Broken Doors, Broken Promises

Places and names have been changed to give privacy to those involved.

The place had a haunted feel to it.  Perhaps it was still a case of the jingles I was entertaining from the phone that had gotten this all started. 

I was descending the stairs from the cattle auction ring when my phone alerted me of an incoming call.

“Hello?”

“Hello my name is Penny Barode and I know I still owe you money from the last job you did for me but could you please come look at something that is terribly wrong with my wiring?”  All delivered at maximum speed in a sooty voice that was sure to have been exhaling the last drag of smoke with it.

“Your name is what?”

“Penny Barode.  And I know I still owe you money, but I’ll pay for that right away if you’ll come look at my problem.”

“Okay, but I can’t recall that we have done any work for you or that you owe us money.”  

“Yeah, you did about a year ago.”

“Ah, okay.  Do you live in Sublette?”

“Yes.”

“At 205 Westslide?”

“Yes.  But could you come look at my problem?”

Now I knew who I was talking to and yes, she did still owe money.  Actually, had never paid a cent on the first work we had done.  It wasn’t a lot she owed, and I figured if worse came to worse I could write it off.  I had never gotten her last name and then lost her phone number after we did the last job for her and always wondered if my invoices were going through with just an address and first name on them.  But they must have gotten through alright.

“Okay, I’ll send someone out to take a look at your project and then we’ll make a plan on how to proceed.”

“Oh! Thank you so much.  Thank you so much!”

After Josh looked at the project, the plan to proceed was simple.  Get paid in full up front and we would be happy to do the job.

I called her back. 

“Penny, we can fix your problem.  We can be there tomorrow morning.  But before we start, we need to talk over how you plan to pay.”

“Yes, I’ll pay.”

“Okay.  It will cost around $1,200.  Are you able to cover that?”

“Yes.  I have some saved up, about half of it, and my Mom says she will pay the other half.  We’ll pay you right away.”

“Okay.  We will have the power off for quite a while.  When would be a good time of the day to do this?” 

“Anytime.  Well, wait.  My daughter may be home doing a Zoom.  Hold on.  Let me ask her.” 

“No, she says she goes to college tomorrow so you will have the whole day and the place to yourself.”

* * *

I hefted the tool bag while Josh rummaged about inside the trailer for power tools and supplies to do the job.  I paused after a couple of steps and looked whimsically at an off green Kia Soul parked on the side of the street.  I recalled as I stood there, a comment one of the boys had made about that make of vehicle.

“If you owned one of them, you could trade it off on something else and then you could tell folks that you had traded your Soul for what you were driving now.”

I walked on, parallel to a fallen down, paint peeling picket fence.  I entered the yard and paused again.  To my left a generic brand, electric push mower was still parked where it appeared to have stalled in the 5-foot by 10-foot clump of weeds its owner was trying to mow down.  In front of me, a scattering of cigarette butts lay, about as far as a finger would flick them, should the smoker have been sitting on the bottom of the broken-down wooden steps.  Tinseled glass caught my eye; cheap impulse buys that were just as impulsively jabbed into the ground here and there.  Yard adornments of the not so rich or famous.  I climbed the porch, leaning off level with it as I climbed and was arrested again in my forward motion.  Right against the other side of the porch was an above ground swimming pool.  Fetid water half-filled it.  Green scum and slime at least 2 inches thick floated in the water and clung to the sides of it.

Somewhere inside, dogs were barking frantically.  I opened the door and pushed in.  I had to push, because I was hit by a wave of ammonia that could almost be seen and definitely felt.  The two dogs were barking, bug eyed and scared of me, just inside the door.  I stood there for a bit, trying to acclimate to the stench and dark interior.  There was just barely a path that wound its way by the furniture in the living room and on through the kitchen.  Articles too numerous to mention and of varied description sloped upward on either side of the path.

Cats were everywhere. Most of them were orange with puss filled eyes. 

I was looking for the load center; Josh knew where it was, but he was still out at the trailer getting tools.  I suspicioned that since he had been here earlier, he wasn’t any too anxious to reenter.  I started my locomotion again, but the floor held on to my shoes, only giving way at the last instant with a loud sluksch sound.  Cat pee pooled here and there.  I presumed that was what held so tenaciously to my shoes as I walked across the floor. 

