When I was a kid the only French word I knew was “alibi.” That’s because I had to think up so many of them. These days kids are a little more cosmopolitan. There isn’t a kid alive who doesn’t know the word “rappel,” not to mention “climbing rope” (English), “carabiner” (German), and “Gramicci” (Italian).
My kids, who didn’t grow up here, are still impressed by the sandstone cliffs where we live now in Dry Fork Canyon. One Butterbean child observed a few years ago while we were hiking in the Canyon, “You could just stop anywhere around here and rappel.
Just look at all of these cliffs!”
“Ya,” I reply. (I did grow up around here.)
“In fact you could hang glide off that cliff we just were climbing on.”
“Oh yeah, and how are you going to get a hang glider up there? In your pocket?” (I should encourage pursuits like this?)
“They should make collapsible hang gliders.”
“They should, but they don’t.”
“They could fold up and fit in your backpack. Maybe I’ll invent one.”
“Who’s going to be your test pilot?”
“I’ll find someone so drunk he’ll be willing to try it.” (Ever the practical one.)
“Oh, and how are you going to get a drunk up there? You better find a suicide candidate instead.”
“Yeah, I was just going to say that.”
“How are you going to find one of those? Go around and ask people if they are depressed?”
I was not trying to discourage the kid from developing innovative ideas, but I was trying to point out the extreme difficulties and dangers inherent in an occupation of that kind. He already had a non-working (whew!) ultralight sitting way down below in the back yard that he was working on, and I could still remember my brother’s experiments with flying machines when he was about that age.
So, I think the would-be inventor is beginning to get the point, but he can wisecrack as long as I can.
“I could just put an ad in the paper (presumably this paper): ‘Wanted. Suicide candidates. Position temporary. No guarantees. No benefits.’”
“That might work, but then why don’t you just simply scale that cliff or rappel from it.? Those are two perfectly good ways to address a cliff.”
“Okay, I’m up with that. Let’s go buy me some climbing shoes.” (Just who is in control of this conversation anyway?)
In order to reassert myself there, I informed him that my brothers and I used to climb that same cliff without the benefit of ropes, carabiners, climbing shoes, or even a pair of tennis shoes. If our leather soles were too slick, we took off our shoes and tied them around our necks or threw them down to the ground. We didn’t practice on a climbing wall first either.
I didn’t tell him, that lots of times I had to use my French connection when my mother wanted to know if I had sand in my shoes because I was out climbing on those rocks again.
“Who me? No, I was just out in the sand pile (our term for a natural deposit of fine sand that washed down from the hills during a cloudburst) using my shoes for buckets.”
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
To catch a thief
I remember when (oh-oh, here it comes) all of my kids were still at home. Since our family was large even by the standards of 25 years ago, there were shortages. There never seemed to be enough of some things to go around. Like dessert. Like lunch money. Like clean socks.
One shortage I was never able to overcome, was the pillow (yes, pillow) shortage. No matter how many pillows I bought, at bedtime there always seemed to be one less pillow than there were people in the house. Maybe the issue was not the quantity but the condition of the pillows. (Pancakes were in the same food group as parsnips.)
Whatever the precise problem, the result was that I lived with a whole family of pillow-snatchers. At almost any time of the day or night, a pillow switch was in progress in one bedroom or another.
You have probably heard of musical beds—well, who couldn’t keep their beds straight? It was the pillows, not the sleepers, that never seemed to stay in their beds.
The art of pillow-pilfering was nearly perfected in the Butterbean household, so just in case you get caught without a pillow one of these nights, I am passing these tips along for your comfort. But there are several ways to go about it, so pay attention.
In the light of day, the most successful way to get rid of a lumpy pillow and acquire one with some loft, is to sneak into the next bedroom and switch pillows and pillow cases. The victim thinks his pillow is still his until he lies down on it. This method delays the right-of-ownership dispute at least until bedtime, maybe even until the next morning, with any luck.
If planning ahead doesn’t reward the pillow plunderer with a soft pillow for the night, he or she can always wait until someone else goes to sleep and simply jerk his pillow from under his head and run. Sound sleepers don’t miss their pillows until they wake up next morning with stiff necks.
If the pillow is under the head of a light sleeper, the pirate has to snatch and then hit the deck until the victim gives up groping groggily around on the bed for the missing pillow and goes back to sleep.
