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Scarecrow

18 Thursday May 2023

Posted by webbywriter1 in aging, exercise, Fiction, romance

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He had huge blue eyes, a shock of pure white hair under a ball cap. Tall and gangly, you could tell by his profile he had been a very handsome man once. Sunburned by a thousand hot Fresno suns, he rode his bicycle here and there over the streets of the town. A scarecrow on the back of a bike.

“Bill, Bill, is that you?” The chubby elderly lady dressed in a mauve warm-up suit waved one hand out of her front door. “Oh, Bill, I have something for you. Just wait a sec and I’ll be right out.”

He paused in front of his apartment door, the door key in his hand, and turned to look down the hallway. Impatience clouded his face as he clutched the key.  He decided to head inside. Phyllis would catch up. She always did. He unlocked the door and dumped his heavy backpack on the floor. Thankfully they had a nice bike rack downstairs so he could lock up his bike without having to bring it inside.

He started to flip through his mail, looking to see if there was anything interesting. Whole Term Life, get your policy for Whole Term Life. Discounted, special for senior citizens! He threw it in the trash with a flick. Coupons, coupons, Green Dot Market coupons, he set those aside. More ads for cable TV, wireless phones, hearing aids. Funeral home specials.

“Jesus!” He thought to himself. “I’m not dead yet!”

There was one for a Latin dance club. Cumbiatron!!!!! In bold letters it announced salsa night at the club. He put that one to the side.

There was a knock on the door. Grudgingly, he went to open it.

“There you are, thought I had missed you!” Phyllis gushed with an aluminum covered pan in her hands.

“I wish,” Bill winced to himself.

“I just happened to have some extra of this beef casserole and I know how much you like ground beef. No big pieces.” She smiled the big smile at him, a wonderful set of choppers showing.

“Oh, that is so nice of you Phyllis,” he oozed is his best nicey, nice voice. “You are so right, it is my favorite.” He yanked the glass dish out of her hands and placed it on the counter.

“I thought maybe you could join us downstairs later for some bridge.”

“Sorry Phyllis, I just can’t. Got some things I just have to get done. Maybe next time.” He was scooting her toward the door with his big, boney hands.

Her mouth formed a little disappointed frown. “Oh, I just thought…”

“No, no. You were right to ask. It’s just that I have had a long morning already and have to rest up for this evening. You understand.” He grinned at her. He had a nice set of choppers too.

Phyllis recovered. “Okay then, well enjoy your dinner and next time.”

Bill nodded vigorously and shut the door on her rear end.

“Now where is that blue silk shirt I used to have.” He went into the bedroom and started to rummage through his closet. He wanted to make it so church tonight and see if that new gal was there.

“Lady, Linda,” he mused, “what was her name? Ah, here it is.” He slid the long sleeved shirt out of the closet and examined it. Being over twenty years old, it was not doing too badly.

“Like you, you old dog.” He winked at himself in the mirror. “Lady, I think the name was. Hot!”

He headed for the shower humming a little tune, Lady from Styx.

That evening, Bill arrived at Open Door Mission Church a little early and hustled over to get coffee and cookies before they were all gone.  The church crowd was starting to gather and mill around. Bill worked the room saying hello and shaking hands. He was peering around looking to see if Lady had arrived yet. To his disappointment she was still not there.

“Patience,” he mumbled to himself. “All things in God’s time, can’t rush it.”

“Bill, hey, you’re here!” Came the booming voice of the church pastor. Bill turned. Jimmy Dean, minister of Open Door was a paunchy guy with a friendly face and balding, thin blond hair. He was extending his hand effusively toward Bill.

They shook hands and exchanged pleasantries. After a few minutes, Jimmy shifted his over-tight belt around on his double-knit polyester tan pants. Bill wondered if they came from Wal-Mart. It would be the kind of tacky thing the pastor’s wife would buy.

“Bill, I need to discuss something with you for just a minute.” Jimmy was starting to sweat a little on the brow.  There was a pause while the man tried to collect his thoughts.

“You know that we at the church,” he waved his hand a bit to indicate the congregation, “always appreciate all the help you give us, volunteering and all.”

“I’m here to serve and help Jimmie, you know that,” Bill answered earnestly. “I’m just a humble servant.”

Jimmy paused for a moment, seemingly losing his train of thought.  “Ah, yeah. Right. That is sort of the thing Bill,” he paused again, “some of the parishioners, just a few mind you, have been complaining about the help you have been giving them.”

Bill managed to look shocked. “Whatever can you mean Jimmy?”

“Well,” Jimmy was having a little trouble with the words, “some people feel you are a little, well, intense…yes, yes, that’s the word. A little too intense for their liking.”

“Well, Jimmy, you know that I started out in seminary school, and I have been doing good works and carrying the message of the Lord for all these years. I am so sorry if people just aren’t interested…”

“Interested is not really the right word Bill, no, no. I wouldn’t use the word ‘interested’. No, it’s more like they feel like you come on too strong with them and the message and they feel…” He was struggling again, “They feel, well, intimidated. Yes, that’s it. Intimidated.” The pastor managed a weak smile.

Bill was shaking his head back and forth, mystified.

“Well, Jimmy, whatever it is you want from me, you know you just have to ask. You know that don’t you, Jimmy?” He put a boney hand on Jimmy’s thick shoulder.

“Well, of course Bill,” Jimmy was working hard to maintain the smile. “Tell you what, maybe if you could just, tone things down a bit, for the time being, let the newcomers just sort of feel their way around here, that might help.”

Bill nodded with enthusiasm, “Absolutely, Jimmy, you’re the man in charge.”

Jimmy looked relieved, he could see his wife scowling at him from the kitchen area. “Well, actually, He’s the man in charge,” he pointed a finger upwards.” But still, so glad we could speak to each other like this. Again, thanks for all your work for the church. Have a good service.” He wiped his brow with a hand and scurried off to see what his wife wanted.

Bill smiled and turned back to the congregation and pews “Ass,” he thought to himself. “I was preaching when he was in diapers.”

Jimmy beat it over to his wife, double time.

“Did you talk to him?” she hissed at him in a low voice.

“Yes, Linda, I talked to him. He seems very cooperative.”

“I hope so, I am sick of him. The old moocher,” she shook her head in disgust.

The service was starting so Bill was forced to find a seat with the others. To his delight, he glimpsed Lady coming in late through a side door. She grabbed a seat a few rows ahead of him. He could lean sideways and get a glimpse of her stocking clad legs over a well shod heel.  “Got to love it,” he mumbled a little. The short, dumpy lady sitting next to him shot him a suspicious look. He opened his book.

After the service, the church always served coffee and refreshments and he raced the crowd back to the kitchen.  Lady wandered in and began chatting with some other women. He moseyed over and  hung onto the edges of the conversation, laughing when the others laughed.

As the parishioners started to leave he casually got his bike off the rack and wandered over to where Lady was getting in her car. “So, good to see you here tonight, we just love newcomers,” he told her.

She jerked up, a little startled, and then pausing said “Ah, that is so sweet to hear you say. Thanks Bill, it feels great to be welcomed.”

“Don’t know if you’d ever like to go for coffee after the service,” he ventured.

