Favorite Desert Recipe - Just Add Flower

There have been a few events lately that had me lightly wondering why we are still here. This photo helps explain why to me and the rest of the world.

Click for a larger view

These are yucca plants, similar to the one which Mark encountered (but without the handsome blooms) on his previously recounted buttock ride down to the creek. Like most other desert plants I have found, they aren't happy growing just anywhere either. They seem to pick out-of-the-way places where the deer and elk (or sliding hikers) aren't likely to pester them. These particularly nice examples are growing on an isolated ledge jutting out four stories above and sixty feet behind the rat trailer. They keep the company of some of the most joyously lush and vibrant yellow clusters of wild flowers I have ever seen. Photographing them is quite another story:

Disclaimer: DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME

- Especially do not try this if you are accompanied by two whacko Aussie cattle dogs who will blast between your legs as you pick your way over the crumbly two foot wide section of ledge with a sheer drop on one side.

- If you place a foot on an unstable rock which gives way and crashes over the edge, Mark will never notice from below, even though you just did a geriatric sideways splits and came up howling like a banshee. Your solace is; at least you didn't go over the edge with that picturesque rock.

- Once the dogs are out of the way, you will enter the Josef Karsh zone as you jockey for that most sublime shot. This will cause you to keep your eye jammed into the viewfinder while crab-walking backwards for the right frame. This, in turn, will cause you to inadvertently squat on a younger yucca. I have yet to figure out why these spikes leave a lingering and unpleasant burning sting at the contact point but they do - just take my word on that. Still, I just had to share this view with you.

So how's that for some awesome no-fuss backyard landscaping?

Gas Pains

Okay, so when was the last time you filled up at the pump and went inside to pay and the nice lady said "That'll be $2500.00 and some odd, please." ? It might be enough to have you clasp your hand over your heart and reel backwards like Fred Sanford working on 'the big one'.

For us, it seemed like just last week. Come to think of it, it was just last week. After over a year and a half of trying to set up fuel delivery to the ranch, it finally happened. Both a good and bad aspect of New Mexico is that a lot of people and businesses don't get strokes over 'minor' details. If you go along with that new mindset, you will be fine and probably live longer in the end. If you haven't quite managed the full transition, you might die that much sooner out of frustration. We are somewhere in between at the moment. We have been laid back enough to not follow-up even weekly on events that just aren't happening as promised. BUT, we are still up north or back east enough to eventually get tired of drumming our fingers and waiting, especially when something brings a premium with it when it does finally happen.

For instance, imagine what that same load of gas would have cost well over one year ago. The irony was that we only found out later, unofficially, that we could have locked in a price per gallon at the time we first committed to ordering it. And, much more ironically, that a locked-in price might have had that fuel out here much sooner as gas prices started to rise.

The upside of having fuel delivered out here to the back yard is that we no longer have to bring several 5 gallon gas cans into town each week to feed the generator, the skid steer and other thirsty beasts around here (To Be Announced!). Our biggest disaster in personal fuel transport just had to occur right after Mark's new big Dodge got the new spray-in bed liner. Of course. The shop sent him away with the warning to not spill fuel on the liner - that this was one thing guaranteed to eat it up. So, you guessed it .... five gallons dump over onto the liner, a load of building supplies, etc., despite the load lock bar, wishes, prayers and santos. Well, maybe we weren't using the santos (those charming rustically carved saint statues - largely of Hispanic Catholic origin) but I think I might track some down after the events of this last month and tack them to the cab roof.

To take a minor amount of sting out of the delay, the company did give us tanks and the spill detention tanks at a reasonably reduced rate though. They give you a discount for bulk quantity purchase but the delivery price curiously offsets that savings, i.e. you still pay pump prices. Like I said, the main benefit is that we no longer have to transport fuel in ourselves. Now ... all we have to do is use it up before it deteriorates or find some way to stabilize it. As I have found out from vehicle restorations and running older, more finicky engines, the new gas formulations just don't have the shelf life they once did. Those little, itty bitty, pricey cans of Stabil were not going to cut it at our volume so we started looking for it in quantity. In the process, buddy John E from Phoenix noted that Stabil itself does not necessarily have a stable shelf life. Is it just me or is there some grand irony involved here? Well, we did some more technical info digging after that revelation and it turns out that it is okay if you add it all to your fuel immediately or leave it unopened. Once opened, however, that tiny can will start to go down hill unless you use it up. How many of you, myself included, have had partial cans of that stuff hanging around forever on the shop shelf? Something to think about before pouring it down the gullet of your favorite old GTO.

Memorial Day Thoughts

I had once volunteered to help spruce up the graves of veterans before Memorial Day. It was a beautifully sunny day and a cool breeze ruffled the grass in the shadows of the tall trees. With the help of the little map, I quickly found my assigned area. I stepped out of the truck and saw hundreds of colorful potted flowers waiting to be planted three to a marker.

