Getting Older Surely Must Have It’s Advantages  

     I had it driven home to me again today. Let me explain. I was in two different grocery stores (not at the same time) getting our weekly supply of stuff to eat. Of course that doesn’t preclude trips to these stores for odds and ends during the week, but I digress. When I shop I usually have a list that is made out so I only have to make one pass through the store and pick everything in sequence. Normally I’m moving at a speed that keeps the wheels of my cart smoking and people jumping out of my path. However, these Redmond stores are still somewhat new to me and newer still to Lorraine, the list maker. So I have to do a certain amount of backing and filling, pun not intended.

I do spend some time wandering around looking at the aisle signs and trying to find stuff. I’ve noticed that I have store clerks and sometimes complete strangers, usually younger ones, coming up to me with offers to help me do whatever I’m doing. They’re not sure what that is and obviously they don’t think I do either.

The bagging people are always asking if they can help me get my stuff to the car, like they’re afraid I might collapse on the premises. I’ve decided it’s the gray hair and the befuddled look that garners in the helpful attitude from younger people.

When I was approaching the front door of Fred Meyers there was a small boy approaching the same door from the opposite side. Behind him was his mother pushing a grocery filled cart and with a small girl hanging on to her skirt. The small boy triggered the door, then stood in the doorway and held up his hand stopping his mother and saying “Wait a minute, there’s an old man coming.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or clip him one on the ear. I ended up thanking him, smiling at his mother, who was trying not to be mortified, and went on my way.

A couple days ago I was in Walmart, walking down an aisle. I was behind a young couple. They were pushing a cart in which they had a young kid. He was maybe four or so. Way too big to be riding in a cart but that’s another subject. They and I were both headed toward the back of the store. They were moving a lot slower then I wanted to go and because of their girth were blocking the aisle so that I couldn’t get around without physically pushing them out of the way. The kid kept watching me and finally said, “There’s an old man following us.” He was not close enough to reach, so I just chuckled and shot off down a side aisle to find another route to my destination.

Having people act deferential and holding doors for me is okay as long as I keep it all in perspective and not get the idea that I am actually getting older and possibly less able to do things with the same dispatch as in the past.

This attitude is not usually hard to maintain, but it is sometimes harder than other times. An example: Last summer we met the kids at Maryhill State Park. This place is somewhat equidistant from each of the three domiciles, which makes it an easy place to meet for an afternoon of picnicking and togetherness.

We ate, sat around, and talked while watching the younger kids take the rafts out and paddle around. Late in the afternoon Shauna got the bright –- well maybe not real bright -- but at least an idea that she needed to take Lorraine and me out in the bigger raft. It sounded like fun, we’ll talk later about the aging process softening the brain, but some little flicker in the back of my brain told me to leave my wallet and cell phone in my backpack by the picnic table.

We carried the raft down to the shore, where we took off our shoes and awkwardly climbed in the raft. Shauna sat up against one end, Lorraine sat up against the other end, leaving me in the middle. When I sat down I found that my butt was about eight inches lower than my feet because of the softness of the raft bottom. Shauna handed me a paddle and even from my awkward position expected me to help propel this floating abomination by reaching over the pontoon/gunwale (pronounced gunnel), (look it up), which was even with my shoulder. Every time I paddled the tendency was to fall over on my back. My effectiveness at helping move the raft about was severely limited. I finally decided that to really help paddle I needed to be up on my knees.

To get there was harder than one would think. To start with there was nothing solid around me to help me change position. Added to that was the possibility of tipping the raft over if I made the wrong move. So I tried to get my feet under my butt (remember the butt being eight inches lower than my feet) so I could rock up on my knees. After a valiant struggle I finally got on my knees. But because of nothing solid to kneel on every time I paddled I tended to fall either forward into Lorraine or backward on Shauna. After some practice I got so I was actually adding some to the propulsion of the squishy floating airbag.

