Today some “new locals” of my old hometown appear on TV declaring the “squishy footprint in the mud”, must be a Bigfoot premise. “Oh look, some indistinct, impressions in the mud, must be Bigfoot”, and the cameras roll and the weirdoes with torches come out with the night vision video, chortling like a stuck wombat and sniffing for the smell of excrement…please! They see NOTHING! They find NOTHING! Yet we pay a good deal of our income on a bundled package that contains this pabulum.

What is worse, are the desperate for companionship folks, creating face book sites and asking other people (also without lives) to contribute more outlandish rumors and innuendo, proving they are now authorities. If you want the truth, you put away your cameras, take off your camouflage, turn off the night vision and try to listen and learn.

Growing up we lived near the “end of the line”. Yes, I know that today there is a thriving metropolis built all around my old home site, BUT try to go back 55 years ago…we lived at the end of the line. There was more forest and acres of empty woodlands than there were miles on the Mississippi. IF a car came on our street, we all ran out because the person was “lost” and needed help. NO cars drove by at night. The local bus company was just establishing itself after transitioning from trolleys a decade before and the huge wooden garage was not only the “end of the line”, but next to our house.

I was just eight years old and not the most obedient son. I was told not to “wander”; I was scolded when I did. Several times my journeys resulted in applications of “tough love” by my parents. (Things were different then, when you went to school with bruises it was understood you had done something wrong that brought the wrath upon you). Anyway, I was told to “stay in the neighborhood”. There was nothing to “stay” to unless you enjoyed playing with sticks or chucking stones at squirrels. So I wandered.

One end of the street led to (what else) a forest that stretched for miles, bisected only by Route 2 (two lanes back then!). True, there was Abbott Avenue, but 55 years ago that was largely undeveloped and crossed Route 2 (at a stop sign, no less!) only to disappear into more forests. The opposite end of our street was T-boned by Route 12 (dangerous then for the “milk trucks” from Vermont), and meandered onto Battles Street (mostly a dirt paved road).

I decided one day in the late spring of 1956 to “wander” down Battles Street. Crossing the road was no big deal (in those times we walked to the grocery store on our own). Quickly the asphalt gave way to a rutted path that itself turned grass covered and choked with Sumac and scrub brush. I remember there was a small stream and actually a wood-planked bridge that was as shaky as anything I had walked upon. The day was cool, the reminder of winter, but with a promising sun. The bridge opened to the “wrong end” of Blueberry Lane, nothing more than a dirt road through the dense scrub brush that circled one end of the airport. Secluded was not a strong enough word to describe that area. In todays’ speak; “Uber-secluded” would be more like it. This was the type of place I could “enjoy” exploring. I had not walked more than fifty feet down the path when I heard movement in the brush. Panic mode set in because there was no way I was supposed to be here, no one knew I was here and what kind of wild beast was going to meet me. I froze and crouched beside a dense sumac tree.

Suffice to say an animal, (a beast really) walking erect and tall, covered in what I thought was matted brown “hair” sauntered out of the thicket, paused for the briefest instant in the path and then plunged into the brush on the other side. I wanted to believe bear, or grizzly, but the arms and legs were too long and swung casually as it walked. I waited for a few seconds and then skulked back to the bridge and eventually home. Lucky for me I had developed a keen sense of when to “keep my mouth shut”. The last thing I wanted to do was to bring attention to my disobedience, knowing that the full wrath would be upon me. Therefore, I kept the memory to myself and as I grew older and I learned more about the ways of the forest, I was able to rationalize that what I had seen was special and privileged, not the stuff of freak shows.

Unfortunately I did not have my Super 8 movie camera with me at the time, (I am not sure we were up to the number 8 yet, maybe a 4 or 5). Nor did I have my trusted witness-friends with me, or my “reactive dog”, or anything to prove anything, but I was glad of that for I feared the wrath more than I would enjoy the notoriety of blabbering about a “monster”. (Twenty-five years later, I encountered a small black bear on one of my fishing trips. My startled response had been to scream which sent both of us off in opposite directions in the woods. I remembered my earlier encounter with the beast of Blueberry lane and knew that I had NOT seen a bear, but something more primitive.)

