Texas State Democratic Convention

Just wrapped up a weekend of acting as a delegate from Brazos County, Senate District 5, to the Texas State Democratic Convention. The take-home message: the Democratic Party is is the party of persons with both heart and mind, as summarized in two t-shirt messages--

t-shirt: "I am a Democrat. End of discussion. See back of shirt." The back of the shirt listed public programs from Social Security through Family Medical and Leave Act, and just about every compassionate social program between.
t-shirt: "I think; therefore I am a Democrat:

Although the process of democracy is cumbersome, my faith in the positive outcome is renewed. The conference brought me to tears so many times: when military veterans among the delegates were recognized, service by service, by the Corpus Christi Veteran Band.

Chamber Music Institute

Summers mean the start of the wonderful Marian Anderson String Quartet Chamber Music Institute, a summer camp for string and piano musicians of all ages and abilities. Individual students and chamber groups are coached by the members of this world-class quartet. But since it is a music camp  there is contra dancing with live music, a performance by a local jazz trio,  a master class, cultural potluck dinner with talent show, theatre workshop, and, of course, a Texas-style barbeque. Historically, students' ages have ranged from 7 to better than 70, all held togehte with the glue of a love of classical music.

The City of Bryan is truly fortunate that The Marian Anderson String Quartet has chosen to make this city their home. They have been quartet or ensemble in residence at the City College of New York and four other universities before starting a eight-year-long artist-in-residence program at Texas A&M University.

Not only does the quartet undertake a demanding touring schedule, but they have made outreach to the community a great priority. The quartet performs in public locally at least eight times per year, and they hvae works tirelessly through the Sisyphian task of building the Chamber Music Institute from the ground up. The First Methodist Church allows the CMI to use its lovely facilities, including two commercial-grade kitchens and multiple practice rooms.

Although anyof the musicians could have made a successful career playing in a major symphony orchestra--for instance, the cellist played with the New York Philharmonic--they instead chose to devote their talents to bringing their music to small communities and people who might not have the opportunity every to hear live chamber music.

The Marian Anderson String Quartet is the gem in the crown of Bryan, Texas,

White on white

The drywall is finished. A big milestone passed. The house is wonderfully insulated. I'm ready to start painting. The drywall floating and sanding took much longer than I expected. Leandro and Robisel did a great job, but I need a break from the...activity.

Leandro and Robisel after a long day sanding drywall compound.

Leandro, the great and powerful.

I moved my bed into my bedroom temporarily. Note to self: sleeping in a minimalist room is restful. No clutter. No furniture to dust. No baskets of yarn--and I do love yarn--to trip over or get tangled in.

My living room now.

Lots of room to park my commuting bicycle in the empty living room.

Bryan/College Station received 4.5 inches of rain this past week. In Texas, we don't complain about rain until it floods, but for someone whose virtual kitchen is outdoors, wow! that was a lot of rain. Still and all, I'm really enjoying this outdoor kitchen, which has given me some ideas about fixing up some permanent outdoor kitchen when the interior is more or less complete.

My 35-year-old Svea 123 backpacking stove became, well, balky in a fiery way a few weeks ago. (Maybe because I used automotive gasoline instead of white gas?) This stove has given me many years of great service. I've carried it literally thousands of miles, first in a backpack, then in bicycle panniers. I expect with a good cleaning, the stove will continue to offer good service in the backcountry. But it is not practical for "regular" cooking. Anyone who has worked to achieve the perfect gas pressure in the Svea by lighting a pool of fuel in the small well around the burner knows what I'm talking about. Lighting the Svea was art and science born of years of experience.  And, any Svea user knows the jet engine-like noise during cooking and the blissful silence when cooking was done. My new two-burner propane car-camping stove is sinfully easy to light. Turn the knob and strike a match. And cook, silently.

Drywall, almost 3,000 pounds total

Who knew?

The drywall (sometimes called by its trade name, Sheetrock) in a 900-square-foot house, would weigh 3,000 pounds. More or less.


The great and powerful Leandro single-handedly tore out, by hand, all drywall from my house, save one wall, and piled it up in the right-of-way. Disposal of construction material is the responsibility of the homeowner.


When I realized my four-cylinder quarter-ton Nissan was not up to the job of hauling a trailer beefy enough to carry even part of this load, I hired the big guns, G&M Haulers, two entrepreneurial Aggies who founded a business specializing in moving Texas A&M University college students between apartment complexes.

Hauling construction debris? Not so much.

Being accommodating businessmen, as well as good sports,  though, Joe and Jose showed up on on the dot of 7:00 a.m. pulling an immaculate shiny black 16-foot enclosed trailer with their dualie (I refuse to spell it dually, the Texas preference) pickup truck. For any Yankees reading this post, a dualie (or dually, but to me, the -ly ending implies an adverb rather than a noun) refers to a larger pickup truck with dual rear wheels on each end of the axle.

