Cursed?

I am beginning to think that my yard and mowing is a cursed event. All season, the back yard has been an alligator shy of a swamp and I have had to mow between the rains while wearing boots to keep my feet dry. Some places were too wet to mow and I would have to get off of my riding mower to push the swamped wheels from muck.

Then the belt on the riding mower was loose and allowing the belt to slip. I decided to buy a new belt and replace it. Before I go on, I must tell you my wife, Cindy, said that I was mechanically retarded, but I would tell her I preferred mechanically dyslexic. After looking at my owner’s manual and finding the belt number, I removed the belt, remembering how I removed it. Taking the belt and the belt number, I bought one, brought it home, and replaced it on the machine.

I started it up and started mowing. Suddenly, I saw blue smoke and headed back to the basement. I apparently did something wrong, my belt was chewed up and non-functional. I finished mowing with my walk behind mower.

So, I went back and bought another belt. This time someone reminded me to watch YouTube for an instructional post on the mower and belt replacement. Great, now I was ready. I replaced it while watching the step by step on my laptop. It was time to mow again. No blue smoke and I thought that I was home free, but it wasn’t to be. About ¾ of the way in my chore, the blades stopped cutting, but it was still drivable and I headed for the basement. The new belt was still on the pulleys, but the belt was loose. I couldn’t figure out why and finished mowing again with my walk behind.

I had a friend, James, and almost son-in-law look at it and he wasn’t able to figure out what was wrong either. I’ve been mowing with my walk behind since.

About a week ago, I was mowing with the push mower and took a break. When I went back outside, it started, but was barely running. I cleaned the air filter and it improved, slightly, but I couldn’t mow with it and I’ve been trying to figure out why it wasn’t running well. It runs with two things oxygen and fuel. I’ve been trying things to fix it.

James came over Saturday to mow with his mower. He made one pass along the back of my yard and his mower stopped mowing. He pushed it to my basement and believe it or not, it was his belt as well, but while he was here, he looked at my rider and found that a spring had broken. He is going to pick one up and we’ll repair my rider. (I hope.)

Wash Day

I can remember my mom as she washed our family’s clothes in the old Maytag wringer washing machine. Mom would have me fill the square tub on the machine with hot water and the two galvanized rinse tubs with cold water. The side-by-side tubs were on legs that had wheels on the legs and a drain on the bottom of each tub. Those tubs were placed next to the wringer arm where it could swing over top of both tubs.

Mom would dump some soap powder into the washer and pull out a red recessed knob to engage the agitator, allowing the powder to mix with the water and get frothy. The knob on the side of the washer reminded me of a bellybutton.

The first items to go into the washer were the white and light colored clothing; underwear, socks, undershirts, and dress shirts. Mom would have to out figure how long to allow the clothing to slosh around until they were clean. She would push the agitator button in and the sloshing would cease. Mom would fish the clothes from the hot water with a wooden spoon handle and feed the clothes through the wringer that was positioned over the tub with the “first” rinse water. It was interesting to watch the clothing flatten out, squeezing the wash water back into the washing machine. Sometimes trapped air would hiss and cause the water to squirt high into the air as the pocket was compressed. The flattened clothing was pushed out and into the rinse tub.

Once the washer was emptied of clothes, the next load was tossed in were the bright colors: tee shirts, shorts, dress pants and shirts. Mom would allow the whites to soak in the rinse water swirling them around with her hand. Just before the “brights” were washed clean, she would swing the wringer over the center between the two rinse tubs, running the whites from the “first” rinse, into the “second” rinse water. She’d swirl them to soak the last of the soapiness from them.

Back went the wringer and Mom would run the bright clothing from the washer into the recently vacated “first” rinse and toss in the jeans and darks into the washer. The wringer was turned to the far side of the “second” rinse and the whites would be forced between the wringers’ rollers, only to tumble out and down into a laundry basket. It was time to hang them on the line outside.

Loads of towels, sheets, my dad’s work clothing, and finally the rugs were worked through the washer, rinses, only to join others on the rope clothes lines. It didn’t matter the weather, Mom would hang the clothing outside. (She didn’t wash on rainy days.)

In the winter, she would come back inside, her hands reddened from the cold air on her hands that had been moistened by the wet clothes. More often than not, the clothing was stiff and frozen before she would hang the last piece of each load. Even though the clothing had been soaking in cold rinse water, steam would often rise from the wet material in the frigid air. Once the clothing would “freeze dry” Mom would retrieve them and re-hang them on lines in the basement to dry some more. She would take them down and iron them to get the last of the dampness out of the clothing, either hanging or folding them for storage.

