with Lorelle and Brent VanFossen

Lens Perspective

Understanding lens perspective is critical to advanced photographic studies and skills. It is the skill of learning how the lens sees. For some, the concept of photography lens perspective is simple. The wider the lens the wider the view, the longer the lens the narrower the view. Yet, lens perspective is much more interesting and important to photographers.

Lens perspective impacts what is captured and “seen” on the film, the amount of foreground and background included, and the working distance between the photographer and the subject.

Lens Perspective – What the Lens See

Wide Angle View of Alaska Mountain Range and water reflection, photography by Brent VanFossenThe wider the lens, the wider the perspective. The longer the lens, the narrower the perspective. This appears to be a pretty basic statement. The more the lens sees, the more goes onto the film. The less the lens sees, the less goes onto the film.

Wide angle lenses see the whole picture. Wide angle lenses range from 50mm to 20mm or smaller, with lenses beyond 20mm, like 17mm, 14mm, and 8mm, as extreme wide angle or fish-eye lens. Wide angle lenses see a wider perspective, showing everything in the viewfinder. This means the photographer must take greater care with what goes into the viewfinder before they press the shutter.

Remember, you are telling a story with your photograph and every character in your story matters. With a wide angle lens, your angle of view includes everything in your landscape, including the garbage can, the signs, telephone poles, mountains, sky, and parked cars. If you want all those in your photograph, then fine, but if you don’t, you need to position yourself so only the subjects that help you tell your photographic story are in the picture.

Mountain Range in Alaska, longer lens zooms in on water reflection - photograph by Brent VanFossenIn contrast, the longer the lens, the narrower the view. Switch to a longer lens and suddenly the garbage cans, signs, poles, sky, and parked cars don’t matter. You’ve narrowed the view to your subject, leaving out all the extraneous detail. In other words, you’ve zoomed in on the subject and now what was just a part of the overall scene is the focal point of the photograph.

Longer lenses are anything longer than 50mm such as 100mm, 200mm, 400mm, etc.

A 50mm lens, however, is considered a “normal” lens, not just because it used to “normally” come on any camera body purchase, but because it is closes to what the eye sees “normally”, which is about 55mm. If you want to photography, literally, what you see, then stick as close to a 50mm lens (35-70mm range) to capture your eye view.

Lens Perspective: Magnification

Graphic chart of lens persepctiveThere are reasons other than magnification to choose a particular lens. One of the most important of these reasons is the change of perspective afforded by using lenses of different focal lengths.

A wide angle lens sees a wide angle of view. The first thing people think of is that a wide angle lens will let them include more of a scene in the image, and this is true. What they don’t consider, however, is what the short focal length will do to the appearance of the subject.

If you were to make a head and shoulders portrait of your best friend using a 20mm lens, you would have to stand a distance of about a foot (30 cm) away from him. At this distance, his nose would be much closer to the lens than his ears, and so the nose would be much bigger proportionally than the ears in the photograph. This is generally not a flattering effect, and so we don’t use wide angle lenses to photograph closeups of people.

Magnify with Lenses
(Lens magnification as the photographer doesn’t move – only the lenses are changed.)
lensmag20.jpg
20mm
lensmag55.jpg
55mm
lensmag200.jpg
200mm
lensmag300.jpg
300mm
lensmagn500.jpg
500mm

Alpine Wild Flowers, photograph by Brent VanFossenThe same effect happens when we photograph flowers closeup with a wide angle lens. The parts of the flower that are closer to the lens appear proportionally bigger in the resulting photograph than the other parts of the flower, or than the other flowers in the picture. A wide angle lens will cause objects closer to the lens to appear proportionally larger in the photograph than the other objects in the picture. This is useful for separating an object from surrounding objects, making the objects appear farther apart. Wide angle lenses seem to expand space.

Telephoto lenses magnify objects. More than this, however, they affect the appearance of objects in a photograph. Using a 100mm lens to make the same head and shoulders portrait of your friend as you made with the 20mm lens, you would have to stand back about 10 feet (3 or 4 meters). At this distance, the nose and ears are all approximately the same distance from the lens, so there is no apparent distortion of perspective. The person will appear as we expect him to appear, because we’re used to seeing people from across a room. We don’t usually see people from extremely close up, and so the view from the 20mm lens seems strange to us. If there are other people in the picture, they will also appear normal.

Clarks Nutcracker - the bird behind is compressed to appear closer than it actually was, photograph by Brent VanFossenIf we move to a very long telephoto lens, like a 500mm or 600mm lens, we would have to move backward 25 or 30 feet (10 meters) to photograph our friend. The magnification power of this lens is high. A person standing a few feet behind him would appear to be nearly at his side, because the difference of a few feet compared to 30 is small. The large telephoto lens has a perspective that seems to compress space, magnifying distant objects equally.

We can use this difference in perspective between lenses to our advantage. Any time we want to separate a foreground element from a background, we can use a wide angle lens. Any time we want two objects to appear close together, we can use a long telephoto.

Lens Perspective: Control of Background

The background is an important part of any photograph. A wide angle lens has a wide angle of view. That means that it will include a large amount of background behind the subject. Everything, from the mountains to the trees to the parking lot with all the cars can appear in the background of a wide angle photograph. A telephoto lens, however, has a narrow angle of view. That means that it sees a smaller amount of background behind a subject. By using a telephoto lens, we can choose the part of the background that we want behind our subject, excluding everything else. For this very reason, a 200mm lens is a much more useful lens for closeup work than the more common 50mm lens. A 500mm lens is much more useful for wildlife photography than a 200mm lens for a number of reasons, but one of the most overlooked is its ability to control the background. Control of the background is essential to good photography.

200mm lens and marmotPhotography turns a three dimensional world into a flat one dimensional image. Depending upon the lens perspective, the combination of optics and focal lengths you are using, the aperture, and the distance to your subject and to the background, things in the distance can suddenly become very close when flattened into a photograph. This is usually the cause of the tree growing out of the head, when the tree is meters away in the background but the photograph is compressed so the branches look like they are growing right out of the skull.

Lens perspective is the view of the scene, including the background, that is captured onto the film through the lens. A wide angle lens sees a wider angle of view, therefore it captures a wider perspective. A long telephoto lens sees a very narrow view, therefore it captures a narrow perspective. In these three photographs of a marmot in the Olympic National Park, we kept our subject, the cooperative marmot, basically the same size in the frame. 300mm lens and marmotWe’ve moved either further or closer to our subject and changed the focal length of the lens to change our background, since different focal lengths change the background perspective behind the subject. Across the valley, more than a mile away, rose a mountain with the last of the winter’s patches of snow on its steep sides. A 200mm lens, the shortest lens used in this series of photos, sees a lot of the background. You can see the snow on the far mountain, though it’s not clear if the white blobs are snow, clouds, or cartoon thoughts coming from the marmot.

500mm lens and marmotBrent changed to a 300mm lens and moved farther back from the marmot to keep him about the same size in the frame. The 300mm lens sees a bit narrower perspective than the 200mm, so the white snow is just a blurry bit in the corner. Moving even further back, Brent changed to a 500mm lens with its very narrow perspective and the white snow packs are gone and the marmot is isolated against a green background.

Using this technique and understanding how the lens “sees” and change the background perspective, you can isolate your subject against a more interesting or appropriate background by simply changing lenses. This opens up your options on background composition.

 
Another Background and Lens Perspective Example

Thistles using a 55mm and wide background perspectivethistles using a 200mm lens and narrow background perspectiveIn this example, we set up a dried teasal in the backyard.

A wider angle lens like a 55mm requires a close working distance to photograph the subject and, as it sees a wider perspective, captures a lot of background. We see the out-of-focus parking lot and buildings in behind as well as the green grass.

By moving backward from the subject, keeping it the same size in our viewfinder and not changing the exposure, we increase the magnification by using a longer lens such as a 200mm. Longer lenses narrow their view so you see a narrower perspective of the background.

Now, only the green grass in the background is visible, isolating the subject against a neutral and undistracting background. Using a longer lens can help you to choose your background.

Working Distance

Which Lens Took This Picture?

A photograph of tree bark. Can you guess which lens took this picture?
Either lens could have produced this image. The difference is in the working distance.
A 55mm lens needs less distance from the subject to get the same picture.
A 55mm lens requires a much closer working distance to get the exact same image.
A 200mm lens needs more distance from the subject to get the same picture.
A 200mm lens requires a greater working distance to reproduce the same image.

For most subjects in nature, the distance your camera is from the subject won’t influence the subject. But photographing insects, butterflies and such, can be difficult because they are exceptionally attentive to your location and will respond accordingly – often by escaping the situation. Being able to get close and still maintain some distance becomes critical then. Add to this the challenge of low light, and the closer you are to the subject, the greater the chance of casting a shadow.

By using longer lenses, your distance from the subject and the camera increases. This is called the working distance. Working with live creatures, this distance is critical. Either way, it’s nice to have some room between the camera lens and the subject. Here are some examples of working distance based on the closest focusing distances of typical lenses.

Lens 300mm 200mm 100mm 50mm
Closest Focusing Distance 138″ 84″ 42″ 18″

Using a longer lens, you can maintain the subject at the same size but increase the “working distance” between you and the subject. For body heat sensitive nature subjects like spiders and spider webs, maintaining distance is critical. The same stradegy applies when photographing grizzly bears and other large and potentially dangerous creatures. The greater the working distance the safer you may be.

The greater your magnification is ehanced through the use of extension tubes and teleconveters, the more your working distance is cut. You must move closer to your subject to find the focus point.

Play around with the lens equipment you have and see how your lens sees depending upon how far you are from your subject and how big your subject is in your frame across the range of lenses. Make notes and work with the various lenses to learn how they see, so when you are out in the field, you will know automatically which lens to pick for which subject matter and working distance.

