A Bit of Nostalgia

Some Days are Better Spent in Bed

2011-05-08T21:07:00.007-06:00

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Some days it just doesn’t pay to get out of bed. I experienced one of those days a couple years ago. I lived in Idaho then. It was the morning of April 7, two and a half weeks after the official first day of spring. I was instantly thrown into a cranky mood when I had to scrape an inch of snow and ice off my pickup windshield. Seems like everything went downhill from there. My frustration continued when I decided to remove the clutter off the top of my desk to find enough room to write a couple of checks.
I had two wastebaskets in my office; one for junk mail from which my name and any other identifying matter had been removed, and one for the shredder where the really unidentifiable stuff goes. I discovered I had inadvertently thrown some papers with my name on them into the junk mail basket, which meant I had to dig through that mess to find those papers, wasting about twenty minutes of time that I really couldn’t afford.

After I solved that problem, rediscovered the top of my desk, and wrote my checks, it was off to the copy center. I’m an old fashioned guy who likes to be pampered; so when I go into a place of business, I actually expect to be waited on and have my service performed by the business employees. The particular copy center where I like to do business is rapidly becoming a robot center with all its new fancy self-serve machines. Now…my relationship with anything related to computers is tenuous at best. Computers and I just don’t get along well at all.

I entered the copy center with papers in hand, and a young lady graciously asks if she may help me. Thinking she was offering to do my copying for me, I said, “Yes, you may.” I told her what I wanted, and she said she was helping the gentleman standing next to me, and would help me just as soon as she finished with him. I said, “That’s fine.” He was there to send a fax. He handed her a stack of papers. She handed them back to him with instructions to feed them into the fax machine. He obviously was not familiar with the procedure, because he entered them into the machine in the wrong order, which necessitated her having to come around the counter and do it for him—so much for self-service.

Now it’s my turn. She asked me if I would be paying with cash, or would I be using a debit or credit card. This question struck me as rather odd, but I told her I would probably be paying with a credit card. She then asked me to follow her over to one of the copy machines, into which, she instructed me to insert my card. I did, and it ate it. Gobbled it right up. A bit startled, I asked her, “Will I get my credit card back?” She assured me I would. She put my papers in the machine, and proceeded on her way to serve another customer.

I said to her, “Wait a minute, when is this beastly machine going to give back my credit card?” She told me that after it finished making my copies and had them counted I was to push a little green button on the machine, and it would return my card. I was dubious but said, “okay.” She then left me at the mercy of this merciless machine for which I had absolutely no trust. It finished its task, I pushed the little green button, and whataya know; surprise of surprises, I got my card back.

I went back over to where the attendant was, and asked her if I could get a receipt. She said, “Put your credit card in that machine over there.” Here we go again, I thought. “Over where?” I asked. She then came around the counter and directed me to the machine. “Insert your card here,” she said. I did, and this machine also ate my card. She then told me to touch a spot on the screen where it says receipt. I did, and again to my amazement, out came my card and a printed receipt. I still maintain it would have been much easier if she had done all this for me herself, because if I ever go back in again for more copies, I won’t remember the procedure, and they’ll have to do it for me anyway.

Now, it’s off to the department store. I walk in and I’m immediately slapped upside the head by blaring rock type music. Rock music affects me the same as running fingernails down a chalkboard. I just can’t stand the stuff. Still in a cranky mood from the lousy winter weather—it was April, for crying out loud—I scuttled the department store shopping, and went home. “Tomorrow has to be better,” I said.

An Afternoon in The Tin Lizzy

2011-05-07T15:32:00.003-06:00

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As I perused another issue of Reminisce Magazine this past week, I came across a few stories about the Model T Ford--affectionately referred to in its heyday--as the "Tin Lizzy." This brought back memories of an afternoon experience of mine with one of those "legendary" autos. When I was a small boy living in Grace, Idaho, during the 1940s, there was a teen-age boy who had access to a Model T. This car fascinated us younger boys; because even compared to 1940s vintage cars, this T seemed like an antique, and we had been itching for a ride in it.