Later, people would claim there was “monster” in ANOTHER part of town, but since they usually described it more as “noises and howling”, or “rushing around”, I doubted if it was the same creature. Bear or wildcat was what they described and although the geniuses “KNEW” there are no Mountain Lions in Massachusetts, it could not be a Mountain Lion, because the geniuses have said so. In any event, there were other sightings on Blueberry Lane of a “creature” in later years, but it was never threatening or fierce. Note that I did not say it was not menacing, there is a difference.

I do not think the beast lived in such a confined space (despite the seclusion); I really think the beast I saw was foraging. If I had to guess where it (or its clan) lived, I would put it on the West side of Route 2, in the hills and forests that even today remain largely undeveloped. Personal speculation aside, I sought no notice then and really have nothing to contribute to the modern frenzy except an unsubstantiated memory. When the nighttime chortling torchbearers invade the forest, they must appear just as strange to the creature as the creature appears to us.

Did I see the beast again? I saw many strange things during my years of wanderings, but I have no desire to become a “balloon boy”, or a pandering “expert” on squishy imprints in the mud, nor a nighttime chortler with a torch. I prefer to be my own person, if you want to know the truth talk to me direct and turn off the night vision goggles…

Each time I need to see a doctor, have a medical test or use my “Health Insurance?” I am certain I have been fed a Quetzalacatenango. As part of my retirement sentence (sorry I meant “plan”, plan), I have Health Insurance offered to me through the City, administered by one of those “National Plan” administrators: pink heart, yellow moon, orange star, green clover, blue diamond, purple horseshoe, red balloon, rainbow, pot of gold, hourglass, one of those. It seems the plan is only “useable” for retirees within the city limits! Wait; there is an insanity behind this madness. Retirees are expected to live within the city they worked for, and only use doctors in the city. This is part of the “Keep the money in the city” philosophy. Brilliant! It’s “tougheroo” if you live outside the City or (wait for it), retire and move to another state as I did. If you leave the city AND the state you get the Quetzalacatenango each time you submit a claim. Here’s how it goes so sit down and try to follow:

1. You MUST have a PCP (Personal Care Physician) from the “select list” or nothing at all is covered.
2. You must get a referral from your PCP AT ALL TIMES, FOR EVERYTHING before you go to the doctor/hospital or nothing is covered.
3. If you are out of the city/state you are “Out of Plan”, and you are covered @ 80% ONLY IF you go to a facility or physician that is ALSO administered by the: pink heart, yellow moon, orange star, green clover, blue diamond, purple horseshoe, red balloon, rainbow, pot of gold, hourglass, company.

As luck would have it, for the first six months of my retirement in Pennsylvania, I had a Massachusetts PCP and I worked “around” the system. Each claim I had was processed as: “Out of Plan Area/No Referral Given by PCP,” because I lived in Pennsylvania and my Massachusetts PCP could not be expected to refer me to a doctor in Pennsylvania.

Then, as luck would have it my Massachusetts doctor retired. That was very bad for me, I had no Massachusetts PCP! The system completely broke down.

I understand the folks in Washington D.C. are going to fix some of this “Health Care Confusion” but I also heard that the City people have asked for an exemption to the law because they want to keep that retiree money in the City. Merciless Pepper of Quetzalacatenango anyone?

Anyway, to make a short story longer I battled the City mightily for many months, 200 phone calls to hell, 12 letters to “Form Purgatory” and finally a dozen angry emails. Then, it hit me, why fight the system? I will just pick “J. Random Doctor” from the Massachusetts list, and (DESPITE THE FACT I PHYSICALLY LIVE IN PENNSYLVANIA), problem solved. I did it, I picked a doctor from the list…birds sang, clouds parted and the sun shone brightly upon my countenance.

I have my health insurance back. It is not 100% because I continue to live in Pennsylvania…but it is alive! It is alive!

