BLITHERING, BUMBLING, AND RAMBLING #16

SMALL VICTORIES

It all started a few years back.  There is a concrete box on my front lawn that is clearly marked as being the property of Pacific telephone.  I saw that it had a crack in the outside rim.   Eventually the crack in the rim became 2 cracks a few inches apart.  A few months later, the cracked piece started to slide into the box.   This created a hole in the box large enough for a hand or foot to fit through.

Uh oh.

So I looked up Pacific Bell and found out that their boxes had been taken over by Consolidated Communications.  So I called Consolidated Communications and was told they no longer controlled that area, and to call the local phone network.  I called AT & T.  They told me it wasn’t theirs and connected me to Wave Broadband.  I called Wave and told them the problem, they said they would send someone out to check it, and would get back to me.  I felt encouraged, someone was finally responding.   But, the woman on the phone made me repeat the location, and the problem several times before finally stating someone would be sent to check it.  She also said she didn’t know when it would be taken care of, but said they would call back with an update.  They never did.

The hole started to get bigger as the sides started to erode.  7 months later, I called Wave back to find out why they hadn’t responded.  They told me they would refer it to a supervisor.  Then they called me back and told me they had sent someone out to assess it 7 months ago, and the person sent agreed it was damaged and needed repair.  That person sent in a repair request, which was denied.  The reason, well, it wasn’t their box.  Whose is it, I asked.  We don’t know, the woman from Wave said.  How do I find out, I asked.  We don’t know the woman said.

Now, I pause here to describe the setting.   Way back in 1967 there was a movie with James Coburn called The President’s Analyst.  It was a quirky comedy about a psychiatrist assigned to talk to the president about top secret stuff that’s bothering him.  What the psychiatrist learns becomes of great interest to spies, the military, secret service, and a whole lot of others and a hilarious series of events occurs, which all centers around the phone company. Yes, the phone company.  Because despite what everybody does, knows, or wants, they come to find out the phone company is actually always one step ahead of them.  You can see where I’m going here.

I waited several months, the hole got bigger.  I decided that I should try Consolidated Communications again.  It seemed simple to me.  Consolidated had given up their territory to S-O-M-E-B-O-D-Y!  I wanted to know who.  Now, much like asking a transient for directions, there are risks involved in reaching out to resources that have no stake in the outcome.  Kind of like when you ask Cliff Clavin on Cheers, how something works.  It’s a long shot, but hey, what did I have to lose?

So I called.  And I got a call back from a nice lady from Consolidated, who told me if I put in an 811 call ticket to report it, all the agencies associated with it would be notified to respond.  So I put in an 811 ticket, and five minutes later the guy from Placer County Water responded.  Really, five minutes.  The guy was nice, explained it wasn’t their issue, but that every agency that had been notified would respond and acknowledge their response in writing.  And the list of responders would be sent to me.  And it was, 5 days  later. Wowzer.

There were 8 different agencies listed on it, all of them having responded back stating it wasn’t theirs.  Only two agencies were communications outfits- Wave Broadband, and, guess who?- Pacific Telephone.  This, as they used to say at the police department, is what the FBI calls a clue.  Now, I knew from having spoken to the nice lady at Consolidated Communications that your agency wouldn’t be listed on the contacts unless you had current ownership in the lines running through there.  A-HA!  The nice people at 811 had even provided me with a number to contact Pacific Bell repairs on, a number that, I might add, was not listed ANYWHERE in their directory.  Here is where the plot thickens……

I called the Pacific Bell repair line.  And when the phone was answered, a real laid back sounding voice said “AT&T, how can I help you?  A-HA X 2!! The laid back person speaking listened patiently, and said that, why yes, the box was theirs and they definitely should send out an assessment crew to determine the necessary repair steps.  I felt compelled to mention that AT&T had previously stated it WASN’T their box and misdirected me to Wave Broadband.  The nice AT&T person I was on the phone line asked what number I had called.  Why, the AT&T help/support line I said.  Yeah, the person said, they gave you bad info, and said he would try to get someone out there to assess within 24 hrs.  Well, ok then.  

The very next morning I went outside to find the orange cone, pictured above, sitting on top of the phone box, right over the hole.  Hmmm, yeah.  So someone had come out, and marked it.  Sure, it was with a cone that was bent over like it was  ill, but it was, I guess, a start.  The day after that, someone spray painted white markings around the box, and markings in the street.  All right, movement.  

The following week, two more guys showed up and put a whole bunch of different colored flags around the box, and spray painted spots and lines in blue, red, and some orange on the lawn, street, side walk and my driveway.  It was quite colorful and a real conversation starter for passers by.

And then today, three weeks after the whole thing got started with the cone, a crew of three guys with a backhoe, shovels, drills, and god only knows what else, laid waste to the old phone box.  They installed a new one, see pic #2 above.  And it says “Telephone” on the box.  Right, just telephone, no logos or brand names this time.  Pretty smooth, AT&T.  You guys must have seen The Presidents Analyst.  

Like my Dad always used to say, savor the small victories, at least you won something.  

