Dear Solomon, Tomorrow a new decade begins...

Dear Solomon,

Tomorrow is the first day of a new decade. The 2010's could be the BEST decade of my life. The 2000's were very challenging. There were some exciting and adventurous times, but there was also a lot of painful stretching and growth that came after failure and discouragement.

In the 2000's I thought a lot about BIG ideas: faith, intuition, spiritual communication, power, reality, truth, deception, energy, etc... Recently, my focus has shifted to more practical little things. Whenever I read one of your blog entries, I'm struck by the wisdom you pack into just a few sentences. I had a radical thought, "If I actually applied the insight I find in your writings, my life would be very different."

There are 51 chapters attributed to you. Each could be viewed as a blog post - enough material for almost a year - leaving me one week to summarize and process my experience a year from now. I'll tackle a chapter a week and determine which parts of it I can apply to my life. Finally, I'll write and keep you posted about my progress.

I'm looking forward to learning from you this year.

Sincerely,

-bw-

Merrily, Merrily, Merrily, Merrily...

Recently, Paul and I learned about a moonlight / sunset paddle offered through CSU, Chico’s aquatic center. The program included kayak rental and a guided tour of the Lake Oroville Forebay. For some reason, this resonated within our hearts. We were eager to enjoy the experience and recruited two other couples to join us.

The excursion did not disappoint us. The weather was perfect and the kayaks were easy to maneuver. We enjoyed the sunset and an up-close view of a beaver lodge. We slipped along merrily singing, laughing, chatting, and having a wonderful time. We were soaked when we finished and our arms ached slightly from the 2 ½ miles of paddling. The trip was so wonderful that it sparked an intense desire in our hearts to own a canoe and make paddling around a regular event.

Paul and I both share the same romantic notions about canoe trips. We can envision ourselves putting in somewhere in the mountains and paddling noiselessly through glassy waters surrounded by tall pines under puffy white clouds amid a clear blue sky. Somewhere along the shoreline a pristine beach would beckon us ashore where we might spy on a family of beavers or watch eagles soar overhead. In such a setting we would be compelled to overlook our petty squabbles and idiosyncrasies and be swept up in a romantic reverie. Ah, the canoe, it appeared the ideal vehicle for marital bliss.

Fueled by such notions we decided to buy a canoe. Craigslist was consulted and we identified several potential craft by the following afternoon. A 1976 Sears Model # 61032 captured our attention. It was advertised as seating three and having a capacity of 425 lbs. Constructed of fiberglass, this canoe weighed 55 # dry. We called the seller and he agreed to show us the canoe the following day.

The drive to the seller’s location was filled with plans for our summer canoe excursions. We thrilled with the anticipation of discovering nearby lakes, boat-in camping, and having adventures together. Occasionally, a snippet of reason crept into the conversation.

“Maybe he’ll have a pond and we can try it out?”

Any such moment of lucidity was swept away with the next round of “Then we could go to …” Caught up in excitement, we lost all uncertainty and were ready to hurl wads of cash at the seller the minute he appeared in his driveway. We tumbled out of the truck, glanced at the canoe, and asked the seller if he knew how to strap it to the top of our vehicle. He produced a handy set of foam blocks and proceeded to school us in the art of canoe hoisting and securing. We shook hands and counted out the cash, while wriggling with excitement to begin the paddling stage of our lives.
The seller tried to slip in a word of advice as we bounded into our seats.

“Take it slow and careful, y’know – no sudden moves.”

“Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. We’ll take it nice and slow. We’re very cautious.” We reassured him as the gravel flew from under our wheels and we sped off to purchase paddles and outfit our rig.

The ride home was filled with more of the same magic. We vowed to launch our canoe on Ellis Lake, the jewel of Marysville, that very evening. In the same conversation we planned and discussed our next three outings. So far, being a boat owner was one of the best things that ever happened to us.

Ellis Lake is the centerpiece of Marysville. One might instantly think of the many recreation opportunities available at this sparkling man-made lagoon surrounded by lush greenery, flocks of geese, and a variety of other birds. One might have memories of paddle boat rentals, the annual catfish derby, the Fourth of July fireworks shows, or watching mini jet boat races. One might think of the lighted fountain that runs every night filling the sky with color and beauty.

But Ellis Lake’s appearance waxes and wanes with the Marysville’s park maintenance budget. When we moved to Marysville in 1989, the lake was in terrible shape. It had been taken over by a strange weed and efforts to eradicate it included lowering the water level and scrubbing the concrete shoreline. Several summers have passed without paddle boat rentals and an overabundance of fowl leave slippery deposits all along the concrete pathways. Several years ago a tragic rocket accident caused the cancellation of the annual fireworks display.

