As you probably know my dear bored reader, I live on the beach. In the summer, some of the sights are, to say the least, surprising.
One thing I do not get though, is why anyone would want to anchor their boat 10ft off the beach directly in front of my house? It is quite obviously occupied, noted by the fact that the dogs inside are barking at their stupid asses.
I came home from work yesterday to discover exactly this. A guy and two girls and a dog, all in their 20's (I can't speak for the dog) sitting in a speed boat directly in front of my windows.
We own to the water line here and in fact, have riparian rights to 100' from the water line. While they certainly were not trespassing (although I have had people sitting on my beach in the past), this really is a little much.
My response to their invasion of my privacy is to invade their's. I (and my dogs) went out to the lawn chairs with a binoculars where I proceed to sit and stare at them through them. Creepy, I know. But effective, because it didn't take them long to leave once they noticed me.
Thursday, July 11, 2019
Tuesday, October 30, 2018
Can't
I was brought up being told that there is only one bad four letter word.
Can't
All the other four letter words should be used often and with great relish.
This has been one hell of a shitty year so far and I fully intend to wipe my ass with the calendar and burn that calendar over a pile of old tires when it is through. In spite of this, I still find myself unable to say that worst of all four letter words.
All I can say though is that I am tired. Some of this is circumstance and some of this is my own doing. The bottom line is that I need to keep pushing. Keep pounding. Keep getting the job done. Even when that word is on the tip of my tongue.
Can't
All the other four letter words should be used often and with great relish.
This has been one hell of a shitty year so far and I fully intend to wipe my ass with the calendar and burn that calendar over a pile of old tires when it is through. In spite of this, I still find myself unable to say that worst of all four letter words.
All I can say though is that I am tired. Some of this is circumstance and some of this is my own doing. The bottom line is that I need to keep pushing. Keep pounding. Keep getting the job done. Even when that word is on the tip of my tongue.
Wednesday, May 9, 2018
Roller Coaster
The dark days that stand out in your life, the twisted, gut wrenching kick in the teeth days are the most vivid. The nice days and good memories seem to always be overshadowed by the shit stain days. Maybe I have something wrong with my brain because I remember these fucking days and struggle to remember some of the simplest memories at times. I remember vividly the days each of my Grandparents died. I won't get into the deep darkness of my kids.
I have had almost 3 weeks of those dark days now. My last blog was sort of the introduction to that. Since I wrote that blog, I can only tell you what I have dealt with which is minuscule compared to what my mother has gone through.
The normal waiting for test results. Test results that never seem to come. The feeling that you are not a priority for Doctors who are busy. When they come to discuss results and situations and outcomes and unknowns they seem to be in a hurry to move on to the next person.
The roller coaster that is this kick in the teeth is one with deep terrifying drops and tiny little peaks.
We have gone from a cancer diagnosis, to a release to my sister's home with consults scheduled to plan treatment, to a back slide and another near death trip to an emergency room and back to the larger hospital where the nurses say, why are you back here? Oh No! Not your mother again! When we finally get the PET scan results they show the cancer has not spread beyond the tumor in her lung, but the latest incident has left her so weak that treatment might kill her. Hospital one says she has an infection and even though hospital two is giving her highly potent antibiotics, they are not sure. The Oncologist, who is an abrupt fast talking, arrogant (to me) sort of fellow talks about functional reserve and hospice care which causes my mother to comment that she may not go home. I take him to the hall and berate him for his callousness, lateness and lack of bedside manner. "You were supposed to have PET scan results to us on Friday or possibly Monday Morning at the latest. You were supposed to see us on Monday in person and did not show up until Tuesday Morning and then you say something that diminishes hope." I want to be told the truth, and so does my mother, but there are ways to do it and even an old asshole such as myself understands that.
After that conversation, I sit and watch my mother in her hospital bed, chest tube draining, oxygen hissing, heart and pulseox monitor blipping and have it in my head that she is dying. My thoughts are racing to hospice care at home, getting a hospital bed, figuring out how we are all going to make it happen so she can be home, and if not her own home then my home. The darkness of all these thoughts is overwhelming and I am unable to sleep.
I return to the hospital from my hotel room in the early morning and my mother has had a horrible night. Coughing fits, pain, no sleep and she is miserable. When she has just been asleep for about 45 minutes, the nurses come in to move her from the ICU to a regular room. "can't you wait? She has just fallen asleep." Unfortunately the answer is no and she is awakened and move to another room.
