Normally, I do not like the fall season. I see it as a prelude to what I call the Death of Winter. In winter, the lush and soft lawn-grass turns an ugly shade of brown, crunching under foot. The trees’ limbs, once green with oxygen giving leaves, are barren and absent the soft rustle of leaves from a summertime breeze. The colorful flowers in my landscape are gone and only a memory with the hope I am blessed to see their return next spring.
Those who know me well know that I have an expression I often use to explain why I do the things I want to do. I quip, “I am 66 years old. I have come to accept that I have fewer sunsets before me than I do sunrises behind me.” With that comment behind us, I wish to say, “I am looking forward to this year’s fall.”
You see, in less than a week, Ann and I will be leaving for the New England States. I have always wanted to see the blazing New England fall colors along the eastern seaboard and against a rising mountain. And if I am going to see them, I better go while I am able.
My favorite outdoors writer, Gene Hill, probably whetted my appetite to see the northeast. He once lived there and wrote of its natural beauty. He also told life-giving-imaginable tales of hunting in the fall and the winter. His telling of fly-fishing in a babbling stream made you hear the water.
I have seen photographs of the New England trees’ beautiful fall colors, both in wide angle and close-up. Such photos almost make you hear the falling leaves on a cool, quiet morn and taste the colors you see. And as I am an amateur photographer, I want my chance to take such photos.
I want to see the towns this nation’s settlers founded. I want to walk the streets they once walked. I want to pause at Plymouth Rock and imagine if I can hear the faded words of the Pilgrims when they first touched our shores.
Secretly, I am hoping for a light snowfall while we are there. It has to be one of those snows where it vanishes by mid-morning and the roads are merely wet. There is something indescribably calming about sitting outside in the morning’s quietude with my cup of steaming coffee. And snow is nature’s sound dampening blanket covering the earth that offers us the chance to hear sounds otherwise unheard would. That setting and my coffee seemingly places me that much closer to our God.
So, in closing, I have to retract my statement of disliking fall and admit that this year, I am anxiously awaiting its arrival. . . .in New England.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Saturday, August 8, 2009
I WISH
Not so very long ago, I wrote a story about myself for my children and my grandchildren. I told of my birth date and where I was born. I told about my mother and father. I related stories about my sister and our life as siblings. I told of my childhood, my best friends, and what I did for a living. I told them that I love each of them.
Last week was my 66th birthday. Or, as I like to say, it was the 45th anniversary of my 21st birthday. I tell many people that I now realize and accept that I have fewer sunsets before me than I do sunrises behind me. So, now I reflect.
I wish. . . I had spent more time with my mom when she was alive. My father and I had a better relationship when I was younger. I had, had the good sense to keep my mouth shut when I was angry. I had told my dad I loved him while he was alive. I had gone to visit my friends Joe Hall and “Snap” Currat while they were in the nursing home.
I wish. . . I had not bragged how good of shot I was the night before the pistol qualifications. I had not shot holes in my back door with sub-velocity shells. I could go on one more hunt with my dad. I had not sold all the guns I once owned. I had taught my children how to smell the rain, taste the snow, listen to corn grow.
I wish. . . I had listened when an older adult said, “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” I had told some young child, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I had listened when Ann said, “Stop and ask for directions.” I took that extra bicycle inner tube when Ann suggested it. I had checked the flashlight’s batteries the day before the power outage. I wish I would have stayed with piano lessons.
I wish. . . I could have known my stillborn brother. I had not told my sister I would never go to Texas to visit her. I had not said hurtful things to my wife when I was angry or hurt. I had a photo of my first dog, Pumps. I had a chance to play one more game Mumblety Peg with Jim Downs. I wish I could ride in Ernie Salto’s old Ford. I wish Ernie Salto would have let me drive his brand new, Chevrolet, convertible, 409. I could take one more ride in my first car, a 1955 Buick, Century.
I wish. . . I could hide one more time in Howard Watson’s Barn. I could eat a hamburger at Ida Mae’s. I could play one more pin ball game and drink a chocolate Pepsi at Ashman’s Drug Store. I could talk to J.D. Slayden as I entered the Sparta Theater. I could thank Mr. Henry Mitze, my Economics teacher and my Uncle Bob Morris for instilling faith in me. I had studied harder in high school. I had completed college.
