Poem: "A Visit from Santy Claus" or "A Redneck's Christmas"

A Visit from Santy Claus

By

Harold Anderson

(With apologies to Clement Moore)

It was the night afore Christmas

And all through the shack

Everybody was crashed out –

From the front to the back.

Everyone’s over-hauls hung from their own nail

No Santy this year –

I’d jist got otta jail.

The young’uns asleep on the floor and the chairs,

Maw and me on the mattress in the bedroom upstairs

She in her flannel nighty, and me in long-Johns,

When thar came a loud ruckus from the muddy front lawn!

I unbolted the front door and peeked through a crack,

And what I saw just took me aback!

The night was cold and clear as a bell

The moon was full, so I could see quite well

The moonlight sparkled on the grass wet with dew

When, from over the pines, a mule-wagon flew!

It was a beautiful conveyance –

John Deere green and red,

The spokes were varnished hickory,

And presents filled the bed.

The fat whiskered driver’s Carharts  was red, and galluses, green

His team was eight sleek mules –

Powerful and lean!

He made a bee-line for the barn

And landed with a “plop,”

But the lathing was rotten,

So he caved in the top!

He jumped from the roof

And landed on his feet –

Right in a dung-pile, about a foot deep!

With his tow-sack o’er his shoulder,

He slogged through the mud,

Over to the shack, and thar he stood

All perplexed, looking for the chimley,

But we didn’t have none!

He wouldn’t fit in the stove pipe,

‘Cause it was too small,

So he climbed in the back winder,

And floated down the halls!

I was ‘bout to shoot him for a burglar,

Then I knowed who he was – the Great Santy Claus!

He took a chaw of Red Man

And went straight to his chore:

Thar, on the water-shelf by the front door

He left apples and oranges and

Raisins on the stem,

Peppermint candy, and a box of Slim-Jims!

Everybody got gloves and a pair of warm sox.

He left a sack of dried beans –

And a smoked ham-hock!

He looked in his tow-sack,

But thar warn’t no more,

So he kissed all the chillens,

And sneaked out the front door.

He floated to his wagon, laughed with good cheer,

And said to his mules, “Giddy-up, let’s get outta here!

On Leroy and Willie and Jim-Bob and Claude

On Sally and Tamara and Shemeka and Maude!”

As he drove down the lane with a “Clippity-clop,”

He shouted, “Don’t worry ‘bout the barn –

I’ll send Mrs. Claus to shore up the top!”

December Second

A dreary moisture-laden day,

Earth-bound clouds that foundered

On the melancholy hope of man

And spilled their soggy cargo

(The spoil of summer past)

In an intermittent drip

Across the autumn-faded land.

Harold Anderson

Dec.2, 2014

A November Song

By

Harold Anderson

A somber-golden faded has-been;

The ruin of summer, pregnant air;

A rippled-dimpled silent sunrise --

A visual symphony,

 November’s song.

 Fall Day at the Cabin

By Harold Anderson

Dead leaves rattle on a gun-metal gray day;

The black-silver pond skin shimmy shivers

 in the wet wind;

Green-white hangers-on in the

Brown-blight woodland.

Sunlight shoots through

The wind-rift cloud drift

To spotlight a pear bright

In blaze and purple hue.

An Idiots Guide to Gardening

By

Harold Anderson

In the waning days of summer,

In the drought days of September,

With the searing pain of shingles,

Armed with mower and with a tiller

I attacked the grassy tangle

Of the tired and spent remainder

Of my summer garden.

I planted seeds in beds of dust,

Thinking it was just

A day or two until the rain –

But none came.

The weather guessers guessed at rain-

But they missed their guess again, and again, and again.

No need to fret and hate,

But rather to accept my fate –

And irrigate.

I approached my kinked and tangles hose,

Over where the high grass grows

And for weeks,

It had lain unused in vain.

I bent over and

OH THE PAIN, THE PAIN,

MY BACK! THE PAIN!

On hands and knees, I dragged the hose

To where the male end goes

Into the fitting of the Rainbird.

