The Dream

Some of the most vivid dreams I remember as a child were the ones when I would be digging in the side of a hill and suddenly I was digging out coins…lots and lots of coins. At the time it probably seemed like a lot of money, nickels and dimes and quarters. The dreams probably grew out of stories of pirates and buried treasure. I also remember reading stories of lost mines full of gold still there for the person to find them.

I don’t believe that I will someday come across a lost gold mine or walking along the beach I will still the corner of chest filled with Spanish doubloons but I think buried deep in my imagination I still think it could happen.

Right now in my life I think searching the thrift store and the occasion
all garage sale or auction is fed by the imagination that I will find a treasure….and too some extent I have. Of course this just feeds the obsession and that of course is the worrisome part…I don’t like being obsessed but I can feel it sometimes drawing me in. It is what keeps me going to Goodwill over my lunch hour several days a week and what made me want to walk the streets of the nearby neighborhood garage sale last Saturday when I had lots of yard work. I didn’t go to the garage sale but I wanted to.

So what treasures have I found that keep me going back. Well there were the five brand new law school text books that I paid 75 cents each for and resold for around $300 on Amazon. There was the CD set of hair cutting instruction that went for over $100 on eBay. I have a lot more books that have sold for less but all for a profit. Of course there are books that haven’t sold yet (or probably won’t ever – I have about 300 of those). I also have a lot of clothing items that haven’t sold on ebay…many of which I just need the time to list. (Ebay takes a lot longer than Amazon).

I also need to get rid of some things…the downside of being an obsessed dreamer is that it tends to reinforce that part of me which is a “hoarder – a person who has a hard time throwing anything out…but maybe that is best saved for another post).
Meanwhile check out my eBay postings…right now I have some things listed that will only reinforce the dream and a few things that are listed (as cheaply as possible and still make money or at least break even…that is reinforcing the dream too I guess.)


http://www.ebay.com/sch/dchs1974/m.html?item=111060073004&ssPageName=STRK%3AMESELX%3AIT&rt=nc&_trksid=p2047675.l2562

I put a link to my listing above but not sure if it is going to show up.

My Summer of Baseball at Age 13

Despite the cool weather I was reminded the other day that it is indeed spring. I looked out the car window while driving into a field of green and saw a baseball practice and I was suddenly 13 again. I had never played organized baseball but the announcement was made at school that Babe Ruth baseball teams were forming and that we could sign up.
I had never played organized baseball because when a similar sign up was announced in 3rd grade I forgot about it until after the deadline. My mother (correctly now I know) assured me that I could still join but rules are rules and I had missed the deadline. Little League was not to be. So while many of my friends played Little League baseball I didn't and because I had missed the entry into Level One I couldn't just start in the middle (although now I know I could have.)
But Babe Ruth was a fresh start, another level and I was ready. Babe Ruth was for boys 13 to 15 and I was assigned to a team sponsored by a local clothing store named Anderson s and that was the name of our team. I don’t know how I was picked for Anderson’s and when the first practices came around I didn't know anyone on my team. I am sure it was pretty obvious to the coaches that I didn't know much about baseball and they probably had found out I had never played before. I don’t remember a lot of practices but I remember the one in which a high fly ball hit off of the tip of my glove and turned my nose into a bloody mess. I believe that is when the tip of the cartilage of my nose was split, a facial defect that I still bare today. But it was another fly ball that left an even bigger scar.
Everyone had to play in the game with at least one at bat and one inning, I think that was the rule set by the league….at least I know on our team everyone got to play. It was usually in the during the last innings that I made my appearance. Looking back that makes no sense but there is that “honor” of starting the game but I think now that it would better to put your worst players on the field in the early innings…but that isn't how it happened. I would make one appearance in the field and at the plate. I never got a hit all year but I would dream of hitting a home run and of someday even being a pitcher. One day while throwing the ball against the side of our house I broke the kitchen window. I felt really bad and had no money to pay for it but my mom said if I got a hit that I wouldn't have to pay. One game I actually made contact and drove it deep into center field where it was caught. I guess I hit it far and hard enough that the next game I got put in the game a bit sooner. I never got a hit but I did get on base several times. I was left handed, and fairly big and definitely slow. I think all characteristics that led opposing pitchers to manage to hit me. I didn't mean to get hit and it usually hurt but it was better than what usually happened which was strike out. My mom never did make me pay for the window (which probably was because I had no money but she said that I had hit the ball really hard and it was almost as good).
Anderson’s was one of the better teams in the league but not the best but we were always competitive. One warm clear summer evening nearing the end of the season it was late in the evening and Anderson’s was leading I think by two and it was in the last inning. I found myself in right field hoping that no one would hit the ball to me. Bases loaded and two outs suddenly a smack of the bat and the ball is rising and coming in my direction. I think one has time to think of a lot of things in that split second and I should probably have been thinking about using two hands or squeezing the mitt tight but my memories are a mix of feeling the sheer terror of the moment and the anticipation of being the hero. The ball hit my glove and fell to the ground. Do I grab it and throw it in? I don’t remember. Did someone else run and get it? I don’t remember? I do remember that the bases were loaded and everyone scored and that our second baseman Don was yelling at me. I don’t remember what he yelled but I felt bad, real bad. Was the game over or did we had one more chance? Did I come up and strike out? I don’t remember. I do remember not going to anymore games that year. I couldn't, it hurt too much. I don’t think anyone missed me.