For more information on controlling the background of your subject with lens perspective, see our articles on Background Magic, Specific Crimes of Ignoring the Background in Photography, and Behind the Scenes of Background Magic.

More Crazies and I’ve Been Shot

I’ve actually found ten minutes to add something to let you know how we are doing and what we are doing. First, we’re doing fine. If you believe that, I’m sure there is some property somewhere along the Gulf Coast of the US that we can convince you to buy – it’s a clear-it-and-build-it-yourself kinda deal.

What are we doing? Hell if I know.

Brent didn’t go to work yesterday and so we spent the day fighting, fixing, hugging, and fixing, and fighting, and fixing. Our nerves are on edge and news of two new hurricanes building up in the Atlantic doesn’t help. I found out this morning that they aren’t coming near us, but the fact that they have names still freaks us out. Zelda is getting closer and closer to getting use as a hurricane name.

We have been near to empty in the refrigerator for almost a week, so I jumped out early to the grocery store to get food and came back to Brent finally setting up the permanent sewer drain system for the trailer. Upon our return more than three weeks ago, we planted the trailer 3 inches short of our fixed PVC pipe sewer hose and had to order new parts and pieces to extend it, since we didn’t want to move the trailer, again. The new addition contains a flexible hose (my idea) so we can have a little more fidgeting room when it comes to parking the trailer. We’ve been hauling around 30 feet of accordion style flexible hose for the past three weeks every three days when we have to dump the tanks. What a pain.

In the process, Brent tried to stand up too soon from under the slide out and caught the corner in his lower back, punching a big hole in his back. Furious, since this isn’t the first time and he knew better, he yelled at me to get alcohol to wipe it down. I took a look and went and got hydrogen peroxide, knowing that was the better solution since the skin wasn’t torn open, just indented with a minor abrasion. When I came out with the peroxide, he threw one of his rare fits, and with a lot of stomping and yelling, stormed into the trailer and grabbed the alcohol and tried to rub it on himself. It opened up the little protective skin layer and now he has a huge hole in his back that will take longer to heal and maybe even scar. Men.

After he stomped off his anger, he apologized, but explained that he had first aid training in the scouts and from his mom and alcohol was used on everything. I reminded him that I had years of medical training in the hospital emergency room and more advanced medical training than his scout stuff or his mother – trump. Besides, you don’t use a crowbar on everything. You use the right tool for the right job and in this case, he made it worse by using the wrong tool. I checked it this morning and while there is no sign of infection, it’s pretty nasty and will start to bruise up today.

This is just another sign of how tense things are. This would have been a non-event. We’re used to things breaking down and cutting and pinching ourselves as part of the work. But the frustrations around us are catching up with our nerves, what is left of that last one.

After fixing the sewer connection, and trying to track down the leak under the kitchen sink from the connections to the new hot water heater, and trying to figure out what is going on with our electrical system that keeps going out, Brent deal with the other sewer problem we’ve been having. He climbed on the roof and put a metal “snake”, a twisted metal cord, down the air vent for the black tank (sewer storage tank) to try to knock down whatever was in there that was blocking the air flow. When we flush our toilet, smelly sewer air comes back into the bathroom, no matter how fast we open and close the valve.

He dug around with the drain snake to scrap out anything that might be blocking the air tube for a few minutes. I was getting ready to get in the shower to clean up from all the sweaty work and had to flush. I heard a gag and a thump on the roof.

I yelled out through the shower ceiling fan vent asking if he was okay.

Brent hollered back that he’d just been hit with a face full of sewer gas.

“Well, looks like you cleaned out the vent then.”

He didn’t laugh.

I came out of the shower and took one look at the living/kitchen/dining/office area of our trailer and wanted to scream. I’d just cleaned everything up two days ago when I had a few minutes free between jobs and problems. Now, everything was a shambles. Many people think that living in a tiny space means it’s easier to clean. It is but it’s easier to mess up. Live in a big house and you have more space to spread your mess. In a little tin box like what we live in, a paper clip on the floor takes up the whole floor.

I had to head up to the office, so I did one of my famous “screw it” comments and left.

The insanity continued up in the campground office. People needed this and that and more help on their computers and questions and then a woman came in to pay for three nights, even though her husband and their new trailer wouldn’t arrive for three more hours. Would that be okay?

I told her that I would be here and help with whatever they needed. She told me 14 times how they were totally new at this and didn’t have a clue what they were doing. First ever camper and first ever time to do anything like this.

No problem, I assured her. Charlie laughed. “She’s a veteran. You’re in good hands!”

The woman stared and giggled. Yes, little ole me is a veteran of all things trailer, camper, and tent. I’ve done just about all of them and a few in between.

When she and her husband returned, he confirmed their newness and inexperience, though he had driven big rigs and horse trailers, so driving this thing and parking wasn’t a problem. Figuring out how to set it up and make it all work was.

Then I saw it.

Most people work their way up to big rigs. They start with campers, travel trailers, and slowly move into fifth wheels and eventually into the much more expensive but easier to use motor homes. Their first purchase is a 37 foot, 4 slide out fifth wheel. A monster of a trailer. It’s like a mobile home on wheels. Huge, heavy, and built like a house.

He parked it fine, and then late in the night with the rain pouring down, I went through the whole procedure of how to set it up. They didn’t know where the buttons were, didn’t have the right equipment, but managed to pull it together. I’ll write more later on what they should have done to help others in the same situation, but it ended up that an hour and a half later I’m in their brand new (new car smelling) trailer helping them put together a shopping list of things they needed to get tomorrow, after they catch up on some much needed sleep.

Amazing.

I returned to the office and another typical Abbot and Costello routine was just getting started. Who needs to pay for entertainment? Helping out in the campground, I get it for free.

Brent and I learned to see through the veneer of most Israelis over the years to see past the tough, arrogant, asshole surface to the family-oriented, extraordinarily generous, brilliant humans below. In many ways, we’ve missed that cocky arrogance. A week ago, a young man I would have sworn was Israeli arrived under the guise of studying to be an insurance adjuster. We’re not sure what he is doing, but Charlie and others are really sick of his arrogant attitude. For me, though, it was just a taste of what I’d been missing. I still wanted to slap him, but I knew where it was coming from. Overconfident insecurity.

We’d had our little ego go around last week and he’d stayed shy of me, realizing that I’d seen past his BS. He wasn’t comfortable with people knowing his game. That was fine with me, but there he was sitting in one of the big “man” chairs in the mobile home that serves as the campground office.

The television was still twisted over in my direction where, hours ago, I’d been trying to find out about the two new hurricanes boiling up in the Atlantic. He’d changed the channel to some football game. The volume was so loud I couldn’t hear myself think. I was exhausted, so I just started to pack up my untouched laptop and head home. Then I realized that he could barely see the television, but he wasn’t moving it.

I went over and asked him, talking over the television, if he had eye trouble. He asked why. “Because you are watching the side of the television and not the front.”

He mumbled something politely that I was able to partially hear that basically said that if I had been watching a show, he didn’t want to interrupt and that he’d let me switch it back. I didn’t buy it, but let it go and switched the television around so he could see it. He sat back with a little hazy grin on his face, his mental masturbation of legal violence in front of him.

Just as I made my last pass through the rooms, locking doors and turning off the lights, another camper came in and sat down to watch the television. They spoke for a moment and then he asked, “Do you have a hearing problem?”

The kid replied no.

“Then turn the damn thing down.”

I just laughed to myself and headed out the door, leaving Abbot and Costello to their testosterone.

I swear, when I got back into the trailer, the mess was even bigger than it had been. Brent told me he’d thought he’d fixed the leak under the sink, but that there was still more water and he couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. He’d given up. I was a sweaty mess so I showered and fell into bed.

I was up early the next morning, cleaned up, checked Brent’s bandage, and then headed up to the campground to cover while Charlie and Diane headed off to church. From the moment I arrived, more insanity. The crew to clear out the tree debris alongside the road finally arrived. WEEEE. But their cranes and trucks were blocking the road. Shady Acres Campground is on a peninsula so once you turn down the street, there is only back, no thru. Campers heading out couldn’t get out through the workers equipment, and traffic piled up in the campground driveways as they waited for the equipment to be cleared.

Another newbie, this one in a very expensive motor home, showed up, didn’t listen to directions, and ended up in a bit of a tangle. When I got him straightened out on where to go, I waited for him to go through the neighborhood and come around. Already I’m having nightmares of losing another camper in the neighborhood, so I jog down the street and finally see the huge motor home make the turn towards me, so I race back to my position to direct him down to his camping spot. I find out that the tree workers were also down in that part of the neighborhood culling dead trees off power wires and out of trees hanging dangerously over the road, and their tree cutting and cleaning equipment blocked that circular road, too.

I returned to the campground office into more questions and problems. I ran around here and there, covering the entire campground in an hour, sweat pouring off me, even though the morning was cool for a change. So much for a quiet Sunday morning. Charlie and Diane arrived back with their Sunday donuts from Krispy Cremes, and I chatted for a bit and then headed back home.

The trailer was no cleaner than the night before, unfortunately. Brent had headed off to his second job for the day and Kohav sat on my desk chair demanding attention. I paused for a moment, dreamed of bathtubs, long soaks, and lovely smelling herbal aroma therapy soap. Then stripped to my underwear and put on rubber gloves and started cleaning.

In the process of cleaning things out of the fridge and restocking our root beer supply, I started to close the door when I heard a small explosion. Instinctively, I twisted away but something smacked me on my lower shoulder blade. I looked down and saw a cap had shot off one of the root beer bottles. I was pissed and opened the fridge and grabbed the bottle before it could spill sticky root beer all over the fridge. I dumped it in the sink and reached down to pick up the metal bottle cap. As I pitched it in the garbage, it bit me.

