Gone

 My sweet little Karlie is gone.

Beulah was the smartest dog I ever owned but Karlie was not far behind her and honestly, she was the best dog I ever had.  

I owned is a bit of a misnomer...she actually owned me and right now I am incredibly sad she is gone.

She was always there when I got home.  So happy to see me.  She spent every night snuggling in bed.  Where she started as a scared little rescue, she became the best dog.  I know she is with Beulah now and I buried her right next to Beulah's grave.  

Her last few hours were spent in misery and when I ended her misery, she wagged her tail as if to thank me.  I know this is in my head, but it actually makes it harder to think of such a thing.

My space dammit!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Rust, Grease And Old Iron

I have always enjoyed old things...even when I wasn't an old thing myself.

I gravitated towards engineering because of my upbringing making old shit work again or admiring the process of old iron working.  In a previous life, I was likely a blacksmith.

Back in the day, a piece of equipment was not purely function, but there was an actual effort made to make it look good as well.  Ornate castings, raised letters and many times pin striping add to this form as well as function aspect.

I remember about 25 years ago, I bought an old Gray hit and miss engine from a guy for $50.  I drug it home and spent a Sunday morning cleaning it up, checking it over, oiling, greasing and making the old 6 volt buzz box it used for ignition work.  I put some fuel and water in the thing and spun it over by pulling on the big flywheel.  Bang! with a big puff of smoke out of the exhaust pipe.  Another spin of the flywheel and Bang, whoosh, woosh, woosh, Bang, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, it was running.  A  hit and miss engine is just that.  A series of weights engage the valves and cause the engine to "hit" when it slows down or is under load.  Once the rpms are where they should be the weights fly out and the valves open and it simply spins.  A really cool engineering marvel.  I don't have a video of mine running, but here is one from youtube.com so that you can get the idea. It is actually the identical engine to the one I am writing about (yes I have several others).

In any case, I am in the driveway with this engine running and I put my foot on the belt pulley to create a little drag and Bang, woosh, woosh goes to Bang, Bang, Bang, Bang with smoke rings blowing out the exhaust.  I am absolutely tickled with this thing.

My wife hears the noise and comes out and stands on the porch looking at me with her arms folded and says, "what is that?"  I told her, "An old antique hit and miss engine." and she replies as we both watch smoke rings rising, "What are you going to do with it?"

After a suitable pause, I reply, "I am going to sit here and watch it run."  She rolled her eyes, shook her head and went back in the house.

My major vice is tools and equipment (perhaps I should spell that "vise").  Preferably old tools and old equipment.  My shop is a pretty complete little machine shop, weld shop and auto repair shop, but there is always a tool that a person such as myself does not have and needs desperately.

I had to travel for my real job as you might have read before.  This particular meeting meant traveling on Memorial Day for a meeting on the Tuesday after.  I don't really care for it, but needs must and I always peruse the local craigslist for anything interesting that might fit in the back of my truck.  "Don't want to waste the trip!"  I tell my wife as she rolls her eyes at me.

As I noted, I have a fairly complete little machine shop in my shop, an old Gorton Milling Machine, an old Pratt and Whitney Shaper, a couple of Atlas Lathes, a Harig Surface Grinder and other miscellaneous ancillary equipment.  I already have a small metal cutting bandsaw as well as a portaband and a torch, so I really don't need anything else, but there nestled amongst the hammers and wrenches was an ad for an old powered hacksaw.  Located about 30 minutes from my meeting location, this appeared to have some promise, to take up some time if nothing else.

After contacting the guy and making arrangements to go look, I make the drive and there is a nice Peerless Standard Hacksaw in not too bad shape, grease, grime, rust and general dirt aside.  He cuts a couple pieces of steel pipe with it to prove it still works after which we strike up a bargain and he loads the heavy piece of cast iron on the back of my truck.

In retrospect, I should have tarped it before making the final drive home because I had people wanting to know what it was at every stop I made.  Once home, I got it unloaded (it weights 1040 lbs, not counting grease) and started with a bit of cleanup.  There is probably about 50lbs of metal shavings in the coolant tank, which as I clean out I discover also contains 11 brand new hacksaw blades (worth about $100 or half what I paid for the whole unit).  Peerless is still in business although they primarily make bandsaws now and a bit of research determines, based on the serial number stamped in the bed of the saw, this machine was made in 1925.  It originally ran on a flat belt, possibly on a line shaft setup, but it could have had an electric motor on it at that point.  It has a newer Marathon 1 1/2 HP motor on it which would cost probably $150 to replace (I am now ahead $50).  The start/stop, limit switch and motor starter are all late 1940's add ons.

