The Luddite meets the cell phone

Consider the word 'cell' for a minute. What definition, what images come to mind? For me, well, I think of a very small space, often punitive in nature. Now that I have dealt with the 'cell phone', I can't say that my opinion has changed much. And their tiny, delicate looks scare me - like putting a painted eggshell in the hands of an 800 pound gorilla. It didn't help that a former neighbor had come over once and said "You're good at fixing things, can you do something with this? Here ... " He showed me what looked like a clam shell with a broken back. Big Bill was a high school linebacker all grown up and the patient was dwarfed by his catcher mitt-sized hand. "Is that a cell phone?" I asked incredulously. "How do you dial anything with those tiny little buttons?!" He grinned "I've got this one finger nail that's a speck longer than the others ... see?" "Okay, then, so how did this broken hinge thing happen?" Turns out that he had picked the phone up in a rush and jammed it into his big Fozzi bear head a little too violently. Luckily there were no connections severed and I happened to have just the right glue around to rehab the device. But it left me leery of the devices thereafter.

A year later, we find ourselves in the middle of nowhere with the nearest phone lines 5 miles away. Solution: those dreaded cell phones. I grimaced as Mark plunked one into my hand. "I will keep this one somewhere as your spare then?." "No-o-o-o ... this is YOURS." Oh joy, maybe I would adapt, eventually.

Full adaptation has still not happened but I did find myself feeling obliged to check in with at least some people. The learning curve began in winter and we found that there was no signal in the rat trailer so I would put on the heaviest hooded parka I could find and stomp out to the junk pile towards the middle of the canyon. If I sat just so on an old steel bathtub, I could get a signal on good days. I sat hunched over hiding from the biting winds. The cold from the steel tub wicked any heat from my buttocks and replaced it with a searing frost ache. I probably looked like an Inuit practicing for the next Hemorrhoid Olympics. I had to shout over the wind and struggle to listen and soon learned to preface every call with "I might lose the connection or the battery may give out. Just remember that if I suddenly disappear, okay?" I would return to the rat with a kink in my neck, a numb hand and frost bite in various places and the thrill of phone chats declining further into simply dreaded events. Content and duration of calls narrowed down to nearly the efficiency of Morse Code if I could help it.

And so this post is my explanation for reconnected friends who would like to chat again someday instead of e-mailing. My typing speed has picked up a little and e-mailing doesn't involve steel bath tubs and frozen body parts. I won't say that I don't long for a good copper-wire connection and one of those old indestructible phone sets that actors used to hurl across the set on a regular basis without ill-effect. Meanwhile, I avoid picking up that flimsy little clamshell when it starts its jingle summons. While the signal coverage has since improved, my attitude has not.

Hail, Mud and Reconnecting with 'Da Moose'

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It's been an eventful week out here. Today we saw downpours, hail and the rebirth of serious mud. So much for our big trip into town planned for today. So much for my chance at going to a huge flea market on Saturday. My little Zen drainage ditches were overwhelmed by the volume of water running off from everything and everywhere until the clouds thinned out and lost their bluster. Now just the mud remains to be dealt with and we are hoping for a beaming sun and wind to dry the roads for a revised Monday outing target. The hail has melted away by now but it lingered ever so long and Brou and I just had to sample it all. Oddly enough, the hail appeared to be pea-sized half spheres of ice still nestled around the pales on the porch. Why would they be shaped as half-spheres, I wondered? But they tasted fresh and pure and we helped ourselves, Brou snarfing big mouthful servings and I taking but one morsel at a time. Our large tubs standing at every roof run-off point had long since overflowed with clear water. My new garden beddings had been pounded badly by the torrents of rain and hail but the plants had remained stubbornly rooted into their new home ground. All in all, we fared well today.

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And the highlight of the week was a chance reconnection with two old friends last seen over 35 years ago. It took the Caribbean wanderings of a nephew I barely know and a stranger wandering into the same lounge and performing a bare handed drum solo on a table to cause them to connect. Then it took another relative to pass on this bit of nearly lost grapevine news. I was then able to reconnect with that finger drumming stranger by e-mail and he reconnected me with yet another old friend who we both knew from separate timelines. The latter friend shall simply be called 'Alphonse' after his trademark joke about 'Alphonse da Moose, a weary hunting guide and 'Monsieur Le Hunter'. Whenever he would walk into the room, there would be calls for recitation of his story, "Tell them about Alphonse, they haven't heard it yet!" And we would all settle in for the story with great anticipation. It hadn't mattered that we might have heard the long tale a half dozen times before; we would still follow the story with great amusement, waiting for the operatic calls of Alphonse and then watch the newcomers fall into fits of laughter as the punch line slammed home.