As we hauled our craft to launch it on its maiden voyage, our enthusiasm for canoeing caused us to repress the involuntary shudder that accompanies any serious contemplation of the muddy waters of Ellis Lake. Despite its rich and varied history, most residents of our area associate Ellis Lake with just one thing – the discovery that was made there on October 20, 2002. On that date a car and intact skeleton were found in just 7 feet of murky water. A crowd gathered to watch the vehicle as it was pulled from the water. A strange blend of horror and fascination accompanied each detail of the investigation – especially the revelation that the car had rested there for more than twenty years. A missing person case was resolved, and I along with thousands of other area residents rejoiced in the knowledge that we had never consumed anything caught at Ellis Lake.

Yet, there we were sliding our canoe off the truck and into the waters alongside steps cut into the concrete shoreline. I took my place in the bow and Paul gently lowered himself into his position in the stern. The canoe rapidly rocked back and forth snapping us to attention. Our reverie began to drain.

“It’s wobbly,” I noted.

“Really tippy,” Paul agreed.

Try as we may, the wobbling continued. My heart raced and my knees began to shake. This increased the wobbling. I took deep breaths and steadied myself. Gradually, we felt confident enough to dip our paddles into the water and we began to move. We glided along staying close to shore. If I stayed really still it barely wobbled.

“It’s more stable than it feels.” Paul reassured me “Just because it’s wobbling, it doesn’t mean it’s going to tip.”

My confidence grew a tiny bit. We passed under the footbridges and neared the Gold Sox Stadium. Children waved at us and I was pretty sure a young couple looked wistfully at us enjoying our romantic evening. As we rounded the picnic island at the north end of the lake a dreadful premonition settled upon me. I imagined that someone we knew might recognize us from the shore and call out to us. What if, in responding to them, I made a quick move and we capsized. I shared this concern with Paul and together we dismissed it, laughing it off. We were really getting the hang of it now. We began to discuss our next outing.

Without any warning, the boat overturned. My dream of never experiencing the depths of Ellis Lake was instantly wrecked. I sputtered and bobbed to the surface, spitting out water, gasping, and treading water violently. Together we pulled the canoe towards the shore where we once again saw the young couple their eyes reflecting more terror than romanticism. My feet found the bottom of the lake, and my hand grasped at a slimy cobblestone. The young man offered his hand to steady me and helped us right our canoe. Being far from the truck, we reluctantly climbed in and resumed our voyage.

We quickly applied a new strategy. I would sit perfectly still while Paul paddled. The only problem was that my entire body was now shivering violently. I forced myself to sit as still as possible to minimize the wobbling. We hugged the shoreline but occasionally veered into open water to make better time. In the open water, time stood still as I replayed the incident over and over again and constantly calculated the shortest route to shore. The capsize had completely surprised us. The only “sudden move” could have been an extra deep breath. We had rushed into buying a tippy canoe.

We made it home where I showered and shot off an email to the Craigslist seller. He agreed to refund our money. We strapped it on today and concluded our 2 days of being boat owners. Our enthusiasm has been dampened, but we still plan on buying a canoe – or maybe a kayak. We’ll be sure to test drive it first though – but maybe not at Ellis Lake.

A Tarantula Tale

[Disclaimer: This story includes a dramatic re-enactment and is told strictly from MY point of view. Other eyewitnesses and participants may have differing viewpoints.}

Sunday my husband and I were able to get away for the day with friends. We went to Sunset Magazine's headquarters in Menlo Park for their celebration weekend. It was beautiful and we both enjoyed exploring more about our interests (mine - cooking and veggie gardening, his - travel and ornamental gardening). We left our daughters at home to take care of the house and animals.

Right about the time that the birds are fed in the afternoon, my cell phone rang. I answered it to find BOTH of my daughters on the phone crying and squealing hysterically. I calmed them down enough to hear them inform me that there was a baby tarantula in the loft. Apparently, when they went out to begin their loft duties, the aforementioned arachnid startled them - causing a hasty exit and panicked phone call.

I doubted whether it was a tarantula because they aren't found in our area. However, my girls insisted it was HUGE, hairy, and DEFINITELY a tarantula. They were very upset and begged me to send someone over to rid them of this situation. We were en route to home, but were still a couple of hours away. Additionally, we were spending the day with two couples that happen to be amongst our closest friends. In other words, we couldn't call either couple to ask them to help the girls out. I gave the girls permission to shirk their duties for a couple of hours until we returned. I told them I was quite sure that it wasn't a tarantula, but they could look on the internet if they wanted to see one. This instruction was a mistake.

