Cordless Revolution

I bought a corded Makita circular saw and a corded Makita drill over 40 years ago. The circular saw accumulated many hard miles as I used it at home and as my go to saw on the job as a carpenter. Both tools still function, albeit a tad noisier now than when they were new. I have changed the brushes in them several times.

Then, a little over 30 years ago I bought a cordless Makita drill. I beat the shit out of it on the job and at home for a long time. The first set of batteries finally shit the bed around 2005. I bought two knock off batteries, as that was all I could find quickly at the time. Makita had moved onto a newer, better, and more expensive drill with a different battery. The drill still works fine but one of the batteries finally died and the one that still holds a charge is only good for a short while before it tires out.

I had hoped these Makita tools would be the last ones I would ever need. They came close. But I now find myself in need of a new cordless drill. .......... 

God Dammit ................ I'm having a Hank Hill moment here.

Picking out a drill is not as easy as one would think. If anyone thinks it is easy, they have not a clue about the necessity to feel many different drills in their hand before they take one home.  

Finding a drill is only the beginning. If a long term relationship is being considered, one needs to hold the drill, fondle the drill, stroke it and and whisper sweet nothings into the keyless Jacobs chuck. Only after several drills have been caressed, can one really make the right choice. How does it feel in my hand is the first thing I look for. Any other consideration can follow, but how it feels is most important. And yes, holding a perfect tool can become a very sensual moment. If nothing else, if the tool reminds you of a thigh you once caressed years ago, you might want to go with that one.

I became very anxious when I knew I would have to learn to like a new power tool after so many years of using the old one. When I checked on what was available, I found the variety of cordless tools has exploded and the prices range from stupidly low to over the the top expensive. Back in the day, Makita was well thought of. They were considered well made and were known to last. My own experience with them is my anecdotal proof of their durability and dependability.  

I expected Makita would be offering a nice cordless tool now. It is compact and my hand loves it. But there are others that have been trying to turn my head and dammit, most of them feel good in my hand also.  Some are cheaper than Makita. Some are more expensive. 

I tabled any drill decision while I checked into cordless chain saws. I thought having a small one would help some of the pruning I have been ignoring for the last decade because my hands just don't have the power they once had. Just as the Cordless Revolution had taken over the power tool world, so it had also made major inroads in the lawncare world. I did not realize what a rabbit hole I was dropping into. There may actually be more cordless gizmos for lawn care than there are for woodworking. It is maddening how many choices exist.

After a month now of intermittent internet browsing in the many cordless tool pages, I finally chose a chainsaw; a sweet little 6 inch cordless Imoumlive. Imounlive is a brand I do not know. It is a cheaper brand than mainstream chainsaws, but when I compared everything, Price, battery power, tool internals, Imoumlive hit most of the high notes. What sold me was their tools use the same battery configuration as Makita. And because of that I also ordered up a new Makita cordless drill.

Maybe this Makita will be the last one I ever need. ....... Hope not.

Keep it 'tween the ditches ....................................

_________________________

Music for this post is courtesy of  Tool. Here is "Sober" from their 1993 debut album, "Under Tow". Just a fun little ditty about the downside of substance abuse. And if "Sober" doesn't pick your day up, maybe "Right In Two" from their "10,000 Days" album will bring a smile to your face as it points up the "we're all just monkeys on this bus" characteristics of Humanity.

The Final Touche'

Caleb and a small crew showed up this morning at 7:30 AM. There wasn't much left to do on the new septic system but some aesthetic touches - reseeding the back yard and the path the trucks chewed up as they came and went.

While Caleb walked around with huge pruning shears, nipping off the few small roots that had managed to escape to the light of day, one of his crew walked around with a seed spreader flinging out the seeds that would create the new back yard. 

Caleb backed a low trailer piled high with bales of straw and what I assumed was a machine that spread the straw. By 8:00 AM, they were done and out of our yard forever. 

At 9:30 AM the predicted rain came. A steady, wind free rain; the kind of soaker seeds need to get started.

I am impressed with the job Caleb and his crew did. They had to work around a lot of rain, which created intractable conditions for several days. There were unforeseen glitches Caleb took in stride and handled. No whining, No excuses, he just kept at it and made the whole thing easy for us to deal with. 

The folks who make up "Caleb Chessie Excavation" are a credit to their profession. 

Later ............................

________________________

Joe Cocker is always able to cover famous tunes and end up owning them by the time the song ends. Please enjoy his cover of " Don't Let Me be Misunderstood".

