FAR Future, Episode 38: Coup Coup Land

Yet another echo from the FAR Future: Suburbs de-gentrifying. It would be a shame, wouldn’t it, if those “pot houses” and the like were to catch fire? Goodbye pot house, goodbye graffiti, hello space for a community garden…

Friday, August 1, 2014
Coup Coup Land

They finally decided to start fixing some of the fuel, power, and and Internet problems. Not a moment too soon… it’s kind of hard to get food when the delivery trucks can’t run to the supermarkets, and it’s hard to get any work done without access to the office LAN. Saying these dudes have serious control issues is an understatement, and one that’s likely to get you chucked in the slammer if you say it aloud.

The junta (that seems to be the right word) has really clamped down on the media, but they’re not as airtight as they’d like — the cell networks are mostly up, and good ol’ Sammy gets the word out. Not too many people here ever heard the word samizdat, but they know Sammy (and Sammy’s Data Service). Sheets packed with text and the occasional picture, left here and there. Cutting senryu printed on stickers and slapped on doorways and other high-traffic areas at eye level. Text messages on cellphones, “from” the White House press office. Daughter Dearest was in Seattle on 7/11 when the coup hit, and there she is now. Because of that happy accident, I can confirm the “rumor” that the West Coast states (and Hawai’i) have seceded and formed the Republic of Pacifica. Alaska has reluctantly thrown in with Pacifica, seeing as they were cut off by the breakaway states and a less-than-friendly (to the junta) Canada. Rumors about New England are a little harder to substantiate, but even the junta’s approved news organs (mainly the yap radio dorks and some religious networks) have hinted at pitched battles in NYC. With the power out, they're getting radio stations up somehow, 7 to 8 p.m., to deliver the daily propaganda news. I guess they’ve got some kind of power up to the radio stations, and at least pieces of the Internet now. Sammy doesn’t have radio, unless you count the occasional staticky Canadian radio station that bounces in, but he gets his side of the story heard one way or another. People with wind-up radios or homegrown power are the only ones getting either Sammy or the junta, though.

But enough about rumors for now. What I know for sure is this: Fuel is nearly impossible to get, except for emergency services and those with connections (and money). Commerce has all but shut down, and everyone is living off their gardens and barter. Or hunting — even out of season, squirrels and rabbits have gotten really scarce lately. We butchered a cow (with Mrs. Fetched’s parents supervising, but Lord what a mess) and took the meat into town in several coolers with a little ice. It was gone in an hour, and we got everything we wanted in trade except for fuel. Except for that run, which used half a gallon of gas, we haven’t gone anywhere since.

The electrical grid, or large portions of it, collapsed a few days after the coup. The junta, of course, blames “liberal terrorists” for that and just about anything else… including the weather. Whatever. The only electricity we have is what we make ourselves, anyway. They’re going to try to bring the grid back up this month, they say, starting with the hydro plants and wind farms. I’m not sure how the nuke plants held up… maybe they ran some minimal amount of power to keep their support systems going. Supposedly, fuel deliveries will resume shortly after the power’s up.

Sammy says thousands of people have met the Four Horsemen and didn’t live to tell the tale. War, famine, pestilence, and death cleaning up behind. Daughter Dearest said that Pacifica has the power on most of the time, and is busy setting up refugee camps. I can imagine that lots of people are heading west or north (to Canada). Not a peep about either one from the “official” news source, naturally.

Closer to home… the GCM is obviously some part of the junta, but not the only part or even a major part… visibly, anyway. Col. Mustard knew what was coming, and I have to thank him for the heads-up. Sammy said there was some major chaos down in Atlanta, but now there’s food and water coming in. Barely enough, and the ’burbs get the bigger half, but it’s enough to keep the lid on. A text message came around that is supposedly a message from The Prophet: “Hold fast, Jerusalem, for you will be delivered on the Day of the Lord. Bring aid and comfort to your neighbor, that the Lord may also bring aid and comfort to you. Fear not those who say, ‘the Lord is with us, not you,’ for they will be made to confess their sin. For today, the servants of the Lord must hide away, but tomorrow they will come forth with the Holy Word. Fear not, and again I say, fear not, for in this evil time the Lord will purify his people; those who persevere will be given a crown.” I hope he’s OK. Lord knows the junta will be hunting him.

I’ve got a lot to say, but it’ll have to wait. The net is only up for a few minutes at a time, and I want to get this uploaded the first try.

continued…

FAR Future, Episode 37: Dubbayou. Tee. Eff?

A couple more “life imitates FAR Future” items:

An Outside View column calls for gas rationing.

Companies are considering a four-day work week.

On with the story. This one’s short, and leads into a longer post later this week. I originally had said “tomorrow,” but I had even less time than usual over the weekend to finish it. Some time this week.

Thursday, July 10, 2014
Dubbayou. Tee. Eff?