Maybe the City will discover I have moved to Pennsylvania (They might even READ their own mailing labels), or maybe they will continue to think I am on some type of extended “vacation” in Pennsylvania. Either way it is a “heck” of a way to run a retirement plan (lucky I did not move to Florida or Ohio). Certainly, someone has been eating the Insanity peppers. Someone…

The infamous “SECOND” event was even more charming. I have been to that very orchard at least six times. It is a “HUGE” orchard, but the signs and rope barriers tend to keep reasonable people in confined areas. What actually happened here has happened to every family of “apple-pickers” since Eve and Adam had the first “Orchard incident.”

There is some type of irrational mania that grips that average apple picker (again attributed to our biblical roots), that the apples in the trees BEYOND the ropes are better than the apples we are ALLOWED to pick. Who knows what genetically mutant apples lay beyond the barricades? Probably the farmers are growing special “Aphrodisiac Apples” that they are saving for those long, lonely New England winter nights. On the other hand, perhaps the apples contain certain nutrients found only “beyond the yellow ropes.” All I know is that once you go beyond the line of sight of the main road in any orchard the trees go on and on for acres and everywhere you turn looks like, “more trees.” How does the farmer get around? The farmer pays attention to where he/she is going. As the farmer travels the “back forty” the farmer notices which way the shadows are falling. The farmer remembers whether the tractor was climbing, or descending. The farmer look for land marks, BIG land marks. Not stumps and rocks, but a relative position to the valley below, or to a peak to the west. The farmer turns around and looks behind. What would it look like if you were going that way – back to the farmhouse? The average citizen has lost these fundamental survival skills – Lost them to a world of GPS and arrogance. Nevertheless, there is still hope for some of us when we are beyond the ropes. In certain cases, you do not have to be as smart as a farmer. Let us say you are a squirrel. Squirrels generally do not get “lost,” because when squirrels mark their territory, they know their exact smell, so they can always find where they were, but squirrels do not get “lost”. That means you would need to stop every so often and “mark your path” with a distinctive smell.

Pickers who go beyond the ropes are driven by a madness for those “special apples.” When the sun starts to set and they are somehow in the next (uncharted) county, panic sets in. Panic is a state of mind that some of us recognize and others deny. Here is an example of two people, one who knows the truth and the other who denies the truth: “…These are hardly reasons to panic, David. The pitching staff is a problem, but it is one that should be of more concern in October, against the best of the American League, than in September, against the Orioles and Blue Jays, with a 3.5 game lead. As long as the rotation can keep you in games, your best bet is to relax and play baseball. It’s no accident your team has made it this far…” (“No need for Red Sox to panic yet” by Andrew Mooney September 13, 2011, Stats Driven A Deeper Look at the Game). Following the sage temperament of the average Red Sox fan, the two “pickers” in the second occurrence blithely went about trying to find their way out of their predicament, because there was “no need to panic.” I am reminded of the Twilight Zone episode when the astronauts landed in the desert and did not realize they were only a few hundred yards from civilization because they DID NOT WALK FAR ENOUGH. The apple orchard in question is finite in scope. These two pickers must have been going in circles for hours, circling, circling but never definitively finding the path to take. They called the farm “office,” but Jed and Ellie had already gone home for the evening and that there blue Mercedes in the parking lot all alone, “shoot,” probably a dead battery. The local police wanted nothing to do with them (more than likely they were laughing so hard they were afraid of a lawsuit), so they said “Call the State Police” and they can find you. The State Police said OMG all units, another “Lost in Space” event! Fortunately, the pickers were rescued and there will be a “heroes of the orchard award ceremony” during halftime of the Thanksgiving day football game.

What the pickers had not considered was that the farmer followed them to their house with a scale to weigh the apples that they failed to pay for the day before. NO ONE gets “free apples,” those days are gone!

To become a bagger today requires on-line skills (and of course, the appropriate version of Adobe to view the job application files, which cannot be filled out on-line if the store IT person does not know how to do forms). For the sake of discussion, let us assume that the form can be filled out on-line. Oh, what joy!

First page: Name, address, phone number, social security number, “25-digit zip code plus with mail routing number” (absolutely necessary for any bagger), signature lines for your signature that you understand you must fill out each section or write a 500 word essay proving why that section is not applicable to you.