Shortly after we get to the new room, the Oncologist returns and this time is a bit more personable. He sits down and says that there is an indication of infection and that it looks like her white blood cell count is coming down. An indication of infection, believe it or not, is good news, because it is something that can be treated. Loss of functional reserve cannot. We are on a tentative uphill clime again, but the dark pit is just ahead and we don't realize it.
My mother never complains. Everything is fine. I am sorry for worrying you. Is your father ok. But she is uncomfortable and coughing and miserable and the doctor prescribes a bit of pain medication to help her even though she says she is ok, The chest tube is painful in spite of her denials and she needs to sleep. My sister and niece arrive and mom is very sleepy and finally drifts off while we are sitting here. She wakes up a couple of times and groggily asks for a bit of water, which I give her. Finally she is sound asleep. After a couple hours my sister leaves. The nurses have been checking on her and are glad she is sleeping. I tell the nurse I am going to go to my truck to get my phone charger because it is about dead, and make a couple phone calls and that I should be gone no more than 30-45 minutes. I am walking back to the room 20 minutes later and there is a commotion going on. My mother's room has about 15 people in it and I am told to wait in the hall. They cannot get her to wake up. She has had a bad reaction to the slow release pain reliever and they are using Narcan to wake her up. Now she is awake but in a fog and has obviously taken a major step backward.
She still manages to mumble out "I'm sorry Rob." "Sorry? What are you sorry for?" "For being such a pain."
She is not a pain. Has never been a pain. And never will be a pain. I have pictures of 100 cotton diapers hanging on the line that are proof positive she can never be as big a pain as I was.
Watching her sleep tonight...a regular sleep...I wonder how far back this event has set her and will we ever be able to crawl our way out of these dark days and back into the light. I fear we will never see the sun again.
A Footnote, because I cannot write another chapter of this darkness. 5/14
My mom passed away the night before last. I was there and held her hand as she passed. Except for a brief few hours of sleep, either I or my sister were there with her for the last few weeks. My brother was there too as much as he could be. I have a huge hole in my heart right now and one of guilt that I should have recognized signs and forced her to the doctor sooner. She would be horrified that I feel guilty, but still I do. It will be a long trudge back to the light as my kids, who were nothing but an embarrassment and source of heartbreak to her now use her memory as a tool on facebook to gain sympathy. My son had not talked to her in 6 years and my daughter in 3. It is like a final stab for me and i realize that I have to be truly done with them rather than hold out hope that they will somehow come around to reality.
I have had almost 3 weeks of those dark days now. My last blog was sort of the introduction to that. Since I wrote that blog, I can only tell you what I have dealt with which is minuscule compared to what my mother has gone through.
The normal waiting for test results. Test results that never seem to come. The feeling that you are not a priority for Doctors who are busy. When they come to discuss results and situations and outcomes and unknowns they seem to be in a hurry to move on to the next person.
The roller coaster that is this kick in the teeth is one with deep terrifying drops and tiny little peaks.
We have gone from a cancer diagnosis, to a release to my sister's home with consults scheduled to plan treatment, to a back slide and another near death trip to an emergency room and back to the larger hospital where the nurses say, why are you back here? Oh No! Not your mother again! When we finally get the PET scan results they show the cancer has not spread beyond the tumor in her lung, but the latest incident has left her so weak that treatment might kill her. Hospital one says she has an infection and even though hospital two is giving her highly potent antibiotics, they are not sure. The Oncologist, who is an abrupt fast talking, arrogant (to me) sort of fellow talks about functional reserve and hospice care which causes my mother to comment that she may not go home. I take him to the hall and berate him for his callousness, lateness and lack of bedside manner. "You were supposed to have PET scan results to us on Friday or possibly Monday Morning at the latest. You were supposed to see us on Monday in person and did not show up until Tuesday Morning and then you say something that diminishes hope." I want to be told the truth, and so does my mother, but there are ways to do it and even an old asshole such as myself understands that.
After that conversation, I sit and watch my mother in her hospital bed, chest tube draining, oxygen hissing, heart and pulseox monitor blipping and have it in my head that she is dying. My thoughts are racing to hospice care at home, getting a hospital bed, figuring out how we are all going to make it happen so she can be home, and if not her own home then my home. The darkness of all these thoughts is overwhelming and I am unable to sleep.
I return to the hospital from my hotel room in the early morning and my mother has had a horrible night. Coughing fits, pain, no sleep and she is miserable. When she has just been asleep for about 45 minutes, the nurses come in to move her from the ICU to a regular room. "can't you wait? She has just fallen asleep." Unfortunately the answer is no and she is awakened and move to another room.
