Difficult Day Trip

While not an overly challenging time, in many ways good recent weeks, enough activities caught up with me to warrant a day to myself. My computer failed.  I took it to a local shop with long reputation.  They concluded that it had run out of memory, recommending a new computer with data from the dying one loaded onto it.  Like many, I've become dependent on my laptop.  The local public library has desktops for public use, so I can access the internet and use a flash drive for personal writing.  I did, but it was not really My Space where I do my best work.  The expected return date did not happen.  Lacking a convenient computer, I thought I might do some house upgrades and garden enjoyment.  My best herb pot underperformed, vegetables not thriving and flowers barely emerging.  Rain did not help.

Each summer I make two trips to the state's beaches.  If the rain lets up, I  committed to doing that.  A go from weather.com, a day off from my treadmill schedule, to which I have remained faithful.  I offered my wife a chance to share the luxury of warm sand.  She interpreted the weather report as hot sand but blazing sun, and too soon in the season for the water to lose its chill.  I went myself.

Two sand chairs in the trunk. Sunscreen SPF 30 applied to face by finger, sprayed elsewhere.  Canvas tote bag with my initial embroidered on the front and leather handles filled with all that I would need.  Room left over for my street clothes.

My home state of Delaware has beachfront assigned to three state parks, which I visit preferentially.  A shore runs for some twenty miles southward to the state line with Maryland.  All has public access to the sand, but not public access to facilities.  When my children were school age, like many families we would take a few days off from work, stay at a small hotel a few days, walk the five blocks to the beach each day, and enjoy the interesting town of Rehoboth Beach, dining at places different from what we would find at home.  Now state parks work better, as I have an unlimited Senior Pass that affords me entry and changing facilities.  I've been to all three.  The middle park seems the most developed, with two bathhouses in different stretches.  The southern park is most isolated but has the fewest parking spaces.  I've never been closed out, but had to drive around for a bit at mid-day, seeking somebody vacating their space to go to lunch.  

Sussex County, Delaware's southern county, has changed considerably over forty years.  It used to be a pleasant drive, nearly toll-free, over an iconic road that stretched almost the north-south dimension of the state.  The kids could look at farms and small business areas as we drive to our destination.  Very pleasant to get to and to be at.  Sea shell and t-shirt shops along the main street, little places to get breakfast in the morning and pizza for supper.  People would vacation from Baltimore and DC as well as Wilmington. A wooden boardwalk with a small amusement section just right for grade schoolers preparing for their pilgrimage to the grander Hersheypark or Disney.  Candy shop, ice cream places.  One single realtor dominated.  And a short drive, gave an afternoon at the Outlets, something less ubiquitous at the time, more bargains than now, and an escape from the rain when needed.  The world changed.  Those Federal Workers and lawyers from DC retired with pensions.  Vacation with families became relocation for healthy seniors.  Gays with substantial incomes and no college to save for found second homes and eventually retirement relocation.  And with new money came businesses providing places to spend it and maintain elegant residences.  The state built an expressway to connect its northern population center to the beach.  Now a drive clogs about two miles north of Lewes, the northernmost beach.  Every square cm of flat surface along the main thoroughfare now hosts places that year round residents need.  Lowes, WaWa for gas and snacks, supermarkets with the same names that we find at home. Restaurants are now big, whether parts of chains or independent places funded with private equity.  It's much like home, only farther away and with more traffic that does not let up until state land takes over south of the town of Dewey Beach, where families on vacation can still save up for a few days away.

