Flying Trashcans and Toilet Paper Rolls

Twenty-four, as we often referred to our Service Manager, was safely ensconced in his cool, tiled floor office.  He seemed to have the personality that some have, which doesn’t appreciate being disturbed, or, for that matter, the re-arrangement of his office furniture.  We intrepid mechanics that worked under him tried to respect this, but at times it seemed there was something in the air that affected one or all of us, and we couldn’t help ourselves.

We all liked Sam.  He was a salesman from up front that didn’t feel like it tarnished his image too greatly to hang out with us once in a while in back.  He gave us a hard time, and occasionally, we reciprocated. 

On this particular afternoon, Sam was rather swollen with a sense of importance as he wheeled his brand-new Chevy short-bed into the shop so he could install the new decals on it, denoting it as a company sales vehicle.  He took pains to show the nifty features his latest model truck had to any who wished to see.

After Sam had installed his decals and had gone up front to get some glass cleaner, whatever was in the air settled upon a few of us, and we raced into position.  One with a floor jack, two others with jack stands, and two others to give directions for the intended process. 

Quickly the short-bed was jacked up and a jack stand placed under the right rear axle, leaving the wheel just a fraction of an inch off the cement.  The process was repeated for the left rear axle, the two fellows standing behind making sure it was just barely off and still level with the cement.  With seconds to spare, we assumed our normal positions back at our workstations.

Sam returned, still rather affected by his new truck purchase, and got ready to drive it out of the shop.  One of us offered to open the shop door for him and thus secured a position from behind in case anything went wrong, and we needed to stop the process quickly. 

Sam is vertically challenged, and the look of puzzlement that crossed his brow as he tried to get up into his now lifted truck was plan for all to see.  He actually had to make two attempts to get into his cab, finally giving a bit of a jump to get clear of his sagging britches and the overly high seat.  Why he didn’t catch on at this point is probably because it was a new truck, and he figured the springs hadn’t squashed out yet.

Once in the driver’s seat, he fired her up and shifted into reverse.  All functions were normal, and the tires began to slowly rotate as he let up on the brake and looked behind while slightly turning his front wheels to line up with the door. 

Except his truck didn’t move. 

Again, a puzzled look crossed is brow, and he quickly shifted into forward to see if it worked that way. 

Nothing doing.

He revved up a bit, and the rear tires dutifully sped up with the engine speed.  Evidently Sam never looked at his speedometer; that would have told the story, because his next move had us all a bit panicky.  He shifted straight to park while his rear wheels were still spinning right along.  A horrible clashing of gears sounded, but I don’t think Sam even heard it as he leaped from the cab of his new truck, to see what the matter was. 

He was out of the cab just in time to see the wheels slowly finish their last revolution, and the truth dawned on him. 

Everybody roared with laughter.  Then someone started beating a drumroll on their metal table with a couple of wrenches.  Soon others joined in from around the shop with their own wrenches, some playing the snare and some playing the cymbals, depending on wrench size and duration. 

One brave fellow, from the back of the shop, raised his trash can and booted it clear across to the front.  It was all of ninety feet and a good punt.  A receiving end fielder sprouted out of nowhere, catching it skillfully while the crowd went wild.  He booted it back in the direction whence it came, scoring the longest field goal ever recorded in that shop. 

Another fellow, feeling called upon to celebrate the event, ran to the restroom and peeled the wrapping paper off a brand-new roll of toilet paper.  Starting the paper trailing, he hucked it in the general direction of the previously made field goal.  A long trailing banner followed, but it was moving so fast none of us could read the advertisement, if there was one, printed on it.

Out of the corner of my eye, during the midst of all above celebrations, I saw the door to the front office slowly open. 

It was twenty-four.

He made one step into the now desecrated commons, watched briefly, slowly scratched an itch on his belly, and turned back to his hallowed ground. 

Our impromptu show sprang out of nowhere and quickly disappeared into nowhere.  It was less than five minutes from the time Sam stepped up, or tried to, into his truck to when all celebrations had ceased, and the shop was neatly put back to order. 

And twenty-four had peace and quiet again.