Now the Rainbird sang its watery song –

“Ka-shup, ka-sup, shuba, shuba, shuba –

Every day – some days all day long

Now, there it was, finally, at last:

Tiny seedlings:

Mustard, turnips, kale and blades of grass, and grass and grass

I couldn’t bend over, so I squatted or sat on my, uh, britches

And thinned the plants and pulled the grass –

Laborious work, but worth it all

Nothing’s quite as good as greens in fall!

Blow the horn, I’ve conquered all!

Remember the Alamo!

Remember the Maine!

I’ve preservered over drought and pain!

Shingles were bad, back surgery worse,

But no, CALL AN AMBULANCE, NO A HERSE!

I thought I’d won –

Had climbed that hill,

But OH MY GOSH –

It’s the big one! I’m coming ‘Lizbeth,

I just saw my water bill!

POEMS

Split-Pea Soup

After Supper, start with lots of

little-bitty, green and gritty,

hard and tasteless

dried split peas.

Put them in a big black pot.

Soak them till they’re plump and tender.

Likely as not,

it’ll take about a week.

Then add the other ingredients:

salt, pepper, smoky ham, garlic, celery, okra, leeks –

and a can of Campbell’s consommé.

Bring to a boil, and simmer for a

night and a day,

until the broth is thick and hearty,

smooth with chunks of ham and peas

in lumps like stepping stones in a

gentle brook.

now, for that old-fashioned gamey taste:

throw in a golf ball or a boot –

a shoe will do.

(I added two).

Look at what a feast I made!

“yumm, have some?”

I asked my adoring, doting wife

as I ladled up a bowl of pure delight,

to eat with crunchy crackers, crisp

pickles and cold iced tea.

She took a tender morsel,

closed her eyes, and leaned

back in gastronomic ecstasy!

Teen-aged Laura said

she liked that gamey flavor best

Now for the acid test:

ten-year-old-I-won’t-eat-anything-Heather

“Yuk!” she said. “What are you trying to do?”

That stuff looks vile,

like green algae and bile and

caterpillar stew!

I’m not gonna eat that.

No sir! Not in a pig’s eye!

And if you try to make me

I’ll tell all your poker-playing buddies

That you write poetry on the sly!”

“Heather, dear, have another slice of pizza?”

Harold Anderson

April 18, 1990

Tough Love

Two white baby rabbits, evicted from Eden,

lay dead in the bottom of the cage,

while their thin, gray mother nursed fat gray others,

unconcerned in their gray-furred haven, but one.

Half gray, pushed away,

he soon joined the fate of his non-gray brothers.

Weak from birthing too soon twice,

with a hard decision to make,

she did what she had to,

to continue the gray-rabbit race.

Harold Anderson,

April 18, 1990

King of the Step-Sitters

He drove a forty-nine Ford,

and brought bags of penny candy

home at a quarter-till-six.

I was King of the Step-Sitters – crumpled brown scepter –

                doling out favors,

like a red-neck politician paving  driveways for votes.

To keep, or share? I chose

the choice of greater pleasure!

Five lonely Tootsie Rolls can’t compare

to sweetness savored

with chocolate-drooling subjects

in my arbor-vitae kingdom by the street,

where sheet-lightning

and fire-flies flickered,

while hyenas picked their teeth

with bones of their victims.

he was an old-fashioned strong man –

never said, “Son, I love you.”

but why else

would he make me

prince of the Twilight,

king of the Step-Sitters?”

Santa’s Garden:  A Circle Poem

SANTA CLAUS!

CHRISTMAS!

w i n t e r.

SPRING!

PLANTING!

SPROUTING!

beans,

peas,

tomatoes,

                grow

                                so

                                                s  l  o  w.

                                low.

TALL!

JOHNSON GRASS!

BERMUDA GRASS!

THORNS!

THISTLES!

hoe,

hoe,

hoe.