To get to my chosen state park, I had to creep through the full milage of this economic growth.  I had plenty of gas.  I could use some lunch, not having eaten more than two cups of coffee at home and a small thermos more as I drove.  WaWa has become my roadside destination.  Hoagiefest week, $6 for a 10-inch customized roll.  And a reliable, if not always immaculate, men's room.  I pulled into the lot.  Checked email, called wife.  A few snags on my computer repair.  They needed passwords that I didn't know existed so they could load my Microsoft products from the dying computer to the new one.  I got my cheese hoagie, Swiss at the base, cheddar as the second cheese, some toppings, and some honey mustard.  As I ate half and a few bites of the second half, I dealt with computer care.  Once parked at the beach lot, they would send me a text allowing me to set a new password.  I drove the last few miles, over a bridge, then followed some not entirely single interpretation signs to the beach entrance.  I flashed my Senior Pass, waited for the attendant to nod, then drove to a distant but ample part of the lot.  I called the computer repair tech back, waited for the text message, read him the access number, then gave him the new password.  I wrote it down on a paper next to me, though I am likely to remember it as the one I use for sites that require a complex set of small letters, capital letters, numbers, and symbols.

Ready for the beach.  The walk to the changing lockers are upslope.  I had my tote and beach chair.  My wife interpreted the heat index correctly.  Still, I got changed into swim trunks and t-shirt, then took my time schlepping it all over the state's wooden boardwalk to the sand.  I found a vacant spot at just the right distance from the last tide mark.  After setting up the chair, I took out my cell phone.  The midday sun and intense brightness made reading it unrealistic.  I could not even see the numbers on the screen to enter the password.  I rested a few minutes, then tested the water.  It contained people, mostly kids.  Having lost one pair of glasses in the surf two years previously, I wore a backup pair, and left those at the chair.  It took about a minute to get to the water's edge and another minute to figure out that the ocean warms slowly as the summer progresses from June to August.  Still too cold on July 1.  

Back to my chair, basically unable to communicate, forgetting that for most of my life I could not communicate on a beach, I covered my head with a gray floppy hat, and sipped water from a very effective insulated bottle.  I knew I would not stay very long, maybe another half hour.  I set the time on my smart watch, which offered enough brightness to discern its numbers and settings.  At the appointed time, I put everything back ot the tote bag, folded the chair, and schlepped back to the locker room.  Once back in street clothes, I walked to the parking lot, put the chair in trunk and canvas bag in back seat.  I noticed a few things from the parking space not appreciated before.  At the end of the parking lot they have a pier.  I did not see a lot of fishermen.  They usually position themselves across the street on the other side of the suspension bridge near a series of rocks. I have fished there unsuccessfully once previously but remember the other anglers wishing me and others luck with hungry fish.

Destination two, the only winery in my state that I've not visited previously.  I had been to their tasting room much closer to my home.  Great experience.  Waze told me I had sixty miles to get there, 1.5 h driving, considerably longer than anticipated.  Delaware has two borders with Maryland, one that runs east-west and a longer one that runs north-south.  This town, which borders the two states, sharing the name Marydel, sits about halfway on the north-south line.  When I requested my GPS provide the route home from the winery, it was another 1.5 hours.  Visiting would take me about 30 miles out of my way from the route home.  I had enough time.

About half the distance covered the same route, including high traffic miles, that I would have taken anyway to get directly home.  Then it veered west.  I knew Delaware had its own agricultural presence, though a much smaller one than most other US states.  I've driven past much of it.  Poultry coops line the southern county which I drive past to get to Fenwick Island at our southeastern border or when my destination is the length of the Delmarva Peninsula to reach Virginia Beach.  I have much less familiarity with our northern agricultural areas.  However, two years of every three, I attend the State Fair which showcases my state's farmers.  The route took me through some decidedly rural scenery.  Some farmers apparently do very well, with impressive houses.  More have prefab housing, either converted mobile homes or prefab one story foundation homes.  There are schools, and an occasional child occupied a driveway or yard.  Numbered roads have businesses, typically places to eat something, though not very many familiar chains other than gas stations with convenience stores.  Roads with names rather than numbers only have isolated houses, fields, and some storage silos.  I found that part of the drive relaxing, though I had to keep glancing at the Waze map as turns to local roads came frequently.  While the vineyard may attract the most visitors that the town receives, no signs indicated directions, or even its presence.

