Déjà vu - Caregivers

I recently stumbled upon a Caregiver’s group on Face book (Caregivers Support Group for Myotonic Dystrophy) and felt compelled to join it and at first I wasn’t exactly sure what prompted me to do it. I certainly wasn’t familiar with this particular disease and I’m not presently facing the challenges and pitfalls of caregiving, but I still think about my stint in that caregiver role. Caregiving is caregiving, no matter the situation and this brings back old memories, stirring those of mama…daddy…granny. It’s hard to believe that it has been eleven years since I lost both mama and daddy and ten since losing granny, the toughest eleven month span of my life. When I think about the term caregiver I can’t help but smile. The corners of my mouth are not turning upward from remembering my role at the helm but envisioning mama’s. Her vow still haunts me, ‘I will not place Thomas or Mama in a nursing home.’  Bad nursing homes have certainly given good ones a bad reputation in general, but then, that’s another story. One thing for sure, vows were kept, promising actually. I don’t regret following her wishes but I still regret she made me promise, taking that choice out of my hands.

For those of you who haven’t read my journey, seen the underbelly of careless giving and come away with a better understanding of how I had to do it my way, then this might sound like rambling gibberish, a man still coping with his demons, but I assure you it is anything but that. Quick recap for those who haven’t read The Caregivers Son, Outside the Window Looking In, my memoir is not a how to for caregivers. I had no targeted audience when I wrote it. Heck, I had no aspirations for ever publishing it. Mary Elizabeth Winn was my mama, an only child as am I. When my daddy’s illnesses reared their ugly heads, Alzheimer’s and Parkinson Syndrome, sending his life of retirement bliss spiraling downward  into a pit he would never ever emerge, mama decided then and there that she would care for him at home. He was after all, her husband, my dad and she certainly had a choice in the matter. She embraced her role, caregiver extraordinaire, had it down to a tee, putting his life ahead of hers literally. She had been healthy as a horse all her life and fit for the job ahead.

Mama was ill prepared for the real journey though. No caregiver who takes their role seriously can ever grasp the concept.  The next half dozen years would take its toll on her, my daddy eventually spending the last few years bedridden, unable to do anything, including communicate his feelings, his thoughts, his likes, his dislikes. He was trapped inside a shell. He was fed what his caregivers wanted to feed him. He was moved about from room to room when the caregivers decided that was what they wanted to do. He was forced to live, to survive, his home healthcare nurse and friend making sure his life, such as it was, remained a healthy existence. He was loved whether he wanted it or not. Choices, he had none, other than live as he did or face the alternative. Ironically given the conditions inflicted upon him by the ravishing diseases his vitals were that of a healthy person. Go figure.

Daddy would look at us, follow us with his eyes and even attempt to form words on his lips. Sadly in his bedridden grip, he couldn’t move or articulate. I often wondered if we were doing the right thing. How could we possibly know? The intent was to make him comfortable, feed him, clean him, see to his bodily functions and watch him simply exist. Demeaning, maybe, but that was my perspective. Possibly he was just happy to be alive in any shape or form or maybe he wasn’t. I certainly can’t make that call now any better than I could back then. Second guessing really serves no purpose and isn’t relevant to where my head is right now. It was but a passing thought. Thinking about stuff only leads to thinking about more stuff so it seems.

Who would have ever thought that the super caregiver, my mama, the rock, would have gotten diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer just days after Christmas 2003? After all, she had been the one who had decided to keep Thomas Jefferson Winn, my daddy and my granny, her ninety year old mother, Ruby Bowie, in her home and out of any assisted living facilities; not that they couldn’t afford it but because she wanted to do it. The caregiver now required the services of a caregiver too. An only child and his wife got a reality check, not because we had to but because it was the right thing to do. Trust me, I am not singing my praises by any stretch. I had flunked royally as the caregiver supporter. My wife had done a much better job and had been more supportive in that role than me. That old what goes around, comes around saying never screamed louder.

Mama lost her battle with cancer three months after we received that awful news. She died sitting up in her single bed, in her bedroom, me holding her in my arms as my daddy watched from across the room in his hospital bed. Her last words to me before taking that last gasp of breath, ‘I love you sweetie.’ Four words I will never forget. We think a blood clot took her from us, actually saving her from the likely suffering ahead from a painful disease. Daddy had never been more alert as he had been watching his wife pass before his very eyes, unable to even say goodbye; at least not verbally. Mama had been the caregiver but I in my substitute role ironically had completed the worst part of the journey, watching HER die. Little did I know the worst was not over by a long shot?