Harold Anderson

January 22, 1990

WORDWORKER

A poet is like a cabinetmaker

building from a stack of words.

he carefully selects, hefts, sights down for true

and rejects all but a few whose integrity is exact.

he rummages through his shrinking stock

of wood-(words), edge-matching subtle grain of meaning,

so the whole of many will flow in smooth transition,

or repeat itself in book-matched glory.

at the builder’s discretion, he might up-end a board,

and (for reasons of his own), without permission, change direction!

With the cutting edge of his chisel-sharp mind

he pares down just to the scribe-line,

then try-fits dovetails of intermeshing ideas

and lifts the whole to the light of scrutiny.

Skilled eyes search for a glimmer of doom

among the sockets and pins.

no chink-fault found,

he pounds them it, wood-welding a single unit,

Inseperable.

Now’s the time to find and fix or start again,

lest some (successful) self-serving critic casts

discredit upon the craftsman’s skill!

On worst still, flaw-finding ideology’s

prying tugs will reveal an unseen weakness,

and the (lofty) faulty structure, made to last forever,

will fail.

Harold Anderson

March 28, 1990

THOUGHTS OF A 22-YEAR-OLD CAT

A ball of kitten playing ball

with a ball of yarn:

A thought?

or bubbles of memories that rise

To the top and pop?

The Shadow knows,

and goes on with the chore

 of reminiscing about prime time

that begin more than a score

of years ago.  He thinks

of battles fought and victories sweet;

females in heat;

cat-naps napped on his masters’ laps;

blood and gore;

the joy of the hunt: the thrill of the kill;

wild yearnings stirred and stilled

by the bloody, sweet mouse-meat meals.

The broken mainspring of his mind

Unwinds time –

Now,

he silently, stealthfully, skillfully steals

through dew-wet grass and mouse-marked

hay of moon-flooded fields.

Once again,

he gently, quietly, lifts each paw in

rhythem and rhyme,

Flowing ever closer, then just in time,

HE’LL POUNCE!

upon an ounce

of unsuspecting mouse

and in wild abandon taunt and kill

in a comatose sleep.

His masters weep.

Soon the gentle needle’s peaceful prick

will send his soul-less soul away,

(or so the learned preachers say)

to cold, dark, quiet

oblivion.

King of the Stepsitters

In Memory of My Father, Bardie Harlis Anderson

He Drove a ’49 Ford

And brought bags of penny candy

Home at a quarter till six.

I was King of the Stepsitters!

Crumpled brown septer

Dolling out favors,

Like a red-neck politician paving drive-ways for votes.

To keep or share?

I chose the choice of greater pleasure!

Five lonely Tootsie Rolls can’t compare

 To sweetness savored

With chocolate-drooling subjects

In my Arbor-Vitae Kingdom By the Street,

Where sheet-lightning and fire-flies flickered

And hyenas picked their teeth with

Bones of their victims!

He was an old-fashioned strong man

Never said “Son, I love you,”

But why else would he make me

Prince of the Twilight,

King of the Stepsitters?

Musings:  Wildman Wiley the Gunfighter; Rocking and Swatting, and the Bleak Future of Little Country Churches

I am a person of little intelligence and few talents, but I am blessed with quick hands.  When I was in elementary school I took violin lessons for three years.  I liked to play the presto pieces like The Flight of the Bumblebee. If I had been born in 1847 instead of 1947, I would have probably been an Old West gunfighter

Yessir, I can just see it now:  Wildman Wiley: that’s what they would call me because all good gunfighters had a nickname.  Wiley was a perfectly acceptable name in the 1800’s.  I have probably told you I looked it up on the internet and found it peaked in popularity in 1890 – when it was something like the 25^th most popular male name in the US – and has been falling out of favor ever since. I am the last of a long line of Wileys.  Anyway, there I stand in the dusty cow-town street clad in my white hat, polished boots, fringed chaps and yoked shirt with pearl buttons. With his back against mine, stands the villain Black Bart, clad in (what else) black. All of the citizens are hiding behind rain barrels and upturned furniture for protection from the lead that was about to fly.

