Park Rangers Trump Dogs Without Leashes and Owners Without Brains

A pop-up RV pulled in on a weekday, when the park was relatively empty, and the campers, a father,  mother, and 3 kids, lost no time in getting set up before heading out to the beach.  The pop-up was small, and I wondered how 5 people could comfortably sleep in it; I’d owned one like it several years ago, and I knew that sleeping 4 in it was a challenge.  Several sites needed cleaning, so I went on with my work and didn’t give the new campers a second thought.  Later that evening, I noticed 3 or 4 a dogs running loose throughout the park. Seeing one dog unleashed is the usual situation, but seeing multiple dogs without leashes was something out of the ordinary.  I managed to grab two of the loose dogs and put ropes that we kept on hand for such situations through their collars; the other two dogs were skittish and ran whenever I got too close.  I followed them around the park for a bit before they made a beeline to the pop-up camper that had come in earlier.

As I approached that camp site with two dogs in tow, the barking of what sounded like a full chorus of dogs could be heard.  The door of the pop-up opened, and out spilled 5 other dogs, barking wildly, none on a leash.  The father yelled at the dogs to “Be Quiet!” which caused them to bark and howl even more furiously.  Three kids spilled out of the RV at that point and helped round up the loose dogs along with the two I’d roped and stuffed them inside of the pop-up.   The mother came out at that point and said she was so sorry that the dogs were making such a fuss, but that they were probably glad to get some exercise after riding for 6 hours in the car that morning.  I know my mouth was hanging open as I did the math:  2 adults, 3 children, and 9 dogs were staying in that one small camper.  The same number of people and animals had arrived in one mid-size sedan, too.  I warned the campers that dogs had to be on leashes when outside of the RV, no exceptions, just as stated in the blue park information sheet the father was holding.  The man told me that the dogs had NEVER been on leashes, and that he had no leashes.  He also said he didn’t want anyone my ropes on the collars of two of the dogs.  His wife assured me that the dogs wouldn’t leave the pop-up again while they were in the park.  (Oh, really?  Do you have a doggie toilet hidden in that rig somewhere?)  I could do nothing at that point because the dogs were in the pop-up, so I left after telling the campers that the park provided thin ropes at no charge for people who arrived without leashes.  You could have heard a pin drop.  I left.

Right at dark, I heard the growling, yipping beginnings of a dog fight not far from my RV.  I went outside to see if the dogs were in sight, and they were . . . about 6 of them.  They were circling one another in the grassy play area of the park that runs through the center of the back-in sites that form a large oval.  Every dog was from the pop-up camper that I’d been to earlier in the day.  I immediately walked to that RV to get someone to round up the dogs and give the campers a second warning about letting their dogs run loose in the park. 

No one was home.  The car was gone.  All nine dogs were surrounding me and barking furiously, throwing in an occasional growl that made me wish I were anywhere but in the middle of that mess.  I could do nothing about the loose dogs at that point because I was, at that time, the sole park representative on site.  I backed away cautiously and then hot-footed it to my RV to call the park rangers, who were about 2 hours away, as usual.  I knew that by the time the rangers arrived, the campers would be back and the dogs would be in the pop-up with them, and an on-site visit from the rangers would be the only result of my call to them.  How wrong I was!  The rangers arrived in an hour and 45 minutes; the campers were still gone.  The rangers went through the park for half an hour or so, trying to catch the dogs to take them to an animal shelter.  During the roundup, the campers finally arrived back at their site.  The rangers went over to talk to them. 

Do not pass GO.  Do not collect $200.  You were warned earlier today.  Pack up and leave the park. 

Two uniformed rangers trump 5 people and 9 loose dogs.  The campers were gone by 10:00 PM.  

Life Isn't Always Fair! Deal With It!

A Massachusetts principal has been criticized for canceling his school's Honors Night, saying it could be 'devastating' to the students who worked hard, but fell short of the grades.

MyFoxBoston.com reports that David Fabrizio, principal of Ipswich Middle School, notified parents last week of his plan to eliminate the event.

"The Honors Night, which can be a great sense of pride for the recipients' families, can also be devastating to a child who has worked extremely hard in a difficult class but who, despite growth, has not been able to maintain a high grade-point average," Fabrizio penned in his first letter to parents, the station reported.

Fabrizio also said he decided to make the change because academic success can be influenced by the amount of support a student receives at home and not all students receive the same level of emotional and academic support at home.