Most people, including myself, don’t quite grasp the entire scope of the caregiver. Let’s just say I didn’t when I was on the outside looking in and only in the sub role. A caregiver can often give up everything. Lost in the shuffle by those just visiting or staying on the sidelines, is the reality of the sacrifices the caregiver has made, putting their love one or patient first, themselves and their health second. Mama had basically ignored the warning signs her body was screaming at her, putting daddy and granny first. Such is the life of most that are caring for others unable to care for themselves.  Mama might still be here if she had seen about herself before it was too late. Early detection is the best prevention, right? Caregiver support is a vital peace of the puzzle. You cannot walk in those shoes 24/7 or YOU WILL pay the price.  I confess. I didn’t initially get that either. Lessons learned too late can be costly. Lessons never learned are inexcusable. I had to do things wrong first to learn how to do them right.

Daddy died three months later while under our care. Doctors and home health care nurses had warned us that in his current condition that aspiration was always a possibility. That’s why we took every precaution when it came to feeding him his pureed meals. When it struck like a lightening bolt, we were ill prepared just the same. Watching your daddy choke and not being able to stop it is a helpless and hopeless feeling. Frantically my wife and I were trying to contact home health care, the ambulance, anyone who could rescue my daddy. Time is never on your side when these things happen. I held my second parents’ hand in his bedroom, across the room where my mama had just died three months prior and watched him breath his last breath. There were no words spoken, no formal goodbyes; he was just gone within in precious minutes. Promise fulfilled, daddy as mama, had not gone to a nursing home. An only child in three short months had lost both parents. I could have never imagined a worse scenario. With every life is a promised death. These were just way too soon but aren’t all of them?

Then there was granny, 92 years old, having witnessed her only daughter and now her son-in-law perish before her elderly eyes. The matriarch of our family had outlived many and it was hard to fathom just how she was going to cope after losing mama and now daddy.  Cope she did, defying the odds. Her mind had always been sharp, even after her body had long ago failed her. Five or six months after my folks death I had an opportunity to start a new job. This would require us moving from Abbeville S.C. to Myrtle Beach, 4 ½ hours away. Would granny consider going with us? We were her caregivers now. Long story, short, she did relocate with us, moving away from where she had lived her entire life. Even before the move we had noticed her health declining, bits and pieces, here and there. I’m sure the heartfelt burden of her only child’s death weighed heavy on her heart and her mind, faced with the fact she had outlived mama and now daddy. Two months after moving to Murrells Inlet she gave up her good fight and joined the others in heaven. My aunt, my daddy’s sister said she completed the journey to the beach just to make sure I was okay and then her job was done.

Eleven months and now they were all gone. Little by little I sank into a very dark place, oblivious to the fact that I was tittering on what might be described as depression. My wife would later say that I had never really had the opportunity to properly grieve over mama’s death before being faced with daddy’s and then granny’s passing.  Mentally it was just too much in too short of time span. Everyone has to face these consequences in their own way. For me, I turned to writing. I’ve always seemed to be able to put to paper what I can’t express and share openly. So I wrote and I wrote and I wrote, bleeding my roller coaster ride of emotions on my laptop. I did this for me and nobody else. Guilt, grief, happy times, sad times, could have, should have, didn’t, I pretty much let it flow, and in some cases taking myself to the wood shed over poor decisions and uncaring choices. Selfishness, self centered, living life for me had been a piece of cake, that is until I treaded down the path of the caregiver. Sometimes you really do have to do things wrong to finally get it right, rung like thunder in my ears and my heart.

I called my journey, my self assessment, my beat me down and pick myself back up, The Caregiver’s Son, Outside the Window Looking In.  Nope, I was not an accomplished writer, not an author or had ever published a single stinking thing, or had I ever tried to publish anything. Like I said, this was for my eyes only and remained at such for nearly eight years. Fate will find a way. Purely as true chance, Bob O’Brien, a neighbor I had never met, showed up at our front door in 2011 holding his book, The Toppled Pawn in his hands. He looked at me. I looked at him. He finally admitted he had expected to see the previous home owner, not realizing that we had purchased the house. He apologized saying he had just wanted to show that guy that he had published his first book because apparently his ex-neighbor had shown some interest in writing. I told him I dabbled in writing. Bob asked if I had a manuscript. I told him I had ten but no one had ever read any of them.  He placed his hand on my shoulder and said ‘son we need to get you published then, I just started my own publishing company.’ You can’t avoid signs from above can you?  I looked at my wife saying what are the odds?

I know what you’re thinking. I then chose my caregiver book and published it. Nope, instead I picked a fictional novel, Road Rage as my first. I published my very first book at age 57 ½. I next published Dark Thirty, my fictional novel about Bullying. In 2013 I was about to publish my 3^rd, North of the Border, a sequel to Road Rage, when I mentioned to my wife my caregiver story. Again, no one, including her, had ever laid eyes on it. I wasn’t even sure I was ready for even her to read it. After all, it revealed me inside those pages, a ME with emotions, thoughts and so forth that I had never openly shared with anyone. I eventually consented. After she read it she told me I needed to publish it. She said she cried, she laughed, she relived much of it. I ended up publishing it along with my other choice, a two-for so to speak.  Friends, family and strangers loved it, experiencing the same waves of emotions.

