Plan B

I applied for a job this week, which in and of itself doesn't seem like a very big deal. And it isn't. Only it is.

And it’s not that I can’t handle the job, because I think I can.

And it’s not because it’s a bad job. In fact, I think it’s an awesome job. It’s just a job I had never considered before. One I didn’t really know was out there.

And it’s not because I feel as though I’m being forced into something that I don’t want to be doing. That’s not the case at all.

It’s a big deal because if I get it, it’s a complete and total departure from what I have been doing and what I had planned to be doing in the upcoming months (or years.) It is not something that was in the PLAN. The master plan. The one I've been crafting for a very long time now. But, you know, sometimes the plan you have isn't necessarily the best option. It’s just that you don’t know there’s another option.

And it was all a fluke and a Craigslist ad and a lengthy email.

It lead to an interview with a woman who instantly felt like a friend – both old and new. A highly successful, well-established, world traveled friend.

And even if I don’t get the job, I’m richer for the experience. Because now I know that even if Plan A doesn't pan out, there is always Plan B. 

Stinkeroo

Can I vent a minute?

I went to an event this morning and was introduced to a retired professor from a local college. The man held out his hand, I met his with mine. Since he initiated the handshake, I wasn't prepared for it. But there it was. The dead fish. Shaking his hand was like grasping a dead fish. I absolutely HATE that! I mean, c’mon, dude. I’m not expecting you to crush my fingers and drop me to my knees, but at least have a grip firm enough that I don’t have to do a double take to make sure you’re not on your penultimate breath. Ew. Please don’t shake my hand like that. Ever. Thanks.

Okay. You can now go back to your regularly scheduled program. 

The Saga of Uncle Oscar or Be Careful What You Dig for…

One of the hazards of doing genealogy work (aside from getting poison ivy at the cemetery or paper cuts at the library) is digging up the occasional family skeleton. For me it’s not a problem. It’s those larger than life characters that make this kind of thing interesting, but there are those in my extended family tree who wouldn't be thrilled with my genealogical thoroughness. That has never stopped me though.

Grandma Alice, the great family storyteller, told me a tale about the infamous Uncle Oscar. Now, Oscar wasn't really my uncle, he was my grandfather’s first cousin. (My grandpa’s mother’s brother’s son…clear as mud?) So, what does that make him to me…a second cousin of some sort? I can never remember that once/twice removed stuff and have to map it out on a genealogy chart, but it really has nothing to do with this story, so I’ll move on.

According to Alice, Oscar robbed the same Savings and Loan in Columbia, Missouri three different times. Each time, he would run around to the alleyway behind the financial institution, discard his disguise in a garbage can and stroll nonchalantly back to the front of the building to watch all the excitement after the police arrived. Finally, after the third robbery, the cops realized old Uncle Oscar was always in the crowd. Alice said he was sentenced to 10 years in prison for his antics.

After Alice died in 1997, I was talking to yet another distant cousin. I asked Cousin “P” about Uncle Oscar’s incarceration. Cousin “P” was absolutely mortified, said he knew Uncle Oscar well and had never heard such an inflammatory story about him. Umm…okay.

So, I called another distant cousin who lives in North Dakota. He, too, had known Uncle Oscar before his death but had never heard the prison story. However, he did tell me his mother had talked about how Uncle Oscar went missing for a few years and then just showed up one Thanksgiving with no explanation. He acted as though he’d never been gone. His wife, the long-suffering Mary Alice, claimed he had amnesia and just finally “woke up” and remembered where he lived. No one seemed to know where he was in the interim.

Having narrowed down a time frame (the 50s) with this second cousin, I started doing some digging. First I got a hold of my always helpful contact at the National Archives and Record Administration (NARA) in the Midwest office. Tim helped me brainstorm the prisons where someone committed a crime in Columbia would end up. We decided the Missouri State Penitentiary in Jefferson City was the likeliest candidate.

Any records still around from that prison at that time are now held by the Missouri State Archives. So my next step was to contact them. Lo and behold, Uncle Oscar’s name was found on a roster of inmates (sadly, most of the other records have been destroyed.)

It seems Oscar was sentenced to 10 years for armed robbery, but only served about 3 ½ years. He was incarcerated on March 17, 1955. He was discharged on parole on October 28, 1958 with plenty of time to get home for Thanksgiving dinner.

And then I did some more digging and found a newspaper article that explains the “amnesia” story:

Note Tells Wife Husband Slugged

KANSAS CITY, Aug. 10 (AP)

A motor car belonging to a missing Columbia, Mo., man was found here Thursday night shortly after his wife got a letter in which the writer said he forced the man out of his car and “kissed him with my .45.”

The missing man, Oscar [last name withheld], 43, widely known salesman and ex-semipro baseball player, disappeared June 26 when he left home on a routine business trip.

The letter, postmarked Portland, Or., was signed “a hitchhiker with a conshun. [sic]”

Filled with misspelled words, the typewritten letter was addressed to Mrs. O. F. [last name withheld], Hiway 73, Columbia, Mo.

