I am just dying to stroll into Scary Harry’s Used Car Emporium and say, “Boy, have I got a clunker for you!” Wouldn’t that just about give the “what-goes-around-comes-around axiom a whole new meaning?
Now I don’t know a whole lot about the Cash for Clunkers Program (I don’t think anyone does), but if I can find something funny about it, think what the late-night hosts are likely saying. I do think that you only get to buy the equivalent of two-seater lawn mowers with your cash, which means you might have enough to go ahead and do just that.
If you know me, you are likely surprised that I don’t have the Clunker Program thoroughly researched and dissected because even if I don’t have a qualifying clunker, one that I can unload on Scary Harry, I have had and driven my share of clunkers.
It is partly my own fault. I seem to be the only one in my family who considers that a car is a means of conveyance—a way to get to the grocery store and back again. Maybe you could use it to get to the ball game or the bank, too.
But my family members have collectively and separately held the mistaken idea that cars are for other things. Some of them think that the purpose of a car is to enhance your social position. Some think that a car is for saving. (Using it will only put mileage, scratches or dents on it.) And others think that cars are for fixing up, whether they run, or will ever run, or not.
I’m all for fixing a car if it doesn’t run or if it won’t pass inspection, but if it has a perfectly good black rubber steering wheel cover in it, I don’t see the point of putting on a new oak and chrome one.
Speaking of fixing cars, I’ve told Mr. B. many times that he should be in the auto parts business. The auto parts business is something I do know something about. I should. I have been sent to the parts store as many as five times for the same part. I know how the auto parts stores work. According to my calculations, it would cost about $1,364.000 to build a car from scratch using parts from the parts store. You might come out ahead buying the ingredients to make dinner at home, but don’t try it with a car.
One of the reasons, just one, that I have to go to the parts store so many times is that we look like we run a used car lot. (Don’t even think about unloading a clunker at the Butterbean car lot though.) Mr. B. belongs to the group of family members that thinks cars are for fixing up. Due to patriarchal authority, we have many cars that need fixing up.
We nearly got arrested once for abandoning the Duster. Well, it did look that bad, but it was only out of gas. We paid $50 for that car, and the officer told us we got took. Would we dust a Duster? No, we would fix it up.
Since we already have a fleet of lawn mowers (some of which run), I haven’t been thinking of trading in my SUV for one. Okay, I just now did a little research. My SUV does qualify, however by Butterbean standards it is hardly a clunker.
A clunker is a car that is so bad that it’s windshield wipers are falling off. We launched the left one into the Great Salt Lake once simply by turning them on. And speaking of wipers, I’ll bet that there have only been two cars in the state of Utah whose windshield wipers were activated by hitting a bump in the road, and we have owned both of them.
It takes two good men and a pipe wrench to open the windows in the pickup, but we don’t roll them up very often because when we do, the air pressure in the cab begins to decrease in spite of the fact that we have never yet gotten off the ground.
Now, I know that wipers and windows do not a clunker make, but neither do they a lawn mower make. And in the what-goes-around department, trading in for one does not a deal make either. It’s like throwing money out one car window and hauling it in the another. You are going to lose some along the way.
There is still the issue of what they do with the traded-in clunkers. I read that they run them on a solution that seizes the engine. I also heard that they are crushed and sold as scrap metal. Either way, the Butterbean car fixer-uppers are quite alarmed. What a waste of fixable cars.
So, if your car is going to qualify for the program, it has to be a gas guzzler, over 18 mpg combined city/highway, whatever that is; it has to run; and it has to have been manufactured after 1983.
Sounds like a perfectly good fixer-upper to me.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Oh, what a ride!
After a long respite from going “up to the lake” to engage in that variety of water sports that requires a boat and a tow rope, I found myself doing just that today. The sky was clear, the sun was merciless, and getting wet didn’t seem like such an improbability after all, at least not for everyone else.
Those tube toys which resemble tire inner tubes, and which are pulled behind a ski boat were probably invented so that more people could have more fun. You don’t have to be able to balance on a slalom ski, or two skis, or get up on the wake board to be able to ride behind a boat on something. You just have to be able to get on and hang on.
All kinds of people are able to enjoy the sensation of air travel, even if they have no physical prowess whatsoever.
However, I think that when the tube gets loaded up and pulled along, the people who have the most fun are the observers who get to watch the riders from inside the boat. The tubes that are made for two riders seem to offer the most entertainment.
I watched two skinny twelve- or thirteen-year old boys get the ride of their lives today. I, in turn, had a laugh worth driving all the way up to the lake for. Two skinny boys don’t weigh the tube down much so it sits up high in the water. They sit a little higher yet, even though they try to spread out like syrup on a pancake.