Originally I had no targeted audience other than me. I thought after publishing it, it would serve as a good tool for caregivers and actually I dedicated it to the caregivers, the true unappreciated heroes. I was wrong. Not to say that those who haven’t walked the caregiver path can’t relate and fully understand my journey, they certainly can. If I had a mulligan I would say it was better targeted at the caregiver supporters, those who don’t understand what it takes to be a caregiver and what the caregiver really needs. Many have said this is my best work, their favorite. It came from deep down inside and not one of my fictional spins. Did it land on any best seller list? No, I never expected it to because I never expected anyone to ever read it. For those who do take time to read it, I hope it opens their eyes and their hearts. It’s no how to book. It’s more of a how not to, an awakening, one man’s way of dealing with life the only way he knew how to, and yes, I had to do it my way, the good, the bad, the ugly and then the right.

For those of you who don’t know them, that’s mama and daddy on the cover. It is the last best photo ever taken of them, my daddy already suffering from the diseases that would eventfully take him down and mama enjoying her last ever cruise with him. It challenged him, her and us by taking them on that trip but it was what they loved in life to do. Enjoy them while you have them. Poof, they can be gone in a blink. An only child continues to cope nearly eleven years later. The difference is my memories are filled with joy, laughter and very few tears now, every memory precious as they all should be. This was probably my blog to top all blogs but as mentioned, writing about it comes much easier for me than talking about it.  For every THE END there is always a new BEGINNING. I’m creeping up on 62. The journey is never over. I love and miss you sweetie.

Myotonic dystrophy (dystrophia myotonica, myotonia atrophica) is a chronic, slowly progressing, highly variable, inherited multisystemic disease. It is an autosomal-dominant disease.

It is characterized by wasting of the muscles (muscular dystrophy), cataracts, heart conduction defects, endocrine changes, and myotonia.

There are two main types of myotonic dystrophy. Myotonic dystrophy type 1 (DM1), also called Steinert disease, has a severe congenital form and an adult-onset form. Myotonic dystrophy type 2 (DM2), also called proximal myotonic myopathy (PROMM) is rarer than DM1 and generally manifests with milder signs and symptoms. Myotonic dystrophy can occur in patients of any age. Both forms of the disease display an autosomal-dominant pattern of inheritance. Both "DM1" and "DM2" have Adult-Onset forms.

To the Book Mobile

Peddling as Fast as I can

Who said selling books would be a piece of cake? Even writing one is no sweet tater pie. Funny though, at least from my perspective, writing is really the easiest slice of the pastry making to me. I can whip together a fictional recipe in a blink, the tale flowing faster than my fingers can keep up with it. More times than not I’m working three to six novels simultaneously while some say they’ve worked years to finally finish their first on the next wishful best seller list. Am I forfeiting quality for quantity? My loyal few followers don’t seem to think I should give up on the expensive hobby, mine not theirs. Fact is its downright fun, the writing part that is; proofing and editing, no so much, unless you’ve landed on a best seller list. Necessary evils are...well…necessarily evil. Traditional publishing…prompt the puke heaves now…make me sick to the lower extremities. Just the mere thought of seeking an agent or submitting query letters to pad my rejection resume force me into a life only a reclusive ole hermit would understand and appreciate.

Yep, I do love to write but transforming my masterful scribbling into something resembling a book is no easy row to hoe. Having someone like good ole Bob to publish them makes that part much easier but, still, the one backing these investments stares me down in the mirror, some alter ego he makes. I struggle with the self promoting and selling part though. I compare it to making cold calls, or being the girlie show barker or even a glorified snake oil peddler. Readers give you that look, their eyes saying it all, is this really worth the price of admission? Quickly you find out just how many times you can return to the well, especially when it comes to family and friends. Rule of thumb; never benchmark you sales on your very first release...unless it was a best seller. Everyone can be taken in by that blessed event, not expecting that you intend on birthing another. Your first child might be a cutie pie but birthing them left and right sort loses its luster, unless you’ve banked a best seller.

Reality can truly provide harsh lessons if you’re not on some zillion best seller list. Flaunting shamelessly isn’t as easy as it sounds for those lacking Koontz, King or Roberts last names. No one pays me to write or lines up around the corner for their signed copy. Hooks, gimmicks, off the wall contests and/or giveaways may offer some hope. Finding an affective hook, gimmick, contest or giveaway poses the ultimate challenge. Merely standing behind a table, smiling and nodding at foot traffic is comparable to trolling the streams with a bare hook. What do you really expect to catch if you don’t toss out the right bait? I’m not convinced having a room full of hungry authors really snags that many buyers. It could do just the opposite. Possibly the shopper is overwhelmed by the selection or guilt ridden, they’re plagued with buying a book from one particular author and slighting the others. Maybe the price is too costly; given the fact they can shop at the library for free or download a copy to their Kindle much less than that old clunky hardback. 