Second page: Records of convictions/felonies and sex offenses, restraining orders, parole officer contact information, citizenship, passport ID, bad habits and number of weeks since your last perfect confession.

Third page: Former aliases, past addresses, High School contacts including Principal and Guidance Office (both are deceased in my case), and six employed references not related to you who will be able to attest as to your work skills.

Fourth page: Complete work history (this is a problem, since many of the places I have worked for in the past 47 years have gone out of business (remember DEC?), person to contact at each of your former jobs, phone numbers, detailed salary history, whether or not you were fired or promoted (or considered for promotion), did you take long walks at lunch (?), smoke or mate during breaks.

Fifth page: Educational advancement, professional licenses (fishing and driver’s licenses do not count), publications and honors, veteran’s status (were you in ‘Nam or a war we won?-supermarkets prefer heroes).

Sixth page: Consists entirely of boilerplate paragraphs in 6-point type, concerning disability, oaths to the truth, anti-discrimination practices, race and gender preferences, sign each line separately.

Seventh page: Additional information, such as your understanding that the hours you may want to work are not the hours you will be working and that any request on your part to have set working hours will result in your immediate dismissal with prejudice.

At this point you may attach a transcript and resume of your creation to the application, but only with the understanding that whatever is written on the store application is considered first. (Sign it.) Print the form, sign the form using blue ink only, scan the form into a PDF file and return the form along with your attachments via Email to the requesting party, at which time the information is given to hackers to disseminate to the world.

Nothing comes of it of course. Your application is relegated into the depths and you never hear another word. I suppose it is better that way, we do not have to hear from anyone that we are too demanding to ask for “mornings only”, or “no weekends”. (Realize the raw power of the manager to control the lives of the employees – one of the great job perks).

Of course that was for a simple part time position. When it comes to filling a job advertised in the “Help Wanted” or popular job search web site, things get “weird”. The applications require at least 1 GB of free disk space, cookies enabled, pop-ups enabled (how else are you going to view all the ads thrown at you?), 512 Mb of free memory and the latest web browser. There are streaming ads and infomercials in the margins, all while you try to maneuver through the maze of mundane information requests necessary to complete the forms. (STOP! You have failed to include the entrée selection that was served at your parent’s wedding reception).

These employers cannot be serious. They have no concept of how to use the tools of the internet. It is no wonder they have difficulty filling positions, if a bagger in a supermarket cannot get a job with a seven-page application, what hope is there for the “rest of us”?

 I apologize to him for adapting it to the “current situation”…
 

Your BoSox don’t love you any more… Golden days before they end
Whisper secrets to the wind
Your BoSox won’t win it this year…
Tender nights before they fly
Send falling balls that seem to cry

Your BoSox won’t win any more

It’s over…
It breaks your heart in two, to know they’ve been untrue
But, oh what will you do? When they show you
There’s nothing new they’re through they’re through

It’s over! It’s over! It’s over!

All the rainbows in the sky

Start to weep, then say goodbye
You won’t be seeing pennants any more
Setting suns before they fall, Echo to you that’s all that’s all
But you’ll see lonely sunsets after all

It’s over! It’s over! It’s over! It’s over!

I may not know anything about coaching a team, but I have been married for 38 ½ years and I understand passion. Everyone needs passion in the right proportion and the right moment. Do not confuse passion with fanaticism. Fanaticism is painting your body green and yellow, wearing plastic cheese wedges on your head and screaming until you puke. Fanaticism is building the false aura around yourself that what you say is the “Will of GOD”, and you are righteous in your excoriation of your opponent. Passion however, (quoting from Wikipedia): “…Passion (from the Ancient Greek verb πάσχω (paskho) meaning to suffer or to endure) is an emotion applied to a very strong feeling about a person or thing. Passion is an intense emotion, compelling feeling, enthusiasm, or desire for something. The term is also often applied to a lively or eager interest in or admiration for a proposal, cause, or activity or love. Passion can be expressed as a feeling of unusual excitement, enthusiasm or compelling emotion towards a subject, idea, person, or object. A person is said to have a passion for something when he has a strong positive affinity for it. A love for something and a passion for something are often used synonymously…”

When you have passion, you know it. Speaking from personal experience, passion can help you “do your best”. People say they are passionate about many things: lovemaking, art, music, poetry. The passion they feel helps them express the best of themselves and enhances their performance. The opposite of the passionate person would be the “Eeyore” personality from Winnie-the-Pooh. Eeyore is generally characterized as a pessimistic, gloomy, depressed, old grey stuffed donkey who is a friend of the title character, Winnie-the-Pooh. The coach I know is Eeyore, always downplaying everything as if it is no big deal – great.

