The Inspection

The novels in the  Rick Podowski and The Hefty Trio series are about solving the mystery, eating great ethnic food and drinking fine wines.  In addition, each book examines a pressing issue of the day.  In Death of a Foster Child, the absurdity of the rules associated with being certified are examined.  Below is the story about the social worker inspecting the house.

Up the walkway came the inspector—a woman wearing a tight yellow blouse tucked into jeans that were at least one size too small. A very visible tire circled her midsection. Pumps held up this structure and on top of it all was a very round face framed on three sides with short brown hair with a double chin as its base. She was here, she informed Rick, to certify the home for foster care.

"Are you ready to let me look around?" she asked. "We have to approve your home first before we can make any of the other foster care preparations. The Community Care Licensing Agency is very strict, and the regulations must be followed exactly. You never know when their representative will show up at your door."

"I didn't know that CCL visited homes unannounced," I replied. "After researching this, I understood that they only visit when there is a complaint. They don't bother people who are following the rules."

"Oh yes they do," she responded. "In fact, we just had a meeting because a CCL employee entered one of our homes and the foster parent had left his wood working tools out. The foster families at the meeting knew the seriousness of the offense. CCL almost took their foster license for one unlocked hammer."

I had a nagging feeling that things were not about to go well as she walked into the kitchen, opened the cabinet under the sink and exclaimed, "Oh my God. The dishwasher detergent, scouring powder, and the window spray are not locked up."

"We keep them there," I said after I was able to regain my composure. "Doesn't everyone keep their dishwasher detergent under the sink? Besides......"

"It's against the rules," she interrupted me before I could remind her that we wanted to take in a teenager, someone to whom detergent would not present a hazard. "What happens if the child drinks the bottle of dishwasher detergent? Do you want that on your conscience?"

"You have a point," I said, deciding not to say anything about the twenty bottles of wine in the unlocked wine cooler under the granite countertop on the island directly across from the sink. I also didn't mention the cabinet above the stove filled with rum, vodka, and liqueurs, or the beer in the refrigerator. I could try to argue that the age of the child made a difference, but the woman would not be deterred from her script.

"Yes," she said, "we have to protect the children at all costs, and always according to the regulations."

With newfound dedication, she opened the cabinet where they kept the canned food and staples such as flour and sugar, and barked out, "You have powdered milk. That's against the regulations. You can only serve whole milk."

"We use it for cooking," I replied, although, by now, I realized that there was no use trying to reason with her. "Sometimes when we run out of cream, we use it for our coffee. Why should the state...?"

"Get rid of it," she snapped and without further explanations, went on to check the fire alarms that were mounted on the ceilings. With the handle of a broom, she pushed the button on each one. Clearly, nothing would be overlooked.

Going into the bathroom, she asked me where we kept the first aid kit and when I showed her, she snapped, "You have antiseptic and low dose aspirin in the kit," she said, shaking her head. "These things need to be locked up."

"Wait a minute," I said, feeling confident because he had just taken the required first aid course. "The Red Cross said to keep everything together in a first aid kit. That way, you don't waste time looking for something. If I cut my finger, for example, I immediately need to clean the wound with antiseptic and then bandage it."

"It doesn't matter," she said. "CCL says that the antiseptic must be locked up. What would happen if your foster daughter ate this stuff? Then, you'd be whistling another tune."

"The Red Cross says that one low dose aspirin should be given immediately after a heart attack. That's why they're in the first aid kit."

"You're not getting it," she bellowed in frustration. "It's the CCL regulation."

"So," I countered, "it's tough if someone dies because of a regulation that doesn't make any sense."

"And just look at your medicine cabinet," she said ignoring my comment. "This will never do. The Neosporin, the cream for your hands and all these creams need to be under lock and key."

"So I have to lock up the toothpaste?" I asked, trying to hide my amusement. "After all, it says on the label that if a child under six eats some, that child must be taken to the hospital."

"That's not in the regulations," she said. "Keep the toothpaste, but take all the rest of this out."

This was one of the few times where I had nothing to say. It's not possible to argue with this type of logic.

"Where's your evacuation plan?" she asked as we headed to my office. "You need a plan so people will know how to leave the house in case of fire."

"Every room has a door to the outside," I said. "All you have to do is to open it. I could put an 'open in case of fire' sign on every door."

"Don't you understand," she said, making an obvious effort to remain calm. "That's not enough. The plan must show where to turn off the gas and the water."

"There was a huge gas explosion near San Francisco a few months ago," I responded, "and because of that, the gas company has advised everyone to leave the house if they smell gas and call 911."

"It doesn't matter," she said. "CCL regulations require you to turn off the gas. Now, where do you intend to keep the child's records? They have to be locked up because people break into houses to steal the identity of foster kids."

"Interesting," I said, refraining with an effort from asking why on earth anyone would want to do that. It would be, I realized as I showed her my filing cabinet, just as well not to mention that, unfortunately, we had lost the key to it about seven years ago.

Finally, it was time to go into the garage. "All these chemicals, this paint, and the wood glue all have to be locked up," she told me. "Your teenage foster daughter could drink these things."

"Drink latex paint, and wood glue?" I was bewildered. "Nobody in their right minds would touch any latex product and you can't get high sniffing wood glue."

"Lock it up," she said, as she looked at the shelf above the washer and dryer.

"You can't have laundry detergent, fabric softener, and bleach out. Lock them up."

Next we went outside where the four-foot three-tiered fountain became the focus of her eagle eyes. "You have to drain the fountain," she said. "Or you can put a five-foot fence around it."

"But there isn't enough water for anyone to drown," I said. "Hell, it's even too small for fish."

"Doesn't matter," she said. "Rules are rules. We have finished the inspection, and you have failed. I'll be back after you get this place cleaned up."

And with that last comment, she turned and lumbered out the gate to the street. Air warmed by the sun rushed in to fill the space where she had stood.