Grandma's Garden

My grandmother’s garden was located on the sloping ground opposite of the privy and between her house and the barn. At the farthest edge of the turkey wire fort, was one of my favorite spots. It would lure me down the length of her large Garden of Eden and into a forbidden zone, by a savory siren’s call. It held an oasis of seven rhubarb plants that spread their wide, verdant leafy fronds, shading the gangly stalks as they grew from slender shoots until they became small trees. My mouth began to water just thinking about the wonderfully sour taste of its stringy yet tender flesh. Raids on the tasty plants were forbidden by Grandma, but I was always drawn to snitch one of the slender stems whenever we visited.

My second favorite spot was among the maze of the many tomato plants, whose thick rambling vines spread across a mat of yellow straw. Nestled in the pale green jungle were the treasured ruby jewels. Those succulent and luscious red gems called my name. I responded by trespassing into their growing field, selecting one of the fiery orbs. I would cradle it my hand, finally deciding to pluck it from the vine. Brushing against the vine’s raggedly velvet leaves, they would release a spicy and pungent aroma. In the palm of my hand, the sun-warmed fruit would transfer its solar power through my skin to the nerve endings, sending signals to my brain. The radiated energy caused me to quiver in anticipation of its fresh, acidy flavor being placed on my tongue.

I pressed the smooth-skinned love-apple to my lips. The warmth of its kiss penetrated my receptors of pleasure and I opened my mouth to have my first taste. I closed my eyes as the sensuous feeling of my teeth penetrating the tender flesh and then the heated juices coursing down my chin to wash across my bare chest. Bite after bite, I consumed the wonderfully savory fruit. The thought of eating another sun-warmed, garden-fresh tomato is a memory inducing experience.

The rest of the garden was a battlefield between the crops and the weeds that would try to invade. They were eliminated by a short handled, much worn hoe. Grandma would chop between the rows of beans, peppers, and beets. She would encourage the army of cabbage, peppers, and lettuce plants that marched down the garden in rows, keeping the no-man’s land open between them and the dark green, Indian-like feather headdresses of the onions that rose in tall rows.

Those Were the Days

I can remember times in my childhood when cars didn’t have seatbelts and nobody had heard of a child’s safety seat. There were still one room school houses and outhouse bathrooms. They weren’t called restrooms then, because no one wanted to rest inside. The outhouse was a place to visit only when necessary and not a place to linger. It was an unsavory, smelly, unpleasant place.

Drive-in was the thing; movies and restaurants. The movies were a rare treat and only when my dad didn’t have to get up for work early the next day. If we were good, Mom would pick up some drinks and popcorn at the concession stand. We could listen to the movie through a metal speaker that would hang on the window of the car.

The drive in restaurants either had speakers affixed to a division between parking areas and orders placed like Sonic Restaurants still do. The food would be brought to the car carried on trays by a waitress. Other drive in restaurants had waitresses that would come to the car and take your order returning later when the food was ready. One unusual aspect to some of the drive-ins was that the waitresses wore roller skates.

Another drive-in restaurant was the type that the customer went to the order widow, put in their order, and retrieved it when the food was ready. One of these was Cubby’s. It was located just outside of Mt. Pleasant, Pennsylvania. Mom would often stop there and wait to pick up Dad when he worked the afternoon shift. We had only one car and when she needed it, she would drop dad off to ride with one of his co-workers and then pick him up after.

The one item that Cubby sold was the foot long hot dog. I imagine that he sold other items, but sometimes Mom would buy a foot long and share it with me while we waited. It depended on who Dad rode with. Other times we would wait at a gas station parking lot. Mom would bring a large bag of Snyder’s potato chips in their silver and navy blue bag. She would open it and share. Teasingly, when she’d find one of the chips that were made from a potato green with chlorophyll, she would pull it out and say, “These are poisoned,” and pop it into her mouth. After chewing it, she would loll her head to the side and close her eyes, pretending that she had died. I imagine the first time she did it, my brother Ken and I were afraid that it was true, but after a few times, it became a game. We would shake her, pat her face, and say, “Mom. Mom. Wake up. Wake up,” and she would shake herself awake and would “live” until the next green potato chip. It was hard to keep two kids occupied in a car, late at night, waiting for Dad to arrive.

This is just a quick note of encouragement to the young woman that I met at the Scottdale library. She was there with her friends. I teased them asking if any of them liked to read or wanted to write. When the other two pointed to her, I gave her one of my business cards hoping to encourage her in her writing. This is for her. May all of your romance stories be true, all of your mysteries be solvable, and all of your adventures be good ones. 

The Long Trip Home

We woke the campers early. The driving schedule was going to be much longer and difficult than the day before. Two of our drivers had to go to work in the morning tomorrow. While the drivers made breakfast, the campers took down the tents and loaded them into the trailer. After eating, we loaded the last few things, climbed into the vans, and we were off. It was barely light and as we drove back down the main street toward the interstate, we were joined by the kids of the town on their bicycles. They had kept their word. They came to see us off. They waved as they pedaled furiously to keep up with our vehicles. We all waved back until they disappeared in our rearview mirrors.