I got to the far end of the house and had found several fresh piles of cat poop, but not a load center.  I started in the other direction.

The last room on the other side of the house appeared to be a storage room.  Next was a bathroom, as cluttered and full as the other rooms.  The tub faucet dripped steadily; so did the sink faucet and toothpaste was smeared up the side of the sink.  The stained shower curtain hung at an angle and finally fell off at the end.  A hairbrush, full of hair, rested on a shelf near by the small vanity mirror. 

I got to the next door on my way back to the central part of the house.  From the looks of things this was the room that had the load center in it.  A storage room/closet/mechanical room, per se.  I threw the door open and stepped through the doorway, scanning the walls for the load center.

But the wall scanning was quickly halted as I saw, to my chagrin, the daughter, who was supposed to be gone all day, climbing out of bed.  My step through the doorway, into the smallish bedroom, had me rather too close for comfort.  A 1/3 second glance gave relief that she was fairly well covered.  I quickly backed out, calling out a cheery, “Good morning!” and pushed the door shut. 

But it kept going past shut. 

And by the time my panicked momentum had been arrested, I was face to face with the daughter once again. 

The door had no door jam, and I was now in a verbal jam.  I decided, in that 1/3 second, that spoken words were unnecessary and I quickly closed the door, gingerly latching it this time. 

We found the load center.  And more cats.  And more internally processed cat food.  But we got the job done. 

I called Penny when we were done, and she said she would have money for us when she got home.

“But only $400.  That’s all I could come up with between my mom and me.”

Food

Now I know already that some of you are going to sniff at what I say next.  And that’s just fine.  Admittedly, there are some who slide up to the table with nary a thought but of the hunger pains they wish to calm in the shortest amount of time possible.  If you are one of those, then you will sniff at what I say next and it would probably do you well to skip the rest and, say, go eat a Snickers candy bar.

But for those still interested, I have some opinions to share with you.  There are certain foods that are an experience.  And that experience is part and parcel of the whole meal.  It includes the process, if you will.  And, there are certain utensils that must be used in certain applications or you’ll miss the process.  Not all foods or utensils fall into this category.  Some fall into it only occasionally. 

Take grilled hamburgers.  Most of the time, they don’t fall into this category, being a non-issue food done in a sort of non-issue way.  But. Get yourself a couple hundred of them to grill.  Get several grills and a number of guys hanging around.  Get yourself plenty of salt on them and even more pepper. (Some wives take issue with the pepper) Get your grill good and hot and then.  Then they fall into this process.  They are discussed and strategically flipped and positioned on the grill.  Mention is made of how well or not they hold together.  Thought is given to make sure they are done.  Different grilling approaches are discussed.  Finally, take one straight from off the fire, slice it in pieces, and toss a piece of it in your mouth.  In fact, eat enough of them out there by the grill, that you really don’t need any meal when it’s time for the meal.  But then, when you are going through the line with all your grilling buddies, do just like them.  Make yourself a heaping hamburger with two, maybe three patties, bacon, onions, pickles if you care to, ketchup, mustard, mayonnaise, and a splash of barbeque sauce.  Skip the lettuce.  If you have done all this, then this meal falls into a thing called an experience and can be properly rated as such.