Do You Know the Muffin Man?

Last weekend I decided to make some blueberry muffins for our Sunday potluck at church. I have 20 blueberry bushes and this past summer during the peak of the season I know I baked over 500 muffins just by the number of muffin containers I went through. (By containers I mean that thing piece of paper that fits into the pan and the uncooked batter is poured into.) The point being is, I have baked muffins before. Not all of the blueberries I picked last summer found their way into muffins and others were frozen to be sprinkled on cereal, made into pies and mmmm – muffins.
Last summer, after a couple attempts trying several recipes I had settled on my new favorite and with the book open to the page “blueberry muffins” I began following the recipe. Oil, Eggs, Sugar, Flour, etc.

Hmm, “etc”…I will return to that.

I always double the recipe and depending how much batter I put into the liners I can usually get somewhere between 20 and 24 muffins into the two muffin tins that hold 12 each. On this evening I made 23. It usually takes a little over 20 minutes for them to bake but I check in a little before that and it was the first indication that something was wrong. They hadn’t begun to brown like they usually do. I chalked this up the oven not being preheated and my being anxious to get going popping them in before it was. Time’s up…still not browned…3 more minutes then 3 more and 2 more for good measure. I finally turned the oven off, opened the door and let them cool as I went off to watch TV.

Twenty minutes later it seemed like time to check the muffins. Hmm, not quite as big as they sometimes were, first bite and I knew something was wrong. I looked at the muffin, though a little more and suddenly realized that I had forgotten to add the baking powder. Baking powder which helps them to rise and be fluffy and not thick and chewy. The sweetness was there…the extra blueberries that I always add helped but just a little baking powder missing and they were a muffin disaster.

Had then been any kind of muffin other than made with my lovingly grown, hand-picked blueberries I might have tossed them. Instead, I made the decision to not take them to church on Sunday but to wait to take them to work on Monday. Meanwhile we ate a few of them and then a few more. Monday came and I forgot to take them to work (subconscious – perhaps). Tuesday, forgot again. Tuesday evening and I am looking at them thinking maybe they are getting a bit too old and too tired looking to take to work on Wednesday and there were only about 6 of them left anyway. What I am going to eat for supper? Muffins –mmm – no. Eggs, an omelet…yes….mmm- NO. Blender, eggs, muffins,,,,grind away (oh add a little baking powder)…turn on the fry pan. Muffin pancakes….not bad, as long as you add the appropriate amount of syrup.

If She's Not Dead, Where is She?

About eight or nine years ago the college my wife graduated from published an alumni directory. The directory listed the current addresses and status of its alumni. By status I mean either living or dead.