She had gotten the car door opened and threw her purse in. She looked like she was considering his offer for a moment. “Oh, don’t think so Bill. Thanks so much, I have to get home to my fiancée.“

His guts lurched at the word fiancée. Still, he managed to keep the smile on his face. “Well, maybe invite him too sometime, why the heck not?”

She laughed and got into her car. “Maybe, sometime.” She started the engine and drove away. When she was well out of the parking lot she shook her blond head back and forth. “Men, amazing.”

Bill was pedaling like a madman back home to Happy House Village.  “She’s not that great,” he fumed furiously. “And that suit she was wearing. What’s that color, hot pink? Just another tart in a cheap suit.”

He slammed his bike into the bike rack. As he went by the club house he could see a group of people playing cards. Phyllis was there sitting next to some man he didn’t know. “Yucking it up, as always. Bunch of jerk-offs.” He stomped up the stairs not waiting for the elevator.

Next night Bill rode the bus, putting his bike on the front, and was able to find the Cumbiaton bar for the salsa dancing. Electro Latin Nights the billboard screamed. He was wearing his best blue silk shirt and some nice fitting white pants. He was so proud of himself he could sit fit into all his old clothes. “That’s exercise for you.” Plus, he knew the light here would be very dim so that would help immensely.

Always a good dancer, he was eager to try these new steps. “Go Dog go,” he encouraged himself. He asked many ladies to dance and they usually said yes and pretty soon the whole place was a riot of motion and energy. He was really having fun.

After the end of one exhausting set, he asked his little Latina partner “Drink?”

“Si, senor, Dos Equis, por favor.” Bill ran to get her drink.

As she sat sipping her drink, he fondled his coke. “Would you like to go out sometime?”

She laughed, a little tinkling laugh, and her black curls shook. “No man, you fun but you old enough to be my grandpa.” She giggled again and sipped her beer, her bright red nail polish brushing drops off the low-cut chiffon thing she was wearing.

Bill raised his glass. “Cheers, no problem,” he gave her a big smile.

Back home that night, he stared in the mirror. “What’s wrong with me?” he asked his reflection. “The girls used to always go wild over me. They must have no taste anymore.” Shaking his head sadly over the state of the world he made his way to bed.

Next night, he waited until it was bridge time and ambled downstairs to join the group. He balanced one skinny hip on a plush chair.

“So, Phyllis,” he asked casually, “still looking for that bridge partner?”

“Oh, Bill, that is so sweet of you.” Phyllis gushed. “But, oh, here he is.” She waved to the entranceway as a dark haired man walked in. “Fred, Fred, over here honey!”

Fred sauntered over and plopped down in one of the folding chairs at the card table.

“Fred is my new bridge partner. Isn’t he just the cutest?” Fred, looking a bit like a carnival bear dressed in a shirt and tie, gave a curt nod in Bill’s general direction.

“So, we gonna play or what?” growled Sally, the unofficial bridge headmaster, one cigarette hanging out of her mouth. The others eagerly pulled their chairs up to the table waiting for cards.

“Ah, yeah,” Bill mumbled to Phyllis who was already caught up in the game. He got off the chair and wandered out to the pool and laid down on one of the big white plastic loungers.

He leaned back and stared up at the night sky and the bright, white stars. “What’s the world coming to Lord? What’s the world coming to?”

Finis

Dr. Death

24 Monday Apr 2023

Posted by webbywriter1 in aging, exercise, poetry

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He’s so kind,

that Doctor Death.

Delivering one patient

at a time

with his sharp needles

to the sweet arms of Morpheus.

As the body is rowed

across the River Styx,

the relatives cry and

clutch their pocket books.

Crying in relief as

the dirt hits the coffin.

Their responsibilities

over, they can

go comfortably

back to their lives

and wait their turn

for smiling,

Dr. Death.

Death Watch

23 Sunday Apr 2023

Posted by webbywriter1 in aging, exercise, Fiction

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I rushed through the door, running late.

She was already there, sitting on the edge of the bed,

stroking the old lady’s hair with the back of her hand.

“You’re here,” I said breathlessly.

She nodded, head down, with a little half smile,

watching the old lady.

“She’s…”

“Sleeping, she’s just sleeping. She had some breakfast earlier and is doing alright.”

I sighed, dropping down on a chair, stuffing my car keys in my bag.

“So…”

She shook her head slowly back and forth; kept stroking the hair.

“I wondered….,” I started slowly, “could you tell me when I…”

“No!” She looked up and me and frowned.

“Well, I was just thinking…”

“Don’t think,” was the terse reply. “You’ve got a lot of nerve asking.”

“Oh….” I looked away, embarrassed. “Okay.”

“She’s had a good life,” she murmured. There was a slight rustling sound as she adjusted her wings.

“Oh, well, yes, of course. She has.”

The old lady’s eyes suddenly popped open and she stared open-mouthed at the young woman.

“It’s you,” she breathed and smiled.

The end

Pinkie

17 Monday Apr 2023

Posted by webbywriter1 in aging, exercise, poetry

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She is old

and brown.

Wrinkled like a walnut.

Her clothes and bags

are tattered and worn.

She peers into the

train station mirror

and carefully, carefully

applies the hot, pink lipstick

with her pinkie finger.

Moving her face back and forth,

she observes her handiwork.

Satisfied with its vibrant glossiness,

she is ready to face the day.

3/12

Cew

1953 Forever

17 Monday Apr 2023

Posted by webbywriter1 in aging, exercise, poetry

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I’m stuck behind Grandma.

She is ahead of me and

I can’t get by.

She plods along looking

neither right nor left.

She can’t hear me behind her.

Doesn’t she know I am in a hurry?

I have places to go and things to do

and I am late.

She doesn’t see, she doesn’t know. 

She is in a time capsule and it is 1953,

forever.

She is not concerned about my little life.

She has seen a few things and has earned

her spot, plodding along,

ahead of me,

born in ’53.

Chap Five – Millie gets Kidnapped

17 Friday Mar 2023

Posted by webbywriter1 in aging, exercise, Book Sales: Amazon.com/Kindle Books, Fiction

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from: Telephone Call for Carolyn Keene

Good times were not to last and George Benson also suffered a stroke and died the night before the couple was to leave on a trip to Central America. Heart broken, Millie did not marry again.

Times changed and the demands for the girl sleuth changed. Stratemeyer had died and his

daughter Harriet had taken over the Syndicate. Other ghostwriters were hired to work on the series.  

 Eventually, Millie herself got tired of Nancy and wanted to move onto something else. She eventually worked on a number of series for kids, some under different pen names and some using her own. Her favorite, Penny Parker, was about a girl reporter full of pluck and independence. She still worked as a reporter for the Toledo Blade and was busy taking trips to Central America to explore her favorite ruins. It was there it happened. Mildred Wirt Benson was kidnapped in Guatemala!

                                                #

After the death of her husband, George Benson, Millie continued to take trips to her beloved Central America to look at the Mayan ruins. It was on one of these trips that it happened. Mildred Wirt Benson was kidnapped in Guatemala!

Millie was with her local guide and was eager to start their exploration of the Rio de la Pasion River.  Their canoe was ready, provisions were packed, she had her leather messenger bag complete with camera and notebook. Millie loved to record her journeys and show pictures when she got back to her friends in Ohio. The guide spoke passable English, the weather was good; they were set!