I wish. . . I could go with my dad one more time and cut down our Christmas tree. I could smell the scent of fir in our front room. I could get as excited over the Holidays as I did when I was a child. I could eat New Years Eve dinner with Jeff and Donna Alms forever. Have the annual Friends Dinner until. . . I had studied the Holy Bible a lot more than I did.
I wish. . . I could talk and understand my most devoted friend, Sasha, a Shih Tzu. She could understand me, especially when I say, Down!” I wish I could hunt one more time with Lady, Judy and Ringo. Thunder could be around to chase one more rabbit, even though he was deaf.
This wish list could go on and on and on. But as we know, wishes never come true. At least not all the time.
Last week was my 66th birthday. Or, as I like to say, it was the 45th anniversary of my 21st birthday. I tell many people that I now realize and accept that I have fewer sunsets before me than I do sunrises behind me. So, now I reflect.
I wish. . . I had spent more time with my mom when she was alive. My father and I had a better relationship when I was younger. I had, had the good sense to keep my mouth shut when I was angry. I had told my dad I loved him while he was alive. I had gone to visit my friends Joe Hall and “Snap” Currat while they were in the nursing home.
I wish. . . I had not bragged how good of shot I was the night before the pistol qualifications. I had not shot holes in my back door with sub-velocity shells. I could go on one more hunt with my dad. I had not sold all the guns I once owned. I had taught my children how to smell the rain, taste the snow, listen to corn grow.
I wish. . . I had listened when an older adult said, “I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” I had told some young child, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” I had listened when Ann said, “Stop and ask for directions.” I took that extra bicycle inner tube when Ann suggested it. I had checked the flashlight’s batteries the day before the power outage. I wish I would have stayed with piano lessons.
I wish. . . I could have known my stillborn brother. I had not told my sister I would never go to Texas to visit her. I had not said hurtful things to my wife when I was angry or hurt. I had a photo of my first dog, Pumps. I had a chance to play one more game Mumblety Peg with Jim Downs. I wish I could ride in Ernie Salto’s old Ford. I wish Ernie Salto would have let me drive his brand new, Chevrolet, convertible, 409. I could take one more ride in my first car, a 1955 Buick, Century.
I wish. . . I could hide one more time in Howard Watson’s Barn. I could eat a hamburger at Ida Mae’s. I could play one more pin ball game and drink a chocolate Pepsi at Ashman’s Drug Store. I could talk to J.D. Slayden as I entered the Sparta Theater. I could thank Mr. Henry Mitze, my Economics teacher and my Uncle Bob Morris for instilling faith in me. I had studied harder in high school. I had completed college.
I wish. . . I could go with my dad one more time and cut down our Christmas tree. I could smell the scent of fir in our front room. I could get as excited over the Holidays as I did when I was a child. I could eat New Years Eve dinner with Jeff and Donna Alms forever. Have the annual Friends Dinner until. . . I had studied the Holy Bible a lot more than I did.
I wish. . . I could talk and understand my most devoted friend, Sasha, a Shih Tzu. She could understand me, especially when I say, Down!” I wish I could hunt one more time with Lady, Judy and Ringo. Thunder could be around to chase one more rabbit, even though he was deaf.
This wish list could go on and on and on. But as we know, wishes never come true. At least not all the time.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Road Signs
As Ann and I travel along the highways and by-ways of the United States, I enjoy reading signs. Sometimes they provide humorous enjoyment.
For example, do the people in Rake, Iowa really spend all their time raking?
Are the grounds surrounding Fertile, Iowa fertile? Or could it be the women of that community are fertile. I guess the steady or the growing population numbers on the population sign can answer that question.
And how did Buffalo Center, Iowa come to get its name? Was it once the center of all the herds in the United States?
One Saturday we drove through Forest City, Iowa looking for a church to attend the next day. We could not locate a church belonging to the Lutheran Church – Missouri Synod (LCMS). We found several Lutheran churches associated with the Wisconsin Evangelical Synod, the Evangelical Church of America and the American Association of Lutheran Churches.
I was amused when we found the Free Lutheran Church. Hm, I had no idea others charged a fee. Oh wait. Maybe that is why we have the collection plate passed around. Maybe the Free Lutheran Church does not take collections.
As we started our return trip to home, I saw a sign just south of Clear Lake, Iowa. It read “Regular Baptist Church Camp.” My first thought was, “Is there an Irregular Baptist Church Camp?