The internet is a wondrous tool that can take one to faraway lands where information of all types may be accessed. It's a blessing... and a curse - especially when accessed by 14 and 16 year old paranoid arachnophoibics.

An hour later I received another alarming call. "Mom!" daughter #1 exclaimed, "there are tons of baby tarantulas"

"AND they eat baby pigeons," daughter #2 added.

My heart began to pound and I was briefly sucked into their whirlwind of hysteria. I took a deep breath and regained my senses. "How many tarantulas?" I inquired.

"Seven hundred," they replied in unison.

"Seven hundred tarantulas! There are SEVEN HUNDRED TARANTULAS in the LOFT!" My anxiety and disbelief rose together. All the other conversations in our merry vehicle ceased and everyone politely eavesdropped on the conversation.

"Well, we haven't seen all of them yet," one daughter offered.

"How many have you seen?" I asked.

"Just the one, but the internet said that they have seven hundred babies at a time. So 699 must be under the loft. They live in burrows."

My relief was mixed with annoyance at this revelation. I began an new line of questioning. "Okay, let me get this straight. You've seen one spider. You're convinced it's a tarantula. You haven't seen any adult tarantulas. Is the spider near the babies?"

"No, it's in the center section of the loft behind the file cabinet."

"Just leave everything alone until we get home."

"But what if it eats the babies? We saw them eating babies on YouTube," daughter #2 sobbed.

"There are videos of tarantulas eating baby pigeons on YouTube?" I reeled slightly from the mental picture and the shock. "Don't watch that garbage. Did you watch it?"

"We couldn't watch the entire clip. It was too gross. But there were tons of tarantulas in it, and..."

"If you see any more," I interrruped, "then call me back. Otherwise, just stay inside, I'll be home soon. Besides, how much could one spider eat?"

"There are 700."

I'll have to admit that I returned anticipating at least one big hairy spider and was already brainstorming extermination strategies which included pants, long sleeves, gloves, and possibly a ski mask. However, when I finally made it home the culprit was nowhere to be found. I couldn't even locate the single baby tarantula - much less the hoarde of pigeon marauding arachnids marching through teenish imaginations fueled by Google, YouTube, and Wikipedia.

Mowing the Lawn

I never was one for yard work or gardening. I grew up viewing outside chores as a man’s work. My Dad always kept the lawn looking neat. If he didn’t mow it himself, then one of my brothers did. I can’t picture my mother or one of my sisters using a lawn mower. Dad was highly skilled in outdoor maintenance. My memory is bursting with images of Dad weeding, trimming, and gardening. Dad’s garden was expansive yielding a bountiful harvest to eat and give away every summer.

A couple of times the gardening bug has bit me. I’ve been swept away with the idea of fresh home grown vegetables and fruits gracing my table. In a flurry I would till up some ground, hoe, fertilize, and plant rows of bush beans, mounds of cantaloupe and squash, and containers of tomatoes. Usually the gardening bug has lasted slightly longer than a common cold. I would become impatient for the harvest, tired of the maintenance, and my garden would die a slow death with the weeds choking the life out of the crops.

So what am I doing out in the back yard this morning? As I survey the calf-high grass I recall Dad’s tradition of not mowing for a couple weeks before Easter. His lawn had to be high enough to hide eggs. I’m sure it annoyed him to let it go for those few weeks. Almost as soon as the hunt was over, the lawn was mowed again. As I examine the clumps of high grass and weeds I spy some impressive hiding places. Maybe I should have an Easter egg hunt? I ditch this idea because we’re going out of town for Easter.

I sigh. Putting this off isn’t the answer. The lawn really needs mowing and I’m the one who’s available to do it. Yuck. I begin to pick up the back yard. There are palm fronds, tools, chairs, a hose and an extension cord lying about. All of these are potential hazards for the power mower.

I open the shed and wrest the lawn mower from its winter quarters. I position it and tug the cord. Nothing. I give it another couple hearty pulls without getting any response. I know I’m forgetting something. I stop and perform a thorough visual inspection and discover a red button. Something primal tells me to pump it a few times. I tug the rope and the mower roars to life.

I push the sputtering and chugging machine through the tall grass. I have to tilt it on its back wheels to reach the highest patches. My arms are aching and my legs are straining to run it back and forth over the weediest spots. I push, pull, and maneuver the apparatus until it stops catching the clippings. I pause long enough to empty the bag, reattach it, and begin again. The mower stalls out. I’ve run out of gas and have to decode the gas can instructions so I can refill the tank.