The driver of the boat eases them into the ride gradually building up speed, and just when the “tubers” think they have mastered the sport and can let go of the handles and stand up or something, the skipper rises to the challenge and begins to take them down a notch or two.
Incidentally, he considers it his responsibility to thoroughly dunk the boys, so he executes a few high-speed loop-the-loops and S-curves embellished by sudden variations in speed in order to give them a good ride before he does. Pretty soon the boys are bouncing around like popping corn, with arms and legs flailing and projecting out of the pile in all directions.
They start out side by side, but soon aligning themselves properly becomes impossible. Boy 1 bounces on top of Boy 2 who is flailing a free arm behind his head trying to clear him off. In a second, Boy 2 is on top of Boy 1 who is trying to extricate himself from a wicked Half Nelson while struggling to keep his legs on the mat and hang onto the grips.
Then the boat’s “slingshot” maneuver has them both clinging to the uphill side of the tube with their legs fishtailing out behind them. A sudden change in speed and direction leaves it terribly off-centered, and its empty side bobs up out of the water.
The tubers execute a disjointed uphill crabwalk as soon as they feel the boat turn the other way, but not in time to stabilize the tube, which rises out of the water and flips over. Boy 1 is launched over the top of Boy 2 who is ejected at a lower altitude and is slowed by rhythmic skipping over the water like a flat rock, getting introduced to the phenomenon of surface tension outside of science class.
It was a good ride, with the boys trading places on the tube a total of three times.
Just as comical is watching the tube loaded up with a much bigger rider on one side and a light-weight on the other. (It’s kind of like me sleeping in bed with Mr. B.) The lighter rider has all kinds of trouble keeping to his side of the tube. It is largely irrelevant though because soon the tube will be tipped over anyway.
What a tough bunch of kids! Might as well put them through the wringer. All of those dunked doughnuts remind me of why I wasn’t sure about getting in the water in the first place.
Those tube toys which resemble tire inner tubes, and which are pulled behind a ski boat were probably invented so that more people could have more fun. You don’t have to be able to balance on a slalom ski, or two skis, or get up on the wake board to be able to ride behind a boat on something. You just have to be able to get on and hang on.
All kinds of people are able to enjoy the sensation of air travel, even if they have no physical prowess whatsoever.
However, I think that when the tube gets loaded up and pulled along, the people who have the most fun are the observers who get to watch the riders from inside the boat. The tubes that are made for two riders seem to offer the most entertainment.
I watched two skinny twelve- or thirteen-year old boys get the ride of their lives today. I, in turn, had a laugh worth driving all the way up to the lake for. Two skinny boys don’t weigh the tube down much so it sits up high in the water. They sit a little higher yet, even though they try to spread out like syrup on a pancake.
The driver of the boat eases them into the ride gradually building up speed, and just when the “tubers” think they have mastered the sport and can let go of the handles and stand up or something, the skipper rises to the challenge and begins to take them down a notch or two.
Incidentally, he considers it his responsibility to thoroughly dunk the boys, so he executes a few high-speed loop-the-loops and S-curves embellished by sudden variations in speed in order to give them a good ride before he does. Pretty soon the boys are bouncing around like popping corn, with arms and legs flailing and projecting out of the pile in all directions.
They start out side by side, but soon aligning themselves properly becomes impossible. Boy 1 bounces on top of Boy 2 who is flailing a free arm behind his head trying to clear him off. In a second, Boy 2 is on top of Boy 1 who is trying to extricate himself from a wicked Half Nelson while struggling to keep his legs on the mat and hang onto the grips.
Then the boat’s “slingshot” maneuver has them both clinging to the uphill side of the tube with their legs fishtailing out behind them. A sudden change in speed and direction leaves it terribly off-centered, and its empty side bobs up out of the water.
The tubers execute a disjointed uphill crabwalk as soon as they feel the boat turn the other way, but not in time to stabilize the tube, which rises out of the water and flips over. Boy 1 is launched over the top of Boy 2 who is ejected at a lower altitude and is slowed by rhythmic skipping over the water like a flat rock, getting introduced to the phenomenon of surface tension outside of science class.
It was a good ride, with the boys trading places on the tube a total of three times.
Just as comical is watching the tube loaded up with a much bigger rider on one side and a light-weight on the other. (It’s kind of like me sleeping in bed with Mr. B.) The lighter rider has all kinds of trouble keeping to his side of the tube. It is largely irrelevant though because soon the tube will be tipped over anyway.
What a tough bunch of kids! Might as well put them through the wringer. All of those dunked doughnuts remind me of why I wasn’t sure about getting in the water in the first place.
Safe haven for all God's creatures
Safe haven for all God’s creatures
Knowing how we in this part of the country are all partial to keeping animals—horses, dogs, cats, mice, etc. I thought I would tell you the story of our one and only cat. We were able to keep that cat for about a day and a half.