One of the persons my wife looked up was one of her former roomates named “A”. “A” was originally from the Lancaster area (where we now lived) and my wife hoped to reconnect. Turning to her name we discovered that her status was “deceased.” There was some sadness and some chatter back and forth between some of their mutual friends. Me, the internet searcher took it upon myself to find out more information and every few years when I thought about it I would do a little searching. One place I looked was on Ancestry.Com. As a paying member I have access to the social security death records, but a search a couple years ago turned up nothing there and I searched again a year later.

This past October we were at Esther’s (my wife) class college reunion and again someone mentioned “A” and how she was dead. I again decided to do some searching, guessing that the search engines were better now than a few years ago. So I began my search. I again looked at the Ancestry social security death index. Nothing. I looked through newspapers and for obituaries. Still, nothing. I asked around. Then I said (maybe even outloud), “if she’s not dead, then where is she?” And I went to facebook and typed in her name and a face appeared. Same college, same year. Turns out “A” isn’t dead after all.

The Party Animal

Wrong Assumptions


Even when I know I shouldn’t - I jump to conclusions. I try not to but I do judge people (and because my judgements are based on little or no information I admit I judge unfairly._ That doesn’t mean that I am wrong…in fact by my “own judgment” I am correct 75 percent of the time (Full Disclosure: I just made that number up).

A couple recent examples:

1. In 2009 I bought U-2 tickets for a concert they were going to have in Philadelphia in July of 2010. The concert was rescheduled for July 2011 when Bono or some other band member hurt his back. I bought the tickets because I made the assumption that I would be able to resell the tickets for more. Turns out I was right…and I made about $100 a ticket and if I would have had my price higher I would have sold them for even more.

2. Last winter I got notice of a concert by Kenny Chesney in Philadlphia in June 2012. I made the assumption while not as popular as U-2, that the Kenny Chesney concert would also sell out. While I correctly identified that U-2 was more popular than Kenny Chesney I failed to identify just because I prefer Kenny Chesney music to U2 that it was probably not close enough in popularity. So I overpriced my tickets (using stubhub.com) and sort of waited for them to sell. They didn’t. I then started listing them on Craigslist here in Lancaster (and several mentions on Facebook) offering to sell them at cost. Didn’t work. I had also decided that if I couldn’t sell them I would go to the concert. Another wrong judgment was that Esther would be able to go with me. She had to work however Elizabeth was off and it being so close to father’s day I did call in a favor and together we took the train down to Philadelphia. I also wrongly judged that there may be possibilities to sell a ticket (and there may have been) but the crowds were massive and it was hard to know where to begin. A man waiting at the subway was offering to buy tickets but only would give me $20 per ticket and I wasn’t willing to drop that low. He also warned me about “undercover” cops and I jumped to the conclusion that it 1. might be illegal and #2. ..i would get caught. I don’t know if that is true but he convinced me.

3. The concert started at 4:30 p.m. and I judged (estimated, was pretty sure) it would be over by eight p.m. and we would be able to catch the last train to Lancaster at 9:45 p.m.. The first act did start at 4:30 but we also noticed on the big screen the schedule that said Kenny Chesney would be making his appearance at 8:30. I figured it would take about an hour to take the subway and get back to the Amtrak station. I jumped to the conclusion we would NOT see very much of Kenny Chesney. The stadium wasn’t very full when Jake Owens started his act (the 4:30 concert). Although I didn't know any of Mr. Owen's songs...most people seemed to were sining along. The second act was Grace Potter and the Nocturnals…later I found out that she had been at Longs Park here in Lancaster last year. Those concerts in Longs Park are free. By 6:30 the stadium was full and Tim McGraw came on. I know some of his songs and he put on a good show. I sang along when I could and clapped a bit and swayed an inch or two….this seemed to get the guy with the seat to my left excited…he tapped me on the shoulder and raised his hand and gave me a high Five.