I looked down and blood poured off my hand between my thumb and finger. I stuck it under water and cleaned it off to find a good cut, but not serious, on my hand. Crap. I picked up the bottle and found that part of the glass neck had actually broken off. A glance in the garbage found that about an inch of the glass neck was still attached to the cap. Then I started thinking about where it hit me.

I ran in the bathroom. The mirror is really high and I usually have to stand on my toes to see my neck. I twisted around and could only see the top of blood on my back. I called Charlie, and then my brain kicked into gear. While Charlie was a fireman for his entire life, and he’s seen just about everything, the last thing I needed was for him to rescue me in my underwear. It might be nothing, or it could be something worse, but I still had this creeping inhibition that I thought I’d lost a long time ago. So I asked for Diane to come down here and help me.

She came running and once she cleaned it up, she told me that it wasn’t more than a deep scratch. Like the cat had caught me sliding down my back. She cleaned it and bandaged it, and then fixed my hand. We laughed over the fact that I’d been shot by a root beer bottle. Got to watch those root beer bottles. They are a dangerous group. Nuts.

So now both Brent and I are walking wounded on our backs. We get zits in the same place, when his knees hurt, mine hurt in sympathy, when I get a stomach ache, he gets indigestion, we’re like twins or clones. Now, we both have cuts on our back. What a team.

So how are we doing? Fine. Still interested in that property along the Gulf? It’s got a water view – but only every few years or so.

Tax Relief for Hurricane and Disaster Victims

The US government and federally funded programs are available to help hurricane, tornado, flood, earthquake and other disasters, and there is also tax benefits and relief for victims. You can find more information on tax benefits and relief from the IRS Tax Relief in Disaster Situations.

As one of the millions of victims of Hurricane Katrina, because I had to do the research, you get to share in the benefit of what I found. I am not a tax expert, but I’m slowly becoming a disaster expert ;-). This is just a list of what I found – you have to do some of the work to find out if and how it applies to you.

If you are a victim of Hurricane Katrina or Hurricane Rita, here are some things you need to know from the IRS.

  • Deadlines for affected taxpayers to file any returns, pay any taxes and perform other time-sensitive acts have been postponed to February 28, 2006. In Alabama, Louisiana and Mississippi, this relief applies to any return due on or after Aug. 29, 2005. In Florida, where Katrina hit first, the date is on or after Aug. 24, 2005. Both individuals and businesses qualify for this special relief.
  • In the hardest-hit areas — those designated by FEMA as “individual assistance areas” — the tax relief will be automatic, and taxpayers won’t need to do anything to get the extensions and other relief available.
  • In areas where FEMA has determined damage is more isolated — designated as “public assistance areas” — or for other taxpayers outside the impacted area, people will need to identify themselves as hurricane victims when filing with the IRS.
  • In the hardest-hit areas — those designated by FEMA as “individual assistance areas” — the tax relief will be automatic, and taxpayers won’t need to do anything to get the extensions and other relief available. In areas where FEMA has determined damage is more isolated — designated as “public assistance areas” — or for other taxpayers outside the impacted area, people will need to identify themselves as hurricane victims when filing with the IRS.
  • To get a copy of any past tax reports or papers from the IRS, call 1-866-562-5227 from Monday through Friday from 7:00 am to 10:00 pm local time, or send in a Form 4506, Request for Copy of Tax Return, with “Hurricane Katrina” written in red in the top margin of the form.
  • By calling the above number, you can also request Disaster Tax Loss Kits to help you understand your tax situation and what you can do.
  • To determine which level of federal and tax benefit you get, and what you need to do, see IRS Updates Hurricane Katrina Tax Relief Guidelines for Taxpayers in Four States, Relief Workers and Others Impacted and the list of states and counties affected.
  • Tax relief assistance payments are usually not taxable. People in a Presidentially-declared disaster area who receive grants from state programs, charitable organizations or employers to cover medical, transportation or temporary housing expenses do not include these grants in their income.
  • If your home, property, business, or rental property was damaged by the hurricane, you may be able to deduct some of your loss. Only losses not covered by insurance or other reimbursements are eligible. See Tax Topic 515 for more information about losses and theft.
  • If you are awaiting a tax refund, being audited, or awaiting any other information from the IRS, and they are unable to contact you because you have relocated, call the IRS disaster hotline at 1-866-562-5227 or refund hotline at 1-800-829-1954. The IRS will ask for authentication by providing information from your last tax return, including name, address, taxpayer identification number and filing status, and a current mailing address and phone number.

Here are more forms, news, and information to help victims of Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Rita.

One Month After Hurricane Katrina

I finally got a full hour of exercise this morning. It was amazing. I sweated and hated every moment of it, and feel much better for it. I finally pulled my little potted garden set into place after a month tied to trees behind the trailer, and caught up on my hand washing and cleaning up a little. Amazing. Only two minor interruptions and one huge computer catastrophe! Looks like this might be a quiet morning.

I sat down at the computer and checked comments and found that my friend Westi had left a comment on my recent post, Something is Rotten in Here, saying “sounds like you need a HUG!”. Of course, I burst into more tears.

Has it really been 30 days since we went into panic mode, worked overtime to jam in a new hot water heater and raced out of the Gulf Coast to Atlanta as Hurricane Rita reached Category 4 directly on track for Mobile, Alabama? It did shift towards New Orleans but ended up smacking the hell out of Mississippi, much ignored by the news media.

We stayed in Atlanta at a horrid overpriced campground, just because they had free WIFI, for a week and a half and then headed back as soon as they got the electricity turned on. What should have been a four to six hour drive back was a nightmare of blown tires, bend tire rims, tread left along the highway, and a lot of time and money wasted. While the evacuation and return was filled with major stress, the horrors of what we saw when we arrived made that kind of stress look insignificant.

Thirty days.

I heard an interview this morning on NPR with a mayor of a small town in Louisiana. He was asked how he had fared in the week since Hurricane Rita hit. He said it felt more like one very long day instead of a series of days called a week. That’s what these past 30 days feels like.

The electricity keeps going on and off and on and off and on and off, sometimes for a second, sometimes for a few hours. The past three days, it seems to be steady, but we’re now having power outages inside the trailer. We will try to trace it tomorrow. With all the spikes, surges, and outages, we’re sure it’s taking a toll on our electrical system. For me, it means I go two to four days between checking email and my websites. I write in my journal and post it to my websites when I get a few precious bits of time on the Internet with stable electricity and Internet connection.

On a group mailing list, someone accused me of some ridiculous stuff based on the fact that my silence “said” something. Hell, it says that I’m not online. It says that I didn’t know anything was being discussed. It says nothing. Why should not saying anything mean something? Amazing what people make up in their heads with little or no evidence.

I stare at the 250 plus emails that come flooding in when I do get online long enough to run email, and I’m overwhelmed. This is added to the 200 plus from the time before, and the time before that. I don’t even want to run email tomorrow for fear of more emails that demand my attention. I barely have time to read, let along respond, so there is a lot that is being put off. I’m paying attention to only the most critical things.

Thirty days and we’re still in what we call fireman mode. We put out the fires we see and leave the rest smoldering until we have time.

We filter all the water coming out of the faucet outside, and then filter the drinking water a second time. Normally our drinking water filters last 2 months, but I’ve already been through two filters in these past 30 days. The water has flakes of something floating in it and is a bit cloudy. Even through our filtration system, in the right light I can see a slight sheen of oil patterns on the surface of my glass of water. Maybe it’s just oil from my skin as I sip the water. Maybe it’s something else. I’m sure it’s “safe”, but you never know. We’re paranoid about things like that.

We bought a mold kit when attacked by a molding something in the trailer. I came in about 11PM last night from working in the campground office and Brent told me that it had been four days since the test and we were positive.

I had slept maybe two hours the night before and been out of the house before six in the morning to run to the vet to get medicine for Kohav and be back in time for Brent to take the truck to work. It was over an hour past my bedtime and my head pounded with exhaustion.

I didn’t understand what test and if positive was a good or bad thing. A test he had to do for work? Nah? With the FAA? Maybe I missed something? What the hell is he talking about?

“The mold test.”

“What mold test?”

“The mold test from the kit we got to test the mold in the trailer.”

Light bulb went off. “Oh, that test.”

“It’s positive.”

Mold Test Kit shows positive for mold, photograph by Lorelle VanFossenHe held up the mold test petri dish and sure enough, two patches of white mold and a big spread of black yuck had formed in the clear plastic dish.

“What does that mean?”

“It means we have mold in the air.”

“So we’re going to die?”

“Sooner or later, but right now, I don’t know.”

“Are you sure this is mold from the moldy thing we found or mold in the air? Is it harmful or not?”

Then the interrogation really began. We can hardly remember what we did 10 minutes ago let along four days ago, so we started questioning our memories.

“Did you do the test before or after we found the rotting thing?”

“I did it after we bought the HEPA filter.”

“We bought that the same day as the mold test.”

“So did we find the rotting thing before or after that?”

“After.”

“Okay, so when?”

“When what?”

“Did we do the test before or after we turned on the air filter?”

“Probably after.”

“Oh, that’s right. I turned it off and put the petri dish near the air conditioner to blow around the air into the dish. I did it for two hours, following the instructions.”

“Yes, but was that before or after we found the rotting thing?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Let me see. We shopped for motor homes, had the search-from-hell for lunch, bought the mold test and filter, came home, set up the filter, did the test – ah, then I had to go up to the campground office for the night.”

Brent cleans out the kitchen cupboards looking for something rotting, photograph by Lorelle VanFossenAnd we got up early the next morning and spent all day cleaning out the cupboards.”

“And that’s when we found the rotting thing.”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“So why did we want to know this?”

“I forgot.”

“Um, I think it was because of the mold test. It’s positive.”

“Oh, that’s right. So what does that mean?”

“It means we have mold.”

“Is it going to kill us?”

“I don’t know if it is good or bad mold.”

“Is there good mold?”

“Probably.”

“Give me the instructions.”