     We finally got back to the shore. There was no dock so shore was just toward land until the raft ground up on the rocks. Of course the lowest point on the raft was where my knees were trying to poke holes through the bottom of the thing. Shauna jumped out and hung onto the plastic waterbed trying to keep it as close as possible to the shore. Then came the tricky part. It was time for me to get out of the thing. Now on the face of it that doesn’t sound like a tricky thing to do. But I have two witnesses who will swear that it seemed to be an almost insurmountable project. Remember I started out on my knees which were trying to push the raft bottom through the rocky lake bed. I started by trying to get one leg over the side of the raft. This tipped me over into the bottom of the raft. Then I tried to get both legs over a pontoon so that Shauna could pull the rest of me over the same pontoon. I was flopping around in the raft trying to get a purchase on something to give me some leverage. Nothing worked.

I flopped and struggled. By this time I was getting all kinds of advice from my two raft mates only one of whom had tried successfully to do what I was trying to do. Beside that Shauna was laughing so hard she could hardly stand upright. Lorraine was equally hysterical. During this spectacle Sonia and Bruce had paddled up close to watch in detail what was transpiring before their eyes. They did not offer any advice, probably not wanting to shorten this entertainment. 

 In my flopping around I suddenly found myself out of the raft, on the opposite side from where I had been headed, and on my hands and knees in water deep enough to get me thoroughly soaked. Getting out of the raft had turned out to be very simple and happened in a flash. How did it work? I’ve no idea. I proceeded, with as much dignity as I could muster, to crawl on my hands and knees over the rocky lake bottom, until I reached dry land and found a sandy area where I could stand up without slicing my feet to pieces. As I was flopping around in the raft the thought came to me that “this has got to resemble a walrus trying to extricate itself from a wet bathing suit.” This whole episode would not have happened previous to my getting to this age.

Getting older does have advantages other than people wanting to help me carry out my groceries. As soon as I think of some I’ll let you know.

I would be glad to hear from any of you who want to comment on this.

What’s In A Name

     Before I go any further let me explain my name. My given name is not really Vellanoff. My given name is Vladimir Eldensky. I got the nickname of Vellanoff after a situation in Chicago a year or so ago after which my cohorts began calling me Vellanoff and it seemed to stick. We were staying in the Palm House boarding house in downtown Chicago and playing at the Majestic Theater a couple blocks away. The Palm House was not the best in town, but certainly not the worst place we could have stayed. However, from the first check-in, the night clerk took a dislike to me, I think because of my accent. I’m sure it didn’t have anything to do with my referring to him as a pferdeschwanz, because of the way he treated the whole troupe that first night. Then maybe again he understood some German. Anyway this one evening we came in and I asked for my room key with the result that he just stood there staring at me. I asked again with no result. By this time I was a little upset so started to crawl across the counter to get my own key. This clerk punched me in the eye, then grabbed me, pulled me the rest of the way over the counter onto the floor and began to jump up and down on my back. I struggled to my feet and stuck a paper spindle in his leg, so that he would have something else to think about while I retrieved my key. This so incensed him that he hit me over the head twice with a heavy stapler, cutting my scalp. While I was trying to get my hanky on my head wound to soak up some of the blood, he grabbed me once again, this time by the front of my suit and threw me across his work space into a glass display case. Luckily I was able to stop myself from going completely through the glass doors by catching myself against the frames. I was sitting in front of the case when he ambled over like a charging bull and tried to kick me in the face. I ducked and he put his foot through the remaining glass of the door. In the process he sliced off the little toe on his kicking foot. I took this opportunity to jump though the swinging gate into the lobby, but he was very quick. He vaulted over the counter, tackled me, and again began to jump up and down on my back. At this point one of the troupe members bounced a heavy glass vase off the back of his head. The vase then dropped to the floor where it shattered into several pieces, and the clerk fell on top of it, neatly slicing off a large patch of scalp. As he was scrambling to his feet, he slipped in some of his own blood, fell down and broke his left arm.