It never used to be this way. Lawn maintenance was one area where Paul always scored an A++. For years he mowed the lawn regularly without me reminding, asking, or maybe even noticing. He never complained about it or put it off. He even mowed the rental house lawn in between tenants. Mowing this morning stirs a conviction that I didn’t appreciate his efforts enough.

I’m not enjoying this. I decide to look on the bright side and think about the positive aspects. I’m quite sure that lawn mowing qualifies as a workout. My First Place for Health program equates 19 minutes of gardening to 1 mile of walking. Another website claims that one hour of pushing a power mower burns 374 calories. As I push the mower I think about the healthy benefits I’m getting while making my yard look better at the same time.

Mowing the lawn also gives me a chance to enjoy memories of Dad and be thankful for the example he was to me. I am also grateful for my husband’s strong yard work ethic. Straining against the mower makes me admire his strength and consistency in performing yard work.

In spite of being thankful for all those things, I can’t help but note that I’m the one mowing the yard today. Now that I think of it, I’m mowing more often. Paul started off strong in the yard work department, but somewhere along the road he started slipping. Maybe it’s due to poor time management. Between his full time job and his four part-time jobs, time is always getting away from him. Maybe it’s that 50-and-over softball league he joined this year. Those Tuesday night games are taking away time that he could be spending on chores.

I sigh again and resign myself to the fact that mowing the lawn has become a woman’s work in my home. It’s hard to swallow, but who can argue with the facts? It’s happening repeatedly. It happened in April, 2008, and now it’s happened again in April, 2009. That’s TWICE… in twenty-four years.

I put away the lawn mower and smile.

Pigeons' Progress

I began my journey in this world – a humdrum existence filled with busy-ness of technical writing, church, huswifery, and homeschooling. It is completely acceptable to consider whether I should categorize any of these activities as “humdrum,” and indeed, they are not. Yet – my life lacked an outlet. I had no memory, even in childhood, of becoming deeply attached to a hobby or pastime that brought fulfillment, relaxation, and enjoyment to my soul and spirit.

Many diversions had been attempted in this world. Reading was chief amongst these pursuits. But reading was a necessity in my business transactions and my eyes and mind tired of it. Bowling was another pleasure in which I had partaken. Especially dear to me were memories of bowling on a team with my father and sister – the renowned Pinheads of Poway Bowl. Those days were long behind me and I did not hope to discover any Pinheads in my current locale. I had, of late, begun to ski in earnest. Yet, my skill on the slopes was lacking and the seasonal aspects of the sport made for limited improvement and enjoyment each year. For a time, I attempted artistic endeavors and strove to master the fundamentals of drawing. This required great amounts of concentration and was more of a strain than a pleasure.

One day a sign appeared on my front porch. A pair of pigeons had nested there and I sought to observe their nesting habits. The young fledglings were pushed out of their abode before they were able to fly and I was compelled to rescue them from the claws of death and attempt to save their very lives. In this pursuit, I was exposed to many wonders found in that sacred voluminous expanse aptly dubbed “Internet.” I was drawn into the web and there I found expositions of pigeon racing, showing birds, and the intricacies of differentiation between various expressions of the species Columbidae.

My heart thrilled to this newfound pleasure, my breathing deepened, and tension fled from my shoulders and neck. It would not be fain to imagine that my blood pressure dipped as I clicked from site to site observing the dove in flight, doves on landing boards, as well as the dove in display cages. The paraphernalia of those entrusted to the care of these magnificent creatures fascinated me. I learned of crates, box perches, feeders, watering systems, baskets, feed bins, grit, nest bowls, and many other wonders too marvelous to list. A plan began to hatch in my subconscious that involved a white dove release business of my own.

And yet, how absurd this would appear to many of my associates! I had virtually no background with birds, except for units of time spent on the opposite side of a pair of binoculars from various species. I never owned a feathered creature, never held one, and had very little in terms of knowledge about their care and well being. Yet, I envisioned fluttering and soaring at weddings and gravesides and thrilled at the idea of venturing into a dove release business. My husband placed great faith in my inspired state of being and humored me. I also sought heavenly assistance and was alert to the appearance of signs each step of the way. I thus observed many notable indicators everywhere I looked. Dove chocolates left on my chair at a conference and packaged atop aisle four in Wal Mart were both ominous. Dove adorned bodywash, soap, and deodorant contained hidden meanings. Allusions to doves leapt off the page in my Bible. I was alert to every reference and innuendo, and each confirmed my heart’s desire.