It was mid-morning, the sky was bright blue and the sun was gaining on the sky but it still wasn’t completely hot. Early November and the real heat had not yet set in. The jungle around them was a deep green. Birds could be heard calling to each other overhead. When Millie looked up from her paddling, she could glimpse their bright colors fliting from tree to tree. Her guide promised to take her to some Mayan ruins off the beaten track that not too many people had seen. Millie was giddy with excitement. She loved this!

They paddled down the seemingly tranquil river and had been gone from their dock about a half hour. Millie could see a canoe approaching them from the opposite direction. She assumed it was a farmer come to sell his goods at the little market in the village they had come from.

            “Buenos Diaz!” Her guide shouted and waved at the oncoming canoe.

            “Buenos Diaz, amigo!” was the reply as the two men seemed about to row past them. Suddenly, as the canoe glided past them one man pulled his paddle out of the water and stuck it into the back of their boat and pulled. Her canoe started to swing around, the other man pulled out a gun and pointed it at the guide who dropped his paddle in the canoe and held up his hands. Rapid fire Spanish flew between the two men. The other canoe came along side of theirs. The man with the gun gestured at the guide who then stepped over to the second canoe. The man with the gun got into hers.

            “Vamonos!” Millie heard the man from the second canoe shout and the two canoes made a detour toward the shore. There, the two strange men quickly jumped out and secured the canoes on a short shelf of sand.

            “Out, out,” one of the men shouted at her. Getting up while the canoe was still rocking, Millie slung her messenger bag over one shoulder and steadied herself to get out. Her guide rushed to her side to help her and she put a dainty foot over the side of the boat. The two men were still shouting and the one with the gun gestured for them to walk.

They entered the jungle and Millie realized they were on a small dirt path through the trees. They walked in silence for another half hour. Later, Millie remembered hearing the howler monkeys calling to each other from above. Sometimes from a branch of safety, she thought she could see bright eyes in dark faces peering at them through a canopy of glossy green leaves.

Finally, they reached a small house or more like a hut in the middle of a small clearing. One man went forward, opened the door and gestured for them to go in. The hut was small and dark and smelled like goats. The two men had Millie and the guide sit down on two rough chairs. One went and fetched rope from a corner and then tied both travelers to the chairs.

The men started talking to the guide and he translated.

            “Ms. Millie, these men know you are American and they want money for your release.”

            “How much money?” Millie asked. More conversation.

            “One thousand dollars, American.”

            “But I don’t have that kind of money on me. I only have a few dollars.”

            More back and forth in Spanish.

            “They say you will have to get it or they will have to hurt you.”

            “Well, tell them not to do that. We can work something out. If they would only release this rope and give us some water, maybe we can talk about it.”

            More Spanish.

            “They say okay, but if you try to run, the man, he will have to shoot you.”

            “Tell the man I won’t run. However,” Millie replied, “I am very thirsty and would like some water. All our supplies are in our canoe.”

The man without the gun, a short, squat man with dark brown skin and black hair came over and loosened her rope. Then he went and ladled some water from a bucket into a rough cup and handed it to her. Millie drank it down and said “Now him,” she gestured at her guide with the cup.

The man stared at her a moment then grabbed the cup and went to refill it with more water. He walked over to Juan, loosened the ropes and handed him the cup. The guide finished it with a gulp.

            “Tell the nice man, Juan, that I am a writer and don’t make very much money. $1,000 is really a lot to pay.” Millie said.  Juan translated.

            “But you are American, they say, you all have a lot of money.”

            “Not really. Ah, ask if I could have my bag. I could show him something.” Juan translated and the man with the gun, stuck the gun in his belt, grabbed her bag. He looked through it first and then handed it over. He loosened her ropes so she could use her hands.

            Millie reached in her bag and pulled out an old battered copy of The Hidden Staircase. “See, I write books. This is my book.” She pointed at the title.

            The shorter man, without the gun, reached over and took the book from her.

            “No, is not you,” he pointed at the cover. “Is Carolyn Keene, writer. Is not you. You is Wirt. Not the same.”

Millie was surprised the man spoke any English. But, she thought, that’s a good thing.

She slowed down her speech. “No, it is me. That is my book. That name,” she pointed at the book, “that is like,” she paused, “a stage name. Like an actress’s stage name.”

Juan translated. Millie could hear actriza spoken over and over.

            “So, dis is your book, you are worth much money!” The short man said and he and his friend laughed.

            “Oh, no,” Millie replied. “Not much money. That book, only $125 to write.” Juan translated the dollars into dineros. The two kidnappers shook their heads. “Plus, I’m only a woman, and kind of old. People probably wouldn’t pay much for me.” Is fifty-five that old? Millie thought to herself.

The two kidnappers shook their heads and again and went to the corner and whispered to each other. They came back. The short one did the talking.

            “How we know you really write the book?” The short man asked.

            “Oh,” Millie answered pleasantly, “I could read it to you. I have it practically memorized anyway. But you really must untie me. Where would I run to? I have no idea where I am.”

The two men whispered to each other and seemed to come to an agreement. They untied Millie and handed her back the book. Then they pulled her around to a small kitchen table. The taller man got more cups of water. They gestured for Juan to come over. He hobbled over on his chair.

The four of them sat at the table; Juan still loosely tied, while Millie read them The Hidden Staircase.

Continued Part II

Taken from – Kindle Vella
Carolyn Keene, Telephone for Miss Keene

Courtney E. Webb

ASIN:

B0BHR23XWL

Homeless Deaths from the Cold

06 Monday Mar 2023

Posted by webbywriter1 in aging, exercise, homelessnes

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TUCSON (KVOA) – So far this year, 46 people experiencing homelessness have died in Pima County.  Internet 3/23

The number of homeless deaths has been steadily increasing over the past few years.

“It’s heartbreaking,” Lisa Chastain of Tucson’s Gospel Rescue Mission said.

Chastain said she has seen the number of people experiencing homelessness continue to increase in Pima County.

The lingering pandemic has only made the situation worse.

Many have one thing in common.

“The majority of the people we see are either drug issues or mental health,” Chastain said.

For some, those drug issues can prove deadly.

According to the latest numbers from the Pima County Office of the Medical Examiner, there were 125 deaths of individuals experiencing homelessness in 2020, the first year statistics were available. In 2021, that number rose to 158.

OME said more than half of those deaths were due to accidental overdose. In addition, about three-quarters of those who died were men.

“One of the challenges that we’re having right now is we’re seeing a lot of weapons,” Tucson City Councilmember Steve Kozachik said. “And we are seeing a lot of drug use.”

However, getting people into drug treatment is an ongoing challenge, even though it may be exactly what they need to keep them alive.

“It has to be somebody’s choice; we do have some people here who have been court-mandated and their lives have been changed,” Chastain said.

There is not one solution. It takes us all to combat this problem.

m.

Paul Birmingham

Paul Birmingham is an Investigative Producer for KVOA News 4 Tucson. He is a three time Edward R. Murrow award winner, native Tucsonan, and a proud Arizona Wildcat.

Sponsored by Revcontent

CALIFORNIA

L.A. has great weather, yet more homeless die of the cold here than in New York

Esteban Velasquez, 54, tries to stay warm as pedestrians walk along South Broadway in downtown Los Angeles on a rainy day in January.

(Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)

BY GALE HOLLANDSTAFF WRITER 

FEB. 17, 2019 8:30 AM PT

John D. Brider was found passed out near a homeless shelter and taken to Los Angeles County-USC Medical Center, where he later died.

Brider, 63, had gone into cardiac arrest and oxygen had been cut off to his brain. But another, seemingly improbable, factor contributed to his death last winter: hypothermia, or loss of body heat, from being out in the cold, the Los Angeles County coroner’s office ruled.

One of the abiding myths about Los Angeles is that homeless people come here from the East Coast or Midwest because at least they won’t freeze to death.

But despite L.A.’s typical sunshine and mild temperatures, five homeless people, including Brider, died of causes that included or were complicated by hypothermia in the county last year, surpassing San Francisco and New York City, which each reported two deaths. Over the last three years, 13 people have died at least partly because of the cold, the coroner’s office said. And advocates worry that this cold, rainy winter will mean more fatalities.

Hypothermia has led to more deaths in L.A. than in colder regions because 39,000 homeless people here live outdoors — by far the most of any metropolitan area in the country. L.A.’s generally moderate Mediterranean climate is no shield, because hypothermia can set in at temperatures as high as 50 degrees, experts say.

Going without a hat can drain up to half of a person’s body heat, and wet clothing can intensify heat loss twentyfold, according to a 2007 report from the National Health Care for the Homeless Council. Underlying medical conditions, alcohol and drug use — including the use of psychiatric medications — mental illness and the privations of living outdoors intensify the risk. Brider, for example, tested positive for cocaine and had cancer of the throat and tongue, the coroner said.

“Many people experiencing homelessness suffer from malnutrition and sleep deprivation, leading to some of them remaining out in the cold. Ultimately, sometimes they die,” said Bobby Watts, the homeless council’s chief executive.

L.A.’s hypothermia cases, first reported in the Capital & Main online publication, are a tiny fraction of the overall homeless death toll, which climbed from 720 in 2016 to 900 last year. But hypothermia is a particularly appalling , and preventable, way to die.

“The idea that people froze to death is really horrible; it is a shared societal tragedy,” said Jim O’Connell, founding director of the Boston Health Care for the Homeless Program, who researches hypothermia among homeless people.

Cristal, 31, left, sits on a skid row sidewalk in downtown L.A. on a recent cold, rainy day.

(Francine Orr / Los Angeles Times)

A spokesman for Mayor Eric Garcetti said the city and county had added 1,607 new shelter beds in a year and expanded outreach. The county’s winter shelter program provides 1,200 extra beds from December to the end of March.

“The number of emergency beds for our homeless neighbors has increased each year for the last three years,” said spokesman Alex Comisar, “and we’re doing more outreach than ever before to bring people inside during inclement weather.”

But although most cold-exposure deaths occur in the winter, Mark Stuart, 56, died of probable hypothermia on a Long Beach embankment in April 2016 — after the winter shelters shut down. O’Connell says hypothermia is a particular risk when the temperature drops more than 10 degrees over the course of the day, a common phenomenon in L.A.

Jonathan E. Sherin, director of the Los Angeles County Department of Mental Health, says homeless people with severe and persistent mental illness are in jeopardy of hypothermia.

Over the last six to eight months, the county’s specialized Homeless Outreach Mobile Engagement teams, with 30 staff members supported by a psychiatrist, have fanned out to remote encampments to find homeless people who need help, he said.

“I wish it were happening more quickly,” said Sherin, who hopes to double staffing in the next year or so. “It’s our highest priority.”

Some homeless people perished from the cold in public view. A 44-year-old man sat outside a business for two nights in January 2018 before someone inside the building called 911, the coroner reported.

Old Town Pasadena – Part II

28 Saturday Jan 2023

Posted by webbywriter1 in aging, exercise, dating, families, Fiction, FRIENDSHIP, romance, teenagers

≈ Comments Off on Old Town Pasadena – Part II

                                                            #

( Previously, Kristie was getting some unwanted attention at church. She called on Sam Reynolds, her boyfriend to help. He then decided they could both use a short vacation. They are on their way to a B & B in Pasadena.)

They stopped at a McDonalds on the way down to get some lunch and regroup. Sam pulled out his street map of LA.

“Okay, I think it’s right here.” He pointed.

“Alright,” Kristie replied putting some French fries in her mouth.

“I think we can, yes, get over the Grapevine down on the 405 and then branch over at the 210 to Pasadena. That should save us a bunch of LA traffic.”

“Sounds good,” Kristie said, “want me to drive?”

 Sam stole some of her fries.

“Uh, sure. You want?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Shouldn’t be too hard. I’ll put the address into my phone for the GPS thing.”

Back on the road, they had traded places and it was Sam’s turn to snooze.

Kristie looked over at him. I love watching him sleep, she thought to herself. Actually, I love watching him anytime. A buff dude, Sam spent a fair amount of time in the gym keeping in shape. He would wear a turquoise cut off gym shirt that played up his bright blue eyes and she would just sigh. I am a lucky gal. Not everyone my age, divorced with two grown kids can say the same.

Driving along, her mind wandered back in time to her divorce. She had filed when she discovered her husband was cheating on her on his out-of-town trips. When she had confronted him with the evidence, he had just crumpled like an over-blown balloon. He had wanted reconciliation, but she had suspected this for a very long time. Who knew how many women it had been. She was done playing games.

Oddly enough, her two daughters continued to take his side for a long time and insisted she was being unreasonable. She learned to stop arguing with them about it. Phil was still in the LA area and her two girls still gravitated more to him. Although he had been the absent parent, always gone with work and trips and she had been the caretaker, they still seemed to care for him the most. She couldn’t understand it.

She sighed at the memories. However, since Sam had showed up on the scene, they seemed to be coming around more. They both enjoyed his easygoing manner and gentlemanly ways. He would kid them about this and that and they would both laugh hysterically. Like kids again, she thought. Just like kids again.

She consulted her cell phone again, the little arrows were starting to point toward the 210. Traffic began to slow and Sam woke up.

“We there yet, Mom?”

“Getting close. Look at this map again would you, I think the offramp might be the tricky part.”

Forty minutes later they were traveling south through Pasadena towards South Pasadena. The weather for late fall was sunny, crisp and clear.

“Hey, look at that bridge,” Sam called out.

Kristie pulled the car to the curb.

“Yeah, that’s the Colorado Street Bridge, been here a long time. Called the Jumper’s Bridge.”

“The what?”

“Jumper’s Bridge. Apparently, more people have jumped off that bridge than anything else around here.”

“Whew, good to know, I guess.”

They traveled through dense foliage next to the road as it curved around the soft hills of Pasadena. They could smell the faint scent of something burning. A few houses had chimneys and wispy trails of smoke escaped from the tops.

Sam looked at the map. “Think we’re almost there. It’ll be on the right.”

Abruptly a sign came into view and Kristie barely had time to signal and make a sharp right into a drive. The drive led up the hill and was edged with large trees and bushes. They pulled right into the parking lot and the three-story house came into full view.

“Wow!” Kristie let out as she pulled in.