     About this time the police arrived, grabbed the clerk and me and hustled us off to the hospital, then on to jail. We were both booked on a disorderly charge and were hauled up before a judge, for arraignment or whatever. I came into the courtroom with a black eye, a bandage on me head, but little else in the area of physical wear and tear. The clerk on the other hand, came into the courtroom with one foot wrapped up to the point that he was on crutches. His head had enough gauze wrapped around it to restrain a buffalo. His arm was in a sling and his overall appearance was a sorry mess. The judge had us each tell our side of the story and then he called on several witnesses. Everyone seemed to think that the clerk was going to get fined and reprimand as he was mostly the aggressor. We were all amazed at the judges ruling.

Here I need to explain something that I only learned after this situation was all resolved. This judge was a theater nut. He went to see everything and anything showing in the theater. He followed the careers of the prominent players and went out of his way to meet them, get autographs, etc. This judge knew me, even though we had not met and for some reason liked what I did in the theater.

     After listening to everyone’s story about what had happened at the hotel he banged his gavel and told me that if I would sign his autograph book I was free to go. He asked the clerk to come up in front of his bench. He then proceeded to harangue this poor clerk and finally sentenced him to five years in jail and another ten years on probation.

We onlookers in the courtroom were amazed at this extremely severe sentence. He finished up his comments with this statement, “Maybe this will teach you to leave well enough alone. From that time forward everyone referred to me as Wellenough, which I finally Russianized to Vellanoff.

    

When is News News And Not Just The Harassment Of Our Senses?

The news recently reported - - -

At the LEO Zoological Conservation Center there has been an immaculate conception of an anteater. His name is Archie and the mother is named Armani. So far no one has claimed anything supernatural about the situation, but it does appear that Armani got pregnant without the aid of a male anteater. Some have suggested delayed implantation, but come on, what are the odds of that as compared to conception sans a sperm donating male anteater?

     Also recently reported

In Portland, Oregon, a police officer in pursuit of a speeding car, put the chase on hold to help a duck in distress.

     In a dash-cam video released by the Portland Police Bureau, viewers are treated to what looks like the beginning of an exciting high-speed chase. A car zooms past a hiding police cruiser, and the officer begins the pursuit.

     But not long into the chase the officer sees a duck crossing the busy road. Rather than leave it to fend for itself, he pulls over and guides it to safety.

     My take on all this: why in the world would the Portland Police Bureau publish this video? Now every driver who thinks he might have a need to elude the police will be carrying a duck, to throw out the window and distract the following officer. And, how does the safety of a duck trump the safety of any person who could be endangered by the speeding driver? The conclusion I draw from this is that if you are out on the streets of Portland you are on your own. The Portland Police’s motto To “Protect and Serve” really starts with ducks and might apply to me if there are no ducks around.

     Reuters reports

A 39-year-old activist politician introduced a bill in the Romanian parliament last week that would make dolphins as equal before the law as humans. “Dolphin killers, (I’m guessing they are talking about those who kill dolphins) would be given the same sentences as murderers of human beings.” This bill would also ban the use of dolphins in live entertainment shows.

     But, how about dolphin on dolphin crimes. This bill does not touch, at least it’s not reported as such, on what happens when a dolphin violates the rights of another dolphin. If they are really serious about dolphins I don’t see how they can ignore this element of dolphin rights.

Who decides how the dolphins are to be policed and who determines if a dolphin is breaking the law? Who will prosecute the dolphins, and how will the dolphins be incarcerated or punished for their crimes?

Other questions that I think need to be answered are: Do we train a group of dolphins as defense dolphins to protect the rights of accused dolphins? Do we train a dolphin police force to patrol the Black Sea, these are the dolphins Romania seems to be worried about, handle complaints, question dolphin witnesses, and make dolphin arrests? Do we train dolphin CSI teams to study crime scenes and collect flipper prints, and blood samples? Who pays for building the database of dolphin DNA, and facial recognitions? If a killer whale kills a dolphin do we track down the killer whale and if we catch him then what? The killer whale has no rights before this law so I guess we can just whack him without further consideration.

Of course the big question is the dolphin right of self-determination. Does this bill lead to dolphins being given the right to vote, and better yet, the right to run for office?