I am certain that as you drive the roads in this country, you see amusing signs, too.
For example, do the people in Rake, Iowa really spend all their time raking?
Are the grounds surrounding Fertile, Iowa fertile? Or could it be the women of that community are fertile. I guess the steady or the growing population numbers on the population sign can answer that question.
And how did Buffalo Center, Iowa come to get its name? Was it once the center of all the herds in the United States?
One Saturday we drove through Forest City, Iowa looking for a church to attend the next day. We could not locate a church belonging to the Lutheran Church – Missouri Synod (LCMS). We found several Lutheran churches associated with the Wisconsin Evangelical Synod, the Evangelical Church of America and the American Association of Lutheran Churches.
I was amused when we found the Free Lutheran Church. Hm, I had no idea others charged a fee. Oh wait. Maybe that is why we have the collection plate passed around. Maybe the Free Lutheran Church does not take collections.
As we started our return trip to home, I saw a sign just south of Clear Lake, Iowa. It read “Regular Baptist Church Camp.” My first thought was, “Is there an Irregular Baptist Church Camp?
I am certain that as you drive the roads in this country, you see amusing signs, too.
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
A TIRING STORY
As I sit in the KOA in Rochester, Minnesota, I cannot help but mull over this tiring trip.
Before we embarked on our annual July trek, we ordered six new tires for our motorhome. They should arrive at the dealer about the time we return home. Since we are committed to purchasing six tires from the dealer, we hope there are no problems with the tires while we motor across Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota and Iowa.
That may or may not occur. As you will discover in reading this tiring story.
Yesterday we rode the final leg of the Sparta to Elroy Bicycle Trail in Wisconsin. About four miles north of Elroy, Ann’s rear bicycle tire blew out. Not only was there a hole in the inner tube, there was a hole in the tire. Walking was our only alternative mode of transportation. We walked our bicycles in the baking sun along a very dusty trail to Elroy, where we were told a repair shop awaited us.
Upon arriving in the less than thriving and micro-miniscule metropolis of Elroy, we discovered there was no bicycle repair shop. Ann, for reasons still unknown to me, chose to ride my bike back to the campsite near Wilton, about 10 ½ miles. I sat and visited with a pathologist I never knew before and still do not know. He, like me, was stranded in Elroy, a community I now believe to be steeped in boredom.
When Ann returned with the van, we drove 30 miles to Sparta and had her rear tire repaired. Later, we decided to have all four bicycles inner tubes replaced with a new and sturdier inner tube.
More tires now purchased.
With that ordeal behind us, we returned to our motorhome and enjoyed a peaceful evening before pulling out for Rochester, Minnesota.
Our leaving Wilton, Wisconsin was without incident. The trip along Wisconsin Route 131 was very scenic. And the ride on I-90 was smooth. But, I was starting to get hungry and asked Ann where the next rest area was located. She checked the map and advised it was a mere few minutes ahead.
We exited the interstate and drove into the rest area’s place marked for RV’s and trucks. Upon coming to a stop, I snapped a leash on Sasha for her bathroom break before our lunch. Ann opened the motorhome’s door and immediately said, “I smell rubber.”
We both walked to the back of the motorhome and saw smoke slowly rising from the front tires of our mini van. The once silver wheels were now a nice golden color. My plastic hubcaps slowly melted and ran down the side of the tires, reminiscent of molasses on a cool morning. The plastic valve stem caps were now nothing more than a black line dripping down my rims. One tire had a bulge and finally blew with a slow hiss of air escaping, as if to say, “Whew.” (I guess it was tired.)
We used our emergency road service to obtain a tow truck. Therefore, as I write this, our van is located about 100 miles from us. The shop cannot get to it until this Thursday.
I know we will need new brakes, new rotors and new tires. I can only hope that is all that I need. But, who knows as the shop owner said he can easily replace those items. The trouble will be trying to find why this happened.
With that, there is another tire to this story.
After we arrive in Forest City, Iowa we will need to rent a car and drive about 175 miles back to West Salem to retrieve our van.
That is why I chose to call this “A Tiring Story.”
Before we embarked on our annual July trek, we ordered six new tires for our motorhome. They should arrive at the dealer about the time we return home. Since we are committed to purchasing six tires from the dealer, we hope there are no problems with the tires while we motor across Illinois, Wisconsin, Minnesota and Iowa.
