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To watch the video press II (pause) on the music then press > on the video. After video press > on the music to start it up again. VIDEO OF THE WEEK |
| "this 'n that" by Anne [Lammers] Vargas see below |
“Why don’t we clean the garage?” I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. In the 18 years we’ve lived in this house, I’d uttered those words at least a hundred times with no consequence; this was the first time my spouse had ever indicated any interest in wading in and weeding out. I stared at him in disbelief and said: “who are you and what have you done with my husband?” Fifty years of marriage to a confirmed “keeper” has resulted in my being an equally confirmed “tosser”, sometimes sneaking booty out of the house at the crack of dawn in search of a suitable dumping place in order to avoid discussions on the value of keeping this gizmo or that gadget “just in case” we ever need it. I often get it wrong; something that appeared to me to be long-buried, never used and therefore expendable would be just the item he would soon be searching for. It hadn’t been quite so serious prior to retirement because we frequently moved but putting down roots also meant amassing all manner of accumulated stuff. Now this stasher had suddenly decided we should get rid of the clutter and even suggested purchasing storage containers and labels for organization. Fearful he might wake up the next day denying the entire conversation, I immediately went shopping and returned home with four huge, heavy boxes containing cabinets the nice man at Home Depot assured me could quickly and easily be put together. When I pressed him for more definitive information (“what would you tell your mother?”), he said it would take him about 20 minutes but admitted it might take me “a little longer”. We started the project on a Monday, confident we’d allowed plenty of time to finish before houseguests arrived the following Sunday. The first step was to assemble the cabinets but attempts to get the first box out of the car brought the realization that it would need to be put together in the space it was going to occupy because it was too heavy to be easily moved. That space was full of everything we’d shoved in there for years so we pulled it all out onto the garage floor. May as well pull all the rest of it out, too; a major mess but it would result in order later. But now the garage floor was so full we had no space to work on the cabinets so everything was further shoved out onto the driveway. Passing cars started slowing down, perhaps wondering whether this was a garage sale, but after taking a closer look they promptly sped away. Step two: Open the box and read the directions which consisted of a lot of little diagrams and happy faces and arrows indicating how one piece was to match another and very few words. There was one sentence in very small print, however, stating that “an assistant might be helpful”. It would have been helpful if it had also indicated the need for an electric drill and screwdriver and a mallet hammer, all of which we owned but couldn’t find so a lot of time was spent in the search. There were also drawings of all the parts and pieces we were supposed to find, along with the number of each. One box contained two extra of one item, not enough of another. Five hours later the first cabinet was put together and shoved up to the wall. All that remained was to hang the doors which, we were to learn, is the most challenging part of the job requiring one of us to hold and balance a door while the other attempted to get the hinge gizmo to fit squarely into the hinge-holder gizmo, a process not recommended for bad backs. “An assistant might be helpful” indeed! Exhausted, yet proud of the mere appearance of progress, we decided cabinet number two could wait until tomorrow and we could reward ourselves with a glass of wine. Surely it would be easier the second time. The ensuring days were a nightmare. The cabinets were supposed to be identical but the parts were not and we realized too late that one set of directions had us placing things in an entirely different place from the other set of directions, resulting in an upside down panel. I was ready to drive back to the store and demand an explanation from the manufacturer but my husband told me we didn’t have time for tantrums; the hours were passing into days and we were a long way from anything remotely resembling order. Nor did we have time to call a divorce lawyer, which we both wanted to do by Thursday as we mutually wailed “this is YOUR fault!” At that point we were certain we would never finish. Our neighbors had been remarkably nice about the ongoing mess in the driveway; they probably hoped we were moving out and didn’t want to do anything to impede the process. Friday: cabinets in place and filled, doors are hung, a lot of things (amazingly) discarded by the guy still claiming he’s my husband, car moved in. Car moved back out, cabinet emptied and shoved to a new location to accommodate car and then re-filled midst cries of “didn’t you measure?” Saturday: We sit in our transformed garage, delighted to see everything in a specified place, congratulating each other on this remarkable accomplishment. Instead of barricading the door as we usually do, our guests will be free to peer in and admire; we’re ready for any kind of scrutiny. Sunday: The house guests arrive and stay for three days. No one goes into the garage to “oooh” and “aaah” or even notice but we went in on a frequent basis, gazing in pride at the tidiness. At last; the order I’d dreamed about. All of this was wonderful at first but now my spouse has taken his new-found fetish into the house and started to re-organize things there. Why doesn’t he learn to play golf like other husbands? I can’t find anything! Maybe there is such a thing as too much of a good thing, what if he starts tossing MY stuff? I don’t know who he is or where he’s been for 50 years but he’s a keeper; those dawn patrol dumping runs were becoming too challenging. Anne |
| this 'n that by Anne Vargas |
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Anne's stories have been a hit, so Anne, you keep sending them and I'll keep posting them. Thank you. Your articles really help make the website fun. |
For Stan, Nate and Jack |
| 2011 Last year in review by Dave Barry a columnist who has made me laugh for years. Thought you would enjoy this. |
| Blair, Stanley D. February 18, 1927 -- February 05, 2012 Stanley D. Blair Blair, Stanley D. 84 Feb. 18, 1927 Feb. 05, 2012. Stanley Deane Blair was born Feb. 18, 1927 to Paul and Evelyn Blair. He grew up in Portland, attended Jefferson High School until he was drafted at age 18. After his military service, Stan attended Lewis and Clark College where he played football, earned a BS in education and Masters Degrees in both school administration and counseling. He married Susan Blair Cook at Rose City Park Presbyterian Church in 1952. Stan's career included math teacher and football coach in Bend and Franklin High School in Portland, Vice-Principal at Roosevelt and Benson high schools, and Principal at Grant and Wilson high schools, all in Portland. He was an active member of Rose City Park Presbyterian Church for over 50 years, serving as a Deacon, an Elder and a Board of Trustees member. Stan was also a member of NE Lions and SW Rotary service organizations. Stan is survived by his wife, Susan; son, Deane Blair; daughters, Wendy Nevin and Dorothy Gerlach; eight grandchildren; and three great-grandchildren. A celebration of life will be held on Saturday, Feb. 25 at 1:30 p.m. at Rose City Park Presbyterian Church, Portland, OR. In lieu of flowers, contributions may be made to the Lewis and Clark Scholarship Fund "class of 1951" at: Lewis & Clark, 615 S.W. Palatine Hill Road, Portland, Oregon 97219 or The Salvation Army, 8495 SE Monterey Avenue, Happy Valley, OR 97086-7844. Published in The Oregonian on February 19, 2012 |
Hi Lanz Thanks for posting the obit of Stan Blair who was head coach when I played on the varsity in the fall of '54. I had just arrived from Texas and missed the first week of school (and practice) but Wes Hogland had me on the varsity before Coach Blair even knew it. The players (Fred Wade, Dave Kribs and the gang) called him "Stan". It pretty much blew me away. In Texas where football is up there next to BBQ and chicken fried steak, if a player had ever addressed his coach by his first name, he'd have run laps 'til his tongue reached the ground. I later played at Odessa High School under the great Hayden Fry (later the Univ of Iowa head coach). He comes to our class reunions and I still would never presume to address his as "Hayden" except behind his back. I am 72 yrs old and he is still "Coach Fry". Thought I'd share that tidbit with you. I really liked "Stan" and "Wes" and Mr. Davis (whose first name escapes me at the moment). I didn't get much playing time on the varsity but I did get to make the road trips. Hope all is well up your way. Best to you. Tex 02/19/12 |