     If the Romanian parliament wants some free advice, I would suggest they ask this 39-year-old activist to restudy his bill and answer the questions I’ve put forth. If he needs any help I’m always available.

 

Why Wait?

 

From Uncle Vellanoff's Journal

 

While playing in Chicago there was a fire in the old Majestic Theater. The fire was not much and they figured it would be good as old in about two weeks. As we had not had a break for some time the management thought we could just wait for the theater to get fixed and go on with the run.

I was explaining this to my friend Guido, who was maitre d’ at the Oxtail Club out in West Chicago. He suggested that if I wanted to earn some money during the two weeks off from the theater I could be a waiter, as he was in desperate need of one. The idea was just bizarre enough to have some interest to me so I said “sure, why not?” During the first week things were going great and I was really enjoying myself. However I began to pick up on the fact that many of the late night diners were from the Chicago mob.

Well into the second week the place was raided by the police and one of these diners was shot for no other reason then that he was pointing a sawed-off shotgun at one of the policemen as well as discharging the thing, the gun that is, which seemed to also irritate the police to some extent. Well, as you can imagine, everybody in the restaurant was called before the court as a material witness for the prosecution. This did not excite me at all as witnessing against these people was not good for one’s future. However not having much choice and being an exemplary citizen, I did my best.

The state’s attorney asked me, “What were you doing when the police arrived?”

“Waiting, sir.”

“For what?”

“For money.”

“Who was supposed to give you money?”

“The man I was waiting for.”

The judge sat up straighter and the state’s attorney came closer, like they both smelled something juicy.

“Why was he going to give you money?”

“For waiting.”

The judge banged his gavel on the bench and yelled, “Enough of this! What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a waiter!”

At that point the judge yelled at me to get out of his courtroom and if I came back he would have me up on a charge of contempt. As you can imagine I was only too willing to leave.

(EDITOR’S NOTE: - - Once again the verbal history of the following incident has been heard before. Whether Uncle Vellanoff actually experienced the following or was just repeating something he had also heard is hard to tell, but here it is, just as he wrote it.)

Catch-And-Release? - - Maybe Not

 

     Well I finally did it. As you’ve maybe read in an earlier blog, we do a certain amount of bird feeding. The downside to this is that we are encouraging  a welfare-state behavior in the local population of House Sparrows. It seems that if we want to feed any birds we must also feed these seed sucking samples of serious sylvan slovenliness.

     So I finally gave into the more violent side of my nature and brought in a hired gun. I mean I was done fooling around with these LBBs. (Or as they’re known in the birdwatching community, little brown birds.) He showed up this morning around 11:00 AM, sat on the fence to survey the project, then dove right in. Literally. He made a run at one LBB, chased it through a juniper tree, then through a tangle of sage and some other local deserty bush, came out the other side hot on the tail of the LBB, ran it around the end of the house, and the last I saw had it going down the street. Whether the LBB survived that encounter or not I have no idea, but when the hired gun got back to my back yard he was licking his lips and looked a little fatter.

     At this point the House Sparrows were sitting around with their little beaks agape, wondering if this hit on one of their family members was just a random drive-by or the beginning of a war. Almost immediately the hired gun zeroed in on another astonished LBB who only escaped by dashing under a group of low pine shrubs. Without any hesitation, the hired gun followed the sparrow. The result was that sparrows came flying out headed in all directions. The gun followed one of them out unto the golf course where we lost track of the action. We got the feeling that catch-and-release was not part of this guy’s game plan. After running down a couple more LBBs our property was devoid of sparrows. The hired gun sat in a nearby tree for a while, but nobody showed up to contest his takeover.

     After about thirty minutes of patrolling the property, he left. That was five hours ago and we haven’t seen a House Sparrow since. Now considering the long-term memory, or memory of any kind, I’m curious to see how long they can stay away from the free food.

 

 

HIRED GUN 

 

     There is some discussion in our household whether this is a Sharp-shined Hawk or a Coopers Hawk. For comparison purposes, the pipe is 1 5/8” in diameter. I would appreciate any comments on that issue.

