A Belated Valentine

A few years ago a young couple were about to have their first baby.  They had been married three years and were really looking forward to the birth of their first child.  When the woman went to the hospital, after she had started labor, things started to go downhill.

The woman was having a lot of trouble during her labor.  The doctor became very worried and told the father and mother that the couple faced a difficult choice.  He could take the baby out of the mother in parts and pieces, thus saving the mother’s life or take a chance on letting the baby be born and perhaps lose both the mother and baby.  The couple belonged to a church that did not believe in the taking of an innocent life.  They had no choice but to let nature take its course and hope that God would be merciful to both the mother and baby.

God was merciful.  Both the mother and baby survived.  The baby became a beautiful young lady and I was fortunate enough to meet her.  A year later she agreed to be my wife.  On April 22^ND 2011 we will have been married for fifty years.  Let’s just call this a belated Valentine. 

 I love you very much Connie.

I think of her parents faith and courage almost every day.

Dal       

 ( This was a letter to the Editor of the Naples Daily News that they did publish)

A Day At St. Vincents sales store

A DAY AT ST. VINCENT DE PAUL “GOODWILL” SHOP

Connie decided that since she plays bingo, tosses horse shoes, has a domino party, goes to stage performances and plays golf and bowls, that I needed something to do in MY “spare time”.  She volunteered my time to work at St. Vincent De Paul’s clothing warehouse...  When I entered the place, I was given a short orientation and found that the guy that founded the place died at age 40 and left many children, not much else.  The chief Honcho was a fellow named Pablo.  Pablo did not speak English, had hands the size of small hams, outweighed me by fifty pounds and was about 6’6” tall.  I decided not to use my Spanish on him mainly because my Spanish consists of dirty words I learned while stationed at Ft. Bliss in El Paso.   Wise move on my part.  I was also instructed not to insult any of the patrons.  Shucks, my favorite pastime is insulting people.

They told me that I had several choices of work.  The options were pricing, appliance repair, cash register, and sorting.  I told them to just give me the dirtiest job and I would work up from there.  They suggested that I work in “men’s pants”.  That was OK by me.

When I entered the men’s sorting area I was met by the pants section leader.  His nickname was “The Pope”.  He didn’t wear a robe or red slippers, but did have a skull cap.  I suspect that it was to cover a bald spot.  My co-worker in the sorting section was Steve.  He had several weeks experience in pants sorting so he was assigned to be my mentor.  I was classified as an apprentice sorter.  After 2 weeks you are upgraded to master pants sorter.  Quick promotions in the pants sorting dept.  I was given instructions in how to measure the waist size and inseam length.  Tough guidelines there.  A special instruction was given on how to check the pockets.  It seems that a couple of months ago a woman gave away a pair of mans pants belonging to her husband.  The couple came rushing back a day later because he had left his dentures in the pants pocket.  No one seemed to know if the teeth were found but there was a poster on the wall warning of such things.   A sad but true story.  I kept looking for any stray one thousand dollar bills, but did not find any. 

 I did make an important discovery and was able to share my discovery.  It seems that every once in a while a pair of women’s blue jeans gets mixed up with the men’s clothing.  I noticed that the woman’s blue jeans had an extremely short zipper whereas the men’s zipper was much longer.  I shared this important bit of information with the Pope and Steve.  Both seemed appreciative of my astute powers of observation.  They both agreed that it should be a part of the normal inspection procedure.

Steve had been an officer in the Army airborne.  He told me that he had to quit the Airborne because he split his crotch on a practice jump.  I had already noticed that his legs seemed extraordinarily long.  He then related the fact about his recent polyp surgery .  The Pope came over and told about the broken arm and leg he got in Korea.  I told them that I had an active case of VD. But was told that recovery should be complete in just a few more months.  Both moved a few feet further away.  The Pope said a prayer and the paratrooper grabbed his crotch.

At break time we went down to the coffee shop.  Both Steve and The Pope still kept their distance from me.  That was strange because I had made every attempt to be friendly.  When we got to the break area I noticed The Pope whispered something to one of the women. Probably some Pope Business thing.   She got up from the table and moved to the side of the room.  Several others did the same thing.  All kept an eye on me.  I guess it was the animal magnetism that I exclude.  At least I had the table to myself.

When it came time to leave, we had to sign out on a log.  I asked why since we had already signed in.  I was told that about a year ago a woman was so absorbed in clothes sorting she did not know it was time to leave and got locked in the place.  She had to use her cell phone to call her husband.  He was able to contact the supervisor and get her out.

  When signing out I observed the person that signed out after me wiped the pen vigorously with a tissue…    Strange.  Such was my first day of volunteer work.