That may or may not occur. As you will discover in reading this tiring story.
Yesterday we rode the final leg of the Sparta to Elroy Bicycle Trail in Wisconsin. About four miles north of Elroy, Ann’s rear bicycle tire blew out. Not only was there a hole in the inner tube, there was a hole in the tire. Walking was our only alternative mode of transportation. We walked our bicycles in the baking sun along a very dusty trail to Elroy, where we were told a repair shop awaited us.
Upon arriving in the less than thriving and micro-miniscule metropolis of Elroy, we discovered there was no bicycle repair shop. Ann, for reasons still unknown to me, chose to ride my bike back to the campsite near Wilton, about 10 ½ miles. I sat and visited with a pathologist I never knew before and still do not know. He, like me, was stranded in Elroy, a community I now believe to be steeped in boredom.
When Ann returned with the van, we drove 30 miles to Sparta and had her rear tire repaired. Later, we decided to have all four bicycles inner tubes replaced with a new and sturdier inner tube.
More tires now purchased.
With that ordeal behind us, we returned to our motorhome and enjoyed a peaceful evening before pulling out for Rochester, Minnesota.
Our leaving Wilton, Wisconsin was without incident. The trip along Wisconsin Route 131 was very scenic. And the ride on I-90 was smooth. But, I was starting to get hungry and asked Ann where the next rest area was located. She checked the map and advised it was a mere few minutes ahead.
We exited the interstate and drove into the rest area’s place marked for RV’s and trucks. Upon coming to a stop, I snapped a leash on Sasha for her bathroom break before our lunch. Ann opened the motorhome’s door and immediately said, “I smell rubber.”
We both walked to the back of the motorhome and saw smoke slowly rising from the front tires of our mini van. The once silver wheels were now a nice golden color. My plastic hubcaps slowly melted and ran down the side of the tires, reminiscent of molasses on a cool morning. The plastic valve stem caps were now nothing more than a black line dripping down my rims. One tire had a bulge and finally blew with a slow hiss of air escaping, as if to say, “Whew.” (I guess it was tired.)
We used our emergency road service to obtain a tow truck. Therefore, as I write this, our van is located about 100 miles from us. The shop cannot get to it until this Thursday.
I know we will need new brakes, new rotors and new tires. I can only hope that is all that I need. But, who knows as the shop owner said he can easily replace those items. The trouble will be trying to find why this happened.
With that, there is another tire to this story.
After we arrive in Forest City, Iowa we will need to rent a car and drive about 175 miles back to West Salem to retrieve our van.
That is why I chose to call this “A Tiring Story.”
Thursday, April 9, 2009
IS IT TIME FOR NATURAL SELECTION TO OCCUR?
Very often we get e-Mails about when we were kids. It speaks of us sleeping in cribs with lead based paints. It tells of us riding bicycles without helmets. It even tells about summer evening rides in the back of a pick up truck. And it notes, “We survived.”
Governmental agencies have stepped forth to help us raise children in a safer environment. One example that comes to mind is that cords on blinds must be shorter. No lead based paints on toys. They ban toys with small parts that could be swallowed. They stop the sales of furniture that couls cause harm and death. And the list goes on.
This is not all bad. Their intentions are good.
But I bring this to note because yesterday I heard on the news where the government is banning the sale of certain China-made, off-road motorbikes and off road four wheelers because the tires’ valve stems and the gears of these vehicles have lead in them. And if a child licks the gears or sucks on the valve stems, they could get lead poisoning.
Maybe our government agencies have become too aggressive in their safeguarding of children. If children are licking the gears of motorcycles and off-road vehicles, maybe it’s time we let natural selection occur.
I guess that sounds rather insensitive, but . . .
Oh well, common sense died a long time ago.
Governmental agencies have stepped forth to help us raise children in a safer environment. One example that comes to mind is that cords on blinds must be shorter. No lead based paints on toys. They ban toys with small parts that could be swallowed. They stop the sales of furniture that couls cause harm and death. And the list goes on.
This is not all bad. Their intentions are good.
But I bring this to note because yesterday I heard on the news where the government is banning the sale of certain China-made, off-road motorbikes and off road four wheelers because the tires’ valve stems and the gears of these vehicles have lead in them. And if a child licks the gears or sucks on the valve stems, they could get lead poisoning.
