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Security

What WAS the matter with us???

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Ever have one of those reflective, memory-filled moments when you wonder…”Why didn’t I do this?” or “Why didn’t we do that?” Yeah…don’t we all, eh? This afternoon I’m haunted by one of…well, the most haunting such moments.

In the first chapter of our marriage, DXH and I lived in Phoenix’s downtown Encanto district, a quaint historic tract filled with beautiful old houses and, yes, lots of history.

Heh. It was filled with burglars and rapists, too: drawn by the affluent young people who thought a historic district was cool, and by their pretty wives (yes, in those days most young married women counted their occupation as “housewife”) who were were a sexy draw.

We lived next door to Mrs. Wilson: the widow of the city’s first city manager, a woman with some historic significance and a long, long-time resident of the central city.

Mrs. Wilson was scared.

But then, so were most of us. The Encanto district was richly populated with drug addicts, panhandlers, vagrants, burglars, and thieves. One never knew when any such worthy would come a-visiting. This fact alone was the main reason many of us lived with massive pet dogs: German shepherds, doberman pinschers, great Danes, and whatnot.

Well.

One morning Mrs. Wilson told me that she had gotten up in the night, walked out of her bedroom through the living room and into the kitchen…and on the way spotted some guy sleeping on her patio, right outside the living-room’s French doors.  

Holeeee sheee-ut!

What did she do?

Did she grab her pistol?

Nope.

Did she call the police?

Nope!

She retreated to her bedroom and cowered until sunrise.

No kidding.

What is the matter with people? All she had to do was lift the phone and dial our number. My husband would have gone right over and scared the midnight camper away. Or called the cops and sicced them on the guy.

Folks! This is why we have a  pistol. It’s why we have a German shepherd or a doberman. It’s why we have a FREAKIN’ PHONE!!!

Apparently it never entered her mind to pick up the phone in her hallway and call the police. Or us. Too terrorized, no doubt, to think.

No one would expect an 80-year-old woman to have a .45 at the ready. Okay, that makes sense. But she sure as Hell can have a telephone at the ready.

So can any of the rest of us.  

Whenever you’re home, ALWAYS HAVE A PHONE WITHIN EASY REACH. And know how to call emergency services. Most municipalities use 911; if yours doesn’t, you can dial the Operator and tell her what’s up, and where. She’ll call the cops for you.

This is easier now, with cell phones that don’t have to be plugged in. But it might be wise to have a land-line at hand, too…just in case.

The other thing we all need to do is think through what we’re going to do in this set of circumstances or that set of circumstances. 

What are you gonna do if you wake up and find someone creeping around your house? What are you gonna do if the house catches fire? What are you gonna do if you hear someone start up your car and drive it out of your carport?

And be prepared to make these maneuvers work. If you figure you’re going to grab a pistol, be sure that pistol is well lubricated, working, and loaded; and that you know how to use it. And that it’s kept out of the kiddies’ reach…  If you’re going to flee, have several escape routes in mind, and know how to get to them. If you imagine your dog is going to protect you, have your dog trained for the purpose.

Be set to go into action. Always. 

Staying Home; Getting Safe

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So as I advance into my dotage, I do worry — more and more — about falls or confusion or strokes or Gawd Knows What could happen while I’m here alone. Between you’n’me, I happen to know my son worries about this issue, too.

One way to address it, once and for all, is to sell your home and move into one of those horrible old-folkeries…uhm, retirement homes.

I regard that option with horror. First, because I abhor communal living — just HATE it. That’s not the way I want to spend the last few months or years of my life.

Second, because the expense of those places is hair-raising. Horrendous! Everything I could get from the sale of my present home would have to go to buying myself into a “life-care community.” That was the upshot, with my father.

Sorry. No. That money is my son’s. It ain’t goin’to your old-folkerie, friends!

It looks to me like there could be another option, if you think it through and you’re willing to devise your own system.

Have someone who calls you every day at a certain time. And, ideally, a paid person who comes into your house or calls you every day or two to check on you.

Also, bear in mind that in Arizona, any cell phone will dial 911 in an emergency. This is probably true just about anywhere in the U.S. and Canada.

Any cell phone. Any place. Any time.

So: step number 1 will be to get several cell phones, and keep them all charged up. And ALWAYS keep one with you…at all times. 

All times, all places: no exceptions.

So: if you slip and fall; if you have a heart attack; if the burglar is coming in the back door; if you rear-end the car in front of you; if whateverthefuck, within a matter of seconds you’ll be able to call for help.