Now, some time with the pressure washer and a little elbow grease and paint, and I will have something else just worth watching run.  I hope I have enough scrap iron left to make some cuts.  I might even let my wife give it a try if she stops rolling her eyes at me long enough.

Purge Part Deux

Hold on.  Don't let go. Don't throw that away....

Love song?

Perhaps not in the traditional sense.

I grew up in a home and work environment where you made do (not deux) with what you had.  My Dad used to say, "there is no such thing as can't."  Honestly?  He was (and is) 100% correct.

I remember my grandfather pulling nails out of a board and carefully straightening them and storing them in a coffee can to be used later.  I remember going to the local "dump" and taking all the hose clamps off the junk cars there.  We used to sit around the wood stove in the shop I still own in the winter (between cutting loads of wood) and cut old bicycle and car inner tubes into  rubber bands.

The community center in the town I live in used to have a bi monthly rummage sale to raise funds for community projects.  Unwanted items and clothing were brought to the center and sold.  My dad had an arrangement with the director of the community action program where any clothes that went unsold for more than two months were brought down to the shop.  As a kid, we would sort these into the type of cloth they were made of and cut into either oil rags or window washing rags.  Once soaked with oil, they were thrown in the wood stove for added heat.  I grew up in this shop always with bags of old clothes in a corner waiting to be sorted.  When I bought it from my dad, I waited a couple years before hauling about 50 garbage bags of clothes to the dump.  He has never asked me about them, although I know he noticed their absence.

Any piece of steel or iron that was even half way straight and of a good enough size was thrown under the work bench or on the scrap pile to be used for who knows what at a later date (and you would be shocked at what was used).  When my dad taught me to stick weld at about 8 years old, I had plenty to practice on.  I remember him being furious with me when he went to grab a piece of iron from the pile and he found that it had been welded to the piece underneath it, which was welded to the piece next to it and so on....damn waste of steel and welding rod he muttered as he took the torch and extracted what he needed.

I tell you, bored reader, as a self justification for some of the shit I have and some of the attitudes I have.  I tell you because it makes me feel better in spite of the heresy I have committed.

My shop has become cluttered.  This is not my way, in spite of what you have read above, but things have gotten away from me.  I have not been able to use my milling machine for a while...or my lathe...Stuff has started to take over.  This became painfully apparent recently. My wife's vehicle needed a fuel pump replaced, which involves dropping the gas tank (Detroit Engineers should all follow the lawyers to the firing line.).

Not wanting to do this lying on my back on a cement floor, I needed to get the vehicle on my hoist.  My hoist is a two post Weaver in floor that was installed in 1938.  I had not used it in over a year...mostly because stuff (useful, necessary, don't tell me I need to throw it away stuff) was piled in front of it. But also because a nagging hydraulic leak on the rear post had me nervous.

I found a company that is actually still making seal kits for Weaver Hoists and ordered one and rebuilt and bled the back post.  Works great now...if I can get to it. My wife is tapping her foot and rolling her eyes because her fuel pump is still not changed no matter how proud I am of fixing the hoist.

It is time for me to eat my pain and begin the purge.  I wrote about cleaning my garage a couple years ago in a group blog I am in and probably should point you in that direction, but, like my own little treasure hunt, I will let you find it for yourself.

For the record, I am not a hoarder. I am not a hoarder.  I am not a hoarder....no..most definitely not.  However, my youth has shaped my adulthood and there are things I have saved, that I honestly cannot tell you why or what possible use they could have in the future.  Actually....four pickup loads of stuff went to the dump or scrap pile.

I am happy to say that my wife's vehicle has been repaired.  I can access my milling machine and my lathe.  It is honestly pretty nice.  A relief actually.  At least it is until I realize that I pitched something I needed...

You will have to excuse me now, because I need to go make some rubber bands.

I Am Married and I Have A Girlfriend

I Am And I Do......wanna See My Girl?

Her name is Beulah.  She is a dog that I did not want.  We have three.  Four years ago, my wife and daughter told me we needed a third dog because the two we had were old and were not likely to be around much longer.  I refused.  "Absolutely not, under no circumstances,"  said I.  She was from an unwanted litter.  A friend raises Black Labs and Border Collies.   An unplanned rendezvous between the breeds resulted in Beulah and her litter mates.  "But Dad!  She is Free," my daughter pleaded.  "No!  We do not need another animal!" My insistence was futile.  Home she came.  Not only has she turned out to be the best dog I have ever owned, but she latched on to me in spite of my not wanting her.  And yes, the other two dogs are still around.  One is 15 and the other is 18 now.

