Day 26: Inspiration Monday

John Lunceford
Photo credit: Kennewick School District

My friends, it has been a Monday. I'm not going to describe it, because I need to let it pass on out of my life, but I'll say two things. First, working for rich people is eye-opening and frustrating and often demeaning in ways they don't mean, but that still feel that way. And the second thing I'll say about this Monday is that I'm so far behind getting ready for Thanksgiving I'm not sure how I'll get it all done. But I will, because I always do. And if the house isn't as clean as I like it, my family and friends won't even notice. It's about the food and the thanks and nothing else.

Since it's been one of those days, I'm going to share just a few stories that caught my attention recently and made me feel good. I hope they brighten your day too -- even though your day is probably Tuesday because I'm writing this after midnight.

Here's one about John Lunceford, a bus driver who saw a need and immediately did something about it. It didn't cost him much, but I'll bet he got paid back in a lot of good karma. You can read about his good deed on the Kennewick School District Facebook page.

And then there's this story about an elderly retired teacher who was unable to do the upkeep on her house. The city was threatening her with code violations that could have cost her $3000 a day. She shared the information with her neighbors, who put together a work party. Twenty-five people showed up and the results were amazing. You can read more about it in this article on the Truth Theory website.

And then there's Ismael Essome Ebone, a guy from Cameroon who figured out how to build boats from plastic bottles. He didn't turn his idea into a corporate money-maker though. He started a non-profit for collecting plastic waste and turning it into fishing boats and boats for eco-tourism and plastic-bottle bins he designed to collect recyclables. 

Don't even get me started on plastic water bottles. I used to do an exercise about evidence in research writing with my college freshmen where I had them add up how many plastic bottles they used in a week. And then how many the campus probably used. And then the city. It was stunning. Many of them started using their own reusable bottles after that, but we all know our use of throw-away plastic bottles in this country is a sin.

OK, I said I wouldn't get started. I will say though that we can all find ways to help people, both small and large. The ways, not the people. Tis the season and all that. I find these stories inspirational and a reminder that I can always do more -- although probably not this week unless you count that turkey dinner I'll be preparing over the next three days.

Do good deeds, my friends. We're all in this together.

Please lie in my obituary

Like a fool, I decided to paint the white trim on the front of my house. I'd scrubbed down the entire porch recently, and the peeling paint on the trim looked even worse in comparison.

I'd already scraped as much of the old paint as would easily come off a couple of days ago. This evening was the time to paint, and I was determined to do it all at one time. I dragged out my extension ladder and the paint I'd used to paint behind the new landscaping I'd put in a couple of months ago, and stuck a paintbrush in the back pocket of my cut-offs.

As soon as I started stirring the paint, my next-door neighbor Dustin showed up on his porch to smoke a cigarette, drink the rest of his half-empty pint of whiskey and watch me. Dustin is LeeAnn's step-brother who moved in after Tyler, who turned out to not be related to LeeAnn at all although he told me he was her brother, but was born in prison to a crack whore, and who stole her 7-year-old son Nathan's commemorative state quarter collection and sold it. She kicked him out after days of screaming and recriminations. But that's not the story for tonight.

Shortly after Dustin sat down on the end of their porch closest to my house, 11-month-old baby Brit crawled out through the open front door, sat down beside him and stared at me with her pretty blue eyes.

Dustin asked me if I'd heard that NASA was offering $10,000 to people who would agree to lie in a bed for 70 days so they could determine the effects on humans of lying in bed for 70 days. I said that one had somehow slipped by me. He said he was going to apply (and he seemed pretty sure they'd take him) because then he could just lie around and play video games and watch TV all day.

I said it sounded kind of boring, like when you have the flu and you start to go crazy after 3 days. Just then LeeAnn came out and sat beside Dustin. She plopped Brit down in the grass. Brit immediately picked up one blade of grass and started chewing on it.

LeeAnn said she thought Dustin was crazy to think he could just lie in bed for 70 days and not suffer severe consequences, like weight gain or maybe an embolism. I started painting the lower part of the trim and agreed with her. I said given 70 days, I could probably make $10,000 and avoid the weight gain and the embolism and the boredom of lying in bed for 70 days.

I asked if he'd be able to get up at all. Like to go to the bathroom.