I arrived.  They had a semipaved parking area.  I could see grape vines off to the side, though not many of them.  When I visited their tasting room in Pennsylvania, another location not obvious from the road, the superb attendant had given me some background of the vineyard, its town, its history, its transition from purchasing grapes from other vineyards to bottling more recent wines exclusively with grapes grown on its own property.  The winery shares its building with another enterprise of only minimal signage.  I don't know what they do there, and maybe they don't want me to know.  The right half of the building looked better maintained, with a banner at the door indicating open.  I entered.  To my left they had their bar.  Nobody was at the bar, but two groups of about three each sat at round tables in an adjacent room. 

The attendant came over, explaining their tasting policy.  For $15 I could choose four selections, two ounces each.  She confirmed that all grapes had been grown on their property.  Some of the wines had won awards.  I picked two of those.  In all, three reds and a white dessert wine.  She instructed me to take a seat at a table in the large adjacent room.  I chose one near the middle.  As she indicated at the bar, she brought my selections to me, then disappeared to her post.  Ordinarily, at wineries I prefer to remain at the tasting bar with the attendant.  While the wine is their product, information on how they make it, history of the vineyard, sweeteners, conversations about the area I am visiting are all part of the visit's experience.  I had been abandoned to taste what I wanted by myself.

A typical glass of wine ordered in a restaurant would be 5-6 oz. Most wineries that I visited in the past offer five one ounce samples, about the equivalent of a restaurant meal order.  Each portion sipped and swirled.  For a combination safety and experience, I did not want the full two ounces repeated four times, or 8 oz.  The attendant did not bring me rinsing water or little cracker palate cleansers.  Just four stemmed glasses with wine, each sitting on a disposable white paper strip with the name of the wine written in pen beneath each glass.  I drank about half of each red, the full glass of dessert wine.  That seemed enough.  I felt more processed than welcome.  I left with nothing else, not a bottle to take home, a logo glass, or a t-shirt from their small gift shop.

Waze set for home.  The winery sits on Delaware's westernmost road.  It was unclear which direction to turn on exiting the parking lot.  The GPS had me make another right at the next intersection, which brought me to a road marked Maryland and at the next intersection a gas station named State Line.  I turned right again, re-entering Delaware.  While I had only been in a trivial part of rural Maryland, that section appeared more unkempt than the properties on the Delaware side.  More rural roads, mostly named rather than numbered.  Towns that I had heard of but never visited.  Kenton, Hartly.  Recognized from the exhibit signs at the State Fair. Attractive towns from the roadway, though I don't quite understand how people make a secure living there if not themselves farmers.  A few more turns brought me to a much bigger place called Smyrna, which hosted the state's largest correctional center.  Within commuting distance of Kenton, Hartley, and even Marydel.  I assume some correctional workers, not lavishly salaried, would be willing to drive a bit to obtain lower-priced housing on a larger lot.  Numbered highway the rest of the way home, most full speed.  I had only been to Smyrna one time before, to the high school where my son participated in a math competition.  This part of the town looked quite different, less isolated than their HS property, with a number of small businesses.  Some served the surrounding agricultural areas.  Signs and GPS direct me to the highway.  I had entered north of the toll plaza, leaving only one bridge over the state's Canal to deduct a dollar from my EZ Pass transponder.  I arrived home with drizzle the final few minutes, finishing what was left of my Hoagiefest cheese hoagie while still approaching Smyrna.

It did not take long to put my tote bag on the kitchen floor, then stretch out horizontal on the living room sofa.  The day had been long.  Elements of the day's travel took their toll.  Beach time minimal.  Driving time a lot.  Phone with computer technician intrusive to what I thought would be a mini-vacation.  Traffic near the beach within my capacity coped without resentment.  Winery a great disappointment.