As nice as it was with just Mrs. Fetched and I at the creek the last couple of summers, it’s even better with a couple more adults and four enthusiastic kids. We’ve moved a screen tent down there with a few chairs, and we eat supper down there quite a bit now. Everyone takes turns on one end of the cooler or the other, then the kids bolt their chow and go straight for the water. The boys, like The Boy before them, have a great time diving for crawdads, and they all enjoy getting cold in July.

Shortly after we got back in this evening, I got a call from an old “friend” — Col. Mustard. “Just wanted to tell you,” he said, “Don’t panic. You’re being looked after. We don’t forget favors.”

“What?” Right there on top of things, that’s me.

“I can’t tell you anything more. You’ll find out. Everything will be fine.” Click.

I don’t have a good feeling about this.

continued…

Weekend Cinema

An SUV driver’s day at the office.

(hat tip to Nudge, from Kunstler’s blog)

Bad Product Names

I happened to notice this sitting under the bathroom sink one night, as I was — oh, I have to say it! — doing my own bowl blaster.

Mrs. Fetched was the one who bought it. Me, I would have laughed heartily and left it on the supermarket shelf. On the other hand, it’s more fun seeing it at home.

I see at least three double-entendres on the label. Sing out, everyone, 'cause maybe there’s more!

FAR Future, Episode 36: Political Storm

Life imitates fiction: people hoarding gas set fire to their apartment.

Saturday, May 3, 2014
Political Storm

The government seems to be embroiled in a perfect storm as May rolls in, and temperatures (atmospheric and political) start rising. Between the thousands of people that didn’t make it through the winter (one estimate said it was close to a million), the electrical grid almost collapsing in February, and the “Rationgate” thing that broke last week (not to mention the fuel ration reduction announced just before), the cons have been having a field day. It’s not like they could get control of Congress or anything in November, but they could end up causing a lot of mischief.

It was heartening, though, to hear the Speaker not taking any crap. “The gentleman from Texas ‘deplores the loss of life over the winter’ and wants to lay the blame at the feet of the President and the Congressional leadership,” she said. “But I find that ironic, coming from a primary co-sponsor of a bill to defund heating assistance — if he and his party had their way, those thousands could have been millions. And he would have sanctimoniously blamed the victims for not saving enough to buy heating fuel or a house in the tropics.”

I’m not going to complain about the ration cut — the 8.5 gallons per week we get now is more than most other people got before, and we don’t use it all anyway — but it sure has caused some turmoil on the exchange. Like so many former OPEC countries, ration “exporters” suddenly became “importers.” It was almost embarrassing, what we got for two lousy gallons of stale rations yesterday. I hope things work themselves out pretty soon, or I might sell locally on the private exchange from now on.

The Rationgate thing… jeez. That was just ridiculous. You would have expected it from Bush-league’s appointees, but this administration has been holding itself to a higher standard (not that it would take much effort to do that, mind you). You get one political appointee who decides to “help out his friends” (by jiggering their accounts to make them unlimited) and it can tarnish the whole shootin’ match. If the so-called “friends” had been smart about it, and only bought what they really needed (or even wanted), it wouldn’t have made a difference… but noooooo. They went around selling enough “spare” rations to trigger an inspection, and were busily hoarding more. Until one of them burned down his house, of course. Too bad stupidity isn’t a crime — then again, if you’re stupid enough you’ll eventually do something blatantly illegal, so maybe its indirectly criminal. Hm.

In the “unexpected expense” department, my little motorcycle spit a valve early in the week. I’m hoping to have a replacement motor in before I have to go back to the office, but I might have to bite my lip and take the car. I’d really like to get one of those Yamaha Commuter Scooters, but the waiting list is long and the dealers are getting a stiff premium for them. Someone had his stolen right out of the parking lot at work two weeks ago. The security cameras showed a pickup truck with a lift backing up to it, picking it up, and driving off with the bike dangling off the back. The company is signing everyone up for 15-minute “watch” shifts to prevent that from happening again; if everyone takes a turn, we’ll each have to do it once a week. If that.

The kids finally got up the nerve to ask about their parents last night. You think you’re ready for it, you know you’re not, but you have to do your part. I told them what happened, and how we learned about it. The tears didn’t stop Serena from finally asking, “Were our parents bad people?”

“Of course not,” Mrs. Fetched said. “They wanted what was best for you, and made sure you’d be cared for.”

“They did — or tried to do — something bad,” I pointed out. “You can’t justify armed robbery, after all. But they weren’t bad people, just desperate.”

“And with God’s help, we won’t have to worry about you guys,” Mrs. Fetched said.