It was a beautiful, turn of the century home that had been carefully restored. It had a peaked gable roof over a large front porch cluttered with easy chairs and occasional tables.

Sam reached over and popped the trunk while Kristie walked toward the house.  There were large plate glass windows on the front and the tops of each had clear decorative glass panels with lead scrolling. She went up the steps to admire the scalloped shingles on the outside.

She was touching one with a finger when the front door flew open, and a very large Bill Bass appeared.

“Kristie! Sam! You’re here!”

Bill squeezed Kristie in a bear hug and she momentarily stopped breathing.  

“Thanks, Bill,” she gave a little gasp.

“Go in, go in! Mialee!” he boomed, “they’re here.”

A little woman of about 5’3” came hustling around a corner and lead Kristie into the living room.

“You must be Kristie. I am Mialee.” She smiled and gave a tiny bow.

Kristie put out her hand for a shake. “Yes, I am. So nice to meet you.”

“Let me show you your room and then we do lunch.”

Kristie let herself be lead upstairs. Sam and Bill were still booming at each other down in the parking lot. Might as well take the opportunity to wash up, she told herself.

Mialee led the way to an enormous bedroom with a huge double bed covered in a white, fluffy comforter. “The bathroom is here,” Mialee pointed. “Lunch in about twenty minutes.”

“Good, thanks.” Kristie put down her purse and as soon as the owner was out of the room, she sat on the bed and began to bounce up and down. Then, she sank backwards into the comforter and let the softness enfold her.

Sam came into the room backwards holding suitcases in both hands.

“What are you doing darlin’? It’s not time for bed yet.”

“Sam, I might never move again,” she told him.

He laughed. “Okay, but more grub fer me.”

She sighed, pulled herself up reluctantly and went to wash her face and hands. The tantalizing smells from the kitchen started to waft their way upstairs as she descended the stairs.

She entered a very large dining room off of the living room. It had two big walnut tables set for lunch and turrets of steaming food were being put down. Mialee was helped by a guy that looked to be the cook and the table was rapidly full with various dishes. Suddenly, Kristie realized how hungry she was and that McDonalds was a distant memory.  

She began to serve herself.

“Wild mushroom soup,” Mialee pointed. “Long grain rice. Chops, stuffed chicken breasts,” she pointed at another bowls. “Rolls, butter. Would you like wine?”

Kristie waved it away. “Too early for me. Tonic water?”

“Coming up,” Mialee scurried away.

“. . . bought it when it was just a shack and have been rebuilding it for about ten years. Old guy finally ran out of money and Mialee was on the scene and just happened to have the ready to bail the guy out. I mean, he didn’t want to sell of course, but what could he do? Couldn’t afford the utility bill anymore.”

Sam nodded as Bill blathered on about the history of the house. Not so much to stop him filling his plate and shoveling in the goods.

Kristie cut into a very delicious pork chop and had a bite. That combined with the fluffy mashed potatoes and gravy and thin, green asparagus and she was almost in heaven. She chatted with some of the other guests around the table and admired the heavy crown molding that edged the top of the white plaster walls. Views of the Pasadena foothills could be seen through the enormous plate glass windows. She noticed a second building out back, a smaller, two-story affair.

“So, what’s that,” she pointed a fork at the building.

“Oh, that’s our overflow building. It gets too crowded here, we stuff them in over there.”

Kristie nodded.

“Yeah, and, um, Mialee’s sister lives there too,” Bill added through a mouth of mashed potatoes.

“What’s her name?”

He looked momentarily embarrassed. “Jen, yeah, uh, Jen.” He took a swig of his beer and his eyes slid over to Mialee.

Kristie grabbed a hot roll for buttering and glanced at him. Wonder what that’s about, she thought.

After the filling lunch, Kristie wanted to walk. She and Sam motored over to Colorado Blvd. to walk around the shops. The boulevard was festive and the city had already started to put up fairy lights on the overhead light standards. Pumpkins and signs of Thanksgiving could be seen in abundance. They ended up at Vroman’s book shop and wandered the shelves.

The store had a coffee shop so Kristie ordered her favorite…pumpkin latte. Sam couldn’t be persuaded to try anything stranger than a latte so Kristie gave up trying. They took their drinks to a table and sat.

She had found a cute book on cooking for the holidays and Sam was leafing through a new issue of Field and Stream. 

“So, the place is beautiful,” she commented to Sam. “Where did Mialee get the money to buy a place like that?”

“Ever the nosey one, aren’t you?” he gave her nose a little tap. “Well, apparently, Mialee had a restaurant in Thailand that was fairly successful, which she sold. Plus, she is divorced from an American GI and I believe, don’t quote me, she did pretty well in the divorce.”

Kristie nodded and sipped her latte.

“The place is probably mortgaged to the yin-yang so, let’s hope they stay successful.”

She raised her cup to that. “And the food is divine.”

“It is that, it is indeed.”

After window shopping, they drove back.  Kristie wanted to take a nap and Sam had plans to go out with Bill to a cigar shop. When they got back, Mialee’s daughter, Crystal was busy running back and forth with fresh towels. Her son, Daniel could be seen emptying trash cans.

“Looks like everybody gets to help,” Kristie whispered to Sam.

They wound their way around the two. Even Bill was busy, running a vacuum of all things. Kristie escaped to their room and closed the door. Throwing off her shoes and dumping her bag she fell face first into the giant coverlet and was soon fast asleep.

A couple of hours later, a groggy Kristie awoke from the sleep of the dead. She was disoriented a moment and didn’t know where she was. Looking around the room, she finally got her bearings.

What woke me up? She wondered and then heard it again. Voices drifting up from the kitchen.

“I told you no. How many times do I got to say it? No is no and why don’t you quit asking?”

There was a low murmured reply Kristie couldn’t hear.

“Jesus! I got to get dinner ready. If you’re not going to help, why don’t you go do something with yourself. I’m busy.”

There was the sound of a slamming door and then sounds in the kitchen. Mostly pots and pan getting banged around loudly. Kristie got up and went to wash her face in the lavatory. She combed her hair and changed her shirt.

Walking down the stairs, it looked like Sam was still not back. She remembered some hot tea fixings in the dining room. Quietly, she went in to make herself a cup. She could hear Mialee in the kitchen. Cup in hand, she gingerly pushed open the swinging kitchen door.

Mialee was standing at the sink, both arms stretched out straight, leaning against the porcelain. It looked like she had been crying.

“Oh, I’m sorry. . . “

Mialee jerked her head around and wiped her face with a shirt sleeve. “No, it’s okay. Just me being emotional. Did you have a good nap?”

“Oh yes, like a bear in hibernation. Your beds are great.”

Mialee walked out of the kitchen into the dining room. Kristie followed and watched while the woman made herself a cup of ginseng tea. Mialee gestured for Kristie to sit at the big table. The other guests were either still out sightseeing or napping upstairs.

“This is such a beautiful house…” Kristie started.

Mialee nodded. “Yes, and a great deal of work. You probably heard me with my sister, Jen.”

Kristie shrugged and sipped her tea.

“She, I, uh, both of us have put so much into this place.” She waved her hand around expansively.

“I am sure,” Kristie replied, “but your business seems to be doing so well.”