But like many of my travels, getting to the destinations offers more satisfaction than staying at the destinations.  Beach not a great outing, marred by traffic and oppressive peak midday sunshine.  I can avoid the traffic on future trips by going to the northern or southern state beach park. The hoagie was quite good, and a bargain at $6.  My thermos kept the water refrigerator cold for the entire day, finishing the water shortly before arriving at the winery.

As much as I admired the winery's peripheral tasting room nearer my home, the on-site experience left much to be desired.  I learned what I already knew.  The experience of visiting a winery for me involves much more than taste.  I insist on an interactive session, which is my usual encounter.  The attendant pours, tells me about my selection, tells me about the winery, the grapes that enabled what I sip.  Even the tastings at the big wine stores offer personal contact.  The wine should be served in a stem glass with enough room for a nose and enought clarity for a swirl.  The stores offer liquid, about 20 ml in a stemless plastic cup.  That's distinguishes a liquor store wanting to sell you a bottle from a winery taking pride in what they produce.  This time it fell short.

In exchange, though, I got to drive through parts of my home state that I've not visited before.  Pretty parts of the state, no crowds, no traffic, few traffic signals.  I learned that some farmers do quite well.  The schools I drove past were regional ones more than local ones, about the same building sizes as where my children attended, but probably much smaller classes and teachers willing to sacrifice salary for a better lifestyle away from the state's population centers.  The produce and the livestock displayed at the State Fair come from these farms.  I got to see them and understand why the State Fair has an entire pavilion devoted to its farms.  Yes, getting there sometimes overrides being there.

Trips Downstate

Have not yet left my home state of Delaware , one of America's smallest, on this year's day trips.  Its north-south dimension far exceeds its east-west dimension, but it only takes two hours to drive from the northern border where I live to the beach at the southeastern corner, which is what I did yesterday, a trans-state journey done about once a year for decades.  Between spring break from Osher Institute through summer's end, I ventured over much of Route 1 south four other times with four other destinations.  What differed this year are the routes calculated by a different GPS which directed me to places I've not yet seen.

My tenure in my home state predates the GPS and even it s current main thoroughfare by quite a lot of years.  Delaware has had a north-south road that essentially bisects the state since the early days of the automobile.  A parallel north-south road with slightly different route number came later, providing a second path for people headed to a different set of small towns, starting at about the state's midpoint.  Using maps from the gas stations, of blessed memory, when I wanted to go to my state's beaches I could follow our main traversing road, then south of our capital, veer eastward on another road to the resort towns.  If I wanted to continue on farther south on the eastern seaboard, I could take the parallel road through the rest of the state.  Either way, the road connected, maybe even created, small towns along the route.  From the car window there were farms, a few strip malls, some state facilities.

The GPS and the limited access highway each transformed the trip through my state in its own way.  The highway, with two nominal tolls, made the drive to the beach more direct and considerably faster.  The GPS, with algorithms that differ a bit between brands, or now apps, vary the paths once exiting from the main roads to reach the final destination.

This year I installed a new app to get me where I want to go, including downstate.  I've wanted to go fishing, to visit relatives from Florida who had rented a house for part of the summer in a historical though growing town, the State Fair which takes place at approximately my state's geographic center, and two beaches in two State Parks.  Five trips, predominantly highway or numbered state route until the final few miles.  This year my new GPS changed that final part of each route in a most gratifying way.

My intent this spring  had been to fish at the Indian River Inlet.  Usually other anglers cast their hopes in a small cluster.  I could not find them, nor could I see anyone to ask.  Instead, fishing plan B, the pier at Cape Henlopen State Park.  As it routed me back onto the Coastal Highway, I detoured into Rehoboth from the connecting road at Dewey Beach.  Past Silver Lake, surrounded by lovely homes, and apparently another fishing option that I could not access.  Driving along, I came to the town of Rehoboth where I've not been in some twenty years.  Still free parking in March.  Strolled along the sidewalks, sparsely populated but no longer truly seasonal.  Most stores open allowing a few chats with the salespeople about what had changed since my last visit.  Made it past the bandstand to the Boardwalk.  Beach treats available, Thrashers, Grotto, Candy Kitchen, though none on my agenda that morning.   Back to my parking spot, on to the fishing pier, shared with but a few anglers.  No bites for any of us.