I remember a movie that best illustrates Passion, “Glory” with Matthew Broderick. “Glory” is a drama war film based on the 54^th Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry, as told from the point of view of Colonel Robert Gould Shaw, its commanding officer during the American Civil War. The 54^th regiment was one of the first formal units of the United States Army to be made up entirely of African American men. One of the characters, Jupiter Sharts, prays aloud; “…Tomorrow we goes into battle, so Lordy, let me fight with the rifle in one hand, and the Good Book in the other. So that if I may die at the muzzle of the rifle… die on water, or on land, I may know that you blessed Jesus almighty are with me… and I have no fear…” That is passion! (And it made me cry when I heard it expressed that way).

I want my team to feel that type of passion, to express that humble understanding that together they will conquer the odds. I want my coach to instill that type of passion in his team. I do not want a “wet blanket, anal-retentive tantrum” from the coach. I want the coach to sound like the Animal House character, “…’Over’? Did you say ‘over’? Nothing is over until we decide it is! Was it over when the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor? Hell, no! …” I want the coach to get to the microphone and say, “…And it ain’t over now. ‘Cause when the goin’ gets tough…the tough get goin’! Who’s with me? Let’s go! …” I want the coach to run out, alone; then return to the podium.

Reality says that is not going to happen. The team is stuck with a tepid approach to a physically brutal sport. Staring and petulance is not going to motivate anyone to launch their body into pain.

I’m glad it was “one and out” for the old team. I don’t want to get too riled up, or excited, or passionate. I repress my passion, just like the coach, push it way down inside, so that it becomes useless to me. Just let me study…the…depth…ch…SNORGGLE…SNORE…

In the words of Joe Blutarsky: “… What the #$%@ happened to the Delta I used to know? Where’s the spirit? Where’s the guts, huh? This could be the greatest night of our lives, but you’re gonna let it be the worst! “Ooh, we’re afraid to go with you Bluto, we might get in trouble.” Well, just kiss my a*# from now on! Not me! I’m not gonna take this! Wormer, he’s a dead man! Marmalard, dead! Niedermeyer…”

Here are a few short paragraphs to get started: Yesterday I went to the Pharmacy (The connotation “Drug Store” is sooo seedy), and purchased a gigantic bottle of “Senior Multi-vitamins”. We had been using the “regular” multi-vitamins, but my wife says we are older now. Anyway, I noticed as I was dispensing the vitamins that the “Senior Vitamins” were gray in color (how appropriate) whereas the “Other vitamins” were pink in color. I spent some time thinking about the meaning of this and the only thing I could conclude was that the “Gray Vitamins” would make you older and the “Pink Vitamins” would make you younger, at least from a color perspective.

Next is the problem my “New State” has with snow. For the first 62 years of my life, I lived in Massachusetts. I know snow! 2 > 4 inches is “broom snow”, 5 > 8 inches is “Maybe we wait and let the sun take care of it” (depending on the “freeze factor”) and anything over 8″ is time for the snow blower. In “New State” the mention of “Flurries” is enough cause for posting “alternative dates” (Fancy words for cancellations). Come on people! If you observe the first flurries of the year, you will notice that the snow itself cannot make up its mind. Ever watch a snowflake fall on the sidewalk and “drill” itself into the pavement? Is it snow or rain? Rain or snow… The first flakes are nothing! Yet here it is, a Wednesday, and the words “Chance of a few flakes outside the city” for Saturday, have sent the township into a cold sweat.