I told my daughter that I got to name her since apparently I was going to get no say in whether or not she came home to us.  I told her that her name was going to be Fart Blossom and she could not be called Blossom.  My daughter said "No Problem."

There was an old gal that lived in town here when I was young who's name was Beulah.  She was a bit of a kleptomaniac and the local store owners had taken to following her around their establishments so they could write down what she pocketed and then later bill her.  No one had the heart to deal with her thievery in a conventional manner.  I changed the dog's name to Beulah because she stole our hearts. 

I wrote this story 4 years ago.  The older dogs have since passed and two new dogs were rescued from the humane society as well.

Beulah mentored the first rescue, Karlie, who has become a very friendly dog.

As I wrote in a previous blog, Beulah has become diabetic and blind.  While this slowed her down a bit, her personality never changed.  Still the smartest dog I ever had.

Two mornings ago, I awoke at my usual 4 AM and Beulah was not sleeping on the floor on my side of the bed as she normally does.  This in and of itself was not completely unusual, however as I walked into the kitchen, she was sitting in front of the refrigerator.  She heard me and attempted to stand and seemed to have lost the function of her rear legs.  One partially and one completely.  My heart sank as I attempted to help her to stand and it was impossible.   I carried her outside and she urinated while sitting, making a mess of herself.  I took her into the laundry room and cleaned her up and spread a blanket on the floor, put some water in front of her (which she tentatively drank) and a bit of food.

She still seemed completely alert during this whole episode, and while I showered, I hoped that I would find her standing and wagging her tail waiting for me to let her out of the laundry room, but knowing that it would not be so.

I have had many dogs over the years.  Some have passed naturally and some I have had to help along.  It has never been an easy task.  Under other circumstances, it was made easier by the fact that the animal was obviously suffering or in distress.

Other than not being able to stand, Beulah seemed to be completely herself.  Alert, responsive and licking my hand as I pet her head.  She showed no signs of pain or distress.  This didn't change what needed to be done, it only made it harder.

My age and Beulah's personality made it impossible.  I called the vet, who is quite some distance away and explained the situation.  He told me to bring her in.  The first time in my life I have ever passed this responsibility off to another.  I am embarrassed and sad that I was unable to do this last thing for her, but she was too close.

I put some blankets in the front seat of the car and loaded Beulah in.  As I was driving away, my wife crying caused me to tear up as well.  Beulah squirmed herself around and layed her head in my lap as we drove.  I fed her treats as we drove and she sniffed my pocket and licked my hand.

When we arrived at the vet, a couple hours later, I took her out of the car and set her in the grass.  The vet looked her over and said that it appeared she had slipped a disc in her back or possibly even had a stroke and that there was likely nothing to be done.  It was her time.

A strong sedative was administered and within a few minutes she was asleep in the grass with her head in my lap.  A devil's mix of other drugs was administered and she breathed her last.

I rolled her in a blanket and loaded her in the car for the return trip home.  Before I left, I had asked my Dad to come down with the backhoe and dig a grave in the rocks close to the house.  When I got home the place was prepared and I carefully laid Beulah in it, still wrapped in the blanket.  I covered her over.

I have never marked the grave of a dog before, but I marked Beulah's.

I have quoted Mark Twain before, but what he said is absolutely true.

"Heaven goes by favor.  If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in."

I know she is there waiting with her tennis ball.

Brain Farts

One of the things I actually enjoy most about doing various chores on my tractor, besides being able to run over anyone who gets in my face, is the alone time.  My mind tends to wander to all sorts of subjects.  Past, present, future, other dimensions....not stream of consciousness shit mind you, but just random thoughts.  Politics, religion and arguments with self fall in there too.

Since I tend to want to hear what is going on with my equipment, I do not listen to music while I am operating it.  It is pretty hard to hear a bearing squeaking or a belt squealing while you are listening to Tom Waits or Frank Zappa.  Both of these activities; operating equipment and listening to music, take a certain amount of concentration, which as I get older, becomes more and more difficult for me to divide.

I find my mind is easily distracted.  I am guessing it shows in this bullshit that I call writing.  I will be riding on my tractor thinking deep and profound thoughts and a single moment of brilliance will pop up and I will make note of it.  Something I should do, someone I should talk to, something I should look up on the interwebs once I am done with the current chore.

Once I am done with the current chore, poof!  It is gone.  Oh sure, eventually the thought or task returns to me (usually while taking a piss at 3AM), but damn!  Frustration.