Indeed. They took it pretty hard, as expected, but Kim said later that they figured something had happened to them but were afraid to ask. Rene and Christina cried with them, and they were all pretty quiet last night. But I went upstairs this morning to find them, as usual most weekend mornings, sprawled around in the same room. At least they didn’t have to get up and go to school. They'll be out after next week, and the school system is wisely letting the kids have an entire summer so they don’t have to run the air conditioning in the school buildings. Things will still be warm by Labor Day, but it won’t be that brutally oppressive heat we’ll be getting all too soon. Daughter Dearest is going to hop the train and see what she can of the country while it’s still possible, mostly the northern half. I’m hoping that when she gets to Seattle, we can get a video linkup with her granddad from the place where he was on the ship when the Japanese surrendered. Talk about good timing on his part.

So this was a little stream-of-consciousness tonight. Life’s like that sometimes, going in several directions at once.

continued…

I Really Don’t Need This

Friday night, as usual, started at El Rio (one of several local Mexican restaurants). I was on the bike, whose odometer turned to 5000 miles on the way. But on the way home, I saw coming the other way: an ambulance (with no lights), Mrs. Fetched’s mom’s van, and an Emergency Services truck. That’s not a good sign, I thought. I got home, called down to the house, and Daughter Dearest answered the phone.

“Is everything OK?”

“No,” she said, “but we’ll be home in a few minutes and tell you what’s going on.”

It turned out to be Mrs. Fetched’s granny, visiting from Rome (Georgia). At age 95, she’s been doing pretty well except for short-term memory and some of the other things that come with aging. She was getting pale and having chest pains, so they called 911. Her blood pressure was also pretty high, plus an irregular heartbeat to go along with that, so off to the hospital in Gainesville with her. After the obligatory repair at the chicken houses, we gathered up some things and headed over there. Granny was in pretty good spirits, considering a very real possibility that she would be leaving the place feet first (the cardiologist gave her 50-50 odds). Fluid in her lungs added another complication. Fortunately, they were able to figure out it was a congestive heart failure issue, so they put her on Lasix and some medication for the blood pressure. In a matter of hours, she looked her old self again — considering that it was 1:30 a.m. by this time, that was quite a feat. They’ll be moving her out of ICU tonight or tomorrow, and into a private room for at least a day or so.

With that out of the way, we got moving waaaay too early. The girlies went to the chicken houses; I went and hunted up some more huckleberries then made pancakes & bacon for their eventual return. I also put some pop rivets in the composter so it wouldn’t come apart, and mowed the lawn. Then I went guy-shopping with my father-in-law while the girlies napped this afternoon: he wanted to go to Tractor Supply for sprayer parts; I needed to get oil & a filter for the bike and an air filter for the car.

It was barely 5 p.m. and I was pretty hungry; high-carb breakfasts don’t stick around very long. I fired up the grill and did some burgers, then back to the chicken houses for more repair work after supper. While we were there, a car belonging to one of The Boy’s band-buddies went out and then in. “Let’s go down and see what they’re doing,” Mrs. Fetched said.

There were four cars parked near where The Boy has built a fire ring… and The Boy and J were in the middle of a beer-chugging contest. After Mrs. Fetched’s dad told him that no drinking was to be going on down there. He didn’t even stop when we pulled up, and should have been able to hear us coming from a long way off because the truck has a perforated exhaust manifold. His excuse, “It was only one.” (TB05) The only one we saw, anyway.

We left, and Mrs. Fetched decided to let her dad know about it. Then she dumped on me the job of riding down there with her dad… she’s really good about letting me take the heat for her decisions. Whatever. He ranted at The Boy for a while, then drove the long way around the pond (perhaps looking for other signs of trouble) and left. This is the guy who wants to put up campsites around the pond — a no-alcohol policy won’t exactly attract lots of paying customers, IMO, but I’m not going to waste my breath.

So The Boy calls the house. “I just wanted to say thanks for ruining Cousin Splat’s birthday party.” (TB09)

“You ruined it. You knew not to bring beer down there.”

“It was only one.” (as if there wouldn’t have been more… lots more… if they were going to have a birthday party there) “But I don’t understand why you have to make a big deal out of it.”

“I didn’t. But don’t try putting this on me. You were the one down there drinking, not me.”

“Oh, it’s on you alright.” (TB09 again) I guess the next time you see me, I’ll be coming to get my $#!+, because you have to be effing a$$h0l3s.”

Very little useful information was exchanged after that. But I’m done with him. I’m even done talking with him, at least until he can apologize and start taking responsibility for his own actions. We’ve also nobbled the Pontiac so it won’t start, not like there’s any gas in it anyway, until we get the key back.

Weekend Cinema

When it costs $40 to fill up a Civic, you know it’s time to forget about driving to a theater. Weekend Cinema brings you the entertaining, the offbeat… and above all, the brief.

Memorial Day is behind us. The presidential primaries are behind us, leaving us with a choice between a young charismatic black guy and some geezer backed by a massive character assassination apparatus. So… let’s put the gravitas behind us for a little while; plenty of time to be campaigning come fall and we could use a little light entertainment.

So thank Daughter Dearest for finding this and sharing it with us all. Watch two guys put on a very clever magic show.