“I gave them to you four days ago.”

“Where did I put them?”

“How would I know?”

“I don’t remember you giving them to me.”

“You said, ‘give them to me because you will lose them’.”

“So I lost them? Is that what you are saying?”

“No, I’m only telling you what you said.”

“Oh, they are here in front of me on my desk.”

“Then you didn’t lose them.”

“Don’t push while you’re ahead.”

“What does it say? Is it good or bad mold?”

“It says we have to mail it in with a check for $30 and they will tell us if it is good or bad mold.”

“So we don’t know.”

“Only that we have mold.”

“But do we have mold because it caught the yuck from the moldy thing in the cupboard before we got rid of it and do we still have mold in the air now? Or because it sat in the sunshine for four days in the window because I forgot to move it?”

“I don’t know. What do the instructions say?”

“It doesn’t say. I think anything growing in a tiny greenhouse in direct sunlight will grow really well.”

“Maybe.”

“So do you think we still have mold?”

“We can send it in for further testing.”

“Yes, but that costs $30.”

“And will it tell us that we had mold in the air when the test was done, or that there is still mold in the air?”

“I think we need to do another test. This way, we will know for sure.”

“But this is Mobile, Alabama. It is hot, humid, and there are mushrooms growing everywhere outside and mold, mildew, and fungi on the trees and on anything that sits outside for more than three hours. How are we really going to know if the mold it is finding is inside the trailer or just in the air?”

That stumped Brent. It’s hard to argue with me when I’m really right. We really don’t know. We live in a tiny tin box that is often more outside than inside. How will we ever know for sure?

All I know is that it doesn’t smell and more and we’re continuing to run the HEPA filter to clean the air out. We’ll buy another mold test kit this weekend and try again.

This is just a prime example of how stupid our conversations get when the stress level is out of control and exhaustion is our constant companion.

Thirty days of this. All one blur day that happens to consist of thirty separate days.

Something’s Rotting in Here

When we are in the middle of stress, sometimes it helps to write, other times, like recently, I sit down at the computer and start to write and tears come and then sobs, and then the dry heaves. So I procrastinate, hoping that time will help me deal with the emotions with more perspective, allowing the words to flow and not the tears.

Our home on the road in Mobile, Alabama, before the hurricanes, photograph by Lorelle VanFossenLast week, I came into the trailer after hours spent working in the sweaty heat helping some folks deal with the latest crisis preparing for the arrival Hurricane Rita. The smell just about knocked me on my ass. Something was rotting.

I cleaned up the dishes, took out the garbage, cleaned out the fridge, and went through the cupboards. Nothing.

Since Hurricane Dennis, keeping the trailer neat and tidy hasn’t been a major concern since we knew we’d probably be packing up and running, which we did for Hurricane Katrina. And we just haven’t had time. Brent is working two jobs, and I’m now working…well, all the time. Books and files normally on the shelves above my desk are in boxes stacked on the couch, along with the storage box for the new monitor and color printer, so we can slip them into padded protection for the next evacuation move. Why bother to put them away when they will just have to come out again in a few days?

But when it comes to food stuff in this hot weather, I’m paranoid. Always have been. I looked everywhere. I decided it was coming from the air conditioner.

Brent came home that evening from work and started his own quest to find the rotting thing. He, too, decided that it was the air conditioner. Maybe it was leaking Freon. We’ve been having trouble since Hurricane Katrina with our the power going off in the trailer, both from outside and inside, often triggered by the air conditioner switching from maintain to cool automatically. It kept tripping the power to my computer, turning it off. I finally bought a backup UPS unit and all day long the balloon that tells me it’s on backup power and then AC power keeps popping up every hour or so. All signs pointed towards the AC, so we turned it off.

That night, it was 80-85F degrees all night long. We laid in our beds, windows open, fan running, and drenched the bed in sweat. I was out in the morning for a couple of hours in the campground, and returned to the trailer to find it already sweltering. I set the fans to full blast, and kept spraying myself with water, finally restoring to sitting at my desk with an ice pack on my head. There was no escape. The coolest spot in the trailer was on the floor of the bathroom, and Kohav had claimed that spot. I finally went up to the office early for my evening shift, unable to function in the heat.

I did, however, research air conditioners with the intension of ordering a new one, once I discussed our options with Brent that night. I also sent Charlie, the campground owner, down to our trailer to do a sniff test to help us determine if indeed it was air conditioner freon, rot, or something dead. He told Brent it smelled like a rotting potato, but then most rot, mold, and mildew has that smell. He couldn’t tell if it was freon.

When I returned at 10 that night, even without the air conditioner running, the smell of mold, mildew, fungi or rot was even worse. We thought we’d tracked the smell down to back of the trailer in the kitchen area, but it smelled like it was coming from the walls.

Repairing water damage and leaks on our trailer, photograph by Lorelle VanFossenAs you may remember, we’ve had massive trouble with leaks after returning back to the states and our home on the road. While we seemed to have repaired the worst of the leak damage in our slide out, we also know that the whole back side of the trailer also has water damage. We’re just waiting for cooler temperatures to tackle that horrendous job.

In my mind, I was suddenly envisioning all the black, orange, brown, and green mildew and mold shown on television and seen on the debris removed from flooded homes lining the streets of our neighborhood, living in my walls! Mold can kill you. Panic set in and fear overwhelmed me.

Brent works on repairing water damage and leaks on our trailer, photograph by Lorelle VanFossenI crawled up on the bed and fought back the tears. Brent crawled in next to me.

For the first year of our lives in Israel, I missed the trailer terribly. We’d live in it for six years full-time, and it was our home. Everything was set just as we liked and we’d grown accustomed to being in close proximity to each other all the time. In the roomy apartment, Brent and I could spread out and it was tough being so far away from each other. Slowly, I gained some perspective and made plans to replace the trailer with a motor home when we returned back to the states. After all, we’d have tons of money from working overseas, and we deserved to finally move up into something stronger and more durable.

Unfortunately, paying 40% plus in taxes to Israel and other crappy lies we were told about the financial benefits we would get for the job, killed off most of our plans for a healthy financial cupboard. Israel sucked just about every shekel out of us. Returning to the states meant a pay raise, finally, and lower cost of living, but we didn’t have the financial reserves to spend on anything but fixing up the trailer and continuing to live in it.

I resented this for a few months and then decided to accept it and put massive effort into cleaning out it, fixing it up and repairing what can be repaired now and planning for future repairs. The joy of being back in “our home” grew and I moved towards acceptance again that this would continue to be home for a few more years.

Now, this was threatened as Brent and I laid on the bed, crying, and evaluating the state of affairs. There is water damage in the back wall of the trailer and in at least 3 spots on the roof. We haven’t been able to look inside the walls to see how extensive the damage is, so we’re left with assumptions and imagination. If mold has moved into the walls, the trailer is toast. I get my wish for a new home on wheels, but we can’t afford what I want, just what we will have to settle for.

Unfortunately, this need comes at a time when every trailer and motor home within 500 miles has been either purchased up by FEMA or by rescue, insurance, and construction workers. It is a seller’s market and making a deal will be near to impossible as sellers can charge whatever they want, as long as they keep supplying the RVs.

The next day I got on the Internet and did some hunting. At least I could turn on the air conditioner, but I left the windows open, and the ice pack was back on my head anyway. In between helping out with more trauma in the campground, I got a couple hours of research on what was out there in a new home on the road. I tried not to breath too deeply in my current rotting home.

Brent had to go to work Saturday morning for one hour. Then he took the day off, came home and we headed out to the three local RV sales companies. Only one had anything worth looking at, since they’d been cleaned out. They only had top of the line motor homes or the cheap, fragile travel trailers. Nothing in between. Totally sold out. So we looked at the top of the line, expensive motor homes and actually found one layout that we liked. For $200,000 USD. Choke.

What we found in many of these quarter of a million dollar and less motor homes was funky workmanship, layout, and designs. Overkill on technology like satellites, big screen televisions (one had four TVs – including one in a basement storage compartment so you could sit outside under the awning and watch TV – built-in tailgating, I guess), massive stereo systems and computer controls, but underkill on air circulation, counter space, sensible light weight but strong construction, and dumb slide out layouts. Only one caught our interest, but even that one had things on our list that we would remove and change.

After a morning of prowling through crap on wheels, Brent decided to reward us with a nice dinner at an Italian restaurant he’d been wanting to take me to since we arrived 10 months ago. We had to park the truck some distance away as the parking lot was narrow and full. I walked inside and was told that they were closed due to a private party and would reopen to the public at three. So we decided to walk over to the Red Lobster next door. I couldn’t make it through the door for the stink of cigarette smell. So we drove across the street to a new Ruby Tuesday. We had to wait 20 minutes for a table. As usual, we specifically insisted on being as far away from cigarette smoke as possible and they told us that no one was smoking. Besides, they could only smoke at the bar.

I’ve never eaten at Ruby Tuesday, but Brent told me it was good food and we eagerly ordered steak and shrimp, a special treat. A few minutes later, my throat started to swell and my eyes started watering. Brent noticed immediately. I couldn’t smell smoke, nor could he, and he looked all over the place for the source. Brent got up to find the waiter to move us to a table farther from the bar area.

A woman at a nearby table told her waiter that someone was smoking and that it was disgusting and disturbing her lunch. I was delighted until I couldn’t breath any more. I started choking, so I grabbed my napkin, covered my face and pushed through the crowd to get outside into the fresh air, only to be met by a woman smoking out on the sidewalk while her four teenage children stood around and watched her.

I headed off towards the street and found another smoker getting out of her car, talking on the cell phone and waving her cigarette all around her face for punctuation. I headed past the smoking mother towards the back of the restaurant, then into the parking lot to escape three workers standing at the back door chain smoking away in a blue grey cloud.