Mialee nodded. “It is doing well, but it has to do really well for us to make the mortgage and pay the bills. I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or anything, but it is hard to make it in the restaurant trade.”

Kristie nodded. “I’m not expert, but I work at a credit union, and we see a lot of struggling owners. I guess it’s easy to lose your shirt in this kind of operation.”

Mialee sighed and wrapped both hands around her mug. “Jen used to help all the time with meals and maintenance. But then Bill showed up, they kind of . . .clashed and she got a job tending bar. Now, I hardly see her anymore. Then with her weird hours and these friends she brings home…I just don’t know.” Head down, the woman stared into her cup.

“Ah,” Kristie replied. A picture was staring to form. “And you don’t like her friends.”

Mialee shook her head. “No, not at all.” She sipped her tea some more. “Listen to me. I don’t know why I am telling you all this. You’re a guest! Time to get the dinner on. But, thanks for listening, Kristie. Bill talks about you and Sam all the time.”

“No problem,” Kristie replied. “Anytime. But now I think I’ll take a little walk before it’s time to start eating again!”

Mialee disappeared into the kitchen. Kristie grabbed her key, a cold bottle of water from the guest fridge and a sweater. She walked outside and saw the Ducati motorcycle parked next to the annexed building. There was no sign of Jen. Kristie walked down the driveway then a few blocks toward town. The leaves were turning bright red and yellow, and she was enjoying the sights and smells of fall. As she was returning, she noticed a little footpath close to the B and B that seemed to run from the street, up through the trees. Wonder where that goes, she thought.  

A little later Sam and Bill got back, and Sam smelled of cigar smoke. Kristie didn’t mind because she loved the smell. Even though she knew he shouldn’t be smoking, she decided to not nag. Sam had got them a video to watch for the evening, so she was content.

As dinner was served, they heard the loud roar of the Ducati as it sped off from the back of the house and left the property. Bill and Mialee exchanged glances. Kristie noticed but said nothing. Not really my business, she chided herself.

Later, dinner was done and Mialee and Bill were busy with clean up. Kristie and Sam got half-way through the movie in the big living room.  Both were tired and decided to go upstairs.

 Later, Kristie woke up and pawed at the side table for her water glass…empty.  Getting up, she decided to get a fresh bottle of Fiji water from the little frig downstairs. Quietly, she made her way down to the dining room and got a bottle. Something made her turn. Someone was standing next to the window smoking a cigarette.

She realized after a moment that it must be Mialee’s sister Jen. At first all Kristie could see was the glowing end of the cigarette.

“Oh,” she said, “you startled me.”

There was a little laugh, the young woman came forward.

“Yeah, I have that effect on some people.”

Mialee and her sister were about the same 5’3” in height and had the same coffee colored skin. That is where the similarity ended. Where Mialee had long hair tied in a pony, her sister had black hair cut in a jagged bob sticking out in angles all over her head. It was half purple and stood up in spots. She must use some killer gel, Kristie thought to herself.

She was dressed in tight, distressed jeans, over that a black leather jacket with chains and buttons everywhere. On her neck and everywhere skin showed, there were tattoos of all variety of pictures and colors. She wore heavy black eyeshadow and spikey silver jewelry in her ears, nose and neck. Reminds me of an anime character. Kristie thought absently.

“So,” Kristie commented, making conversation, “you must get off work very late.”

“Yeah,” the young woman replied, “the bar closes at 2 am and then there’s clean up.” She puffed on her cigarette. “You a guest here?”

“Ah, yeah.” Kristie started to inch toward the stairs. The girl had dark, intense eyes that were staring at her hard. She felt uncomfortable, almost like a question was hanging in the air. Somehow, she didn’t feel like waiting around until that question found a voice. “Well, back to bed.”

The eyes kept following her, the cigarette continued to glow in the dark. Kristie hustled back upstairs. She made sure the bedroom door was locked.

“What in the hell is that all about?” she mumbled to herself as she got back in bed.

“Wha. . .” Sam mumbled at her and then threw an arm over her. She smiled and snuggling up close to him, closed her eyes and was soon asleep again.

(Part III – Sam and Kristie have gotten to the B & B in Pasadena and are enjoying their visit with old friend Bill Blass and his girlfriend, Mialee. However, a sister seems to be a little less than friendly.)

The Wind

25 Wednesday Jan 2023

Posted by webbywriter1 in aging, exercise, dating, romance

≈ Comments Off on The Wind

                                                                     

Tap, tap, tap! Father Paul jabbed at the blank piece of paper with increasing staccato force. Jab! The page stayed blank.

In disgust, he threw down the pen and stood up and walked to the double pane windows and looked out. The trees bent and swayed in the afternoon wind, the last lingering leaves hanging on tenaciously. He brushed his unruly bangs out of his eyes once again and they immediately fell back into the same place. He folded his arms together and stared out.

As the newest parish priest, young Father Paul had some big shoes to fill. His predecessor, Father Lee had recently been kicked upstairs to a much larger church, with a bigger, more established and wealthy congregation. Whenever they had cause to get together to share mass for the holidays, Father Lee was positively leaking bonhomie, good will and enjoyment of life in his new, more comfortable surroundings.

Father Paul couldn’t really complain. This was his first promotion to head priest at this largely immigrant parish church with its tiny, cramped rooms, worn out facilities and a nave so small it could hardly hold the throng of Pilipino parishioners that pushed in every Sunday.

“Ah, well,” he sighed to himself, “here I am wondering about how well I’m doing when it’s questionable how many of them speak English and understand anything I say!”

Father Paul was no stranger to doing time in the trenches. He had spent three long, hot years in the Philippines and one wonderful year in Australia. Apparently, he had impressed the higher ups with his abilities and had been transferred to this small, poor parish in the city. He knew that if he just did his job diligently, to the best of his abilities, the nicer, fancier parish offers would eventually appear.

“I just have to get through this part,” he thought to himself, “and by the way, that damn homily!” This was Friday and he was completely out of ideas for the Sunday Mass. His writer’s block was blooming into panic.

He was about to turn away from the window when his eye was drawn to the one last little brown leaf stubbornly clinging to the tree in front of his window.

“The wind,” he snapped his fingers, ‘that’s it!” he almost shouted. He ran over to his desk and pulled out his Old Testament reference manual. He paused for a moment and looked up. “Thank you, Father,” he said with quiet sincerity.

                                                                        #

Dan, a thirty-eight year old construction superintendent, was balancing his huge frame on a little metal folding chair. He was also balancing a blue Big Book in his lap trying hard to concentrate on what he was reading.

Successful in most areas of his life, Dan had never been academically inclined, but had managed to scrape by in high school. After two years of college, he managed to get his coveted General Contractor’s license. Dan valued this license very much. Also, Dan’s wife-Cecile, two kids, bank officers, his Mom, Dad and various friends and relations all valued Dan’s license too, along with his prodigious ability to make money. Dan’s innate good looks, easy manner, and charm helped to land many housing contracts that afforded his wife and kids the life they had grown very accustomed to.

Cecile’s brunette beauty queen good looks were the perfect complement to Dan’s 6’2” rugged build, blond hair, blue-eyed, Viking self. Ten years after they were married, Cecile was still very much a looker and when she turned those big brown doe eyes on Dan with disappointment written on her beautiful face, his heart just broke. He couldn’t let her down with this drinking thing, he just couldn’t.