I suspect it was was one of the later models (perhaps 1925) because it had a hard top. Most of the "Ts" we see pictured in magazines today are the earlier cloth top varieties. This one must have been equipped with a rumble seat also, because as I remember it, there were six or seven of us that day. Well, anyway, as I mentioned earlier, we younger boys had been bugging our older friend for a ride in his runabout and he finally agreed one afternoon to take us for a tour of the surrounding country. By way of explanation for those who have not been around Ts, they had an interesting drive train. I have often wondered if Henry Ford and his engineers realized how close they were to having an automatic transmission in this T car.

The T had no clutch as we know clutches today, or a gearshift lever. The shifting was done with a slector lever and pedals. There were three foot pedals on the floorboard, and a slector lever to the left of the driver. Now bear with me here, as driving a T gets a bit confusing. The left pedal closest to the driver was the clutch, and also first gear, the middle pedal was reverse, and the pedal on the far right, was the brake. To start the car moving forward, the driver put the selector lever in the straight up position, increased the engine rpms just a mite by pulling down on the throttle lever located on the steering column, and pushed the left pedal forward until the car started in motion. When sufficient speed was attained, the slector lever was moved forward which allowed the left foot pedal to move back into the neutral position, and caused the transmission to move into high gear. (I told you it was confusing.)

To stop the car, the selector lever was pulled back to the upright (neutral) position, and the far right pedal (the brake) was depressed. For reversing directions, the same procedure was followed with the lever on the floor pulled into the rear position. However, as I remember the T, it only had one reverse speed (very slow). Another interesting aspect said about the T, was, that if it didn't have enough power to pull a hill going forward, they would just turn it around and back up the hill. It had more power in reverse. There may have been two reasons for that; reverse was a higher powered gear, and cars in those had no fuel pumps. When pulling a steep hill going forward, gasoline would not flow as readily to the carburetor, thereby causing a power loss.

But I digress. On with my story about the afternoon excursion in the T. Our older friend filled her up with gasoline, had one of us adjust the spark while he turned her over with the hand crank until the old girl sputtered to life. We were soon on our way with our joy ride. Not long after we started our trip, we saw steam emanating out from around the radiator cap. What our friend, the owner of the car, had forgotten was that the radiator had a pin-hole leak and when the car stood idle for any length of time, water leaked out. He should have checked the water level and filled her up before we left on our journey. The engine was overheating, and we were out in the country miles from nowhere, and the river was also two or three miles away.

We asked our friend, "What do we do now?" His reply was, "We don't have any extra water with us, it's three miles to the river, and there are seven of us here. We'll just have to get creative." Luckily, for us, the Model Ts cooling system didn't require a large amount of water. I won't go into the details of how we solved the problem, except to say that we managed to raise the water level in the radiator enough to make it to the river for more water. But I will say this much, urine, when heated to a near boiling point, creates a nose burning, eye watering stench which made for a very unpleasant ten minute ride for us boys on our way to the river.

There was a bucket strapped to the running board and a small array of tools in the toolbox. When we finally reached the river, we opened the petcocks on the radiator and engine block, drained the foreign material from the system, filled it back up with fresh water from the river, and resumed our journey under much more pleasant conditions. On our way home we encountered a steep grade, and I can honestly state that Model T Fords would go up a hill better backwards than forward. Such was an afternoon of a small boy and his experience with a Model T Ford(Tin Lizzy).

You can read this story in its entirety in Will's award winning book, Buddy...His Trials and Treasures, available at amazon.com, barnes&noble.com, or by asking for it at your favorite bookstore.

The Blacksmith

2011-03-27T17:26:00.003-06:00

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Some lessons in the life of a kid come with a bit of difficulty. I remember one of the most difficult lessons, and yet one of the most rewarding for me, occurred when Dad dealt with me for an indiscretion I had committed against a fine old gentleman of our village. The man’s name was Adolph. He was a man of few words—especially around kids. We perceived this as being gruff and unfriendly. Fact is, he was probably one of the kindest, most gentle men you would ever meet.