Runnin’ Mama Cow

Every so often, I see something completely in reverse.  And it doesn’t make any sense.  It’s like you see the whole sequence of events but nothing registers until you see the last thing, and then all the previous things you saw fall into place.    

It’s almost like I started out in reverse on this little thing I’m writing.

I saw the mama cow running, maybe not for all she was worth, cause mama cows rarely run all out, but running persistently, nonetheless.  I couldn’t figure it out; you can often find little calves cahootsing around, tails up, heels reaching for the sun, but the bigger they get, the slower they move. 

You just don’t see Mama Cows run very often.

The next thing I saw was the angle of her head.  Something seemed off about it.  If a cow is running persistently, like this one, it doesn’t run stretched out with its head cocked with one side tilted up.  Whenever I see them run, it’s usually with their head full up looking things over.

The off angle of her head connected with what I had seen just seconds earlier, and that was a circle of three vultures high up and a little ahead of her.  And I realized she was watching them.

Then my vision tracked backwards, by memory now since I was traveling down the road in the opposite direction.

And I saw a little black huddle, just on the other side of the hill from Mama, and in direct line of sight of the vultures.  And it was so forlorn.  And tired.  And thin.  So newly born, yet so nearly gone.

I hope Mama made it there in time.

This all made sense in reverse but driving by as I was it didn’t make any sense at all, until I saw Mama.

And I think life is a lot like that.  We don’t make sense out of lot of things until we see it in reverse. 

Especially when it comes to Mama.

I look back now, and I see how it all figures together, all that she did for me.

But at the time, it was all just everyday life. 

Now I look back and see the times she came to my aid; she saw the vultures, I didn’t.  She had hills to climb that were betwixt me and her, but it didn’t matter.  She climbed them.

I see backwards and can trace the times my friends came a runnin’ to me when I was down and out.  I realize that they are all good people, every one of them, and would do it again today if there was a need.

These days I see the Mama in this house doing a lot of runnin,’ mostly because of all the wedding hubbub I suppose.  And today, here in this area, will be the first day of school.  I’m sure school wouldn’t even happen if it wouldn’t be for all the mama’s who got up early and made sure their children were ready to go. 

So, what I say to the Mama in this house, I say to all.  These might be the most wearisome years, but they are also the best years.  

And I think that little black huddle is a big strapping calf today, because his mama came a runnin’ and made it there, just in time.

Runnin’ Mama’s everywhere, God bless you. 

Off Balance Service Manager

I suppose it was all the attention he was getting that got to me.  Not that he didn’t deserve it.  He had hand crafted a cute little wooden bench for his grandchildren and had it sitting in his office.  Everyone that worked at John Deere or happened by his office liked it. 

I made my way back to the bay that I worked in and thought about it.  As I rolled open the right-hand top drawer of my toolbox, I spied something that provoked the imp that constantly whispers in my ear to hiss a bit louder. 

I grabbed the nickel and eased back towards his office, waiting until he left it so I could make my move.  I could see this wasn’t going to be your normal heads or tails game; I guessed that ultimately if things really went wrong, I could lose my job.

As soon as he left his office, I slipped in and tipped that cute little wooden bench up ever so slightly and placed my nickel underneath one of the back legs, making very sure none of it showed from under the leg sitting on it.  I stepped back out, but near enough to see when he would return, and waited for this thing to develop.

Once he was settled comfortably back into his cushy office chair, left hand on his left-hand mouse, even though he was right handed, I stepped back in with a work order of mine to discuss with him.

Nonchalantly, and partly into the first couple of sentences explaining my work order, I rested my hand on the opposite back leg of his cute little wooden bench from the one I had placed my nickel under.

With the weight of my hand, and the tiniest bit of subtle persuasion from me, unseen by him of course, his creation rocked precariously.  

I stopped abruptly, mid-sentence, and stared hard at him.

I could read the mutations of panic as they scampered and short-circuited across his brow as easily as I read the cattle market this morning.  And, if I was any judge of the matter, those said mutations were indicating that he feared the market for his cute wooden bench was tanking fast, and not necessarily in an upward direction.