Days 3 & 4 - Back on Track & Done

Having spent a good number of years laboring in the building trades, I am well aware of the unforeseen hiccups that can plague a work site. 

The hit our well casing took is one such hiccup, as is the extra material Caleb had to bring in to build a passable path for the many 10 yard dump loads of material that was needed to first clear out the crap and then fill it back in with new crushed stone and sand. 

There has been a constant stream of 10 wheeler dump trucks. Caleb keeps his equipment clean and sharp looking. He has at a Peterbilt and a Kenworth, both with tag axles. Nice looking trucks that are packing some classy touches and bling.

I saw our hawk today while the crew was on lunch break. I spotted it sitting in a tree overlooking the new leach field. Excellent. A good sign I think. When we get the clover and indigenous wild flowers covering things, there will be some good hunting ground while affording the smaller critters some cover, evening up the odds a tad.

When the new site plan was drawn up, the engineer who designed the system, called for the pipe exiting the house to be raised at least 12 inches to insure a better pitch than the old one had. Not sure what the big deal was, the old system was not prone to backing up. Regardless, it was a "must do", and it was done. 

Memories of the various glitches of the first few days melted away as Caleb and his guys finished around 4:30 yesterday afternoon. There's some minor this and that still left, but we are now pooping in a new, larger, up to date, CEO approved and ready to rock septic system. 

Keep it 'tween the ditches ...................................

_______________________

I am too beat to think about what tune to add. So.......... Here is "All along the Watchtower" as played by musicians from all over the planet.......... "Playing for Change". Again, on this version, it is a hard rule that the volume needs to be close to "Max", or all the way to "Hurt", then dialed back a notch.

Enjoy!

Day Two - First Glitch

After all the progress on Day 1, at the end of it, the excavator backed into my well casing. The impact cracked the casing at the junction of the first two pieces.

Surprisingly, I was not upset at all. Shit happens, and the approach to the back yard is tight. Caleb assured me he would take care of it.  And he did. He called Southern Maine Pump and the guy came out and welded the casing ASAP.

At this point of the process of replacing one septic system for a new and improved one, all I thought about was the process. I was just another rubber necker blinded by the show that is excavation.

Yesterday afternoon as I sat on my bucket bench out back next to the compost pile, I sparked up a doob and contemplated the awesome display of terra-forming taking place on the other side of the rock wall. I do not know exactly what it is about watching big equipment work, but I think every male in existence enjoys watching those machines. And honestly when I drove big equipment and operated big equipment, I enjoyed it then right up until I didn't anymore.

But yesterday, that enjoyment changed to something different as I looked upon the destruction to the mini eco-system that had grown over the last 75 years behind my house. Who knows what creatures, and how many, had to find alternate housing as their home was chopped down, dug up, and hauled away. 

I felt sad. 

Turkeys used to roost there. Maggie would occasionally stir them up and chase them if they slept too long in the morning. Many winters ago, a herd of deer yarded up there several winters in a row. And recently, a hawk who I think built a nest in one of the old pines along the wall has been MIA now since last Friday. 

Displacement happens, but the positive improvement to my personal life is tempered by the fact I had to kick critters out. 

Oh Well.

__________________________

The only tune I could think of was Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi". Just substitute the parking lot with leach field and it might make sense.

Day One

Some years back in the early 2000's, a neighbor complained that our leach field was leaking onto their property. I pointed out to my neighbors that they were responsible as they were the ones who pushed a huge boulder onto our leach field in the early 1970s. I also intimated that fixing it was a good idea, but that I expected them to share in some of the cost of the repair or replacement. In that the leak from the field was rather small, I figured they would get back to me regarding how to proceed, but they never did until........

Fast forward to a few months back. I get a call from our local CEO (Code Enforcement Officer). My neighbor had made an official complaint. They wanted the problem fixed and they were denying any fault for causing the failure in the first place. 

The CEO asked me questions. How old was our septic system? How big was our tank? Blah, blah blah. Long story short, he and I decided replacing the septic system was the only way to go. I had no proof of my allegations other than a conversation I had back in the 1990's with the fellow who was operating the bulldozer that pushed the huge boulder onto our land. 

I told the CEO I would find someone to install a new septic system and promised to keep him in the loop.

The first thing we had to do was have a site plan drawn up and then pull a permit down to the Town Hall. A couple of weeks and a sizable chunk of change later, we were ready to hire someone.