It was a pretty drunk crowd and he had probably had more than most but with very tight security to get in and beer at $7:50 a bottle I don’t understand how anyone can afford to drink very much so I have jumped to the conclusion my neighbor and most of the crowd started before they got there (OK I saw several people on the subway drinking from a paperbag...and the parking lot was one big party). Drunk or NOT it was during one of his "HIGH 5's" that I realized I had met a soul mate… A man who also jumped to conclusions. But unlike me he was probably always right...because he leaned over to me and said, “You are a party animal!” High 5. And so it goes.

Saturday Morning Stare-down

I should be typing my list. It is 7:00 a.m. and it is Saturday and all week I have been saying that I was going to be mowing the yard on Saturday, cleaning the garage, cleaning the basement, painting the lamppost, taking the air conditioner plugs out, taking the insultating plastic off the windows (in the sunroom), planting garden, weeding, taking the garden tiller and snow blower in to see why they won’t start and oh yes and I want to go to the funeral for an elderly man from our church. I know I left off a few things. Not listed above was the thought that I was going to sleep in this morning, but instead of that I woke up at 6:30...it seems to me my plans for the day are off to a bad start. Some of the projects are ongoing (I am not sure the garage and basement will ever be organized – at least not while I am living – that sort of sounds morbid but its really a acknowledgement of mortality that someday that basement and garage will be emptied of all my stuff). Some of the projects are once and done, like walking around the house and pulling out the plugs that keep the warm air from going up into the air conditioning duct system during the winter. It was warm and sticky yesterday and a few more like that and we are going to want the A.C. to be working. So here I am I made my list. Wow. Let’s see how I do. Saturday Evening Update Snowblower and Tiller to repair shop Got lost twice on way back from the shop - somehow ended up in Reemstown Went to funeral sprayed for weeds in yard primed (with paint) the mailbox post and gave the lamppost a 2nd coat of primer puttered around the garden (which included pulling up a "weed" that was growing next to a blueberry bush that turned out to be a potato replanted potoe with the potatoes (not sure it will grow) went pitch and putt golfing with my daughter - 10 holes she shot a 50 I got a 54 made mint tea from fresh mint growing in the flowerbed/fig orchard/ rhubarb patch helped Esther clean some cupboards watched Kentucky Derby Layed on the floor with the dog on my shoulder Moved everything on my Saturday to do list to sometime early next week.

