Where Old Cars Go To Die

The make: Mercury- messenger of the Gods. The model: Sable- a large African antelope known for its swiftness, courage and long curved horns.

Or

The make: Mercury- a highly toxic metallic element. The model: Sable- a weasel like mammal found in Russia.

Take your pick on the definition Ford used to name this line of vehicles.

At times our 1991 Mercury Sable could act like it was on Godly errands, other times air inside could become toxic causing me to sneeze uncontrollably and it’s paint  shed like weasel fur in spring.

Regardless of the name, it’s now gone. Actually put down last November after a bout of smoke, fluid ruptures and general sluggishness, like in- not moving.

We reminisced a little as we stared at the hulking reddish chunk of metal parked on the street, lime colored fluid puddled beneath. I don’t know why we sometimes treat cars like they have life. Maybe we feel the vehicle is the body and we become the spirit element that makes it move. Or, since horses were our main form of transportation a hundred years ago we’ve genetically transferred our compassionate care and love to our cars.

We never officially christened it but I did call it a few names over the years. Now as I thought about how the car was about to be returned to its fundamental elements I felt guilty.
  

We remembered how excited we were to get this car, purchased from an older couple who kept it shiny in the garage. We packed two adults and 4 kids into it and crammed boxes, suit cases and shoes into the trunk on vacations to Utah, Las Vegas, Portland, the Bay area and Disneyland.  How we all fit I don’t know but everyone seemed to get along.  This car was steps ahead of our previous Dodge products where miles per gallon were replaced with parts lost per mile. The Sable was very comfortable and had a smooth ride. It was my first car with cruise control.  Over the years it hauled papers, kids back and forth to soccer practices, rehearsals, school, and church activities.  Our children learned how to drive behind the Sable’s wheel.

My most memorable moment was when our family was stranded overnight in Fallon Nevada after the water pump ruptured. It’s seen its share of hauls from tow trucks and mechanics probing and wrenches.  As the years passed the cloth covering the roof inside rotted and shred. It would hang from the ceiling like a curtain until we bolstered  it up with duct tape and pins. The once shiny Ming finish wore off and began to peel. Everyone around town recognized our leprous car.  People buy cars so they’ll get noticed. But new cars all look alike; it’s not until they begin to rust and dent that we can identify one car from another of the same model.  Character marks we’d call them. They were really age spots.

We watched out our front window as the tow truck hauled the Sable up the street one last time. As it turned left onto North Phoenix Road we waved remorsefully, sighed then turned away. The car was twenty years old with 180,000 miles.  It was going to the scrap heap, where old cars go to die.

A few hours later we hopped into our little Corolla for a shopping excursion. As we came to make our turn onto N. Phoenix we noticed something metallic in the middle of the street. Thinking it might be something that could damage tires Jan got out and retrieved it. She smiled as she held up the object. It was the front license plate that had fallen off the Sable.  The old car had left us one more memory. Either that or else it was leaving bits and pieces along the road Hansel and Gretel bread crumb style hoping we’d follow and rescue it from its impending demise.

We never had room in the garage to park the Sable in there. Now at least the license plate can stay warm and covered from the elements until we move, the house burns down or we die.

Smart Phones - the Intelligent Choice

I’ve shunned the “smart phone” rush for many years. I never saw much use in having a phone that can provide instant web access (for an added price of course), that can carry hundreds of favorite songs, can play games, read books from, and help keep me organized.  However, the time came to get a new phone.  Jordan referred to my phone as being from “Saved by the Bell,” meaning it was ancient. At least it wasn’t the size of a WWII walkie- talkie. The phone was compact and easily fit in my pocket. It was a hand me down from Kevin so I know at one time it had to have been the “coolest” phone around.

However, the battery wouldn’t keep charged and the speaker sounded like I was talking through tin cans wired with string.  Since newspaper revenues have declined we’ve been leaning more on digital revenues. To prove a point on the popularity of smart phones in a meeting the question was often asked to have those that own a “smart phone” to raise their hand. As time went by it was evident that I was the only one not raising my hand. I felt a sense of pride about that, the lone holdout.  It reminded me of other times I held out, like the last one to use a manual typewriter in the office, or to put down my stone chiseling tools and accept papyrus.