The travails and comedy of moving a purchased loft, examining zoning ordinances, training young birds, and being trained by my birds are chronicled elsewhere in this blog. Throughout these experiences I have learned valuable lessons in faith, persistence, and common sense. These pale in comparison to the lessons I have learned about patience, observation, and personal enjoyment. At one point, I foolishly believed that my phone would be ringing off the hook with pleas for my services. As I continued deeper and deeper into this foray it became obvious that this would be more of a slow-growth enterprise. Weddings have been booked and I anticipate the frequency will increase. As I look forward to this bridal season, I am excited to share with all some of the peace and well-being that my observing my flock so regularly grants to me.

A lack of business has not saddened me as my desire to use the birds to make money has been replaced with the awareness that my quest for a hobby had been realized. And so, after beginning my journey in a hum-drum existence I have now reached the celestial city of Columbidae devotees. I awaken each day to cooing and find myself regularly observing and being observed by the curious eyes and bobbing heads of an entire flock of newfound friends.

The Bridal Fair

When I was eight I hated weddings. As a fifth child with a large extended family I was destined to attend countless nuptial celebrations for a throng of cousins and family friends. A wedding meant I had to wear a dress and sit still. B – O – R – I – N – G! I didn’t care one iota about the dresses, the music, or the candles. Nothing impressed me except the Jordan almonds. I would cry and beg to stay home.

When I was 15 our family had three weddings between April and September. By this time I saw weddings as a necessary evil – something that the couple had to go through for their family’s sake. I got engaged just four years later and was determined to be the easiest bride ever.

I was probably the most disinterested bride ever and I’ll bet it drove my mom crazy. I handed the wedding over to her and my three sisters. I wanted veto power – that’s all. Involving me was like pushing a string across a table. I didn’t care about any of the wedding elements. I kept nixing every suggestion because I found them all boring and a waste of time. None of the traditions meant anything to me. Candles, communion, songs, colors, dresses, flowers – I didn’t care.

My Dad walked me down the aisle and Paul met me at the front. My brother and sister sang – I know this because there’s a picture in my album. I have no idea which song. We had two ministers perform the wedding together – the one we wanted and the one we didn’t want to offend. We had three attendants each. I’m glad I included my older sister because she’s the only one I ever see now. A few weeks after the wedding the audio tape of the ceremony was stolen when our car was broken into. Aside from the photos, I remember nothing.

No one was more surprised than me when I got involved in the wedding service business. I must have discovered that doves are the one thing that can liven up a wedding and make it exciting. I made the rounds to wedding vendors and learned that the bridal show at the fairgrounds is a “must attend” event for wedding vendors. I booked at 10’ x 10’ booth and prayed for ideas.

The two weeks before the show was crunch time! I paid a graphic artist to design a professional looking logo and banner. I put together a website. I created and printed a price list and business cards. I bought silk flowers and had Emily arrange them on my baskets and birdcage. I put together a gift basket for the drawing – Dove body wash, Dove soap, Dove chocolate and a $75 coupon good toward my release services.

My ideas came from an online white dove release forum that I recently joined. Several members described their wedding show experiences and displays. While I didn’t aspire to recreate some of their presentations, I could take some pictures, show a video, and display equipment and birds. I began preparation in earnest.

My brain buzzed me with an idea. I should show a video of a dove release. My problem was I had only released doves at one wedding, and while it was beautiful, I didn’t have any video footage. Another brain buzz, Maybe I could BUY a video of someone releasing doves at a wedding and show it at my booth. I searched the web and found an awesome video from an established vendor in another California city.

I emailed the vendor asking to BUY her video so I could show a typical release to my clientele. Apparently, I violated wedding vendor protocol here. My esteemed colleague declined and proceeded to school me in ethics. Showing HER video at my booth could be construed as falsely equating my services with hers and misleading the show attendees that I had her level of experience and access to her years of accumulated trade secrets. Now I was at square one again – though wiser for the experience.

I mused over the fact that I was technologically proficient enough to steal her video, deface it of proprietary markings, and show it in a venue far enough away from her that she would probably never know anything about it. The fact that I emailed her with a request should have clued her in that I had no intention of stealing or misrepresenting anything.