This, obviously, would not significantly reduce the risk of falls or heart attacks or rampaging burglars or whatEVER. But it would allow you to call for help easily and fast.

So, with at least one emergency cell phone on you at all times — maybe also keep several around your property, so there would be one in the car, one in the bathroom, one in the kitchen, one out in the backyard…and so on — you would be able to call for help quickly and easily.

Next: set up your exterior entrances so emergency workers can easily find ways to get in. Keys will have to be NOT obvious to your pet burglars. But they must be placed in spots that you can quickly and easily describe over the phone, so a rescuer can find them.

With these and any other emergency amenities in place, now fix up the place so you can live comfortably and safely in it, with a minimum of hassle to yourself.

For example: grocery stores are now delivering. GET USED TO THAT. Learn how to use delivery services, and set them up now, not later. Then, if you get too sick to drive or your car craps out and you can’t afford to replace it or you just don’t feel like doing battle with a grocery store parking lot, you can simply call or email to get a week’s worth of fresh food delivered.

If you’re going to stay in a house (as opposed to an apartment, for example), be sure a trusted neighbor, relative, or friend can get in, should they realize you may be in distress. More than one person should have keys, your phone number, and your emergency contacts. Now, not later

In an apartment, make it possible and easy for management, family members, and trusted friends to get in. Arrange for someone to check on you  if they haven’t seen you for a few days.

So…hmmmm….  I think the key to staying in your own place as long as possible is collaboration and cooperation. It seems contradictory — stay independent by depending on others. But it’s the only logical strategy.

* Yes, you stay in your own place with your own keys and whatnot.

* But yes, you have at least a couple of friends or relatives who can get into your place, too: with their own keys and whatnot.

* These folks, by the way, must be given emergency contact information, so they can call your friends, relatives, landlord, or…whomever.

* You always carry a device that can be used to call for help. Keep it in a pocket or next to where you’re lurking, at all times. Keep it charged up, too!

* While you’re at it, in addition to quick access to folks who can get into your home and help you, the house should be old-buzzard-proofed as best as possible. For example, every shower and bathtub should be equipped with grab bars. Any steps should be flanked by banisters or handrails, so you always have something to hold onto, going upstairs or going downstairs. And any throw rugs should either have rubber backing or a slip-proof under-mat, to keep them from sliding out from under your feet.

Look around your house and your yard and THINK SAFETY. Consider what might happen, and install whatever might prevent a little disaster or help you get out of one unhurt.

Think of your home as a system, not just as a dwelling. Who do you train to operate that system? How can you and they collaborate to make it work? How do you kick them into gear when you need them?

Yes, we do want to stay independent and in our homes as long as possible. But to do that…well, we’re going to have to depend on people!

😮

 

Weird-weather Day

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Just back from marching thru the ‘Hood with Ruby the Corgi. 

ICK! What a weird morning. It’s overcast…and hot! Doubt if it will rain — that would cool it off, eh? None o’ that nonsense in these sylvan pastures!

😀

We strolled down into Lower Richistan, an affluent neighborhood to the south of the ‘Hood. The houses are older and, oddly, not very interesting. Not an area that I would choose to live in, if I had that kinda money.

While strolling: Contemplate the latest weird predicament. 

Yesterday a pair of women showed up at my front door, identifying themselves as state social workers. Somebody had reported me as a victim of abuse!

Yeah…right: admire this black eye, eh?  /s/

Holeeee shee-ut! 

Apparently some “friend” of mine — which one it is, I think I know — decided out of the blue that my son is being abusive to me.

Got that?

My son: the guy who drives me from pillar to post, who helps with the paperwork, who arranges appointments for me at the Mayo and drives me way to hell & gone out there, who runs interference with the bank when I screw up my books….on and ever-so-abusively on. /eyeroll/

So I had to fend off that pair of fruitcakes. Whether I succeeded in getting rid of them, I do not know…but very much doubt it.

I probably need to call a lawyer and get him or her lined up and armed for battle. Problem is, mine croaked over a few weeks ago…and I don’t have anyone to take his place.

WhatEVER could have possessed my “friend” to pull a damnfool stunt like that?

The sheer hassle factor…oh gawd! It makes me cringe!

Well, she’s not my “friend” any more. I won’t have another thing to say to her after this.

And…after this I won’t answer the door, not unless I’m expecting someone and I can see that the desired “someone” is out there.

Holee Ess-aitch-ai! Does this stuff NEVER stop?