At each new site, I would read the inscription to learn more about that person. As I fought with stubborn weeds to make way for the new flowers, I found myself tracing around the Born and Died dates with my index finger. I smiled when the dates showed a man surviving a war and living on to eighty or ninety years of age. The ones which saddened me were those with a death date corresponding to war years; young sons and husbands who did not return to continue on. The short two-date summation of their lives drove me deep into thought as I troweled away. There was my Uncle Bob whose B-17 was shot down in Europe, Uncle George and Uncle Gordie who charged ashore from landing craft on D-Day, Uncle Hank whose navy ship was torpedoed off the coast of France. Only one did not make it back home to us. I also remembered the drawn, weary faces of the WW1 veterans from my visit to a VA hospital, those who had already been hospitalized for fifty years from mustard gas attacks upon their trenches. You can't forget those faces, you can't help but be overwhelmed by the immensity of their sacrifices. By now, time had claimed all these stalwart old soldiers and they all seemed to join me now in this quiet little cemetery and I lost it just as I did the day they played taps by my father's grave.

And this weekend I insist on celebrating the survivors as well as the fallen. To Jim who survived the med-evac chopper runs in Nam, to Red who survived the downing of his B52 and his POW time in Hanoi. Jim, you've been a loyal friend all these years - long after others deserted the ship and, Red, you have been the brother I always wanted most in my heart. And to my newly found blog friends, Bruno and Catmoves, too. I was the one most blessed when God chose to bring you home from war and I know that I am not the only one who feels that way. Remain strong, fight the dragons to the end, and know that you are always loved and honored.

I have received lovely comments on this particular post but I will be holding back comments from being published. It just seems right somehow.

Shopping Trips as Necessary Evils

It's been two weeks since Mark's last supply run to town so we are in short supply on most of the perishable basics by now. After the incident noted in the last post, we just might go to a two week schedule instead of our previous one week intervals. This will mean getting used to buying more of any given item and it will probably take us several tries before we get the quantities right. Still, it is better than exposing Mark to more oncoming traffic than necessary, at least for a little while.

On the accident front, we have not heard any positive news so far but we haven't given up either. Many, many thanks for the moral support you have given us with your comments.

The good news is that we finally got disciplined enough to sit down and put together a materials list for the new small rear addition. It will be just big enough to house the future solar power equipment and the elements needed to give us real 24/7 on demand water in the rat trailer. You probably have no idea how exciting this prospect is after being without running water for a year and a half!!! Our wonderful Virgil helped out with the first step in making the rat plumbing water-ready and I will be writing more about that soon.

If you enjoy reading stories that make you chuckle and say "Boy, ain't that the truth!", then you have to go read the May 25th story from Alphonse Da Moose. Click on his blog link in the left column of this page. The man just has that way of telling great stories.

Hit and Run

Friday, May 11th, was our last town run for supplies. Mark has become very good about letting me know when he is finished his errands and now back on the dirt road and heading home. He called just a few minutes after turning off the highway and was now only about an hour and a half away. What can I say? I worry about people, I inherited it from my mother. Get used to it 'cause I ain't about to change any time soon.

For an ETA of 1.5 hours, I allow an extra half hour before I start to really pace back and forth. Sometimes the roads are rougher than expected, sometimes you might meet up with someone and shoot the breeze a little or maybe just get stuck behind a herd of commuting cattle for a while.

A little over two hours after his call, I hear Mark's diesel as it drops down into our canyon. Brou hears it as well and can't wait to whine and widdle all over the porch when his best buddy returns. We're all out on the porch grinning when the Dodge pulls up beside it. Mark gets out and starts unloading without so much as a salutation for any of us. Hmmm ... something's up but I will just let it slide for the moment. He is even unusually oblivious to the curious dog noses poking into every new package. By the fourth bag of groceries deposited on the porch, however, he mutters something inaudible. This is my historic cue to open the floodgates of what has been eating at him. An impressive flood it was, too, and I soon became drenched with anger and outrage myself.

The Tale: About ten minutes after he had called, he was still on that part of the road which we both find unpleasant for its never-ending heavy washboard ripples and its thin layer of gravel which feels like oiled ball bearings under the wheels. Aside from the feeling of very little traction, we are going to have to make these trucks last a long time to come and, as a result, we plug along this section at 10 to 20 MPH tops.

Unfortunately, our town runs also put us in the position of being a lone salmon facing a steady stream of gas field vehicles heading into the field in the morning and back out at night. Such was again the case when Mark approached a blind corner after calling me. A pick-up going about 60 MPH popped into view and lost control as the driver swerved to avoid the guaranteed head-on collision. It was now sideways in the loose gravel and still heading for Mark. Mixed in with the thoughts that he was about to become a fatality, Mark managed a hard dive into the high brush on his right and braced for the crash. A kind brushing of fate had the other truck hook a little traction at the last moment and nearly straighten back out, nearly. Mark felt a sharp jolt and knew that he had been clipped as the other truck sped up and disappeared without so much as a tap of the brake lights in some sense of decency or responsibility.

Still shaking from the sudden adrenaline dump, Mark stepped out to survey the situation. Sure enough, there was a heavy swipe running from his left rear wheel well to the rear bumper which ended by breaking the rear tail light. And the guy never even thought about stopping for even a second - that was the final insult to injury. Our field friends looked for a week to find the culprit but their efforts yielded nothing so we are kicking this up several notches now.

There is a disturbing new trend in the gas field towards producers running vehicles without any identifying signage at all and nearly black windows. This anonymity is certainly handy in incidents such as the one Mark just survived and we are pretty angry and determined at this point to get some accountability and responsibility restored to where it belongs. We will let you know if we have any success to this end so "Watch This Space". If this incident had ended Mark's life or incapacitated him, this dream of ours and this blog would have all come to a painfully abrupt end so it seems a worthy quest to pursue the matter on principle.