Four of us shoved, racked, scooped, and swept drywall debris into the trailer. We then drove to the county landfill, weighed in, and were directed to "road" carved into the side of mountain of landfill debris. At the pinnacle of landfill mountain was an orange-vested man directing traffic, so busy was this place.

The scene at the top of the mountain was surreal. Enormous earth-moving equipment with wheels 8 feet in diameter driven by grim-faced men pushed garbage around. Trash clung heavily to the huge wheels. I recognized red net grapefruit bags and green twine and plastic garbage bags. As the four of us hauled and swept and carried, two legitimate city garbage trucks backed up on either side of us and dumped their loads. Just another day at the office for them.

Circling overhead and alighting--sometimes atop the heavy equipment and sometimes on retaining fences were members of a committee--what a terrific collective noun!--of about 50 vultures.

Business as usual at the county landfill.

But that was only the first wave of drywall.

For the second load a few weeks later, I took the drywall to the largest indoor recycling center in Texas, Brazos Valley Recycling, about 6 miles west of my home, and about four miles west of Texas A&M University. What an operation! An enormous set of corrugated metal green buildings not visible from the highway. Although I had driven past the road hundreds of times, I had no idea it was there. Adjacent to the recycling facility, a dozer operator had carved an epic canyon over the years by removing fill dirt and top soil. To my Southwestern sensibilities, the canyon had very much the look of the reddish steep-walled formations in northern Arizona or southern Utah.

The owner of the recycling facility offered to give me a tour! Oh, YEAH! The business recycles construction materials; all manner of wood, and all color-separated for use as mulch; even the handy 5-gallon plastic buckets, all crushed and baled; and broken concrete. Now that's some recycling I can get behind! I was as excited as a kid at Six Flags!

In case you are wondering, gypsum--one of two components in drywall, the other being paper--is used to harden and make impervious the beds of cattle tanks (ponds holding for cattle to drink). Gypsum is also good for lawns.

A visitor from a bicycle event 25 years ago.

A few months back, a woman with whom I share a mutual friend called to ask if she could leave her truck in my driveway while she was on a birding trip hiatus en route from her job in Big Bend National Park to a new job in Guadalupe River State Park. Of course!

Karen arrived in the thick of the drywall installation.

No water.

And even if there was water, no bathroom fixtures. No indoor plumbing.

House covered in drywall compound dust.

One functional jury-rigged light in the house.

She would have to sleep in the tiny wooden trailer.

No problem.

(Thank goodness she's a camping enthusiast.)

As we got to talking, I realized we had both been among a group of about nine or ten people who drove, 25 years ago, from Tucson to Mexicali, Baja California, to join 5,000 other bicyclists in riding 120 miles southward to San Felipe: the Mexicali–San Felipe ride sponsored by Monday International. A wonderful trip built on youthful enthusiasm, calloused bottoms, and strong quadriceps muscles. Great memories: a spectacular crash and road rash when I fell asleep on my bicycle and touched the wheel ahead in the paceline, a stop for roadside tacos at almost every house and stand on the return trip, a rural resort with delicious swimming pool the day after the ride, driving out on a concrete fishing pier to purchase diesel fuel for the return trip.

From an inauspicious start to a very satisfying conclusion. As it happened, the sag (support and gear, I think) driver I had engaged cancelled the morning we were supposed to leave. Determined to go and ride, instead of being pressed into rotating sag service, I decided to ask the first person I saw that morning in the ladies room: Anna, a coworker I hardly knew.

"Anna, would you like to take off an hour or two early to drive, late into the night and early morning, a rental car filled with five unknown persons, their gear, and bicycles through the barrens of the western Arizona and southeastern California and across the border? And the next day, would you then drive alone in the car with our gear, competing for space with 5,000 bicyclists and other sag vehicles and regular traffic on the narrow road  south on the Baja California peninsula for 120 miles? And, of course, you'll be sharing a motel room with all the other females on the trip. Then we'll spend an extra play day in San Felipe. We'll pay for your lodging, but that's all. How 'bout it?"

After 10 seconds of thought, trooper that she was, Anna agreed. After lunch, she returned to work packed and carrying maps of Arizona and the Baja Peninsula and ready to go. Anna was an expert driver. And she spoke Spanish, so she alone takes credit for asking directions and finding our first nights' lodging when we were hopelessly lost. She was the angel of the event. The memory of it all still makes me smile.

Thanks, Anna. Thanks, Karen.