Since I was about 12 years old, and starting at my Dad's insistence, I have carried a small pocket notebook with me to remind myself of important things.  I usually have it in my pocket even on the tractor, but the chores I do there are generally not conducive to stopping and writing myself a note or adding something to a list and hence the reason those important thoughts are sometimes lost.  I guess it is a sign of age.  I have said that if I ever come down with Alzheimers, that I will be damn good at it because I have been practicing every day for years.

I've got it pretty good all in all and other than a few family heartaches, have nothing really to complain about.  When I am on the tractor, one of the recurring thoughts is always how things could have been different.  Better or worse.  I have worked my ass off for what I have and, contrary to a semi popular politician's comment, I did build what I have.  The only things ever given to me were examples of discipline and drive and everything I have is a product of that.  I have never spent a lot of time on the couch.  There are plenty of people I know, both here and in real life that I am sure think I would be well served by some time on the couch....the psychiatrist's couch that is...and I am not sure I would disagree with them, but life is what it is, whether I remember it or not.


A week ago I wrote that....sort of coherent I guess....today as I wrote out the check for my mortgage payment (yes, I still do that...every month.) I was thinking about how things change.  Thinking about my first job out of college (far from my first job).  I have told the story before...9 days living in my truck before I got my first paycheck.  January.  Madison, Wisconsin.  Fucking cold.  But really, all in all, no worries except getting out of the truck at 4AM to take a leak in the plant parking lot and hoping no one saw me, much less the yellow snow.

Now, I have very little concern about where I am going to sleep, but somehow things are so much more complicated and difficult.  Worries I never dreamed of having when I was sleeping in that truck in the cold.  Stress I could never have understood in those days.

No, no...there is nothing wrong, nothing to worry about other than a bit of melancholy longing for the days when things were simpler.

And yes, I made myself a note in my little notebook to remember to write about this when it first occurred to me this morning...perhaps it would have been better to have forgotten it.

Pull your head out of your Ass

Small town, dependent on tourism and a short season to "make hay."  There is not a lot of opportunity long term for young people here.  Employment for the most part, is seasonal and many are forced to work multiple jobs.  Those jobs tend to be in the service industry.  Waitressing, mowing lawns and the like, which are great as a second job, seasonal job, but as far as being able to make it?  Most of the kids move away because opportunity is elsewhere.  Businesses here are in many cases for sale because the owners are aging and in many cases tired of working their asses off.  I know the feeling.  Sometimes it feels as if the town is dying in a way because the old standby folks are trying to get out and put their feet up in their golden years.

This town is a mecca for summer employment in these service type jobs and some of the jobs pay fairly well except for the fact that they are not year round.

I own the service garage that I more or less grew up in and use it as my shop for maintaining equipment and some side job general repair.  I bought it from my Dad almost 30 years ago (Christ!  Time flies) when I really could ill afford to.  I just knew I would be back sometime and so the struggle to pay the mortgage was worth it in my mind.  But I was working elsewhere and soon had good, well paying jobs that made the struggle not so much.

The grey economy (read "cash business") has made sale of some of these businesses difficult if not impossible and several sit empty.  Not because there is not opportunity, but because you have to have a history of profit in order for someone to be able to buy the business.

Enter my property and my foolish notion of community and youth.

I was approached by the daughter of a gal I went all through grade and high school with (the grade below me, and no longer with us).  A young gal with a bit of ambition.  "Would it be possible for me to use your corner on odd weekends to sell t-shirts promoting the community?"  "My friend and I have started a business and are hoping to make a go of it."

I asked her what she expected and her needs were extremely simple:  Space for an 8'x8' canopy for shade, a place to park her car and nothing else.

I told her she was welcome to set up in my yard and wished her luck.  She wanted to know what I wanted.  I told her "nothing but your success."  She was tickled and grateful.

They set up for a weekend and did great.  Most of the traffic coming here goes by my corner and she sold many T-shirts and other printed items like bags and can coozies all promoting this town.  At the end of the weekend she called and thanked me and said they had done great, could they come back for the 4th of July.  Absolutely, I told her.

About mid week, I get a telephone call from the local police officer who left me a message asking me to call him.  When I did, he asked me if I knew that the girls were using my property and I told him absolutely, with my blessing.  He told me he had been asked to investigate the "peddling" by the local town chairman (chicken shit mother fucker - but I get ahead of myself).  I told him that not only did they have my blessing but that the property was zoned commercial and we had sold all sorts of miscellaneous when we operated the building as a service garage.  I also told him that the girls were a legitimate business with a taxpayer id and sales tax license.  I figured that was that.