The only other person present is calling the cadence. Black Bart and I walk in opposing directions as he counts out the paces.  At the count of “ten” we turn. No one sees my gun hand move, yet the crack of a .45 resounds in the street, and flames and smoke erupt form my person.  My holstered pistol is still smoking.  Black Bart’s hand instantly flies to the .45 caliber-sized hole in his forehead, dead center between eyes, and blood oozes between his fingers as he melts to the ground, dead, but with the look of stunned surprise on his still open but lifeless eyes.

I walk over to Black Bart, spit a stream of “Bull of the Woods” juice onto his ugly, dead face, and then kick dust onto him.  Townspeople rush from hiding and exclaim, “Wildman Wiley has killed Black Bart!  Our town is now safe for civilized people.  Three cheers for Wildman Wiley:  Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, Hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!”  In response, I would just scuff the dirt with the toe of my boot and say, “Shucks, t’weren’t nothing.” But the crowd would hoist me onto their shoulders and proclaim me sheriff by acclimation.

Yep, that is the way it would have been, if I were not born out of time.  As it is, I have to wreck my vengeance on flies.

I hate, detest, abhor (and any other synonym you can think of) flies.  They are annoying.  Try to sit on the porch and read on a fine summer day, and a fly will buzz around your face and pester the stew out of you.  And they are filthy vermin.  That fly that just lit on your sandwich probably had his last meal from a pile of dog excrement. I hate flies.

Shane, my son-in-law, thinks he is hot stuff because he can shoot them on the wing with a rubber band.  Ha! Where’s the challenge?  He is armed.  That is no better than using one of those new-fangled fly pistols that shoot salt.  I am strictly a bare-handed man. I just reach out and pluck one from the air and slam him to the floor so his filthy little body burst asunder.  If that does not do the trick, I grind him with my boot heel until the gore seeps around the edges.  If I am feeling especially sporting, I won’t catch the entire fly:  I will just pluck off a wing as he flies by, so that he cork-screws to the ground like a helicopter with a broken tail rotor, where he will continue to turn tight little circles on the floor until I dispatch him in the afore-mentioned fashion.

Sometimes, a fly will have the audacity to land near me.  If it is behind my hand, I simple dispatch him with a quick backhand flick.  If he lands on the wall in front of me, I cup my hand and smash it over him with such force that the concussion makes mush of his brains and they ooze out his ears.  Likewise, if one lands on the table in front of me, I cup both hands on either side and bring them together with such speed and force that I concussion-kill the fly before he even knows what hit him – and my hands never touch the filthy beast.  Sometimes, just for sport, I will cock my middle finger under my thumb, sneak upon the unsuspecting creature and thump him so hard that he will fly across the room and smack into a wall and slide down to the floor.  Guess what happens next!  I hate flies.

I think I get my fly-killing ability from Cook  Anderson, he was deadly with a fly flap.  He had plenty of opportunity to practice his craft, for his hog-pen was just across the road from the front porch of his house.  On a fine summer day, especially if the wind was blowing from the direction of the hog pen, Cook would sit in his front-porch rocking chair, fly flap in hand and have at it. The dead bodies would mound up around him.

I am sure the parishioners at Fairfield Baptist Church, right next to his hog pen, cheered him on. Many prayers ended with “And may Cook’s aim be true.”

Fairfield Baptist Church was a beautiful white clapboard building – a true Southern classic -- until the congregation became prosperous and bricked it up.  Now it is just one more non-descript brick building.  The folks at Soule’s Chapel Methodist did better.  They applied white vinyl siding to their building. I suspect my Aunt Emily Lou had something to do with it. She was from “up-north.”  She married my Uncle Johnnie and moved south and quickly adapted to Southern ways and was much loved in the community, She was a bit eccentric, but remained a gracious lady who appreciated such impractical things as beauty and tradition. She donated the church bell because she said “Every church should have a bell.” The church retained its character and the vinyl saved on painting, but, alas, the congregation died off and moved away until so few were left they shuttered the doors.  It is today a deserted and silent sentinel, guarding the graveyard where rest the bones of my ancestors. Yet, Fairfield Baptist thrives.  There never were as many Methodists in the community as Baptists.  I guess it was just easier for the Methodists to lose their critical mass. Families of those buried in the graveyard formed an association, accept donations and pledge to maintain it.