Deconstruction

The foundation levelers have completed their task, leaving a plywood subfloor, a sump pump at the lowest point under my house, and a whole new demolition/reconstruction chapter in the life of my World War II-vintage house.

I knew some drywall and ceiling panels would have to be replaced. I did not realize only one wall of drywall would be spared. A very hard-working and conscientious worker, Jose, set upon tearing out everything else, including kitchen cabinets, stove hood, and most ceiling lights.

This pile of debris, not to be confused with the pile of debris of the previous post, is largely drywall and kitchen cabinets...from a 900-square-foot house.




More discarded drywall. I feel guilty sending so much solid waste to the landfill, especially today: Earth Day.


It was almost freaky seeing my house without its walls.



Surprise! No insulation in the south, west, and east walls.



Matilda, the cat, dispassionately surveys the scene. Vapor barrier on south wall was another surprise, this one good.



I sleep in this cozy teardrop trailer.

Foundation leveling: pier-and-beam

It's actually happening! My little pier-and-beam house is being leveled, a pretty major undertaking for this type of house, as I mentioned in house ache about 18 months ago. Over the years, the beams supporting the floor have deteriorated and perhaps the concrete piers shifted. Not only were there telltale cracks in the ceiling, but also a perceptible grade in walking front to back, and uneven floors in the kitchen and study.

My original idea was to salvage the gorgeous 60-year-old red oak floor, but after two workers pried off a few slats, I realized such as not to be. Mickey, a friend with a similar house, pried off and salvages his boards, but many of mine were too delicate.

A big surprise was the absence of a plywood subfloor. The hardwood was laid directly on the beams. Another big surprise was the 4- to 6-inches of standing water under the house after this rainy spring.

Anchor Foundation Repair, though, got after it. Within two minutes of arrival, they were pumping out water and sawing out boards.

I arrived home to find my living room like this. A large, powerful fan (yellow cylinder) dried out the spongy ground. The next day, the crew threw in pounds of lime to hasten the drying process. (Note still-intact dining room floor.)

Kitchen, with cabinets torn out.

The pile of rubble composed of what was the floor and some kitchen cabinets.

Some of the lumber to be used to rebuild the floor support.

Cats explore the new playground.

Some concrete bases to support piers.

Office theory

A few observations about office dynamics.

A nonfunctional or bad worker is a net negative, not a net zero, but a negative, a drain on office energy and efficiency and morale and spirit. Almost anyone who has worked in an office situation knows this routine. The nonfunctional person—slacker, malevolent, incompentent, attitude-negative, or simply cluless—is a pebble in the gearbox. We all know the person at whose desk the workflow grinds to a halt, and the unending frustration of trying to either induce the slacker to act or else racking one's brain to try to find a way around the roadblock. The consistent rude response to any question. Not only must the efficient people do their difficult jobs, but they are forced to expend time and energy on the frustrating task of devising workarounds to move work past this inert—or worse—roadblock.

The #2 person almost always does more work than the #1 person. This observation comes from a capable and innovative water systems chief engineer (the #2 person) who was much busier than his attention-seeking (and to my mind, clueless) water system manager. In any organizations, large and small, public and private, such is the case. The hard-working, compliant, behind-the-scenes person makes it happen, while the boss enjoys the accolades and marvels at his/her own efficiency.

It's not how capable you are, but rather how you present yourself. Persons blessed with a strong, self-confident, seemingly knowledgeable presence (the "baffle them with bulls--t" type) will always trump the competent nebbish-like grind. Knowing your business, is not nearly as important, appearing to be capable and in charge. Case in point: the business assistant for a user laboratory had a confident, easy-to-get-along-with demeanor, but had raised slacking to an art form. She arrives for work every day a half-hour late, and left for home 1.5 hours early. (Ostensibly, she worked through lunch, but according to my Aggie math, even with a working lunch, that is still 7 hours.) Said business assistant did not even know how to open Excel. Unbeknownst to her supervisor, I gave her a few basic pointers in the use of Microsoft Excel. Later, her supervisor exclaimed to me how impressed she was when this employee wowed her with the versatility of Excel. Diplomacy kept me from revealing the size theworker's tiny skill set and the fact that even that much was due to my instruction.

On the backs of others. The corollary to the self-confident slacker is that the fact that the more these people shirk and allow the workload to fall on others, the more efficient they appear to their supervisors. You know the type: the person who lets everything slide, confident in the knowledge that some conscientious grind will swoop in at the last minute and frantically get it all done, while the slacker soaks up the props.

Would you care for some freshly grated bizarre experience on your pasta?

Last night, a dear friend and I celebrated my birthday with dinner at my favorite restaurant, a downtown bistro with a trendy-funky decor, with the plaster randomly removed from the walls to reveal original brick. The bistro-esque blackboard listing specials was gone. New ownership, I'd heard.