I must treat on the subject of discada.  I don’t know how to spell it, so this will have to do.  If some of you haven’t sniffed your way off here by now, you may do so after what I say next.  This isn’t for the hamburger and bacon aficionado.  Those of you who think a discada is strictly made up of such, and I know you are out there, should sign off now.  Because there is a better way.  There is no process to hamburger and bacon.  But.  Go get some beef stew meat.  Get some pork tenderloin.  Get some chicken.  Cube it up into ¾ inch pieces.  Get some onion.  Get some garlic.  Get some green pepper.  Get some tomato.  Get a nice amount of jalapeno.  Get salt, and a fair amount of black pepper.  Now here is where the process begins.  You don’t want to rush the next part.  Gather your friends around your disc and get comfortable.  You’ll be here a while if you are going to do this right.  Throw your meat on, with a half stick of butter.  Slow is the word here.  Cook it slow.  Add the garlic right soon after the meat.  Next the tomato, so they can have disappeared by the time you eat.  You don’t want anything giving you the red eye.  Toss on your green pepper and onion towards the end.  Don’t let them go limp and pass out on you.  Keep a little backbone in them.  This whole process should take around 30 minutes.  It’s important to talk weather and other various and sundry whilst the cooking is being done.  It’s okay, if you are the head cook, to invite suggestions about the cooking process, but don’t let too many of those suggestions ruin your stew.  Because that is what you want it to turn into.  Any less than 30 minutes and you’ve missed a prime process.  Anymore, and you spoiled a prime process.  Serve straight off the disc, with tortilla’s, of course.  You can have cheese, sour cream, guacamole, and some spicy salsa as sides, but if you have done your process right, after the first one, folks won’t even bother to put the sides on.  Yeah, I know some of you like hamburger and bacon.  That’s okay.  But this beats yours all hollow, both in process and experience.

You can’t get a decent iced coffee without the right utensils.  My friend Frank shared the original recipe with me a number of years ago, including utensil selection, and I have improved on it some.  Allow me to share.  In order of importance you will need, a 30 oz Yeti cup, a regular knife like goes beside your plate at supper time, and a straw. (Preferably green or purple) The knife is almost more important than the cup, but not quite.  Of course, we’ll get to the ingredients, as they play a part, but I can’t emphasize enough, the importance of the proper utensils for a good, chilled coffee.  Spoon in two tablespoons of sugar into your Yeti.  I’m not so picky on this part; two is a good place to start. Toss in a scant ¼ teaspoon of Nestle chocolate powder.  Also, a scant ¼ teaspoon vanilla.  Next, head over to your espresso machine.  Be sure to say it esssspresso, not expresso, or the teenagers nearby will snort.  Grind you some fresh beans and get yourself a fresh shot of essspresso. Two shots are fine if you are the type that has umm, yeah, we’ll maybe leave that unsaid.  Pour the espresso over what’s in the bottom of your cup.  Now.  Get the knife.  Mix what’s in the bottom of your cup with the knife until it has all dissolved into a wonderful smelling brew.  The knife helps give it the smell.  Clean up your mess at the espresso machine and shut it off.  Next fill your cup ¾ or a little more with chunky crushed ice.  Fill almost full of 2% milk.  Add cream if you want to gain weight quickly.  Now.  Get the knife again.  Stir this mixture, using a circular, up and down motion like you see the animals do on the merry go round you rode on as a child, or possibly as recent as last week.  Stir until the milk starts changing color.  Here’s where the knife shines.  A spoon would lift that flavor from the bottom of your cup too quickly and leave it in clumps throughout the glass.  A knife does perfectly to get the right mix of flavor, milk and ice. Lastly, snap the lid on and reach for the straw.  Slid it through the drinking slit in the lid.  Sip slowly.  If done properly, you should be able to make this cupful last for a good 4 hours.  Don’t forget to clean the knife; be sure to bestow a few kind words upon it as you do so, as it has been an indispensable article in the process and experience of your drink.                  

Pressed to the Limit

I say that life is basically made up of two types of people.  The kind who set limits and the kind who test those limits.  I would have said that the folks who tested the limits were generally trying to scratch an itch based on pecking order, and once they found the limit on the piece of machinery they were dealing with, they had subconsciously one-upped the guy who had built the machine. But I don’t say that anymore.

I tip my hat to the limit testers.

I’ve seen guys jump into Mustangs with the gas pedal already halfway down before they cranked her over.  I’ve seen men roll down their window at stoplights, in a sort of camaraderie with the fellow beside them whose engine sits there snapping and loping away until the light changes.  I’ve even seen old men try out the limits of new lawn mowers. 

I once heard of a grandma who wanted to test out her grandson’s new car.  The first thing she asked, “Does it have a sport mode?”  Her comment, while easing along at a clean 100 m.p.h., “You gotta speed up for curves you know,” tells me she sits right in the middle of the limit testers group.