LeeAnn said he probably wouldn't care if he had to poop in a diaper, but I said it was one thing to poop in a diaper once maybe, but to do it every day for 70 days might be kind of embarrassing. I said I didn't think I could poop in a diaper knowing somebody was going to have to change it, so my bowels would probably become impacted, and I'd get kicked out of the program.

Every once in a while, Nathan would run out of the open front door, stick up rabbit ears behind Dustin, laugh like a maniac, and run back inside. Or he'd just run down the sidewalk as fast as he could go. He can do that for long periods of time.

We continued to talk about the NASA program as Dustin and LeeAnn smoked, and Brit crawled over to my yard to explore my extension ladder, which was still in the grass.

The neighbor down the street, Cash, who drives a bright yellow pickup, walked by on the other side of the street and shouted, "Hey, Miss Redhead! You always out there doin' something, ain't you? You gonna get up on that ladder? I bet you are."

I told him I was an idiot, and yes, I was going to climb that ladder. He said I should be careful. Mmmm hmmm.

I told Dustin I didn't think lying in bed for 70 days would be good for his mental health, and it seemed like the kind of experiment where they could be doing other experiments he knew nothing about, and once he got in there they could strap him down and do anything to him.

LeeAnn said he might even become suicidal if he couldn't see other people for 70 days.

Dustin said they'd have to let him have sex or he probably couldn't do it.

 I said the family would probably get a letter saying Dustin was dead and had strangled himself with his diaper ....

LeeAnn said NASA probably wouldn't tell us how he'd died. They'd probably pay us the $10,000 to keep quiet, and we'd all say he'd run off to Las Vegas with some girl.

Dustin said he might actually do that, and then I lost track of the conversation about him going to Las Vegas, and then something about how he thought LeeAnn should become a prostitute in Las Vegas .... because it was time to put up the extension ladder and paint the parts that were over my head. Way over my head.

I stood the ladder up and raised the extension with some difficulty -- after I tried once and had it upside down -- and finally clicked the latches into place. I tried to set it against the house with the base on the outside of the stabby bushes I'd cut back the day before, but it didn't seem very steady.

So I tried to lift it over the bushes, which are about chest high and about 3 feet wide, but it was top heavy so when I lifted it up, the top of it fell over backwards behind me .... slowly .... awkwardly. I felt an unpleasant twinge in my back. LeeAnn asked if I needed help, and Dustin said he'd come over and do it. I said no, I'd get it.

I finally wrestled the fucking ladder over the fucking bushes, set the feet into place, and propped it against the house right in the middle of a big window. I said I thought I could reach both sides from there. Dustin said to just make sure I didn't lean too far to one side and fall off. I said I'd certainly consider his advice.

I had a little green plastic bucket that I'd poured the paint into (and then discovered it had a small slit up the side, but by then it was too late) because it had a handle. When I looked up at the ladder, I realized there was no place to put the paint while I painted. LeeAnn and Dustin noticed my predicament too. LeeAnn said maybe she could hold it, but I said I didn't want to go up and down the ladder.

I decided to get some rope and tie it to the ladder rung toward the top. I climbed over the bushes, up the ladder. and got it tied on to the side of a rung, but I have to admit that ladder didn't feel all that firm. I painted the trim on the sides of the window and then yelled back to LeeAnn and Dustin and asked if it would show if I didn't do the board above the window under the eaves. LeeAnn said it would because the new paint was brighter and you could see where it stopped ...  I said that's the problem with starting any project. It always leads to another one.

I climbed to the top of the ladder and painted that top board .... all except for the 2-inch squares where the top of the ladder rested in 2 places. I said I didn't know how I'd get those 2 spots because the paint was wet around them, and I couldn't prop the ladder on the wet paint, so maybe I'd tie a brush onto my broom and get them that way. I had no intention of doing that though. A close examination of the paint on my house will reveal a number of issues larger than those 2 spots.

I moved the ladder to the middle section and propped it with the feet just outside of the bushes this time. They were poking through, trying to push the ladder away from the house and scrape me as I climbed up. I'm pretty sure it's not the right way to prop a ladder, at such a shallow angle, but I climbed up anyway, slowly and carefully.

When I got to the top, I looked down at the newly trimmed bushes, and they looked like giant ice picks sticking up down there. I said I was glad LeeAnn and Dustin were out there while I was painting so if I fell onto the bushes they could call 911 before I bled out.

