The phone rings in the middle of dinner. The phone rings at 7:00am on Saturday morning. The phone rings while I'm in the shower, under the car, or up to my eyeballs in a project. Always, always a question: "What time do you open?" "What time do you close?" How do I get there from ..." This pattern has continued for twelve plus years. There it goes again! Actually, that was my wife calling for me to pick her up, but you get the point.
Being a reasonably intelligent person, I have asked callers where they obtained the number they called. Through that process, I've tracked down a number of sources for the erroneous information and managed to get the error fixed. One would think that after 12 years, the problem would go away. After all, no reasonable publisher would print the same incorrect information over and over for that long, would they? Eventually, like worn out dollar bills and old tee shirts, the existing documents would go away. But no!
The calls continue. A major breakthrough has just occurred. I just Googled my telephone number and discovered that my personal home phone number is on page two hundred something of Fodor's USA, "The King of Guidebooks," according to Newsweek in the "Completely Updated (their words)" 28th Edition.
I have written to Random House, but there's not much they can do at this point. There is only the slightest satisfaction in knowing the source of my annoyance...
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
R o a d T r i p !
Next Thursday (9/24), I’ll be riding shotgun on a trip from South Florida to Alexandria, VA in a ’94 Jeep Wrangler. The last two attempts had to be aborted when the vehicle balked at the exercise. My son, John, will occupy the driver’s seat. This is the first road trip we have undertaken together in more than twenty years. We will fly back from the DC area on Sunday.
My son, Morgan, bought the Jeep during his last visit over Labor Day weekend and had to return home sans vehicle when the voltage regulator failed. Lacking that control, the alternator delivered an excessive charge to the electrical system, which caused a fuse failure. Absent a complete charging circuit, the battery was slowly drained. That caused the engine to fail.
Our arrival in Alexandria will signal the beginning of a long weekend that will be limited to a father and his two sons, a once in a lifetime experience. Morgan left South Florida nearly 10 years ago when he went off to college in Orlando. After graduation, he made several moves as he went from St. Petersburg to Tallahassee and ultimately to Alexandria, where he has lived and worked for the past year.
My son, Morgan, bought the Jeep during his last visit over Labor Day weekend and had to return home sans vehicle when the voltage regulator failed. Lacking that control, the alternator delivered an excessive charge to the electrical system, which caused a fuse failure. Absent a complete charging circuit, the battery was slowly drained. That caused the engine to fail.
Our arrival in Alexandria will signal the beginning of a long weekend that will be limited to a father and his two sons, a once in a lifetime experience. Morgan left South Florida nearly 10 years ago when he went off to college in Orlando. After graduation, he made several moves as he went from St. Petersburg to Tallahassee and ultimately to Alexandria, where he has lived and worked for the past year.
Friday, September 11, 2009
What a day!
This trip took us to Northern Illinois, not far from the Wisconsin border. The 1962 Chris-Craft Holiday we were chasing turned out to be in worse condition than expected. A complete trailer overhaul was necessary preparation for the high-speed 1,400 mile return to South Florida. That meant an extra day added to the journey, which Lee and I could ill afford. Just the same, our safety and the safety of every car we passed was at stake.
Wednesday morning broke cool and clear. The breeze was brisk as we hopped into the big Ford dually and headed for the trailer shop. Running on precious little sleep and our minds filled with “what ifs,” there was no idle chatter as we made our way through the little village.
The shop owner understood the importance of a first rate job. He definitely didn’t want an afternoon distress call from Mid-Kentucky. They were finishing up as we arrived. Bearings were repacked. Wiring was replaced. Assorted and sundry connectors were tested, repaired, or replaced. We were ready to go. If there was any question about the extent of his effort, the invoice put it to rest. Everything was precisely recorded along with the time it took to install. Time would confirm without a doubt that the money was well spent.
We rode the wave of rush hour traffic that was making its way into Chicago but broke away just before the city limits as we turned south toward Indianapolis. I-65 traces a nearly straight path through fields of grain. The wide-open expanses are broken only by the occasional overpass.
Overpasses. Dozens of them. We see them all the time, but these were different. They were crowded with people, people who were jumping up and down and waving to the motorists speeding by below. They had flags. American Flags. They were waving American Flags, waving, and cheering. They were cheering, and we could hear them. The first thought we had was a question. What made this Wednesday so special for so many people?
When we turned on the radio, the stations were playing patriotic music: Lee Greenwood, Toby Keith, Neil Diamond, and the list went on. When the reality finally sunk in, Lee and I were both deeply humbled. It wasn’t the day of the week. It was the day of the month. The American heartland had risen on September 11, 2002, with only one thought: to vigorously profess its love for our country. That was the only way to honor the memory of those who had lost their lives one year earlier.
Throughout the countryside of Indiana, Kentucky, and Tennessee, we were greeted by equally moving expressions of patriotism. Our country shared a fervor that was beautiful to behold. May we never forget the terrible tragedy, but may we also remember the emotions that were stirred in our souls.
Wednesday morning broke cool and clear. The breeze was brisk as we hopped into the big Ford dually and headed for the trailer shop. Running on precious little sleep and our minds filled with “what ifs,” there was no idle chatter as we made our way through the little village.
The shop owner understood the importance of a first rate job. He definitely didn’t want an afternoon distress call from Mid-Kentucky. They were finishing up as we arrived. Bearings were repacked. Wiring was replaced. Assorted and sundry connectors were tested, repaired, or replaced. We were ready to go. If there was any question about the extent of his effort, the invoice put it to rest. Everything was precisely recorded along with the time it took to install. Time would confirm without a doubt that the money was well spent.
We rode the wave of rush hour traffic that was making its way into Chicago but broke away just before the city limits as we turned south toward Indianapolis. I-65 traces a nearly straight path through fields of grain. The wide-open expanses are broken only by the occasional overpass.
Overpasses. Dozens of them. We see them all the time, but these were different. They were crowded with people, people who were jumping up and down and waving to the motorists speeding by below. They had flags. American Flags. They were waving American Flags, waving, and cheering. They were cheering, and we could hear them. The first thought we had was a question. What made this Wednesday so special for so many people?
When we turned on the radio, the stations were playing patriotic music: Lee Greenwood, Toby Keith, Neil Diamond, and the list went on. When the reality finally sunk in, Lee and I were both deeply humbled. It wasn’t the day of the week. It was the day of the month. The American heartland had risen on September 11, 2002, with only one thought: to vigorously profess its love for our country. That was the only way to honor the memory of those who had lost their lives one year earlier.
Throughout the countryside of Indiana, Kentucky, and Tennessee, we were greeted by equally moving expressions of patriotism. Our country shared a fervor that was beautiful to behold. May we never forget the terrible tragedy, but may we also remember the emotions that were stirred in our souls.
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