The girls came back and had a great 4th weekend.  They were so pleased and grateful they gave my wife and I a $50 gift certificate to a local restaurant because I had refused to charge them anything for the use of my property.  They planned to come back in mid august for a couple weekends and for Labor Day weekend in September.

I am happy to see not only young people with ambition, but happy to see them succeeding and hoping for bigger things.  This town needs it.  As I mentioned, us old farts are busy, tired or dead.  If they are successful enough, maybe they might consider buying or renting one of the empty shops!

Today I get the mail and in it is a letter from the Zoning and Planning Department.  "It has come to our attention that you have begun operating a retail sales operation (T-Shirt Sales) on your commercially zoned property.  A conditional use permit is required for this sort of use of your property and since you did not apply for one prior to starting your activity, you will be required to pay double the normal fee for this permit."

"In addition, you will need to provide 2 parking spaces for every 400 square feet of the operation on your property and will need to contact the county sanitarian to determine if public restroom facilities will be required.  The county building inspector will need to be contacted to determine if the structure on your property is suitable for the sales operation and additional permits may be required to accomplish any changes required by the inspectors office."

I find it a bit disingenuous that they kept using the term "your property."  Damn fucking straight it's my property.

I called the zoning and planning office and asked for the fellow that signed the letter.  He explained that he had a complaint and when I explained what was actually going on, he laughed.  I told him his letter wasn't very damn funny.  He said that the girls do not need a permit for selling as they are so long as they do not operate for more than 10 consecutive days.

Tomorrow I will pay the town chairman a visit and ask him to pull his head out of his ass, since I am sure he is the one that contacted zoning and planning.  Stupid as fuck in a dying town.  Just what we need.

It may be a generalization, but it seems like people are frightened or maybe jealous of ambition.  Myself I encourage it.  As I mentioned, I hope these gals do so well they want to expand and buy one of those shops.  Entrepreneurship should be encouraged, not regulated to death.  I spoke with the young gals grandmother who is two doors down from the shop to let her know what happened, because I intend to berate the jackasses responsible in a very public way.  I might even apply and pay for the zoning permit myself and tell the gals to have at it.

People really have no thought for the future.  Some don't have enough sense to pour piss out of a boot if the instructions were written on the bottom.  Our society encourages and rewards the lazy and shiftless and penalizes the ambitious...it needs to stop.

stupidity is not for the faint of heart

my typing is not real good right now.  cutting the tip of your finger off is not conducive to efficient accurate typing.  not to mention it hurts like an MF.

how did i do it you ask?  careless and stupid is my answer.

This also makes making hay, repairing equipment and general chores very difficult.

I wont even mention picking my nose.

Blues, Despair and Agony on Me

Deep dark depression, excessive misery...

If you ever watched Hee Haw, you know the rest...

Not that I have anything to really be depressed about other than a general lack of time to finish what I have started or, in some cases, start what needs finished.  Sometimes, things get in the way....work for instance.

Cross state association meetings for instance....one day meetings, because of time and distance, that are actually three day trips.  Three days I can ill afford with Haying season on top of me and equipment to fix and prepare.  But this thing called work, that actually pays the bills, keeps getting in the way of my insane hobby jobs.  Really though, it is not the jobs that are insane.

This trip, for a four hour meeting, requires an 8 hour drive one way.  The only lucky thing is that another association member is on the way, two hours from me, and we have arranged to car pool.  This means that one trip I drive the two hours to his place, park my car and ride with him the rest of the 6 hours.  The next trip I drive the two hours to his place, pick him up and he rides with me the rest of the 6 hours.  It is a good arrangement really.  Our respective organizations save a few bucks in travel expense and a 6 hour drive goes much quicker when there is a bit of company and conversation.

This trip, it was my turn to drive.

Those of you that know me, know that I grew up working on cars and engines and other such and that my fleet of vehicles is, lets just say, vintage.  My newest vehicle is 15 years old.  My traveling car is a 1995 Chevy Caprice.  It runs like a million bucks and rides great, but is slowly rusting away.  It is a great car.  Comfortable, good gas mileage and above all, good get up and go, however, I always get a bit of good-natured shit when I show up with it.  My peers will say things like, "tell me that is not your company car!" all the while knowing that I do not have a company car...

In any case, as I said, it was my turn to drive.  I stopped for gas about 20 miles before getting to my associate's house so that we could complete the 6 hour part of the trip without a stop.  Filled her right to the top and down the road I went.