  The Next day I got there at the appointed time and proceeded to park my car in the rear of the lot as is my custom.  I saw a large palletainer of clothes at the rear of the lot.  It had a large sign that said:

DANGER (PELEGRO) --- CONTAMINATED MATERIALS.

             DO NOT TOUCH OR HANDLE

CONDEMED BY THE COLLIER COUNTY BOARD OF HEALTH

I was a bit surprised because I saw several pairs of colorful pants that I was sure I had seen the day before as I was sorting pants.  As I neared the building there was a large new banner over the door that read:

“PEOPLE WITH SOCIAL DISEASES SHOULD NOT VOLENTEER TO WORK AT ST. VINCENT DE PAUL”                 

I went in anyway, signed in, and proceeded to the “men’s pants” area.  Pablo started to follow me muttering something in Spanish.  One of the words sounded strangely like one of the dirty words that I learned at Ft. Bliss.  Several workers grabbed Pablo.  They must have had pressing problems that needed his immediate attention.   I noticed people hugging the walls as I passed.  Strange, I thought.  I have only been here one day and have attracted the attention of everyone.  It must be my work ethic.  As I entered the “pants” area, “the Pope gave the sign of the cross and bolted out of the door.  The ex-paratrooper Yelled “Geronimo”, and leaped out a window.  With my suntan I must look like a Native American in need of a spiritual blessing.  It was sort of lonely working alone.  When I left that day, I noticed that the sign out sheet was gone and the area freshly scrubbed.  The break area had not been used that day.  It was clean as a pin.  By the time I go next time I hope things have settled down and people don’t act so strange.

Well, a week has passed since I last worked at St. Vincent’s.  When I got there this afternoon I entered with some trepidation because I had no idea if the natives would be friendly or not.  Not to worry, as I entered the door there was another huge banner that proclaimed:   DAL HAS BEEN CURED AND IS SAFE TO BE AROUND AS HE IS AGAIN HARMLESS.  I was pleased.  It was signed by the Collier county Board of Health.

Everyone genuinely seemed glad to see me.  As I entered the men’s pants sorting area both the Pope and Steve greeted me warmly.  The Pope even gave me my master’s pants sorting certificate.   Lucky Steve, he found (4) $20 bills in a pair of pants. (No joke).  I will bet it was some poor guy’s poker winnings that he didn’t want his wife to know about.  Steve turned it over to the head cashier.  I think that I would have treated everyone at the free coffee break.  I spent the whole morning sorting out several boxes of very high quality shirts and pants.  Some poor guy probably died and his wife got rid of all his clothes.  All the pants were 46-29.  The guy must have been built like a bowling ball.

 I learned several new things today that I am sure will earn me a cluster to wear with my master sorting certificate.  If you come across a pair of pants that are so colorful that that you think to yourself, “I wouldn’t be caught dead in that”, they are probably women’s pants.  To be sure of the pants gender, check the manufacturing label.  If the makers name is “LIZ” or some other non male sounding name, consign them to the “sorting return” area.  If you find a pair of walking shorts, gym shorts, or others, without a fly, they ain’t male pants.  If you find a HUGE expensive looking pair of shorts that would easily fit a cow and does not have a waist size but is marked “S”, be assured it is a female garment.  An expensive looking pair of pants without any waist or inseam length is probably tailor made.  One last learning experience was due to a pair of funny shaped pants that looked as though they would fit Pappy Yokum.  They had a huge elastic band at the top.  One of the women that worked in the ladies clothes section informed me that they were maternity pants.  Oh.

I tried to convince the Pope and Steve that they should try to be more efficient by breaking up the sorting routine.  Instead of measuring, tagging, getting a hanger from the hanger bin, assembling pants to hanger, and walking each pair to the rack that it was much better to size, tag, and lay the pants to one side.  Get a bunch of hangers and toss them on the shelf above the work station.  Pull the rack up close to your assembly bench.  Then assemble the hanger to the pants, then turn and hang each pair of pants to the rack.  The Pope threatened to cast me into hell for breaking Union rules and Steve said he was going to file a grievance with the union steward.  I just can’t win.

I went to St. Vincent’s the next day to work at my usual job, pants sorting.  Just after starting I was paid a visit by the Chief Honcho, Pablo.  He told me that I was being considered for a position in “appliance repair”.  He explained that it was a real advancement for someone of my limited time on the pants sorting job but that my diligence had been noticed by “higher ups”.  He explained that the position was not a sure thing but that he would put in a good word for me.   I strongly suspected that I was being booted upstairs because of the labor dispute and grievance filed by my co-workers last week.  A quick peek at the looks on the faces of John and Steve confirmed my suspicion.