Dan sweated under the bad florescent lights in the shabby AA meeting hall and tried hard to stop mentally replacing the horrible brown carpet with a higher-grade brand.

“Just focus!” he thought viciously. He wiped the sweat from his brow. “This getting sober is the shits,” he mumbled  through gritted teeth.

 Dan read out loud about Bill W’s experience of meeting God and it how it felt like a great mountain wind blowing through him.

The lady next to him whispered that is was the wind not of air but of spirit blowing. “Heavy,” thought Dan.

The next Sunday, some miles away in another section of town, Christine McCarthy was getting ready to go to Mass. She could do a lot with her long red hair, she had a bunch of it. The rest of her was a bit more of a challenge.

Of Irish ancestry, Christine was tall, skinny, with pale white skin, freckles and unfortunately, a big nose. A little past the comfortable middle of middle age, Christine resembled, in profile, the Witch of the West. The nose combined with a pronounced chin needed a lot of expensive cosmetics to soften.

After doing her very best with bottle and brush for an hour, she knew it was as good as it was going to get this side of a Hollywood makeover. She picked up her purse and did one last glance at the hall mirror. She was looking forward to hearing Father Paul, the new priest today, even if she had to drive a little farther to that tiny church. She liked him and he was kind of cute. She almost thought there for a minute that he was a little taken with her.

“Oh, no,” she laughed at herself, “a priest, never!” Shaking her head, she went to get her car.

                                                                                      #

Later, Father Paul did deliver.

“And a whopper too,” Christine thought. He had delved way back into the Old Testament to discuss their interpretation of the word ‘wind’ and its being the visible sign of the presence of God, almost like the moving finger itself.

“Thus, it is with the symbol of the wind, a fundamental event in the revelation of the Holy Spirit: ‘And suddenly there came from the sky a noise like a strong driving wind, and it filled the entire house where they were gathered [with Mary]” (Acts 2:2),’ quoted Father Paul.

Also, “We must also note that the wind symbol, as an explicit reference to the Holy Spirit and the Spirit’s action, belongs to the language and doctrine of the New Testament. In the Old Testament the wind, like a ‘hurricane,’ is the expression of God’s wrath (cf. Ez 13:13), while the ‘tiny whispering sound’ speaks of the intimate nature of his conversations with the prophets (cf. 1 Kgs 19:12),” he went on.  The very wind itself can be seen as a sign of God he told the congregation.

“Wow,” thought Christine, “this Father Paul is the goods!”

                                                                                      #

Six months had passed since the sermon and Christine, in addition to being a regular church goer, was also an AA old-timer and had been asked to speak at a meeting, an invitation she gladly accepted. Christine was definitely between boyfriends – way between and did everything in her power to increase her public exposure.

“You never know,” she thought to herself, “when the next He might be listening.”

It just so happened that Dan was in the audience that night with six solid months of sobriety under his belt. He had gotten past the sweaty, bright light and loud noises phase. He was almost able to concentrate now when one of the speakers was talking.

Dan got his coffee and said his hello’s and sat down to listen to Christina speak. She talked about her life, her former singing career and her aspirations to return to the stage. Dan was touched, he was moved. He sat there, crammed in between other big, hunky, sobering up drunks, absorbing her every word.

It was at that moment, when something swept over him like a strong, what?

“What?” He sat grasping. “Like a strong wind, yes, yes, that was it!”  A strong wind: he heard what she said and he understood and understood her feelings at that very moment. It was a complete epiphany moment. For the first time in his life, this good-looking, selfish, pampered, self-centered guy had complete empathy for someone else. Wow! He couldn’t believe it. Incredible. He realized he was having a spiritual experience.

After the meeting, Christine was surrounded by well-wishers telling her how much they liked her talk. Dan couldn’t get through to thank her and had to inch his way forward. He kept glancing at the big clock, his ride was due to leave and he couldn’t be late.

Finally, he got close enough. “Hey, can I get your number?” he burted out to her.

Christine gawked, she had seen this guy before at a distance at meetings, but, up close, what a looker!

“Sure,” she fumbled and grabbed a piece of paper and scratched out her phone number. Snatching the paper, he thanked her quickly and ran off.

She stood staring at the back of his retreating head before getting caught up in the babble of member’s voices again.

Later, Dan was careful to compose his text to Christine. He was still new to this AA thing and wanted to get it right. He told her how much he had enjoyed her talk and how much he really wanted her to have everything she wished for.  He sent it to her phone.

Christine stared at the text message a long time. She read it over several times. She had no idea that she had made such an impression on him. Besides, he was so much younger than she was. But, what the heck! Age was just a number and if he didn’t care, well, neither did she! Three days later, after thinking it over carefully, Christine sent back a very warm message to Dan thanking him for the kind words.

Things continued to progress with Christine and Dan over the next few months. They would exchange the odd text back and forth, always regarding some AA matter or other. They would also see each other at meetings and Christine found herself, almost unconsciously, gravitating toward those meetings where Dan was a regular attendee. Dan for his part was forever grateful to the AA old-timer who had helped him with his newfound understanding of others and their feelings. This was especially true with his wife, Cecile, who had often in the past accused Dan of being insensitive.

In solid AA fashion, Dan attended an all-men’s meeting and kept personal remarks about his wife to that meeting and shared more generic, general stuff at the mixed meetings.

Christine for her part was getting foil treatments on her hair to increase glossiness, Botox in the forehead to reduce wrinkles and buying Victoria Secret super-gel bras to increase volume and lift. She was also looking for blouses with increasingly lower front cuts.

The happy day arrived for Dan when he was about to turn one year sober. Dan was happy, Cecile was thrilled, his parents were delighted and nothing would do but to crank out the all-weather BBQ set in the backyard and throw the first ever summer celebration of Dan’s new found sobriety.

Dan and Cecile published a flyer to invite ‘everyone’. Dan made sure to place one firmly in the hand of Christine with endearing words about how he really wanted her to be there to celebrate his day.

Christine almost blushed. Instead, she rushed home, checked her closet and decided she did not own one thing sexy enough for a day-time BBQ. She grabbed her purse and headed for the mall.

Three days later, with a new flouncy hairdo, teeth cleaned (and whitened) at the dentist, fresh polish on nails and toes, she surveyed herself in the full length mirror. “What do you think?” she asked Frisky her dog. He seemed to like the get up. The outfit was a slinky blue-green top and pants set that was close fitting and looked good on her lean frame. It actually brought out the green in her eyes which was really why she bought it. “Frisky, the whole enchilada cost me a small fortune, but he’s worth it right?” Frisky looked thoughtful.  

Christine found the place, address clutched in her hand, nestled deep in the burbs with kids, cars and dogs everywhere. It was clearly the right address because of all the cars parked up and down the street. She walked in the front door which was half open, displaying a clutch of colorful balloons.

She grabbed a diet coke and started making the rounds of the gabbling AA’s filling up the house. She preened and pirouetted as person after person complimented her new outfit. She was of course waiting for the perfect moment to make maximum impact on her boy. Just as she was turning to go out to the pool area she was greeted by a delicious brunette pushing a large plate of canapés in her face.  

“Try one, they’re great!” The brunette twinkled and smiled at the other guests as they walked by. “You must be Christine.”