First Fruits

I was kind of surprised to see the huckleberries/blueberries getting ripe already. There were only a few ripe ones, but there’s a lot more where that came from. I think there will be enough by Saturday morning to have blueberry pancakes.

In a couple weeks, they’ll really come on the pipe and we’ll have to figure out what to do with them. Probably a pie or two.

The blackberries will be ripe in another month, and I shouldn’t have any trouble getting all we want and then some.

Flowers of FAR Manor: Lilies

Mrs. Fetched was pleased to see these guys blooming out front.

Like the rhodo’s, they don’t have much modesty, sticking their IBs out for all to see.

[Another smellphone shot, taken 6/1]

TB01? Again?

Maybe. Maybe.

The Boy was late coming in last night, since his new band suddenly landed a gig for this weekend and they wanted him to go over some of the songs (they thought they were going to have some time since their next scheduled gig was the 14^th). Mrs. Fetched was a little cranked about the situation, especially since she needed to go over some financial issues (insurance, license plate, phone) with him before bedtime. Fortunately, he had to come by the manor before going to practice anyway, probably to grab the bass guitar, and he agreed to come in and hear/discuss the situation.

As they were wrapping up (as usual, I was mostly an observer), he dropped some news: “Oh. Me and [two band members] and [other friends] are going to rent a house in town together, starting this weekend. I can walk to school.”

This could actually work out, since he has a job (landscaping, J got him on) that doesn’t have a problem working around his classes and pays reasonably well for the skill levels involved. It would also solve the Snippet problem; she’s been bouncing around and ended up here a couple nights. Funny: he told her today that she needed to stop dinking around and get a job. She’s helping Big V with her horses at the moment, but that pays in rides.

So things could once again get a little quiet around here. Sasquatch comes by pretty often, but he’s here as much to help with the chickens as to see Daughter Dearest… or maybe the one gets him the other. He’s also quiet (except when he’s being klutzy) and not looking for trouble.

Getting a Little Behind

…unfortunately, just in my reading. :-P

I have in my queue, in order:

July 2008 issue of Asimov’s

Kelly McCullough’s CodeSpell (3rd book; WebMage and Cybermancy are fantastic, go get ’em if you haven’t already)

A double-preview booklet: one side is Maria Lima’s Blood Bargain (the sequel to Matters of the Blood, which was pretty darn good even if it’s half romance :-) — the other side is a preview of Brimstone Kiss by Carole Nelson Douglas (new author to me). If you could judge a book by its cover, I’d be… well, never mind what I’d be doing.

And that’s just pleasure reading. For work, I have a 180-page spec and an article about DITA to read. The latter is sort of optional; consultants (who make big $$$ off support packages for complex XML systems) think it’s the Second Coming of Something or Other but I don’t see what it can do that I can’t do at least as well with groff and some scripts.

And… I have a FAR Future episode to get done this week. Read or write? Tough decision sometimes.

Flowers of FAR Manor: Thistle

To follow up on the alien onion, until I have something else to talk about, I will post pictures of the flowers currently blooming around FAR Manor this week.

This thistle was actually in the pasture on the way to the chicken houses. It’s kind of like a rose — it has pretty flowers and nasty thorns — but as Mrs. Fetched puts it: “Cows won’t try to eat roses. They’ll eat thistles, and choke on ’em. You should have sprayed it after you took that picture.”

I suppose I could have peed on it.

[Taken with the smellphone, 5/31]

FAR Future, Episode 35: Spring is Sprung

Friday, March 28, 2014
Spring is Sprung

And not a moment too soon. Winter came in early and hard, then showed signs of leaving early. It’s been nice for the last week or so now. Spring might be here, but the population of FAR Manor has continued to grow even before we’ve had a chance to start planting. Besides Kim and Serena, Guillermo and his family are the newest inmates at the free-range insane asylum. He and his son Rene came walking up the driveway one rainy afternoon last week. The kid acted as translator; Guillermo can carry on limited conversations in English, but didn’t want a misunderstanding (and I’m sure there was some strategic value in having a kid front for you). I found that I had an unexpected ringer of my own, though: Kim heard the Spanish, came to the door, and started chattering with Rene… turns out he’s fairly good at it.

Guillermo and I both goggled at the boys, looked up, and grinned. He pointed through the woods. “Cows… are yours?”

“Mi familia,” I said. We both laughed, Guillermo prodded his son and said something.

“We need a place to live,” he said. “We can work for it.” I looked at Kim, who nodded.

I kind of figured that, I thought to myself. “Is it just you two?”

“No. My Mother and sister are in the truck.”

“Bring them. We should all talk.” Rene went back to get the others, and I sent Kim to tell Mrs. Fetched what was going on.

We gathered around the dining table, including the kids. Serena’s Spanish isn’t nearly as good as Kim’s, so the kids stuck with English except when translating. To my surprise, Mrs. Fetched was more receptive than I’d expected to adding to our collection — probably because her parents are getting too old to do much gardening or ranching. She peppered both adults with questions about being able to work a garden, tend to cattle, and so on, getting the answers we expected.