We The Jury

I received my first Federal Jury Summons in Sept or October of 2009. The summons said I would be required to do my jury duty in Philadelphia (South East PA) in December. I had just started my current job and everyone was telling me how the end of the year was extremely busy so I wrote back and requested that I be put off until after the New Year. So I think in December I got another notice that I was to appear I February. The summons tells how you may or may not be required to actually show up on the day you are supposed and that they will pay for travel and a place for you to stay. If you are a potential juror you are to call after 5 p.m. on the evening before to see if you are to show up the next day. So the secret is to find a hotel you can cancel at the last minute without having to pay for the night. The summons says that a potential juror will either serve 3 days or one trial. I had made my hotel reservation and I don’t remember the exact date but it was right about the time of one of our horrific February snows in 2010. I did make my call and I learned how they decided if you are going to show up, they use the juror number that is printed on your summons. That particular day they said only jurors with the number 0 to 80 needed to report. My number was over 300 but since I still could be called the following day I cancelled my hotel reservations for that night but kept it for the next two. The next day they said no jurors needed to report for either of the next two days. I was done or so I thought. I got my next summons in the spring of 2011. Again I made my hotel reservations and when the day came I called. My juror number at that time was 152. They said jurors with the number 0 through 150 needed to report. Of course one can’t plan anything for those three days even if you are at work but come the third day again I was no longer needed. In January of this year I received the now familiar brown manila envelope and the first thing I looked for was my juror number. This time it was 15 and I thought, “I’m going.” The previous two times I immediately made my reservations at the Hampton Inn. I chose Hampton because, it has a good breakfast and , it was pretty close to the federal courthouse, it is across the street from Reading Terminal Market (where I hoped to get a cheesesteak and some soft pretzels) and lastly because it wasn’t too expensive. The summons explains that if you live more than a certain distance away that they will pay for your lodging. They say they can’t say where you can’t or can stay and their listed of close hotels had some pretty fancy ones but just because someone else is paying and in this case it is taxpayers like me I don’t think spend too much money. Like I said previously I had made my reservations right away, this time I waited. When I went to make my reservation the Hampton was now one of those expensive hotels. I am not sure what changed or if they had a convention that week but all of their rooms I felt were too much. So I waited a week and the next time I looked there weren’t any rooms at the Hampton. I ended up getting the government rate (federal jury duty) at the Comfort Inn. The Comfort Inn is located between several busy roads and right up against the Benjamin Franklin Bridge. I had a lovely 5th floor corner room with a fantastic view of the bridge and out the other window the highway leading down to Penn’s Landing. Unfortunately this non-smoking room reeked…I asked about changing rooms but figured I would probably still get a room that smelled but with a less attractive view. I opted for letting the bathroom fan run all night and turning the heater on low. The room had a couple other minor flaws but it was o.k. as was the breakfast. It wasn’t Hampton but it was o.k. (note: I had just decided to stay in the room and had turned on the TV when the phone rang and Esther was crying. She told me that Jim Weaver (our brother-in-law) had died.) The next morning after breakfast I walked to the courthouse. I got there early so I strolled down to the house where Thomas Jefferson had written the Declaration of Independence and then along the street across from the Liberty Bell. Security was similar to the airport. I ended up in a rather large room on the second floor. There were hundreds of chairs and there were already a handful of people sitting there when I arrived. We were to be there by by 8:45 a.m. The 20 minute video introduction by the top judge started about nine and the last two jurors slipped in around 9:30 shortly before we all took our oath…which we could either “swear” or “affirm.” I felt very Nixon-esk when I said “I affirm.” We were given information on how we were going to get paid and given the opportunity to as questions. We were also given two vouchers for free drinks from the little store just down the hallway. At 9:45 we were told we had a 15 minute break. I had brought a book written by the mother of one of my co-workers and I found my way to the soft sofas at the front of the room. There was already one woman sitting there reading and a third joined us shortly. We got to talking and I discovered the one woman lived about two blocks away but had to run her grandchildren over to school that morning because their parents were moving that day. The other woman was a 4th grade school teacher from Abington who had taken the train down that morning. She said her husband had had to stay home from work to get the kids to school. I had just started to start reading again when about six people walked into the room. One it turned out was the bailiff and the others were lawyers from the defense and the other lawyers from the District Attorney’s office. Of course we didn’t know that at the time. They were there to observe us as we were numbered off. Apparently we had all been randomly assigned a number. They began by having us sit according to the number they read off. I was thinking they might stop at some point but when they reached #27 they called my name. When the finished reading at number 44 everyone in the room was either seated in the four rows of chairs as jurors or they were up front calling our names or watching us as we were called. The lawyers all left and then the bailiff said we needed to wait a few minutes until they had gotten up to the court room. We then headed for the elevators. It took 4 elevators with us packed like sardines to get to the 8th floor. We then waited a few minutes before entering the courtroom of Judge Tucker we went in according to our assigned number. Fifteen in the first row and 15 in the next and 14 in row three. On the left side facing us was the defendant and his team of three (only two of which eventually took an active role). On the right side the Assistant District Attorney, an