8xaHLkvP_I72RUdodhbo_e4zmuvqXH6wOR6UB_mOFNjZCCeGBtHcm41DJNQmWaCMKK0qImOgKzKFxuox_tEjaTnzvpXSXrkC8F4/s1600/DSC07263.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div></div>David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5865319225716585897.post-92028539980442338812011-11-13T20:19:00.000-08:002011-11-13T20:22:09.564-08:00Teresa Jean Waite<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOr7mVICIaViObzZ9S6F_WNQMVAo9KS5YVT4k4FRnk39wVvvMGfuRv3Zmp5033pW4HkCD2eKCINVBoRxT2ot7CcM2fQ2QFbICVOQRCczASVJWE6H4eNZZGECIBMGqmjvE8I69k0mNVBY/s1600/Teresa-2010.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdOr7mVICIaViObzZ9S6F_WNQMVAo9KS5YVT4k4FRnk39wVvvMGfuRv3Zmp5033pW4HkCD2eKCINVBoRxT2ot7CcM2fQ2QFbICVOQRCczASVJWE6H4eNZZGECIBMGqmjvE8I69k0mNVBY/s320/Teresa-2010.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5674701464276558994" /></a>You'd be 32. You were a fleeting hope, a dream, our first, and forever a memory.David Waitehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11219355786848928410noreply@blogger.com0