Then I realized those bushes were quite sharp and if I fell on them they really could do some damage. I said I didn't want to die after being impaled by bushes while I was painting the house. What an embarrassing obituary: "Reticula died unexpectedly when she was impaled by shrubs after a fall off an improperly set extension ladder. Her friends expressed shock and said that wasn't how they imagined she would go. Her children were too embarrassed to be named in the obituary, but are happy to be named in her will ..... "

LeeAnn said I shouldn't worry because they wouldn't let that happen.

 I said I didn't think they could get to me in time to catch me if I fell, but my heart was warmed by the idea that they would try to catch me ....

She said no, she meant the obituary. They wouldn't let the bush stabbing go into the obituary. They'd say I was participating in a secret experiment for NASA, and was last seen booking a flight to Las Vegas ......


I finally finished the painting about the time Dustin finished his pint of whiskey. It was dark, and I didn't feel like it, but I cleaned up my pail and brushes while they smoked one last cigarette and argued about whether LeeAnn should go to Las Vegas. Dustin said he was going with or without her, because he'd never been on a plane and he wanted to fly.

It took just as long as it always does to get the paint out of the brush. That's the worst part: the cleaning up .... even worse than climbing a ladder that's set into stabby bushes at a low angle.

By the time I finished, it was too dark to admire my hard work, so I have no idea what the trim looks like, but it has to look better than before. LeeAnn had taken the kids inside to feed them. Dustin was doing something on his phone, still sitting on the end of the porch closest to my house.

Maybe he could spend 70 days in bed. I don't know. I'm pretty sure I couldn't, not even for $10,000. I'd probably fair better in Las Vegas. 

What is this neighborhood coming to?

I've written often about my street and some of the people on it. When I first moved in, I noticed the guy in the third house to the north, the one I called Snoop Dog, was dealing drugs. He would throw a ball across the street for his pitbull, Grandma, to fetch, and wait for people in cars to pull up and chat with him. I wrote about how he used to block the street so I couldn't get home, and how we resolved that situation. And later I wrote about the day the SWAT team visited him while I was getting groceries out of my van. Various times I whined
about the noise down there -- how his girlfriend screamed at him out in the street for hours and the irritating back-up beepers on his truck.

About 8 months ago, somebody bought Snoops Dog's big 4-bedroom house for $3000. A few days after Snoop was arrested, somebody came and cleared out all his stuff -- red leather couches, plastic shelves, a cheap entertainment center. Melvin said the owner did a bunch of rehab on it last winter, but it couldn't have been much because I didn't see any of that. It just sits there empty, although somebody mows the grass sometimes.

Art used to live in the second house to the north. Until he got divorced, he and his wife would have huge fights out in the backyard that consisted of him yelling the same thing over and over (I've found it's a cultural thing, the yelling or saying the same thing over and over). "Bitch, you called the police on me. Bitch, you called the police on me. Bitch, you called the police on me. Bitch, you called the police on me. Bitch, you called the police on me .... " In between I'd hear her softly trying to defend herself and probably trying to keep the kids from hearing.

No surprise --they got divorced. But Art's problems didn't end there. He dated a series of young women who turned his life into hell. Instead of Art standing outside yelling at his wife, now these women would stand on his porch and yell at him and pound on his door. At least we think there were several of them. As Melvin said they all looked alike, so it was hard to tell. They would yell the same thing over and over too. Things like, "Give me my son's TV. Give me my son's TV. Give me my son's TV. Give me my son's TV. I'm not going to stop pounding on this door until you give me my son's TV. I know you're in there. Give me my son's TV." Bitches were persistent.

Art finally moved out because of all the women he'd pissed off. Even though it's his own fault for dating women he picked up in an asylum, it's too bad. He'd rehabbed the house, which is reported to have been an overflow whore house at one time, himself, and it's nice inside. But now he can't live in it.

And there were the neighbors on the other side. Loretta, the matriarch with the strong Kentucky accent who always wore a faded, colorless house dress with worn gray slippers, even when she went out to get McDonald's; her husband Lou, who had had a stroke and took short walks with his walker and then his cane; their mini wiener dogs, Mona and Sugar Shack; their daughter Linda; and Linda's son Kevin, who was 30 and used a red grocery cart to haul 5-gallon buckets into the garage where he worked at something all through the night, night after night. Your guess is as good as mine. cough meth cough Teenage boys also stopped by for short visits on the porch with Kevin. And one time I suspect Linda wrote "bitch" on my windshield because she didn't like the way I parked my van in front of my house.