assistant and a person from the Immigration department. On the far left behind the defense team were two people who turned out to be there to do language translation as apparently the defendant did not speak or understand English. I don’t remember if Judge Tucker had come in before or after Introductions of all these people were made but we all had to stand when she did. We were told the defendant was being charged with re-entering the US after having been deported. Judge Tucker is a middle aged African American woman with the amazing ability to stay awake, alert and engaged through what seemed to be a very tedious process. Judge Tucker asked us a series of questions about how we felt about law enforcement, the legal process, whether or not we had been victims of a crime or convicted of a crime, and several other questions and to those who responded it was the same questions to each. Will this affect your ability to act fairly and impartially in this matter? Each person was given the opportunity to either state certain things publically or go to sidebar. I am guessing that if I had ever been convicted of a crime I might have asked to go to sidebar but I was somewhat amazed how there were either 3 or 4 people who at one time had been arrested for DUI. We had a fairly large number who had been burglarized and several who had family members who were policy officers. Almost a quarter of us had previously served on a jury and all but two of those had actually reached a verdict. The other two were involved in cases that had settled before the case got that far. The questioning went on for about an hour and half. I never felt drowsy and almost always felt alert as I was taking it all in. One of the questions I raised my hand for was whether being on a trial for two days would be a hardship. Several others like me had raised their hands but we were told not to give the reason but to all wait and we were brought up individually for the sidebar discussions. One of the people who went up besides me was juror 30, the teacher with three young children. I had called and talked to my nephew and my sister in law that morning. When I called they weren’t sure when the funeral was going to be. I guessed it would be during the weekend but I also felt I needed to tell the court that a trial on Friday or stretching into Monday would be a hardship for me. They don’t give you yes or no they just say “thank you.” Other people were called up for no apparent reason…maybe because they had said they had a brother who was a cop or the lawyers thought they looked suspicious I don’t know. The toughest question the judge asked all of us was if we could really be impartial to realize that the defendant was innocent until proven guilty. That it was up to the District Attorney to provide the evidence that we would convict on. For me, I felt all the surges of the assumptions I was making about a defendant. Charged with re-entering the U.S, how could be here if he hadn’t come back…but I found it cleansing to really dig down and say Yes I could. Finally about 12:15 the judge said that now the lawyers would start examining us and it would take about 10 to 15 minutes. I thought that meant they were going to ask the questions but what it meant was they began looking at us and looking at our names and looking at their notes and then handing the list back and forth between the District Attorney and the Defense. I also watched Judge Tucker during this time and she seemed busy doing something and by that I mean it looked like she was really working and not doing Sudoku or Words with Friends or reading a book (or sleeping…I think if I were a judge and this repeated itself over and over, well I might be tempted to sleep). Shortly after 1 p.m. (definitely longer than the promised 10-15 minutes) they had agreed on the jury. The bailiff after apparently copying each name down from their sheets to his began reading the names and numbers. They then went to sit in the jury box off to the right side of the room. There were 14 people chosen (12 jurors and two alternates…I don’t know if they were told which one of them were the alternates). The first seven chosen were women and there were only two men. One of the women was the grandmother who lived two blocks away. I think for me the most interesting thing was I had started counting people as they came in and observed what seemed to be a shortage of minorities. Of the 44 of us there were 5 people of color. Four of us were of African heritage (3 were woman) and one man appeared to be perhaps SE Asian (perhaps from the Philippines). Of the final jury selected, three were African American. The fourth African American (a woman) had had a sidebar conversation with the judge when asked if there were people who physically couldn’t sit for extended periods of time. The one other event that happened while we were in the courtroom which I don’t know if everyone saw, I don’t think the judge noticed nor the district attorney and that was that I heard the door open behind us. I looked back and saw two Hispanic women start to come in. Then I noticed the defense team and the one woman sitting there who wasn’t active in the selection process was waiving with her hand for the two women to leave…she then got up and went back and walked them out. It was soon after this the defendant who had been sitting there very stoically began to cry. For me there seemed to be a connection between the events and his emotion…perhaps family he hadn’t seen in months, but certainly family that lived here…I know we all promised to only weigh the evidence but for me it certainly made me feel more sympathetic to the defendant and I don’t think it would have affected my verdict (if he had been proven guilty) but it reminded me that this whole immigration thing is a lot more complicated than we want to believe. I think there was more to this case than the simple charges but I guess I will never know. Those of us not selected were initially told we were going to get lunch then they said that we would be going back to the jury room and probably released for the day. Back in the jury room they did come and after most of us had gotten at least one of our “free” drinks with our coupon they told us we were done for the day and then said, in fact you are done for the week as there are no more jury trials needing jurors the remainder of the week. We were free and told to go home. I went and check out of the hotel (stopping for a cheesesteak at a restaurant on Market Street) then caught the subway to 30th street station and then next train back to Lancaster. When I got home I realized I was exhausted. It was a fascinating experience but I am glad I will not be selected for federal jury duty for at least two more years.