Shortly after we get to the new room, the Oncologist returns and this time is a bit more personable. He sits down and says that there is an indication of infection and that it looks like her white blood cell count is coming down. An indication of infection, believe it or not, is good news, because it is something that can be treated. Loss of functional reserve cannot. We are on a tentative uphill clime again, but the dark pit is just ahead and we don't realize it.
My mother never complains. Everything is fine. I am sorry for worrying you. Is your father ok. But she is uncomfortable and coughing and miserable and the doctor prescribes a bit of pain medication to help her even though she says she is ok, The chest tube is painful in spite of her denials and she needs to sleep. My sister and niece arrive and mom is very sleepy and finally drifts off while we are sitting here. She wakes up a couple of times and groggily asks for a bit of water, which I give her. Finally she is sound asleep. After a couple hours my sister leaves. The nurses have been checking on her and are glad she is sleeping. I tell the nurse I am going to go to my truck to get my phone charger because it is about dead, and make a couple phone calls and that I should be gone no more than 30-45 minutes. I am walking back to the room 20 minutes later and there is a commotion going on. My mother's room has about 15 people in it and I am told to wait in the hall. They cannot get her to wake up. She has had a bad reaction to the slow release pain reliever and they are using Narcan to wake her up. Now she is awake but in a fog and has obviously taken a major step backward.
She still manages to mumble out "I'm sorry Rob." "Sorry? What are you sorry for?" "For being such a pain."
She is not a pain. Has never been a pain. And never will be a pain. I have pictures of 100 cotton diapers hanging on the line that are proof positive she can never be as big a pain as I was.
Watching her sleep tonight...a regular sleep...I wonder how far back this event has set her and will we ever be able to crawl our way out of these dark days and back into the light. I fear we will never see the sun again.
A Footnote, because I cannot write another chapter of this darkness. 5/14
My mom passed away the night before last. I was there and held her hand as she passed. Except for a brief few hours of sleep, either I or my sister were there with her for the last few weeks. My brother was there too as much as he could be. I have a huge hole in my heart right now and one of guilt that I should have recognized signs and forced her to the doctor sooner. She would be horrified that I feel guilty, but still I do. It will be a long trudge back to the light as my kids, who were nothing but an embarrassment and source of heartbreak to her now use her memory as a tool on facebook to gain sympathy. My son had not talked to her in 6 years and my daughter in 3. It is like a final stab for me and i realize that I have to be truly done with them rather than hold out hope that they will somehow come around to reality.
She was so worried about being a burden on us, so concerned about everyone but herself, so quiet when I talked about how I would set up the hospital bed in our house and how we would handle her care and how it was not a big deal for us to care for her....I am convinced she willed herself to pass...one last selfless act so that we did not have to be bothered. She would have been no bother. I am going to be lost for a while.
I will miss her walking into the house with a big smile and saying "Hi Bud!" I will miss the meaningless conversations about daily happenings, her questions about my job and who was coming and going from our little town. I will miss the simple day to day interaction.
She was so much like my Grandpa (who I am named for). Cheerful, joking. Right to the end. The Doctors we talked to at the end cried, her nurses cried and we cried.
They say that time heals all wounds and I am not sure that it is really anything other than scabbing over rather than healing. It is frustrating that the rest of the world does not stop when yours seems to. Life will go on, but it will be lesser for her absence.
Saturday, May 5, 2018
OUT OF THE FRYING PAN
Today I attended the funeral of someone who has been a fixture here for quite some time. The father of a classmate and a coworker. Tough as nails and rough around the edges, but a good man. Hard work, a bit of hard play and what I would consider a successful life. I wrote a bit about him in the last blog. Cancer ate him alive. Horrible to watch him shrink and suffer. Undeserved.
When my Grandmother died, I bought her house from my mother. My Grandparents had built the house and it was the only place I ever really wanted to live. It took a number of years before circumstances allowed it to be my full time home, but now it is. When I bought it, the septic system had been failed (arbitrarily - fuck government busy bodies) and before I could get a mortgage, I had to replace it. Luckily, my mother was fine with the actual sale not taking place until I had installed a new septic. The fellow who's funeral I attended today was the excavator who did all the necessary digging. For years my Grandfather had steered a fair amount of business his way and when it came time for me to get a bill, I had one hell of a time getting him to give me one because "your Grandpa was awfully good to me." I had to force him to give me a bill because, while I appreciated the sentiment, I am not my Grandpa (I could never ever measure up to that high mark.).
Cancer sucks. It has taken too many that have been close.
