Engine Troubles

I guess everyone knows by now we just came out of a big snowstorm. It dumped a bunch around here - 14 inches or so. The driveway plugged up pretty deep so I went out to start my trusty John Deere eight horse snowblower. The electric starter spun and spun but the cylinder wouldn’t fire. I’ve been telling people that the machine is ten or twelve years old and that I was so surprised it didn’t start since this was the first time it has failed me. Well, I was in for another surprise when I dug out the operator’s manual; the sales contract was still in that file and bore the date of September, 1989. The darn thing is twenty years old! Still, machines like that don’t accumulate many hours over the course of the years, so I figured nothing much could be wrong and intend for it to be the only snowblower I will ever own. The first thing I did was put in a new sparkplug (to the tune of $4.00), but nothing different happened, it still turned over but didn’t fire.

It was cold and getting late so I went out to do some shoveling so that one of the cars could be backed out. The new neighbor saw me and said he would blow it out (that’s what neighbors are for, he said), so the job got done. Of course, that evening here comes the snowplow and blocked in the driveway and piled up a huge drift in front of the mailboxes. Luckily the neighbor came to the rescue again. After thinking about what could be wrong I concluded something with the carburetor wasn’t right and suspected the float was sticking. Yesterday morning I took it apart, wiggled it up and down several times, put it back together, and sure enough, it fired and started.

Trouble with a sticky float came up once before in my life. I recalled the scene in the spring of 1971 at Ocean Lake in Wyoming where I’d visited a resort operated by a teacher in the school where I served as high school principal. He had gotten some new outboard motors for his fishing boats and wanted to take some of us out for a short cruise on a pontoon boat. Four of us stepped aboard and as he tried to start the engine we began drifting from shore. The wind came up and big white capped waves started forming. He pulled and pulled on the starter rope, but that engine just would not start. It started getting kind of dicey out there. A fisherman in a big boat tried to get close to pick us up from the pontoon, but he gave up when he could not safely close in. In my fishing tackle box I carried a small combination tool that included a small hammer head. I went back to the engine and tapped it on the carburetor a few times, after which the man pulled on the rope and met immediate success with the engine starting.

… … … … …

Sometimes we run into people who’ve gotten too big for their britches. In order for someone like that to get the proper perspective as to where he/she fits in, he/she should be referred to the following website: Youtube.com and type in “Known Universe.” This video will show them just how important they are in the whole scheme of things. There are a couple of options. The one I like best is labeled simply as “Known Universe.”

Merry Christmas - 2009

I recently watched a program on the History Channel that told of the Christmas truce that occurred spontaneously at the front lines between the British and German troops in World War I, 1914 to be exact. Commanders, aghast, on both sides watched through binoculars the mingling merriment the troops engaged in, and ordered that such a celebration would not happen again. In fact the next year artillery barrages were ordered on Christmas eve, furthermore troops were rotated in and out frequently to prevent fraternization.

The war was only about four months old, but the combatants had seen much death, were trapped in trenches and were cold, wet, and muddy. Snipers were always on alert for targets and the new invention of machine guns mowed men down in swaths. The area between the two lines earned the name “No Man’s Land” and bodies lay for days, even weeks, where they fell. To put it simply, the soldiers on both sides were sick of it, and some felt the other side should live and let live. The troops rose up to join in singing, exchanging simple gifts such as food and tobacco, and visiting with their opponents.

It would seem that without the urging of generals and politicians the war could have ended quickly and simply. Such was not the case. I ran across this story years ago in my readings of history and think it’s one of the best Christmas stories I know of and illustrates the desire for Peace on Earth, Good Will Toward Men.

A Dream

Dear Friends,

I am writing this letter from Heaven.
As you might guess, Paradise is crowded.
The math gets tricky, but many billions
of people have died and made their way here.
You’d be surprised at some of the scoundrels
who call this home since everyone gauges
behavior in life by his own standards.

I noticed one thing as soon as I walked
in the pearly gate: huddled just outside,
a crestfallen group of Moslem terrorists
sat by a sign stating “Due to shortage
of virgins we no longer will honor
your coupons!” I hurried past their despair.

As I walked down the streets, just exploring,
I had to jump to the side and skinny
up to a stone wall because a cattle
herd bore down on me in a wild stampede.
Yes, their brands were still on fire and I felt
their hot breath as they ran on by. Sweat-soaked
cowboys galloped along trying to turn
that herd, but in spite of the unpleasant
task they wore smiles. I had entered the range
up in the sky, the objective they’d hoped
would be theirs someday. It was frustrating
to watch, but they seemed destined to ride
forever chasing those fool cows so I
turned away and walked toward the next corner
where another amazing sight appeared.

A desert oasis sits shimmering
like a mirage where camels and goats feed
on green grasses and drink from sweet water.
Figs picked from trees by lithesome Bedouin girls
sit on platters waiting to be carried
to the men sitting in the shade of tents.
The reader begins to doubt my story,
that my pen writes nothing but fantasy.
I ask you to believe, I have seen it.

But this is not my end destination,
and I need to keep exploring, looking
for the piece of Heaven I can call home ………..

* * *
(The foregoing poem in ten-syllable lines will be completed in much longer form, revised and improved for inclusion into my next volume of poems which I hope to publish in March.)

Late and Pokey

I’m slow getting my blog writing filed today. I’m involved getting another project finished and it took priority. There’s not much else going on in my life. I’ve had a sinus infection that seems to be improving with the penicillin prescription the doctor gave me. News gets boring, especially the escapades of Tiger Woods. I’ve always thought that just because a person is good at something whether it be in athletics, performing, public service, or what have you doesn’t mean he or she is a good person. If Tiger’s wife stays married to him I will be very surprised. The news item that most intrigued me this week was the sale of Cormac McCarthy’s typewriter, a sale that brought $254,500. Wow! It must have been gold plated and jewel encrusted. Nope. It is a beat up 50 year old Olivetti portable that he has used to write all of his published works. He estimated the typing of five million words on it. At the outset it was thought the machine might bring $15-20 thousand. Surprise, surprise.

McCarthy writes some pretty good stuff. I’ve read just the one book - All the Pretty Horses, but his No Country for Old Men recently played as a popular movie and his story The Road has been playing in movie theaters, too. Different people remarked that he would start working with a computer now. Nope. A friend of his picked up a duplicate used Olivetti portable and he intends to keep on typing away.

I can hang the handle wordsmith on McCarthy. I really enjoy reading works written by a language master like him. I just read a book titled Edward R. Murrow and the Birth of Broadcast Journalism. He and the people he hired were wordsmiths, too. World War II brought out the best in them. One of them proved to be a great practitioner of the language, North Dakota-born Eric Sevareid. The book authored by Bob Edwards of National Public Radio quotes Murrow when London was being bombed: “… that faint-red angry snap of antiaircraft bursts against the steel-blue sky…” I envy people who write well.

What Is Reality?

A mind, like a home, is furnished by its owner, so if one’s life is cold and bare he can blame none but himself. Louis L’Amour
. . . . . . .

There is a type of poem called a List Poem. It doesn’t require rhythm or rhyme, but the writer needs to say something such as “Think about this.” Here is my first attempt:

What is reality?
I’ve become confused!
I’m surrounded by
faux leather,
electric fireplaces,
imitation vanilla,
decaf coffee,
diet Coke,
lite beer,
nylon, rayon, Dacron,
plastic money,
avatars,
Splenda,
Astroturf,
fake ID’s,
counterfeit handbags,
knock-off watches,
soy milk,
artificial insemination,
politicians,
Wall Street bankers,
lawyers,
Rush Limbaugh,
@#%&#*!@.