Hour after hour, the miles rolled by under our wheels. We stopped only for fuel, bathroom breaks, and to change drivers. Traffic ebbed and flowed around us like a river of metal and rubber on a concrete stream bed. Our course, lead us through the states of Iowa, Illinois, and Indiana. Sometimes the flux of vehicles thinned and at other times we were slowed as we neared the cities of Chicago and Gary. The sun started to set as we entered Ohio. Everyone was growing tired and restless and we still had hours of driving ahead.

Not long after we entered the state of Ohio, it began to drizzle making the drive more miserable. The rain was barely more than a mist. It was just enough to make using the windshield wipers necessary. The weariness grew. Headlights, glaring though the rain speckled windows and gleaming off the wet roadway were causing the drivers to switch places more frequently as the strain of all the days of driving and travel were coming to a head.

Even though we were bleary eyed, when we crossed over into Pennsylvania everyone cheered. After one last pit stop and fuel fill-up and we would soon be home. The campers made calls to parents so they would be at the church to pick up the campers.

We pulled into the parking lot at 4:30 a.m. Parents were there to welcome home the travelers. All of the vans were left packed. Unloading could be left for a later time in the day. One of the drivers needed to be at work at 7:00 a.m. and took off immediately. I was working the afternoon shift and could get a little sleep before I had to go to work.

The trip was over and although we had seen the various and wondrous beauty of just a small part of the United States, we were happy to be home and glad to sleep in our own beds. We were glad we didn’t have to set up tents and cook in the dark. The trip was over and we were home.

Long Drive

When we woke, we found that a small group that was bicycling from Florida to the state of Washington, across the United States, diagonally.  The empty site we had claimed was theirs and after apologies and explanations, we shared the tables and conversations. While waiting for breakfast, many climbed several table tops and watched snakes of fog, coil in the vales. The fog muted and allowed the colors to appear. We hurried through breakfast, breaking camp, and loading the vans because there would be a long day on the road.

Everyone was told to make themselves comfortable, because we were going to have longer episodes of driving without many breaks. Mile after mile rolled by with kids and non-drivers grabbing naps. The kids talked and played hand held games. Travelling across South Dakota from the western border to its eastern border seemed to take forever. Mile after mile rolled under our wheels. Finally, after hours on the road, we entered Iowa. Everyone was growing weary and we stopped just short of Des Moines in a small town called Adair. It reminded us of small town America with one main street, feed storage, and a green town park near its center.

It was in the park that we would spend the night. The park had a pavilion, play ground, basketball court, and restrooms with SHOWERS. It wasn’t long until the kids of Adair found out there was a group of new kid visitors. They brought the basketball and played until the food was cooked and ready. Before the kids sped off on their bicycles, they said they’d be back in the morning to see us off.  We thought the kids wouldn’t show. We were going to leave early.

The air cooled and we climbed into tents and sleeping bags. As we drifted off to sleep, the whistle of the trains passing on the nearby railroad tracks sang lullabies.

Faces of Stone

When we woke in the morning, we ate a quick breakfast and hiked around the base of the towering monument. Devils Tower is located in the northeast corner of Wyoming. Its striated sides rose high over head. Many Native American tribes have legends about how the massive mesa was created. Most center around seven women. The Kiowa legend said .that the seven sisters were chased by bears and climbed onto a short rock. They prayed to the rock for help and it became taller and out of the reach of the bears. The bears still tried to reach the women, clawing at the sides. The bears broke their claws, but the tower was left with the long rivulets down its sides.

Once we had circled the base, it was time to leave. We climbed into the vans and began the next leg of our journey. We were on our way to Mount Rushmore. The ruggedness of the road as it wound its way into South Dakota and into the park. The carvings came into view. We parked the vans and walked through the entrance. Slowly the size and the whiteness of the faces of the president’s faces awed us. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, and Theodore Roosevelt had been shaped out from the side of a granite mountain in the Black Hills.

Blue sky and trees made a frame for the sculptures. After a trip through the souvenir shop, it was time to get on the road again. The road drove through Wall, South Dakota and we had to stop and tour Wall Drug. Wall drug is a multiple-celled attraction. It was like the old Pechin’s Market on steroids, but cleaner and better constructed. There was a huge dining area that served all types of food, including buffalo burgers. Others shops were collected under an all inclusive roof, selling souvenirs, clothing, books, and even boots.

The pastor did a roundup of the wandering campers. It was time for us to head out to our overnight camp site. There had been some kind of mix up and our campsite was already occupied by a crew of rafters. The site across the road was empty and we claimed the spot. There were no showers, so the campers had to do cold wash-offs during the evening.

It was another episode of setting up tents and making our evening meal in the dark. The weather was absolutely beautiful. The grass was long and lush. There was a soft warm breeze. The stars were bright overhead. The boys and the men unrolled their sleeping bags in the soft grass on the top of a small knoll and almost immediately fell asleep.