In that previous blog, I also mentioned my mother's precarious health. Since that time, I wish it was good enough to be precarious. Two weeks ago tomorrow, she called. Her heart was racing and she had coughed up some blood. I got her and my Dad on the way to the emergency room and I followed.
She was in atrial fibrillation with a heart rate of 170 and a blood pressure off the charts (I don't remember what it was and don't think I want to). Once they got the heart rate down and the blood pressure down and were starting to deal with the atrial fibrillation, a chest x-ray showed a hilar mass on her left lung and a large amount of fluid. SHIT. A needle in the back to drain fluid (over a liter). A Bronchoscopy would be required to get a biopsy of the mass and that was scheduled. My mother was a smoker in her younger days and suffers from a bit of emphysema so things got complex. During the procedure, her lung was punctured and collapsed. She stopped breathing. A chest tube was inserted and her lung was (mostly) reinflated, but complications did not allow the biopsy to be taken. Her condition became even more serious and she had an ambulance ride to another facility better equipped. Once transported and in intensive care, the chest tube was adjusted and serious improvement would be required before a second Bronchoscopy (intubated as well) could be performed and since the fluid drained from her lungs was being tested as well as scrapings from the failed first Bronchoscopy for odd cells. After two days, the results came back negative....good news, but not good news because that means that the second procedure was necessary. Prep was done and the procedure was preformed and a sample of the mass was retrieved. Now the waiting game again.
My mother has been run over by a freight train but remains herself. When walking the hall of the ICU, the cleaning lady grabs my arm and tells me "I just love your mother!" Finally the chest tube is removed and she is transfered to a regular room 9 days after entering the hospital. She is incredibly weak and short of breath. She needs assistance to get out of bed and to the chair or the bathroom, but she still remains herself and has the nurses laughing. After two days, the results of the biopsy come back. Positive. Adenocarcinoma stage 3A. Not Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. All this suffering and more to come. Life has just changed for all of us.
My mom, same as ever, looks at me and says, "Oh Rob, its going to be a rough road isn't it?"
I replied, "Yes, but we will pave it."
I believe in God. I believe in Christ. Things like this are faith testers and the Lord knows we have had enough of them. My mother is so undeserving of the hell she has gone through and will go through in the coming weeks, it makes me wonder what the fuck the hidden plan is.
The funeral I went to today was the first funeral I have been through since I buried my Great Aunt. I have managed to weasel out of them because I hate them with a passion. I am hoping for my mother and my own selfish needs that I can weasel out of another one for a while yet.
When my Grandmother died, I bought her house from my mother. My Grandparents had built the house and it was the only place I ever really wanted to live. It took a number of years before circumstances allowed it to be my full time home, but now it is. When I bought it, the septic system had been failed (arbitrarily - fuck government busy bodies) and before I could get a mortgage, I had to replace it. Luckily, my mother was fine with the actual sale not taking place until I had installed a new septic. The fellow who's funeral I attended today was the excavator who did all the necessary digging. For years my Grandfather had steered a fair amount of business his way and when it came time for me to get a bill, I had one hell of a time getting him to give me one because "your Grandpa was awfully good to me." I had to force him to give me a bill because, while I appreciated the sentiment, I am not my Grandpa (I could never ever measure up to that high mark.).
Cancer sucks. It has taken too many that have been close.
In that previous blog, I also mentioned my mother's precarious health. Since that time, I wish it was good enough to be precarious. Two weeks ago tomorrow, she called. Her heart was racing and she had coughed up some blood. I got her and my Dad on the way to the emergency room and I followed.
She was in atrial fibrillation with a heart rate of 170 and a blood pressure off the charts (I don't remember what it was and don't think I want to). Once they got the heart rate down and the blood pressure down and were starting to deal with the atrial fibrillation, a chest x-ray showed a hilar mass on her left lung and a large amount of fluid. SHIT. A needle in the back to drain fluid (over a liter). A Bronchoscopy would be required to get a biopsy of the mass and that was scheduled. My mother was a smoker in her younger days and suffers from a bit of emphysema so things got complex. During the procedure, her lung was punctured and collapsed. She stopped breathing. A chest tube was inserted and her lung was (mostly) reinflated, but complications did not allow the biopsy to be taken. Her condition became even more serious and she had an ambulance ride to another facility better equipped. Once transported and in intensive care, the chest tube was adjusted and serious improvement would be required before a second Bronchoscopy (intubated as well) could be performed and since the fluid drained from her lungs was being tested as well as scrapings from the failed first Bronchoscopy for odd cells. After two days, the results came back negative....good news, but not good news because that means that the second procedure was necessary. Prep was done and the procedure was preformed and a sample of the mass was retrieved. Now the waiting game again.