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So I’m trotting around the house, having just climbed out of the bathtub in the heat of the afternoon…wads of wet hair cascading around my shoulders, when BING BONNNGGGG! 

Somebody at the front door, dammit. 

It’s a woman looking for Josie, my neighbor to the north. I explain that she needs to proceed another block onward, ever onward. She looks kinda confused.

I think, ungenerously, pleeeze go away! 

Meanwhile, a cop helicopter is circling overhead. And circling. And circling: low and loud.

Now I’m thinking maybe she ought not to walk over there by herself. 

But on the other hand, there’s always the possibility that she’s one of the perps the cops are searching for.

Hm. 

Oh well. Shortly she decides to wander off. And I decide not to try to stop her: let her go. Hope for the best.

What a place we live in!

*****

Argha. I probably ought to have a bigger dog. Twenty-five pounds the Hound of the Baskervilles does not make.

But y’know…here in my dotage, I don’t wanna have to deal with another dog big enough and powerful enough to drag Tarzan down the street. So…the potential German shepherd will have to find another roommate.

An alternative option would be to move to Sun City. Those mausoleum-like precincts are relatively free of raiding home invaders, thieves, and burglars. One probably doesn’t even need a 90-pound dog out there…hm?

But…but……  I hated living out in Sun City, and I really, really don’t want to move back there. That would be true if my son could live a couple miles down the road (as he does here), but the prospect of being out there all alone makes it spectacularly true. Ugly, dreary, boring place…just not my cuppa tea.

So here we are. Hand me that pistol, if you don’t mind, whilst I see who’s at the door…

Another Beautiful Day in Arizona…

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“Leave us all enjoy it,” as one long-gone local radio personality used to intone, every morning.

Ugh! I’d like to leave it, all right. 

But with M’hijito living here in town, I’m ain’t about to go anywhere.

Leave us all enjoy it. Sure. Right now it’s a chilly 95 in the shade of the back porch overhang. That’s at 8:05 in the morning.

Ruby and I just got back from circumambulating the park: an hour’s walk through the swampy morning. Ugh!!!

Oh well. At least we both got exercised.

Speaking of sons (as M’hijito happens to be, of mine), we walked (again) past the house where the couple’s son got caught in some sort of hijinks and was shipped off to the state prison.

They lost their home. The sleazy investors who glommed it have never tried to rent or sell it. It just sits there, deteriorating: falling apart. Neighbors must have complained, because now they’ve beat back the weeds and they keep the rotting wood picked up. More recently they did some repairs and painted.

But it’s still an eyesore.

In a fancy neighborhood of million-dollar homes. Right on the park.

Ruby-doo is still COOKED. She sitting here on the tiles, panting.

One of the advantages, I reckon, of not being covered in a coat of thick fur is that the fans in the house can cool you off.

Just now, though, I’m feeling kind of advantageless.

Those terrifying “social workers” who showed up here yesterday and gave me the third degree left me very scared. And by damn, I’m still scared.

Whatever they wanted, whatever they were up to: it couldn’t have been good for me.

This morning I tried to call a lawyer…and discovered my guys have evaporated into the fog! One has died. One no longer practices where he used to, and that place is not handing out his new phone number…if he even has one.

And..well…  I must say, I am SO alarmed by the “social worker” visit, wherein a couple of officious types tried to quiz me and extract a bunch of private information from me, that I seriously do think I should pack up my car, throw the dog in it, and drive away.

Now, not later.

Frankly, if I had someplace to drive to, that’s exactly what I would do.

But…WHERE?

My California relatives are all either dead or gone. No refuge in those parts.

Reasonable out-of-state venues are in New Mexico, parts of California, Colorado, and maybe Texas. But…the Texas relatives are dead. I can’t afford so much as to camp out in California. And New Mexico? What would I do there and where would I go???

************
Later

Well…for one thing, calm the hysteria. 😀

No, I’m not real pleased with the visit from the “social workers,” or whatever-the-hell they were. And I’m concerned that they’ll descend on my son in the middle of his very busy workday.

He does work out of his home — on his employer’s dime, which fits out a nice office and electronics and phones. So if they show up there and start pestering him, they’ll chomp big bites of paid time out of his day.

Hm. If he tells them to get lost, that no doubt will be counted against him. So he’s in the damned-if-do/damned-if-don’t trap.

****

Lately, I’ve found my daydreaming moments haunted by my late mother.  She smoked herself to death, y’know.