I was approximately one mile from picking him up when there was a loud noise and a horrible dragging/scraping sound coming from the rear of the car.  I immediately pulled over.  I knew what had happened without even getting out of the car and I dreaded getting out to survey the situation.

Mustering my courage, I got out of the car to see what I had feared.  The straps holding the gas tank under the car had rusted through, or rather, the bolts holding the straps had rusted to a point of failure and the gas tank (quite luckily a plastic one) was being dragged on the road under the car.

As I looked closer, I was relieved to see that there were no leaks other than a bit of incidental spillage that was coming from the broken fuel line.  The tank was still attached to the car, but only by the electrical for the sending unit and in tank fuel pump and the vent pipe.

Holy Shit!  Now What!  If I was home, no big deal.  I would walk or get a ride and go get my car trailer and haul the rust bucket home....but I am not home.  I am two hours from home.

I call my associate and tell him the situation.  He is not sure who I should call, but says he will be at my location in a few minutes (remember, I am only a mile from his house).  I look around, and, coincidentally, there is a state patrol vehicle in the parking lot of the house in front of which I have stopped.

I walk over and knock on the door and the officer is the one who answers.  I ask him who I should call locally for a tow and repair and he gives me a name and number.

I call them and they are only about 5 miles down the road and can be there in a few minutes.  The officer comes out and proceeds to write down my license number so he can run it in his vehicle, which he is pulling out of his driveway and behind my car to provide flashing lights.

While we are waiting, I ask him if he found anything.  He laughs and replies, "no, should I have?"  I told him that if he had it might have been my ticket out of attending this meeting that has put me in his front yard.  Again he laughed.

My friend shows up and the roll back truck is right behind him.  I assist the driver in getting my car on his flatbed and give him my contact information and tell him that we have to get on our way to the meeting and that we will be back the following afternoon.  He says that if it can be fixed, they should be able to get it done by then.

My friend tells me as we are driving off in his vehicle, "that is one hell of a way to get out of driving!"  "Seriously," he says, "why are you not worked up over this situation?"

"I have been through much worse," I reply, "and really, when you think about it, I am pretty lucky."

"Lucky?!?!" he exclaims.  "Are you kidding me?  Your gas tank fell out of your car!"

"True," I reply, "but think about it, it was a plastic tank.  A metal one might have created sparks and exploded....lucky.  It happened right in front of a state patrol officer's house and he was home and could give me some help finding someone to fix it....lucky.  It happened only a mile from your house and you did not have to come far to get me and I did not have to figure out how to get either to the meeting or home on my own....lucky.  It could have happened half way through the 6 hour portion of the drive and we could have both been stranded but it didn't....lucky.  The tow truck driver was there in no time flat and figures they can fix it by the time we get back tomorrow....lucky.  Even better, you are driving and I am riding....lucky."


He thought a moment and replied, "You have to drive the next two times.  And don't bring that car."






P.S.  The car is fixed and I will be home in the morning......Lucky.

Ebb and Flow

As most of you know, we have a number of horses.

The oldest one, a quarter horse that is 29 (nearly 30) years old managed to get out of the pasture and has disappeared.  She has been getting skinnier and skinnier and I have been preparing my wife for the inevitable end that is coming.  "Failure to Thrive" is the phrase most often used when animals are reaching a (hopefully) natural end.

I was not prepared for this.  I am assuming that she wandered off to die in private.  This might sound warm and fuzzy, but honestly, it isn't.  I would much rather I had her body to bury now rather than find it when the turkey vultures show me where she is.

We spent the last two days scouring the 40 acres to the south of us, which is full of chest high juniper bushes and thick pine plantation.  We searched as much of the large 60 acre swamp to the west of my property without finding so much as a hoof print in the mud.

We let the neighbors know, called the local constable and pretty much exhausted ourselves looking.  I am convinced that she is laying in the junipers not far from the pasture.  The problem is, in that area, you could be 3 ft from her and not know it.  We will have to wait....we have done all we can.

My wife insists on walking after work tonight, and perhaps we will find her, but most likely nature will have to show us where she is.

This sort of thing has not happened before and it really sucks.

The only thing that makes it slightly better?

While walking through the prickers, my wife scared up a fairly big doe.  Both the deer and my wife were startled.  As we continued walking, we nearly stepped on her fawn, which could not be more than a day old.

Perfectly still with only a hint of shivering - likely from fear and not cold.  We snapped the above shot and moved on with our search, wondering how it is that we can stumble across a newly born fawn no bigger than a large house cat and not find a horse.

Life goes on. It always has and always will.