Seems here in my corner of Maine, there's an excavating operation hiding behind every tree. Sifting through word of mouth recommendations, we found Caleb C. Chessie. Big man with big equipment and he's located just a couple of miles away. He told us, sure he would love to install a new septic system. Quoted us a price and promised to get on it by the end of May.

Yesterday, August 7, they began taking down trees. In only three hours a crew of three guys had over 25 trees down and cut up into truck-able logs. Ten of the trees were white pines 75 to 100 years old. What you see in the picture is what our back yard looks like now.

To be continued ................................

_____________________________

I am assuming you saw this song or one like it coming. Here is "Construction Machines", by The Bounce Patrol. ............... Enjoy!

Cutting the Cord

Pipe Tobacco, a blogging buddy of more than a few years, asked me to write about my experience "cutting the cord".  That is, what has it been like to drop Cable?

I cut our monthly media bill from $230 / month with Direct TV down to just under $100 / month using a mish-mash of streaming channels, Sling TV, Neflix, Amazon Prime, and whatever stuff comes with Roku.  I picked Roku because, well, it was supposed to be easy to hook up.  And indeed, it was.  It seems to work fine as long as we are using Wi-Fi units that are in good working order.  Changing out that last one made the kitchen TV perk right up.

I am now trying to come up with the best antenna system for local TV reception.   I placed puny single TV antennas on each TV.  Depending on location, we pull in from 8 to 19 channels. I want to bring them all under one antenna so they all pull the same.  A central antenna in the attic is what I am going to try next.  But that's for later.

The package we had with Direct TV was somewhere near the top packages offered;  260 plus channels or some nonsense like that.  Problem was, a good 25% of them were infomercial channels and another 10% were religious or political in nature. And the unwanted channels were sprinkled in among the rest so we had to constantly skip all the dead weight to find the channels we wanted.  Cable cutting has definitely made surfing easier. Well, channel surfing being easier might be overstating some.  It is different and I don't have to deal with channels I know offer me nothing.

The learning curves apparently are not over yet even after having been cable free for a month now.

Each streaming service has its own idiosyncrasies that make navigating, saving, and watching enough different that some irritating rules can frustrate in minor ways.  I am still smoothing out my awkward remote use.

Streaming can be sometimes frustrating when right as the climax of that awesome murder mystery goes into full bore shoot everyone dead action, the evil circling the drain icon stops everything as the machine reboots the stream.  That problem led to my first lesson.  Have good Wi-Fi performance or hard wire each TV into the Internet.

Switching between offerings like from Antenna to SlingTV , then over to Netflix uses more remote muscles.  So if you are weak wristed or have a serious problem focusing, maybe cord cutting is not for you.  It does require more effort to use it. But it isn't like going from a riding mower to a push mower.  Still easy peasy, sit on your ass and switch those channels to your heart's delight.

Overall, I am not looking back and missing Cable.

Later ............................................................

Don't Mow Til the Black Eyed Susans Come

I had written up an elaborate tale filled with near death escapes and being snatched and whisked away to another dimension.  All in an effort to get around the fact that what is really to blame is I had  become less than a slug, lower than a sponge clinging to a reef, but just above a comatose sloth.

It was just three or so days ago I took off the snowblower and attached the mower deck.

I know.  I know.  I have heard it all before.  I have rationalized it all before.  The fact is   I just hate mowing grass.

This year's excuse was,

"I don't want to mow until the Black Eyed Susans come."

My wife just rolled her eyes.  But you know what, I'm gonna go with it.  The picture tells me I'm right.  Besides, I want a new cover photo for FB.

Keep it 'Tween the Ditches ................................................

Its Official I Guess

Okay ........ Hmm ....... So I guess I cannot say I am not retired anymore.  A year without a paycheck is either being out of work or retirement. I have had no interest in pursuing gainful employment since my bike shop sold, and saying "unemployed" offers a promise that I might be looking for work.  I certainly do not want to give the wrong impression. So "retired" it is.

So what have I done to fill my days for the last year?  While some nagging honey do chores have been addressed, the additions to the list I made a year ago with the best of intentions, created an even longer list.  The list will never be broken.  I need to come to terms with this and be grateful I have so much more to avoid than I used to.

One of my regular blog visitors, Pipe Tobacco, commented in my last post about Trump. He was surprised I hadn't focused my attention and ire more on our fearless leader.   Well, I guess it is a case of being over exposed to the asshole.  I can't watch or listen to a broadcast without Dimwit in Chief being thrown in my face.  Frankly I am tired of him, tired of the Republicans, tired the spineless whiners on the Left, and absolutely have had it with the media enabling all those assholes.