Another trick of the trade works like this: you hide the pillow you really want and the one you have. Then if your big sister comes stomping out of her room demanding to know who took her pillow, you can plead innocence on the grounds that you don’t have a pillow either. She can just check your bed and see.
Pillow punks with less finesse simply wait until no one is looking and go to the next bed and swipe a pillow. They don’t even bother to cover their tracks. They do pick on people who come in late at night though. Those people aren’t about to raise a family ruckus when their arrival is timed dangerously close to curfew. Besides they could be too tired to care what they sleep on anyway.
I tried to insist that everyone leave everyone else’s pillows on their beds where they belonged so we could get by without holding justice court every night, but who was I? About all I could do was sit by clutching my pillow and hoping that all the thieves would reap their just rewards—the sooner the better.
I got to witness the justice-for-all precept come into play just once though. That was the time my teenaged daughter with the long shiny hair ca-me in late at night to a bed devoid of any pillow—lumpy, pancake or otherwise. She used the snatch-from-the-soundest sleeper method to obtain a pillow under cover of darkness.
What went around finally came around. The next morning she woke up with bubble gum in her hair.
One shortage I was never able to overcome, was the pillow (yes, pillow) shortage. No matter how many pillows I bought, at bedtime there always seemed to be one less pillow than there were people in the house. Maybe the issue was not the quantity but the condition of the pillows. (Pancakes were in the same food group as parsnips.)
Whatever the precise problem, the result was that I lived with a whole family of pillow-snatchers. At almost any time of the day or night, a pillow switch was in progress in one bedroom or another.
You have probably heard of musical beds—well, who couldn’t keep their beds straight? It was the pillows, not the sleepers, that never seemed to stay in their beds.
The art of pillow-pilfering was nearly perfected in the Butterbean household, so just in case you get caught without a pillow one of these nights, I am passing these tips along for your comfort. But there are several ways to go about it, so pay attention.
In the light of day, the most successful way to get rid of a lumpy pillow and acquire one with some loft, is to sneak into the next bedroom and switch pillows and pillow cases. The victim thinks his pillow is still his until he lies down on it. This method delays the right-of-ownership dispute at least until bedtime, maybe even until the next morning, with any luck.
If planning ahead doesn’t reward the pillow plunderer with a soft pillow for the night, he or she can always wait until someone else goes to sleep and simply jerk his pillow from under his head and run. Sound sleepers don’t miss their pillows until they wake up next morning with stiff necks.
If the pillow is under the head of a light sleeper, the pirate has to snatch and then hit the deck until the victim gives up groping groggily around on the bed for the missing pillow and goes back to sleep.
Another trick of the trade works like this: you hide the pillow you really want and the one you have. Then if your big sister comes stomping out of her room demanding to know who took her pillow, you can plead innocence on the grounds that you don’t have a pillow either. She can just check your bed and see.
Pillow punks with less finesse simply wait until no one is looking and go to the next bed and swipe a pillow. They don’t even bother to cover their tracks. They do pick on people who come in late at night though. Those people aren’t about to raise a family ruckus when their arrival is timed dangerously close to curfew. Besides they could be too tired to care what they sleep on anyway.
I tried to insist that everyone leave everyone else’s pillows on their beds where they belonged so we could get by without holding justice court every night, but who was I? About all I could do was sit by clutching my pillow and hoping that all the thieves would reap their just rewards—the sooner the better.
I got to witness the justice-for-all precept come into play just once though. That was the time my teenaged daughter with the long shiny hair ca-me in late at night to a bed devoid of any pillow—lumpy, pancake or otherwise. She used the snatch-from-the-soundest sleeper method to obtain a pillow under cover of darkness.
What went around finally came around. The next morning she woke up with bubble gum in her hair.
Waterworks--you think so?
Out there in the world somewhere—maybe in Wonderland (I wonder why they do that?), or maybe it is Neverland (They never get it right), there must be an underground brotherhood of Water-delivery Engineers who dictate the standards for plumbers everywhere. I don’t think they operate under any sort of public scrutiny or things would be different.
And they must distribute a closely guarded handbook which holds secret information for plumbers, professional and do-it-yourselfers alike. How the probably ancient tome is dispersed without people like me knowing about it is a mystery. But how else could every residence that I have ever known of have the same dysfunctional plumbing system?