Part of the issue is that the drivers here do not respect the fine points of Aggressive Driving 101. At least in Massachusetts I could depend upon fanatical drivers to skid, swerve, not stop, or change lanes at random, all with a nice sense of rage. Here, I am not certain what goes on. Let me give you the example of the traffic light. Massachusetts (if the driver stopped at a red light), the light changes to green and cars MOVE OUT! (I am certain that the reason for that is most Massachusetts drivers were secretly born as Street Drag Race Car drivers). At a stop light in “New State” we all politely stop, the light changes to green and the lead cars ponder what this means…should I go? Yes, their brains say, they start out slowly, but realize they really should be turning left from the farmost right lane and begin a slow diagonal cut across the road, at say a 9-degree angle. Slowly, and cautiously until the light turns yellow at which time they freeze into position (A lot like musical chairs). Nobody moves, they spend time thinking about it. Some might say that it is a good thing to have a slower pace, until they find themselves being sandwiched by a car “drifting” across lanes…slowly. I think it is an alertness issue caused by the WaWa coffee.

Of course, what fun is it without the “Farm Vehicle” mentality? That occurs when a person who normally drives farm vehicles gets in the family car and drives it like a tractor or harvester. Let’s see, I need 8 foot clearance on the right, 6 foot clearance on the left, 3 miles per hour, super wide turns (wider that a Supertanker needs on the open ocean), and NO SIGNALS, EVER!

I do appreciate the livestock haulers. Did you know that the large livestock trucks have two levels for cows? Yep! There is a ramp between levels and the cows are “doubled up”. Pigs are “triple-leveled” and of course, chickens are crammed into every available inch of space. The full trucks are interesting, you can hear the cows and pigs grunting and making noises as they are driven down the main streets. There is little indication they have a clue that it is their last ride anywhere. The empty trucks are a bit scary because they appear more cavernous without the animals and the rattle and creak without the weight to hold the planks in place. When you see an “empty”, you know your bacon will be fresh.

The other night there was a huge dairy barn fire. Farmers here do not believe in modern day fire detection. They rely on the lonesome driver who, at 1 AM spots a red column of smoke and decides to investigate. Works every time. I was told that the farmer cannot afford to have sprinklers and smoke alarms in their barns as it would cost “too much”. I just wonder what it costs to replace a barn, 30 tons of feed and 60 dairy cows. It must be less than a smoke alarm…

My wife is yelling at the TV, something about the President “not answering the questions”, so I’m going to take care of that…C U soon!

Just got back from getting my mail – we have our own little “drop off” station here. It seems funny now, as I look back to the ‘early days” of understanding our mail system here in New Town. Do you recall the Chevy Chase movie “Funny Farm”? The “new people” had to deal with a crazy mail carrier who flies past their lane, throwing their mail out into the road every day. It was not quite that bad for us, but it was “bad”.

It all started when the previous homeowner gave us the keys to our mailbox. “What number is the mailbox?” we asked. The person was not certain what number. It could have been six or seven. That is fine, how hard can it be to find out? It can be very difficult indeed! When we walked to the mailboxes we found three sets of mailboxes, each set numbered one through 16. (See the picture?) So there we were trying our keys in each of the number six and number seven boxes…nothing opened. There were no house addresses on the boxes (THAT would make sense), just numbers.

We decided to wait until the mail was delivered and ask the carrier, surely they would know where our mail was deposited. We waited…No one is on any sort of schedule in New Town, stuff just “happens”. A few days later, we happened to see the mail truck drive into the development. We dashed across lawns and yards to intercept.

“I’m not the regular carrier”, the driver said. “Larry, he’s your regular carrier. He went north to participate in the summer eggplant festival in Axe. They have both male and female eggplants on display.”

“Really? There are male and female eggplants?” I said (getting off track was easy in New Town, especially with the gravity warp and all).

“My mother told me that male eggplants tend to have fewer seeds, and are less bitter than female eggplants. She said to sex an eggplant, look at the indentation at bottom. If it is deep and shaped like a dash, it is a female. If it’s shallow and round, it’s a male.”

I felt like slowly backing away and finding some “cover”. “We cannot find our mailbox”, I said.