It all started when a friend and myself became bored one hot summer afternoon. We were too young to be allowed to swim at our favorite swimming hole, the “23,” without older boys being there to look after us and supervise us. None of the older boys were able to go swimming with us that day, so this friend and I had to find another way of entertaining ourselves. We each had a nickel in our pocket. We decided to spend them on a couple of nice cold fountain Cokes at the drug store; a poor substitute for the tepid waters of the 23, but better than nothing. Adolph was the town blacksmith, and our route to the drug store was to take us past his shop. Adolph, if my memory serves, was of Swiss decent, and he spoke with quite a heavy accent. The United States was at war with Germany at the time, and my friend and I let our imaginations get the better of us. From the movies we had seen depicting Germans and their accents, we decided Adolph’s accent was German; that, he too, was German. Maybe even a German spy. After all, he did have the same name as Adolf Hitler.

As I mentioned earlier, it was a hot day. My friend and I were bored and restless and looking for some excitement. We decided it was our patriotic duty to get Adolph to leave the U.S. and go back to Germany, where we thought he belonged. Our plan was to tell him to do just that. We approached his shop and began our taunt.

We paced back and forth in front of the open door to his shop and hurled scurrilous remarks at him such as: “Hey Adolph, are you a German spy?” or “Hey, Adolph, are you related to Adolf Hitler?” or “Hey, Adolph, if you’re a German, and a spy, why don’t you go back to Germany where you belong?”

When Dad got home from the farm that night, I recognized that certain look in his eye that told me, “all was not well,” and I was in trouble. He informed me that he had stopped at Adolph’s shop earlier to leave some plow shares to be sharpened, and Adolph had informed him of my and my friend’s little escapade that afternoon. Dad explained to me in no uncertain terms that Adolph was not a German citizen, nor was he a spy. He was as much an American citizen as we were. My instincts were confirmed; I was in big trouble.

Dad was not one to use a switch or a belt for punishment; he used methods that I found to be even more painful. He made me face up to my antics. This incident was to be no different. He loaded me in the pickup, and we headed back to Adolph’s shop where I was told to go in alone to face Adolph and apologize to him. I was afraid of Adolph. I had perceived him to be a gruff, mean man. I soon learned different. I cranked up my courage and made my apology. This done, Adolph reached down, picked me up in his massive arms, and gave me a hug. After setting me back down on the floor, he reached out and shook my hand. “You brave boy, Billy, to come here tell me your sorry,” he said, in his broken English. Adolph and I became good friends after that.

You can read this story in its entirety in my book “Buddy….His Trials and Treasures available by asking for it at your favorite book store, or from amazon.com and barnes&noble.com.

Things of Yesteryear

2010-06-10T19:17:00.010-06:00

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Some people would say change is inevitable and change is good; without it there would be no progress, they say. I agree that change is probably inevitable, and that perhaps some change makes life a bit easier. I sure wouldn’t relish going back to carrying wood into the house to fill the wood bin, and carrying coal to fill the coal shuttle. Nor after enjoying the comforts of gas heat, would I relish tending the old stoker fed coal fired furnace that was one of my household chores when I was a boy after becoming old enough, and big enough, to handle it. Watching the movie "A Christmas Story," brings back memories of the coal furnace when Dad would rile the firebox to the point that smoke escaped into the hot air plenum and found its way into the house through the heat ducts This did not make Mother happy at all. I think she appreciated the evolution of the gas furnace, seeing as how it lightened her house cleaning chores immensely.

Sitting out in the open on one of those model 21 Massey-Harris combines amidst the dust and grain chaff that irritated the eyes and skin, is not something I would like to experience again either. I also lost a portion of my hearing to the roaring exhaust noise emanating from the engine of a diesel powered tractor, and spent many a cold miserable days out in the open, operating said tractor. So I suppose something can be said for the benefits of the nice sound-proofed, climate controlled cabs of today’s modern machines. And I also must admit that writing this blog on a keyboard where I can overtype mistakes, is much easier than on my old manual portable or electric typewriters where every typo either meant starting over with a new sheet of paper, or having a page full of whiteouts. So some change, indeed, is good.