Pain

My last post here was August.  A while ago....looking at how things change, eternity actually.  I have written about the dogs here numerous times and on that other site as well.  A brief update here.  Beulah, around Christmas time, began to drink copiously.  Being a former copious drinker myself, I didn't really pay attention to it, until two days in a row there was an accident in the house.  Unheard of for her.  A trip to the vet confirmed fears and she was diagnosed with diabetes.  In addition to this, a cataract was forming in one eye.  An injection daily of insulin would hopefully slow down progress, but within about 3 weeks, my best girl was completely blind.

If you have read my earlier stuff, you might assume that this would lead to her end.  It hasn't.  It may still, but not yet.  She has adapted unbelievably well.  She is still herself.  Happy, affectionate and smart.  My dad told me I should put her down.  I can't.  Not yet.  I told him that some people need seeing eye dogs.  Beulah needs seeing eye people.  She knows the house and only bumps into things when they are not as they were.  She finds her food and water.  She stands patiently for her daily shot and wags her tail when I praise her when it is complete.  She goes outside and follows me by listening for my footsteps.  She actually, to an extent, chases the ball still and will bring it back to my voice.  She finds it by ear and smell if I roll it past her not to far.  She wants to play with Karlie, but it ends up being too much for her.  That is the part that is heartbreaking.  She comes to my bedside and puts her paws up on the bed and licks my hand to go out in the night if she needs to.  I can't put her down yet.  She is still herself.  She loves us even if she can't see us and we still love her.

I put down Rascal two years ago in April.  It still bothers me, but she was 19 years old and could no longer walk.  I have put down many animals in my life and may be getting soft in my old age, but as long as Beulah is still there, I won't let an inconvenience to us be her end.

We rescued another dog, Brinley, from the shelter.  A three year old border collie mix who is very sweet and can play with Karlie and take the pressure off Beulah.  It has been working out well although some adaptation has been required.

Dogs are the best.  They give you everything unconditionally.  I know that the end will come for Beulah, as complications due to the diabetes go beyond the blindness.  I will be vigilant for her sake.  For now though I will be happy with what she can give.

Mark Twain wrote, "Heaven goes by favor.  If it went by merit, you would stay out and your dog would go in."

It's A Dog's Life

A Hole In The Water

Living on the water makes owning a boat, if not a necessity, then certainly an expected accessory.  My first boat was a 1953 Alumacraft that my grandfather bought new.   In the early 70’s he got distracted and did not pull the boat up high enough on the beach.  The wind came up, as it has a tendency to do here, and heavy seas drug the boat out and smashed it on the beach and filled it with stones.  I spent two days digging it out of the rocks and another day beating the dents out of it with a sledgehammer. After that I spent quite a bit of time pounding loose rivets, installing screws to replace the ones that popped out and putting silicone on all the seams.  I still needed to bring a coffee can with me every time I went out so that I could bail. I had been able to row the boat (I could not use Gramp’s motor and provided one I found in the local dump later – that I wrote about elsewhere) all I wanted prior to the mishap.  Afterwards, with all the effort, the boat became mine.  Can you imagine an eight or nine year old with his own boat? 

Fishing and general screwing around were what I used the boat for.  The boat was light enough to just pull up and down the beach and required no special equipment.  And I was sure to pull it up all the way whenever I was done using it.

Later, in my teens, I bought a 14ft Caddy, made by the Cadillac boat company in Michigan in the 50’s.  Having by this time a fairly extensive collection of old outboard motors scavenged or bartered from here or there, I was big time when I had two 4 hp Martin “40” outboards on the back of it.  We fished every species in the lake, including salmon and our primary leisure time activity in the summer was fishing.

Once I was an adult (or at least thought I was), I bought a 1967 Cruisers 21 ft boat with a 350 Chevy and Mercruiser stern drive.  We had loads of fun in the boat, but it required more space, more maintenance and more equipment to maintain.  It was not easy to put in and out of the water and required a vehicle and a trip to one of the local launch ramps.  Extensive winterization and summerization was required and you could not store it by simply flipping it upside down and putting the outboard on a rack in the garage.  Because it was over 16 ft long, the Coast Guard had additional safety equipment requirements along with navigational lights etc.  Don’t get me wrong, we had lots of fun in the boat.  The kids tubed behind it, we caught lots of salmon and other fish, but it just wasn’t convenient and leaving it in the water over the summer would mean paying for dock space.  When the kids stopped showing interest in fishing with Dad, I parked it and didn’t register it any more.  I swore off bigger boats and returned to the convenience and ease of a small aluminum boat that could be easily slid up and down the beach.  My wife and I enjoy an occasional (if not often enough) troll for bass.  Life was good.  Boating was easy.  I was finally smart.....at least until...