I am just fucking fed up with the noise.

Instead of bitching about his Royal Highness, I decided to throw my energy in a new direction - Local Politics.

If you do not want to be frustrated and bored at the same time, don't just go to weekly selectman meetings or committee meetings.  What you need to do is join a committee.  Do that and you can be frustrated, bored, and occasionally pissed off.

I joined the newly formed marijuana committee set up last September.  Seven members tasked with providing information to the selectmen and citizens regarding the commercial and retail side of legal marijuana in town.  Myself and two others represent the Pot smokers and the rest want to bring back the 1950's.  It has been a very contentious experience.  Tempers have flared, feelings hurt, and you know what?  I fucking love it.

Keep it 'tween the ditches .........................................
____________________________

New Flash Fiction over to BoZone Too

Fix It Guy Enthusiasm

The last 2 weeks have found me busier than a two headed, ......... uh, well, let's just say that between the bike shop and a yard that I have determined to maybe not tame, but at least put up the good fight and beat back what jungle I can, there has been little energy for any of my more sedentary activities like pumping words into this computer.  With the sun not dropping over the edge before 8:30 PM or so, I am using as much of it as I can to make a difference.  Of course that means when I finally gimp in from my day, I eat, sit on the couch and pass out.  I haven't seen 10 O'clock PM in quite awhile.

The down side, ......... yeah once again those pesky checks and balances, yings and yangs, ups and downs ....... the downside to passing out just as the Sun goes black is I wake up bright eyed and bushy tailed at 3:30 or 4:00 AM.

There is no room for burning candles at both ends in my life anymore.  There used to be, but not anymore.  I go until I get tired and look for the first soft spot to park my butt.  It is actually beginning to piss off my wife.  I have left things unfinished or unclosed and she then becomes responsible to make sure I closed the garage door, rolled up my car windows, put yard tools away, etc.  But hey, when tired comes, I need to lay down pronto.

It seems every year about this time I am hard into convincing myself that this year it will be different,  This year I will carry my yard man and fix it guy enthusiasm through until snow flies.  I again told myself year.  And it seems I am still fooling myself I might just live up to my promise.  But in the back of my mind, my record of past failures keeps me from feeling secure that this year it will be different.  What usually happens is I get the one big weird project done and the basic yard and house duties start out gangbusters and then by the end of July all I want to do is go swimming in Horn Pond There is no romance in mowing, pruning, and hacking at the pucker.  And the satisfaction derived when hard at it in May, gets lost somewhere down the line.

But I will say that this year there is one big difference.  Back a couple of decades or so, I decided that I would not mow my lawn before June 1st.  This year I have mowed not only 3 times already, but I bagged the green crap up and dumped it in the back forty.  Maybe this year will be different ...........
Nah, probably not.

Later ........................................................

Pandora's Box

"Be careful what you wish for."..........."Nothing is as simple as it seems"............."Snowball out of control" ........"Ignorance is Bliss", and last but not least, "If it ain't broke don't fix it".

All of these slogans, sayings, warnings have at different times floated through my brain over the last couple of days.

Okay, so after a decade or two of walking around the failing infrastructure of my 60 year old home, I found home repair ambition again.  If it's a wood problem or outside leaking in problem, I actually have the skill set to fix it.  Or at least understand instructions I might find while researching the problem.  I did pound nails for a living there for awhile.  Electrical, well, don't have paid experience, but I am not afraid of electricity.  I respect it.  Once you have reduced it to the basics, it is fairly straight forward.

And so far since I caught the fixer upper bug, everything I have done in the last six months has yielded positive results for the house.  No quick fixes.  Everything I did I did with the notion that this is the last time I will have to deal with that.

The one classic home owner problem I still try to avoid is the plumbing.  I have done what I had to to keep it functional, but every time I messed with it, it became a much bigger patch job than I had bargained for.

Well, I Am Not French

I vaguely remember not so long ago in my recent past, I promised myself and thus it could be assumed I also promised anyone out there who cares I was going to try to write every day.  Now, I never intended to indicate I would try to write in my blog every day, just that I would write every day.
...........Hmm

.