I also had privacy issues. I don’t have a Face book page because I’m very private. I don’t talk a lot about myself or give details about my life. In fact, I can be downright reclusive.  I don’t have a need to know what other people are doing or thinking either. I figure that’s just their own business.  One thing I have learned in all the training and seminars I’ve attended on the new digital technology is that you give up privacy when you go online, or use your cell phone, send a text or email. That’s all trackable, not private at all. 

But, I needed a phone. So when the new Iphone5 came out I figured there’d be a deal on last year’s Iphone 4S.  Jan and I took a trip to our local ATT store a few weeks ago and purchased the 4S for me. They were offering the Iphone 4 for only 99 cents so we got Jan one of those. I’m sure the clerk thought we were high tech novices so when she asked if we were familiar with how to operate these things I queried back about if it worked like my Ipad2.  Jan said I gained instant credibility with the clerk. It must have worked because the clerk then dived into all this jargon I had no idea what she was talking about.

So, now I carry this high tech piece of knowledge in my pocket, right were the old cell  phone used to be. And, there it  pretty much stays. I’m not much of a game player (Angry Birds is boringly repetitive), I have a few songs on there but I prefer quiet and contemplative moments, and I guess I’d rather look at multicolored prisms on my entry room wall than download videos of dancing humans or animals.  Additionally, I find the effort it takes to be organized is stressful.

I’m not saying I wasted money. The phone works great and I’ve even amazed a few of my kids with some tantalizingly clever text messages. I’m sure as time goes along I’ll discover other uses. At least now I can raise my hand when asked how many in the room have a smart phone. Now I just need a smart person to go with the phone.

An Unnatural Natural Wonder

I go through life looking for things, experiences, people who are a phenomenon. Did you know that the plural of phenomenon is phenomena? I would have thought it was the other way around. Actually, I don’t use the word much but if I wanted to pluralize the word I’d just add an “S” making it phenomenons. Now I’ve just been reminded of the old Muppet’s song, “Mahna Mahna”. I had to go to Google to figure out the spelling on the song. I didn’t know there were actual lyrics.

Whether there’s just one phenomenon or many the word is defined as something that is impressive, extraordinary, remarkable or exceptional, a wonder. There aren’t too many of those types of things that happen around here. I suppose if I actually fixed something around the house or if Jan worked in the yard would qualify.

However, we do have something that happens in our home twice a year. It’s a natural phenomenon. I guess this only occurs because the house is here so it’s a natural man made mahna mahna, I mean phenomenon.

It happens for only a few days before the spring and fall equinox and fades a few days after. Plus it only occurs on sunny mornings around 7:45. The rising sun is in the same place in the horizon at both those times. The sunlight beams through the glass in our porch light then reflects through the glass in our door creating a vibrant prism effect smudge of a rainbow on our entry wall. There are actually two smudges that appear about a foot apart. The smaller on the left is only about an inch high while the prism on the right is about four inches tall and three inches wide. Fiery reds on the left mix into orange and yellow then shades into green, and blues.

I consider it to be my very own Stonehenge equinox indicator. I don’t need calendars to tell me when spring and fall are. I just watch for the kiss of color on the wall.

I’ve hesitated sharing this with the world. I don’t want herds of hooded druids chanting on my front lawn twice a year. However, if they have a couple of bucks they’d like to donate I’d let people in before work to take a quick peek, sing a few notes of a chant, then move on. And by chant I mean they’d need to learn the lyrics to “Mahna mahna.” I also have a couple of blue Niagara ponchos, I mean, cloaks with hoods you can rent for cheap.

 

The Wonderful World of Shady Maple

It sounded like a retirement home. A place I could go to relax in loosely strung hammocks that swing with a summer-like listlessness beneath the cool shade of broad leafed trees. I’d told Jordan I wanted to relax a bit during our visit in Delaware.  I thought this kid knows how to make a Dad’s vacation memorable.  When the trip to Shady Maple came up the granddaughters exploded in exuberant joy.

I was confused. “Wait, this is a retirement place right?” Why are these girls so excited? I asked.

“Shady Maple is the best breakfast on the planet!” Hayley shouted.

“The best in the world!” added Tia.

Turns out Shady Maple is a smorgasbord.  According to the girls it was the game of Candy Land, Willy Wonka, and IHOP all genetically fused together in a jubilant mass of flour, sugar, and fat. And, as a bonus, it’s located in the absolute middle of nowhere in the rolling hills of patchwork farmland in Pennsylvania. 