Striking both hands down to the armrests of his chair, he pistoned out at an alarming rate of speed.  I heard him muttering something about “the floor in this office has always been out of level,” as he levitated his way across to the cute little bench.

He grabbed his creation by both its arms, risking, I’m sure, severe dislocation of its joints in the process, and reefed it up and over to another part of the floor.  But he never made it to where he was going.  His transit was arrested as his frantic, darting gaze took in something shining and silver, good ole Abe himself, grinning and glinting back at him from the floor.

His bench slowly sagged in his arms, and if I had been watching closely, I’m quite certain I would have seen slower and slower jerks as it sagged, which I’m sure would have matched his heart rhythm. 

I offered a bit of helpful advice to him down the line of being careful where he set his items for display the next time, being cautious to scan the floor for any nickels, etc., that might make it rock wantonly back at him.  He looked at me and back at his bench in a not too kindly manner, and I began to think my time at that facility might be drawing to a close.  Eventually, though, a smile broke through, but not for long. 

Because once he went to set the bench back where it was, the floor was truly uneven, and no amount of picking up and setting down in all manner of locations fixed the problem. 

I wonder if those joints were actually a bit were dislocated from their previous seizure after all.  Whether his or the cute little bench’s, I can’t tell. 

*****

I never named the Service Manager, his intercom number was 24, or the place I worked at, which is quite local to where I currently live.  But both were very kind to me during those days when I was trying extremely hard to learn a trade I didn’t know a thing about.  Including the times when there were distractions, such as the above.

20 Joules

I was pretty much fed up with the wannabe fence charger I had purchased from a wannabe livestock store.  It claimed a 5 joule output and a 2-5 mile fence length.  Our calves kept getting out by calmly walking through the fence.    

I took myself over to Country Feeds with the purpose of having a visit with Doug to see what his recommendation would be.  You could say I might have walked out of there with a bit of a swagger.  I had in my hands the largest fence charger they sold.  20 Joules.  Powerful enough, Doug said, that some guys didn’t even bother with insulators on their corner posts; they just wrapped the wire around and let it short to ground as much as it wanted.  There was still plenty of juice left to carry on with the task farther down the wire.

I began to suspect something when I heard the dog squealing and saw him marking his territory for a solid 100 feet in a line straight away from the fence, all while moving at an extremely high rate of speed.

I had an out of the body experience a couple of months later.  It’s quite common in these parts for a deer or coyote to break through an existing fence and pop it off the insulators.  I happened upon a situation just like this, some two or three miles of fence line from home.  I grabbed a screwdriver and pliers and got ready to sneak the wire back into the insulator with the charger still on. 

I don’t recall so directly what I was meditating on at the time, but I do recall the exact moment my elbow left my body for places unknown.  I even looked down at it, expecting to see a smoking stump of what I figured would be left of my arm.  Surprisingly, it was all still there, but it ached all the way through Sunday School and on into the preaching service.

Judging from certain darkly furrowed brows and muttered epithets coming from the boys, I guessed that their experience with that beast crouched in the shadow, sending its reptilian clicks out along the wire had not been so entertaining either.

So, it was with extreme caution that I began stepping over the wire, one Sunday afternoon a couple of months later, to close a gate I had left open earlier in the day.  I was still in my Sunday duds, you know, the kind of ultra-thin slacks that snap like flags furled out behind your leg on a windy day.  The wire was a little higher than most places, so I steadied myself by resting one hand on the t-post and gingerly hiking one leg up and over.

I don’t remember ever passing out in all my years of living and breathing.  And I don’t think I passed out then.  But something must have happened during a little space of time there, and I have a hard time really recalling what all transpired. 

The first thing that I became aware of, as I came out of that gray haze, was that I was crouched way down, hands on my knees, and sort of duck walking, or swaggering, take your pick, rather blindly to a point hitherto unspecified.  Some few seconds later, I heard, and it seemed from far away, a peculiar moaning sound.  Trying to identify the sound while continuing my aimless journey was difficult.  But eventually I recognized the sound and voice as my own.  I gathered what was left of me back together in a semblance of one piece and limped my pitiful person back to the house.  Because of my earlier precaution of resting my hand on the t-post, all 20 joules had routed up from the middle of my upper right leg, through my torso, and out my left hand resting on said post.  My heart did a strange tango for several minutes, but after fewer and fewer sobs and shutters it eventually sorted itself out back to its normal routine.  