Well, seems I already blew this very first New Year's Resolution I ever made.  I did not write every day or for that matter I did not write any day since last we touched base

I got wrapped up taking on a new homeowner project.  CR, the all things electrical Wiz and longtime friend decided sooner was better than later to install my new main panel.  He had suggested it while helping me patch up the old wiring system I had.  Being a no bullshit kinda guy, his suggestions were brutally frank.  "Why fix this when you need to start with a new main panel.  What are you?  French?"

Wired

Electricity.  That awesome mysterious force that magically makes my house a home and not some backwoods camp in Maine.  We could and have existed without it on a few occasions.  We can burn wood for heat and there is a dug well next to the kitchen with a hand pump.

But I like my electricity.  It pumps our water, lights up our house, washes our dishes, and keeps the beer cold.  Life without it would be doable, but not as much fun as it is with it.  As important as it is, you would think I would have upgraded the whole system 25 years ago when I had more ambition and was still skinny enough to crawl around in the crawl spaces and attics.  And because I only patched it up when something went wrong, I  now have no choice in the matter.  Make do won't do.  It is time to go after it.

Mr Domestic

So I'm cleaning cat litter trays earlier this AM and I remembered the almost promise I made the other day on the BoZone to return soon with another titillating post about the life and times of one MRMacrum.  I decided that once the litter trays were cleaned, the laundry dried and folded, and any other small token domestic chore I could think of was taken care of, I would pour myself another cup of coffee, sit down at the 'puter, fire it up, and punch up the blog.  I considered some multitasking.  Seemed a grand notion while typing whatever this will turn out to be, I could work on that new playlist for the MP3 player I have plugged into the stereo in the Ford Ranger.

So that is what I did.  Seems I'm not doing either one very well, but at least I ain't folding laundry. 

I do not want to give any impression or slyly toss in a hint that I may lay claim on the title, "Dutiful Husband" or even "Thoughtful Spouse".  You see it is Tax Season.  My wife, the accountant, is peaking right now.  Staying out of her way and helping out some may not even the dreary chore scales in our marital bliss, I will say making myself scarce and looking busy when she finds me to vent keeps my skin intact for the most part.  Staying busy playing Mr Domestic provides the perfect escape from the pent up tension and stress all accountants seem to pack on as April 15 approaches.

After what?......30 uh well after 30 plus years, I have gotten used to being the occasional whipping boy.  When I committed way back in 1980 I guess I meant it.  I knew I had my issues and baggage.  I had to be willing to accept her baggage if I expected her to accept mine.  Fair is fair.

~.~

After a decade or so with my green thumb on hold, I have decided to focus once again on tilling some soil.  The urge returned to dig in dirt and shove plants of varying kind into it.  I am hard into home owner agricultural planning.  I checked inventories of starting pots, soil mixtures, and clay pots I have on hand.  I created a list of what I needed to once again begin a Spring ritual I am not sure why I stopped in the first place.  Growing stuff is a rewarding endeavor.  Doesn't cost much more than some time and calorie burning.

I have shrubbery I want to take cuttings from and pass safely rooted and ready to go on to a good neighbor.  I might even keep some and sprinkle them around the yard.   I have some old raised beds reclaimed and almost ready for something...................foodwise or otherwise.  Yeah, it's time for me to reclaim my green thumb.  Oh I have maintained the yard these past years.  But only to control it. No pleasure, just doing the minimum to keep off the shit list here on Sam Page Road.  Time to step it up again.

The image up top is of the juniper variety living in the bed near the garage after a heavier than usual dew last summer.  Had to bum out the local spider population seeing as how the dew ruined the transparent factor of their webs during that early morning hunt. I imagine the one spider poking his head out is pissing and moaning about what Ma Nature left in his dooryard that morning. 

Later..............................................

Waiting for Summer

I don't know who to thank for the less than awesome storm we had yesterday and the day before.  But my snow blower and I thank you.  Only about 11" of new snow fell here in Acton while Chicago and many other parts of the country got hammered.  For us here in Maine it was just another winter day.

I thought an image taken yesterday of my yard throne waiting patiently for the snow to melt and the buds to open was appropriate for this post that will most likely end up as a whine fest about how much winter sucks in Maine when February comes. 

That lawn chair is at the least 45 years old.  For the last 15 years it has sat perched under the red maple on the kitchen side of the house.  Next to it standing on end imagine a cinder block that has been there just about as long.  The seat has provided me many moments of respite from the toils of yard care over the years.  The cinder block has provided a safe haven for a cup of coffee, the occasional beer, and once I used it to hold a bottle and shot glass as I got pasted in the warm evening breezes of July 1998.  I do not now remember what caused me to celebrate, but celebrate I did.  I woke up at dark thirty in the morning with a shitty taste in my mouth and a new spider web trying to pin me to the chair. 