No Mo' Lampshade - Hallelujah!

While there was plenty to write about during this past week, I just couldn't get myself into the right mood to do it. I was generally sort of disgruntled although I can't say that I would necessarily recognize a feeling of 'gruntled' either.

The photo has nothing to do with any state of gruntling at all. It is announcing that Brou is now free at last from 'The Cone' and that our shins are starting to heal, the cats are starting to unwind again. Here's Brou looking out the window in a pose which reminded Mark of something he couldn't put a finger on right away. It finally occurred to him that it reminded him of a particular Edward Gorey illustration which is shown below the image of Brou. Hey, you have more thought time to make strange associations when you reside in the middle of nowhere.

I will write more, either tomorrow or on Sunday, about the event which ignited my disgruntlement. Mark also had his gruntle severely wrinkled by the matter. Never a dull or occasionally deadly moment out here up the creek, it seems.

A Good View of the Ol' BombBay

I heard Mark exclaim "Gagghhh!!! You're really part pig, aren't you, Daisy?!" so I looked out the window. I shouldn't have. What used to be the tri-color new dog in town was now a uniform, dripping mud brown. Worse still, she had convinced Brou to follow her into the mud wallow. So much for the vet insisting that we keep his surgery site clean. Sigh.

With the addition of this newest warm body to the clan of the rat trailer, I was beginning to understand the concept of population stress. I was having a serious lemming moment, in fact, so I rounded up the kitty boys to go hiking in search of cliffs. Ms. Daisy was secured to the grounds but Brou tagged along with us. The cats seemed a little miffed that we didn't leave him behind like we did last time but got over it quickly.

About a mile away from home base, we were hiking along half way up the mesa when a low flying B1 bomber flew directly, and I do mean directly, overhead. Close enough to see some details, loud enough to raise the hackles on everyone in the hiking party. It was awesome! Well, at least I thought so but, then again, I am a gearhead. Brou went berserk, barking and jumping up and down as he loves to do when the low fliers approach. Ming the cat velcroed himself in place, his eyes so big that they were almost glowing, his ears dead-sideways and now looking like two black horns. He laughably looked like a demon having a very bad hair day. But where was Beautiful Dave the Cat? He must have taken off like a jack rabbit because I spotted him some five minutes later emerging from the shelter of a cliff wall a good distance away.

Between the fly-over and seeing several new-to-me flowering desert plants, it was a marvelous walk about. Well, maybe 'the boys' didn't think so but I sure did.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Humor of the day: (from buddy John E. in Phoenix)

Happy Mother's Day

So, we had this great 10 year old cat named Jack who just recently died. Jack was a great cat and the kids would carry him around and sit on him and nothing ever bothered him. He used to hang out and nap all day long on this mat in our bathroom. Well we have 3 kids and at the time of this story they were 4 years old, 3 years old and 1 year old. The middle one is Eli. Eli really loves chapstick.... LOVES it! He kept asking to use my chapstick and then losing it. So finally one day I showed him where in the bathroom I keep my chapstick and how he could use it whenever he wanted to, but he needed to put it right back in the drawer when he was done.

Last year on Mother's Day, we were having the typical rush around and try to get ready for Church with everyone crying and carrying on. My two boys are fighting over the toy in the cereal box. I am trying to nurse my little one at the same time I am putting on my make-up. Everything is a mess and everyone has long forgotten that this is a wonderful day to honor me and the amazing job that is motherhood. We finally have the older one and the baby loaded in the car and I am looking for Eli. I have searched everywhere and I finally round the corner to go into the bathroom. And there was Eli. He was applying my chapstick very carefully to Jack's ... rear end. Eli looked right into my eyes and said "chapped."

Now if you have a cat, you know that he is right--their little butts do look pretty chapped. And, frankly, Jack didn't seem to mind. And the only question to really ask at that point was whether it was the FIRST time Eli had done that to the cat's behind or the hundredth.

And THAT is my favorite Mother's Day moment ever because it reminds us that no matter how hard we try to civilize these glorious little creatures, there will always be that day when you realize they've been using your chapstick on the cat's butt.

Laughter really can be the best medicine

We've had a run of overcast skies and damp, chilly temperatures. Slim sounded pretty bummed out on Friday during the rain but had lucked out up top on Saturday and Sunday with a dry weather window for his annual cattle round-up. I don't imagine that having a trailer full of rained-out volunteer workers and bored kids would be a treat when everyone had been hyped up for serious cowboy action. Nor could I imagine having to wrestle with a lot of wet calves in the mud, especially since we still have all of his plumbing supplies in the back of the Dodge that he needed to get the showers up and running again. I guess we all just ran out of time on that project.

We had our own cabin fever moments brought on by this weather. It turns out that Daisy, the new dog in town, loves to find mud holes and returns soaking wet and mud covered. As she dries out, her thick, kinky hair sheds dust everywhere by the mound full. To cut down on the dirt, we have been keeping her indoors far more than hoped for. Two people and four critters are possibly too many for a place the size of the rat trailer, especially when that really means the kitchen and living room area. Daisy chases one of the cats, Brou chases Daisy as the new enforcer, Mark chases Brou to call him off. I sit here wondering where all the wonderfully deafening silence has suddenly gone.

