The Dead Kernal Journal

Blingle Bells

I saw that rapper Kanye West has been participating in Occupy Wall Street.  This same Kanye recently had his front row of bottom teeth replaced with diamonds.  Really Kanye?  You are concerned money is being spent on the wrong things and that some have more than they need while others are struggling to make ends meet.  I don't know that you make the best poster boy for the cause.  Why don't you start by selling your teeth.  Each one could bless a charity this Christmas.  Blingle all the way.

Lyrics Revisited

I don't know if I will ever be old enough to sing the scramble of songs in my brain without being informed that I am lyrically mistaken.  The older you get the less confident you are singing nostalgic songs, because chances are you have wrongly learned some of the lyrics.  Here are some of my confessions:

In Sunday school, I used to sing "On Christ the solid rock I stand all other ground is sinking sandal, other ground is sinking sand."  And I always imagined Jesus sinking in his sandals into the Galilean dirt.  Sinking sandal and sinking sand, neither is to be trusted.

At Christmas time I can still be heard singing, "in the meadow we can build a snowman, and pretend that he is sparse and brown."  Now this never has made any sense to me, but I have always imagined a snowman made of many sparse and brown sticks.  Really the most interesting part of that song was the fact the snowman could talk.

Another Christmas blooper was the "Good tidings we bring to you and your Ken."  They sang this at the end of my Annie the Orphan record, and I never really knew who Ken was.  I wanted to imagine it was Barbie's boyfriends, and that he was going to show up under the Christmas tree. 

Then of course there is the rock classic, "Shot through the heart, and you're too late."  Too late for what?  To learn the lyrics correctly it appears.

 

It is Time to Say Goodbye to...

I confess that I am an avid Reader's Digest fan and have been for years.  I read it cover to cover each month, along with throngs of winter Texans.  This month they had an article on fads that we would like to see go by the wayside.  Some examples of these were: the use of the word "huh," people talking on their cellphones in public bathrooms, yooneek baby names, pre-schoolers with mohawks, elastic waistbands, etc.  I could write an entire essay myself on the subject, but let me start with my first topic.

Quintuple-blade razors and Beyond

This fad of adding a new blade to the razor each year has got to stop.  This morning in the shower I realized that my razor had five blades.  Really?  What happened to simplicity and preserving the stainless steel reserves for our grandchildren.  Granted, whoever invented the original single blade plastic handled bic razor could have had no other goal in mind than to thin out the population.  Then someone had the idea of the double blade which acted more as a sophisticated potato peeler than a useful razor.  Finally by the late nineties the triple blade razor made its debut on the market, and finally women could shave their legs comfortably, quickly, and with minimum risk.

But of course we couldn't let a good thing be.  Next thing I knew new blades were being added and the prices keep going up.  Why stop at 5 or 6?  My vision is for a 45 blade razor that you gently rest on your leg and with the slightest twitch of the wrist the entire side of your leg is hairless.  Four good twitches of the wrist and you are ready for the beach.

Why my complaint?  Other than the economics of $4 disposable razors, I am now hopelessly dependent on these steel depleting gadgets.  I recently flew somewhere and didn't take my five bladed razor for fear that it might be confiscated as a threat to national security.  Instead I bought a cheap twin blade that would suffice for my short trip.  I have become such a pansy with the new fangled razors that I can't manage the old potato peeler, and I carved up my leg as a reminder of why my generation is not the greatest that ever lived.

Passwords

I do not do well with passwords.  In the moment I think of the most imaginative passwords but rarely can I remember or keep track of them.  The other day I was trying to remember what my password was for a particular on-line transaction.  I couldn't remember so I asked for a hint and a picture of a basket of apples popped up with the word ORCHARD.  Let me assure you that I have no recollection of choosing this as a hint nor was it helpful.  Bushel, cider, apple, juicy, applesauce, canning, dreadful ...nothing was working so I finally called customer support to figure out how to access my account because it was not letting me proceed.  The girl that answered said she could help me but I would have to first answer the "secret question." 

"What is the secret question?" I asked

"The secret question," she replied, " is....what is your password?"

What???  She proceeded to tell me that the secret question I had chosen to be asked IN CASE I FORGOT MY PASSWORD was "What is your password?"  Really?  Really?  From now on I am going to use "brainfart" for every password.  I can even reference this blog in case I forget (of course that is only if I remember my password to access my blog).  Sigh.

Don't Swallow Your Earplugs

I find it interesting how under and overstated warning labels are these days.

Take for example:  McDonald's coffee.  Caution: Hot beverages are hot.

Then there are the noise reducing earplugs I was given during my stay at a hotel recently.  The warning label says.  This product is non-toxic but may interfere with breathing if caught in windpipe.  You think?