Beach time in June.  Cape Henlopen State Park has a lot of different pathways once exiting Route 1.  GPS suggested one unfamiliar to me.  I stayed with the familiar.  However the following month, I had occasion to visit a relative from Florida, not seen in ten years.  She had rented a house within walking distance of Lewes' marina and downtown, across a drawbridge, scenic and interesting destinations in their own right.  It had been years since my last time there.  Exiting the Coastal Highway has several options.  The GPS took me along what I assume is the shortest.  Off at Nassau Road, past a defunct farmer's stand, onto what was once a rural connecting road that seemed less rural.  New housing developments at highway exit gave way to a set of newer communities with McMansions, though none with entry gates visible from the road.  Past a roundabout, and the traditional Lewes emerges.  Clapboard homes from another era, little commercial activity on New Road.  Then the Marina to the left, town to the right, and forced turn in either direction at the bridge.  The GPS took us to the rented house where I parked on the grass across the street, prepared to find a violation notice under my windshield wiper that did not happen despite the town's dependence on parking revenue in the summer for its solvency the rest of the year.  Schmoozed a bit in their living room, then walking tour of the town with its shops, post office, and a hotel of another era.  Lunch places anything but fast food, trendy menu with waitresses.  More walking afterwards along the marina, cut short by drizzle.

Ordinarily, my route to the State Fair in Harrington, which I attend on alternate years, has been entirely main roads.  Exit 97 after Dover AFB to connect to Route 13, then just follow along about a dozen miles of commercial activity, some old to support the farming heritage of the area, more the expected gas stations with minimarts, strip malls with a supermarket, pharmacies and eating places with signage of national recognition.  This year my new GPS had a preferred alternative.  It took me further south on Route 1, exiting me at Frederica instead.  Route 12 would eventually connect with Route 13 near the fairgrounds but bypass much of the commercial eyesores that now line the main road and the traffic that it generates.

This was a far more pleasant drive.  One Italian restaurant, one school, then farms.  Out of the blue, the ILC Dover complex, a center of research with NASA and industrial applications.  They have to pay the scientists and executives handsomely, which explains some of the rather elegant homes that lined the route nearby, but still largely farm.  I could even see the ears of corn emerging.

Last trip, Fenwick Island.  My GPS wanted to take me along Coastal Highway  the full duration.  However the road sign pointed to Route 113 as the preferred option for getting me to the southermost part of my state.  I drove off, expecting the GPS to eventually give up its demands that I make a U-Turn and adapt to its new reality.  I've driven this way before, two different GPS devices which exit me to the local roads in different ways, assuring that I will get lost among the unfamiliar.  Sometimes I will drive through small towns with their churches and volunteer fire departments, not staying on any road very long.  Occasionally, as the coast nears, the commercial area will generate a half mile of stop and go traffic.  This GPS exited me a little north, at Frankford.  Immediately I fell behind a semi negotiating itself into a tight parking lot that served as a Mountaire Poultry facility.  Then once I could move along, I drove the rest of the way behind a Jeep from British Columbia who in all likelihood did exactly what his GPS told him to do.  It was a Delaware scenery I had not encountered previously, or it did not imprint well if I did.  Chickens.  I know this industry brings revenue to our state.  The State Fair exhibits samples of the animals themselves and booths descibing this element of commercial agriculture.  It is not nearly the same as driving past rows of buildings appearing as elongated chalets. rectangular with A shaped roofs, and what appear to be giant shades covering the long sides.  I could see no animals, no entrances, no workers.  Between the coops were fields of corn.  I imagine the harvest will end up in the feed trays, not in my supermarket sales bin.  Amid the corn fields, and on the right side of the road were vast flat fields covered with some type of low vegetation.  No clue as to what grew there.  