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I was probably one of the first graphics people to consider using vinyl as a medium for lettering although it is a standard in the sign industry now. I carefully close-cut the material and added additional painted detail if necessary. By the time I was done, I had outfitted a surprising number of local stock car racers with vinyl lettering. And, when Alphonse asked for a helmet graphic, I couldn't help but oblige, given all the joy that Alphonse had given us with his infamous story. Much to my great surprise, he now announced that his helmet is still with him and due to become an heirloom for a notable line of drag racers. It nearly always proves to be a great joy to reconnect with old friends who got lost in our rush to conquer life. Alphonse, I am delighted beyond description this week ... thanks!

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My next posting: Most likely about how 'Pilgrim' rescues Slim ... again.

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

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I just received a St. Pat's Day bit of humor from a Choctaw/Irish pal. It's an oldie but a genuine goodie that I want to share with all my friends and relatives of Irish descent. It's also to celebrate my reconnection with "St. George" (at least that's how my mother regarded him).

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An Irishman moves into a tiny village in County Kerry, walks into the pub and orders three beers. The bartender raises his eyebrows but serves the man three beers which he drinks quietly at a table alone. An hour later, the man has finished the three beers and orders three more.

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The next evening the man again orders and drinks three beers at a time, several times. Soon the entire town is whispering about the "Man Who Orders Three Beers." Finally, a week later, the bartender broaches the subject on behalf of the townspeople. "I don't mean to pry but folks around here are wondering why you always order three beers?"

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"Tis odd, isn't it?" the man replies, "You see, I have two brothers, one went to America and the other to Australia. We promised each other that we would always order an extra two beers whenever we drank as a way of keeping up the family bond."

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The bartender and the whole town were taken with this answer and soon the "Man Who Orders Three Beers" became a local celebrity and source of pride to the village, even to the extent that out-of-towners would come to watch him drink. Then, one day, the man comes in and orders only two beers. The bartender pours them with a heavy heart. This continues for the rest of the evening; he orders only two beers. The word flies around town.

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The next day, the bartender says to the man, "Folks around here, me first of all of course, want to offer our condolences to you for the death of your brother. You know - what with the two beers and all...."

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The man ponders this for a moment, then replies, "You'll be happy to hear that me two brothers are alive and well. It's just that me, me-self, have decided to give up drinking for Lent."

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Playing in the Puddles

Current News

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Yes, I admit that there has been a conspicuous blog absence. The good news is that some semblance of Spring has arrived, or at least a new absence of this strenuous winter. For the last week, temperatures have started rising into the high 50s to low 70s and the sun is finally climbing further northward, beyond its secretive winter arc behind the north face of our mesa.
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The sun's heat upon the north face has meant the much awaited melting of the snow long hidden in its shadows but that also means run-off and rediscovery of all the low-lying areas wont to collect water. Low spots mean MUD! To that end, I have indulged in a very longstanding pastime; playing in the mud and digging run-off trenches everywhere. I find the task every bit as satisfying as I did when I was eight years old and I have probably created and attended daily to a network of channels and trenches a quarter of a mile long for the last week. The process has left me too tired at night to compose an update but it was worth the effort. Like the Nederlands, the bogs and mires have given way to dry land now, allowing us to abandon the rubber boots and work on the rat trailer without the sloppy, boot sucking impedance.
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I have found a definite Zen in this process, an intense but mindless joy in ushering away the last hints of winter's icy bounty. While you are busily removing sediments from the previous day's water run and incising new channels, you may also find a higher brain function to consider matters more theoretical or esoteric in nature - multi-tier programs running simultaneously, if you will. I find the results most rewarding although it leaves the physical body very, very tired at the end of the day. I suspect that children experience these play functions much more fully than adults do and I find that disparity quite saddening. I've noticed that some adults need children and subsequent grandchildren in order to re-experience these simple joys vicariously. Why should we lose the initial joy of wonderment as we age? Why do we choose to jade so easily if left to our own devices?

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The Lament of Tools Lost

This is a distraction from the usual course of our journal that I just needed to follow. It was sent to me by the much beloved Katlady. I'm just 'funny' about the tools and supplies that took decades to amass and that supported my sense of technical independence. After our move from Hell, it really hit home. Once the thoroughly unscrupulous movers declared that our privately-owned semi-trailer van was full to the gunnels, my treasured shop belongings (along with metric tons of other needed items for our new life) began to bleed out at the seams as acquaintances gleefully departed with the 'excess', the remainder going by default to the house buyer. Now, every time I look for a specific nut, bolt or oddball tool, it comes back to frustrate me. All my unobtainium restoration supplies are gone as well. Sigh. It wasn't until we made room in the rat trailer and started to unload the back end of the van that we discovered that the professional packers had only loaded the rest of the van to half full, that fact nicely hidden behind an impressive wall of floor to ceiling goods that they showed us at the very back end. To add insult to injury, the supposed uncle of one of the movers called the next day to say that he had heard that we were giving away FREE antiques?! Misanthropy is often a well-earned mindset. I still want to cry when I think of all the things that we could have salvaged to make life easier for us now. The budget simply won't allow for replacement of it all, even if it were all still available at any price and we are now two hours instead of 15 minutes from hardware and big box stores. But I rant and digress. I love this following bit of much needed humor regarding my cherished tools. It is all too true:

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Humor of the Day:

TOOLS AND THEIR ACTUAL USE

DRILL PRESS: A tall upright machine useful for suddenly snatching flat metal bar stock out of your hands so that it smacks you in the knuckles and flings your beer across the room, splattering it against that freshly painted part that was set aside to dry.

WIRE WHEEL: Cleans paint off bolts and then throws them somewhere under the workbench with the speed of light. Also removes fingerprint whorls and hard-earned guitar calluses in about the time it takes you to say "Ouch..."

ELECTRIC HAND DRILL: Normally used for spinning pop rivets in their holes until you die of old age. Also useful for spinning drill bits in reverse until the tip glows red.

PLIERS: Used to round off bolt heads.

HACKSAW: One of a family of cutting tools built on the Ouija Board Principle. It transforms human energy into a crooked, unpredictable motion, and the more you attempt to influence its course, the more dismal your future becomes. The word 'hack' is very telling here.

VISE-GRIPS: Used to round off bolt heads. If nothing else is available, they can also be used to transfer intense welding heat to the palm of your hand.

OXYACETYLENE TORCH: Used almost entirely for lighting various flammables inside the wheel hub you want the bearing race out of.

WHITWORTH SOCKETS: Once used for working on older British cars and motorcycles, they are now used mainly for impersonating that 9/16" or 1/2" socket for which you've been searching for the last 15 minutes.

HYDRAULIC FLOOR JACK: Used for lowering an automobile to the ground after you have installed your new disk brake pads, trapping the jack handle firmly under the bumper.

EIGHT-FOOT LONG DOUGLAS FIR 2X4: Used for levering an automobile upward off a hydraulic jack handle.

PHONE: Tool for calling your neighbor to see if he has another hydraulic floor jack. Also useful for calling the parts store and complaining that the moron at the counter gave you what you asked for, and it's not the right one.

TWEEZERS: A tool for removing wood and metal splinters. It is made from a magical material that turns invisible when you need it and re-appears when you don't.

SNAP-ON GASKET SCRAPER: Theoretically useful as a sandwich tool for spreading mayonnaise; used mainly for getting dog poop off your boot.

E-Z OUT BOLT AND STUD EXTRACTOR: A tool that snaps off in bolt holes you absolutely have to have and ten times harder than any known drill bit.

TWO-TON ENGINE HOIST: A tool for testing the tensile strength on everything you forgot to disconnect.

CRAFTSMAN 1/2" x 16-INCH SCREWDRIVER: A large pry bar that inexplicably has an accurately machined screwdriver tip on the end opposite the handle.

AVIATION METAL SNIPS: See hacksaw.

TROUBLE LIGHT: The home mechanic's own tanning booth. Sometimes called a drop light, it is a good source of vitamin D, "the Sunshine Vitamin," which is not otherwise found under cars at night. Health benefits aside, its main purpose is to consume 40-watt light bulbs at about the same rate that 105mm howitzer shells might be used during, say, the first few hours of the Battle of the Bulge. More often dark than light, its name is somewhat misleading.

PHILLIPS SCREWDRIVER: Normally used to stab the lids of old-style paper-and-tin oil cans and splash oil on your shirt; but can also be used, as the name implies, to strip out Phillips screw heads.

AIR COMPRESSOR: A machine that takes energy produced in a coal-burning power plant 200 miles away and transforms it into compressed air that travels by hose to a Chicago Pneumatic impact wrench that grips rusty bolts last tightened over 58 years ago by someone at Chevrolet, and neatly rounds off their heads.

PRY BAR: A tool used to crumple the expensive metal surrounding that clip or bracket you needed to remove in order to replace a 50 cent part. Also used to bend or break expensive, irreplaceable collector car parts.

HOSE CUTTER: A tool used to cut hoses too short.

HAMMER: Originally employed as a weapon of war, the hammer nowadays is used as a kind of divining rod to locate the most expensive parts not far from the object we are trying to hit.

MECHANIC'S KNIFE: Used to open and slice through the contents of cardboard cartons delivered to your front door; works particularly well on contents such as seats, vinyl records, liquids in plastic bottles, collector magazines, refund checks and rubber or plastic parts.

DAMMIT TOOL: Any handy tool that you grab and throw across the garage while yelling "DAMMIT" at the top of your lungs. It is also the next tool that you will need.