The Choir

As if composting weren't enough, I caught wind of a choir that was taking shape for Reynosa's bicentennial festivities, and I couldn't resist.  Mexico is celebrating 100 years since its revolution and 200 years since its independence.  As part of that celebration, Reynosa decided to organize a choir to sing at important events throughout the year. Despite my fears of rejection, they gladly welcomed a foreigner into this patriotic cause.

My first day in choir, I had to get up in front and sing scales in front of everyone, which was rather awkward.  Ten seconds into our first song I realized that this was perhaps the weirdest thing yet I have attempted.  I felt as though I had been transported to the odd yet endearing world of a Mexican Lake Wobegon.  We are mainly singing patriotic old Mexican songs, composed of words that neither I nor anyone alive understands.  There are many themes like war, horses, limes, the motherland, the sunset and love, oh yes, love as sentimental as the serenades of old.  And then of course we also have within our repertoire a few foreign pieces, Latin, Hebrew and such to increase our international appeal.

The choir is composed of around 25 people so far, young and old, all sizes, classes, colors, and singing abilities.  At this point anyone can join, but the hope is either they can sing or will be drowned out by those who can.  It just so happens that I am placed between two ladies who tend to fall in the latter category.  The one lady, on her first day told me that she didn't know how to read music but just sings whatever God gives her (with much gusto I might add).  The lady on my other side has incredible volume and the enthusiasm to match.  When she is on the right note (or a note that harmonizes) all is well, but when she take a detour, it is all I can do to not derail. My exposure to music here, whether that be the nasally norteña singing, the karaoke, or "las mañanitas" song sung at every birthday, has revealed that sentiment trumps being on key.  That bodes well for our appeal among the locals.

What I love about the choir is that everyone finds common ground.  After all, the mayor's wife is in the choir, sitting alongside the nobodies of the city.  The only reason we come together is not because we all can sing, but rather because we all love to sing.  You can find punk boys seated next to retired engineers, and old rich bejeweled women sitting next to poor young moms.  What's more, you blend all these motley voices and somehow make music when all is said and done.  It is beautiful.  I think it is a picture of what the Church should be.  Everyone is welcome, some for their ability and others for their spirit.  The good, the bad, the ugly, all together to sound God's grace.  I believe the joyful noise coming out of the choir room is beautiful to God.  Here's to hoping our audience will feel the same way. 

The Com Post

Since my telenovela ended and several of my friends have moved away from Reynosa, I needed a new activity to absorb my energies.  I decided to start a compost "situation" in my front yard. (I say situation because anyone who knows anything about this sort of thing would certainly say we have a situation on our hands).  The soil surrounding my house is horrible for growing anything but ant piles.  Every time I have had to dig to plant anything, I always think I am discovering buried treasure, when in reality it always turns out to be rocks.  That clink of the shovel always makes my heart skip a beat anyway.

So composting.  I skimmed through a book at Barnes and Noble and decided to give it a whirl.  I was so excited to finally get it started that I purposely ate eggs, vegetables and fruits just to have scraps to start my project.  Now I feel the need to become a coffee drinker as well because the coffee grounds are vital to the compost.  If nothing else I will become a high-energy vegetarian through this whole thing.

My compost situation has been running about three weeks now, and so far the soil is still terrible.  I feel embarrassed every time I dump compost material because it looks like I am starting a garbage dump in the front yard.  Actually it kind of scares me because here in Reynosa there are many dumps, where the garbage collectors live.  I half expect to find a family settled on my little pile, chewing mango scraps, when I wake up some morning.  Squatting on property is quite common here.  In order to combat this possibility and save face with my neighbors, I have started throwing dirt on the top of the situation to hide my new hobby.

The trick is to find sources for compost.  One person doesn't produce much kitchen waste.  Then it occurred to me to start getting the scraps from the mission, where we are cooking for large groups of people.  Not so fast. Our head cook Amalia also has started composting, so there is serious competition.  I saw her ferrying away a pile of egg shells just the other day, but I beat her to the coffee grounds.  My friend Wes the hitchhiker said he will provide me with some chicken poop, which also is important. Too bad it is not feline poop, because the street cats on my block give freely.  My boss NoNo told me he would contribute the compost worms as soon as I had a sufficient compost material for them to feed.  Apparently that is a sort of graduation within the composting world: worms.  I admit I will probably add both of those new materials to my compost under the cover of dark so the neighborhood association doesn't kick me out.  Just wait till they see my rock patch transformed into a lush garden, or more likely, Reynosa's newest dump.