I did not get lost this time.  Route 20 took a diagonal path through the appealing vistal of rural Omar, Roxanna, and Williamsville, none labelled by anything other than an occasional directional sign.  No post offices to announce the town.  An occasional place to eat or a stand to buy produce or the name of the farm at the entrance of what appeared to be a long driveway.  To my surprise, for the first time, my GPS bypassed Selbyville, the last major population cluster before intersecting the final road to Fenwick Island.  As I turned left to my destination, a mall with a supermarket appeared.  Then for the rest of the ride, vacation housing clustered far closer together than in the farm areas, and appearing far newer.  Boats piered on the water, restaurants, a few doctors, places to get ice cream, even minature golf as the final traffic light arrived.  Turn left to Fenwick Island, right to Ocean City.  I went left.  The GPS did not direct me to the park's entrance, rather to its street address.  But having been there before, I knew I had to drive a little further for my afternoon on the sand.

Having lived here over forty years, met virtually every statewide elected official at least once, raised a family, and have people remark on the relative rarity of my license plate when I visit distant cities, there are parts of the state that have eluded me.  I make it to the destinations, Wilmington, my workplaces, the synagogues, the medical facillities where I have both worked and lectured, including downstate.  And the beaches, the parks, and the Fair.  Even earned a promotional beer stein from the Delaware Wine and Ale Trail which took me to as far as Delmar.  What I've done poorly may have been paying attention to the journey.  Highways, or even major state routes with lined with stores, eating places, and gas stations can mislead.  I read about poultry, a factory that makes space suits, and irrigation frames that always seem dormant.  Farms grow green pepper and melons which I eat, but only see at the grocery, never in the field.  At the State Fair I admire livestock in pens.  It took the objectivity of my current GPS to divert me from the main roads, to see where the chickens live, where the crops grow, and to realize that not all top tier PhD holders work for the megacorporations or the university.  I'm much indebted to the GPS for forcing this better appreciation of where I live.

Visiting First State Park

Despite having lived in Delaware for forty years there are still some places I've not seen, even some very close to my house.  Our Senator thought every state should have a National Park, ours being the only state to lack one, so with some influence one was cobbled together over several sites.  Two are historical locations that I had visited, one a nature area that I hadn't.  But now I have.  It lies at the junction of Delaware and Pennsylvania, in an area known mostly for DuPont family estates but the road not previously travelled took me past some preserved farmland and a functioning dairy.  The park itself has signage but not much else.  For the benefit of visitors, the National Park Service provided a small parking area along a placid section of the Brandywine Creek near a picturesque covered bridge.  Some picnic tables and a grill or two stand near the northern bank.  I do not know what is near the southern bank or how to get there.  A few crude trails or quasi-trails offer access from the parking lot to the river, which I looked over.  I didn't see any fish but saw a hardy swimmer near the far bank.  Fishing is permitted with a Delaware license, from which my age exempts me, but not within 100 feet of a swimmer.  

To my great disappointment, there was also litter, despite this being a carry-out park and an alcohol prohibited one.  Pizza and beer make for a quick picnic.  There were no litter bags in any of the dispensers.

Didn't encounter any wildlife either.  Will have to return with my fishing rod, or even give fly fishing another go.

