Friday, July 15, 2016
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 25th 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
An Idiot’s Day
An idiotic plan goes
awry, a run-away trailer, an excuse to buy new lawn equipment and I become a
momentary lapsed Baptist.
Experience is a dear
school,
And fools learn in no
other –
Benjamin Franklin
Have you ever had just one
of those days where everything went right?
Me
neither, and this past Saturday was certainly not one of them. Actually, this tale begins on Friday.
For
those of you unfamiliar with these tales, let me set the stage: I live in a 1960’s ranch house in Philadelphia,
MS, and I own a couple other pieces of property: an 85 acre tree farm in two parcels: a
40-acre parcel nine miles south of town and a 45 acre tract five miles east of
town in the Spring Creek Community and a 2 ½ acre lot about a mile north of the
house. The Spring Creek property contains a small pond and a cabin, where we
spend a good bit of time. I plant woods
roads, powerline right-of-ways and a small opening in rye grass, just in case
the local deer desire a snack. The fact
that much of this is within a gunshot of a deer stand, where I spend hours with
a loaded rifle in the winter, is immaterial.
I just have a tender heart and cannot stand the idea of my deer going
hungry.
I have a rather large
garden on the 2 ½ acre lot. A
description of the lot is germane to this tale, so I proceed. It is in an old pasture of a defunct dairy
farm (40-60 acres). The land is hilly,
and the remnants of old farm terraces follow the contours. On my lot, they are about 20 feet apart, with
the land between fairly level. I have
five garden plots and a small orchard between the terraces. The developer
allows a local farmer to cut hay from the undeveloped portions of the
pasture. He cuts much of my lot, but I
mow my little orchard and around the garden plots and storage shed with a
riding mower.
“All the above makes perfect sense,” you might say, but
wait. The idiocy begins: In spite of a
cold, wet spring, I got my garden in, to a large extent, by starting seeds in
my little greenhouse and transplanting to the garden. Knowing that hot, dry
weather is not far off, I felt a need to mulch my plants, and thought about all
that rye grass at the tree farm that is now knee high. If only that grass was cut
and delivered to the garden! But it wasn’t. Being a lazy person, I sought an
easy way to do it, and, being an idiot, I formulated a plan that seemed
perfectly logical to me but was doomed to fail.
I would bush-hog the grass, pick it up with the lawn-sweep I
pull behind my lawn mower, load it into my utility trailer and haul it to the
garden. What a plan! Not bad for an idiot, I thought.
I hooked up the bush-hog to my trusty John Deere tractor and
attacked the grass, cutting a little, but simply flailing most of it about,
since the blades are seriously dull and I am too lazy to sharpen them. Oh well, I figured, after a while, I have
enough to rake. I commenced to drive the
lawn sweep through the half-cut-half-beaten-down hay. It went about ten feet and started skidding;
the wheels refused to turn. I got off
the lawn mower to take a look and quickly discovered that the long stalks of
hay were wound about the mechanism, which was designed to pick up grass
trimmings. I got out my pocket knife and
cut away the tangled mess and tried it again – with the same results; then again
– still with the same results. I thought
about Einstein’s remark that insanity is trying the same thing over and over
and expecting different results, so I proceeded to plan “B” – I raked the hay
into piles with a garden rake, exchanged my bush-hog for the utility trailer
and drove among the hay piles, getting up and down, up and down, repeatedly,
from the tractor to load the trailer.
That accomplished, I had to get the mower and lawn sweep to
the barn – but driving it back through the machinery-clogging hay did not seem
like a good idea, so I unhitched the sweep from the mower and wrestled the
heavy, ungainly thing on top of my hay. I drove the tractor and hay trailer
back to the barn, walked back to the lawn mower, and drove it, too, to the
barn.
I hitched the hay trailer to my truck, drove it to the
garden, parked it on a level spot between terraces, unhooked and went back for
my lawn mower, since I needed it to mow around the garden and my yard in town.
The only trouble was, I usually haul my mower on the utility trailer, and it
was sitting at the garden, full of hay. But wait, I thought, I have a 16-foot,
twin-axle trailer I use to haul the tractor!