My mother has been run over by a freight train but remains herself. When walking the hall of the ICU, the cleaning lady grabs my arm and tells me "I just love your mother!" Finally the chest tube is removed and she is transfered to a regular room 9 days after entering the hospital. She is incredibly weak and short of breath. She needs assistance to get out of bed and to the chair or the bathroom, but she still remains herself and has the nurses laughing. After two days, the results of the biopsy come back. Positive. Adenocarcinoma stage 3A. Not Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. All this suffering and more to come. Life has just changed for all of us.
My mom, same as ever, looks at me and says, "Oh Rob, its going to be a rough road isn't it?"
I replied, "Yes, but we will pave it."
I believe in God. I believe in Christ. Things like this are faith testers and the Lord knows we have had enough of them. My mother is so undeserving of the hell she has gone through and will go through in the coming weeks, it makes me wonder what the fuck the hidden plan is.
The funeral I went to today was the first funeral I have been through since I buried my Great Aunt. I have managed to weasel out of them because I hate them with a passion. I am hoping for my mother and my own selfish needs that I can weasel out of another one for a while yet.
Thursday, December 28, 2017
Age and Mortality
I used to think of myself as indestructible. I used to be an idiot. Well, actually, I am still an idiot although I have learned that time is a bastard and sometime makes us into bastards on our own account..
First it was my grandparent's generation that was disappearing and now it is my parent's generation. Better men and women than I will ever be (or you bored reader), suddenly gone or painfully making their way to the inevitable end. Depressing to think about it, because, as I have said many times before, those that follow in their footsteps can never match their character.
I am watching an old friend slowly die of cancer. True, he is over 80 years old, but as a local fixture, it is hard to see the steel that he once was melting into a puddle. My own folks are so different than they used to be. My mother's health is...well, not exactly failing, but precarious. My dad, who once lifted a Harley Panhead into the back of his pickup truck..alone...is now unable to do things that he never thought twice about and has to call for help when he never would.
Myself...years of foolishness, stubbornness and accidental removal of small parts of my body mean that this cold weather (-7 deg F) while once uncomfortable but manageable, is now simply painful. I am only 52, by I am constantly reminded that I am no longer 25. My feet hurt. My knees hurt. My back hurts. When I look at the generation that spawned idiots such as myself and see what is coming, I begin to wonder what it is all about. What purpose is served by all this work? Worse yet, I look at a job that I am either planning and contemplating (such as a new roof on my house that I will do in the spring) and I think, that's the last time I will do that! More and more "last times." I am still too stubborn to call for help, but I fear that may change sooner than I like.
My kids, who have turned out to be low fools, in spite of the efforts their mother and I put in, have no idea and no appreciation for the sacrifices, no idea of the hell they have put us through, no idea of the loss of legacy that they have created. I have no idea how to fix it. Not a situation I am used to being in.
And, there is no going back. No correcting the past. Just push forward with your head down, absorb the pain, don't whine, don't complain and move closer to that final hole that we all will fill.
Depressing, but sometimes that is the way life is. Shit. Most of the time that is the way life is. But still we must keep pushing forward, tracking our losses and trying not to repeat our mistakes. The advantage of getting older? There are a lot more "that's the last time I will fuck up that bad" situations. So at least there is a bright side.
First it was my grandparent's generation that was disappearing and now it is my parent's generation. Better men and women than I will ever be (or you bored reader), suddenly gone or painfully making their way to the inevitable end. Depressing to think about it, because, as I have said many times before, those that follow in their footsteps can never match their character.
I am watching an old friend slowly die of cancer. True, he is over 80 years old, but as a local fixture, it is hard to see the steel that he once was melting into a puddle. My own folks are so different than they used to be. My mother's health is...well, not exactly failing, but precarious. My dad, who once lifted a Harley Panhead into the back of his pickup truck..alone...is now unable to do things that he never thought twice about and has to call for help when he never would.
Myself...years of foolishness, stubbornness and accidental removal of small parts of my body mean that this cold weather (-7 deg F) while once uncomfortable but manageable, is now simply painful. I am only 52, by I am constantly reminded that I am no longer 25. My feet hurt. My knees hurt. My back hurts. When I look at the generation that spawned idiots such as myself and see what is coming, I begin to wonder what it is all about. What purpose is served by all this work? Worse yet, I look at a job that I am either planning and contemplating (such as a new roof on my house that I will do in the spring) and I think, that's the last time I will do that! More and more "last times." I am still too stubborn to call for help, but I fear that may change sooner than I like.