Cabbage Patch Stink

Okay so I was a big fan of the Cabbage Patch Dolls when I was a child.  In fact for Christmas one year my older sisters sewed four Cabbage Patch Dolls for Susan, Mary, Jane and me.  I named mine Carla Sniff, and she was brunette.  Then one day my uncle gave us a real Cabbage Patch Doll, verified with a toymaker signature on the butt.  Oh how I prized these dolls.  I remember a book I had about the dolls and their life crawling around in the patch.  They were all so happy, clean, and rosy cheeked.

However, now that I live near cabbage fields, I realize that the creator of the Cabbage Patch Dolls never really visited a cabbage patch in his or her life.  How do I know? Because cabbage reeks, and no one would want to be friends with a stinky doll.  Sure the fields look pretty, but when the cabbage harvest starts in south Texas, it smells like moldy leftovers for miles on end.   I imagine the doll didn't go over really big in these parts.  It would be kind of like marketing a Honey Wagon Barbie in Iowa.  Maybe it was fitting that my doll was named Carla Sniff.

Bureaucrazy

So let me show you why I rarely accomplish anything in Mexico. Mission: Cancel my home phone line. 

April 16. Take my modem and determination with me to Telmex to cancel my phone service.  I first pay my bill, then I take a number, wait in line, and finally its my turn.  I tell the lady I want to cancel my phone and internet and am informed that I can only cancel one of the two because the rule at Telmex is one movement a day.  So I choose internet, which is spendier, and hand over my modem.  She tells me that I need to go over to a separate phone and cancel with whomever answers and then return with her.  I go to the special phone, cancel the service and return.  She tells me to come back the following week to cancel the phone service. The rule is 3 business days between "movements."  I ask her if I will keep being charged for the phone service.  She assures me I won't.

April 22. Return to Telmex to cancel phone line. Take a number, wait in line.  Manager pulls me aside to help since the line is long.  He informs me that not only has my internet not been canceled, I have now been billed for a full new month as of April 21st.  I explain the situation.  He sends me to a different special phone to call and cancel internet and explain the problem.  I call, re-cancel internet, and try to get the new charges erased.  The phone man sends me back to the original lady who helped me. She informs me that it was not her fault but the "other girl's."  The manager also joins the discussion blaming the mysterious other girl.  He tells me to wait 3 days and come back to see what he can do.

April 26. Return to Telmex, go straight to manager.  He tells me internet has been canceled and to go to the special phone to see if the charge problem can be fixed.  I talk to a new lady via phone who is able to reduce the charge in half.  I ask to cancel my phone line and she says that because she adjusted the charge, I have used my cuota of one movement a day.  I need to wait 3 more days to cancel the phone line.

April 29. 3 days have passed.  Return to Telmex, go straight to manager.  He confirms the new reduced rate. I pay the bill, return to him to cancel the phone line.  He tries to talk me out of canceling for about 10 minutes.  Finally I ask, "So is that it? Is it canceled?"  He nods affirmatively and then tells me if I can find any friend who needs a phone line, send them to him and he will give them mine.  So in the end I don't really even know if it is canceled.

Bottom line I need to go back to Telmex to see if it really got canceled.  And I need to hand a packet of metamucil to everyone who works there so they can unclog the system and do more than one movement a day.

Childhood Confusions

I have long been thinking I need to write a blog about the things that I greatly misunderstood as a child.  These are three:

1) Running an "erin" (which at some point I learned was actually running an errand).  I never knew what running an erin meant, but I was pretty sure it had something to do with me, so I always kind of got excited and hoped that maybe someone would come back from running their erin with a present for me.

2) The van turning over.  I remember that on our trip to California, everyone kept talking about the van getting ready to turn over.  I was really nervous and confused that no one else seemed concerned.  I can still remember the countdown to the turnover and I braced myself in my seat thinking the van was going to roll over.  I was greatly relieved to realize it just meant that we had broken 200,000 miles with the trusty Ford van.

3) Howard's Drive-Inn.  The mark of being mature in the Knobloch household was finally being able to drive your bike all the way to Howard's Drive Inn (because our neighbor's name was Howard).  I had never actually seen this inn, but imagined it to be an Ice Cream Shoppe where all the neighborhood kids rode their bikes and hung out.  I would always peer up the road and wonder why you couldn't see the Inn.  I remember clearly the day that my mom finally said I was old enough to bike to Howard's Drive-Inn.  For years it was an exclusive privilege of my older siblings.  My sisters agreed to take me and we biked up the road about 1/8 of a mile to a field drive-in where there was nothing but a patch of dirt where you could enter the field with your truck.  They said "here we are!" I was sure they were lying, holding out of me, not wanting me to enjoy the coolest spot in Northwest Iowa.  It was terribly disappointing to realize the boring truth...no ice cream, no hang-out, no inn at all.