I was given a short tour of the appliance repair section and met the fellow that might be my new mentor.  His name was Claude.   He was 82 years old and told me that he just couldn’t stand for four hours at a time any more.  He did not have a chair because as soon as he found a comfortable one some “poor” person bought it.  He strongly suspected that it was an effort to force him out by having a “mole” buy any chair that he elected to use.  I truly felt sorry for him but glad that I might get such a challenging job.  Claude explained the routine of inspection and repair.  He showed me the work required on a toaster.  First you inserted two pieces of burned bread into the toaster slots.  (Only two slices of bread are used per day because the facility is on such a tight budget).  The method was as follows:  Insert the two pieces of toast.  Check to see if the 4 elements get red or possibly just hot.  Make sure that the toast pops up after a reasonable time and is at least warm.   If the toaster fails any of the above tests, it is repaired by tossing it in the trash.

This Monday was full of disappointments.  I had no sooner than arrived at the pants sorting station than I was met by Claude from the appliance department.  His eyes were brimming with tears as he recounted his trials this morning.  He was let go from the appliance repair and replaced by “young buck” that was only 75 years old.  He was downgraded to the receiving dock to unloading clothes.  That is pretty heavy work and he is afraid he will have to quit after over 20 years on the job.

More lies later

Breakfast at the white house

The following is a letter to the editor of the Naples daily News 3-34-2011 by Chuck Smith Good morning Mr. President, what would you like for breakfast? Not sure, Michelle. Check the polls and see what people are eating. Sir, 28 percent are having pancakes; 15 percent are eating eggs. What about the other 50 percent? What are they eating? Oh sir, those are Republicans; they always get to work before breakfast. Well, OK. Get hold of Congress and see what they are eating. Sir, the House is having lean beef, and the Senate is having crow again today. Not crow! I’m getting tired of the same thing. Call the vice president. Sir, he’s not awake yet, but they tell me his eyes are open. Good grief! Call the joint chiefs of staff. They know about man food. I’ve got to have a few more opinions. But honey, you’ve already dithered away one hour. You’re right, Michelle. I’m the leader of the free world and I’ve decided to have a big bowl of Wheaties, breakfast of champions. Call the press secretary and arrange a 11 a.m. press conference. The nation deserves to know what their commander-in-chief has had for breakfast. Wonderful sir, will you be having fruit? Michelle, don’t even go there. — Chuck Smith

The following is my response to his letter. 

Chuck Smith’s Letter about Obama’s breakfast that appeared on 3-24 was correct as far as it went.  My unimpeachable sources tell me that he did have fruit for breakfast.  The conversation continued as follows.

But Barack, you know that fruit is an important part of my anti obesity program.

You are right Michelle but the fruit has to be green.  How about an avocado?

It is green Barack, but has too many calories, how about trying a green pineapple?

That sounds good Michelle, but it has to come from one of our 57 states.  Hawaii comes to mind.

OK, that is settled Barack, now you need just a bit of sweetener.  A small sprinkle of sugar would be OK.

Wonderful!!  We can get it from Cuba Michelle.  That will help us in the International field.  We can subsidize it too, to help the poor people.

One percent milk would help to round out the dish, but that might curdle in your stomach Barack.

No problem my dear.  We have free health care you know.

Wait, I have it, Barack!!  We can get the milk from Wisconsin.  That would show our union solidarity.

 What a wonderful idea Michelle.  Can I have an after breakfast mint too? 

Dal Wolf        Naples & Auburn, In

Dal's new method of math

 The past week has led me to calculate a whole new concept of numbers.  (There he goes again says you).  Consider the following:

Zero would be expressed as a vertical line.  (Keep in mind that zero is an even number)

One, an odd number would be expressed same as "0" with a hook at he the top that would make it look like the current "one"

Two, being an "even" number would be expressed as a vertical line with a horizontal base thus showing two (2) right angles

Three, an odd number would be the same as "2" with a hook on top.

All even numbers would be created by using different numbers of horizontal lines (crossing the one vertical line) in addition to the even number preceding it.

When reaching 10, you would place a dot or colon: between the two symbols.  Symbols would be listed same as current system.

Addition would be as follows:  The greater number would precede the lesser number.  The student would count the number of angles and make a hash mark below the symbol for both numbers.  The student would then count the number of hash marks and would arrive at the correct answer.  This would eliminate rote learning and force the student to calculate each answer.

Subtraction would be accomplished the same way.  After marking the hash marks, the student would cross off a hash mark on the first (larger) number for each of the hash marks in the second number.  The remaining hash marks are the answer.

I don't know about you but my head is starting to ache.