My kids, who have turned out to be low fools, in spite of the efforts their mother and I put in, have no idea and no appreciation for the sacrifices, no idea of the hell they have put us through, no idea of the loss of legacy that they have created. I have no idea how to fix it. Not a situation I am used to being in.
And, there is no going back. No correcting the past. Just push forward with your head down, absorb the pain, don't whine, don't complain and move closer to that final hole that we all will fill.
Depressing, but sometimes that is the way life is. Shit. Most of the time that is the way life is. But still we must keep pushing forward, tracking our losses and trying not to repeat our mistakes. The advantage of getting older? There are a lot more "that's the last time I will fuck up that bad" situations. So at least there is a bright side.
Sunday, September 3, 2017
Damned Junk!
Dear reader of the mundane, you are in for a thrill.
As I have noted in several previous blogs, I farm with junk. I use the term "farm" loosely because in reality, I would not make a pimple on a farmer's behind. In any case, back to the junk.
Most of my equipment is old...shit...it's all old. Most of the time, I enjoy working on it because I am masochistic that way. Unfortunately, most of the time does not mean all of the time. My hay is cut and laying flat on the ground. My old New Holland Rake is raring to go and I expect to be raking tomorrow, if it does not rain (blues, despair and agony on me). My 826 Farmall tractor is repaired and running like a champ (another story, but a major dissection and rebuilding of hydraulics was required). The only project left was a bad bearing on my old Vermeer round baler.
Bad bearings are a potential fire waiting to happen when it comes to round balers (or any baler for that matter). Replacing this one was going to be no small task because it is located right behind the main feed roller sprockets. I have been procrastinating on fixing it, which is foolish because now I am paying the price.
I estimated that it would take a day of work to disassemble, replace the bearing and reassemble. Two sections of 80 chain needed to be removed and on section of 60 chain. Three bolts removed for the taperlock bushing in the sprocket, re-insert the bolts in the threaded removal holes and the sprocket should come right off, giving access to the set collar and bearing behind it. I am expecting that I will have to cut the bearing off the roller shaft, but this, although time consuming, should be a fairly straightforward job once I clear all the grease away.
All goes well until it is time to remove the taperlock for the sprockets. As I tighten the bolts to push it out of the sprocket it appears to be moving...a little more...a little more...wait! Shit! there is a crack at one of the bolt holes and the entire flange appears to be cracking away from the sleeve...holy crap...now what. I tap on the flange with the hammer and boom...it falls off. Sensing that I am screwed, I decide it is time for a beer. As I sit on my stool drinking the beer and looking at the sprocket I can see no other alternative at this point but to drill some holes all around the taper sleeve and hopefully it will loosen up.
I am still frustrated as I will need to order a part and it is Sunday...of Labor Day Weekend...so no ordering until Tuesday.
I carefully begin to drill holes. My drill bit is not long enough to make it all the way through the bushing, but I think I am making progress util....the drill bit breaks...in the bushing. FUCKER!
Now I am probably relegated to using the torch....something that I am loath to do because, as I mentioned before, fire and greasy old balers are not a good combo. I go to the door of my shop and some dipshit has parked in front of it in order to eat at the restaurant across the street. I need to get the baler outside, because if it is going to go up in flames accidentally, I would just as soon it was not in my shop.
I walk over to the restaurant and go in and ask the waitress to please ask whoever parked in front of my door to move their damn truck...guess what...they aren't in the restaurant. They are nowhere to be found. As I walk back to my shop I am considering the damage my tractor with loader and chain will do to their nice Dodge truck.
I figure it is time for a break, before I break something that does not belong to me and I load up my dogs, who have been watching my ranting bemusedly from the couch I have in my shop and head for home figuring I will tackle this mess tomorrow before I rake hay.
I did however tape (with very sticky duck tape - and lots of it) a note to the dumb-ass's window that said, "next time you park your truck in front of my door, I will scrap it."
The only satisfying part of the note was the tape and knowing what a pain in the ass it will be to get the gum off his windshield.
As I have noted in several previous blogs, I farm with junk. I use the term "farm" loosely because in reality, I would not make a pimple on a farmer's behind. In any case, back to the junk.
Most of my equipment is old...shit...it's all old. Most of the time, I enjoy working on it because I am masochistic that way. Unfortunately, most of the time does not mean all of the time. My hay is cut and laying flat on the ground. My old New Holland Rake is raring to go and I expect to be raking tomorrow, if it does not rain (blues, despair and agony on me). My 826 Farmall tractor is repaired and running like a champ (another story, but a major dissection and rebuilding of hydraulics was required). The only project left was a bad bearing on my old Vermeer round baler.