Christine had popped a tasty morsel into her mouth when the young woman said “I’ve heard so much about you, I’m Dan’s wife, Cecile!”

The morsel caught in Christine throat, and she almost choked. She started to cough. Cecile looked alarmed and cried “Fred, Fred, some water please!” Fred, a guest, a look of alarm on his face, grabbed a glass, splashed some water in it and came running.

“Oh, oh, are you okay?” Cecile was patting Christine on the back. Christine grabbed the water and gulped it down.

“Thank you, thank you,” she gasped. “I’ll be ok,” as she waved away the concerned Cecile. She took a big breath. “See, I’m okay, fine really. I’ll just go use the bathroom a mo….” Christine escaped down the hallway into the first tiny loo she could find.

She splashed some water on her face. “The hell with the makeup,” she snarled at her own image in the mirror. For a minute she rested both hands on the cool ceramic and stared at herself in disbelief.

Collecting herself, she slowly and softly opened the bathroom door and stepped out. Speaking cheerfully and in as normal a voice as possible, she made her way casually and quickly out the front door and fairly trotted to her car, wiping the tears away as she went.

The next Sunday Christine was back in church wearing flat black shoes, black tights and a plain black synthetic fiber dress.  Her hair was in a knot at the back of her head and for makeup she was wearing lip gloss. She clutched her rosary beads in one hand and her little prayer book in the other.

She was listening very hard to Father Paul talk about the necessity of forgiveness of others.

Christine sat very still and listened, not moving a muscle.

Commercial Real Estate and Big Business force out the Middle Class

25 Saturday Jun 2022

Posted by webbywriter1 in aging, exercise, homelessnes, Jobs and the workplace

≈ Comments Off on Commercial Real Estate and Big Business force out the Middle Class

Commercial Real Estate and Big Business force out the Middle class in Arizona.

Why are Americans choosing to live overseas? Can small business survive Amazon and Walmart?

Can an employee afford to live here? Why are Americans moving overseas? This is a chart of the number (estimated) of US citizens living abroad.

CountryNumber of Americans (estimated)
Mexico799,000
Canada273,000
United Kingdom171,000
Germany153,000
Hong Kong]85,000
Australia117,000
Israel77,000
South Korea68,000
France62,000
Japan58,000
Spain57,000
Italy54,000
Philippines38,000
New Zealand36,000

14 Countries With the Most American Expats: Updated: 05/31/2022

Expat Guide

Over 8.7 million non-military Americans live overseas.

However, where do most of them live? Well, the answer may surprise you.

Countries With Most American Expats

First off, this chart won’t include U.S. military personnel. Moreover, since governments collect information on immigration in various ways, there’s no way to provide factual information about the number of American immigrants in each country.

The chart was sourced from the U.N. International Migrant Stock at Mid-Year by Sex and Region, Country or Area of Destination, and Origin.

What country has the most rich and poor? Is this what is happening in the US? Are we becoming the land of the rich and poor? Why does it take two armed Country Sheriffs to guard the local Walmart store during the day?

Top 10 Countries with the Highest Wealth Inequality (World Bank Gini index):

  1. South Africa – 63.0%
  2. Namibia – 59.1%
  3. Suriname – 57.9%
  4. Zambia – 57.1%
  5. Sao Tome and Principe – 56.3%
  6. Central African Republic – 56.2%
  7. Eswatini – 54.6%
  8. Mozambique – 54.0%
  9. Brazil – 53.4%
  10. Botswana – 53.3%

South Africa’s income inequality has become worse over the years. The top 1% of earners take home almost 20% of income and the top 10% take home 65%. That means that 90% of South African earners take home only 35% of all income. ________________________________________________________________________

China, India and the U. S. are projected to retain the top three rankings as the countries with the largest middle-class populations, according to World Data Lab. Slow or negative population growth in some advanced economies will lead to a shrinking middle class in countries like Japan, Germany, Italy and Poland.chart(World Data Lab – Bloomberg).

(Note: The WDL study uses 2011 dollars at purchasing power parity.)

First Published: Fri, September 03 2021. 06:36 IST

GDP = Gross Domestic Product

And PPP = Purchasing Power Parity (per capita/per person on average)

CountryGDP-PPP ($)
Luxembourg126,569
Ireland111,360
Singapore107,677
Qatar100,037
Switzerland78,112
United Arab Emirates74,245
Norway69,859
United States69,375
Macao SAR67,475
Brunei Darussalam65,675
San Marino65,446

As you can see, The GDO and PPP (Gross Domestic Product and Purchasing Power Parity of the US: is 50% of that of Luxemburg and Ireland! Are we gradually slipping behind?

Commercial Real Estate owners in AZ own 25% of all property, private owners, 18% and the Federal government 43%. People also ask: https://www.fs.fed.us/rm/boise/AWAE/labs/awae_flagstaff/watersheds/basics/management.html

Bottom of Form   Public Land Management and Land Ownership in Arizona   Public Land Management and Land Ownership in Arizona There are 72.9 million acres of land in Arizona. Approximately 12.9 million acres, or 18%, in Arizona are privately owned. Approximately 9.6 million acres in Arizona, or 13 %, are managed by the State of Arizona. Approximately 20.1 million acres in Arizona, or 27 %, are held in trust by the United State Government for native Americans. Approximately 30.3 million acres in Arizona, or 42 %, are owned by the citizens of the United States. These public lands are managed by the USDA Forest Service, the National Park Service, military organizations, and USDI Bureau of Land Management

Search Resultshttps://chamberbusinessnews.com/2022/03/23/bill-to-lower-arizona-commercial-property-tax-inches-closer-to-passage/ As rents skyrocket, commercial owners seek to pay less tax. The meteoric rise of homelessness is clearly linked, in part, to rising rent prices.

 “Arizona commercial property makes up roughly one-fifth of the property owned in the state, and yet we pay around one-third of the total cost incurred by property taxes,” said Tim Lawless, the president of CREED, Commercial Real-estate Executives for Economic Development .Mar 23, 2022

18% property privately owned

42 % owned by Federal government

25% commercial real estate

 85% of all property 

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Every resident in the state needs to know that commercial real estate investors are not your friends. They are not your neighbors, they won’t be your neighbors, it is unlikely they will ever live here. They don’t care about the city, the state, the wildlife or the schools. They are here for one reason only and that is to make money. They will then take the cash and live in very expensive and exclusive places (maybe New Zealand or some small island) and leave the residents to deal with homelessness, gangs and crime.

The residents of AZ need to curb the influx of commercial investors of properties that turn us all into the rental poor with no hope of ever buying a home. If the influx cannot be stopped (or we don’t want it to) the people of the state need to put a lid on the rapidly escalating % of rent increases that are happening all over the state. If this does not happen, the middle class drain out of the state will continue and increase. We will be left with a situation that is occurring in California where the cities are becoming composed of the rich, the poor and the gangs.

This state, much like what has happened in California, will not only become not affordable, it will become unlivable. I clearly recall a story told to me from a California transplant. She sold a nice home in Victorville for a loss because the homeless had become so aggressive around the grocery stores, middle-aged housewives were carrying guns in their purses. That is starting to happen here and we need to stop it.

Cew 7/22

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