Of course Melvin is gone now. As I was mowing the yard today I felt a stab of grief that he would never again holler over from his porch where he'd been watching me the whole time, "Baby, you shouldn't be mowing that grass. You should have let me mow that grass. You should never have to mow grass ...." It's too damn quiet over there. The gossip died with him, and nobody offers me gin and juice any more. I miss him terribly.

I also haven't heard any random arrests take place out there on the street, like the night some kid on a bike pulled a gun on one of the bike cops. Oh, I am sometimes awakened by a transient couple walking down the street fighting. A few weeks ago a guy was threatening to bash a woman's head in. He thought she was fucking around on him. And then there was the time .... umm .... yeah, I got nothing else.

Oh, I do hear gunshots with some regularity, and sometimes they sound pretty close. But they aren't on my street.

I don't know where they come from, but this summer I've watched a parade of men in wheelchairs go by on the other side of the street. They walk the wheelchairs with their feet. One guy pushes his wheelchair from behind, and then gets in it and walks it other times. They don't seem to live at the halfway house on the corner. Or either of the other halfway houses within a couple of blocks. I dunno. They aren't very exciting anyway, the old men in wheelchairs.

In fact, nothing is exciting on my street any more, because my street has become populated with .... wait for it ..... families with kids. Yep, families with kids outnumber all the rest of us on this street now.

As I said, Snoop Dog's house is empty. Art rented his to a young single mom with two little boys. There was some excitement when she first moved him. Somebody backed into her truck over and over while honking the horn the first night, but not much since then. She's friendly and her boys are adorable.

Across the street from them are 3 houses in a row with kids -- 9 all together. A pair of little girls who just turned 5 came over from a couple of those houses to play with Coraline. I blew bubbles for them and they swung on my porch swing. No guns were involved.

Melvin told me Loretta and Lou moved to Florida, and Linda and her son Kevin moved to a nearby suburb. They visit sometimes, but now Lou and Loretta's granddaughter lives there with her 6-year-old son and a pretty little baby girl. I didn't realize she was pregnant until the baby showed up. But she seems nice, and we say hi when we're both out. I don't like that she lets the baby cry and I can hear it, but I don't suppose that's something I can do anything about. At least she doesn't seem to be cooking up anything in the garage.

The only excitement was the day the little boy and his friend climbed out the window onto their very steep second-story roof and were playing there. They wouldn't get down when Melvin told them, but they did when I yelled at them and said I was going to go get the kid's mom. No police were involved because I haven't seen them up there again.

Now, instead of listening to Snoop Dog's parties or Art's girlfriends yelling at him or police shouting at gun-toting cyclists, I listen to the sounds of children playing outside in the warm summer evenings and the fucking ice cream truck that plays Music Box Dancer over and over and over and over. I hate that fucking ice cream truck.

The family at the end of the street planted a garden in the vacant lot next to them. And the boy next door colors on my sidewalk with pastel chalk.

Everybody is just too damn normal now. I hate to complain, but my stories about this street have dried up. I don't mean to wish trouble on anybody else, but we need some excitement around here -- just as long as it doesn't happen at my house.

Ghetto Tattoo

Yesterday on my way home from school I drove past a surprising sight. A rather fair man was standing on the steps in front of his house talking on the phone. He was shirtless and across his glowing-in-the-sun lower abdomen was a large tattoo that read "GHETTO." I stared as long as I could and then drove on to the stop sign at the end of the block.

And then I sat there. Damn it. I wanted a photo of that tattoo. I'd seen some pretty rough looking people on that street. It's not a street I would want to live on, in fact. That guy with the tattoo would probably be considered a rough looking character by most people. He had a fucking tattoo that said GHETTO on his belly, after all. He might not appreciate me gawking at him.

That tattoo was really calling to me though. It was big. It said GHETTO. And when had I ever been scared of rough looking characters?

I threw my van into reverse and backed up the way I'd come on the one-way street. It curves, so of course I hit the curb -- three times. Of course I did. Way to let him know a crazy woman is backing the wrong way down a one-way street. I finally gave up stopped about 100 feet away and walked down in the street to the house.