Bad bearings are a potential fire waiting to happen when it comes to round balers (or any baler for that matter). Replacing this one was going to be no small task because it is located right behind the main feed roller sprockets. I have been procrastinating on fixing it, which is foolish because now I am paying the price.
I estimated that it would take a day of work to disassemble, replace the bearing and reassemble. Two sections of 80 chain needed to be removed and on section of 60 chain. Three bolts removed for the taperlock bushing in the sprocket, re-insert the bolts in the threaded removal holes and the sprocket should come right off, giving access to the set collar and bearing behind it. I am expecting that I will have to cut the bearing off the roller shaft, but this, although time consuming, should be a fairly straightforward job once I clear all the grease away.
All goes well until it is time to remove the taperlock for the sprockets. As I tighten the bolts to push it out of the sprocket it appears to be moving...a little more...a little more...wait! Shit! there is a crack at one of the bolt holes and the entire flange appears to be cracking away from the sleeve...holy crap...now what. I tap on the flange with the hammer and boom...it falls off. Sensing that I am screwed, I decide it is time for a beer. As I sit on my stool drinking the beer and looking at the sprocket I can see no other alternative at this point but to drill some holes all around the taper sleeve and hopefully it will loosen up.
I am still frustrated as I will need to order a part and it is Sunday...of Labor Day Weekend...so no ordering until Tuesday.
I carefully begin to drill holes. My drill bit is not long enough to make it all the way through the bushing, but I think I am making progress util....the drill bit breaks...in the bushing. FUCKER!
Now I am probably relegated to using the torch....something that I am loath to do because, as I mentioned before, fire and greasy old balers are not a good combo. I go to the door of my shop and some dipshit has parked in front of it in order to eat at the restaurant across the street. I need to get the baler outside, because if it is going to go up in flames accidentally, I would just as soon it was not in my shop.
I walk over to the restaurant and go in and ask the waitress to please ask whoever parked in front of my door to move their damn truck...guess what...they aren't in the restaurant. They are nowhere to be found. As I walk back to my shop I am considering the damage my tractor with loader and chain will do to their nice Dodge truck.
I figure it is time for a break, before I break something that does not belong to me and I load up my dogs, who have been watching my ranting bemusedly from the couch I have in my shop and head for home figuring I will tackle this mess tomorrow before I rake hay.
I did however tape (with very sticky duck tape - and lots of it) a note to the dumb-ass's window that said, "next time you park your truck in front of my door, I will scrap it."
The only satisfying part of the note was the tape and knowing what a pain in the ass it will be to get the gum off his windshield.
Saturday, July 22, 2017
Reminders
During the hustle and bustle of this foolishness that is my life, it seems that I am usually worried about something.
Some of the worries are serious ones that are far beyond my control and no matter how much I remind myself of this fact, they are always there.
Some of them are worries that we all have. Will I get this task done on time? Will I do it right? Will that be the end of it or will something else crop up and shit on me?
Some of them are specific to me. Will the haybine hold together long enough for me to finish cutting hay? Will the rain hold off? What the fuck was I thinking when I tore this rake apart further than necessary and now I have put myself behind. Will this thunderstorm result in a 1AM call to get the lights back on?
Sometimes though I get a reminder, that I really have nothing to worry about. Tonight for example. We live on the water, which is pretty idyllic really. As it got dark and I was preparing for bed a thunderstorm was rolling across the lake. Once in bed, the rain began to come down in buckets.
After a bit, sirens...lots of them. Since many times I have to respond to fire or accident calls, I sat up in bed and listened and waited for the phone to ring.
My wife was still up and suddenly I heard her talking out in the living room. Thinking she was talking to me and being unable to make out what she was saying, I got up and went out to find her at the front door talking to a neighbor who was walking the beach with a flashlight. I could see boats out front with search lights and the Coast Guard's flashing lights were blinking on and off.
A 14 year old boy was missing and was last seen at the public park 1000 ft down the beach. He had told someone he was going to swim out to the raft...information was sketchy, but the assumption was that he might have drowned, but nothing was certain...he may not even had been at the park at all.
I turned on all my lights facing the beach in order to help, but did not get dressed to go out as there was already enough confusion without me adding to it.
I sat on my front step and watched the boats zig zagging across the harbor, lights darting this way and that. I am thinking to myself, they really should be looking for something beneath the surface not floating on top.