Finally she asked, “Why us?”

“We’ve been to four or five places already,” Rene said without waiting for his dad. “They all said no. Some of them said bad words.” Guillermo spoke up, and Rene continued: “We want to get back to Mexico, but we can’t buy enough gas to get us there. Besides, things may be bad here, but they’re even worse at home.”

“Really? I figured… well, there’s not so much to lose…”

Maria spoke up. “No petrol,” she said through Rene. “The government is giving the oil to the campesinos to grow food and get it to the cities. The rich get the rest. Everyone else…” She shrugged. “Our family at home said to stay here if we can.”

“You’ll have to learn English,” Mrs. Fetched said. “The kids will have to be in school, you know.”

“The parents nodded. “We have green cards,” Guillermo said. “They were in school in Gainesville.”

Just to be safe, I called around to verify what we’d been told and that there weren’t outstanding arrest warrants or other trouble, but everything came up clean. Guillermo takes care of the cattle; we got a horse from Big V and he’s a natural on horseback — he’s training the horse to deal with cattle, and is working with the in-laws’ new dog. Maria is helping Mrs. Fetched with the house.

The kids — all four of them — are in hog heaven. Until we were done using the insert last week, they all camped out in the living room and would whisper, giggle, and shush each other until one of the adults told them to settle down. Each night. Now that we’re past the coldest weather, we put them in the upstairs rooms. Girls in one, boys in the other, of course… but we hear them wandering back and forth at night and talking. Serena is picking up Spanish in a big hurry, and the kids are starting to use their own Spanglish dialect with each other. Through the day, when they’re not in school they’re helping out around the place. Daughter Dearest got the newest kids transferred in, and that was fairly easy because she just had to get the transcripts from next door, so to speak. They all meet the bus at 6:30 a.m., and they’re pretty good about letting me work when they get home.

It’s kind of nice, having some people around who are happy to be here and wanting to help. We had to plant a lot of extra stuff this year, but there were more people to help with the planting. In some ways, FAR Manor is really becoming a manor.

continued…

Some Sunday Musings

This plant kind of sums up my feelings about many events at FAR Manor: it came up in an odd place, nobody has any idea where it came from, cutting it down just seems to encourage it, and after a while you just want to sit back and see what it’s going to do.

To give an idea of the scale, the highest part is nearly six feet high. It sprang up from under the cross-ties between the driveway and the back yard, and it doesn’t look like anything else we’ve planted. The bulbs like of look like onions until they tear open, and it’s obvious that it’s some kind of flower.

Now that I’ve given up trying to kill it, I’m looking forward to seeing what it looks like when it opens up. It would be nice to know what it is, though. Help?

Speaking of weird things, The Boy had his first public performance last night. He’s officially part of the band after their concert last night, but they had him come along and do a solo piece by way of introduction. He wanted us to be there, we wanted to be there (and get video for his Myspace page), but as usual the chicken houses got in the way. He called just before he was to go up on stage, and Mrs. Fetched said he sounded really excited. He’s supposed to have an outing in the 'burbs later this month, so we’re going to go to it.

Chicken houses… what would a weekend be without them getting in the way? They’re bringing a new flock in tomorrow morning (as in, early tomorrow morning) and so there are certain things to be done to prepare. One of those is to run feed — and it would have really helped if they’d brought feed Friday night like they were supposed to instead of 5 p.m. yesterday. We managed to run feed through one last night (which is why The Boy had to perform without us), and everyone else is over there doing the other three now. Being the song leader at church sometimes has its advantages; I can’t just blow off church.

I’ve been needing to do some drill work, and Mrs. Fetched reclaimed the drill I put together when cleaning up the fireplace insert, so I’ve been needing to do something. Home Despot had a sale on Ryobi drills (with two batteries) for the same price as it would have cost to order a new battery online for my Skil, so I went ahead & got it. I hate doing that, but I can still get a Skil battery later.

Weekend Cinema

The Committee Of One enjoyed the Memorial Day weekend, and hopes that everyone found sufficient time and money to visit your local theater. But $8 for a ticket? That's like two gallons of gas! If you live a ways from the theater, you might as well sit back and watch a quick flick here on Weekend Cinema.

Speaking of gas prices, tonight’s selection takes a poke at what they’re doing to the economy at large, depicting the job market of the near future. So huddle together, wait for the boss to come by, and see who gets The Job.

[Note: This was going around in email for a while, with the credits and some of the beginning/ending cut off. This is the full version, as the producer intended. Whoever does these hack jobs… cut it out. Or stop cutting it out.]

Toodles, EJ!

EJ has found a job at a nursing home, close to his family, so he moved out. Unlike most of our boarders, this was a more amicable parting of ways. He’ll be back to visit The Boy, at least… if The Boy ever comes home, that is. I think he feels enough of an obligation toward Snippet that he’ll make sure she has a place to stay before coming back. Then again, if he finds her and him a place, he’ll just stay there until they wear out their welcome again.