Two hours later, when changing out of my Sunday clothes, I noticed a very bright red and angry looking welt where the fence had made contact.

I respect that old beast crouched in the shadow like the rest of my family does.  So does the dog.

One Wheelers

These days I see a new sort of contraption around town.  I hear it’s called a One-Wheeler.  The thing looks sort of like a skateboard, has one big wheel in the middle, is battery powered, and gets its directions on how to motivate by pressure inputs from the feet of the one riding it.  I hear tell that they move upwards of 20 m.p.h., and at that speed, one wrong input will send you flying earthward.

To see those trim teenagers, and even a few older fellows cutting their style with it around town is amazing.  I tip my hat to such.  But it begs a question that often lingers in my mind.  Do those svelte young fellows, with their many abilities, know about a certain talent that I see every now and again in myself and once in a while in others?

Quite simply put, you could say some of us are naturally wobbly.

This talent isn’t bestowed to the masses.  Those that posses it often go unnoticed, unless, of course, they try to ride a One-Wheeler.

The whole scheme of life changes when you are naturally wobbly.  Take, for instance, the other evening at the disc golf course.  My daughter and I were having some quality time together.  We teed up at the first hole; she told me to go first.  I lined up with the basket and let fly with my disc.  Apparently, at the precise moment, or shall we say, mid arc of my launch, one of my wobbly genes also fired.  The disc shot off instantly, and at high velocity, not towards the basket intended but rather at a 90 degree angle to it. 

My daughter happened to be exactly situated in the newly configured flight path.  The look of consternation in her pretty brown eyes is indescribable.  However, once the fight or flight mode had been squelched enough, she dissolved limply upon the grass, laughing until she couldn’t throw a good toss herself. 

Such creativity is enjoyed by, as I mentioned earlier, a select few.  You won’t see the One-wheelers getting into it as they roll on by.  That’s okay, though.  I wouldn’t say it very loud, but I just might be envious of them at times.

Boola

The rest of the family calls him Oakley.  I call him Boola.  He answers to me with that handle, and he calls me Dude when he talks to me.  We get along famously.  He’s really Bryce’s dog, and they definitely have a close friendship.  But for some reason, he hangs around me.  I wouldn’t want to call him a one-man dog around the family, just to keep tension out of the air, but that’s about what he is.

He’s getting on in age, but back in his day he had an incredible run time.  I once saw him follow me on the four-wheeler for four solid miles at a steady 18 m.p.h.  We got back on the last 500 feet, and I eased on up to his top speed of 21 m.p.h. and he ramped it up right beside me.  Nowadays, though, he mostly holds down his bed in a nook right by our bedroom.  He’s had his day in the sun and deserves some easy down time.  I only hope my children will have the same consideration for me when I get on in age. 

He’s got his quirks, just like I have mine.  We’ve got our things the same about us though.  He has two steel rods to hold a shattered leg together.  I have a steel plate to hold a shattered collarbone together.  He likes ice cream and chocolate sauce; so do I.  He’s made me mad enough to see red a couple of times, but I’ll let those times go, as the good times have been a dozen to one of the bad times.

His leg is what interests me.  He was driven over when a small pup, and his left hind leg was shattered.  We had him in to the vet and they put the two aforementioned rods in to help stabilize things.  The vet told us he was right in the middle of his prime growing time as a pup, and the two weeks that it took the bone to get sticky and start mending itself would be how much shorter that leg was from his others. 

That leg is two inches shorter. 

But there is something else that interests me about his leg.  Since it is that much shorter, you would think he wouldn’t bother with walking on it.  He does though.  And he accomplishes walking by dragging his good leg so his bad one can reach the ground.

Methinks that if humanity, as a rule, would take his example and drag its good leg so the bad leg could reach the ground, a lot could be gained.

1st time

Well, here goes. Welcome to this little space. If you don’t mind homegrown, homemade, and maybe a little homespun, then join me for whatever gets thrown on here.