Randy Wray's Blog

It seems that models who pose nude (or as they say in Texas "nked") for art in Italy are one strike.

That’s what CNN says. 

Yes, they want more pay and better working conditions.

Don’t we all.

Maybe we should head up a delegation to visit Italy and check out the plight of these poor workers?

I mean, it is for the advancement of the Arts after all!

We hadn’t been in Arlington long when I began to look for firewood for the two fireplaces in the house.

A church member (a navy man who rotated in and out of Washington in between tours) living nearby mentioned that he had a great source of firewood just a couple of blocks away.

It was a cemetery.

They periodically cleared out trees to make more room to plant people.

It was block away from the church and our house.

The old man that lived on the property and owned the cemetery said he could come by and pick up firewood anytime.

It sounded perfect.

We met up at his house and drove my truck to the scene of the crime (and I don’t use that as a figure of speech).

We loaded up a truck bed full of dropped it off at our house and went back for round two.

In the middle of round two we were approached by a well-dressed man wanting to know what we were doing on private property, collecting wood that did not belong to us.

I looked at the navy man as he prepared to speak with the well-dressed man and witnessed a conversation that went something like this:

Navy Man – Oh, old man (NAME) said I could come over any time and pick up firewood.

Well-Dressed Man – (name) died two years ago – when did he tell you that you could come gather wood?

Navy Man – Let’s see, about 5 or 6 years ago.

Me – 5 or 6 years ago!  (Thinking to myself, that’s an important detail).

Well-Dressed Man – My mom (name’s wife) still lives here on the property and fortunately she called me and not the police.  She wants the wood kept for the family.

Navy Man – Do you want us to put the wood back?

Well-Dressed Man – No, just don’t come get anymore without her permission.

Navy Man – I’ll pick up a pie and take it to her.

Well-Dressed Man – I don’t think that will be necessary.

 The moral of this story (besides always go to Sunday school of course) is always, always ask better questions!

Some purchases (2 thousand dollars worth) were made at Walmart in Rhode Island this past Sunday on our debit card.

Anything sound odd about that last sentence?

Besides the fact that we were not in Rhode Island.

Besides the fact that I can’t imagine spending 2 thousand dollars at Walmart.

Yep, somebody swiped our card and sold the number to someone who’s been free spending.

Time to go buy a really large TV and claim it as a fraudulent purchase?

Yesterday afternoon we joined the chaos that is Costco on a Sunday afternoon.

Surrounded in the sea of people, mashed into the mess was a little girl.

She was about five or 6 years old, a Hispanic girl, speaking quite fluently in Spanish to her parents. 

In between speaking to her parents she was practicing her English.

Obviously a student of the Al Pacino Primer, she kept saying over and over and over again:

Are you kidding me?  You’re crazy!

Are you kidding me?  You’re crazy!

Are you kidding me?  You’re crazy!

Costco on a Sunday afternoon?  She’s probably right.

Born in 1918 she moved with her husband and her mother to Stockton, CA in 1930 from Oklahoma.

Yesterday, she was laid to rest beside her husband (who had passed away in 1960) and her mother (who had passed away in the late 1960’s).

I presided over the service for her in the presence of a handful of surviving family members. 

On the grave marker belonging to her mother there is no date of birth and no date of death.

She wanted no one to know how old she was. 

By the goodness of our friends we had a place to sleep last night instead of my office.

Though some days it seems it would be just as easy to sleep here.

Beth began the 5 coat polyurethane process yesterday (finishing at 3AM) so we are out of the house until Friday.

The good news is we’ll be able to officially move in this weekend.

For now, we are gypsies without tambourines and beads.

I’m not sure if it was because he was a product of the northwest or if it was just true of his generation, but my dad has ever been incapable of passing up the pursuit of firewood.

Each and every time I see a pile of wood in a yard or on the side of the road, without or without a FREE WOOD sign, I think something like:  "I wonder if my dad knows about this pile of wood?"

I think he could be one his way for any rather important event (catch a plane, hospital, funeral, etc.) and be tempted to stop along the way if he saw a pile of unclaimed firewood.

I remember many a trip into the woods for the pursuit of firewood, many a stacking session back at the house.

Armed with that background and formative experience it seemed only right to make taking out the tree in our backyard a family event.

We sawed, chopped, pulled, dragged, ran sorted and stacked for two and 1/2 days.  We’ve got cuts, scrapes, nicks and bruises as mementos of our battle against the tree.

Piled neatly along the back fence of our back 40 is a cord of firewood that should be ready to burn by next winter.

I wonder if my my dad knows about this pile of wood?

Here is the kitchen sink:

Under the supervision of Paul, the elder the sinks have been plumbed.

Yes, folks, we’re back in the land of running water.

Here is the island sink:

If a minister sets out to plumb two new sinks in his kitchen . . .

. . . how long will it take?

. . . how much will he spend?

. . . which commands will he violate?

. . . how many "careless words" will he mutter?

Shouldn’t we get a few comp bags of dog food for this picture?