A cabin fever hike was overdue. Rather than bring the entire entourage, I snuck away with just the original boys; Beautiful Dave the Cat and Ming the Merciless. As we threaded our way through the sage to the spring, I could hear Mark's exasperation with the two dogs who knew very well that they had been left behind. Just me and 'the kitty boys' once again and thankfully the whining and barking died down after we disappeared from view. Serenity had returned at last. We hiked along, exploring new and intriguing holes in the eroded sandstone walls and finally finding a new way up the embankment to the first bench overhead. Ming dashed from the cover of one tree to another but Dave boldly walked out in the open with me so I scanned the skies overhead for the golden eagles who had just been patrolling for prey again yesterday. So far, so good but maybe they had a better sense of the weather than I since it started to rain. Nothing like a little rain to motivate cats, believe me. Before long, we were all at a trotting pace for the half mile trek back towards the rat. Once the boys recognized our standard trail down, it was obviously 'every man and cat for himself' and they left me behind to pick my own way down the treacherous shale around the yuccas. The boys looked a little mousse-spiky from the rain and I must have gotten a serious chill.

I was feeling pretty miserable by the time the generator came on and was able to check on a friend's blog. I felt a surge of warm energy run through my aching, shivering limbs as my eyes welled up with tears from laughter. It's obvious that this man has not lost the ability to tell a good story in 35 years. If you need a good laugh, check out his tale of May 5th at:
http://alphonsedamooseramblings.blogspot.com/
or just click on his link on the left side of this page.
Thanks, Alphonse, I sure needed that.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Humor of the day (sent in by Alphonse himself)

Barbara Walters did a story on gender roles in Kabul, Afghanistan, several years before the Afghan conflict and noted that women customarily walked 5 paces behind their husbands.

She recently returned to Kabul and observed that women still walk behind their husbands. To her great consternation, despite the overthrow of the oppressive Taliban regime, the women now seem happy to maintain the old custom and walk even further back behind their husbands now.

She approached one of the Afghani women and asked, "Why do you now seem happy with the old custom that you once tried so desperately to change?"

The woman looked Ms. Walters straight in the eyes, and without hesitation, said, "Land mines."

Don't ever wanna hear about YOUR potholes!

.
A Continuation of Last Week's News:

With half-sincere posthumous apologies to Gustave Doré (whose lithos I have always adored), I could find no more suiting pictorial for ONE of last week's misadventures. This stark image of Dante's Inferno haunted me in consistently humorous fashion from the start of this, my most serious 'bad hair day', last week.
.
Mark had wandered up to the mesa top for a meeting with Slim and a rep from one of the big gas field players out here. I had time on my hands. I got restless. This is generally not a good combo.

So, I loaded Brou into my own truck and headed east. Maybe we would check if there were any more renegade cows in our canyon - an event that Brou lives for. Maybe I would just get a wild hair to join Mark and Slim up on top. I would decide as fate presented the options. It sure did ... and fast.

We bumped along the wet Spring-bitten roads, dove into and smeered through a few deep mires of mud along the way. About a mile further out, I ran into the perennially 'iffy' part of the road where the creek gnaws viciously at the 50 foot high banks and the mesa run-off grinds its own determined path over this already skinny road to meet the creek. The erosion of this last unusual year of rain has threatened safe passage but the gas field was already on it as far as repairing the damages of those relentlessly ripping waters. I saw a huge yellow road grader and some other vehicles on that part of the road ahead so rather than disturb the entourage just to turn around on a well site beyond, I decided to unobtrusively back down the road for about an eighth mile to find a good turn-around spot. With my lack of neck and spinal mobility, I don't do reverse well on a good day now but was all sorts of pleased with myself that I managed to stay roughly centered in the road this time. I could see a very promising flat plane of desert intersecting the road coming up ahead, or rather behind in this case, with no severe ditch to drop into. Perfect (or so I thought, sigh).

I jockeyed the Dakota into a good position to address the turn-off and execute an admirable one point turn around. Yes, very nice set-up indeed. I threw it into the big "R" and proceeded backwards. I find myself going through mental steps in anticipation of what will happen next; Okay, we're in "R", the truck will roll backwards, then the little drop into the ditch with a mild roll up backwards, then we shove it into Drive, roll back up forwards and we're on our way. NOPE, not today, kitty boy. That expectation of the roll down into the ditch just kept coming ... and coming ... and coming. I felt like the Captain of the Titanic as the aft of my little red ship dove downwards at an alarming angle, the broad blue sky above suddenly filling the windshield. I took my foot off the accelerator at that point when I realized that something was not completely kosher here - no sense in the front wheels in four-wheel drive further promoting this unexpected disaster. Fortunately, the truck stopped it's descent into this new unknown Hell and I slipped the truck into 'Park' and shut it down. Surprisingly, I was still able to open the door and exit but I left the now utterly befuddled Brou in the back seat to ponder this new and confounding attitude. I am sure he felt like one of the Titanic's mid ship passengers by now as he was now sitting as much on the back of the rear seat as the seat pan.
.

Click on the photo for a much larger view.

.
Remember my comment in a previous post about how you look around to see if anyone else had seen your most undignified of predicaments? Oh joy of joys ... this time I had a full house audience. Utter mortification set in as the witnesses descended rapidly to confirm what ol' Numb Nuts of the North had just done. I looked around and wondered if I could just drop into the gaping precipice with the truck and completely disappear ... forever, if possible. At that point, I could do nothing more than stand in the middle of the road, fists curled and driven painfully into my sides, and utter a long-winded primal scream that would have made any old merchant mariner proud. I also presumed that the approaching onlookers would not hear it above their own motor noises.