“What’s your address?” I gave the house number and the carrier produced a three-ring binder, flipped through it and showed me a matrix that correlated the house address with the box numbers and partitions. We were box #5 in the third partition. Sure enough, when I opened the box it was “stuffed” with letters. I also noticed that on the bottom of that box the mail carrier had taped an address card with our names and house address. (Now, why couldn’t that be visible to the world?)

“Thank you”, I said considering the problem solved.

“Wait one minute; I need to give you instructions on the outgoing mail.” The carrier positioned himself in front of the middle row of boxes and pointed to the letter slot. “Always use this one”, he continued, “Larry does not want to be looking in three places for the Outgoing”.

On closer examination I could see that the middle row mail slot was crudely labeled with a marker “This One” and the other two slots were marked “No”. I also wondered how many letters were in “Limbo” in the two “No” slots because absent-minded people (or visitors) simply assumed they were valid repositories.

“That is quite a system you have”, I said.

“We need to save time, you know, they are always cutting us back and such”, the carrier seemed to have a darker tone in his voice.

“OK, well, thank you for your time and we will see you around.”

“I’m not the regular carrier”, the driver said. “Larry, he’s your regular carrier. He went north to participate in the summer eggplant festival in Axe. They have both male and female eggplants on display.”

“Yes, I know…” There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man’s fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area we call The Twilight Zone. (Sorry Rod, I had to do it).

Let’s get down to the next episode. When we last left our warriors they had a house, but no needed to face the dreaded Motor Vehicle monster.

Rhetorical Question: How difficult can it be to get a driver’s license in a mew state?

“…New residents of New State who hold a valid driver’s license from another state in the United States must get a New State Driver’s License within 60 days after moving to New State and surrender their out-of-state driver’s license and/or ID card.

If you are a new resident of New State and your prior state’s driver’s license has been expired for more than six months or you do not possess your prior state’s driver’s license you will be required to apply for a New State Learner’s Permit and take the Vision, Knowledge and Road Tests.

New residents of New State who hold a valid driver’s license from Puerto Rico or a U.S. territory or possession may transfer their valid driver’s license to a New State Non-Commercial Driver’s License.

If you are under the age of 18 and are a new resident of New State, you will need to show: one form of identification from List A, your Social Security Card, and your out-of-state driver’s license and/or ID Card.

If you are 18 years of age or older and you are a new resident of New State, you will need to show: one form of identification from List A, two forms of proof of residency from List B, your Social Security Card, and your out-of-state driver’s license and/or ID Card.

LIST A:
Acceptable Forms of Identification for U.S. Citizens:

• Birth Certificate with raised seal (U.S. issued by an authorized government agency, including U.S. territories or Puerto Rico. Non-U.S. Birth Certificates will not be accepted.)
• Certificate of U.S. Citizenship (INS Form N-560)
• Certificate of Naturalization (INS Form N-550 or N-570)
• Valid U.S. Passport NOTE: Only valid Passports and original documents will be accepted. If the name on your original document differs from your current name, you must provide documentation that connects the names, such as an original Marriage Certificate, Divorce Decree, or Court Order document.

LIST B:
PLEASE NOTE: All documents must show the same name and date of birth, or an association between the information on the documents. Additional documentation may be required if a connection between documents cannot be established (e.g. Marriage Certificate, Court Order of name change, Divorce Decree, etc.)

• Current W-2 Form (New residents or retirees don’t have these yet!)
• Current Weapons Permit (Odd, that this would be acceptable, but such are the rules in New State)
• Current Utility Bills (water, gas, electric, cable, etc.) NOTE: For Current Utility Bills: Cellular/Mobile or Pager Bills are not acceptable. If you reside with someone, and have no bills in your name, you will still need to provide two proofs of residency. One proof is to bring the person with whom you reside along with their Driver’s License or Photo ID to the Driver License Center.
  (Realize how difficult this must be if NO ONE has a New State License yet)! You will also need to provide a second proof of residency such as official mail (bank statement, tax notice, magazine etc.) that has your name and address on it. (NO – you cannot use the mailer that says “Resident”). The address must match that of the person with whom you reside. (Unless you live alone, in that case there is no hope for you)!
• Tax Records (These are documents you want to share with an RMV clerk).
• Lease Agreements
• Mortgage Documents…”