With tongue in cheek:   Sir Isaac (Dal) Wolf

Florida controversy

There has been a really heated battle being waged in Collier County, Florida.  It really would not be very serious to the outsider but those that live here have drawn heated battle lines and are ready to slug it out, verbally, physically, and in court, if necessary.  The whole battle centers on a County mascot.  I know that seems trivial but to the natives it is dead serious.

The two sides have different ideas about the proper animal to be elevated to the level of “supreme adorable creature”.  One side favors the Florida Manatee.  The other side favors the Florida Panther.  The manatee is a quiet creature that swims slowly along in fresh water eating underwater vegetation.  They favor warm water and can be found in large groups around power plant discharges of heated water.  They can often be mistaken by black floating garbage bags.  Early sailors mistook them for mermaids.  Talk about being hard up!!!

The Florida Panther is a reclusive creature.  It is seldom seen except as road kill.  They have a nasty habit of jaywalking instead of using marked cross walks to cross a road.  They eat just about anything that moves, crawls, or walks.  Panther backers are passionate in their defense of their choice of animal.

In my own humble opinion neither the manatee nor panther qualify as the perfect mascot for Florida since neither one is known to all natives and non-natives alike.  My choice is one that almost everyone encounters in their daily travels about the County.  My choice is a speeding garbage truck, driven by an illegal alien, speeding through a red light.

Dal

My neighbors dog

Several years ago my next door neighbor had a dog that took great joy in pooping.  Problem was the dog would venture just over the lot line and poop in my yard.  In itself that would not have been so bad but it was hell when I would run through it with my lawnmower. That poop that did not get sprayed away seemed to get stuck on my mower wheels.  This caused great irritation to my olfactory senses.

I finally confronted my neighbor and told him that his dog was pooping in my yard.  “Where” said he?  I pointed to a recent pile of poop just to show him what I was complaining about.  He bent over the pile of poop, inspecting it carefully and said, “That is not my dogs poop”.  Now how, I ask you can you respond to a statement like that?  One cannot argue with someone that so intimately knows his dog.

I did the only possible thing.  Every time I found a new deposit of HIS dogs poop I simply got my trusty fire shovel, scooped it up, and flung it as far into his yard as possible.  Sometimes it would even hit a tree and stick to the bark.  I wonder if he ever questioned what position his dog got into to deposit poop high in a tree.

Dal

The Mud Puddle

THE MUD PUDDLE

During the 1955-56 school years at Garrett HS., Dal Wolf decided to take Speech class because he thought bloviating would be easier than actually having to study.  With a name like Wolf, he was, as usual, seated in the last row.  This was blatant segregation but he did not know that at the time.

  There was a girl in the class named Jo (whose last name shall remain a mystery) but she did not show up on the first day of class.  When she did appear the next day the only seat available was next to, uggg, Dal Wolf.  OMG, no one wanted to sit next to Wolf, a fate worse than death.  He was known to associate with other low-life creatures of a similar bent.  Jo reluctantly sat next to Wolf but kept a wary eye on him.

During the course of the year, Dal and Jo got to know each other a bit better and Jo decided that Dal wasn’t such a bad creature after all.  He was a bit better than pond scum, but not by much.

                                                                Then it happened!!!

Dal and Jo were having an active conversation about (God knows what) when Dal innocently started to rub Jo’s arm.  Jo gave Dal a look that said, “hey fellow, what rock did you crawl out from under?”  Needless to say, Dal was embarrassed so he did the only possible thing.  He crawled back under his rock.

As fortune would have it, Dal was able to redeem himself a few days later.  On her way to class Jo stumbled into a mud puddle and got her shoes and socks wet.  Dal, seeing a damsel in distress rode up on his white charger and---(oops, wrong story line).  Dal being a perfect gentleman of sterling character, (I like that line better but it is still too heroic).   Dal, slogging along, looking for stray nickels on the ground as was his custom (more the truth) offered to take Jo home so that she could change her socks.  This action raised his status two or three notches above pond scum.  Such an elevation in high school is not to be taken lightly!!!

The trip to and from Jo’s house took some time and as a result both She and Dal were late for class.  Since Jo’s dad was on the school board, she was immediately given a pass to go to class.  Dal, having incurred the wrath of the administration on several other occasions, was held for further investigation and later an interrogation. Thumb screws, among other methods of torture, were used to extract an admission of guilt of some nefarious action.  Dal was finally able to convince the administration (using mostly lies) that he did not push Jo into the mud puddle nor did he create the puddle. Proving his innocence was a hard sell.  Nevertheless Dal pulled it off.

All ended well.  Dal was not put into detention nor was he expelled from school.  His car was not impounded and he was finally given a pass to go back to class.

With tongue in cheek, Dal