The Mississippi countryside is dotted with abandoned little churches that stagger, blind and broken-backed, across the landscape.  They served their purpose in the day when labor-intensive row crops were common, farms were small and families were large. For a while, young families were moving out into the country, fleeing decaying cities, but they maintained their association with larger churches, which have more programs to offer.  Now, sociologist tell us the demographics are changing, with more people choosing to rebuild inner cities to, one again, make them safe and convenient – bad news for the remaining little country churches.

When Cook and Appie died, the family sold the “old home place” and divided the proceeds.  Hurricane Katrina uprooted the big red oak and it fell smack across the house, crushing the roof.  I figured that was the end of it, but somehow the owner got the tree off and repaired the house.  I am told they are Hispanic. They enclosed the front porch where Cook happily wiled away summer Sunday afternoons rocking and swatting.  The old house now looks like a cracker-box, with a new roof, placed end-wise on the lot.

Many churches in Laurel were abandoned as neighborhoods sank into decay, but have reopened with Spanish names.  It sure would be nice if some of the new residents of Rainey Community, with names like “Gomez” would buy the old building while it is still usable, give it a Spanish name, and restore it to its intended use.

I fear the worst.  It will probably be vandalized, the windows broken and roof will begin to leak.  The old building, that once resounded to the urgent pleas of a country pastor to come forward and receive Jesus as the little choir raised to heaven the plaintive notes of “Just as I am,” will slowly return to the dust from which it came and only foundation stones and an abandoned cemetery will mark this as once-sanctified ground.

R.I.P., Soule’s Chapel United Methodist Church.

Musings.  Some Things Should Be Standardized (Part 1 – Cars). I Save my Car From Suicide – and Regret it, the Perfect Vehicle and I Learn Not to Press a Button With a Nuclear Mushroom Icon on it.

Some people are never satisfied; when the perfect widget comes along, they just can’t let it be: They have to keep tinkering with it.  The case in point:  The 1987 Chevrolet Silverado pickup truck. No one ever made a better truck and no one ever will.  The more they try, the more they screw it up.

I am a General Motors man – cars and trucks.  When it comes to trucks there are but two:  Chevrolet and GMC.  I wasn’t always that way:  my father was a Ford man.  He had two heroes:  Franklin D. Roosevelt and Henry Ford.  When I was a kid, I thought God’s middle name was Henry Ford.  But then I grew up and learned to think for myself.

My first car was a 1957 Plymouth Belvedere, which my father bought for $800 when I was in college in  1967.  It was two-toned blue over gray.  He repainted it with a brush, and did an amazingly good job.  He used to repaint gasoline pumps and signs when he worked for Standard Oil.  Here is his secret:  Use oil-based paint; be sure you get the surface perfectly clean and have two brushes and two buckets ready:  one filled with mineral spirits and the other with paint.  Paint a small section with mineral spirits, and while it is still wet, apply paint with the other brush.  The mineral spirits on the metal will thin out the paint enough that it will flatten out the brush marks and leave a smooth surface. 

The Plymouth had head-high tail fins, a 318 V-eight engine and a push-button transmission.  Yep, three buttons in a row to the left of the steering wheel:  one for drive, one for reverse and one for park.  Nineteen-fifties Americans were obsessed with push-buttons. The radio and air conditioner were manual – you sang to yourself and rolled down a window.  It was the only decent Chrysler-made vehicle I have been associated with. (I know, I know, all you purist: I ended that sentence with a preposition, but doesn’t that sound better than “with which I have been associated?”)

When I started to work for the Forestry Commission my work area had Ford, Dodge and Chevrolet (or GMC) trucks and John Deere and International-Harvester crawler tractors (small bulldozers).  I quickly learned that GM trucks and cars and John Deere tractors are far superior.  Now, dear reader, if you have not yet discovered that fact and drive another brand, don’t get mad at me.  You are entitled to your wrong opinion just as I am entitled to my right one.