“Mom lets us eat whatever we want, as much as we want!” Hayley exulted as she fell backward onto the couch rubbing her stomach with her hand.

“And, it’s free!” Tia again added.

Turns out it’s not free. According to her dad Tia’s  so excited to go in and load her plate with sausage and ice cream she’s never seen her Dad pay the entry fee.

We got up early and drove the ninety minutes to the feeding.  Shady Maple Smorgasbord is in the middle of Amish territory. The people who live simple lives; no electricity, use hooks and pins instead of zippers and drive one horse powered buggies down the middle of  narrow county roads.  Why would these simple folk be involved in such an enterprise? It dawned on me that out west Indian tribes are authorized to build casinos on their lands. The government must have a similar deal with the Amish to build smorgasbords on their ancestral reservations.

As we got closer it looked like the last scene from “Field of Dreams” - the part where there are miles of cars backed up waiting to see the middle of the corn field baseball park.  Approaching Shady Maple there were cars, trucks, buses, Amish buggies, red Radio Flyer wagons, all backed up, looking for parking. 

This Costco supersized restaurant has a lobby rivaling elegant upscale hotels. There are at least six cashiers with queued lines of hungry people, each talking about what food they’ll fill their plates with first and how many trips to the food tables they’ll make before they keel over in binged induced cramps.  

We all separated once we were ushered to one of the hundreds of tables. Jordan to the grill for some M&M pancakes, Hayley to the donuts, Tia and Grandma to the sausage patties, Christina to the fruit, me- I went for the multiple interpretations of hash browns and bacon.  It was a breakfast eater’s dream. I had pancakes, French toast, waffles, sausage, cinnamon rolls, cereal, and several glasses of juice. Yes, I did throw in a few strawberries. My stomach began to inflate to unnatural proportions.  Occasionally I’d hear calls for help from my co-eaters for wheelbarrows, moving dollies, forklifts or cranes as they attempted to rise from their chairs.

People around us were amused as we took pictures of us acting like we had eaten ourselves sick.

Yes, Shady Maple was a glorious experience. In “the Field of Dreams” a long departed baseball player who came to toss the ball around with Kevin Costner asked, “Is this heaven?”

As I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my glutinous belly with my hands I asked the same question. Looking around the restaurant I realized that if heaven were Shady Maple Smorgasbord it would be filled primarily with hugely overweight angels with steel reinforced wings.

I have fond memories of Shady Maple. I brought home some souvenirs too. They’re the 3 pounds I gained that one warm summer morning in Pennsylvania.

We’re Actually Quite Normal

We all have our little obsessions, our compulsions. We have certain ways of doing things, patterns we’ve established that are now habitual. These can consist of the simple order that we put our clothes on. It doesn’t really matter what goes on when, with the exception that the underwear does need to go on first, along with putting socks on prior to shoes. If you see someone walking around with jockey shorts on over their jeans and socks stretched over the outside of their shoes then you know that individual has a problem.

For example, Jan has to finish. Some refer to her a “doer”. If she can’t think of the name of an actor she’s seen in a movie she either has to jump all over the internet or start frantically knocking on doors asking quiz show questions to neighbors until she gets the name. Similarly if she’s lost something there’s no rest until it’s found. This is behavior that could be upsetting to a spouse but I use it at times to my favor. If I can’t find something I only have to mention it then she can’t sit still until she’s located it. It’s sort of fun…I’m sitting on the couch watching TV, she’s in the bedroom on the computer. I say, “Hey, honey…I’ve looked everywhere for my glasses. Have you seen them?” Then I kick back and feel the anxiousness swell like rising lava within her until a few minutes later she’s got them in her hand. The funny thing about this is she knows she does this and that I have a bit of fun with her but, she can’t help it.

Several years ago I noticed one of our visiting church leaders pulled a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of his pocket and squirted a couple of drops on his hands prior to having lunch. I was sold. Since then I keep a small bottle of liquid germicide handy and use it particularly before I eat out. Some may think I’m going all Monk on this but I’ve been in enough public restrooms and have seen how many men don’t bother to wash their hands. The thought of touching a sink faucet, or door knob after one of these heathens gives me the shakes. Then picture picking up a sandwich with your bacteria laden fingers and you might share my nightmare.