Weirdest. Memorial Day. Ever.

[If you don’t revisit older posts, go back to the graduation post for a portrait and an amusing part of the ceremony I left out originally.

All is quiet at FAR Manor. I haven’t taken the screen tent down in the front yard, because I’ve decided I like sitting out there to unwind when I get home from work. I took the heavy lining out of my riding jacket (hooray!!) this morning, leaving the windbreaker lining in, and rode to work today. I had my rain suit, which certainly helped me dodge the 40% chance of rain that didn’t materialize (unless you count six drops as “rain”).

But I’m not here to talk about today. I’m here to talk about yesterday.

It started out normally (by normal people’s standards) enough: Mom and Wicked Stepfather came over for breakfast. I’d made cinnamon rolls the night before, and The Boy and Snippet were nowhere to be seen — I think they were camping out somewhere. Anyway, it was quiet, and we ate, plotted a route back to NC that wouldn’t take them through Atlanta (TomTom likes interstates, it seems), and talked a bit. And waited for The Boy to show up; he knew they would be here at 8:30. Of course, he didn’t (TB03, and the last of the family departed.

The Boy showed up a couple hours later, of course. With Snippet in tow, of course. Now, I neglected to mention something important: we called the phone number we had for Snippet’s mom, got a friend, and found that she was in Alabama of all places. Seems like she suddenly goes to Elsewheresville when she’s supposed to pick up her own kid. We gave the friend a message: “Snippet is now homeless, as far as I know. She’s worn out her welcome here, anyway, so she needs to come get the kid.” Of course, the mom-unit didn’t call us back… she called The Boy. So the two of them were fired up, words were exchanged, and Snippet lobbed the F-bomb at Mrs. Fetched.

Daughter Dearest, who had been sitting quietly in a recliner up to this point, suddenly entered the fray — making a beeline for Snippet. The Boy made a brave move, inserting himself between her and Snippet (who is about half DD’s size, by the way, and is a lot more girly than DD has been in many years) — as it was, DD knocked him backwards into Snippet. Mrs. Fetched and I intervened quickly to prevent things from getting out of hand.

Discussion time, although these rarely resolve anything. There’s something going on between Snippet and her mom that the former isn’t willing to admit, perhaps to herself. As for The Boy, he’s resenting the big party (including my side of the family) that Daughter Dearest got for her graduation and he didn’t get for his GED (“One. Measly. Dinner,” is how he described his celebration). He also dropped a TB09, blaming everything/everyone but himself for his situation, and I gently tried to explain to him that he would never start moving forward with his life until he started taking responsibility for his own actions. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t shake his head like he usually does when he wants to reject unpleasant input.

He left afterwards and hasn’t been back. Or maybe he has: all the lights were on in the detached garage, and I found my lip ring on my desk (where I leave my laptop). DD’s friend Sasquatch, who graduated with her, is looking for work and there’s always stuff needing to be done at the chicken houses. He’s going to ahem borrow the guest bedroom for a night or two, just to make sure Snippet doesn’t worm her way back in. As it turns out, that wasn’t necessary: The Boy is out working with the punk rock band he just joined and won’t be home tonight.

So DD celebrated her graduation (with our help).
The Boy celebrated joining an established band.
Mrs. Fetched celebrated her birthday.
I celebrate not having Snippet around.

FAR Future, Episode 34: Is This Thing On?

This scheduled-post thing is working pretty well, at least so far. I think it’s pure coincidence that I start talking about family while my family is around for Daughter Dearest’s (in real life) HS graduation this weekend. I wrote a lot of this before knowing when it would be posted, after all. :-)

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Monday, February 24, 2014
Is This Thing On?

Looks like the Net is back up, finally. We managed to survive the week, although I was starting to get a little loopy with Net-withdrawal this weekend. Mrs. Fetched managed her TV-withdrawal somewhat better. Working was difficult; I had to go in twice instead of once last week. I think we came pretty close to just shutting down work for the week, with the power going up & down all day. At least there was enough uptime to keep the laptop batteries charged. I’m not sure if the execs are keeping up with what’s going on down in the cube-farm or the shop floor, but if they are they’ll probably shut the place down if it happens again. The kids helped a lot — they’re into everything when they’re not at school, poking around and marveling at how nice it is to not have to wear their jackets in the house (including bed) — so I spent a lot of time introducing the new inmates to the free-range insane asylum. They’ve each had their first motorcycle ride, in 20-degree weather, and both were grinning around chattering teeth afterwards. Their favorite place in the house is the living room, even when the TV’s off, because it’s always warm in there. They’ll read, doodle, or write (Serena wants to write plays like Shakespeare, of all things) when the power’s off. They’re really good about getting firewood, too.