Maybe our government agencies have become too aggressive in their safeguarding of children. If children are licking the gears of motorcycles and off-road vehicles, maybe it’s time we let natural selection occur.
I guess that sounds rather insensitive, but . . .
Oh well, common sense died a long time ago.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
No More Newsprint?
Forty-some years ago I worked in what was called the preparatory department of the world’s largest producer of newsstand materials. Locally, it was known as the Comic Book Factory.
It was my task to make sure the final product met the publishers’ standards and expectations. Today, my job would be called quality control.
In the preparatory department, I had a desk in a corner of one of the rooms. There I would read, look at, compare - - or whatever you want to call it - - the submitted artwork against the rough copy of the magazine then the corrected draft against the first product that came off the printing press. My colleagues and I usually drank a cup of coffee while we performed our jobs.
I can only presume that somehow the ink from the magazines was absorbed through my skin and blended with the coffee I ingested. I come to this deduction because I cannot read a newspaper without having a cup of coffee.
There must be some secret ingredient in the newsprint that enhances the taste of coffee. Or maybe it’s the other way around; I do not know.
I look forward to arising, retrieving my daily paper, and then settling in a corner of the couch with my coffee at my side while I read the news of the day. It is as much a part of life as is bacon and eggs.
Sadly, this daily routine and indulgence may come to an end, and in the not too distant future. I read with alarm the number of newspapers that are going out of business, reducing publication days, or filing for protection through bankruptcy.
What happened? What went wrong? Is it the Internet? Is it the economy? Is it a loss of interest in current events?
“Dead! That’s what John Doe was at 7:15 PM last evening when police found his bullet riddled body at 12th & Locust.” Our minds seem happy with that bare amount of information. Either we do not care about the details or we do not want to take time to discover the details. We want things instantaneously, just give us the bare facts, like in the opening part of this paragraph.
Recently a local daily, The Southern, reduced its paper size to save on costs. The Lions of Illinois state magazine has reduced its publication to 32 pages because of the economy. The Chicago Tribune is in financial trouble. The Ann Arbor, Michigan newspaper will now be solely published on the Internet. Dallas, Texas may lose its daily paper. Some metropolitan dailies are contemplating every-other-day deliveries.
I do not know about you, but reading news items on the Internet while drinking my morning coffee just will not mesh. Besides, have we not been warned to keep liquids away from our computers?
Come on, America. It’s time to start reading. Relearn how to hold a newspaper in your hands. Look for the details in the story so you will be more knowledgeable. Savor the essence of newsprint mingled with the aroma of coffee.
Besides, if we do away with the newspaper, where will the dog potty? How can you wrap a fish in a computer screen? Can you line the litter box with printed pages from your computer’s printer?
It was my task to make sure the final product met the publishers’ standards and expectations. Today, my job would be called quality control.
In the preparatory department, I had a desk in a corner of one of the rooms. There I would read, look at, compare - - or whatever you want to call it - - the submitted artwork against the rough copy of the magazine then the corrected draft against the first product that came off the printing press. My colleagues and I usually drank a cup of coffee while we performed our jobs.
I can only presume that somehow the ink from the magazines was absorbed through my skin and blended with the coffee I ingested. I come to this deduction because I cannot read a newspaper without having a cup of coffee.
There must be some secret ingredient in the newsprint that enhances the taste of coffee. Or maybe it’s the other way around; I do not know.
I look forward to arising, retrieving my daily paper, and then settling in a corner of the couch with my coffee at my side while I read the news of the day. It is as much a part of life as is bacon and eggs.
Sadly, this daily routine and indulgence may come to an end, and in the not too distant future. I read with alarm the number of newspapers that are going out of business, reducing publication days, or filing for protection through bankruptcy.
What happened? What went wrong? Is it the Internet? Is it the economy? Is it a loss of interest in current events?
“Dead! That’s what John Doe was at 7:15 PM last evening when police found his bullet riddled body at 12th & Locust.” Our minds seem happy with that bare amount of information. Either we do not care about the details or we do not want to take time to discover the details. We want things instantaneously, just give us the bare facts, like in the opening part of this paragraph.
Recently a local daily, The Southern, reduced its paper size to save on costs. The Lions of Illinois state magazine has reduced its publication to 32 pages because of the economy. The Chicago Tribune is in financial trouble. The Ann Arbor, Michigan newspaper will now be solely published on the Internet. Dallas, Texas may lose its daily paper. Some metropolitan dailies are contemplating every-other-day deliveries.