I placed the chair under the red maple because I don't have a porch.  Well not much of a porch anyway.  The porch at the front door is more of a staging area.  It holds snow shovels, buckets of sand, a milk box and just enough cover to get out of the rain.  The red maple however offers me safe haven in all but the hardest rain.  I can survey my kingdom and be pleased.

I have considered placing a stone patio under that chair.  But as most considerations I come up with go, the imagined patio remains locked in the conceptual stage.  But I will say this, the patio I imagine as my feet kick leaves out of the way and brush cobwebs off the chair is a patio fit for a king.  To the left I have built in my mind a natural stone grill with a ten foot stone chimney.  To my right a small rock shelf to replace the cinder block that has been dependably covering until such time as I actually build that shelf.  And under it all, the beautiful stones I have spent years collecting that now collect dust over near the garage.

Yeah, I can't wait to enjoy that patio again.  Even if it is only in my mind.

The Gnarly Dude Rule

My eyes popped open at 5:00 AM this morning.  There were options and chores to do, but none of them would have been affected had I rolled over and gone back to sleep for another couple of hours.  I tried, but the cats, the dog and my 58 year old bio-rhythms all conspired to make sure my feet hit the floor by 5:15AM. 

Just to show I am still in control, I sat at the computer for two cups of coffee and surfed all the Pats/Jets Playoff articles I could find on the internets.  It's 7:30 AM now, and the time to step up and decide the direction of my day is upon me.



Do I fix the snow blower?

OR

Do I go for a ride with the boys?

Hey, both of them are hard to resist.  I mean, changing an impeller belt on an Ariens Snow blower has to to rank right up there with riding in the freezing cold with 5 or 6 other whacked humanoids.  And both activities bring with them subtle and not so subtle pressures to swing in one direction or the other.

Recently embedded memories of having to move tons of snow by hand remind me that fixing the snow blower sooner than later might be in my back's best interest. 

But then there is the Gnarly Dude rule.  The dudes will give me shit if I do not ride.  It matters not that I have a good excuse to skip the ride.  The Gnarly Dude Rule dictates that when faced with the opportunity to ride with your buds or do anything that resembles yardwork, housework, or stroking the ego of that significant other, the ride always wins.  Or you better be ready for some serious teasing the next time you show your face at a ride.

"Dude, momma finally let you out to play?"

"Who's this clown?  Anyone know this guy?"

And so it will go.  Do I face future humiliation or do I man up and spend fifteen minutes dressing for 15'F temps? 

And what about the snow blower?  Well, the snow blower won't be any broker if I fix it this morning or tomorrow?  Right?

Later......I have to go find my riding gloves.

Books

My mother was a voracious reader. She favored fiction. My father read also, but non-fiction works were more to his liking. Every home I moved to as a kid, many boxes of books followed and were grunted out of the moving trucks. Years later when I became a mover myself, I appreciated the work those guys did when they off loaded so many boxes of books. Moving the big stuff, furniture, swing sets, appliances were one thing. But what wears a mover out are the boxes. Especially boxes of books.

The home I live in now became the final resting spot for the books that survived those many moves throughout my childhood. Add in the multitude of who dunnits my mom accumulated as hers and my father's lives wound down and I would say I live in a house that no moving man would care to enter. I performed a less than accurate inventory once and just my books alone hovered in the thousand range. Combine all the others and I would guess I am surrounded by over two thousand books.

I have an ancient complete collection of Dickens' works my Aunt Helen willed me. There the 1972 World Book Encyclopedia collection gathers dust on a set of shelves.  There is a collection of Mathew Brady's photographs bound in cracked leather bindings.  I have almost all of Steinbeck's works which I have worn out for the most part.  Coffee table books, obscure electronic books, and way to many out of date atlases and old dictionaries.

A collection called "The Great Books" sits in it's own bookcase. Housed within the bindings are what some editors from Chicago consider the greatest written works of western civilization from Homer to Adam Smith.  According to the door to door salesman who knocked on our door back in 1961 or 1962 in Tampa, Florida, if we ordered up a set, we would be the first people in Florida to own "The Great Books".  Can't say whether that was true, but I remember him saying it.