Over the weekend, I got the phone call I’d been expecting: they found the parents. The surprise (to me) was, one of them was still alive at the time. Someone caught them trying to steal gas in Atlanta, guns were drawn… then fired. The women stayed down, but it didn’t do them much good in the end.

The police interviewed the survivor (Kim’s mother, judging from the last name) at the hospital — she was able to tell her story before she lost consciousness for the last time:

We were sharing a house up north — [Serena’s family] moved in with us when their house caught fire. We ran out of firewood a few days ago, just at the wrong time… it was either leave or freeze to death. We’d been saving up gas in case it came to that, and we’d pooled about 30 gallons. We had 20 in the trunk, anyway, and we were hoping to make it to Sarasota. We knew we wouldn’t make it on what we had, but we had some ration coupons and we were counting on buying some along the way. That didn’t pan out too good.

We got to Georgia, and there was a blockage of some sort on I-75 around Dalton [turned out to have been a tanker hijacking gone wrong —Farf] so we headed east on 52, hoping to find a way south. We still couldn’t find anyone who would sell us some gas, and we decided we’d have to steal some. We dropped off the kids at some farm, in case there was trouble — I guess that turned out to be for the best — and found a highway going to Atlanta. You know the rest.

I asked the cop if there was going to be a funeral, and she said “We just cremate them. No marker. They’re at the morgue through Monday.” Something told me I should do something — after all, they’d left me their most valuable possessions — so I hopped the commute bus to the MARTA station and took the train downtown. I found the morgue, told them who I was and who I was there to see (off), and they led me to the right place. Much to my surprise, someone was already there — a black man, praying. He looked familiar, then I realized…

When he finished his prayer and looked up, I asked him, “Aren’t you The Prophet?”

He smiled. “Some call me that.”

“So why are you here?”

“The Lord has called me to minister to those forgotten of man, for He has not forgotten them. Did you know these unfortunates?”

“No. They dropped their kids off at my place, before… this.”

“Then the Lord has placed a great responsibility on your shoulders. But He does not give us a task without giving us the tools to accomplish it.”

I nodded. “The kids have actually been a big help this week. I just need to know if I should tell them about…” I gestured to the body bags.

“They must know the truth,” he said, “but not right away. If they ask, do not lie, though — the Lord abhors lying lips.”

“Right.” I pulled the pictures I’d taken of the kids out of my shirt pocket. “Here’s their pictures. I thought… I don’t know, I thought maybe I could tuck each one in their mom’s bag, but I don’t know which ones are which.”

The Prophet smiled and took the pictures. “Turn around. If asked, you can honestly say you saw nothing.” I did what he told me, and I heard quick zipping noises, the rustle of paper, and two more zips. “Done. Now join me here, and we will provide a poor service for these forgotten ones.” He went through a funeral sermon, I said a few words about the kids, and that was it.

“They came to a bad end,” I said, as we stepped into the warmer hallway.

“Truly. But we honor their lives the best we can. That is the highest calling of anyone.”

“At least their kids will be all right. As long as we are.”

“And that is the highest honor you can give their parents,” The Prophet said. He stopped me and put a hand on my shoulder. “May God bless you and keep you. We both have long roads ahead of us, and none of us are righteous, ‘no not one,’ but we can rely on our faith — and Whom we have put our faith in.

“Our nation will be broken like a potter breaks a faulty pot, and many will not live to see it restored. There will be war, and rumors of war, and neighbor will be pitted against neighbor. And there will be those who see that their neighbors want not, and there will be peace. But He will watch over you, as long as you remain under His loving gaze. Go forth, and show God to those who need Him most.” He turned away, leaving me gaping like a fish. I think I got it all down, what he said… I hope I did, anyway.

Then again, John remembered a whole book and wrote down his Revelation. If he could do that, surely I can remember a few paragraphs.

continued…

Daughter Dearest Graduates [UPDATED, new text & photo]

It’s been a long day (long week is more like it). Graduating class sizes are rapidly overrunning the facilities they have to put on graduation, so they’re trying different things. Some of them work less well than others.

For example, they had the ceremony outdoors. It’s still a little cool for late May, but “a little cool for late May” on Planet Georgia means 80 degrees and lots of sunlight (I took my little niece on her first motorcycle ride, and it was warm enough to ride without needing a jacket). Many of the grads were suffering from sunburn acquired earlier in the week during rehearsal. The sun was over the kids, so those of us in the stands got the brunt of it. Dad & I wore hats and thus did pretty well, but a lot of people were leaving as soon as their kids got their diploma… and some of them didn’t last that long. Mrs. Fetched and I were doing video from the stands, avoiding lens flare and dealing with a supercilious pair of geezers who are misrepresenting themselves as being “hired by the school” to do video. We’re getting everyone who usually wants video from us and then some, though.