Unexpected Repairs

There is a reason why we retirement geezers find our fondness to our homes and communities fraying as we age.  In my home, I work at my desk and sit in my recliner next to the desk essentially daily, watch the big screen TV most days, though my interest has been waning.  I use about half the bedroom and the adjacent bathroom.  In the living room I recline on the couch.  Fleishig is eaten at the dining room table.  The Family Room has a nook for my treadmill, to which I have been faithful to a set schedule.  I do my laundry when it needs to be done, use the powder room when I am downstairs, and regard my upgraded kitchen as a destination.  Parts of the house that I don't use comprises a lot more floor space.  Could duplicate all with 2 bedroom condo, though a little tight with a mobile home.  Stuff not used goes to yard sale.  I'm not the first senior to think of this.  And then there is where.  I like where I am.  State of Delaware may need to rename itself from The First State to Conscience of America as our voting pattern was one of the few to reflect concern for Derech Eretz and kindness in a meaningful way.  But having driven through Trump pockets of three states this month, there is something appealing about their spread out nature with space between neighbors. Rhetoric about protecting us from those neighbors, or from the people like me from elsewhere has less appeal.

But changing housing and location by seniors also suggests that time to be Lord of the Manor has come and gone.  I have a nice yard, but it wouldn't be a nice yard without a lawn service.  I do the garden myself, never taking a disappointing harvest that could have been improved with better attentiveness as a personal failure.  But as my FB friends nudge themselves to city condos or planned 55+ communities, it seems less about space and more about divesting themselves of maintenance responsibilities.

Got an unexpected jolt of kitchen maintenance last night.  To manage a Kosher kitchen amid my interest in using the kitchen, I needed more easily accessible storage space than my cabinets had available.  Many years ago I found a pair of wire grids at a small department store, long since defunct, and installed them on a dominant wall.  Using S-hooks one became fleishig, the other milchig. It remained static and trouble free for decades.  When I remodelled the kitchen I took them down to enable new wallpaper, but the brackets back in the original holes and reattached the grids.  It took minutes.  Suddenly my wife comes upstairs late at night to inform me that the fleishig side had collapsed, scattering pots and pans everywhere.  On inspection, there was surprisingly little serious damage.  One of the screws holding the upper left bracket had dislodged.  I figured an easy repair, just insert a plastic anchor and screw the bracket back on.  However, the plastic anchor did not go into the hole evenly.  When I tried to hammer it in a little farther the bracket that held the grid snapped so I would need new brackets.  Finding one proved impossible, both at local big box and hardware stores and and online.  Instead I got a new set, one with premade drywall anchors and installed those, but in order to do that I had to hunt my basement for a drill and a 0.25 inch bit.  Not as easy as it looks but done and should be adequately secure.

And it's leaf time.  The bane of my existence in my young parent years.  Delegated in my empty nester years.  Need to clean gutters too.  Reputable contractor came, gave an estimate for about twice what I think it should cost.  Thanked him for coming by then got more estimates, settling on one from somebody we hire for other outdoor things for $200 less.  

And there is all that stuff that will one day find its way to a clean-out service which parcels some to an auctioneer for the estate sale, the rest to landfill, and the structure to a realtor, all to do what may have been better to do myself while I still had the vitality to do it.

The rack has been rehung.  Not exactly what it was before but serviceable.  There is some cleanup in its wake to restore the kitchen to its previous function.  Just need to set my timer to the estimated time needed and do it. 

The question of setting an endpoint for these responsibilities drifts along, to be reconsidered at the next event.

Our State Primary

My State Primary Ballot, registered Democrat, sits unopened on my kitchen table.  Some campaign literature has arrived.  Covid-19 prevents rallies but the candidates have allotted time for themselves on the phone to call candidates directly.  I've received three personal calls, answered two.  Only one race interests me, the state senate, held by an incumbent of long standing, who inherited the seat from her late husband who I am told was a prince of a fellow.  Though she is a Republican, she is not a Trumpanzee by any means, and stands for very little publicly beyond making sure the traffic lights in her district have all three colors and maybe some arrows.  We could do a lot worse.  The Democrats have three people vying for that seat.  One of them might be a lot worse and that one has the endorsement of my party's politicos.

Delaware elects mostly good people.  Scandals are few but not zero, abuses of position and threats to opposition have come mostly from Democrats, unlike nationally, and those have been few and largely corrected by the voters.  We have good people.  I've met most of them.