You notice that I am not blaming plumbers themselves for the wreckage, I am blaming the water engineers so as not to alienate any plumbers who, after all, only build the systems according to specification. Plumbers do get water to strategic points—like the bathroom faucets. That is a good thing. I just question the water’s routing.
Below you will find page 4-11 from the infamous Handbook. No, I didn’t find Mr. B.’s “plumber’s helper” under the seat of the plumbing truck under his monkey wrenches and pipe dope, or at the bottom of his tool chest under a false floor. I didn’t find it anywhere; but if I had, I know there is a page in it somewhere that looks like this:
(Graphic of water heater on right with shower head on left. Cold water goes straight to shower head. Hot water takes an exaggerated circuitous route to get there.)
I have only one explanation for a system like this: liability issues. Water engineers are afraid that impulsive types will jump into the shower first and turn on the hot water second, thereby scalding various body parts. But I tell you, they have got their body parts covered.
And they must distribute a closely guarded handbook which holds secret information for plumbers, professional and do-it-yourselfers alike. How the probably ancient tome is dispersed without people like me knowing about it is a mystery. But how else could every residence that I have ever known of have the same dysfunctional plumbing system?
You notice that I am not blaming plumbers themselves for the wreckage, I am blaming the water engineers so as not to alienate any plumbers who, after all, only build the systems according to specification. Plumbers do get water to strategic points—like the bathroom faucets. That is a good thing. I just question the water’s routing.
Below you will find page 4-11 from the infamous Handbook. No, I didn’t find Mr. B.’s “plumber’s helper” under the seat of the plumbing truck under his monkey wrenches and pipe dope, or at the bottom of his tool chest under a false floor. I didn’t find it anywhere; but if I had, I know there is a page in it somewhere that looks like this:
(Graphic of water heater on right with shower head on left. Cold water goes straight to shower head. Hot water takes an exaggerated circuitous route to get there.)
I have only one explanation for a system like this: liability issues. Water engineers are afraid that impulsive types will jump into the shower first and turn on the hot water second, thereby scalding various body parts. But I tell you, they have got their body parts covered.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Bad weather warning
You remember that cold spell we had week before last? Yeah, how could you forget? When the thermometer dips that far, you begin to worry about things.
“I hope I buried that water line deep enough…I hope that driving over it all winter hasn’t caused a frost penetration zone…I hope we drained the sprinkler lines well enough… I hope that the main water line that goes along the north wall doesn’t freeze and break…I hope the truck will start in the morning.” You know.
Well, during one of those days when -12 was the daytime high, We started hearing a funny noise. The first time we heard it, we thought that a pile of snow fell on the deck or something, but it hadn’t. We soon forgot all about it.
Half an hour later, we heard it again, a definite “whoosh-sh-sh.” The cold-weather worries began to set in this time. Mr. B. thought it might be water gushing out of a pipe. But it only lasted for a second or two and it was gone.
Nevertheless, he got on his coat and boots and went outside. He checked all of the hose bibs, he walked through the garage, he listened to the well pump. He came back inside and checked the pressure tank and the water heaters and the water softener and the washer and dryer.
Then we heard the phantom noise again, even louder at that end of the house. Maybe the waterline to the washer was getting kinked. Maybe a large family of bats moved into the crawl space.
The neighbors came over to visit about the weather. We were just getting “warmed up” with our coldest-day-of-the-year stories, when we all heard the “pshooosh.”
“What was that?” Fred hollered, jumping out of his chair. “It doesn’t sound good, whatever it is.” “Did a tree branch fall on the roof or something?”
“We can’t figure it out. We keep hearing it, and it is driving us crazy. What does it sound like to you?” Well, we waited and waited for another eruption, but it never came and finally the neighbors left. Gratefully, nothing had blown up. We didn’t know whether our homeowner’s insurance covered the roof falling in on top of the neighbors.
Mr. B. was starting to sweat now though. He took off a layer of clothing and began to pace and fret. “All I need is for the pressure tank to blow up or something,” he mutters.
He sits down and tries to watch the basketball game, but he’s back up again looking out the windows, listening to the walls.
I decide it is going to be best to keep out of his way, so I hole up in the office and start a computer project. I remember a phone call I need to make, so I am sitting there chatting when the ghost explosion erupts right in my left ear.