Read more: http://www.foxnews.com/us/2013/03/20/massachusetts-principal-calls-off-honor-night-because-it-could-be-devastating/?test=latestnews#ixzz2OCBUTsyI

 

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Let me see if I have this right.  Students who worked hard, made good grades, and maybe had support at home will NOT be honored because not all students who worked hard made good grades.  OH, I get it.  Everyone gets a trophy or no one gets a trophy.  I'm boiling inside.  I'm so mad that I'm sure my blood pressure went up 20 points or more.

 

How have we reached this point?  Heck, I worked hard in school and had good support at home, but I occasionally made C's and D's.  I even failed Algebra I and had to repeat it.  Did I or my parents go screaming up to school to demand that I be included in an awards ceremony?  Did I get into the National Honor Society?  Was I devastated over my less than stellar grades?  No, no, and yes.  But did those things mean I should have been on the stage with my peers who had made the mark and were being honored?  No, it didn't. 

 

In the work world, I know I was a better teacher than some of my colleagues.  I took work home every night and on the weekends.  I came early and stayed late to work with students who needed extra help, unlike some teachers who flew into their rooms as the first bell was ringing and then ran over the kids to get out the room when the dismissal bell rang.  Did I get recognized for my efforts?  No.  Did some of the slackers get recognized instead?  Yes, because they were buddies with the administrators. 

 

Life isn't fair.  Sometimes we hit the mark and sometimes we don't.  Unlike in  my day, however, when not meeting the mark meant we worked harder so that we would be successful the next time around, today's parents and students want the awards and rewards without doing the work.  Usually, those people scream the loudest.  Unfortunately, usually they win and get their way, too.  Life isn't fair to the rest of us when that happens.

 

The principal of Ipswich Middle School should have to sit in the corner with a dunce cap on, because that's what he is, a dunce.  He's a pawn of the parents and whiners.  He's perpetuating the problems of non-achievers.

 

I'm sorry that not all children get the emotional and academic support they need at home.  But isn't that frequently because they're being reared by parents who also did little or nothing at school?  Are we going to continue to pay the price for what those parents and now their children are doing or not doing?  Give me a break.

 

You can be a victim or you can be a can be a winner.  And you need to remember than even winners are occasionally bitten by the system.  But you learn to deal with it, and you mature when that happens.  If you're constantly a victim, maybe you better look into a mirror and see who's the reason for your lack of success. 

 

Shame  on you Principal Fabraizio.  You've just given the losers another reason for giving up on success.  Why work harder?  You didn't get an award?  Well, the awards should be done away with, right? 

 

Life isn't fair, and this time it's not fair to the students who achieved success.  Is everyone happy now?  I didn't think so.

Why I Read Like I Do

I'm a reader.  To read 4 or 5 books a week is not out of the ordinary for me.  My taste in books is wide-ranging, and there's no rhyme nor reason, no pattern to what I read.  I love this quote from The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society because it explains why I read like I do:

 

"That's what I love about reading: one tiny thing will interest you in a book, and that tiny thing will lead you onto another book, and another bit there will lead you onto a third book. It's geometrically progressive--all with no end in sight, and for no other reason than sheer enjoyment." That explains perfectly why I've read books on the following subjects during the last few weeks: Churchill, the Battle of Britain, advertising techniques, Italian cooking, the Titanic, the Lusitania, Ireland, Highclere Castle, Bernie Madoff, journal writing, how to get published, pioneer women . . .

 

Reading.  I believe in it.

The Loss of Neiman-Marcus

Neiman-Marcus (Texas)

• Designer clothes
• Fabulous shoes in every width imaginable
• Knock 'em dead purses
• Fabulous china, silver, and decorative items

Wal-Mart (Montana)

• Cute clothes, if you're willing to dig through those that aren't
• Cute clothes, if you're willing to hit more than one Wal-Mart to find your size
• Shoes that don't fit skinny feet
• Canvas and plastic totes, occasionally a good design or two
• So-so decorative items

Target (Montana)

• Trendy, cute clothes, again, if you're willing to dig or search other stores, too
• Shoes that don't fit skinny feet
• Great purses and totes
• Great housewares and decorative items

Texas

• Great food
• Plethora of stores in which to spend your money
• Moderate temperatures
• Beautiful scenery
• Litter is a BIG problem
• Family

Montana

• Generally terrible food
• Limited shopping (thank heavens for Walmart and Target)
• Extremely cold weather 9 months of the year
• Beautiful scenery
• Very little litter
• Family

To be continued . . .