The first new car I bought was a 1969 Camaro.  It was metal-flake blue with black racing stripes and hound’s-tooth upholstery.  What a car!  When Paula and I got married, she had a 1970 Plymouth Scamp, which was the same thing as a Dodge Dart – the brothers from hell. I sold the Camaro and used the money to pay off the Scamp.  I will say one thing for the Scamp:  It improved my spiritual life.  Every time I started somewhere in the thing I prayed that it would make it and when it invariably broke down, in those pre-cell phone days, I prayed someone would stop and give me a lift. The miserable little thing once tried to commit suicide. I had rented a house in the country near DeKalb and the car was parked beside the house, without even the key in it.  Paula got into it the next morning; it was full of soot and nothing worked.  I opened the hood and found that all the wiring had melted.  I should have seized the opportunity, doused it in gasoline and set it ablaze, but no, silly me: I had it towed to the dealer in Meridian for repairs.

This particular dealer once ran for Governor and was defeated and Nixon finally appointed him undersecretary of transportation. I think he was in charge of Amtrak, which probably explains why it has never made a profit.  If he was as big a liar as his shop foreman, he was probably responsible for the downfall of that administration.  How often did I hear:  “Yep, we will have it ready next Tuesday!” After about six months of waiting for that pie-in-the-sky-great-and-mighty Tuesday that never came, I finally just picked up the car and paid him for the work he had done and drove it with an incomplete wiring system.  The wires that fed the little side lights on the rear was never installed, but I did not need them anyway.

I had to deal with some Chrysler vehicles the Forestry Commission bought on low bid, and they were about as dependable as the Scamp.  But I never bought another one – and never will.  Now friends, I do not have anything against Chrysler Motor Company or you people who own their products (may God have mercy on you).  Even though many people claim the company has turned around, and swear by their vehicles, especially pick-up trucks (yeah, right), my religion prevents me from buying one:  I promised God that if I ever got rid of the Scamp, I would never buy another Chrysler product.  After more than 40 years, I have kept that promise. Don’t mess over me.  I have a long memory.

And then there was the Ford pick-up I bought. What a piece of junk! I had a 1974 six-cylinder Chevrolet pickup that I used to haul huge loads and to pull a 21 ft. sailboat all over the state.  In 1989, the Chevy had 150,000 miles on it, and I decided to replace it. I kept an open mind and looked at Fords as well as Chevrolets. I found a beautiful 1983 Ford with low miles and the price was right.  It was white with red trim, red velour seat covers and actually had air-conditioning (my old truck did not). I bought it and regretted the purchase immediately. It had the power of a ’63 VW bus, the muffler of a pulpwood truck and the dependability of a Yugo. I finally sold it for medical reasons:  My thumb got frost bitten from standing on the roadside beside the dead Ford trying to hitch a ride.

Now I know some of my extreme right-wing friends are mad at G.M. because they got into a bind when they made too many concessions to the unions and took a government bail-out and they deride them as “Government Motors.” And, some of my left wing friends deride them because they are made in America, and they hate America and American-made products. Come on, give them a break.  How can you not like a company that gave us the ’53 Corvette,’55 Bell Air, the ’57 Chevy with the roomy back seat in which about half of the babies of the era (maybe even you, dear reader) were conceived, the Cadillac Coupe Deville, the Astrovan (the best family all-around vehicle ever made) and the pinnacle of automotive achievement – the 1987 Silverado Pick-up Truck!

Perhaps the greatest day in my automotive life was that day in 1993 when I traded the Ford in on a 1987 Chevrolet Silverado.  Friends, that was in the day when Silverado meant something.  Now, Chevy sticks the “Silverado” label on just any old truck.  But back then, it was top of the line. It was beautiful – short wheel base, red over gray, twin tail pipes and chrome everywhere.  The interior was plush – deep floor carpets and velvet seat covers and head-liner. It had COLD air conditioning and an A.M. AND F.M. radio.  The controls were prefect:  The cruise control was on the end of the turn signal “stalk,” just where it should be, the horn was in the middle of the wheel, just where it should be, the radio controls were perfect – the volume knob on the left with the tenor-bass ring around it and the tuner on the right with the balance ring around it, and a row of pre-set station buttons under the radio, just where they should be. Temperature control consisted of three slide levers – a three-position vertical lever on the left that controlled the fan speed, with two horizontal slide controls centered under the radio:  the one on top controlled the temperature -- cold to the left and hot to the right with variables between.  The one below that was the air mix control – dash vents to the left and floor vents to the right, with again, variables between. It was just like it should be