Much to my surprise, our Senator, Governor, and Insurance Commissioner, each competent and popular, have primary challenges.  So does my state representative sho I have gotten to know.  He's one of the state's electoral prizes, a man of competence, insight and energy.  Our US Congresswoman, another individual I greatly admire, has no opposition.  Neither does our County Executive, the son of a friend, who unlike his predecessor has no hint of misconduct.

So the only one to dispatch in November, other than the President of the US, is the State Senator, not that she is a bad person, she's not, but because her party demands some loyalty that could move this nice lady to not such a nice lady.  So I look at three individuals.  One I know personally, a likable fellow from synagogue, one of our Kohanim.  I knew nothing about him until his campaign literature arrived.  Apparently a retired teacher who now does tutoring professionally.  Have no idea what he taught or why he retired, as he seems a little younger than most retired teachers.  And like most people in my synagogue, he seems to stand for very little.  I guess I am for effective classrooms.  Have yet to meet a candidate who is opposed to effective classrooms.  I am for road maintenance.  Don't think anyone wants to have to replace a tire prematurely due to a pothole.  I am in favor of people being able to go to the doctor.  There you will find some opposed.  But he's for, just like me.  

The endorsed candidate I think will qualify as a prototypical Tax & Spend Libtard, as long as it is somebody else who pays.  Agree that the minimum wage increase is long overdue.  Don't agree that police funds should be diverted to preschool day care.  There's a fair amount of what strikes me as moral relativism in her statements.  She's not Jewish, but strikes me as one more sharp manipulative entitled lawyer who would become an opportunist Federation Operator if she were.  I won't vote for her in the Primary.  Will I vote for her in the General Election, as she is the party endorsed candidate?  As much as I want a blue wave, the lady who's there now is not dangerous and not objectionable.  This lady may be objectionable.

And then there's one that I actually found favorable from her campaign literature.  Retired police officer who works for a non-profit now.  One of those people who raised her family, stands for decency and equity,  Looks like she gets my vote, if only by default.

Will take my chances on a Mail Ballot on this one, dress up like King Arthur in armour to unseat the President.

Bank Campuses

While riding in the shuttle van after dropping my car for service, the driver took the first passenger to work at the JP Morgan Chase data processing campus.  I had never been there before though I pass it regularly.  A long driveway keeps it hidden from the road.  It reminded me of a college campus, several brick buildings with landscaping, an inviting silver colored sculpture at the entrace where the other fellow in the car departed, a hill with other buildings beyond our drop point, and a parking garage that blended architecturally with the other structures.  A very inviting place from the outside.  The passenger did not wear a tie, and other strollers looked like they did not work at bank headquarters but I do not really know if the working conditions inside are closer to those of a hi-tech haven or a modern sweat shop.  The exterior left me impressed.

It's been about 30 years since banks have come to Delaware in big way, initially because there was no state usury limit, but staying even when competitive interest rates have come down.  Some of these are more easily visible from the street, invariably landscaped, clean, with tasteful sculpture.  The kind of places you would trust with your money, or at least appreciate that the sometimes extortionist credit card interest rates supported architecture and art. 

Our legislators had insight.  The state's dominant chemical industry had a finite life, requiring some diversity of the workforce, an educated and talented one.  They did not piddle their efforts on lurid abortion bills or batter each other over Confederate statues, not then and not now.  They did not neglect the now, those roads or schools that everyone needs, but the elected officials of our state had and have a much loftier committment to what elevates its inhabitants than those Yayhoos of Old Dixie that depend on intimidating their opposition as their primary metric.  Chemistry would not survive forever and we dealt with that reality effectively.  Other places languish in the past, whether a church dominance in public affairs, subservient minority populations, a Civil War long since decided, or pre-automation manufacturing.  The world belongs to the visionaries and the amiables, as the JP Morgan Campus and our Legislative Hall which enabled it, so forcefully attests.