Then there are those dreaded yard sales and flea markets. Is someone really going to pay $15.95 for my book when they can buy books three for five dollars or a quarter a piece? Heck they can visit the library and take home a bag full free. Better still, they can shop the book event and then go to the library and have them order the one that interest them. Still, mine are homegrown, nurtured tenderly and can be signed, creating a keepsake. Can you say souvenir or collectable? Think about it. Suppose I do land on a best seller list or hit the big time. You will have one of those early releases, a rare gem, an actual signed and dated copy, marking it as a viable candidate for EBay or Craig’s List. You can even boast you knew me when. Peddling your goods, keeping your name out there and creating a must have book phenomena is no easy task. Five times I have proven this theory. I have twenty others lined up waiting their chance to take the reading world by storm.

I confess. I’m a genre hopper. My writing is all over the place. I’ve published two detective books, one on bullying, a memoir and a paranormal thriller. I’ve heard you should find your wheelhouse and stick with it and develop a following, target a market. I’m unfortunately cursed. I have no targeted market. I write about what I like to write about which includes a variety of flavors, from my Bigfoot trilogy to missing cat mysteries, from end of the world sagas to high school reunion thrillers, golf stories to witches or sea monsters, people vanishing at mountain resorts to more southern nostalgic memoirs, zombie westerns to sea turtle encounters, I’m all over the place. How to you wrap a marketing and promoting plan around this mess? There’s but one thing for me to do. I just keeping peddling books as fast and furiously as I can, hopeful that one day my imaginary book mobile will crash through the zillion best seller barrier.

Life was much easier when the only reader of my work was me. But then again, what I have experienced has been priceless thus far; the friends I have made, fellowship experienced among authors, sharing our stories like worn and weathered road warriors. Where else would I have had the opportunity to appear on radio and television shows, not once, but numerous times so far? I’ve spoken at Lion’s Club meetings, local colleges and schools; not bad from one who used to be introverted. I’ve participated in more festivals and events than I ever visited just for fun. Some have been successful, others have been quite agonizing, but all have been bonding and life changing experiences, good, bad and ugly alike. Such is the life of the not so famous book peddler, hungering to land on a best list somewhere.

Shameless plug: Go to Amazon or any site where books are sold on line and type in T. Allen Winn to make your selection and purchase. But wait…visit Clock Tower Books in Georgetown, S.C. if you’re shy about internet perusing and buying. There’s more. Simply contact me via Facebook or Email and I’m sure ole T. Allen can work out a deal and ship you a sighed copy.

It’s Howdy Doody Time

I am frequently accused of holding onto things way too long. For the record, in my humble opinion, I’m not a pack rat and I’m certainly not a hoarder, but I do have a sentimental spot, worse so than most possibly. Lessons learned have landed me where I am. There is a rhyme to my reason. Nostalgia isn’t necessarily limited to one’s memory. The past can accompany us throughout the present and into the future. My direct blood line is no more. My mama, daddy and grandparents have passed on. I am an only child as was my mama. Losing the last of my immediate bloodline (mama, daddy and granny) in an eleven month span in 2004-2005 further pushed me to where I am today. Holding onto items, pieces of my past, is important to me and I don’t give them up easily. Let’s dive head first into to my alleged addiction, shall we.

My Granny Bowie collected salt and pepper shakers. Yes I have that collection, boxed up, not displayed, some quite unique, but that’s in the eye of the beholder. I inherited them. I have my Papa Bowie’s daddy’s tool chest with an assortment of my great grandfather’s tools inside. I never knew Papa’s daddy but I can tell by the assortment of tools that he was quite the carpenter. I have a mahogany bedroom suit, mama and granny having identical ones, and I kept the best between them, bed, bedside tables, chest and a dressing table. I slept on this bed most of my childhood life. At the foot of the bed is a huge metal and leather traveling chest belonging to them. I still have most of granny’s handmade quilts. The huge pink glass lamp on the dresser came from my mama and daddy’s living room. It’s older than me and I remember it forever being in our living room. I have granny’s original hoe, a papa custom made garden hoe with longer handle for her. I have papa’s hand crafted iron fire poker. Many a chunk of coal and kindling has been poked with it.

The original hand grinder used to make that traditional hash, yep, I still have it; and the special table papa made specifically to clamp in on with surface area to set the meat waiting to be hand ground into mush. I have an assortment of other do-dads, what-knots, trinkets, gadgets, dishes, cooking utensils from my past and theirs; much of it boxed up and in the attic. Someday, I might sell it, maybe after I retire and can muster up the courage to turn it loose. If you were to ask my wife, she would say it all needs to go. Do me a favor, don’t ask her.

Some items go beyond my immediate bloodline. Aunt Shug, papa’s only sister was quite artistic. She painted pictures, dishes and other various items. I have many of her works of art. Was she famous? Nope, but she was the family resident artist. I can’t leave out daddy. He had this large Tupperware container filled with a life time’s assortment of screws, bolts, nuts, pins, brackets, odds and ins, left over this and that, never knowing when you might need one of what was in that magical container. I cannot count the times I’ve deep dived, looking for that special something I needed, and more times than not I found it or something close enough to do the job. 