The writer said he had hitched a ride with “your husban, [sic]” and forced him out of the car west of Boonville, Mo., at a bridge. The writer said he hit the man with a gun and the victim “fell down the bank into the water.”

“I want you to know I didn't kill him unless he droned [sic] in the water,” the letter said. It stated where the writer left the man’s car in Kansas City. The car was found there.

“Your husband begged me to write so I am tipewriting [sic] it to you,” the letter said, “This fills my promise to write.”

Uh huh. Right. This explains everything. I think somebody may have made this up, but that's just a cynical guess on my part.

Grandma Alice always said the reason Oscar robbed the S&L was to keep his wife in the standard to which she had grown accustomed before their marriage. He always felt inadequate and that he couldn't earn enough money on his garage mechanic salary.

Oscar died in 1996. I’m sure at some point in my childhood I probably ran into him at a family reunion, but I can’t conjure up any sort of memory of him at all. I know him only through pictures and this one particular tale. But it's a good one.

On the front of a ratty old notebook, scrawled on top of other random thoughts, is this admonishment written by my Grandma Alice, “NOTICE – HE WHO DOTH CARELESSLY DISCARD ANY OF MY MEMOIRS, I WILL SPIRITLY HANT [sic] THE HELL OUT OF THEM. I WILL PLAGUE THEIR DREAMS. PRESERVE THESE ARTICLES FOR THE FUTURE. He who concentrates [possibly consecrates, which doesn't really make sense either, but I get the picture], degrades this book in any way will be hanted [sic] by me spiritually. He or she who gets stuck taking care of this book better do a damn good job of it."

I can't decide whether to keep it or throw it away just to see if she'll make good on the the threat. I'd love to see her again. 

Three Good Things

Wackaloonytunes

Three Good Things

Years ago, I had a neighbor that drove me stark raving mad. Let's call her Betty, because that was her name, probably still is. Hopefully, I won’t ever find out. And I don't feel a bit bad about using her first name because you're not going to know her or figure out her last name, especially since I don't even remember it. So I’m not tremendously concerned about invading her privacy. Unfortunately, she didn't feel the same way about me.

Betty was a royal pain in my backside. She had this misguided notion that I was her best friend, even though I hardly knew her. She did an awful lot of assuming during those few years we were neighbors. Needless to say, our relationship suffered, had there actually been a relationship.

Most of our conversations started with Betty saying something like, “Hey, I’m going to leave my kids with you so I can…” or “Can I borrow…” or “I knew you wouldn’t mind, but…” or “I hope you didn't want that…”These things never ended well, for me anyway.

This woman drove me so crazy, I started altering my routine just so I wouldn't have to deal with her. I’d be out of the door before she was in the morning. I screened my calls. I hid my car. I started to feel like a fugitive in my own neighborhood.

And then one day, I realized that Betty was dominating my life. She was all I could think about it. Granted it was in that “plotting her demise” kind of way, but I figured such a negative obsession was probably pretty unhealthy.

So I struck up a bargain with myself. For every negative thought I had of Betty, I had to think five positive thoughts. What a stupid idea. I had no idea how hard that was going to be, but I needed to do something. I went to Plan B, which was to think three good thoughts about Betty. I know, I know. Not very creative, but it worked. I could usually come up with three things.

1.) She has really nice hair.

2.) She manages to hold a job.

3.) She was very resourceful, even if it’s with MY resources.

And even though I was more than a little relieved when Betty moved away, I actually benefited from having her as a neighbor. I still find at least three good things in every day, even the bad ones. But I’ve noticed the bad ones can be less bad if you search for the good stuff. 

Wacka-doodle-doo

Wacky, loony, zany, dynamic, larger-than-life - how do you describe that person who has a certain offbeat personality?

Recently, I was reintroduced to the word wackadoodle. It's a term I hadn't heard in years. I noted the reemergence on my Facebook page and someone added wackaloon to the comments as a variation. I thought, "That's a great name for a blog." So I nabbed it, tagged it, and posted it.

I was going to call this blog the Weekly Wackaloon, a homage to small town newspapers, but since the most consistent thing in my life is my inconsistency, I decided to just leave it at Wackaloon. I may update this blog daily or weekly or monthly. I may even toss something in here a couple times a day or it may lie dormant for a year. So don't be setting your watch by me, or you're going to be late.

If you're wondering what I'm going to write about, I guess you'll just have to come back and find out. But of one thing you can be sure, it'll be a little wacky and a little loony and a whole lot of random.

There is absolutely no doubt you'll find some misspellings, bad grammar, and typos here. Sometimes the words in my head come out my fingertips in such a rush, I don't dare go back and fix them or I'll lose my train of thought. Sometimes, I'm just being lazy. It happens and I probably know better, but I'm not okay with that.

So if you're still here, you might want to grab a cup of coffee and a doughnut. We may be here a while. I have a lot of stories to share.