Bowl of Birthday Frosting

     This past weekend Lorraine and I were invited to College Place on the pretext of celebrating my birthday, which was on Monday. Now Sonia and Bruce, with of course the help of Cora and Adam, are in the process of moving from their house in town to their new place up on Mojonnier Drive

     The drive up was uneventful, except for the area between Madras and Biggs. The weather was such that any moisture had frozen on the short juniper trees, sagebrush, fences, and power lines. With bright sunshine for lighting it made for an interesting sight. (See picture at end of this blog)

     And then of course we had to make a stop at the C & D in Boardman to check out the quality of their milkshakes. I’m happy to report that the high quality is being maintained.  

     We had previously volunteered to come lend a hand with this move so we shouldn’t have been surprised at the following. The moving commenced Saturday evening, continued on Sunday, and Monday. What with my broken rib, I was not much help with the heavier stuff, but otherwise managed to be of some use.

     While Bruce and I were schlepping back and forth between houses, Lorraine and Cora were tasked with taking the ornaments and lights off the Christmas tree. Now this is a artificial tree and has been around for some time. The person who originally put the lights on this tree meant them to be permanent. The tree was about eight feet tall and each little limb and twig had a light wire not only twisted around it, but then run back inside the twist. So to take off these lights the whole string of lights had to be threaded back through each of these loops and there were hundreds of them. This tree must have had at least two dozen strings of lights. Cora and Lorraine worked on this project for hours. After they were about two-thirds done Sonia came along and with a scissors cut one of the strings that Lorraine was threading back through a loop and said, “We aren’t going to keep these light, so why don’t you just cut these light wires off the tree.” Well, that simplified the process by about ninety-nine percent. Sonia came away from that encounter with the idea that she was some kind of hero. She slipped back out to the kitchen before either Cora or Lorraine could get their hands on her.

     During the weekend I was asked what kind of birthday cake I wanted. I told them German Chocolate.

     Monday afternoon Bruce made a double batch cake and set it out on the counter. He then mixed a batch of frosting and left it in the kettle to cool. We went into Walla Walla to the Modern and had our fill of Chinese food.     Before continuing this I must explain Coda. Coda is a Labradoodle. He lives with Bruce and Sonia, is rather big, and seems at times rather intelligent, in a doggie sort of way, and actually rather well behaved most of the time. His name means - - well you all know what a coda is - - but how that relates to this dog is beyond me. If you will throw something for him to retrieve he will be your friend for life as well as bother the – ah – dickens out of you.

     We got home from eating Chinese food and what should we find. About two-thirds of the chocolate cake had been eaten and Coda was looking very guilty. Bruce salvaged what had not been molested by this curly gray dog, put that into six bowls, and spooned frosting over each serving. It ended up that there was at least as much frosting as cake. Just the way I like it.

     Coda was under a disciplinary cloud the rest of the evening, but in actuality he had done me a great favor. I finally had the cake the way it was meant to be, fifty percent frosting and fifty percent cake.  

     Tuesday morning we put ourselves together, made one stop in Walla Walla at the “Book and Game,” (which now carries my books), spent some time with my sister-in-law Wallalee Spady, and then drove home. Of course we had to stop at the C & D in Boardman to check the milkshakes again. Some projects just take constant vigilance.

 

 

 

 

This is part of the view we have to look at every time we leave the house.

 

 

 

My Grandnephew--The Specialist 

 

 

From Uncle Velanoff’s Journal

My sister had a grandson named--well, it was long, but we called him Rudy for short. He wasn’t very tall either. He got himself enlisted in the Russian navy just as World War II was heating up. By enlisted I mean that he was hit over the head while walking down a dark street in Sevastopol one evening and came to in a recruiting office--at least that’s what they called it.