The truck was just the right height – high enough that it did not hydroplane every time it hit a puddle, and low enough that you could stand on the ground and reach anywhere in the bed. It had two fuel tanks – one on each side, so you could fuel from either side of the truck. The 87 Silverado was just right in all respects. It was convenient, comfortable, powerful, efficient, a joy to drive and beautiful.

Compare this to the 1995 Ford Van the Forestry Commission assigned me.  Some dufus decided to put all the controls on the steering wheel!  There were two cruise-control buttons on the left side of the steering wheel – one to increase speed and the other to decrease speed.  There were two buttons on the right side of the steering wheel.  One was the horn and the one below that was the cruise control set/disconnect button.  Think about this: It took both hands to operate the cruise control and you had to remember that one of those buttons that looked just like a cruise control button, and was mounted only millimeters above it, was the horn. Every time a deer ran in front of me instead of blowing the horn, I set the cruise control, which probably accounts for the nick-name my co-workers gave the van:  Deer Slayer.

I semi-retired the ‘87 Silverado and bought an ’09 Silverado.  Compared to the opulence of the ’87, this one is pretty plane-Jane, and not nearly as convenient or comfortable.  For one thing, it is so high off the ground that you have to use a step-stool to reach anything in the bed. The radio controls are a mess – where the volume control should be is a small button with “!” on it.  I never have figured out what that thing is for.  The actual volume control is a great big hulking thing about the size and design of a pint fruit-jar lid that is positioned directly above an identical fruit jar lid that is the fan speed control, so every time I want some more air the radio blares, and vice versa.

My wife drives a 2011 Yukon.  You should see the controls on that thing: It looks like the console of the Spaceship Enterprise! Both sides of the steering wheel are chock-full of gizmos (even worse than the Ford van). Everything on the left has something to do with the cruise control and we have no idea what all that stuff on the right is.  There are no words – just icons, and one of them looks like a missile, and another like a nuclear mushroom-cloud. We are afraid to touch them. At least the horn is in the middle (I think). And all those knobs and buttons on the dash!  Some have plus signs, and some have minus signs, some have what looks like a ship’s propeller with an up or down arrow, and some look like a seated stick figure with up and down arrows.  Oh my!  My wife is the “techie” one of the family, and even she has not figured them out and she has had the vehicle for more than two years!

Some things just need to be standardized.  I say let’s start with automobile controls – and copy the 1987 Chevrolet Silverado pick-up truck.  They just don’t get any better than that.

You know, I think I will sell the 2009 pick-up and use the money (along with a chunk of my savings) to restore my baby.

  