Television shows like American Pickers, Toy Hunter and the Antique Road Show have struck a vein so to speak. Nostalgic possessions can be treasure troves in the eyes of seekers, appreciative of their value and associated history. How does the Sinatra song go…regrets, I’ve had a few. In the end I did it my way, too sadly to say. How I have let them slip through my fingers let me count the ways. Toys, I’m talking toys with defining moments, those one of a kind, wish I still had them, collectables. Howdy Doody, I grew up watching the Howdy Doody Show. I’ve fallen backwards into time and am reliving it as if yesterday. A distinctive feature was the Peanut Gallery, on-stage bleachers seating about 40 kids. Each show began with Buffalo Bob's asking, "Say kids, what time is it?" and the kids' yelling in unison, "Howdy Doody Time!" Then the kids all sang the show's theme song set to the tune of Ta-ra-ra Boom-de-ay.

It’s Howdy Doody time

It’s Howdy Doody time

Bob Smith and Howdy too

Say “Howdy do” to you

Let’s give a rousing cheer

’Cause Howdy Doody’s here

It’s time to start the show

So kids, let’s go!

Sorry, I forgot; some of you have no clue who Howdy actually was, do you? He was a marionette ventriloquist doll, freckled face, dressed in a plaid shirt, denim jeans and cowboy boots. He appeared on a kid’s television show with host, Buffalo Bob. The red haired Howdy had 48 freckles, one for each state at the time. There were other characters, Clarabell the Clown, Princess Summerfallwinterspring, J. Cornelius Cobb, Sir Archibald the Explorer, The Featherman, and Chief Thunderthud, head of the Ooragnak tribe of Native Americans (kangaroo spelled backwards). Originally it was an hour show on Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays at 5 pm, but the show eventually moved to Monday through Friday, 5:30–6:00. In June 1956, it began to be shown on Saturdays only, in a morning timeslot (10-10:30), continuing until its final broadcast on September 24, 1960.

The final broadcasted episode was September 24^th 1960 and was titled Clarabell's Big Surprise. It was an hour-long episode looking back at highlights of the show's past. During the show there was an ongoing mystery in the midst of it, supposedly Clarabell the Clown had a big surprise. The rest of the cast attempted to find out what the surprise was throughout the show. Mayor Phineas T. Bluster finally succeeded but promised to keep it a secret. Finally, in the closing moments, the surprise was disclosed through pantomime to Buffalo Bob and Howdy Doody.  Clarabell who had never spoke before and used horns and hand signs could actually talk. Buffalo Bob called him out and challenged him to prove it, because it would his last chance with the show ending. Clarabell faced the camera and the camera zoomed in for an extreme close-up. His lips quivered as the drum roll began and simply said softly, "Goodbye, kids." A tear could be seen in Clarabell's right eye as the picture faded to black. I probably cried too.

I do have a point after all this but I have to tell it my way and I do eventually get to it. At that snapshot in time, I had my very own Howdy Doody ventriloquist doll, a life sized duplicate of the original, down to every little detail. He was my best bed buddy. I don’t remember what happened to my Howdy. I probably outgrew it and it was either given away or tossed away. Looking back now, boy, I wish I still had that little ditty of a collector’s item. He’s long ago gone to Howdy heaven I suppose. Back in the day, we got stuff, we played with it, outgrew or broke it, and we moved on to the next greatest thing and didn’t give it much thought. Who would have figured just how valuable old toys might someday be. Unfortunately there are no childhood do-overs; only kick yourself in the butt regrets. I look back now and mentally recap the potential collector’s item toys I have allowed to slip through my fingers, not realizing that I should have ‘hoarded’ them instead.

For Christmas Santa once brought me a real handcrafted metal and plastic Roy Roger’s pistol and holster, boots and western hat. Included was the Roger Roger’s kid size authentic guitar. Roy was one of those singing cowboys of my time, like Gene Audrey. I have those rare photos of me seeing what Santa brought me, dressed out in my one piece pajama jump suit, footed and flapped. Yes, I have one with me holding my guitar. Santa even provided me with a Palomino colored rocking horse, reminiscent of Trigger, Roy’s horse. The accessories are long gone but guess what; but over fifty five years later, I still have that rocking horse. It is in excellent shape, no chips or cracks, slightly faded but with the original stand and springs, perfectly workable. It has been loaned to Santa for cousins and even used with foster children over the years. Sometimes I just get lucky.