They issued him a uniform and filled out some rudimentary paperwork. One of the questions asked on the form was if Rudy had any special skills. Not having any skills, but having a somewhat warped sense of humor he said, “I’m a master plunk maker.” He expected the recruitment officer to laugh at his joke and get back to the skills question, but it so happened that this officer was the kind of person who couldn’t admit that he didn’t know something, so with a knowing nod of his head the officer put down “Master Plunk Maker” on the form.

After three whole days of intensive military training, the navy was ready to assign Rudy to his permanent position. The committee that was supervising this process came to Rudy’s induction papers. The leader of the group said “Well Comrades, it seems we have a Master Plunk Maker.” Then after a pause, during which he looked around the committee for some enlightenment, and getting none he continued by saying, “It’s about time. Where should we assign him so that he can be the most use to our beloved Motherland?” They finally decided on the battleship Oktyabrskaya Revolutsiya.

When Rudy was delivered to his ship, the receiving officer noticed the Master Plunk Maker designation and asked Rudy what that was. Rudy looked him over and said in a loud haughty voice, “You don’t know what a plunk is?” The officer couldn’t admit his ignorance, so assigned Rudy to the engineering section. The head of engineering didn’t know what to do with Rudy so went to his superior and asked how many plunks they wanted Rudy to make. The inquiry ended with the Rear Admiral who also could not admit he didn’t know what a plunk was. Then all Rudy’s superiors came to the conclusion that they should give Rudy what he needed to get on with making a plunk for their ship, the navy, and the glory of their beloved Motherland.

So Rudy was asked what he needed to pursue his craft. Well, now he was on the spot as he had now carried this joke way beyond funny. He realized that with these military types, it had never been funny and Rudy realized he was now on the verge of getting himself discharged from military service. In his beloved Motherland this involved a bullet to the back of the head, for which his family would be charged, the bullet that is, and a shallow grave, if they had the time.

 Rudy decided to continue the charade. He said “I will need a secure workshop, it doesn’t need to be big, complete quiet, no interference as the materials can become unstable during retrograde, and meals delivered on schedule, because during certain portions of the process I need to be there to make adjustments.” He then gave them a list of materials that he would need. The list contained a number of chemicals, some pieces of metal, electronics, and some very specific types of lumber, not large quantities, but very specific as to moisture content.

They complied, and established Rudy in a small workshop with all the materials from his list. After a couple weeks the powers that be forgot about Rudy, as they had other things to worry about. Six months later the Rear Admiral happened to recall the plunk maker and asked for a report. The request went down the chain of command and with trepidation Rudy’s superior approached the plunk-maker’s workshop door and called out “Rudy I need to report to the Rear Admiral on the progress of the plunk.” After three requests which got successively louder and louder, Rudy yelled in a very frustrated voice, actually he had been asleep, “Do you realize what you’ve just done? You’ve just wrecked several weeks calibrations on the zizmot and now I have to start over again. Tell that huddlehunce of a Rear Admiral to leave me alone or come and build this plunk himself.”

The superior modified Rudy’s comments and reported back up the chain of command.

A month later Rudy demanded a wood lath. After several more months Rudy demanded waterproof wood glue. Every few months it was something else.

Twenty-four months later the Rear Admiral ran out of patience. He gathered some of his staff and went down to Rudy’s workshop. He yelled through the locked door of Rudy’s shop, “Seaman Spady, this is Rear Admiral Alexi Barelsky Afloatsin, and if you don’t come out this minute I’m going to have this door blown down and drag you out of there by the uski.” That uski thing was bad news and something Rudy wanted to avoid as he only had two of them.    

The door slowly opened and Rudy stood there holding a wooden sphere in his hands. The Rear Admiral reached out, but Rudy backed away and warned him that the plunk was very delicate. The Admiral asked Rudy what the plunk was good for and Rudy said, “Watch.” He led the way up to the main deck and walked over to the rail. By this time the Rear Admiral and his staff had an entourage of officers in their wake. After looking around to make sure everyone was paying attention Rudy held the sphere out over the rail and let it drop. The Admiral and several of his staff rushed to the rail and watched the sphere.

     It dropped and dropped and then hit the water …………plunk.

     That’s when they shot Rudy.