The forum I joined included some helpful suggestions for a slideshow containing photos of my birds and my equipment. We went over to Ellis Lake and took pictures - lousy pictures, blurry pictures with a wing here and a wing there, timing-is-off pictures, photos that I couldn’t picture using in my booth. In my most desperate moment I discovered Fotolia. I could purchase beautiful professional images online! I bought a dozen plus quality images to use in the slideshow and on my website. I hooked my laptop up to a monitor and was ready for business. I had beautiful pictures of brides and grooms releasing birds. I had pictures of doves in flight, doves in baskets, and doves sitting and looking beautiful.

I bought a lovely wrought iron cage to display a pair of doves. Next, I bought two pair of ringneck doves. These are cage birds – smaller weaklings compared to the homing pigeons that I actually release at weddings. However, a pair of ringneck doves is perfect for a bridal show. They coo, preen, and act “lovey dovey” towards each other. They have a reputation for being pretty.

The day of the show arrived and my display doves still had little ink dots on the tops of their heads where the breeder marked them as male or female. They were molting severely - shedding tiny downy baby feathers. They had bald spots under their wings. In my haste I placed a non-pair together in the cage. The two I threw in together weren’t even on speaking terms. The male appeared especially unhappy and sat hunched with his feathers ruffed. Who could blame him? He was spending his Sunday afternoon at a bridal show with his sister-in-law!

Before the show began I visited and met vendors. There were two sisters who made and decorated cakes with a delicious booth and beautiful cakes on display. One of them stopped by my booth and remarked that they were in my exact location last year. When I stopped by their booth the other sister commented that they were stuck in a terrible location last year. Hmmmm.

I met managers of venues, providers of services, and sellers of goods. I offered referral kickbacks. I offered a photographer a free release for a bride if we could do a photo shoot of my birds and offered to link to display these pics on my website and link to hers. I was beginning to get the knack of trading favors and cutting insider bridal industry deals. I practiced gushing over photos, gowns, and cakes.

It was almost showtime. The registration table gave each bride a shiny red heart sticker the size of a dime. This is how we were to recognize our target. As women paraded through the aisles, I began hawking my services. “Come see my birds,” I would call out. I would get a few folks gathered in front of my booth and then launch into a vita-juicer style presentation. The attendees gazed at my ringneck doves. “Aren’t they beautiful?” I lied. I could tell that the men in attendance felt a strange bond with the male bird. They had the same vacant expression in their eyes.

“Let me tell you about my birds,” I would begin. I would describe doves bursting from a basket as the bride and groom kiss, doves flocking together, doves swooping and diving, doves circling the wedding party, and an entire flock soaring into the bright blue open heavens. For a visual effect, I would throw open the release basket at just the right moment. My vocabulary was wrought with “living fireworks,” “unique,” “meaningful,” “memorable,” “affordable,” and “indelible impression.”

Kids were drawn to my booth. I gave a convincing homily about how hand dove releases can be used to include children in the ceremony and set the stage for harmony in a blended family. I offered Dove chocolates to the mothers of the brides and admired them for their many sacrifices throughout the long and arduous process of planning a wedding.

I asked every shiny red heart sticker wearer, “When are you getting married?” and gushed at their location, colors, and other ideas. I assured the wary that my birds skipped breakfast the morning of the release and therefore, wouldn’t poop on their party. I teased grooms that it wasn’t acceptable to bring a shotgun or yell “pull.” I used every appeal I could think of get the word out about my services.

We booked two weddings and talked to lots of people, who will talk with other people about what we do. I even caught some of the excitement surrounding weddings. It’s a good thing because this year I plan on attending several. Watching my birds take off, flock up, and circle is one of my favorite pleasures in life and I’m excited to share it!

Customer Service Anxiety

As I grow older I’ve noticed that my crabby index is climbing. Grouchiness is beginning to manifest regularly especially in big box stores, fast food restaurants, and whenever I have to make a phone call to a customer service center. I’ve embraced an old fashioned idea that I should receive adequate customer service in return for investing dollars into these enterprises. When I have a question, I would like an answer. When a product is defective, I would like a replacement. When there is a problem, I want to be treated fairly and respectfully. It’s a big order in America today.

Most of the time, the customer service issues are small. In the meat department I discover that instead of being marked down, the meat with the “Today’s Special” and “Reduced for Quick Sale” tags are actually marked up. I spy an employee working in the frozen section nearby. “Excuse me,” I cheerfully interrupt her task, “This meat is supposed to be marked DOWN, but it’s marked UP instead.” She stares at me as if I’m speaking another language. “You see,” I continue to explain, “When the meat hasn’t sold by the ‘sell by’ date, they mark it down – only these packages were marked up instead.”