Meeting all these requirements does not (actually) allow you to get a new license. You get a “faux” license: “…To mitigate the risk for fraud, including identity theft, New State DOT issues temporary driver’s licenses and photo identification cards, which are valid for 15 days, to individuals who have never held a New State driver’s license or photo ID, i.e. new drivers, new photo ID card holders and new residents. During that 15-day period, New State DOT utilizes state-of-the-art facial recognition technology, FaceEXPLORER; to validate the individual’s photograph does not match another photograph in our database under a different name(s). The temporary DL/photo ID card looks the same as the current DL/photo ID card, except the blue and yellow banners are gray, the word “temporary” is printed in red across the front and the expiry date is outlined in red. The product can be used by any business to validate name, age, address, etc., just as a permanent DL/Photo ID card…” Police officers have not been informed of this unique method of identification and are likely to ask you to “sit in the cruiser”, while they try to sort out your records, which have not yet been entered into any system because the clerks are “busy”. As far as identification, there is a 50/50 chance that the storeowner/banker will call the police who will – ask you to “sit in the cruiser”, while they try to sort out your records, which have not yet been entered into any system because the clerks are “busy”.

Let me explain that New State maintains the ancient and honorable “Barbaric Motor Vehicle Method” for licensing. Although the “Barbaric Motor Vehicle Method” (BMVM for short), has been portrayed hundreds of times in cartoon and comedy sketches, it is necessary to note that it is REAL and even more terrifying when you must endure it on a 90 degree day. In my case, there were five “positions” for clerks, but only two were being used at any one time. One clerk seemed to be processing applicants, while the other clerk sighed deeply and shuffled piles of papers until it was “break time”, when that clerk disappeared and the first clerk stopped processing applicants and sighed deeply, until a “new” clerk appeared to process applications. This rotating “shuffle” continued ad nauseum as the small room continually filled with applicants who could not find seats and begin to attach themselves to the walls and ceilings.

Having met the documentation requirements (it only took 3 hours to reach that point), I was promptly sent to another building to have a photo taken. That building had a bigger room, and it was needed because there was one and only one photo station. Fortunately, there were only 87 applicants left over from the night before and combined with today’s 163 applicants, I wasted four more hours of my life.

It was growing dark when I finally left the complex, but at least I had a temporary driver’s license…

Several family members and friends have driven “by” my old homestead, to see how the new owners are doing. (OK, so they are nosey friends! Without nosey people, would we know ANYTHING about Paris Hilton?) The reports were rather unexpected given the “hoops” we had to jump through for our Real Estate agent (not to mention the abuse). We were told how “wrong” everything was and how any buyer would have to immediately remodel “everything”. We were even told that the house was not selling because there was “extensive landscaping required”, and unless we lowered the price, no one would buy the house. Someone bought the house…and when I contacted my former neighbor to confirm the reports he said simply:

“It’s abandoned”. WHAAAA????

Friends and family had told me that when they drove by the house looked “ragged”, “unkempt”, “not lived in” and “vacant”. Of course, I thought they were having a good time with me since they knew how much pride I had in maintaining the property. I also fully realize and understand that the new owners can do whatever they want, but I find it very sad that they never moved in and the property is not maintained.

According to my neighbor, “Some people came”, (during the first few days after we left), “they put coverings over all the windows. And no one has come back since”. Humph! That is unusual. He never sees anyone; there are no cars in the driveway, and no activity that he is aware of.

That is the closure of that chapter in my life. I sold my house so that it could be abandoned by the new owners. I want to fantasize that some catastrophic event forced them to abandon the house before they were able to start a new life. It may have been a romantic disaster, like the wedding was called off, or they broke up, or got a divorce, or she left him, he left her, anything but, they just “do not care”.

It was a fine house, a good house, a haunted house, but we respected the spirits and they knew their place. It is sad that the new owners did not “see” things that way. I hope they come to their senses; I really do not want to be told “the place burned down”.

La Commedia è Finita…