My friend Wes is a limit tester.

But before I shed some light on his personality, let me explain to you how a telescope, or ‘scope’ in our slang, works.

The type of scopes that we used had a large mirror housed in the back, or bottom end.  I hear tell on some of the bigger scopes they have little cooling fans for that mirror as the light coming in heats them up enough to warp the mirror and distort the images.  Up towards the front of the scope, suspended on a thin shaft, is a much smaller mirror.  The big mirror in back collects the incoming light and beams it up to the small mirror in crystal clarity.  Situated directly above the small mirror is a housing that fits any number of strength eyepieces.  Thus, the little mirror becomes the same thing as a slide on a microscope, couching the specimen for you to look at and magnify with your eyepiece.  The key word, here, is magnify.

The date was June 5, 2012.  We, who had an interest in astronomy, were on point and ready.  There was a six-hour event set to happen that we didn’t want to miss.  The next time it is set to happen is 2117.  What I’m talking about here is the transit of Venus across the face of the sun.

There are a couple of things critical to catching this—the first is a scope, and the second is a filter for your scope.  I have explained the scope.  The filter looks like a lid that snaps over the open end of your scope and cuts the sun’s rays and power down to where your scope and your eye can handle the light and heat as it collects each of those and transmits them up to the small mirror hanging on the thin shaft and then up through the eyepiece, into your eye. 

My friend Wes didn’t have a filter for his 12-inch scope.  But he was just as determined to capture this event as the rest of us were.

Wes is a welder by trade and had just purchased a very nice auto-darkening welding helmet.  He called us up on the day of the event and told us that even though he didn’t have a filter for his telescope, he figured he could get his scope lined up and sighted in without looking down the eyepiece.  Then, when it was all set, he could use his welding helmet as a, sort of, filter.  He wondered what we thought.

We said no, you are crazy. 

At that point, though, we didn’t know that Wes was a limit tester. 

We found out, later, after his scope was all lined up and focused, Wes took his shiny nice new welding helmet and took a quick glance down his eyepiece.  We also found out, as a result of his heroic actions, that welding helmets don’t meet muster for filters on scopes.  There was a nice clear spot burned into its tinted lens. 

Seeing what his helmet looked like, Wes instinctively touched the glass aperture of the eye piece on his scope with his thumb, thus checking out another set of limits, this time that of his own personal equipment and that of the scope’s eyepiece.  A sizzling sound and a clearly defined thumbprint burned into the glass of the eyepiece proved both thumb and eyepiece to be at their outer limits.

If that eyepiece were still laying around somewhere, say, in Haskell County, I’d be tempted to pay a small sum to call it mine.  I’d mount it for display in my office. 

Underneath would be inscribed, “Pressed to the Limit.”

Pipe Bombs

My friend Gregg called me up one morning and said he needed a little help on a project he was working on.  I agreed to be at his place shortly after dinner.

Beings as I was born and raised on the other side of the tracks from Gregg, I was perplexed as to what he was working on when I saw it.  He patiently explained that he was in the process of building and detonating a pipe bomb. 

He proceeded to show me his creation.  He had been to the hardware to purchase a 9-inch piece of 2-inch black pipe.  He had them thread both ends of the pipe and bought two end caps to screw on it.  He had drilled a 1/16-inch hole in the body of the pipe to route the fuse through.  He spoke in hushed tones as he gently, almost reverentially, unscrewed the cap, telling me that guys had been killed unscrewing it too quickly when the minutest spark from friction on the threads had ignited the powder inside.  Once he had the cap off, I saw that he had purchased a suitable amount of what I recognized as the flaky, highly explosive type of shot gun powder.  This was in the days when a cell phone was unheard of, the internet didn’t exist to track any movement or point of sales and drone flybys from inquisitive neighbors had yet to be seen.

It was a several minute process of screwing the cap back on, me holding the pipe ever so steady, and Gregg handling the cap with measured motions. We hunted up some twine to do for a fuse, making sure it was about ten feet in length.  Next, we discussed our Plan of Action (POA) and our Plan of Escape (POE).