Well, upon their arrival, the first comments offered in unison were "H-o-o-h-L-E-E S- -t .... ohhhh m-a-a-a-n ... N-I-C-E job!" This really didn't dissipate my desire to crawl into that same hole at all. So, what's the first thing real guys do to alleviate the upset of such disasters? Wrong ... likely no matter what you might have been thinking! You have to get out the camera and pictorially document this embarrassment thoroughly. Ahh ... thanks, guys, thanks A LOT. But paybacks are fair enough since I have done my share of teasing and once it was determined that it could have been far worse, we settled into an ongoing laugh fest over the whole matter.

Oh how I love those graders even more now. It wasn't long before the grader was hooked up to the truck with my handy now-defunct tow rope inherited from the field. By the way, Dakotas don't have stunningly obvious tow points up front like the full-sized Rams. It took some conference of the masses to decide which areas could be hooked to without causing new damage. I now regretted that my truck sat nearly at a right angle to the road, fearing that a perpendicular tow out would crush the right side of the body panels in as the truck followed at a diagonal. The grader operator, as promised, put it in 'granny low' and slowly inched east. Three foot into the pull, the Dakota's rear wheels engaged again with terra firma and resumed a more normal stance.

We all circulated around and under the truck to assess damages and the consensus was; "Wow, this thing is undamaged! Would you believe that?" My vicarious pride rose a little as one observer said "Gee, do you think it's too late to order a half ton as my next new field vehicle?" My unspoken thought reply was "Well, only if it is a Dodge perhaps."

But the 'bad kid' fun wasn't over yet, even with the truck now out of peril. One of the operators said "Okay, now I am going to send these photos directly to Mark's e-mail address. So whaddya think of that?" Oh, how we laughed at the prospects. "Whoa ... no, wait a minute, you're right, do that! I won't say a thing about it until he opens his e-mail and I hear a "Holy Moses ... do you mind explaining these photos?!" If he asks what I was doing in his absence this afternoon, I will simply say "Oh, just the usual, dear, you know, a little fussing around in the garden, etc." And we all laughed those rotten kid laughs all over again.

Well, for lack of proper camera patch cords and misspelled e-mail addresses, it took until today for those photos to reach me. In the meantime, I had been on tenterhooks awaiting their arrival. As we sat around at Virgil's farewell luncheon last Friday, Mark brought up the issue of that HUGE hole at the side of the road east of here. It was a good thing that I happened to be standing behind Mark when he said it. Norm nearly blew his last soda gulp out through his nose and I stooped forward in silent laugh convulsions, trying ever so hard not to explode into audible laughter myself or pee my pants. Just wait until he opens his e-mail tonight though!

Today's Update:

Brou has been in very good hands. Had I seen the full extent of the wound that the vet uncovered with his clippers, I don't doubt that I would have wilted away like yesterday's vinaigrette salad. I will give a full report on his progress soon. Just know that he is over the hump on this one, too, even if I won't be with the Nightingale post-op duties necessary.
.
.

All Farewells Are Tough, No Matter What

A Part of Last week's News:

Virgil announced last week that it would be his last week on his gas well run out here. Although we knew all along that they wouldn't keep a sharp kid out here in the boonies forever, we still felt the ice water pang of regret upon hearing his words. He had been our life-line out here, the likely link that made the difference as to whether we would make it or give up in despair in that first harsh year. So what do you do when faced with an emotional moment like this one? You stalwartly offer to cook bratwurst and barbeque pork, that's what. And so we were able to meet one more time officially and, thoughtfully, he brought along his replacement, Norm for us to meet. Norm was a funny and likeable kid but we knew that he just wasn't going to be any in-kind replacement for Virgil. As we were sitting here last night with Slim, I shuffled my feet restlessly into the sand grit on the floor and said "Ah damn it, Slim, I sure am going to miss that Virgil." He shifted theatrically on the big Chesterfield to herald an important revelation and said "Well, ya know, Lin, I feel that same damn way. In fact, when you guys didn't answer the phone all morning yesterday, I just had to call Virgil and ask if he thought maybe I should wander down there on a rescue mission of some sort. In reality, though, yeah, I just kind of found myself missing that kid, too." There just went our lovable and helpful interface to an industry that we might otherwise come to locking horns with in short order. Beyond that, he proved to be an excellent, faithful friend in his own right.

Slim couldn't make it down here for the lunch send-off but it was still an enjoyable last encounter anyway. Like us, Virgil was kind of dreading some kind of all mushy, sentimental send-off moment so he was quick to say "Now don't think that you are getting rid of me for good, okay? We'll be back out to visit every couple of months or so and we can do some more plinking and hiking and stuff. I am also coming back out soon to help you guys finally get some running water in the rat." That was the salve we needed to stay dignified about this whole farewell occasion. It wasn't that easy for any of us on the last day of Robin's presence in the oil patch since we knew that we would probably never see him again once he headed back to Texas. Today, we had all received that stay of emotional execution and were incredibly grateful.