As I came into view around the bushes that hid most of the porch, a big boxer hit the end of his chain, barking a warning greeting. The guy yelled at him, "Down, Psycho! Stop barking at the lady."

I said, "I'm sorry to bother you...." Psycho was still barking and lunging, so the guy yelled at him again, said "Just a minute" to whomever he was talking to, and walked toward me. "Psycho, I said shut up!" He made a menacing move toward the boxer. The dog stopped barking, but he stayed at the end of his chain, pulling. I'm pretty sure he wanted a pat on the head, but I didn't get close enough to see. He might have wanted to eat my liver.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your phone call," I said. "I don't mean to be rude, but I wondered if I could take a photo of your tattoo." I held my crappy dumb phone up and wished I had my fancy SLR with me. I could see he had a bunch of other tattoos on various parts of his body.

"Hold on," he said into the phone. "There's a lady here trying to talk to me."

"I was ... ummm ... driving by and I saw your tattoo and ... I really don't want to be rude, but could I take a photo of your tattoo? My daughter loves tattoos and I like to send her photos of unusual tattoos I see."

"Sure. Go ahead." He posed. I took the photo.

"Mom, I gotta go. Some lady wants to take pictures of my tattoos." He snapped his phone shut. I smiled inside. He was talking to his mom.

"I got all of these in prison," he said. Oh.

"No way," I said. "They let you have tattoo guns in prison?" I looked closer at the ghetto tattoo. It looked pretty intricate for a prison tattoo. Because I've seen so many prison tattoos.

"Nah. We made the tattoo guns. Every single one of these I got when I was in prison. They were all done with a homemade tattoo gun in prison."

He told me how they made a needle out of the coil in a disposable lighter. They'd break the lighter, pull out the coil, heat it to straighten it into a wire, sand it down, and then sterilize it with alcohol.

"Here look. I got more on my back too. You can show her those too." I walked around him and took a photo of his back.

I asked him if they used ballpoint pen ink. (Elvira tattooed three little stars on her ankle when she was about 15 using ballpoint pen ink and a safety pin. She told me that's how they did it in prison. Suburban teenagers know so much.)

Tattoo guy said the only thing they used from a pen was the barrel. They taped or melted the plastic barrel to hold the lighter-spring needle in the machine. They used a motor from a CD player to power the tattoo gun.

To make the ink, he said they burned Vaseline and made a clumpy product they called "sood." I spelled it back to him to make sure he wasn't saying soot. He was missing a tooth in front, and I wasn't sure I understood him right. I think he said sood. Anyway, the sood was mixed with alcohol to make the ink. It was clumpy, he said, but it was still ink.

"I had no idea that's how prison tattoos were made. My daughter will love to hear how you did these. She wants to be a tattoo artist," I said. "Thanks for letting me take a photo and for talking to me. I didn't mean to interrupt your conversation with your mom."

"Hey, you need to take a photo of this one too." He flexed his pec. "This is Psycho. He's not mean." He pointed his thumb at the dog.

"I'm not scared of him," I said, which was almost true. He didn't look like he wanted to gnaw on me, but I didn't tempt him. "I've known other boxers. They're sweet dogs." Psycho slobbered a little and pushed his stubby nose toward me.

"I've got three more inside, but this here tattoo is that dog, Psycho," he said. "Take a picture of that one to show your daughter."

I took a photo of the tattoo. I wondered if anybody had pointed out the spelling, but I decided not to be the one to mention it. Maybe he didn't know. Maybe there are times when it's best to turn off the external editor.

I thanked him and started to walk back to my van, but he stopped me. "All of these are 12 years old. That's how long it's been since I was in prison. Twelve years. I ain't been in that kind of trouble since," he said.

"That's good," I said. "That's a long time to stay out of prison."

"How old is your daughter?" he asked.

"Twenty-one."

"Oh, 21, huh. Well, I'm 33. That's why I was askin'."

Lightbulb! "Oh, yeah, well she's only 21 .... and you're ... you know .... 33," I said.

"Yeah. Well, if she wants to be a tattoo artist, tell her to get a license and not do it in her own home. She could get in trouble and lose her license if she gets caught doing that." (The irony did not escape me.)

I promised I'd warn her not to give tattoos in her house, and it was time for me to go. But before I left I took a photo of the real Psycho, who posed like this when I told him to smile for the camera. Awwww. He probably didn't want to eat my liver after all.