The funny part was at the beginning, where the principal asked the audience to refrain from making excessive noises when their grad’s name was called. “This is a solemn occasion that deserves dignity.” Riiiiiiiiight. This is Planet Georgia: people are going to cheer for their kids because they know a lot of people (perhaps themselves) who didn’t get this far. A couple of the kids let their joy show through, in a couple mild displays of exuberance… only natural and none of them over the top.

The fun began after we got home — I fired up the grill and started in on the burgers & brats, the ladies had the side dishes prepared, and everyone went NOM NOM NOM. Other Brother brought some real beer (Hoegaarten), which tasted much better than the Bud Light I swiped from The Boy (who shouldn’t be buying beer anyway). DD’s friend Sasquatch also graduated and he (and his family) came to celebrate with us. Another graduate is a friend of The Boy’s, who also happens to be like a third cousin on his mom’s side; he came by but had left his cap & gown at home so I didn’t get a chance to get a pic of him.

All my family is heading home early tomorrow afternoon, and I get Monday to recover (maybe).

FAR Future, Episode 33: Starting Over. Sort Of.

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Wednesday, February 5, 2014
Starting Over. Sort Of.

I want to scream with rage. I want to weep a flood. But I don’t want to wake them up.

Jesus. Only You are going to be able to help me get through this.

I suppose I’d better explain. I’d been plotzing away at my job all day, out on the back porch to catch the breeze (unseasonably warm for this time of year, and after all the cold blasts we’ve had) and give the cats some company. I had a lot to do, and I was feeling really productive, so I hadn’t gotten up much except to grab water or the occasional bathroom break. But my 4pm walk time rolled around, and I got up to get my daily dash of exercise.

And found… two kids sitting under the mailbox. A boy and a girl, both maybe 7 or 8. Buster T. Butthead, who’s getting old but still loves kids and adults and everyone in between, was sitting between them and getting loved on. He gave me a big doggie grin. The kids just looked at me.

“Hey kids. What’s up?” I said after getting over my surprise and looking around for parents, whom I assumed would be nearby.

“Waiting on our parents,” the girl said. The boy just stared and nodded.

“Oh. How long have you been here?”

“Since this morning.”

Now I was really floored. “That long? Why here?”

“They said wait here, they’d go get some food and come back for us,” she explained. “But they didn’t come back. And we’re hungry.”

I sighed. “Give me two minutes.” I ran back to the house, grabbed a piece of paper and a pen, and wrote: Your kids are inside, I fed them. What the HELL were you thinking, you assholes? Then I ran back and caught a corner of the note in the mailbox so they could see it, told the kids it was a note for their parents telling them they were in the house, and led them up to the manor. I hadn’t realized they were each sitting on a bag, and in my confusion it didn’t register.

I had no reason to doubt the kids were lying, and the way they wolfed the sandwiches I made for them only confirmed it. Mrs. Fetched came up from the garden area out back, getting some turnip greens, and I had to explain the situation all over again (leaving out the exact wording of the note to not disturb her or the kids). She agreed to keep an eye on them, while I took the phone outside and called the sheriff’s office.

“You’re not the first,” the dispatcher told me. “If we find their parents at all, they’ll probably be dead. They’re coming from up north, dropping off their kids at farms, and moving on to die.”

“What? But what do I do with them? I don’t have custody or anything—”

“I’ll put you through to DFACS. They’re keeping this quiet, but if you don’t object they’ll assign you as a permanent guardian.”

Sure enough, DFACS took names and original addresses — I went back inside, to find Mrs. Fetched had already taken care of that oversight — then registered them as wards under our custody. We’re supposed to get paperwork to sign, probably on Friday. They’ll have the kids’ SSNs, copies of birth certificates, and anything else that might be useful later on.

Mrs. Fetched thinks I’m being callous about the kids. I’m not. I’m 55, and hadn’t planned on raising kids again, but lots of people older than me have had to raise their grandchildren. I’m just worked up at the thought of people dropping off their kids in front of a complete stranger’s house, like a litter of puppies — even if they’re doing what’s best for them. I don’t want them to let their kids die off too but good God! What’s this country coming to?

The kids aren’t brother & sister, but they were neighbors and the two families knew each other. I called the cop-shop again, giving them the parents’ names and addresses (they came from near Racine, Wisconsin, almost directly across Lake Michigan from where I grew up), and they said they’d keep the info in case they needed it. I suspect a hunter will find the abandoned car soon, and maybe the bodies later on. Nobody’s off searching for them. Kim is the boy, and Serena is the girl. Daughter Dearest is going to pull a few strings to get them transferred to the school in town (they’ll start next week). Mrs. Fetched told them a comfortable load of bull — she said their parents had called and asked if we could keep them for a “little while” — then put them to work in the garden. They seem happy to help, although I think they know what’s really going on and don’t want to admit it.

I went and got my note off the mailbox, and tried to get back to work. Needless to say, this put a big ol’ hole right through the middle of my productivity. At least I was mostly done for the day.

Look on the bright side, Farf: they won’t be teenagers for five or six years.

continued…