Brent finally found me sitting on the sidewalk in the parking lot sobbing, barely able to breath. Three restaurants, a home filled with toxic mold, allergic reaction, and a blinding headache from low blood sugar. This was not a good day.

He helped me into the truck and told me we were going to Olive Garden. We liked the food, though the service has been horrible lately, and it was smoke safe. Unfortunately, after parking two blocks away with our huge truck, we arrived to find a waiting list of more than an hour. Screw it.

We finally ended up at McDonalds, and choked down salty and tasteless food. Both of us had indigestion for the rest of the day.

A trip to Sam’s Club was cut short by the crowd by the door who told us that the electricity was off and the store had been closed. I had forgot that Hurricane Rita was beginning to come in and pound the area. It had been raining and blowing hard, but I’d been too self absorbed with my own trauma to even notice.

On our way home, we stopped in at the hardware store and bought a mold testing kit and a huge Hepa Filter air filter to at least help clean the air and maybe give us another day or two to live in the trailer before we had to move out.

We came back to the campground with just enough time for me to shower and run up to the office for the evening shift. The rain and winds blasted the campground. I was totally drenched by the time I and my near to useless umbrella arrived at the office. A kind woman, taking her laundry out of the dryer early, invited me to use the last of her dryer time to at least dry my soaked pants. I stood around in my underpants for 15 minutes, and my pants were fairly dry when I pulled them out. What a sweetheart.

When I got home about midnight, I told Brent that I’d been thinking too much about all of this, and if it were rot, we should be able to put some holes in the wall and see if there are any signs before we commit to spending a hundred thousand dollars on a new trailer. Let’s be sure.

Early the next morning, we started with the bottom of the kitchen cupboards. We pulled everything out and looked under the newly installed hot water heater to see if there were signs of mold and mildew from all the water damage from that leak. Nothing. We moved through the cupboards, pulling everything out and examining it carefully, ready to start putting some holes in the inside walls of the cabinets to see if we could detect any mold.

At one point, in a cupboard that never sees food of any kind, holding only our foil, plastic wrap and a couple cans of cat food, I pulled out some plastic bags to find black smudge marks on my fingers. A closer inspection brought out a quarter size chunk of something unknown that had half inch black moldy hairs growing on it. It disintegrated in my fingers. We pulled everything out, vacuumed it, then bleached it out, and scrubbed every item from the cupboard.

Within an hour, no more smell. Of course, the bleach smell was potent, so we put the Hepa filter under the air conditioner so it would blow “clean” air into the air conditioner system, and waited. No more smell. Maybe we got it.

Before I headed out for another evening working for the campground, we started to put all the stuff away back in the cupboards. We washed all the silverware and kitchen tools, pots and pans, everything. As I laid away the final items, I found a flood of water under the sink. Everything had to come back out and Brent wiggled in with the flashlight to find that the new hot water heater’s connections to our plumbing were leaking. I headed off to the office, leaving him stuck under the small cabinets, trying to tighten things up.

We still have boxes of cleaning and cooking supplies on the floor and the couch days later as the leak continues each time we think we’ve finally fixed it. Brent says he fixed it last night. Hopefully tomorrow they can go back in.

And so far, the smell is gone. All holes poked into the back wall from the inside show no signs of mildew or rot. Water damage, yes, but nothing growing, waiting to kill us in our sleep.

Our minds are now back on our business and not the panic of finding an emergency place to live and buying and moving into a new RV, but the stress continues. Outside in the world around us, the stress of recovering from the hurricanes goes on, and inside, the turmoil of our life continues to boil.

Did I say that we live on vacation? That we live in a place where people vacation? Doesn’t that imply some kind of carefree, low stress lifestyle?

What? Where? When? How? Why? Why not us? When do we get our vacation?

Your Life is So Easy

I drag my laptop with me every night to the campground office, and set it up. My intentions are to get some work done during the moments between panics, since I hardly find time during the daylight hours. Sometimes I can get as much as 30 minutes of quiet time, other times, I’m lucky to be able to wiggle the mouse to clear the screen saver before the next person comes through the door.

I laughed after a man left last night. He came in and saw me sitting quietly at the computer on the kitchen table in the office. “It must be nice to have such a quiet place to work. I bet you get a lot done here in the evenings.” He went on and on to tell me about his assumptions of my life and then about his own life, and I just sat there, watching my screen saver once again pop up when 10 minutes rolled by.

As I closed the door behind him, I couldn’t help it. I just started to laugh hysterically. Tears poured down my face and I couldn’t stop laughing for several minutes. Before he’d arrived, I’d had two hours of trying to cope with a whole series of idiotic events.

Another adjuster, new to the industry, had called three nights before telling me his motor home was broken down on the highway and how he’d taken the wrong turn on the Interstate before it broke down so he really didn’t even know where he was in relationship to the campground, and could I sent someone to tow him to the campground. I told him that we didn’t have such services and gave him enough landmark directions to find out that he was only a couple miles away.

He called a tow truck and – I’ll make this shorter so you don’t have to go through the suffering with me. He called me in between every event all night long to report on what was going on and telling me that he would still be coming to the campground that night. By the end of the night, about midnight, he called and said he would be there in the morning before his meeting. I guess he then called in the morning and said he’d be there at lunch, and then at lunch called again to say he was still having troubles and would be there in the evenings…you get the picture.

Three days later, he finally shows up. His repaired motor home is parked in front of the VFW lodge in the strip mall two blocks away. He needs a gas can to get gas to put in his motor home. So Charlie lends him a gas can and the guy heads back in his car, then returns and asks me to go with him in his car to get his motor home so he doesn’t have to hook the car back up to the motor home. Dealing with three other people at the time, I told him I couldn’t leave. He took another volunteer. I explained to him how to get into the campground, where his spot was, and how to park. Very simple.

He returned with his motor home and promptly pulled into the wrong street and got stuck. I pulled out my flashlight and walked over to his site to help, leaving people waiting for me. After watching him try to put his square peg in the round hole, I told him he needed to straighten out the huge motor home and drive all the way around through the campground, cross the street and through the small neighborhood circle to turn around and approach it from the direction I had originally asked him to do.

He nodded and started to back up his motor home. Once straight, instead of pulling forward along the wide road, he turned sharply to the left to cut through the middle pull-through lots. In the process, he hit his own car parked there. He jumped out and yelled at me that he needed to move his car. I kept trying to tell him to stop and pull down the street, but he didn’t listen. He jumped back in the motor home and began to pull forward again. I stepped in front of the motor home, and shone the flashlight in his face. He stopped.

“Now, listen to me. Pay very close attention. You might make this turn, but you won’t make the second one. Backup. Go straight down the road. Cross the street. Follow the road around in the circle and come back and you will be in the perfect position.”

He finally appeared to understand. He drove through and I returned to the office where there was a line of folks waiting to connect their modems to the phone, pay their bill, and get change for the laundry and ask directions to any nice restaurants nearby, only to be told that “nice” restaurants in the nearby area were destroyed, that pizza deliveries are taking 2-4 hours in our area, and that they’d have to drive 5-10 miles to find anywhere decent to eat.

While handling all this and more, I kept looking out into the dark night for the motor home coming down the street out of the neighborhood next door. Nothing but darkness. I ran to the back of the office to hand out change for the laundry, and rushed back to the front – no headlights. I stepped outside and looked – no motor home nor new lights. I went back in, took payment from another guy, gave a woman directions to the nearest pharmacy, after hearing about why she needed one (I’ll spare you), traded jokes with a quick witted fellow-camper coming up for his nightly shower in the public restroom in the office, and still no lights.

I finally interrupted one long story teller to explain that I needed to go outside and walk the neighborhood looking for a lost camper. Man, I thought, what a way to spend a quiet evening. Walking the neighborhood looking for a lost motor home. I stepped outside and saw pin points of double lights at the end of the street. Finally!

What had happened? Maybe he stopped to pee. Maybe he stopped to eat. Carrying your back on your home, these are things you can do without leaving your vehicle. Or maybe he decided to do a night tour of the nearby damaged areas? I don’t know but it took over 25 minutes to make a trip that normally takes 3 minutes for other, slower and older campers.

I met him at his spot, stuffing down my curiousity and fury. Within 2 minutes, he was backed in, parked, and all set up.

I dragged myself back to the campground office to find it empty for a change. No washing machines vibrating the whole building, no banging of the dryers, no loud television screaming the woes of life from the hurricane zone on the horrid FOX News. No loud conversations or lines of adjusters waiting for the telephone, phone line, or bathroom. Silence. I’d forgotten what it sounded like.

I fell into the wooden chair at the old kitchen table and wiggled the mouse of my laptop to shut off the screen saver when the man with the assumptions arrived. Thus began his soliloquy of how peaceful my life must be and how wonderful it is that I have time to play on the computer.

Damn, I wish he was right. Too funny.

The Creeping Rot of Depression

I can feel it, creeping in from behind my eyes and ears, and curving up around my body. It pushes my shoulders up and head down. My back bows under the weight. Thoughts come in black clouds instead of bright shiny ideas and incentive. I feel it pressing in all around me, coming from all sides. I know the levy is going to break, as I can see the cracks forming in the walls around me, but I don’t know when, where, or how. I just know it’s coming.

Debris from roofs, piers, and damaged trees line the road everywhere you drive in Mobile, photograph by Lorelle VanFossenLike millions of people all over the Gulf Coast of the United States, depression is bounding on the walls of our lives.

There is an overwhelming feeling of loss everywhere I go. In the people, homes, buildings, even the landscape. When I step outside of my trailer, even though the park has been thoroughly cleaned with long sweaty days picking up fallen trees, branches, and debris that scattered itself into our little oasis from blocks away, evidence still lingers.

Deep furrowed ruts are the last evidence of the huge tree that snapped off and landed next to where our trailer normally sits. Brown dried dead branches hang from almost every tree you see, harbingers of more destruction if the wind kicks up right. Many came down during Hurricane Rita’s brush with the area, but more remain wedged in the trees’ arms just waiting for the right moment to be released to land on your head, home, trailer, car, or pet.