But I’m not so sure I agree with the premise that all change is good. The demise of the corner service station is one of those changes I really lament. Last winter when I returned home from a trip to Tucson (I live in Idaho) my car was a filthy mess and had to remain so for quite some time because of below freezing temperatures. I had encountered some wintry conditions between Cedar City and Fillmore, Utah, where the roads were either slushy or snow packed. This caused a dirty driving condition, what with passing motorists splashing dirty slushy water infiltrated by sand and salt all over my car.

There was a time not too many years ago, when I could simply take my car down to the local service station operator, and for three bucks, he would wash it in a nice warm 70 degree environment and wipe it dry before putting it out again into the freezing weather. Or, better still, if he had an empty bay, and business was a little slow, he would allow me to bring it in and wash it myself. But, alas, those days are gone. We now pump our own gas at C-stores, get our cars lubed at Grease Monkey or Jiffy Lube, and wash ‘em in open air bays.

Gone are those warm sanctuaries where we washed our cars in winter, which means we now leave them dirty until a day when the temperature reaches 32 degrees or above before we can make them clean again. It’s either that, or face the prospects of having the windows frozen shut, or the door handles frozen so that you can’t enter your vehicle; or in a worst case scenario, the door freezes to the molding, so that when you open your car door, the molding is ripped away from the body.

Writers, Like Farmers, Wear Many Hats

2010-03-15T09:46:00.006-06:00

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Note: This blog post first appeared on the Blue Sage Writers blog on February 9, 2010. A farm owner wears many hats. One day he might be a heavy equipment operator, another day a truck driver or a mechanic. Another day you will find him on the telephone wearing his CEO hat negotiating a commodity sale, or the purchase of a piece of equipment. Still another day he might be found in the office doing the books and paying the bills. I know all this because that’s how I made my living.

When I became a writer I soon learned that writers, too, are called upon to stretch themselves and don many hats. Some fiction writers write in many genres. Fiction is my favorite area and I have written four novels, each in a different genre. My first was a novel based on the exploits of an errant preacher. My second was a fictional biography of a real woman of the West; my third was a political fantasy, and my fourth was a novella featuring the adventures of a young boy growing up during the 1940s. (Yes, this last book is loosely based on my own life experiences.) When asked that question, I respond by saying there is a little bit of me in Buddy, and a little bit of Buddy in me.

After the Buddy book, I was asked by IDAHO magazine to write a profile on Wilson Rawls the Idaho author who penned the children’s classic "Where The Red Fern Grows." I had never done that kind of writing before and I was not sure I had the ability for such a story. Especially on someone with Wilson Rawls’ stature. But with patient tutelage from the magazine’s managing editor we turned out a respectable piece which launched me into another area of writing with another hat to wear. This magazine free-lance hat has put me into the world of short stories, personal profiles, and reminisces of days long past.

Later, I was again called upon to stretch my wings. The managing editor of a daily newspaper asked if I would be interested in writing a weekly column. Sigh…another hat. I told him that I had never thought of myself as a columnist. "I don’t think I’m up to the challenge," I said. He convinced me to give it try, anyway. As of this date, I have begun my fifth year writing for the paper. I mention all this not for the purpose of bragging, but rather to illustrate the many stretches and challenges that are put to us as writers. . My latest hat has made me stretch a bit further and delve into the world of screenplays. I signed up for an online screenwriting course and have just finished the first draft adaptation of my "Buddy" book into a movie. Now let me tell you, that’s a whole ‘nuther ball game; a different style of writing altogether, but I'll save the details of that for a later post.

The last hat we writers must don, and next to the labor of actually writing that great American novel, might just be the most important hat in this present era of writing. It is the marketing hat. Gone with the wind, are the days of sitting back after you’ve sold your novel to that big publisher in New York and waiting for the royalty checks to roll in.

That still may be true to a certain extent for the established authors like Tom Clancy, and Stephen King, or Sarah Palin (Sarah’s book was a best seller even before it was released) but not so for us relatively unknown authors. Chances are, today, if we are going to get publishes at all, we have to go the self-published route, and this means we are now marketers as well as writers. We must do the promotion for our books on our webpages, blogs, and social media,

Welcome to the new era of writing. Woe is me. With my disdain for computers, and my illiteracy of the Internet and the social networks, I’m wondering if this last hat might be too large and will just slide down over my ears and eyes. Oh…well.