Yaba-daba-do…yes, I once possessed all the characters from the Flintstones and the town of Bedrock. An original Flintstones play set was released in the early 1960s and it came complete with
the town of Bedrock including cars, critters and other iconic symbols of the television series. Poof, outgrew and gone too. Cereal boxes of my day came with incredible toys inside, each brand trying to outdo the other. I retrieved my Sky King figure from one box. Sky King was one of my favorite TV series. It was sort of a modern western story, a horse replaced with an airplane, the Songbird. King usually captured criminals and spies, and found lost hikers with the use of his airplane. King and his niece, Penny, lived on the Flying Crown Ranch, near the fictitious town of Grover, Arizona. I don’t have my Sky King toy either…dog gone it.

I can go on but it is painful. I swapped my entire 500 count comic book collection to Darrel Tolbert for a weigh bench set that I obviously hardly used. Luckily I didn’t collect baseball cards or I might have bartered them away too. I once owned vintage 1959 set of Mickey Mouse Ears from Disney Land but poof, long gone. I’m sure there were many potentially collectable toys that have gone down the same path.

So what have I learned? I did begin a baseball card collection in the 1980’s. I’m sure there is no small fortune in them, even forty some odd years later. I have a couple of dozen of the Teenage Ninja Turtle characters, all four turtles, April and all the bad guys and a few good guys, still in the original packages, vintage 1980’s. I don’t have Howdy but I do have a Pee Wee Herman ventriloquist doll, also vintage 1980’s. Shogun Red and Miss Daisy dolls are still in my possession, Muppet type characters from the now defunct Nashville Network and Buckmasters shows. I’m still hording 45’s, 33’s and even older style vinyl albums. Up until about five years ago I still had an 8 track player that worked and about a hundred 8 track tapes. Yep, I feel victim to one of those record club scams in the seventies. The player crashed and burned but I still have a handful of what I consider collectable 8 track tapes, if there is such a thing. Oh yeah I have plenty of old and original board and card games. I’ll save those for another story.

It’s Howdy Hoarder Time, yall. 

Bats in the Belfry

 

Scenario:  

Coworker departs for Charleston for back surgery; gone a couple of days. Returns and his daughter tells him that she thought his house had been broken into after finding the front door standing wide open. Police were called and with weapons drawn, conducted a room to room search. No criminal activity was discovered.  

And now for the rest of the story:

Evidence of intruders were detected in the attic…bats…they had been homesteading there undetected apparently.  

What do you do when you discover a critter infestation? You call an exterminator, right?  

Exterminator says hold onto your bats, these winged rats are protected in South Carolina. Protected…are you kidding? They’re bats. Normal pest control could not touch this. Okay, here at the beach they have the Snake Chaser so possibly they have the Bat Bouncer.  

Nope...friend was given a number and agency to contact. Confirmed a second time, he could not harm the bats that were living and breeding in his attic. Experts would be sent to apply netting to capture the invading species. All entry ways would be obstructed and a new doorway would be installed to funnel the bats in and out of the attic until all were captured or deterred from returning. 

Having back surgery…scary

Finding bats living in your attic…nasty

Removing bats from premises…priceless…not hardly…came with a price tag of $2100.

Leaving one’s front door open…a game changer…maybe even senior moment...

I grew up in the south and never heard anything about bats being protected. Papa and Granny lived in a four room mill house. Bats would often get inside the eves of the house. My grand folks would hear them squealing and fluttering about. Got bats, Who you gonna call?  

The T. Allen teenage version would be summoned by Papa. Armed with a can of Raid I would climb atop the roof and ease along the house eves to the pitch, both sides, spraying the bug juice underneath the eves. Bats don’t like the smell apparently. They’d exit by the hundreds so it seemed, flailing wildly about. Some would make crash landings on the ground. Papa manned with a bat, the wood kind, would batter her up, playing long ball with those falling short of the plate. Yep, Papa killed them dead. We could have been ruthless law breakers back then…that is if anyone actually cared about the extermination of bats. I was an accomplice…a willing partner in the crime…but you do what your papa asks you to do. Besides, it was sort of fun on top of that roof. Back in the day I walked in the shadow of the man I admired, no questions asked, just glad to be there. Bats, we didn't need no stinking bats..

 

Bat Facts:  

Most bats are protected under SC law and should never be maltreated or killed in any circumstance. Always use a reputable and industry specific animal removal and control company.  

Bats are among South Carolina’s most interesting and unique mammals and probably one of the most misunderstood. There are many myths concerning bats that cause some people to unnecessarily fear these mammals. Bats rarely, if ever attack people or "get tangled in your hair." In fact, most bats in the South Carolina are biologically useful mammals. They feed primarily upon insects, many of which are pests to agriculture. However, bats can be harmful pests if they take up residence within buildings. There are good reasons for not tolerating their presence. The scratching and squeaking noises they create are annoying. Their droppings and urine not only stain walls and ceilings, but also cause objectionable, persistent odors that may attract insects such as roaches and other bat colonies, even after the original colony is eliminated. Long-term accumulation of these droppings in attic spaces has been associated with the respiratory disease Histoplasmosis. This disease is caused by a fungal spore called Histoplasma capsulatum. Bat droppings that have decomposed provide an ideal habitat for spore growth and reproduction. And finally, there is a slight chance of someone contacting a rabid bat, although the great majority of house-infesting bats in South Carolina are NOT rabid.  