I can haul the lawn mower on that.
I hooked it to the truck, loaded the mower and delivered it to the garden.
I parked it on a level spot (I thought), unhitched it from the truck and rested
the tongue on a large wooden block to level it. It was now late Friday
afternoon, this tired old body had about had it and I figured the fish would be
biting now, and Paula must have supper on the stove. I left my equipment at the
garden and drove back to the cabin, went fishing and caught four 10-pound bass
and ate a lovely 16 oz. filet mignon Paula had cooked to perfection. Just joking.
Actually I caught one bream about as big as two fingers and ate cold
leftover Brussel’s sprouts.
Saturday’s weather forecast called for rain in the
afternoon, so I arose early and got down to business. A few weeds and grass had sprouted in the
garden, so I deemed tilling, while the soil was still dry enough, to be top
priority. My tiller is stored in my
garden shed, which is built on blocks about two feet high.
Now, in addition to being lazy and an idiot, I am cheap. I buy a lot of stuff from a store that
specializes in tools made in places like Forgotenstan and China. A friend refers to it as “China Dock.” The
aluminum ramps I use to access the shed with my wheeled tools came from
there. They were cheap. The little hooks that are supposed to hold
the ramps firmly to the door sill, or pick-up truck bed, are flimsy, but they
always worked fine -- until Saturday. As
I was backing the tiller out of the shed, the hooks on the left ramp gave way
and the tiller lurched dangerously to that side. In an effort to keep it from turning over, I
sprained my left wrist – my dominant hand: the one I eat with. Oh, no!
Once the tiller was safely on the ground, I fired her up and
went to work. It was lovely. The soil was just damp enough to work
well. The freshly churned soil behind
the tiller looked like foam in a ship’s wake. I was having a grand time when, clunk, the right tine came off and the
tiller fell to the ground on the shaft.
I struggled to keep the tiller from lurching to the right and plowing up
that row, and, in the process, strained my right wrist – my back-up eating
hand. I’ll starve, I thought – until I devised
a plan: I’ll dive into my mashed
potatoes head first and scarf them up like Randy in the movie A Christmas Story when he imitated the
little piggies eating. Paula’s going to love that!
The tiller’s tines are held to the shaft by a ¼” by 1 ½”pin
that passes through holes in the tine flange and tiller shaft, and is secured
by a “hairpin” clip inserted through a hole in the end of the pin. The pin was
missing. Evidently the hairpin clip had
vibrated out, allowing the pin to fall out of the hole. With nothing to hold it in place, the tine
fell off. Naturally, I did not have a
spare pin and clip.
I was determined to finish tilling, so I removed the pin from
the tine on the other side to use for an example and headed for “Deals,” a
salvage store that has all kinds of stuff – including pins, clips, etc.
cheap. Upon entering the store, I held
up the sample pin to the counterman and asked, “Do you have a pin and clip like
this?” “Nope,” he replied – “Got the clip but not the pin.”
I decided to try the nearby auto-parts store because I have
seen pins there. I showed the counterman
my sample and asked if he had any like it.
“Yep,” he said, “right over here,” as he walked to a peg board
displaying an assortment of little plastic bags of pins. He removed a
three-pack from the hook and said “This is it.” There were no clips in the
bag. I asked about them and he answered,
“We just sell pins, not clips. You can get
them at Deals,” so I headed back to buy some.
Having secured the necessary parts – plus two spares, I
re-attached the tines and completed tilling without further ado, and began to
tackle the mulching job. I removed the lawn sweep from atop the load of hay and
placed it on the ground right next to my brand-new wheel barrow that I had only
used one time and my push mower, then unloaded the hay and mulched my
plants. The results were beautiful – as
only a well-groomed garden can be.
The only chore left was to mow the grass. I have some long aluminum ramps I use to load
my lawn mower on the trailer. (They are
good ramps – not “el-cheapos” from “China Dock.”) I carefully attached them to the trailer,
being sure they were exactly in line with the lawn mower wheels. I did not want to have a repeat performance
of the tiller incident.