Life Lessons 2 Things I Learned in My Wood Shop

1.       When you need a pencil, you will have a pen.

2.       There is no such thing as a wood stretcher.

3.       Oak is beautiful, but it is hard to work with.

4.       Dull tools are much more like to hurt you than sharp ones.  Take time to sharpen.

5.       You can’t build a decent frame if your miters are not precise.

6.       A project will take three times as long and cost twice as much as you estimate.

7.       Harbor Freight sells some pretty good cheap tools.

8.       Carbide-steel cutting tools are well worth the extra money.

9.       Don’t measure twice and cut once; measure four times and cut once.

10.   Be prepared to ruin some lumber.

11.   There is such a thing as having too much scrap lumber.

12.   Engineers cannot write tool assembly instructions – especially Chinese ones.

13.   Your likelihood of making a miss-cut is directly proportional to the cost of the board.

14.   A shop floor made from particle board will eventually cave in.

15.   A wood heater is a good way to dispose of your scraps.

16.   Sawdust makes good mulch.

17.   Medical science has made great progress in reattaching severed fingers.

18.   You can get splinters in your hand by stroking a pet board.

19.   Do not hold your hand behind a ½ inch board when air-shooting a 1 inch nail.

20.   Never allow grandsons in your shop.

Life Lessons One

1.       Never pick up a container by the lid.

2.       Never argue with your wife, compass, mirror or gas gauge.

3.       Smell milk before you drink it – regardless of the expiration date.

4.       If you can’t afford it, don’t buy it.

5.       Don’t buy a vehicle unless it is made my General Motors.

6.       Vote Republican.

7.       Don’t talk politics or religion with a stranger  -- or even a friend that you don’t know REAL well.

8.       Some people are just jerks, and there is nothing you can do about it.  Ignore them.

9.       Unplug the iron before you leave on a trip – and take it with you.

10.   Spell check won’t correct all your mistakes.

11.   Don’t proof-read your own writing.

12.   If a lot of money is involved and you have never done it before, hire a professional.

13.   Don’t believe the hype. 

14.   Everything a teen-idol or over-the-hill actor looking for publicity says isn’t true.

15.   It is a lot harder to make money trading commodities that the course says it is.

16.   Your time is worth something.

17.   If your battery will barely crank your car, buy a new one.

18.   Before sitting on the toilet, check for paper – and snakes.

19.   If you buy an electronic combination house door lock, hide a key in the bushes.

20.   Plumbers are not overpaid.

Notes for “On Writing”

I like to read – all kinds of stuff: novels, short stories, long stories, newspapers, magazines, catalogues, dialogues and monologues, but not, too much, blogs (unless they are the ones I write);  happy stuff, sad stuff, funny stuff (especially), inspirational stuff, self-improvement stuff (Lord, how I need that!), poignant stuff – and poetry.

 I even like to read assembly instructions written by Chinese engineers for stuff that comes in a box in a jillion pieces that they expect you put together.  I read it just for laughs, not to actually figure out how to do it.

“ Please to remove part ‘A’ from plastic bag, which has number 1, which nice people at factory have labeled to make your convenience, and tight with All wrench.  Now, please to remove part 2 from bag that is same and insert into hole that is diameter of 3 mm -- as if I had a clue what a 3 mm hole looks like – and to make tight it with application of thread tool.”

 These are actual instruction from a planer I bought from Penn State Tool Company that, obviously, was not made in Pennsylvania.  I was doing pretty well until I started looking for an All wrench and thread tool.  I had neither of these esoteric devices in my shop, so I went to Lowe’s to buy them.  The sales clerk gave me a funny look.  I had the same result at every other hardware store in town. I was about to give up, but as I read further through the instructions, I found a photo of a man assembling the parts actually using an All wrench and thread tool.  “All” was the Chinese engineer’s abbreviation for “Allen,” so he was referring to an Allen wrench, and a thread tool was a screwdriver! Of course.

With that information (and those tools) in hand, I assembled the planer without too much more trouble.  It only took three days.

A lady once asked me to name my favorite author.  I was caught off guard and answered with a very intelligent sounding “duh…”.  I like a lot of authors and could not come up with just one.  I used to gobble up every new book Stephen King wrote.  I read “The Body” (It was made into a movie and renamed “Stand by Me”) so many times I could quote passages.  And I think “The Stand” is the greatest novel of the modern English era.  But then he delved into deep fantasy, beginning with “The Dark Tower” series, and lost me.

Now that I have had time to think about it, I would probably have answered, “Mark Twain.” If you have never read Twain beyond “Tom Sawyer” and “Huckleberry Finn” because you were assigned them in High School, you are missing a treat.  I picked up a copy of “The Complete Short Stories of Mark Twain” at a book sale.  It is a big book with very small print that would, now, trouble these old eyes.  Paula and I read some of the stories together and just howled.  “Agricultural Economics” is one of the funniest things I have ever read.  It has nothing to do with either Agriculture or Economics.  Try to find  and read it.  Trust me, you will love it.

And I like to write.

There are only 26 letters in the English language