Flooded

Okay. I realize three blogs in three days is just excessive. But I finally have stuff to say.

Tom was listening to 1776 this morning and feeling kinship with George Washington, who apparently was so discouraged at one point during the Revolutionary War that he wanted to disappear to a wigwam in the wilderness.

Our basement flooded, meaning that late last night Tom and I were wading around in rubber boots ripping up carpet and padding while pondering the injustice of the world.

I went and rented a dehumidifier and blower from Master Rentals this morning. On the way back, I started thinking, perhaps inevitably, about that old incident with Grandpa Campbell. How clearly it comes back to me! The sheer frustration of wet vac-ing the carpet over and over again for hours, drawing out about a teaspoon of water each time, but never being able to stop because I could always get SOMETHING out.

How cathartic it was last night to pull up the carpet and rip out that sopping wet pad. I felt vindicated 24 years later. You really can't dry out a carpet pad with a wet vac. Of course, Grandpa was pretty much right, too. Utah in the summer is so dry and hot that my endless vacuuming plus evaporation got the job done, and nobody had to retack the carpet.

As I thought about that in the car, it came to me suddenly that had he been here, I might have had to put in longer hours on the wet vac, but then he would have been out in my back yard with a backhoe and a large work crew of conscripted teenage relatives, digging out a new drainage system to make sure the carpet STAYED dry.

How much I miss him, his wisdom and his love--how much I miss all my grandparents. I wish I'd done a lot more listening when I could.

Home

Remember the camper?

Probably not. We aren't going to be allowed to forget it, though. Tom bought it from a homeless, slightly crazy woman who had posted a sign in the window that said: "$300 by 3 pm." She was taking off for Alaska and needed to sell her domicile before she left.

Tom's heart, always very soft towards homeless people, led him to not only purchase the camper and transfer the title, but to take the woman to an ATM, get her cash so she could make her plane to Alaska, and put her on a bus to get her there in time. Then he prepared to salvage the 60's era camper.

When you opened the door and put your full weight on the driver's seat, the camper would tilt dangerously. Starting it was a smoke-filled adventure, and driving it...well, Tom only ever drove it distances measured in yards, mostly to avoid having it towed before he could sell it.

Actually, I take that back. He did take it on one road trip...to the dump. He backed in and just started shoveling out the interior. After a few minutes, though, he noticed mementoes and documents surfacing--school and family pictures, things written by children, birth certificates. So he slowed down and saved out what he thought might be important.

Later I spent an entire morning boxing the stuff up and shipping it off to Alaska.

I thought we would never get rid of the truck, but we did. Sort of. Tom sold it to a homeless man, who was SO happy to have it! Tom filed the bill of sale, and we thought that was that.

Not so fast. First of all the boxes came back from Alaska. We had to send them again. Then, we started getting parking ticket fines in the mail. We called the city and explained that we didn't own the truck anymore.

Then there was a brief respite. Just yesterday, the ghost of the truck came back in the form of a nasty letter from a collection agency. "Our" unpaid traffic tickets are past due. We must immediately remit $67 a piece or risk permanaent damage to our credit report and time in debtors prison.

I started calling people this morning. Turns out that, unbeknownst to us, the state DOL declared our report of sale invalid because we failed to report the address of the buyer. This meant the city kicked the fines back into the collections process (without telling us, of course).

I called the DOL to explain that we couldn't report the address of the buyer because he was homeless. There was a long pause. "I don't think you need to talk to me, honey," the employee said. "I don't know who you need to talk to." Then she put me on hold, where I was finally told by a mechanical voice that "call volume is unexpectedly high right now. Please call back later." Click.

Think how much we could have saved--time, money, psychic energy--if Tom had just GIVEN the lady $300 without taking the camper. Sigh. But then she wouldn't have her children's birth certificates and baby pictures, and a homeless man wouldn't have a place to call his own. I remember Tom saying (when attempting to justify the whole experience) that when he saw the lady with her camper he felt like he was the one--one of the few people who might have come along who had the cash, the skill to get the title transferred quickly, and the streak of insanity necessary to help--really help--a complete stranger.

For his birthday, his partners and paralegals gave him a picture of the truck sitting in a parking lot with its "$300 by 3 pm" sign visible in the window. There was lots of laughing over the gift, but I wonder if they knew how truly that camper represents him.

Loud Speaker

You know what they said about Italy under Il Duce. The trains ran on time.

I hate to compare myself to Mussolini, but I have to admit that I've given in to the craving for law and order. Totalitarianism has been born in the Mumford household.

You know how it is...you just need a little propaganda tool. A little happy music and some well-chosen incentives to create cheerful workers for the state. Sounds creepy, but it's working for us.

Back in mid-80's China, one of the things I found most bizarre was the loudspeaker mounted on every pole. All speakers were definitely tuned to the same frequency. At 6 am every morning they started blasting "Dong Fang Hong." We all rose from our beds, beaming, and reflected that Mao Ze Dong was indeed our sun rising red in the east...I think. I never got what came after that and eventually I stopped wondering.

Until now.

A few weeks ago we stayed with the Dixons and discovered the most incredible tool for child mind control. It's called Children's Miracle Music. You just pop in the CD, press play, and suddenly...lunches in 3.26 minutes! Beds made in 1.59 minutes! Clothes on, teeth brushed, breakfast eaten, hair combed, EVERYTHING GETS DONE! If Mao can use this concept to get a billion subjects ready every day, where's the challenge in motivating four boys?

It really works because the Miracle Music lady has the sweetest, sweetest Utah drawl. I think Zach is hearing his old teacher from SLC. And the music is very, very well chosen. No matter how you feel about it aesthetically, bodies move when it starts to play.

Tom is not on board. He never wanted the trains to run on time. He didn't even want a schedule. He wants RESULTS!! But without structure. I understand this, but the reality of seminary + his incredible 80 hour work weeks is...I NEED THE MIRACLE. I've gone over to the dark side. Anyone wishing to liberate my children can make an amphibious landing through the large puddle in the back yard. You have to promise to brush everyone's teeth afterward, though.