Last week we went to the Southern Oregon Home Show at the expo. The home show is comprised of several hundred vendors who jump out at you as you walk down the aisle trying to get your attention. Some have drawings for you to sign up for, some have brochures about their business, some have candy. Some are giving away fabric bags with their logos emblazed on the sides. One plumbing booth gave away yard sticks. We couldn’t go home until Jan found the booth giving away the yard sticks.

So, as we’re wandering around Jan finally pulls a kid over carrying one of these yard sticks to ask where he got it. After getting directions we expand our search pattern until I walk by a booth with two men standing out front of the tables.

While reaching toward my face the man grabs my glasses and says, “Hey, let me clean those for you.”

Before I can respond he’s squirting something on my lenses and rubbing the liquid with his thumbs. He then takes a cloth and rubs them like he’s thinking he’s getting three wishes from a magic lamp.

“See, take a look at how clean those are," he barks as he holds them up for me to look through. He then brings them toward his mouth and to my horror he lets out a steady “hhhaawwwww” on each lens. He holds my glasses up again. “See, this stuff makes them fog resistant too.” He then sticks my glasses back on my face. I don’t remember the rest of his pitch.

I’m tensing up. I’m getting ready to flip out. I’m getting ready to call the bacterial unit of Homeland Security. I’m thinking this guy’s “hhhaawwww” breath is just micro milligrams from my eyes. I picture my eyes getting inflamed and oozing out the sockets like the Nazi’s head in the original Raider of the Lost Ark movie.

I put my glasses in my shirt pocket, take Jan by the hand and say, “Let’s get out of here!”

“But I need the yard stick!" She pleads.

“You have plenty of yard sticks!” I yell back.

Then she sternly looks into my eyes, “No, you don’t understand. I NEED to find the yard sticks!”

Luckily, we stumble upon the booth giving away the yard sticks by the exit. We speed home as I squint my eyelids together to keep my eyeballs from leaking out.

I fumble for the door key, run into the bedroom and give multiple shots of sanitizer to my glasses then rubbing them so hard I’ve probably altered the prescription.

At last relieved, I settle down on the couch next to Jan who’s fallen asleep holding her yard stick close like a teddy bear. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that one of the lenses from my glasses has now popped out. I guess it's better that than my eye ball.

St. Paddy's Day Pride

On the morning of St. Patrick’s Day before school I’d be rummaging through the closet, drawers, under the bed anywhere in search of something to wear that was green. I never wanted to find something that was too green, didn’t want attention, only wanted enough green to thwart the pinchers. The best was sort of a “green-o-flage”, green that wasn’t initially noticeable but if someone pinched I could show them my green spot. Then, according to Irish law, I could pummel them with several slugs to the upper arm.

It was always best to be a little nonchalant about St. Patrick’s Day. You never wanted to appear to have intentionally donned green garb. That would just not be cool. If you came to school wearing green pants, or shirt you’d be considered Leprechaunish. Sort of like wearing a Santa hat or Easter bunny ears to school. You’d be asking for a pounding. So it was best to find a piece of green thread and place it on your shirt or have it come out of your pocket. The rules of green were that it had to be in a place where it could be seen with the naked eye. So, green underwear didn’t count. Socks were good but only if you had flood water pants on.

If you forgot your green one way for a quick acquire was to go slide around in the field before school to get grass stains. You’d come into class smelling a little gamey and there would be Irish penance to pay when your mother took a look at those new pants but the price was worth it.

An unwritten rule was that if you claimed to actually be Irish you might be able to ward off the painful nips. I had always been suspicious if Loo Wang was really as Irish as he claimed to be.

Living in Ireland on a mission for two years changed my perspective a little. Wearing green wasn’t a big deal. I suppose since we breathed Irish air no one would even consider you didn’t have Ireland inside you.

Since children have come along we always celebrated by hanging up my Ireland flags, listening to twangy Irish pub songs, and eating green pancakes. I think I remember putting green food coloring in a milk jug when Jan and I were first married. However, now that I think about it I’m not sure we could have afforded food coloring so I’m not sure how the milk became green. Did they put expiration dates on things 35 years ago?

So, once a year I put on my Irish plaid tweed tie, turn up the pipe and fiddle music and prance around the living room, jigging and jogging off the furniture and twirling in Irish dervish spins. Then I put my clothes on.

So, if that image is difficult to get out of your head you now know how the Irish men celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. Sort of weird, isn’t it?