No kidding: the poor woman hardly passed a conscious moment without a cancer stick in her mouth. The first thing she’d do in the morning, the instant she woke up, is light a cigarette. The last thing she’d do in the evening, as she was turning out the light by her bed, is smoke a cigarette.

In between, she puffed away pretty much nonstop.

She must have been so dependent on the nicotine that she had to have a fix before any period that was likely to pass without a cigarette. And the damn things killed her.

Not a pleasant way to go, we might add.

***

In even flakier precincts, I find myself irresistibly wondering WHO sicced those flakey social workers on me.

If social workers they were. I suppose they could’ve been some kind of private snoops that someone sent over to poke into my business.

But I don’t think so. Probably they really were what they said they were: state workers sent to snoop.  But WHY? And sent by WHOM?

Those are the nervous-making questions.

****

Welp…no point in obsessing about it. But…I’ll tellya, if I could afford to pack up and move outta here, I’d be on my way to Colorado as we scribble.

 

 

 

What Happened to Her?

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Yknow… Sometimes in idle moments I wonder what happened to my mother to make her SO SCARED.

Something must have happened. You wouldn’t be that terrorized of ordinary daily living unless something had happened to you.

When DXH and I lived downtown, we had a beautiful old classic rich person’s house in the historic part of the city. It really WAS beautiful. And the people who had it before us added on to it, creating a little mansion with a huge living room, huge dining room, large breakfast room, vast kitchen, large laundry room, separate TV room, and four bedrooms.

The house was first-rate. The neighborhood left something to be desired, though. Like…basic safety. The place swarmed with scammers, rapists, and burglars.

DXH traveled off and on for his job and his civic volunteerism. When he would leave town, my mother would get all upset.

No kidding: she would be nigh unto frantic when he absented himself.

She lived, with my father, in Sun City, a mausoleum-like retirement tract that stood a 30- or 40-minute drive from our house, through unpleasant traffic.

But whenever DXH would leave town, she would volunteer to drive into the city and stay with me while he was gone. What on earth she thought she was going to do if the dread burglar/mad rapist actually did enter the house escapes me. But there she was.

What she thought she would do is shoot the ba*tard. She would always show up with a nice little revolver, which she would set on a TV table next to the fold-out bed where she slept. This would give me the willies — she did not have formal self-defense training, and I don’t even know if she had formal training in the use of a pistol. But my father did: he was a licensed firearms instructor. So…I expect she knew how to pull the trigger.

The question, o’course, was whether she knew when to pull the trigger.

And when not…

Most of all, though, what worried me was that she was so scared. 

Now, in those days, women were scared. I was, too, when left alone in a house that any passing sh!thead could easily enter. And occasionally did enter…  But…but…why was she SO damn scared she thought she needed a deadly weapon at her side, even when a large dog was sitting there guarding her?

Yes. “Scared” was why we owned a German shepherd…

I figured something must have happened to her. You surely couldn’t imagine yourself into a state of fear so elevated. She must have had something real to cause that terror.

If so, she never told me what it was. (Thank goodness: if she had, I would have been just as terrorized.)

One of the reasons my parents retired to Sun City was that people believed those stodgy realms were safer than safe. What could happen? Who would want to rape a wrinkled, gray old bat? Who would waste their time burgling the home of some wretch trying to live on Social Security?

Well. Stuff happened all the time. Overall, the public imagined that Sun Citizens were fairly affluent. They weren’t, but compared to someone living on welfare in South Phoenix, they appeared to be. So burglaries did happen. Stick-ups did happen. And the occasional bizarre rape did happen.

So the truth was, our house and neighborhood were at no more risk — or not much more — than their little retirement dream house out in the far western suburbs. But I didn’t know anyone else who felt called upon to keep a revolver at the side of their bed.

Here, where Ruby and I live now, is…safety-wise? About the same. Certainly no safer than anywhere else. Certainly not as safe as a place in a gated community or a high-rise with a security guard posted in the lobby.

But hereabouts I don’t feel at anything like the risk we sensed downtown. We have deadbolts on every outside-facing door and on every security screen door. Alarms on every window. And a dog that barks like a banshee. You couldn’t get in here without giving me plenty of warning to get out a different door or to lock myself and the dawg behind a solid-core interior door and call the cops.

{sigh}

But really: what a place we live in, eh? The Land of the Free and the Home of the Terrorized.

When I was a kid, my mother was wary…but we didn’t live inside a barricaded fortress. What do you suppose has changed? And how?