KINDA QUIET

When my oldest daughter was in her first season of softball, there was another girl on the team that never spoke.   Her name was Britney.   She was deaf and all communications to her were through sign language.  On the very first day of practice, her parents, and her brother, who was about 12 years old, introduced themselves to the coaches, and assured them that there would always be a family member present to give sign language to all instructions.  

Her parents were very nice people, and in addition to giving the coaches help on how to get the girl’s attention and simple directions for basic communication, they often moved to various parts of the field to be in their daughter’s sight, so that she knew, from their sign language, what the coach and other players wanted.  I was impressed. 

The father and son came to practice  with Britney.  The father explained to Britney how to get the ball to the base ahead of the runner to get the out.  They practiced it a couple times.  Then the father got a call and explained to the son he had to leave for a little bit, and the son was in charge until he got back.  No problem the son said.  And twenty minutes later, the ball went towards Britney.

Britney charged at it full speed, and got it on the first hop.  She was playing in right field and grabbed it and fired it at first base, the first baseman waving at her to throw it.  Ball came in, and beat the runner by six feet.  Wow.  Most of the kids there (like 95%) would have either missed it, dropped it, or launched it into the dugout.

The coach stopped practice and asked Britney’s brother to assist while he talked to her.  The brother came out and the coach spoke.  He told Britney that it was a good throw, and play, but that it was a little risky for first year players, and  most of the time she should throw to the cutoff at second base.  The brother translated and pointed to second base.    Britney frowned, and made a sound that seemed like a cross between a grunt and a moan.  She shook  her head, made signing gestures in swift motion, shaking her head in denial as she did so, then pointed to first base.  The other parents and I watched, as this silent discussion built up in intensity.

The discussion went on, in sign language, the gestures were more abrupt.  The brother repeated (as best I could tell) that the coach wanted the throw to go to second base.  He shook his head and thrust his arm toward second base.  Britney bristled at this, shook her head and made angry gestures toward first, with different hand signs this time.  Hmmm, not sure what that meant, but by now they had the full attention of all the parents on the sidelines.  Whatever had just been said, the brother didn’t like it.  I got the impression from the expressions on their faces that if one of them asked the other to pass the salt at the dinner table, they probably weren’t gonna get it that night.

The coach, feeling quite uncomfortable in the middle, told the brother to tell her it would be discussed later, and wasn’t a problem.  The brother, watching Britney shake her head, gestured some new sign language of his own, and then thrust BOTH arms towards second base. Hmmm, not sure what that meant either, but Britney definitely shouldn’t ask her brother to pass the salt at dinner now.

Practice continued.  When the Dad returned, the brother went immediately to him and filled him in.  Britney came over a few minutes later and a flurry of sign language ensued between the three.  Again the parents on the sidelines all focused on them. We all wondered what was being said.  The conversation, though muted, was tense.  Definitely softball coaching on a new level.

It was a really quiet scene.  The father worked it out with them.  Britney quit scowling at her brother.  Her brother patted her on the shoulder. And yeah, no word spoken.  The sign language became more slow and relaxed.  And peace was restored. Whew!

We were watching a kid who could not hear a sound, playing a game that is defined by the crack of the ball meeting the bat, the oomph of the ball landing in the glove,  the umpire calling the play, the roar of the crowd, and the chatter of the teams; and a little girl played it in absolute silence.  And played it well.  I would have let her make that throw unchallenged.  Heck, I would have put her in center field just to see her try the long throw for the long out.  I’m telling you, that kid had a great arm.  

THE SOCK THIEF

In the raised garden beds that we put in the yard last year, there is a pvc pipe sticking up from the middle so we can deep water the plants.  Since we know bugs, and the occasional bird, lizard, or rodent may wander by, I put socks over the top of the pipe so nothing could crawl deep down into the garden.  The other day I went out to the garden just as a squirrel was crawling out of it, and it scurried up the neighbor’s tree.  It was carrying two socks.  Ok, it’s on buddy!

I said a few things as the squirrel headed upward, and if there were any neighbors within hearing distance, they probably were wondering why I had so much hostility towards the tree.  I vented, in colorful, somewhat derogatory, terminology.  My mind ventured back to the old Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons, where the evil  Boris Badenov and  Natasha described “Moose and Squorrel”.  Ok, I could feel the animosity towards the “squorrel”.  One of the few times I stood in the shoes of a bad guy in a cartoon, but, hey, the darn thing took my sock!

I started to plan.  I thought about that YouTube video that shows how they set up catapult traps for squirrels that tossed them out of your yard.  Oh man, was I intrigued.  I thought about how if I angled it right, they would splash down into the pond behind the back fence.  As I started to design my squirrel launcher, my lovely wife told me about a simple remedy she found on the internet. Cayenne pepper.  Aaaahhh.

So, I got some cayenne pepper and covered the garden beds.  And the squirrels stayed out of my garden.  And the socks stayed on the pipes. And I swear I saw the squirrel sneezing as it ran up a tree near the garden.  And it gave me that look, like, this isn’t over yet, Boris.  Ok, could have been my imagination, but , I kind of wonder- what’s he thinking, and where the heck is my sock?  Is it hanging on a tree limb  somewhere, or is his girlfriend showing it off to all the neighbors as the latest fashion wear for spring get-togethers?