Against my better judgement, last fall I purchased a 1975 Slickcraft ss240 sport sedan boat.  24 ft of luxury that was sitting on a trailer along the side of the road begging for me to dicker on it.  A solid boat, well-constructed, with a nice cabin and a 233hp Mercruiser stern drive, it was in need of a bit of TLC due to having sat for the last 6 years and some minor damage to the outdrive.

I dickered back and forth with the owner and after not reaching an agreement, walked away.  Two days later, he looked me up and accepted what was my final offer from the dickering session.  Like a damn fool, I figured I got a good deal.  What I should have realized is that I got a “good deal” of work.

I started last fall with the initial cleanup and assessment and continued this spring/early summer in my spare moments.  I pumped 80 gallons of stale, yellow turpentine smelling gasoline from the 100 gallon tank.  I fabricated and installed a “prosthetic” cavitation plate out of stainless steel to repair the one that had been broken when the previous owner had backed it into a post in the shed he stored it in.  I changed all the fluids, repaired the hydraulics on the power trim, replaced some wiring that the mice had enjoyed at some point and between my wife and myself, scrubbed 6 years of grime off the boat.  I installed a new bilge pump and spent a number of hours rebuilding the carburetor and getting the engine running.  I put $300 worth of premium fuel and additive in the tank.  I ran the engine on land with a garden hose for almost two hours.  I verified the operation of all the electronics.  I installed a 9.9hp “kicker” outboard and I broke down and made arrangements for dock space so I could leave the boat in the water and thereby have some reasonable hope of actually using it this year.

The time was here!  Time to put it back in the water!  Early Saturday morning and my wife and I went to the launch ramp.  In the water it went.  Not as easy as I would like, but who cares?  It’s going to stay in the water for the rest of the summer, right?  Engine starts right up and runs pretty good although because of some missed grime in the carb, it wants to die every time I shift into gear.  I turn the idle speed up and plan to take it out and run the hell out of it to hopefully dislodge whatever varnish is causing my idling issue.  Out on the lake I go, planning to make a couple of loops of the harbor and then bringing it into the dock where my wife will be waiting to help me tie up.  No sooner do I get out of the harbor and on the open lake, and I am going in circles as the steering has failed.  The engine is running nice, but I am stuck.  The wind is blowing out of the south and I am drifting further out into the lake.  I drop an anchor to assess the situation and determine the problem is in the gimble ring of the stern drive and I have no way of fixing it where I am (in spite of a toolbox full of tools).  The kicker motor steering is accomplished through a linkage to the stern drive, so in order to use it to get back would mean dangling over the stern and hoping I was steering in the right direction.  I have paddles on board, but with the wind, that would be a losing battle in a boat this size.  What the fuck was I thinking when I bought this monstrosity that has now left me sitting?  Did I mention too that Beulah was along for the ride, now drift?

I am anchored in about 70 ft of water about ½ mile off shore, still scratching my head and coming to the conclusion that the best solution is to simply swim in to shore, walk to the truck go home and get my aluminum boat and outboard and tow myself in.  This is not such a dire situation; thank God, that I need to use the radio to call for help.  I have called my wife’s cell a number of times, but she does not answer and I am guessing that she has probably left it on the kitchen table and is at this moment standing on the dock wondering just what the fuck I am doing.

I sit down on the cushioned engine hatch and begin to take off my shoes.  I will have to lock Beulah in the cabin so she does not attempt to swim in with me.  As I am removing my socks, and talking to Beulah, I hear an approaching boat that is slowing down.  I look up and see the familiar stance of my Dad in the boat.  He and an old buddy have gone out fishing and luckily and coincidentally his buddy needed the use of shore facilities and had gone into the harbor where I had launched and were coming back out to return to fishing.  They towed me in.

There is a saying that a boat is simply a hole in the water that an idiot throws money into.  This is a completely accurate and true statement.  I will be paying for the tow for a long time to come.

Incidentally, I repaired the gimble ring and put the boat back in the water the next day and my wife and I enjoyed a nice cruise and it is now sitting at the dock as originally intended.  All is well…..for now.

I keep eyeing my aluminum boat and thinking to myself how foolish I actually am.

Karlie's First Snake

 

 

Not particularly interesting to you and me, but Karlie found it fascinating.

 

 

 

and of course Beulah shows interest too, although she has seen plenty of snakes.