She stares. I’m not sure if she speaks English – or if I do. “I don’t know how to do that. You’ll have to find someone who marks the meat to help you.” They usually work around here.” Inside I’m starting to get a bit irritated. I try to think of ways to woo her and convince her to help me. “Maybe you could get someone to help me?”

She stares as if she’s pondering the connotations of “maybe.” She sighs. She examines the label. A tiny voice whispers “seek understanding,” and “think more highly of others” while a louder voice screams, “This is ridiculous!” I snap.

“Listen, I don’t work here. I know I could go look for someone, but YOU do work here and you can go in the back and use the intercom and you have access to all sorts of secret passages that I am banned from. So, I’m begging you, would you PLEASE find someone who can help me?”

She sighs, and sulks away without acknowledging whether she is going to accommodate me. I stare at the meat counter and expect to see a diminutive grey haired grandma staring back. I’m not that far from hollering “Where’s the beef?”

Even more frustrating is the customer service phone call. Sometimes this can’t be avoided. When we switched to a new television, internet, and long distance provider we found that our internet browser was downloading pages and videos at amazing speeds, we could make as many long distance calls as our hearts desired, and we could record four shows at once!

I guess we were so busy enjoying the faster internet and recording and watching television shows that we didn’t notice how strangely quiet our phones were. Calls received were probably cut in half. I started to get a clue when I got messages like these rang through on my cell phone.

“Beth, this is Mom. I tried to call you on your home phone but it wasn’t working. Call me back.”

“Hi Beth. It’s Noah. I was supposed to have a phone meeting with you today at 9:00, but your phone isn’t working. Call me, okay?”

“Hey Beth. It’s Greg. Do I have your correct home number? I was just returning your call about next season’s ski trips. Call me.”

“Hi Beth. It’s Samantha. Can you still watch Landon tomorrow? I’ll be there at 6:30. Hope you get this message.”

Of course, I habitually turn off my cell phone when I’m at home so I waited forever for Noah’s phone call meeting, waited for Greg to return my call, and woke up in a start at Sugar’s 6:30 a.m. barking as Landon and Samantha waited on the porch.

I could hardly stand the thought of calling customer service, plus I was enjoying the peace and quiet. I put off the call for a long time. Finally, Mom convinced me to deal with it. By now I had collected information – approximately a half-dozen names and numbers that couldn’t reach my home along with a transcription of recording that the callers heard when they tried to reach me.

Armed with the evidence, I prepared for the phone call. I had snacks, a drink, some paperwork, something to read, and most importantly, a cordless phone AND a speaker phone. I dialed on the speaker phone while sitting at the computer with some busy work. I managed to press the right combination to get through the first layer of voicemail and for a second I believed that I was preparing to talk to a customer service representative.

“Okay, you said customer service. Would you please state your problem in a few words?”

“People can’t call me.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you. Can you state your problem in a few words? For example, you might say, ‘technical issue.”

“Some people get an error message when they call me. It works fine for other people.”

“Did you say, ‘error message?’ Is this error message on your television?

“No.”

“Can you state your problem in a few words? For example you might say ‘service call.”

“Service call.”

“Please say or enter your eight digit service call routing number. If you do not have a service call reference number please press five for our troubleshooting menu.” (I press 5) “Can you state your problem in a few words? For example, you might say “account balance.”

I decide that the only way to handle this is to get a live person on the line. My new strategy is to be completely unintelligible.

“Grilled Cheese?” I venture.

“Did you say ‘fees?”

“No! Scooby Doo?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand you. Can you repeat your problem?”

I’ve found the escape phrase. “Scooby Doo! Scooby Doo!” My voice is breaking with glee.

“I’m sorry. I’ll have to transfer you to customer service. Just hold on a second.”

Finally, I’m going to get a real person on the line. By now, I’ve finished all of my busy work at the speaker phone so I transfer to the cordless and finish the call in the kitchen. A very foreign nice lady answers and introduces herself. She takes my phone number in the event that we are disconnected. I’m encouraged and hopeful.

I explain my problem. She asks me to turn the router on and off. I comply. She runs a test on the line. I wait patiently. She tells me that she’s going to reset something and that should fix it. I’m on the verge of a breakthrough. I can feel it in the air. The line goes quiet. The battery has died on my cordless phone. I rush to another extension, but it’s too late. However, I’m hopeful that the reset has worked. A day or two goes by and I start hearing the familiar story and I’m still not getting many phone calls.

I’ve just invested an hour and a half on the phone and it takes me a couple of days to work up the courage to make another call. This time it’s “Scooby Doo” from the get go. I get a customer service representative. I explain my problem, my recent call that didn’t work, and my problem is “escalated” to the next level.