I am pretty sure my father waded through all 50 or so volumes.  Felt it was his duty since they cost so damn much.  My mom tried, but couldn't handle it.  Me, well, I read a few but for the most part just liked having them around.  I was into SciFi and the boys in Chicago did not consider it a genre worth the match to spark em up in a bonfire.   My collection of SciFi is huge.  Besides, old dead poets did nothing for me at the age of 12. 

All of these unread books now sit patiently, quietly and at a attention.  All are but ornaments and clutter that fill the spaces between the furniture.  Why don't I get rid of them?  I haven't cracked one of them in quite awhile.  And I am in that stage of life when sensible people begin the chore of offloading the crap they have collected over the years.  Besides with almost every one of the titles available now as a download from the Internet, of what use are they?

I have tried to imagine my home devoid of the rows of books I live with now.  Bare walls and clean flat surfaces with maybe a magazine or two to break the monotony.  That image scares the Hell out of me.  I grew up with this mish mash of words tucked here, there and everywhere.  From my earliest memory, there was always a book within sight.  To take that away and replace it with sterility is akin to a kind of mental castration. 

Keep it 'tween the ditches................................................

Being Prepared

I am reminded of the grasshopper and the ant, stars in the Aesop Fable from long ago.  I am reminded of this tale every Fall.  When my good friend and neighbor Duncan was alive, I assigned us each one of the two as our mascots.  Duncan of course, with his never ending efforts to always be prepared for what was coming, became the ant while yours truly hopped around clueless and carefree as the grasshopper.

I long ago accepted my fate as one depending on good luck or bad.  Duncan never relied on luck.  He was the guy who always changed his oil as scheduled, pulled out his snow blower and made sure it ran before it snowed the first time, and had his wood stacked clean and dry long before the first frost sparkled our yards in late September or early October.  Fix it before it broke was his way.  Maybe fix after it broke was my way.

Almost every late August or early September I would bump into Dunc while he was stacking wood, engaged in some late summer yardwork, or performing the many neverending homeowner duties like re-painting, cleaning gutters, blah, blah blah.  He would run through the list of pre-emptive measures he was engaged in to blunt whatever Mother Nature had planned for us in the upcoming months.   He had his yearly duties and their completion  broken down to specific holidays.  The big one of the Fall was Veteran's Day.  Year after year it never varied.  By Veteran's Day wood stacked, any painting needed-done, snow blower out, and yard and garden scrapped clean so that Spring cleanup would be easy peasy.

I would listen and admire his list and tell myself I should make a list too.  Twenty minutes later I'd be riding my bike, mindlessly tinkering on something stupid, or just contemplating my naval.  The list, well, it was forgotten before I even made it back to my own driveway.  Being prepared for me meant knowing where the extra toilet paper was.

That Duncan passed long before his time does in no way detract from his nose to the grindstone, be prepared persona.  His passing was not something he could have prepared for.  His passing in no way justifies or lend credibility to my loose dog ways.  But it does point up that we all have a limited number of days on this planet.  And I would hazard a guess most of us have no clue what that limit is.  And if nothing else we should live those days as comfortable with ourselves as we can.  Duncan derived enjoyment from his constant state of preparedness.  Me, well, I apparently derive pleasure from feeling guilty about not being prepared.  Some might call it living on the edge.  Me, well, I just call it being a grasshopper.

I gotta go dig out the snowblower.........Hope it works ........Later.......................

Dancin Like a Rock Star

Not sure what got into me  last night.  After 8 solid hours of ladder sprints as I scurried to finish the eaves under the new roof I laid down recently, I should have spent the evening kicked back on the sofa with a cool drink, my feet up, and the remote within arm's reach.   Instead, after wolfing down some pizza, I headed to the basement and puttered.  Cleaned stuff, organized stuff, found lost stuff,  and just when I thought I was out of stuff to do, I found myself playing with stuff.

The radio was tuned to WHEB - 100.3 on the FM dial.  Classic Rock, current Rock, and future Rock.  At some point I realized I was dancin around the basement with a broom and ripping some real badass air guitar.  I was nailing those power chords just like Pete, picking riffs like Jimy, and suddenly I stopped.  "Just what the Hell was I doing"?  Jumping and kickin up my heels like I did when I was 23? 

Not much more comical than some old white guy sportin a full white beard trying to boogie to Green Day or The Doors.  I wasn't a teen anymore or even close.  Old men didn't jump around with reckless abandon.  Old Men were too cool to gyrate and shimmy in unseemly un-adult like ways.  Rock was the Devil's music.  Rock music was for the young punks. 