Priorities, Jeans, and Flannel Shirts

Someone died, and I needed to attend the funeral.  Panic set in.  Except for several pairs of jeans, flannel shirts, thermal underwear, insulated boots, gloves, and a no-nonsense winter coat, my clothes were still packed in boxes in an unheated storeroom.  We'd just moved from Austin, Texas, to Dillon, Montana, and the 10 - 15 degree January temperatures didn't provide much of an incentive for working in those miserable conditions to unearth suitable "dress clothes"  taped up in one of those boxes.  I told two friends that unless I could find something suitable to wear at the local feed store, the only place in town that sold clothing (western and work clothing) I couldn't go to the service.

They laughed at me and insisted that I wear what I had, and that if I felt too out of place, I could stand in the back of the church.  They laughed again.  So, because I did feel obligated to attend the service, I put on the cleanest jeans and shirt that I had and went to the church, feeling as though I were being disrespectful to the departed, to the church, and to the other people who would be there that day.

After entering the church, I quickly understood why my friends laughed at me.  Nearly everyone was dressed just as I was, in jeans, boots, insulated coats, and gloves.   Oh, a few women, a very few, were wearing dresses, but they also had on puffy down coats, and their insulated ski pants were showing between the bottoms of the dresses and the tops of their insulated boots.  One or two men were in suits, but they kept their heavy jackets on, too, and boots, rather than shoes, peeked out at the bottoms of their trousers. 

Then I understood why my friends laughed.  The people attending the funeral were there because they wanted to show respect for the deceased, not because they had the "right" clothes to wear.  And in Montana, community and weather are the ties that bind, and no one cares what you have on anyway. 

Lesson learned.     

Trick or Treat, and Make that a Bud

Halloween had arrived, and my grandchildren were anxious for evening to approach so that they could go trick or treating.  I'd just moved to small-town Montana from big-city Texas, so I did the worry-wart thing and warned the kids about the dangers of talking to strangers, going into strange houses, and walking in dark areas of the neighborhoods.  Their parents were going with them, of course, so the talk was for the parents as well as the grandkids (because as a parent, you need to protect your own kids, too, right?).     Everyone assured me that trick or treating in a small, rural town didn't carry the dangers that it did in a large city, and that they were going only to safe areas anyway.  And then I heard the words "Longhorn," "Pete's," and "Sportsman's," all normal, ordinary words.  But they were also the names of three local bars.  Surely the adults weren't taking the kids into a bar after trick or treating?  Right, the adults weren't going to have a cold one as the evening drew to a close.  No, they were taking the kids INTO a bar . . . several bars . . . to trick or treat. 

Trick or treating in a bar?  You've got to be kidding me!  Child Protective Services would take those beautiful children away from their parents in a heartbeat if those little darlings went into a BAR to trick or treat.  But no, I was a stranger in a strange land, and I didn't know that nearly EVERYONE took their kids into the local bars to trick or treat.  My jaw was on the floor.  I couldn't believe it.  So, I tagged along to see how trick or treating in a bar could produce anything other than jeers and catcalls from the bar patrons.  I'd forgotten that in a very small town, everyone knows everyone else, and a local bar in a small town is quite different from a bar in a big city.

The bars were full of Batmen, princesses, Darth Vaders, Snow Whites, ghosts, pirates, monsters, butterflies, bees, and other Halloween characters going up to bar patrons and saying "Trick or treat," while holding out a sack or plastic pumpkin.  And what happened when a drinker was approached by a green frog or zombie and parent and heard those words?  The customer would take a careful, interested look at the costume being worn, ask some questions about the character represented, and then dump change and/or bills into the child's sack or plastic pumpkin.  Everything was very orderly, and the children were charmed that the adults were asking questions about the costumes.  They were more charmed, no doubt, by the jingling of coins or the rustling of paper as the money rolled in.

As the evening ended and we headed back to the house, I had to admit that trick or treating Montana-style did appear to be a common practice for a lot of people.  What else could explain the sea of costumes we saw in each bar?  The customers seemed to be prepared for the kids, and no drunken or otherwise inappropriate behavior was encountered.  The kids were polite and said thank you to everyone.

The town where I used to live had a newspaper column written by a local grande dame who reported on every social occasion that occurred.  Whether she was writing about a wedding or a community club luncheon, the recounting always ended with the words "Chips and dips were served, and a good time was had by all." 

Chips and dips weren't served in the bars, but a good time was indeed had by all.