Blue tarps quilt roof tops from hurricane Katrina damage, photograph by Lorelle VanFossenBlue, brown, black, and silver tarps cover homes on every block. You can’t turn in a circle without seeing quilted roofs everywhere. Signs are blown out, over, or down. Cars and trucks that met with trees coming at them instead of them coming at trees, sit by the road or in people’s yards, their fragile skulls crushed and eyes cracked or shattered.

Dead tree branches line the streets in Mobile, Alabama, photograph by Lorelle VanFossenThe pile of tree debris that was once as high as a motor home along the road, obstacles to clear traffic views to the right and the left, has dried out with the overwhelming heat and drought that hit the area after Hurricane Katrina. As the single story high debris piles dried, they sank down, so at least the view up and down the street from my tall truck is a little easier. But each of these dried out piles of trees, branches, scrubs, roof materials, mattresses, furniture, toys, and appliances is a tinder pile waiting for a carelessly tossed cigarette to ignite it and go up into flames.

It isn’t just the assault of destruction on my eyes. It’s the lives altered by the destructive forces of mother nature. Family, friends, and strangers arrived in the campground in the early weeks after Hurricane Katrina, telling stories of losing their family, homes, and property, not to mention jobs. Many lost their jobs because they can’t return to work. Others lost their jobs because there is no work to return to. Stories of death, loss, suffering, trying to cope, and inability to cope fill my ears on a daily basis.

I spoke earlier of the insurance and claims adjusters and FEMA personnel who arrived here in droves immediately after Hurricane Katrina. Allstate and other insurance companies can’t hire enough workers to keep up with the overwhelming demand for inspections, approvals, and reports. If you want a job, it’s a good time to be qualified to be an insurance adjuster or inspector. More than 5,000 qualified and wanna be adjusters have moved into Mobile, going through fast training programs at the local hotels and being released into the “wild” to do everything from initial drive by inspections to onsite evaluations for homes and businesses of every shape and size. Reports coming in say that many of these will be here for 3 months to two years working on the various insurance project issues.

The depression is creeping in around them, too. When the early adjusters and inspectors arrived, most had some experience and knew what to expect. They knew that lots of money could be made, but for them, it was about the work not the money, though the money is nice. What met them was more than they were prepared to deal with. Only those who understood that the heart will survive against overwhelming odds or those who could separate emotions from work are making it. The rest are barely able to cope.

One of the new adjusters told me that when they arrived, all bright, eager, and bushy tailed, ready to make fistfuls of money, are finding it hard to cope. After just a few days on the job, the enthusiasm for the money is fading. Now, all he can think about is how fast can he get his work done so 1) the people can get the money and help they need, 2) people can get on with their lives, and 3) he can get out of here.

Damaged household items line the road from Hurricane Katrina, photograph by Lorelle VanFossenThey continue to come back with stories that are worse than the pictures you see on television. Homes totally destroyed, wiped right off their foundation, not a stick in sight. Others find homes crushed into pickup sticks. Still more find homes and businesses that either fell off their stilts or were pushed right off their foundation to sit atop their neighbor’s home or the nearby street. Huge trucks wrapped around trees, shoved against them with the storm surge and floods. Dead animals, deer, boars, dogs, cats, sheep, cattle, and even the occasional alligator, are found lying alongside the roads and in backyards and places where you don’t expect to see such animals.

Most of the bodies have been recovered, but some are still expected to be found under massive debris from collapsed buildings. The rush to recover them is not as critical as the need to make roads passable, restore water, sewer, and electricity, and gain access to the areas that still need help.

Another adjuster told me of getting a call from a woman who had to leave her damaged home as the adjusters were running late, trying to maneuver through unmarked and damaged streets with their laptop GPS units. She told them to go see the house anyway. She admitted the house looked okay, but only from the outside. She couldn’t open the door, but they were welcome to try.

Unable to park close to the house, the adjuster and his partner walked the block or so towards the house and ran into some emergency rescue workers walking the same direction. They chatted along the way to the house, which looked like one of the lucky ones, though they could see the marker line of the flood waters along the exterior of the house. When the guys were unable to open the door, the rescue workers used their equipment to smash it down. Once the door came down, they understood why the door wouldn’t open. The entire roof had collapsed into the house. What wasn’t crushed by the roof was covered with black fungus and mildew, along with layers of mud already growing plants in the humid fertile stink.

I often talk to another adjuster who works on multi-million dollar claims for major businesses, specializing in shipyards, marinas, and ports. He has come back with many stories of boats sitting on top of buildings and twisted beyond recognition, and piers and decks reshaped to resembled roller coaster rides. He came in two days ago, white and shaking.

He’d stopped with his truck to inspect a damaged waterfront area when two guys with baseball bats came out from between the destroyed buildings. Hearing the same stories we all have on television and radio, he’d rehearsed what he would do if attacked, mugged, or threatened, never intending to actually have a performance. He reached under his seat and pulled out his pistol and held it before him as the two men approached, waving their baseball bats over their heads.

They took a look at the gun, hesitated, and moved forward a step, telling him they wanted his truck. He screamed at them, both hands on the gun. They reconsidered and ran off. He jumped in his truck and ran off himself. Rehearsal had become a reality, but no rehearsal had prepared him for the after effects of his actions and response and it took hours for him to come off the adrenaline rush, fear, and anger.

Shady Acres Campground is packed with insurance adjusters, rescue and repair crews, photograph by Lorelle VanFossenI have been spending early hours at the campground office, helping people get their bill paid, fix their RV, figure out how to dump their sewer tanks, hook up cable, adjust their satellite dishes, figure out their laundry, get their computers connected via modem or WIFI, and listen to their stories. During the day, I’d check in with various residents in the campground, especially Lester and his father, Mr. Walden, often visiting with him for a while or watching him while Lester ran an errand. I’d get maybe two or three hours to do my work, then jump in the shower, greet Brent when he came home from his own long hours at work, and then be up at the campground office from six to ten, sometimes midnight or later, waiting on late arrivals and helping out those trying to figure out how things worked and what the heck they were doing. I walk the campground once or twice in the evening, finding propane sensors going off in empty trailers and motor homes, sewers overflowing, and water lines leaking, all because so many of the new temporary residents are brand new to this RV living lifestyle. Then back to the office to answer more questions and help more people, and all the time, their stories come at me in waves.

I wish I could tell you all of their stories, but they all involve sadness, misery, hopelessness, and depression, with the occasional spark of good will and joy. Mostly, it’s exhaustion.

Like many of them, I, too, fall asleep within minutes of my head hitting the pillow, only to wake repeatedly in the night and stare at the ceiling, or watch the hours tick by on the illuminated clock. Six o’clock arrives and I leave my snoozing husband to slip into my workout clothes and try to get past the office for a short walk without getting caught by someone else with a problem or question. Four mornings out of the past fourteen have I been successful.

I predicted early on that the greatest need that would probably go unheeded throughout the area is post traumatic stress syndrome. People are reeling from their own personal and private losses, but the workers who are going into these ravaged areas, hauling away debris, picking up the remains of the lost lives and homes, helping the victims, reporting on the damage, clearing the roads, connecting the electricity and water, repairing and replacing the beginning the reconstruction.

Rumors flew around last week that an insurance adjuster had been killed by a home owner when the adjuster told them that he wasn’t the final decision maker and that he was just there to collect the information and report back to the office. The owner wanted the money and help now, and so he pulled out a gun and shot the insurance man. Everyone was talking about it, worrying, considering taking seriously the recommendation to get armed before going into the devastation area. It turned out to be just a rumor and no evidence was found, but tensions were running high as inspectors reconsidered their reasons for being here.

A tree removal team is staying on the far side of the campground. They bring in their heavy equipment in and out during the day, but now leave it parked in the driveway of an abandoned and damaged house across the street. They have their own stories of working in the sweating 100 degree temperatures cutting up trees and pulling them from homes and buildings stuck in at odd angles. Some just fell onto the homes, while others were driven through like giant spikes. The work is back breaking, but it must be done.

Someone reminded me this morning that we were coming up on the one month anniversary in a few days of Hurricane Katrina’s pounding and destructive arrival. One month. Where did it go? I don’t remember “doing” anything. No major accomplishments. No successful stories of learning new things, writing about new topics, or actually finishing any projects. I know things happened. I know work that was necessary got done. But when, where, and how, I don’t remember. I can’t think beyond the next emergency moment. I need to make plans, get back to my work, and get back to business, but my brain can only focus on the thing in front of me. How to help the next person. I can wait.

I Love You, I Love You, You Know I Love You

We lost another victim of Hurricane Katrina last night. No, he won’t be in the statistics of the hundreds of lives lost across Louisiana, Mississippi and Alabama. But he should be.

Mr. Walden lived along the Gulf Coast near Pascagoula, Mississippi. He’d been up and active and managing his life until recently, when it just got a little too much. What is a “little too much” for a 97 year old retired Coast Guard lifer, I may never know.

I don’t know much about Mr. Walden’s life, but I do know that it was a full one. If you ask him, he spent most of his life on the sea, traveling all over the world in the Coast Guard, though its early days. He retired in 1947, at the age of 40 and went on to work on boats and do other labors of love in Mississippi.

His oldest son, Lester, was also a lifer in the Coast Guard, following his father’s steps. He is now retired, too, and when Hurricane Rita approached, as usual, he drove over to Mississippi and brought his dad back to stay with him here in our little oasis campground of Shady Acres.

After we came back from evacuating, returning to the destruction and anarchy left in Hurricane Katrina’s wake, I checked in with the long timers here in the campground to see how they fared and offering what help I could. I got to spend some time visiting with Lester and his father as they would sit on the porch in the early mornings and evenings when the temperatures dropped.