Today's News:

Mark is on an impromptu trip into town. Brou got seriously sliced up while rough-housing with Slim's three dogs last night. It wasn't until later that I discovered the reason for his cowering demeanor when he came back inside. He yelped and nipped at me as I tried to give him a belly scratch. I found a 4 to 5 inch rip in the skin on his groin near his right leg and it went down to the muscle casing. It's likely that he crashed into the discarded metal siding pile as they flew around the yard. Fortunately, it was a relatively bloodless trauma or I would have heaved immediately. He remained deadly quiet through the night, refusing to eat or drink and, this morning, we decided that we couldn't take a chance on such a large wound out here in Septic City. So off to the vets he went.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Humor of the day (appropriately, from Virgils' Mom)

A New Element is Discovered:

A major research institution has recently announced the discovery of the heaviest element yet known to science. The new element has been named "Governmentium." Governmentium has one neutron, 12 assistant neutrons, 75deputy neutrons, and 224 assistant deputy neutrons, giving it an atomic mass of 312. These 312 particles are held together by forces called morons, which are surrounded by vast quantities of particles called peons. Since Governmentium has no electrons, it is inert. However, it can be detected, because it impedes every reaction with which it comes into contact. A minute amount of Governmentium causes one reaction to take over four days to complete, when it would normally take less than a second. Governmentium has a normal half-life of 4 years; it does not decay, but instead undergoes a reorganization in which a portion of the assistant neutrons and deputy neutrons exchange places. In fact, Governmentium's mass will actually increase over time, since each reorganization will cause more morons to become neutrons, forming isodopes. This characteristic of moron promotion leads some scientists to believe that Governmentium is formed whenever morons reach a certain quantity in concentration. This hypothetical quantity is referred to as "Critical Morass." When catalyzed with money, Governmentium becomes Administratium an element which radiates just as much energy as the Governmentium since it has half as many peons but twice as many morons.

A Spring Fever Hike For The Cats

Current news:

"It was a dark and stormy night ... " Well, it wasn't until Murphy and his laws stepped in again. There was only a 20% chance of thunderstorms called for today. They did not arrive until a few minutes ago which, of course, was not long after Mark asked if I would do the generator shut-down tonight. The heavy rains came without warning so there was no chance to slip out before the ground became slick. I can picture myself tripping into the drainage ditch, doing the splits in the mud and bunging up my bad knee so there is not much incentive to rush out there now. The only other incentive might be to avoid losing the computer in a lightning strike, OH, like that one ... F-L-A-S-H ! ! ! ... one ... two .... KERASSHHH!!! Certainly got the kitty boys' attention that time. So, here I am waiting out the worst of it. Can't dance, might as well write a new blog entry.

----------------------------------

The kitty boys were not to be denied their walk any longer, not this morning. They had seen the dry ground from the big window, felt the unusual warm press of the sun in their fur and they now sat like tall teapots in front of the door as if intense stares would make it open.

With Mark off on a supply run, I would be alone for most of the day and I had not planned anything too exhaustive. Neither of us have recovered our energy since that last bout of illness. The cats' glares were starting to get to me so I finally opened the door to the porch. They both slid outdoors, down the steps and over to the moving trailer in a swift and mercurial motion. They were on a recognizable mission so I found my rubber boots and headed over to the mesa wall. Sure enough, they were on my heels and soon we were all, Brou included, up on the first bench (first lower step of the mesa). We had hiked along this bench many times and it was Beautiful Dave The Cat who decided that we should assault the second bench today. By then we were well west of our known trail up but we started up anyway. It required a little more athletics than normal, a little more energy than I had hoped to invest but the trio were thrilled with the adventure.

We were now so close to the top but the last barrier to success was a solid wall of sandstone over ten feet high. We skirted along its base, hopping from boulder to boulder or occasionally sliding down boulder faces as the ledge changed levels abruptly. It was Brou who found the final path to the top, although in a disturbing way. I happened to look over just as he made a leap over four feet straight up. He missed the unseen target, his toenails audibly scribing the rock, and he fell back down and tumbled for several feet. Fortunately, the ledge was wide enough that he didn't turn into a rolling stone and end up back down at the first bench. As usual, he was back on his feet instantly and grinning merrily. It reminded me of our last outing when it was I who lost footing on some dried leaves, fell right square on my ... dignity ... and then did a lumpy side roll down through the rocks and sticks for fifteen or twenty feet before inertia let loose its claim on me. It's funny how, even though you are miles from anyone, one of the first things you do is look around to see if anyone saw you perform that most undignified descent.

My achy hip and knees winced at that recollection but we were all ready to inspect Brou's potential path. Before I could boost him up, Brou made a second lunge and cleared it this time. Dave and Ming followed immediately behind and now all were staring back down at me impatiently. Not to be the poor sport, I kneed, butted and dragged my ample carcass up, through and over the last boulders. The view was a breath-taking reward. The flat plane of our normal canyon bottom existence expanded upwards and outwards as new mesas and far skies were revealed. The ribbon of our canyon and creek extended for miles more beyond our normal perspective. Even the kitty boys sat down on the rock ledge to contemplate this new view of our world. I cannot describe the feeling of peace and contentment to quietly sit with friends, large or small, and simply exist in such a beautiful place.

I always let the kitty boys set the pace and eventually Ming initiated the homeward descent. As much as he fusses if he thinks we are going on a hike without him, he loves the return trip best. With the help of gravity, it wasn't long before we were all back home at the rat.