I jump a foot, drop the cordless, and commence yelling. I thought I had been shot at and hit. And there sits the computer, monitor, speakers and all, as impassive and unconcerned as only a pile of nuts, bolts and circuit boards can be.
I scramble to pick up the phone from the floor and compose myself. My heart rate is dangerously high, and I am starting to flush for all sorts of reasons.
“What was that,” Julia on the other end of the line keeps repeating. “Are you all right?”
Mr. B. comes running in to see what hit me.
“It was what?” Julia can’t quite grasp what I’m babbling about and neither can Mr. B.
“It was the Weather Channel on my desktop. It thinks a storm is coming, so it is thundering.”
“Does it think that the perfect storm is in a funnel cloud right above our house? Or does it think we are deaf? Either way, it is wrong as usual.”
“Well, when I was trying to listen to that video clip that D.J. e-mailed me, I couldn’t hear the audio, so I turned up the volume. I didn’t know that the Weather Channel was going to override everything else I had going on, and since I hadn’t heard a thunderstorm warning for several months now. I forgot how it sounds.
I don’t think one was necessary the other day either. So, how should a cold snap sound?
“I hope I buried that water line deep enough…I hope that driving over it all winter hasn’t caused a frost penetration zone…I hope we drained the sprinkler lines well enough… I hope that the main water line that goes along the north wall doesn’t freeze and break…I hope the truck will start in the morning.” You know.
Well, during one of those days when -12 was the daytime high, We started hearing a funny noise. The first time we heard it, we thought that a pile of snow fell on the deck or something, but it hadn’t. We soon forgot all about it.
Half an hour later, we heard it again, a definite “whoosh-sh-sh.” The cold-weather worries began to set in this time. Mr. B. thought it might be water gushing out of a pipe. But it only lasted for a second or two and it was gone.
Nevertheless, he got on his coat and boots and went outside. He checked all of the hose bibs, he walked through the garage, he listened to the well pump. He came back inside and checked the pressure tank and the water heaters and the water softener and the washer and dryer.
Then we heard the phantom noise again, even louder at that end of the house. Maybe the waterline to the washer was getting kinked. Maybe a large family of bats moved into the crawl space.
The neighbors came over to visit about the weather. We were just getting “warmed up” with our coldest-day-of-the-year stories, when we all heard the “pshooosh.”
“What was that?” Fred hollered, jumping out of his chair. “It doesn’t sound good, whatever it is.” “Did a tree branch fall on the roof or something?”
“We can’t figure it out. We keep hearing it, and it is driving us crazy. What does it sound like to you?” Well, we waited and waited for another eruption, but it never came and finally the neighbors left. Gratefully, nothing had blown up. We didn’t know whether our homeowner’s insurance covered the roof falling in on top of the neighbors.
Mr. B. was starting to sweat now though. He took off a layer of clothing and began to pace and fret. “All I need is for the pressure tank to blow up or something,” he mutters.
He sits down and tries to watch the basketball game, but he’s back up again looking out the windows, listening to the walls.
I decide it is going to be best to keep out of his way, so I hole up in the office and start a computer project. I remember a phone call I need to make, so I am sitting there chatting when the ghost explosion erupts right in my left ear.
I jump a foot, drop the cordless, and commence yelling. I thought I had been shot at and hit. And there sits the computer, monitor, speakers and all, as impassive and unconcerned as only a pile of nuts, bolts and circuit boards can be.
I scramble to pick up the phone from the floor and compose myself. My heart rate is dangerously high, and I am starting to flush for all sorts of reasons.
“What was that,” Julia on the other end of the line keeps repeating. “Are you all right?”
Mr. B. comes running in to see what hit me.
“It was what?” Julia can’t quite grasp what I’m babbling about and neither can Mr. B.
“It was the Weather Channel on my desktop. It thinks a storm is coming, so it is thundering.”
“Does it think that the perfect storm is in a funnel cloud right above our house? Or does it think we are deaf? Either way, it is wrong as usual.”
“Well, when I was trying to listen to that video clip that D.J. e-mailed me, I couldn’t hear the audio, so I turned up the volume. I didn’t know that the Weather Channel was going to override everything else I had going on, and since I hadn’t heard a thunderstorm warning for several months now. I forgot how it sounds.
I don’t think one was necessary the other day either. So, how should a cold snap sound?
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