Our POA appropriated the use of the blue 1974 F-100 for conveyance.  We would install the pipe bomb in a sheltered place in the bed and gingerly drive out to a point of our choosing in the field to the west of the house, some 3/8ths mile away.  For those who still live in this area, this base of operations is now owned by Jerril Koehn.  Once we had a site chosen that fit our needs, we would dig a small hole and carefully place the pipe bomb in it.  Our fuse would be laid upwind from the pipe bomb and pushed into the fuse hole.  A little gasoline would be doused on the end of the fuse nearest the pipe to insure good ignition.

Our POE called for us to leave both truck doors open, so that once the fuse was lit, no time would be wasted in getting a move on to get out of there.  We didn’t know what potential destructive power this device had and didn’t want to be anywhere near once it detonated.  Next, our POE called for maximum acceleration until maximum speed was reached.  Our plan detailed pulling up to the house, entering through the utility door, rushing through it, up the stairs to a second-floor bedroom whose window faced northwesterly in the general direction of the imminent explosion.  Lastly, our POE mandated that only the portion of our face from the bridge of our nose upwards be exposed to the blast radius.  Our philosophy was that such a small face area of exposure was less likely to attract shrapnel than a larger one and we felt it was imperative that we witness what might happen in case we wished to duplicate this in a future event, if we were around for the future, that is.

The POA went largely as planned.  All we lacked was to light the fuse.  It took a little time to screw up our courage and get ourselves talked into what we knew we needed to do.  But eventually we did the right thing and after several shaky attempts to get a match lit, and several more attempts after the wind blew it out, we had our fuse lit.

Sprinting at near Olympic record speeds we made for the Ford.  I, who needed to get to the far side of the truck from the bomb, was at a disadvantage and had to make a leap for all I was worth into the already accelerating truck.

We mostly floated back across the field towards the house, front end canted up and back-end scrambling for all it was worth to get traction in the loose soil. 

The engine screamed right up against redline all the way until we neared the west end of the shed that sits west of the house. 

At that point, I took in several sensory perceptions all at once.  I saw the field rapidly retreating behind as I glanced to see if there was any explosion yet.  I smelled the rich smell of carbureted gasoline forced back through the cab by the high rate of fan rev’s up front.  As the corner of the shed flashed by, I saw Gregg’s foot come unstuck from the floor, where it was holding the accelerator, and smash itself into a similar position on the brake.  My glance continued its z-pattern and I saw the speedometer registered a little over 50 m.p.h.  My brain cognitively told me we were going to have two explosions.  One behind us and one in front as we smashed into the house.

But Gregg has never disappointed me with his driving yet, and that day was no exception.  Steering deftly on four locked up tires, he aimed for a small inset on the south side of the utility.  We slid into that nook as neatly as toast into a toaster.  The front bumper not more than two feet from the house as we again blasted Olympic records and mountain climbing ascent times all to pieces through the utility and up the stairs.

We ducked down in the two-foot space below the bottom window casement and hyperventilated.  To hyperventilate in that type of a crouch can only be done in extreme conditions such we found ourselves in.

After 10 minutes our respirations had decreased to a decent level of comfort, and the pipe bomb hadn’t detonated. 

Now what?  Was our fuse still burning?  Would it reach the pipe just as we were reapproaching?  We gave it a little more time and eased our way back out there in our adrenaline drenched bodies and faithful truck. 

The fuse had gone out right as it entered the pipe.  It appeared that the hole was too small to sustain enough oxygen and fuel at the same time. 

I heard later Gregg had achieved detonation by use of a servo robbed his RC airplane which in turn was hooked into about 30 feet of wire which was then hooked up to a model rocket igniter.  This allowed him to maintain a much safer distance, as he crouched down behind the trusty ole Ford for protection.  I heard the neighbors reporting feeling a concussion sometime on the same afternoon that the thing went off.  It could be it was related to the actual incident. 

What is interesting, is that I don’t recall anyone being home at the time of our experiment, for whatever reason.

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.