The waitstaff were all wearing double-breasted chef’s coats. A unique touch. Or maybe a touch that portends something odd. As a former waitress, I'm not unaware of the meager interpersonal skills of cooks.

All previous visits to this place have proved outstanding dining experiences. This place is my first recommendation to tourists and to visitors to my academic department. The service is attentive and the contemporary cuisine outstanding.

Last night, not so much.

After we were seated, an apparently agitated waiter (or perhaps a repurposed cook) appeared and asked for our drink order and if we would like an appetizer. We both ordered coffee and demurred on the appetizer.

The menu had changed; many of my favorite dishes were gone. Prices had, understandably, all notched up at least a dollar or two, but no longer was the crisp dinner salad with house-made viniagrette included in the price of the entrée. Effectively, prices had increased $5 or $6  per patron.

The pasta dishes, which on previous experiences were write-home-able, this evening were far off the mediocre mark. My entree was described to be rich with sautéed roma tomatoes and with grated parmesan cheese. Instead, two cold, raw, unripe quarters of beefsteak tomatoes were plopped atop a paltry portion of basil-spiked angelhair. No freshly grated parmesan cheese was offered. My date's order was described in the menu as an alfredo penne dish with sautéed mushrooms, spinach, and chicken. A generous man, he gave me one of two tiny slivers of mushroom on the plate and ate the other. I could not discern any spinach.

Appearing again, the waiter “apologized” brutishly, “Sorry I could not serve you bread with your meal. We are out of bread. Really sorry that that happened. Your meal is supposed to be served with bread, but we can't serve any."

The bistro’s signature bread, he explained is just now (at 7:30 p.m.) being kneaded.

I asked if the bread would then have to go through a rising and a baking. The baking, he explained, would take seven minutes in a convection oven. I asked, mainly just weigh in with a reply and maybe alleviate some of his stress, “If we linger a bit, perhaps we might have some bread.”

Several times throughout the meal, although we were still actively engaged in dining, fork in midair, he asked to remove our plates, twice reaching out to grasp my date's plate. Finally, the pungent bread finally arrived, and we both nibbled a slice with the last of our coffee. Four minutes later, he gallumphed up and asked if he could  remove the still-warm bread.

Then things got bizarre. What, you thought it was already bizarre?

We asked for the check. And waited.

The waiter stomped up and apologized in his agitated manner that their computer system was down and could we wait until it was back up and running for the check. Okay, we’ll linger a bit more. (Having some experience with the computerized ordering and check-generating software at my previous job, I thought about offering my assistance.)

And waited some more.

A young man who appeared to be a manager or maitre d’ or at least someone wearing street clothes instead of a chef’s coat materialized with a handful of other people’s credit cards. He made the same apologies. My friend offered to pay with cash with handwritten tab, and he agreed.

At about this time, a professional-looking couple in their 40s, who had arrived after us, got up to leave. Somehow, I sensed they had not paid. I even noted which way they walked out in case someone had to chase them down. No theatrics ensued, so I forgot about it.

A young couple who arrived after us left.

The manager walked by us four or five more times, ignoring our signal for the check.

I stood and climbed into my coat and wool scarf; my date, returning from the men’s room, into his  heavy jacket.

Nothing.

We estimated the amount of the check, left the cash, and got out of there.

Bizarre. I would like to know the story behind the story on this one.

Sweet with the sour

Just an observation: the small anomaly, the contrast, makes life so much more interesting:

Chefs know that the taste of chile or coffee enhances that of chocolate. The flavor of fruit (or strawberry ice cream) is made sublime with a sprinkle of chile power, or even better, Tajin fruit seasoning (salsa en polvo),

Displayed at my former hair salon was a studio photo of the owner's then four-year-old grandson, respendent in a dazzling white suit...in stocking feet and sporting devil-may-care grin. His Mom was initially disappointed to have forgotten his shoes for the shoot, but the surprise of the stocking feet made the picture lively and highlights the personality of this all-boy little boy.

In the LBS (local bicycle shop), Sun 'n Spokes, in my former home town, Sierra Vista, Arizona, was a photos of female cyclist on her wedding day, posting, in her wedding gown and veil, with her mountain bike and iridescent shades.

The flower girl at the wedding in which I was maid of honor, walked delicately down the aisle, pelting friends and family with her rose petals. Long after the perfection of the wedding is forgotten, that impish flower girl will be remembered.

Of course, there are the living-large contrasts, such as the team in the Freeze Your Fanny organized bicycle event, each man wearing large sunglasses and enormous rainbow-hued wigs.