I mounted the mower, cranked her up and started backing down
the ramps. As the mower backed onto the
ramp, a law of physics was enacted. The
weight of your humble cheap and lazy idiot plus the lawn mower created a
see-saw effect and the tongue of the trailer lifted off the block – and started
rolling! I guess the ground was not as
level as I thought, and, no, I did not chock the trailer wheels; I am an idiot,
after all.
“Oh, my gosh, I have got to get off and stop this thing from
rolling” I said to myself as I placed my left foot on the trailer floor. Just
then the trailer rolled far enough that the ramps fell free. The rear of the mower was now entirely
unsupported, so, WHAM, it fell to the floor of the trailer – and onto my left
foot, trapping me, as the trailer picked up speed and I dug my right heel into
the ground to try to stop it – to no avail.
It just picked up speed, dragging me along -- the tongue with attached
trailer hitch and jack leading the way like a battering ram and heading right
for the front door or my garden shed.
“Oh,” uh “fiddlesticks” I said (we Baptists don’t cuss) as I
jumped up and down on the trailer in an effort to steer it away from the
shed. I succeeded! I turned the trailer
– right toward my push mower, lawn sweep and brand-new-only-used-once wheel
barrow. It pushed the lawn mower aside, speared the lawn sweep and crushed it
and the wheel barrow against the corner of the shed. But, at least the run-away trailer had
stopped. I managed to lift the lawn
mower just enough to extract my foot.
Fortunately, I was wearing steel-toed boots instead of my usual tennis
shoes, so I escaped injury.
I tied a rope from my pick-up to the rear of the trailer and
pulled it back to (sort of) level ground and PUT A CHOCK IN FRONT OF THE
WHEELS, then set about trying to
disentangle the remains of the lawn sweep.
Easier said than done. The twisted frame of the sweep was so entangled
in the trailer hitch and jack it was necessary to dis-assemble the sweep. I tried to call Paula to bring some tools,
but the battery of my cell phone was dead.
I walked to a neighbor’s house and solicited his help. He brought his tool box, and the two of us
cleared the wreckage.
I was determined to not be defeated, so I re-installed the
ramps, unloaded the lawn mower and started mowing my grass. Before I got through, a squall line moved
through, blew all the mulch out of my garden, and the ensuing rain washed up
two rows of beans The wet grass clogged up the discharge chute of my mower, so
I shut her down and beat a hasty retreat for shelter, vowing to finish mowing
as soon as the rain passed and the grass dried.
If anyone tells you gardening is boring, send them to me.
Epilogue
These absolutely true
events happened on Saturday. The grass had dried out enough by Tuesday to
finish my mowing. I returned to the
garden, inserted the key into the ignition, turned it and – nothing. I tried it
again and – nothing. Remembering Mr.
Einstein’s statement, I took the obviously dead battery home and put it on the
battery charger for two hours, returned it to the mower and installed it,
turned the key to the “crank” position and – nothing.
I went to the auto-supply store, bought a new battery, took
it to the garden to install it, dropped a nut into the grass and lost it, went
to the house and got another nut, returned to the garden and installed the
battery without further incident.
I climbed onto the seat, turned the key and – nothing. Oh,
how I longed for the days when I was a Methodist so I could give this thing a
good cussing!
I began to think about how to “trouble shoot.” Thinking that
I had bought a bad battery, I held a piece of wire to one battery terminal and
tapped the other end against the opposing terminal and sparks flew. Good battery. “Humm, oh, yes: The ‘dead-man’ switch,” I thought, knowing
that it would prevent the mower from running unless someone was actually
sitting in the seat. I removed the seat,
disconnected the wires, reconnected them, gave everything a good giggling, got
back into the seat, turned the key and – nothing. That is when I saw it. As a
safety feature to protect idiots like me, the mower will not crank when the
blades are engaged. Mine were
engaged. When I ran for shelter during
Saturday’s rainstorm, I forgot to disengage the blades when I shut the mower
down. I put my Baptist teachings aside, snarled and said, “You dirty low-down
ignorant $#&*!,” referring to me, not the mower.
I finished mowing, installed the ramps on the trailer,
started loading the mower and – no, I did not forget to chock the wheels – I
loaded the mower with no problems. What
do you think I am? An idiot?
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