As I sat collapsed in the wing chair, I heard a familiar noise just outside the open window and looked up. The first hummingbird of the year had returned, looking for last year's feeder. I realized that even the feeder bracket had disappeared during the re-siding project and felt like a complete heel as he flew away a few seconds later. I curtailed my rest and went in search of the feeders. They are now back in place and ready for the hordes to return. I had once read an e-mail about how 'they' send out scouts so you have to get the feeders up early. Good heavens, what utter poppycock. By that comment, you'd assume that hummingbirds traveled in massive divisions like the U.S. cavalry. Hardly. If you miss the first ones, there will always be more showing up later in ones and twos.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Humor of the day (this one's from Virgil's Mom)

Take 60 seconds to try this. It's too amusing not to.

1. go to www.google.com

2. click on "maps"

3. click on "get directions"

4. type "New York City" in the first box (the "from" box)

5. type "London, England" in the second box (the "to" box)

6. hit "get directions"

7. scroll down to step #24 (this number might change however so look around in that vicinity if the gag line isn't apparent)

Road Grading and Murphy's Infallible Laws

Current News:

It had been months since the road grader had found its way this far up the creek so I rushed to the window to watch with excitement as it passed by on Thursday. The relatively smooth roads left behind rekindled my wild hair to jump in the Dakota and head towards Albuquerque on an architectural salvage run on Friday.

And then Murphy and his laws intervened. Within 8 hours of the roads being made palatable, the snow started to fall, then hail and finally rain followed. While it started off as my favorite type of rain, the one which falls gently enough to soak in rather than run away, taking the soil with it, this bout persisted throughout the entire dullish gray Friday. Somewhere in the midst of the steady downpour, a curious procession of gas field vehicles passed by, fishtailing in the clay gumbo and bouncing from one side of the road to the other like golf balls in a downspout. The new smooth surface of the road was history that quickly. Fine then, I can take a hint and I will stay home ... hmmmph!

So we tackled hanging a few doors today (Saturday). I will not mince words here - there are few things I now enjoy less than hanging doors but doing it within an unlevel, non-square, off plumb 30 year-old rat trailer and there are going to serious blood pressure moments coming down the pike, real quick. I have worked on Civil War era buildings and not found them quite this annoying. We had previously bought several of your basic luan hollow core doors at Salvation Army and the Humane Society's resale shop for between $5 and $10 each. They were solid affairs, quite unlike most of the ones initially native to the rat which were either missing entirely, bore a few iterations of knob set bores or many impressions of angry knees, feet and fists. We had to make new frames in all cases. I sawed up every bit of scrap material lying around into shims; paneling, 1 by, plywood, paint sticks and ripping debris until I had a sizeable box of shims at the ready. I will cut to the chase here since framing in doors is a tedious pain in the butt that I no longer have the patience for, let alone write about after the fact. We also had the joy of hanging two more bi-fold closet doors today. The factory genius who designed the door packaging lay-out put the overhead rails exactly where the forklifts ram into them. Every last one of the rails had been smashed in on one end, rendering them nearly useless without serious smithing skills applied vigorously. By the end of today, color me a dark shade of surly.

============================================================

Aux des VRAI Canadiens:

Okay, for all my Canadian readers, you might want to check out the web link below and add your comments. It concerns one of my favorite New Mexico bloggers (who I am linked to) and an article his QWEE-beck guest wrote. Since the article was published in French, it was translated via computer. The translation results were hilarious and the blogger reaction in Albuquerque was even more amusing. You may wish to add your comments - just make sure to read through to the end of the comments section first. Personally, I found the comments about mayonnaise on fries and ketchup-flavored potato chips just a little inflammatory but you know the current culinary score better than I. If they had mentioned la poutine (or Lucier's "frit ... avec la sauce?"), I might have become vocal myself.

http://www.dukecityfix.com/index.php?itemid=2725

And while we are on a 'hokey' night in Canada roll, here is a little humor (humour) from my old NY state bud Jim (I don't think they averaged in S.Empty's stats though):

===============================================
Humor of the Day:

Let's see you beat this MPG!

A 2006 study found that the average Canadian walks about 900 miles a year.
Another study found that Canadians drink an average of 22 gallons of beer a year.

That means, on average, that Canadians get about 41 miles per gallon.

Our Hero of the Week

Current News:

The photo is of our friend Slim aboard Crazy Alice.

It's been a rough week for both of us out here in the boonies. Mark's condition went from bad to worse, the roads were less than pleasant from here to the main canyon and both of us were too ill, too depleted, to make the long trek into town for medical help for either of us.

This time, it was our cowboy neighbor Slim's turn to rescue the Pilgrim and clear any score card and then some that he might have been tallying. When he heard of Mark's condition, he endured the rough roads down here last Thursday and left us with his personal emergency supply of meds. While it was clear that I could not take them, Mark could and I was very thankful for that. I gave him the starter round when he retired very early that night. He was shivering so badly that his jaws clattered and I was deeply disturbed by his ashen cyanotic pallor since I had already suspected that he might be slipping quickly into pneumonia, heralded by his painfully tight coughs. Our supply of cough syrups with expectorants were nearly depleted in hopes that he would keep his lungs from clouding up. I had been riding herd on him constantly to do breathing and deliberate rib cage contraction exercises to ward off further breathing deterioration but we had still been losing ground gradually. I just had to hope that Slim's help had come in time.