      

Orville is Dead, but the Hills are Alive

Orville Ferguson died last week. He was 87 and had been a bachelor all of his life. That didn't stop him from loving the ladies, though. Tall, short, skinny, fat--they were all beautiful to him. He was a good-looking guy, too, and because of that and the way he loved the ladies, he seldom had to cook a meal for himself. Those ladies brought desserts, bread, casseroles, stews, soups, vegetables, and other edibles to him on a daily basis, each current member of his harem trying to outdo the others with her "special" recipe that she secretly hoped would win his heart.

After Orville died, a lady-like fight broke out over who would plan the funeral, because he had no living relatives left on the face of the earth. Flora wanted a "high church" funeral for him, complete with lilies and organ music. Merle Ann said a low-key, private burial (with her the only attendant?) funeral would be what Orville would have wanted. Pearl said she'd settle for nothing less than the finest coffin in old man Wheeler's funeral home and some of that fancy "hi-fi music" the funeral home provided at no cost. Myrtle said no, it wouldn't do to have recorded music when everybody knew that Delia, the piano teacher, would play AND sing at no charge for Orville's service. (Delia, a widow woman, had once been a harem member, but her living children convinced her that following Orville around like a child following the Pied Piper was an unsuitable activity for someone who’d been born a Weatherspoon.) Old man Wheeler just wanted the harem to get out of his funeral parlor so that he could sort out who might have the legal right to take care of the burial. As it turned out, no one did, and the ladies, under the umbrella of "doing the right thing," did take over the planning and payment for putting Orville away. Even the only minister in town couldn't stop that train wreck from happening.

 So, the ladies stopped their cat-fighting long enough to take up a collection to help pay for Orville's funeral. He'd left no will, and the only money he had was apparently what was discovered in an empty lard tin sitting in his cellar. Not much was there, not nearly enough to meet the expenses of what the ladies had planned; donations from the harem were needed to bridge the gap between the dream and the reality. And so, the ladies began the planning.

Because the cost of providing Orville with the best casket, the #304 All Oak and Brass, Satin-Lined, Hermetically-Sealing Gasket, Waterproof model, was out of the question, the #132 White Pine and Aluminum, Polyester-Lined, Rust-Proof Hinges model was selected instead. The ladies agreed that the polyester lining was of the best quality and looked for all the world like silk. Imagine that! But what about the flowers? A spirited discussion revealed two schools of thought about floral arrangements. Two of the ladies wanted the whitest of lilies with just a bit of greenery to set off the whiteness. The other two ladies said nothing but red roses, and lots of them, would do. After all, hadn't they all received roses from Orville at one time or another, which proved beyond a doubt that he liked roses? And the music . . . ahhhhh, the music. It turned out that Delia was so broken-up over Orville's death that she said she couldn't manage to get a note out of the piano or a song out of her throat. She'd "break up," that's what she'd do, so don't even ask her to provide music or song.

The funeral home had an old Casio keyboard that could be programmed to provide everything from reggae to organ music, but ever since lightning knocked out the power to the whole town months ago, that keyboard wouldn't produce so much as a squeak. So, techno-music was out, too.  In desperation, the harem produced stacks of 8-track tapes (and wonder-of-wonders, old man Wheeler still had an 8-track player for use in the funeral home!). For hours on end, the ladies sipped tea, nibbled on cookies, and listened to various music to find something suitable for Orville's funeral. Old man Wheeler tried to hurry the process along, because the tea and cookie supply came out of his pocket, not the funeral home money, and the ladies didn't appear to have lost their appetites even though they'd lost Orville.

Finally, the funeral day arrived. The ladies were dressed in various shades of black. Yes, various shades of it, from the rusty black of old, old funeral-suitable dresses to the bright, new black of specially-purchased-for-the-occasion dresses. Old man Wheeler had vacuumed the red indoor-outdoor carpet (so practical) in the entry and down the main aisle of the funeral parlor. The pall-bearers, Orville's old play-dominoes-and-gossip group members, had moved the #132, covered with a bizarre arrangement of roses and lilies, down the aisle and onto the guerney provided for it at the front of the room. Old man Wheeler asked the mourners to stand for an opening prayer. Then the featured music began playing through the crackling speakers on either side of the room.  The sound of music began.  Literally . Yes, the soundtrack from The Sound of Music blasted forth, beginning with "The Hills are Alive," and playing through 3 or 4 more songs, including the well-known "Doe, a Deer, a Female Deer," until the tape apparently broke (in the middle of a song, too).   I guess the gatherers would have heard the whole musical if that hadn't happened.

The funeral had begun.