If you discover a bat colony living in or around your home, it is suggested that you act fast. The longer you wait to resolve a bat infestation problem, the more damages will incur and the more costly the restorations and removal will be. As soon as you suspect possible bat intrusion, contact a local animal removal company. We recommend you do not call an ordinary pest control company! Many pest control companies will advertise that they can remove and trap bats, but this seldom the case.  Pest Control companies specialize in bugs and most do not carry the proper licenses, equipment, and species knowledge to safely and effectively remove bats from a property. These pest control companies are known to use poisons and illegal bat traps to get rid of bats, and in accordance with South Carolina laws, this is far from the right way to remove bats.

I still say Raid goes a long way but that was then, this is now.

Crime Scene Investigation

One of the men’s urinals at work was cordoned off with red “Do Not Enter’ Tape this morning.  I glanced down immediately to make sure there was no chalked silhouette on the floor of a man holding his junk.  Could someone have been murdered in mid-piss? If so, what had been the motive? Criminals are not known for their intelligence in many situations. You hear that dumb crook news all the time over the airwaves.  A curse, the writer in me began visualizing a scenario…

Detective Moe Monday, Joe Friday’s cousin, notepad in hand, asked, “And you found the body, John?”

John nodded. ”I did, but not in the John, on the floor in front of the pisser.”

“Did you touch anything?”

“Felt for a pulse but I was wearing my rubber gloves.”

“So if there are any prints, they won’t be yours, right? Do you always wear rubber gloves?”

“What are you getting at, Detective? Am I a suspect? Should I contact legal counsel?”

“I don’t know John; do you have something to hide? You were the one wearing he rubber gloves. What’s that you’re holding?”

“A plunger, I was contacted about a blockage here.”

“Looks like it could be dangerous. Did you use it? Did you recognize the caller?”

“No I didn’t”

“You didn’t use it as a weapon or you didn’t recognize the caller?”

“I really should call a lawyer, shouldn’t I? Aren’t you supposed to read me my rights?”

“Right…do you know the victim?”

“I’ve seen him in here a time or two; not that I was glancing over the partition or anything like that. I mean…sometimes you just look without really thinking. It’s like you tend to look at a woman’s boobs before you look at her yes.  What are you scribbling in your notepad, Detective?”

“Just taking your statement as given…do you suffer from any envious infatuations, John?”

“All hype…I mean...NO…I’m comfortable with who I am!”

“Do you know the identity of the deceased?”

John gulped, teetering on a bout of hyperventilation. “Yes…name’s Derrick. We work out at the same gym. I mean…I don’t know him personally.” 

“So you have seen him at this gym?”

“I wasn’t looking, not intentionally…the showers are for gym members…just a mere coincidence we were showering at the same time and it was steamy at the time, real foggy I’m telling you. I really couldn’t see that much. I should call a lawyer.”

“How long have you known the deceased, John?”

“I don’t really know him, I’m telling you. I’ve just seen him a few times. I don’t mean that the way it sounds. I’m happily married.”

”How am I supposed to think it sounds, John?”

“I’m just a custodian. I can’t help seeing what I see while cleaning the bathrooms. Hey, I reported finding him, didn’t I? That should count for something.”

“Are we keeping count now, John? Did you have a score to square? Do you clean the showers at the gym?”

“No, I just shower there.”

“Is there something wrong with your home shower?”

“I didn’t do it. I’m telling you the truth.”

“Just a moment ago you said you did. Which is it?”

“Which is what?”

“Did you or did you not shower at the gym with Derrick?”

“I did. No I didn’t. I mean I did shower but I didn’t actually shower with him. We were just in the shower at the same time.”

“Mere coincidence, John?”

Sweating profusely now, John continued his fumbling downward spiral. “I’m innocent, I tell you. Looking doesn’t make me a murderer. It’s human nature sometimes. It doesn’t mean a thing. Talk to my wife. We’ve been married for almost twenty seven years. We have four kids, one boy and three girls.”

“Did Derrick and your wife know one another, John?”

“What has that got to do with me and Derrick?”

“Did your wife know about you and Derrick and the shower incidences?

“No…I mean…there were no incidences…just us in the shower.”

“Are you sure about that, John?”

“Sure about my wife?”

“Sure about the shower…John…when was the last time you saw Derrick in the shower?”

"It was…wait a minute…I am contacting a lawyer. I don’t like where this is going.”

“And just where is it going, John?”

“Detective Monday, we’re done here,” said Quincy, the coroner, nodding and smiling at John. 

“It’s not what you think,” whined John.

“What are we suppose to think,” asked Detective Moe Monday.

“Best guess, the man had a heart attack, but I’ll know more after the autopsy. Take care, Moe.”