Mark made it through the night although his tortured moans, ramblings and coughs had me bolt awake many times that night. He remained a zombie for the next couple of days, sleeping almost 20 hours of each day but finally agreed to eat something by Sunday. It wasn't until Wednesday that he ventured outside to "accomplish something, anything". The week of down time had been weighing on him and he was anxious to get back at it. This Thursday, he even made his ritual run to town although he had justifiably run out of steam very early this evening.

So, Slim, wherever you are the next time you get into trouble, know that you have racked up some serious "Get out of trouble FREE cards". Thanks for loving and caring about a couple of eccentric "Pilgrim" neighbors. You are the official hero of the week up the creek. We love ya!

Sundries: Temperature is a couple of degrees above freezing but a light snow has started to come down. Hopefully it won't be too messy out there when I shut down the generator. Brou has accomplished his last outey for the night and is now engrossed in a brand new rawhide bone. He got in two good runs today when he and I jumped in the truck to check out the road grader's new work.

Birds of Prey, Play and War

The kitty boys aren't happy with their new curfews but Spring has brought the return of our raptors. Barely a day goes by now that I won't see one or more in our skies or roosting in our trees. Several weeks ago, Mark was reading an article to me when my concentration was interrupted by a peripheral visual disturbance ... my goldies! At first, I had only noticed one golden eagle making it's classic circular flight patterns just a little west of the rat. I arose with the birding binoculars and steadied myself into the large window frame for better viewing. Before long, it became very apparent that 'he' was courting a lady who finally settled down into one of the high ledges above us. It would appear that the 'chemistry' clicked for this pair and they eventually circled up into the air in, I suppose, a "Was it good for you?" soaring dance of ever widening and ascending circles until even the binoculars could no longer hold them. They have since returned often, taking up a roost in the pines nearby and waiting for tender kitties or cottontails or whatever might present itself as dinner below. And they have allowed me to observe their play moments as well. I watched mesmerized as the male broke off a roosting branch and rose high into the air with stinging speed, only to drop the branch and then practice diving to clutch it up again and again before it hit the ground. Perhaps typical guy "Hey, watch this!" stuff. Eventually the female joined him, probably saying "Yes, dear, that really was impressive. Can we do lunch now? I think I might be eating for more than one."

And today, as I was soothing a fever's heat in the late shade of the porch, a hawk caught my attention. He was large bodied and stubby enough in the neck that I might have mistaken him for an owl had evening's dulling light been any closer. Retrieving the binoculars to aid my failing eyesight dispelled any doubt that this was a hawk of good proportion. To keep him circling within viewable range, I would occasionally 'scree' to him and he would stop midair with chilling accuracy like a kite on a long string despite the winds and watch back intently. Before too long, I noticed another hawk who, at first, seemed to be a considerable distance behind him. It was not until their orbits overlapped that I realized that this second hawk was considerably smaller and probably concerned about an invasion of territory and his nesting grounds. Looking through the 'glass', I had lost all sense of proximity until the two engaged in combat. After a number of glancing intercepts, the larger dropped down onto the smaller and I saw a tiny flash of white feathers and the smaller hawk dropped down into the sage at the base of the mesa. The larger bird dove down into the same area and then took up watch in a tree on the lower mesa bench. When I removed the binoculars, I was startled to realize that this had all happened just ten feet beyond the big moving trailer. I resumed spotting the larger bird. Had I not known his position, I would have never seen him in the top of the big conifer. He rested there for another ten minutes, likely waiting for the re-emergence of his protester but finally flew off to the north east. Brou and I searched the brush for his possibly battered dog-fight partner. I was greatly relieved to look up and see the smaller fellow airborne again and nervously patrolling his territory until the shadows lengthened.

'My' birds are very special to me. They are a part of my life here when I walk away from the rat trailer. The larger hawk may likely be the fellow who came to see me when I was out stalking renegade cattle last summer. Having to herd these cows with nothing more than a broom and a pick-up truck, I had pulled into a remote gas well site and was circling around to drive the delinquent noshers back towards the road. My intent and tactics were utterly dissolved when I heard a distinct 'Scr-e-e-e-e-e!" right over head. I looked up and saw a large hawk circling above me. As I returned his call, he circled lower and in ever-tightening circles and returning my calls until he was, perhaps, just 10-15 feet above my head. Given my awareness of his razor-edged talons, I decided that we need not get any more familiar. I slowly presented my flat palm upwards as if to push him further aloft and he obliged, still calling but flying ever higher until he vanished completely from view into the bright blue sky.

The photo shows not two but THREE golden eagles above the rat trailer just a few days ago. By their actions, it would appear that one of them was a Johnny-Come-Lately hoping to win over the affections of the lady as the third eagle eventually left after a few lofty scuffles and flew off to the north by himself.

Current news:

It's been a tough week out here so far with Mark succumbing to a flu which he likely picked up on the last town run on Thursday. We agreed that he has probably slept 20 out of each 24 hour day since Saturday night. I am hot on his heels for the walking wounded club membership so bear that in mind if another update lags.

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'

Current News:

.

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.

.

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.

.

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!

.

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

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

.

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).

.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

.

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.

.

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?"

.

"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."

.

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.

.

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...."

.

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."

.

Playing in the Puddles

Current News

.

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.
.

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.
.

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?

.

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:

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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.