I do not know about you, but reading news items on the Internet while drinking my morning coffee just will not mesh. Besides, have we not been warned to keep liquids away from our computers?
Come on, America. It’s time to start reading. Relearn how to hold a newspaper in your hands. Look for the details in the story so you will be more knowledgeable. Savor the essence of newsprint mingled with the aroma of coffee.
Besides, if we do away with the newspaper, where will the dog potty? How can you wrap a fish in a computer screen? Can you line the litter box with printed pages from your computer’s printer?
Saturday, February 28, 2009
You know, sometimes I think companies do things just to set up an experiment in human exasperation.
Why do I make such a statement?
Friday, February 13, 2009 I received a call from a firm asking for my authorization to place $8,000 worth of commercial water pumps on my credit card. Since I had never heard of such a firm, and I had not placed an order for commercial water pumps, I knew my credit card had been compromised.
A phone call to my credit card company confirmed it with some other unauthorized purchases placed on the card. Immediately, my card was cancelled.
When my new credit card arrived, I had to notify certain companies the card number they presently have on file was no longer valid. I did this by Internet as they were set up on the Net and are automatic payments placed on my card.
The first place I visited was Dish Network. I went into my profile and changed my card number. At least I tried.
The site said I had to pay my monthly local stations fee before I could make any changes to my credit card. The number displayed on my computer screen was the old card number. I tried to change to the new number.
I could not pay the fee with my new card because I had to pay the fee before I could add the new card. Finally, after several attempts, I paid the fee with my cancelled card number. Then, and only then, was I allowed to change my credit card number.
I had satisfied the system.
About two hours later my phone rang. It was a prerecorded message from Dish Network advising me my account was about to be closed because I had paid my bill with an invalid credit card.
Arrrgh!
I then placed a phone call to the toll free number for Dish Network and immediately was connected to an automated, voice recognition-answering device. I do not like such devices. I wanted to speak with a human. Thus, every time the phone system asked a question, I answered “Bananas.” Finally, the device said it did not recognize what I was saying and connected me with a human.
Once I was connected to a person, I told her of the quirk in their system and of my exasperation with Dish Network. She then checked my account and said the system showed I was paid-in-full and the new credit card number was the one the system was using. The woman apologized for any inconvenience I was caused.
I guess all has been satisfied as I am still receiving Dish Network programming.
Computers are great, sometimes. Then, again, maybe companies just do these things to see how humans act under stress.
Why do I make such a statement?
Friday, February 13, 2009 I received a call from a firm asking for my authorization to place $8,000 worth of commercial water pumps on my credit card. Since I had never heard of such a firm, and I had not placed an order for commercial water pumps, I knew my credit card had been compromised.
A phone call to my credit card company confirmed it with some other unauthorized purchases placed on the card. Immediately, my card was cancelled.
When my new credit card arrived, I had to notify certain companies the card number they presently have on file was no longer valid. I did this by Internet as they were set up on the Net and are automatic payments placed on my card.
The first place I visited was Dish Network. I went into my profile and changed my card number. At least I tried.
The site said I had to pay my monthly local stations fee before I could make any changes to my credit card. The number displayed on my computer screen was the old card number. I tried to change to the new number.
I could not pay the fee with my new card because I had to pay the fee before I could add the new card. Finally, after several attempts, I paid the fee with my cancelled card number. Then, and only then, was I allowed to change my credit card number.
I had satisfied the system.
About two hours later my phone rang. It was a prerecorded message from Dish Network advising me my account was about to be closed because I had paid my bill with an invalid credit card.
Arrrgh!
I then placed a phone call to the toll free number for Dish Network and immediately was connected to an automated, voice recognition-answering device. I do not like such devices. I wanted to speak with a human. Thus, every time the phone system asked a question, I answered “Bananas.” Finally, the device said it did not recognize what I was saying and connected me with a human.
Once I was connected to a person, I told her of the quirk in their system and of my exasperation with Dish Network. She then checked my account and said the system showed I was paid-in-full and the new credit card number was the one the system was using. The woman apologized for any inconvenience I was caused.
I guess all has been satisfied as I am still receiving Dish Network programming.
Computers are great, sometimes. Then, again, maybe companies just do these things to see how humans act under stress.
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