Soon, the Coast Guard helicopter arrived noisily on the scene and began tracing the harbor with searchlights from above. Back and forth, back and forth, closer then farther, closer then farther as they swept the water's surface in what seemed to be a fairly well thought out pattern.
No chance of sleep of course. Might as well watch, too much noise and that nagging worry about someone else's kid. I am thinking to myself, "I hope the little shit snuck off to some party in the woods and didn't really attempt a night swim to the raft." We all did it, and at younger ages than 14, but we were swimming practically out of the womb and a lot of the kids that come here in the summer are novices and swimming in a community pool is significantly different than swimming in a deep lake.
Soon the helicopter is heading back to home base...fuel to get here, fuel used during the search and fuel needed to get home are huge considerations. The boats are still out there looking. If the kid is out there, he is beneath the surface and it will likely be a couple days before he is found. I am holding out hope that he pulled a fast one on his folks and that all their worries will be for nothing.
I am reminded that mine, in comparison, are nothing.
It is unlikely I will sleep, even though it is quiet. I will hope for good news in the morning and worry the rest of the night away for the kid and his folks and his friends.
And an update: As it turns out, they have not found the youngster in question and it appears as if there never was an issue at all. There have been no parents who have reported a missing kid and the person who called 911 in the first place after seeing him enter the water and then losing track of him did not report any sort of credible information other than losing track of the kid in the rain. Chances are pretty good that the kid went in the water and came out right after it started raining and is probably not even aware of the search that took place.
Some of the worries are serious ones that are far beyond my control and no matter how much I remind myself of this fact, they are always there.
Some of them are worries that we all have. Will I get this task done on time? Will I do it right? Will that be the end of it or will something else crop up and shit on me?
Some of them are specific to me. Will the haybine hold together long enough for me to finish cutting hay? Will the rain hold off? What the fuck was I thinking when I tore this rake apart further than necessary and now I have put myself behind. Will this thunderstorm result in a 1AM call to get the lights back on?
Sometimes though I get a reminder, that I really have nothing to worry about. Tonight for example. We live on the water, which is pretty idyllic really. As it got dark and I was preparing for bed a thunderstorm was rolling across the lake. Once in bed, the rain began to come down in buckets.
After a bit, sirens...lots of them. Since many times I have to respond to fire or accident calls, I sat up in bed and listened and waited for the phone to ring.
My wife was still up and suddenly I heard her talking out in the living room. Thinking she was talking to me and being unable to make out what she was saying, I got up and went out to find her at the front door talking to a neighbor who was walking the beach with a flashlight. I could see boats out front with search lights and the Coast Guard's flashing lights were blinking on and off.
A 14 year old boy was missing and was last seen at the public park 1000 ft down the beach. He had told someone he was going to swim out to the raft...information was sketchy, but the assumption was that he might have drowned, but nothing was certain...he may not even had been at the park at all.
I turned on all my lights facing the beach in order to help, but did not get dressed to go out as there was already enough confusion without me adding to it.
I sat on my front step and watched the boats zig zagging across the harbor, lights darting this way and that. I am thinking to myself, they really should be looking for something beneath the surface not floating on top.
Soon, the Coast Guard helicopter arrived noisily on the scene and began tracing the harbor with searchlights from above. Back and forth, back and forth, closer then farther, closer then farther as they swept the water's surface in what seemed to be a fairly well thought out pattern.
No chance of sleep of course. Might as well watch, too much noise and that nagging worry about someone else's kid. I am thinking to myself, "I hope the little shit snuck off to some party in the woods and didn't really attempt a night swim to the raft." We all did it, and at younger ages than 14, but we were swimming practically out of the womb and a lot of the kids that come here in the summer are novices and swimming in a community pool is significantly different than swimming in a deep lake.
Soon the helicopter is heading back to home base...fuel to get here, fuel used during the search and fuel needed to get home are huge considerations. The boats are still out there looking. If the kid is out there, he is beneath the surface and it will likely be a couple days before he is found. I am holding out hope that he pulled a fast one on his folks and that all their worries will be for nothing.
I am reminded that mine, in comparison, are nothing.
It is unlikely I will sleep, even though it is quiet. I will hope for good news in the morning and worry the rest of the night away for the kid and his folks and his friends.
And an update: As it turns out, they have not found the youngster in question and it appears as if there never was an issue at all. There have been no parents who have reported a missing kid and the person who called 911 in the first place after seeing him enter the water and then losing track of him did not report any sort of credible information other than losing track of the kid in the rain. Chances are pretty good that the kid went in the water and came out right after it started raining and is probably not even aware of the search that took place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)