Tall and think, barely flesh on bone, Mr. Walden was still a fiery spirit. He would talk about the past, the present, and the future, proud of his age but weary from the recent struggles with his poor health. While standing up took some effort, he would walk around with little help, dragging his long clear tube to his oxygen tank all over his son’s mobile home. He’d wipe non-existent sweat from his brow in the heat and his tattoos would shift and move across his long boney arms, stories of a more exciting past.

You could see that he was once a lean, strong man, not afraid of work nor sweat. I’m sure he gave his supervisors a hell of a time with his own opinions, but stuck to the guns of rule and discipline.

One morning, I stopped by to find Lester hurrying around in a panic. He had to go back to storm ravaged Mississippi to track down medicine for his father. He needed the paperwork and to talk to the doctors and get the prescription, and it was near to impossible to do that with local officials in Alabama, so he had to figure out how to get through the back roads. But he didn’t want to leave his father alone. So I volunteered.

I quickly ran to take a shower and grab some paperwork and brought it back to the mobile home. Lester left me with instructions on what his father ate for lunch and his medications and then headed out in his truck for parts known but unknown. From Mobile to New Orleans, all along the Gulf Coast, barely a town, highway, or building is left standing. Bridges are destroyed, homes straddle roads – what should be a two hour round trip at most is now an adventure and nightmare.

Mr. Walden was napping in the chair, the television on full blast. I turned it down a little and sat in front of it to get some work done. I babysat one or twice as a kid and hated it. I never cared for children, literally and figuratively, so babysitting is not something I’m familiar with in any way, shape or form. But caring for the sick, injured, and ailing, this is something I know well. Too well.

I got about two hours of work done when it was time for lunch. I woke up Mr. Walden and helped him get up and followed behind his tall frame guiding the oxygen tank leash as he headed for the bathroom. While in there, I prepared his lunch, mashed sweet potatoes and fruit. Lester told me that sweet potatoes were his favorite and he had some already prepared.

We ate together and chatted a bit, about odds and ends. He kept asking me how I got there. I told him I walked. He’d tilt his head and look at me strangely. “You walked all that way? Why?”

I reminded him who I was and that I lived only a couple trailers down, and that calmed him down a little. We talked about the president, the hurricane, the poor suffering people who lost their homes, and about the crap on television.

He ate only a little bit and then slowly drifted back to sleep. I cleaned up and attacked more paperwork, getting a lot of odds and ends I’d been putting off done.

“I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. You know I love you.”

I looked up. Mr. Walden had his eyes open, his arm up and over his head. He was watching me, an odd, but gentle look on his face. “You know I love you. I love you more than anything.”

“That’s nice, Mr. Walden. Thank you.”

“Tell me you know I love you. I do love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. You are the most important thing to me in the world. I love you so much. You know I love you, right?”

His whispery voice was almost singing as he said “I love you” over and over and over again.

“I love you, too.”

He leaned forward, arms on his knees. “I will always love you. Do you know that? I have always loved you. I will be there for you forever. No matter what. I love you. I love you. You are the best thing in the world and I love you so much.”

He slowly leaned back, his voice growing softer. “I love you. I love you. I love you. You know I love you. I love you….” and once again he was asleep.

I looked down at my papers, my busy work, and found a drop of water had blurred the ink. I touched my face and found that I was crying. I’m a horrible crier. My nose turns red and starts to drip and it’s hard to breath, so it is very rare that I cry without knowing it. Why?

Why was I crying? I knew that he was on medication that made him sleeping and that I wasn’t whoever he was talking to. Why should his rambling effect me so much?

My mother always told me she loved me. Over and over and over again. She would insist upon telling me and saying “you know that I love you”, as if demanding that I reassure her. My father has only recently learned how to say it, but it comes with a punch in the arm and insulting jokes to hide the tenderness. My husband tells me he loves me dozens of times every day. Early in our marriage, he would tell me over and over and over again, reassuring me of his love. I have to admit that I felt totally loveless and unlovable for a very long time in my life, and his unconditional love went a long way to healing those wounds.

I could use those excuses for my tears, but there was something more. I stared at the wet spot on the paper for the longest time. Why? Why this? What was it about his words? Or was it the way he said them?

Ninety-seven is old. There is no doubt about it. He knew how old he was, and was proud and determined to reach 99. He told me that he didn’t want to be 100. That was just a little too much. Ninety-nine would be good enough. So he understood he didn’t have much longer to live. We’d talked a little about that. He was a fighter but he wasn’t afraid. He told me of watching men die in World War II, and that death was reality. You hate it, you fight it, but it will get you in the end. He was glad to be with his son, and to have his family nearby, and he was tired. Tired of the nurses, medicine, struggle…just tired.

I’ve had a lot of death and loss in my life. Haven’t we all. I’ve wondered often about death, as we all have. In a game we played years ago, I was asked to choose my final words if they were the last words I would say before I died. They were “I love you”.

And here I was, looking at this 97 year old man who had fought a brave fight all of his life, knowing his time was short, and he couldn’t stop saying “I love you” like he was releasing the feelings of years and years of imprisonment and needing to make up for lost time. Like he knew that these were going to be his last words.

The next few hours, he’d sleep then wake up and more “love yous” would return. Then he’d wake up more and we’d talk a little, and then he’d drift back to his nap.

Hours later, Lester returned, frazzled and stressed out. He’d had to take back roads to get around the damage and destruction and they gave him grief, but he got the medication and paperwork he needed to begin the process of hooking his father up with services in Alabama. He tried to pay me but I refused. This is not what we are hear for. I punched him in the arm and said, “Don’t insult me.” I thought he’d never stop grinning.

I’d stop in when I could over this last week, saying a quick hi to his dad. This past weekend, most of his family came by for a visit. Grandchildren, great grandchildren, and more. The kids were playing games on the floor and the others were sitting around the mobile home, and one young woman was holding Mr. Walden’s hand, sitting on the arm of his chair. Lester introduced me to everyone, telling the story of the “love yous” that I’d told he and his sister about. They all laughed and Lester pointed to one of the younger women and said that she is probably who Mr. Walden thought I was. We all laughed some more.

I kissed Mr. Walden on the cheek and told him to enjoy his family. He said that they were wonderful and he was so lucky to have them all here. He looked more tired than last I’d seen him. I knew that Lester was fighting to get him to eat, and if it were possible, he looked thinner. I knew he loved having the family there, but it tired him out, too.

Yesterday afternoon, as I walked up to the campground office for my evening shift, Lester came running out of the mobile home calling to me. He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me towards him.

His words were hoarse. “Dad’s taken a turn.”

Turn? My brain translated the term. Turn? Turn around the block? Finally gone to the hospice nearby that Lester was negotiating with? Southern synonyms for phrases I’m very familiar with still catch me off guard and it takes some processing to figure them out. I didn’t have to work too hard as Lester saw my confusion and quickly filled in the blanks.

“The nurse is with him now. His kidneys have shut down and they say it won’t be long now.”

“Shit.”

That’s probably not the best response to “My father is dying” that I’ve ever offered, but my brain locked up with grief.

I hugged Lester and told him how sorry I was. I promised that I would come by later that evening, but probably first thing in the morning for a visit. I should have just walked right into the mobile home, but I knew Charlie was waiting for me at the office. I knew if I went inside, I’d be there for hours, so I hugged Lester again and told him to call me if he needed anything and that I would be there first thing in the morning.

Early this morning, I headed out to see if they were awake, and when it looked like they weren’t, I started out on my walk, knowing they would be moving by the time I returned. As I passed by, Lester pushed open the door and rushed towards me. Then stopped.

I knew. But I knew he had to say the words. My heart stopped. Time passed and left us behind, a little quiet pair, staring at each other. He didn’t want to say the words and I didn’t want to hear them.

“Dad passed about two o’clock last night.”

I hugged him and we said dumb things. This short, stout, Coast Guard solider fought back the emotions, having been through so much over the past few hours. I asked him if he’d already called family. “I called the ones who needed to know. The rest – well, who cares.”

Yeah, well, that’s the way of it, isn’t it.

The move out of the path of Hurricane Katrina’s destruction, away from the scheduled medications and care, was just too much change for Mr. Walden. The destruction of everything he knew, and the diaspora of his friends to other parts of the state and the country, took away what little connection he had to what was left of his old life. His fragile strength couldn’t handle the change. He might have hung on a few months or years, but all of this was just too much.

But I will always remember him, for his strength and his love, whether or not it was directed at me or to who he thought I was. He taught me that love is eternal, and you can never say it too much.

Got Meme? How to Attract Clients and Customers Attention

Effective marketing memes focus on a specific clientele and a solution, or better yet a common client problem. For example, “I help independent professionals attract more clients,” identifies a market and a client problem. It also invites the follow up question “How?” FedEx grew their now billion dollar business with the meme, “When it absolutely, positively, has to be there overnight.”

Whether you use a meme in the elevator, on your business card or in your mailings, it should help your prospects know whether you are talking to them and define you as someone who can help them solve a problem, and prompt prospects to ask if your products and services could help them, too.
Got Meme? How to Attract Your Clients’ and Customers’ Attention from SCORE

This short and to the point article looks at helping you develop a “meme” which is a key phrase used in networking, marketing and advertising to help people remember and understand what you do and why. We cover the specific steps in how to do this in our article on Casting Your Net-work – Ten Words or Less What Do You Do.

If you are serious about building up your business and spreading the word about what you do and what you have to offer, you can’t bypass this important step: Explain what you do, why you do it, how you do it, and who you do it for in ten words or less.

Surviving Hurricane Katrina and Hurricane Rita

We escaped the rage of Hurricane Katrina by evacuating to Atlanta, only to return to Mobile, Alabama, and be threatened by Hurricane Rita. Luckily for us, and unluckily for others, Rita moved to the west, so we’ve missed the full impact, but not the brush by.