“Thank you Quincy. John, I’ll contact you if I have any more questions,” winked Detective Monday.

Well…it could have gone down like this or maybe it was just a busted urinal…

Perfect Pair, Nice’uns in their Day 

Things come in pairs for a reason. You need both to complete the set. One is typically not enough without the other.  Try wearing just one shoe all day. While pants and underwear are often referred to as pairs, they equal just one item a piece, not two. Hats and shirts for instance; you wouldn’t wear a pair of hats or shirts, would you.  Doesn’t exactly roll off your tongue, does it? Gloves come in pairs but so do a pair of glasses. Makes you want to scream if you really think about it.

New House Rule: When doing the laundry and one shy of a pair of socks show up in the dryer, leave the one sock on the dryer until its matching pair shows up. It seems easy enough to digest if you maintain low expectations. Soon there are three pairs of pair-less socks resting on the dryer. None match the other so mixing and matching is not a viable option; that is unless you decide to become a trend setter and raise the fashion bar.

Question: Are you sure both of the socks entered the washer and made a similar trip to the dryer?

Yeah, maybe, sort of…I wasn’t really paying attention. Matching them up and/or pre-counting is not part of the equation. Check and balances happen after due process of the cleaning and during cycles. Can a sock exit the drain line? I have no proof or evidence to support it. Facts, give me the facts.

Plausibly Deniable:

Black holes, worm holes, time warps or parallel dimensions could hold the key to the mystery. These theories don’t hold up in court though. Why don’t these phenomena snatch up other articles of clothing? I for one am not missing any pants, shirts or underwear.  Towels, sheets nor wash clothes ever vanish into thin air. Does this mean that the entity only has an insatiable appétit for socks or is the hole too small for other objects to pass through? Process of elimination, the washer or dryer is guilty until proven innocent.   Either that or we’re back to black holes, worm holes, time warps or parallel dimensions. Days have passed and searches haven’t revealed the location of those missing in action. Sock disappearances are the perfect scenario for episodes of In Search Of, America’s Most Wanted, Myth Busters, and Stranger than Truth or Finding Big Foot and My Other Sock.

Observation: Why is it always those socks that perfectly match a specific pair of pants that go AWOL? Both pants legs are in once piece, even thought the dryer has this uncanny ability to turn one or both inside out. What’s with that? Same thing happens to shirts. Landry devices, possessed or possessing a superior intelligence; possibly they are even extraterrestrial life forms.

Is it possible that Captain Kirk from the Star Trek’s Enterprise is having socks transported on board, but if so, why not beam up the pair, Scotty? Maybe our socks are being traded to Klingons. Miss matched foot apparel deters from an ugly puss of a face, cloaking equally ugly feet. Sometimes you just have to reach for the stars when seeking explanations.    

Explanation: Maybe this is nature’s way of culling the thread worn and hole riddled socks. The weak are supposed to be weeded out to make for a healthier herd. Not buying it, one surviving sock contributes nothing to the quality of other socks residing in the ole sock drawer.

Corporate Intervention: Each pair of socks is designed with a unique genetic code and an embedded expiration date. When the pair reaches their life cycle, one dissolves or disintegrates. This is a sure thing insurance policy for sock manufacturers, guaranteeing the customer will initiate a new purchase.

 I Don’t Know: Someone or something is obviously responsible for the missing socks. I don’t Know Who did it is the pat answer.

Easier Solution to the Evil: Category…socks for $200…take the pair, please, the complete pair each time; not one from each. Oddly, have you ever had that happen before? I can never ever remember both pairs of the sock going missing while washing and drying a load of laundry. You would think that at some point it should happen. Possibly it has. Think about it. Would you really pay any attention if the pair disappeared? One there, one not is usually the tip-off there is something rotten in Denmark. Sure, eventually you might notice the pair missing but you would never blame it on the laundry eaters. You’d shrug and think they’d eventually show up, maybe in another drawer.

Prevention through Innovation: Staple, tie, affix each pair together before allowing them to undergo the vicious, merciless process. Just as I got my entrepreneur inventive juices flowing, a quest to design and develop such an item, patent it and then make a fortune, I inquired through Google first. To my shock, several items existed on the internet to do just that. I might just have to purchase one of these options, a way to preserve my sanity and a save matching socks. My gut tells me that the same ones responsible for stealing them probably came up with the solution.  Remember radar to apprehend speeders and radar detectors to beat the system and detect those hiding in ambush.

Make a Joyful noise: Not to worry, the Calvary is on the way. I’m going to bite the bullet and buy some of those new fangled sock clips. A fine pair mine will make, nice’uns anchoring each foot once again. Real men never discard socks until the holes appear above shoe level or underwear until the elastic is shot and it ends up below our butt cheeks inside our britches making us have that commando feeling. Underwear, another story…don’t even get me started.        

improvise

[im-pruh-vahyz] prəˌvaɪz/