Old men had basically two choices.  They were either supposed be reserved and keep their cool, conducting themselves with the expected behaviour of grown adults.  Or they were  sedentarily obnoxious, fartin, scratchin, and leering at all the young girls.  Anything else was well, comedy.  Or just plain sad.  Take your pick. 

I tried to to get serious again.  Attempted to become industrious and productive.

Then Zep's "When the Leevee Breaks" kicked into gear.......Uh Oh..... I smiled.  My right foot began twitching.  Soon my left foot began to tremble, and before you could say AC/DC, I was bouncin off walls again.  'Bout wore the strings out on that broom I'll tell ya.

Around 11:30 PM or so I ran out of steam, I had pissed all my vinegar away.  Spent and toasted, I gimped upstairs and tried to kick back.  My body was crying "No Mas",  but my brain was still red-lining.  Turning over at 100 plus, I just could could not rest. 

So I sat down at my desk, punched up the 'puter, found "Detour Blues" , an oline all Blues radio station.  I then rocked and wrote the night away into the wee hours of the next day.

I can see why some Baptists consider dancin a sign an evil spirit has its hooks in you.  Definitely wicked immoral Devil's play.  Having this much fun has to be a sin.

Later, Gator.................Oh Yeah..................

Been avoiding this blog the last few days.  Not sure why.  Maybe it has something to do with not having anything on my mind but mundane issues like the roof, the trim on the eaves, and other boring homeowner concerns.  Well, the roof is basically done and now I can move to the next chore on the list that goes on into infinity and beyond. 

I would comment on the recent elections but I am exhausted and pissed off.  This country does not seem to want to do anything but ask for immediate fixes by kicking out experienced help and replacing it with new unexperienced help.  And that's fine.  Maybe it will wake up both parties to the reality that being complacent is not going to work anymore.  And maybe if Obama does not have his party at his back with the power of a majority, he might just show us some of the sand he insinuated when running for office.

I don't regret voting for him.  He was and still is the best pick of the litter we had back in 08.  I did not expect him to have things fixed, just progress on fixing them.  For a variety of reasons, he and his party have disappointed me.  The lack of intestinal fortitude being highest on my list.

So I refrain from venting my spleen as we countdown to election time.  I have accepted the notion that my state will most likely have a poor governor once again.  If either party's offering wins, that is what we will have.  I have decided to vote for the dark horse just because I cannot give my vote to the front runners.

So just call this a a post to keep the process moving along.  I'll be back with something more when I can.

The Wasps of October

So it goes.  Some days when I think I have no urge to write, I find myself in front of the computer pouring out nonsense so fast, I can't keep up.  I start typing and ten minutes later, I've got 500 words down on whatever thoughts that managed to escape.

And then there are days like today.  All day long as I worked on the roof, all I could think of was writing a story about my interactions with the wasps of October.  I was sure it would be a grand  tale of  tiny wasps protecting their nest of future generations from the evil human even as their lifespans were winding down.  They would battle valiantly but in the end it would be their last stand.   Evil would prevail.  Good would go down hard.

I would include some comic relief as I described my sorry self in retreat after being tagged a few times.  The battle would erupt spontaneously when the cool morning temps warmed cold blooded bodies up to fighting temperature.  Running down the roof wailing and flailing my arms in a panic, the horde circle me searching for vulernable tissue to jam some venom into.  As I step on the ladder one fearless soldier would heroically sacrifice her life with a well placed shot to the small of my back and I would tumble down, down to the ground.

After my fall of disgrace I would hatch half baked schemes to pay the little bastards back and become a gimpy wounded terrorist, invading their homeland and taking out their hive.  I would use chemical weapons, blunt instruments, and if that failed, I would poke sticks in their eyes.  But still the courageous wasps would send warriors on suicide missions, fighting to the bitter end even as toxic foam encrusted their hive making their  nervous systems lock up hard.  I would dance a little victory jig and cackle as the gallant wasps herked and jerked struggling to take flight again to fight with their last gasp.

Yeah, it was gonna be great. 

But something happened.  I overestimated my physical endurance.  I did not stagger off the roof until the moon came up around 7:15 PM.  I had tuckered out not only my body, but apparently my brain as well.  Which left me number and dumber than usual.

So what do I end up with?  A vague taste of what might have been.  A weak glimmer of what could have been.  Decidedly less than the best I had hoped to offer.

Sigh................................................
________________________________________

The excellent image was poached from The Micropolitan Museum