The damage around us from Hurricane Katrina would be terrible, if this was an example of the most damage that was done to the area. Compared to the Gulf Coast of Mississippi, even New Orleans got off light. There are whole towns wiped off the map in Mississippi, so the few destroyed and flooded homes and massive wind damage here ain’t nothing compared to Mississippi.

The campground has been sold out with the few who leave quickly replaced from the long waiting list. There are even people dry camping down by the old homestead on the river desperate for any place they can find to put their trailer or motor home. The campground owners draw the line at tents, as there are no bathroom facilities to acommodate them, but the requests come in every day. As I mentioned, the campground continues to be filled with insurance adjusters and a few FEMA agents, heading out early in the mornings to start processing claims throughout Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana. For most of them, the can’t find a closer place to stay, so they drive hundreds of miles a day into the other states to do their work and drive back to sleep for the night.

I’ve been helping out in the early mornings and late evenings to give the owners some rest. They’ve been working overtime to repair and restore the campsites destroyed by Hurricane Ivan. Most of them are back with water and electricity, though many whine about lack of cable TV. Tough. Comcast just hasn’t gotten back here to finish working on it, and for $20 a night or less (weekly or monthly), then you can suffer without cable TV. Other campgrounds are charging $25 – $50 or more a night. I overheard Diane tell someone on the phone who was complaining, “We’re in a disaster zone – what do you want from us?”

I say be thankful you have a place to stay, water, sewer, and electricity, along with free WIFI. There is news on the Internet and the radio. You don’t have to “see” it, too.

Most of the damage around the campground has been cleaned up, and roofs are slowly being fixed around the neighborhood. Some homes will have to be rebuilt as the flood damage and destruction is just too much, but they are few close to us.

Hurricane Rita brought torrential rains but lasting only brief periods of time. The wind kicked up a bit, but nothing damaging, though the electricity has been going on and off for two days – but it has been going on and off for weeks since Hurricane Katrina. The fear is that the wind will bring down damaged tree limbs that are stuck up in the trees, causing more roof damage and crunching mobile homes and trailers.

So we are safe for now, and watching the news along with everyone else. Our stress level is eternally high, and rarely lowers, but we’re fine.

Thanks for worrying.

The Camera Club of the UK – 120 Years Old

I just got this note today.

The Camera Club, one of the oldest and most respected photographic societies in the country, this year celebrates 120 years since its’ foundation in 1885.

The purpose of the club remains what it has always been, namely to promote members shared interest in photography in all its’ forms, to stimulate and expand their range and levels of achievement, and to provide the facilities they need at minimal cost.

The club’s freehold headquarters in an attractive corner of Kennington in London, incorporates a superbly lit gallery – Gallery 1885 – hosting monthly exhibitions of outstanding work on wide ranging themes by one of the many talented club members.

The top floor of the building comprises an excellent, comprehensively equipped studio, available for members own use at very low cost. In addition, the club has four well-equipped individual darkrooms, three Photoshop digital suites and a comfortable lecture and meeting room.

There is an active programme of educational events for members. At the opening of the club in its’ first premises in 1885, an impressive display of work by founding members was mounted, and the inspiration gained from the work of fellow members continues to be an important focus of the club today.

Membership of the Camera Club is open to all with a serious interest in photography, and new members are actively welcomed whatever their current level of experience, whether an experienced practitioner or enthusiastic novice.

The club is a friendly environment where members are stimulated by associating with others who share their personal commitment in striving to create images of distinction.

As part of the celebrations commemorating its’ 120th anniversary, the Camera Club is hosting a two day open house and an exhibition of the outstanding photographic work by notable past and present members, on Friday September 30 and Saturday October 1 from 11:00 to 21:00.

The clubhouse will be open to the public to view the superb facilities available to members, gain an insight into the club’s illustrious history, view the work of several of the club’s photo groups (i.e. dance, landscape, portraiture, and printing techniques), and information on the various workshops and courses organised by the club.

Entry is free and all are welcome.

The Camera Club
Contact: Richard Fanshawe
Gallery 1885
16 Bowden Street
London SE11 4DS
www.thecameraclub.co.uk

Happy Birthday!

File Extensions: What program does this file belong to?

If you dig into your computer’s hard drive innards, the stuff and junk you may have stockpiled all over the hard drive, you may often encounter a file with an extension you do not recognize and want to know “what program does this file belong to?” FILExt – The File Extension Source is an online source that helps search for file extensions to identify which program they belong.

A file name is made up of two sections, the first part that is the actual name of the file, followed by a period or “dot” and then the 3 or 4 letters that make up the file extension.

filename.ext

Some familiar file extensions would be html for HTML web pages, doc and xls for Microsoft Word and Excel files, and txt for text files.

FILExt features several ways of searching for file extensions by name or alphabet list. The file extension might bring up more than one option, so look for other clues that might help you identify the program associated with the file. For example, which directory did you find it in? Did you install one of the programs in the results? If not, it’s probably not that one.

We love helpful resources like this!

Enter the Modern Honey Bucket

Growing up in a hunting and fishing family, we had a “yellow bucket” everywhere we went, in the trailer, camper, boat, or car. It might have at one time been a real yellow bucket, but it’s shape and form changed over the years from buckets to coffee cans to whatever was available and portable. In ancient times these were also known as the chamber pot. It basically consisted of either a regular bucket that could be washed, or a sealable lid like found on newer coffee tins. And yes, like the chamber pot, you can assume what we did with our version of the yellow bucket.

No matter what you do, if you are away from the comfort of a toilet for more than 4 hours, you are probably going to be in need of one. Over a life time of travel, I’ve seen more than my fair share of “yellow buckets” from an uncomfortable squat behind the bushes to fashionable, self-cleaning public bathrooms in Prague and London.

I was delighted when someone was finally brave enough to “tackle the issue” in the wonderful book How to Shit in the Woods. From the very first page I was in hysterics, recalling many a fond and nightmare memory of peeing in the woods.

Probably the most memorable was when I and my best friend’s family were on a long trip to the Washington Coast beaches for a day spent flying kites in the famous Long Island International Kite Festival. Little Eric, just graduated from high school but then about 6 or 7 years old, had to “go”. We pulled into a rest stop along the highway to be greeted by two “honey buckets”. You know the type. The plastic walled out house usually absent of toilet paper.

Susan handed him some toilet paper and after his initial refusal to go near something so smelly and nasty, Eric put on a brave face and went solo around the corner and into the port-a-potty.

A minute later he was back. His father turned him around and pushed him back towards the out house.

“Dad, I can’t go.”

“Be a big boy. Yes, you can.”

“No, Dad I can’t gooooo.”

“I know it’s smelly. Just hold your breath and go.”

“Daaaaaa’aaad. You don’t understand! I-can’t-GO!”

“Eric, you can do this. It’s okay.”

“Dad, I can’t GO!”

Always the patient father, David took his hand and said all the right reassuring things to his son and walked him down the slight incline to the port-a-potty, insisting that he be brave and GO.

A minute later the two were back.

“He’s right. He can’t go.”

The three of us looked at him in wonder.

David finally cracked into laughter and explained that the thing had not been dumped or cleaned in ages and the shit was piled high, a mountain above the seat, from previous visitors, so there was no “going” in there for a little kid. Eric was right. He just couldn’t go with those overwhelming obstacles.

So the two wondered off into the woods together, returning not long later with a report that the woods were FILLED white crumpled up toliet paper remains.

“Wow, I lot of other people couldn’t go either,” Eric announced.

Recently, I spotted a press release that caught my eye. New Comfort Station Relieves Fear of Portable Toilets. While I don’t have a fear of portable toilets, as mentioned, I have a vast experience with them, so I was curious. After all, how do you modernize a portable yellow bucket?

According to the press release, the founder of “Here’s Johnny” and the “Comfort Station”, Porta-John Systems, Inc., introduces a “luxurious modern portable toilet” with a fresh water flushing system that has no steps, and no chemicals.

In fact, it is just like home, sometimes better.

A simple garden hose hookup is needed for the fresh water source. The waste is delivered to large outside holding tanks, a septic field or a sewer.

The Comfort Station is roomy, has ceramic fixtures – sink, toilet and is equipped with soap, hand towels, toilet tissue, a wastebasket, a coat/purse hook, and even a mirror. They are sold, rented, and even paid for by the public.

Generally, people pay USD$1.00 to use these modern, clean, and roomy restrooms (not called portable out houses any more!) and they are more than willing to do so in order to avoid the messy, smelly, and vile older porta-a-potties of old.

They say you can’t build a better mouse trap, but wow, you can build a better yellow bucket.

US Criminal Databases

While it might not be fun to find out that someone in your family or family history might be a criminal, if you need to check out information on someone, you might consider the US Criminal Databases.

JournalismNet provides a fairly comprehensive listing of most of the public US Criminal Databases with free access, or lets you know if there is a fee for access. It also includes information on finding property records, marriage and divorce records, death records, sex offenders, criminal records, and other public records, criminal and otherwise.

Searching criminal records is not easy, and to help you there is also an article on Navigating the Maze of Criminal Records Retrieval By Lynn Peterson to help you through the complicated process.

You never know where a good tip or information may come from when searching for someone or your family history and genealogy. ;-)

Book Industry Choosing Green

Forest of trees, photograph by Brent VanFossenIn a surprising bit of news, USATODAY.com reports authors are insisting on “Green” printing methods for books. It says “a small and growing number of authors are asking publishers to print their books on environmentally friendly paper.”

Authors are not only pushing their publishers and having it written in the contract to use recycled materials for publishing books, but many musicians like U2 and Bonnie Raitt are insisting on packaging their CDs in recycled materials.

According to the article, “Less than 5% of U.S. books are printed that way, says Tyson Miller of the Green Press Initiative, a group working to interest publishers and authors.”