The next level is somewhere in India. A very nice gentleman takes all of my information again and resets something else. I’m not risking the cordless at this point – I can tell that he thinks the phone call is over and I want more.

“What if this doesn’t work?” I ask. “The first gal I spoke to thought she had fixed it too.”

“Will you please monitor the situation for the next seven days and keep a log of when the problem occurs?”

“Umm, I’m not quite sure how to do that.” I need to get past him to the next level or I can’t be sure my phone is fixed.

“You just write down the calls that you get and the ones that you don’t get.”

“How am I supposed to write down the calls I don’t get?”

“I see.” Silence. I’ve driven the poor fellow off his script. “Would you please monitor the situation for THREE days and keep a log of when the problem occurs?”

“How will I know if someone is trying to call me when they get a recording and my phone doesn’t ring?”

“Can you monitor it for ONE day?”

I get an idea. I dial my mom on my cell. “Hurry Mom, call my home phone number. I’m on the phone with someone who thinks it’s fixed and I want to be sure.”

“Would you hang on a second? I’m calling my mom and she’ll try to call me. Then I’ll know if it works.

“Okay, I’m holding.”

Mom tries to call and gets the usual recording. I relay the news to customer service central.

“Okay, well, I will have to escalate you to the next level. Will you hold while I prepare the transfer?”

I’ve invested another hour. I’m not letting go now.

“Ma’am. I’m going to have to get another department to call you.”

“What if they don’t call?

“I can give you a reference number to use to connect with them when you call back.”

“I’m not calling back. Your voicemail system might push me over the edge.”

“Let me give you their direct number. If you don’t hear from them within a couple of hours you can call it and use this reference number.”

I concede. I’m exhausted and we’ve fought to a draw. I can’t make any further progress. I’m grateful he isn’t trying to sell me phone insurance or some other service.

“Is there any other way I can provide you with excellent service today?”

I bite my tongue and choke out a “No thank you.”

Within an hour a technician calls me back. He doesn’t sound foreign. He writes down all of the phone numbers that I know that can’t reach my home. He sounds sincere. Another hour passes. He calls back with a report. It’s fixed! I make him hold while I call my mom and she verifies that it is indeed fixed.

Is it any wonder I shy away from calling customer service?

Last summer we spent a lot of time remodeling the backyard. We installed a beautiful patio, a lovely pond, and some large, unsightly pigeon dwellings – hidden behind lush foliage. While sweating in 100°+ temperatures and struggling to complete these tasks I was driven by the image of us hosting fabulous backyard gatherings that included delicious BBQ’d burgers, dogs, steaks, kielbasa, chicken, etc…

When we first got married we had a shiny new Weber. Twenty-three years, four kids, an apartment, two duplexes, and a starter house later our backyard sported two disabled Webers. Both were missing their legs, neither had a lid that fit well, and they were perched precariously on a bed of rocks in a raised planters between two shrubs. I hunched over them every summer too cheap to buy a replacement when I had two that sort of worked.

On my last birthday I threw myself a burger party. I looked up fancy hamburger recipes, went all out on toppings and mixin’s, and fired up the Webers. They were way past their last legs – I guess you could say they were on their last stumps. The tiny leg receptacles gave out and they disintegrated right before my eyes. I knew then that I would need to buy another BBQ.

Off to Walmart I go, and despite the lure of several fancy, shiny, stainless steel, propane units I settle on a very basic charcoal model with a low price tag. I love assembling – so I head straight home excited to have a project. Most of the assembly goes well, until I get to the final step. I can’t get the rack to fit in the lid. I push, pry, and consult the diagram numerous times. Finally, I take a break and look at it again. Aha! The lid has its holes drilled in the wrong locations. It’s backwards.

I flip through the manual looking for a phone number. The front cover warns – DO NOT RETURN THIS PRODUCT TO THE STORE WHERE IT WAS PURCHASED. CALL OUR CUSTOMER SERVICE CENTER. I jot down some notes, rehearse my story, and dial. The message says the offices are already closed. Bummer. I consider my options. It’s Friday. I wanted to BBQ. The defective product is 90% assembled. Plus, I don’t actually believe in CUSTOMER SERVICE CENTERS.

I drill some holes in the lid, make it work, and decide I can live with it. The lid happens to open backwards but I can actually stand upright when I cook. I have to walk around to the front of the unit to raise or lower the coals. The finish is a bit rough where I drilled the extra holes, but I don’t have to navigate a voicemail system. It’s perfect!