Needless to say, we have plenty of mice out here in the hinterlands, and we needed a cat—or better mousetraps. Unfortunately our dog Steve was pretty sure that we didn’t need a cat. Actually he was pretty sure we didn’t need any animals on the place except for him. He kept the deer, the wild turkeys and the neighbors at bay whenever they passed too close to what he considered the boundaries of our, or maybe his, domain.
In spite of Steve’s antipathy toward extraneous animals (except of course for mice), when an estranged neighbor offered to give us an offspring of her mama cat which was an excellent mouser, it took only a small bribe to get us to take the little thing.
I must further explain that we happily negotiated on the amount of the bribe because we had just spent a rugged couple of weeks characterized by elevated mouse-in-the-house sightings with me passing a good part of that time standing on a chair. Where was Steve when mice were prowling around the perimeter?
Steve also neglected to keep the other natural rodent predators, besides cats, out of the house. Yes, I could be found standing on the dining table when a pretentious snake came inside, ostensibly looking for dinner. (He probably thought he had found the sushi bar.) That is another story, but we came down considerably from our asking price when I came down from the table.
True to form, Steve didn’t take to the cat. One or the other of them had to be penned up, and Steve knew he had seniority. Whenever we tried to encourage the two natural enemies to be friends, somebody got scratched or bit. Usually me. The cat soon learned to stay away from the dog. At least she could run inside the proverbial mouse hole when Steve happened to notice her.
We didn’t see her much that Saturday. She came down from a tree or from under the car when she got hungry.
The next day being Sunday with church on the docket, no one paid much attention to either the cat or the dog. Everyone was too busy finding his shoes or ironing his clothes to worry about a couple of animals that were outside and therefore out of mind.
When Mr. B. said the car was leaving, with or without all of us, we piled in and off we went down the canyon to the church, 15 miles away.
As usual, we arrived at the church with negative three minutes to spare so we hustled inside. Back at home after church, someone, namely me, wondered where the cat had gone. No one had seen her all day. We called her and coaxed her. We shut Steve in his doghouse to see whether that would precipitate her appearance, but she had seemingly vanished.
We got the family together and held a conference. Where was the last place the cat had been seen? And the last time?
“The last time I saw her, she was jumping down from on top of the spare tire under the car.--“
“Is that where she was hiding when she went under the car? Someone see if that’s where she is now.”
No cat.
Youngest child: “I saw a cat that looked like her down at the church.”
“What?”
Child two: “So did I. ”
Ding-a ling-a-ling.
“Why didn’t you say so? Where at the church?”
“She was running fast toward the field next to the parking lot. Oh-oh.”
---We went back to try to find her, but no cat. I just hope the neighbor who gave her to us didn’t find her there.
Knowing how we in this part of the country are all partial to keeping animals—horses, dogs, cats, mice, etc. I thought I would tell you the story of our one and only cat. We were able to keep that cat for about a day and a half.
Needless to say, we have plenty of mice out here in the hinterlands, and we needed a cat—or better mousetraps. Unfortunately our dog Steve was pretty sure that we didn’t need a cat. Actually he was pretty sure we didn’t need any animals on the place except for him. He kept the deer, the wild turkeys and the neighbors at bay whenever they passed too close to what he considered the boundaries of our, or maybe his, domain.
In spite of Steve’s antipathy toward extraneous animals (except of course for mice), when an estranged neighbor offered to give us an offspring of her mama cat which was an excellent mouser, it took only a small bribe to get us to take the little thing.
I must further explain that we happily negotiated on the amount of the bribe because we had just spent a rugged couple of weeks characterized by elevated mouse-in-the-house sightings with me passing a good part of that time standing on a chair. Where was Steve when mice were prowling around the perimeter?
Steve also neglected to keep the other natural rodent predators, besides cats, out of the house. Yes, I could be found standing on the dining table when a pretentious snake came inside, ostensibly looking for dinner. (He probably thought he had found the sushi bar.) That is another story, but we came down considerably from our asking price when I came down from the table.
True to form, Steve didn’t take to the cat. One or the other of them had to be penned up, and Steve knew he had seniority. Whenever we tried to encourage the two natural enemies to be friends, somebody got scratched or bit. Usually me. The cat soon learned to stay away from the dog. At least she could run inside the proverbial mouse hole when Steve happened to notice her.
We didn’t see her much that Saturday. She came down from a tree or from under the car when she got hungry.
The next day being Sunday with church on the docket, no one paid much attention to either the cat or the dog. Everyone was too busy finding his shoes or ironing his clothes to worry about a couple of animals that were outside and therefore out of mind.
When Mr. B. said the car was leaving, with or without all of us, we piled in and off we went down the canyon to the church, 15 miles away.
As usual, we arrived at the church with negative three minutes to spare so we hustled inside. Back at home after church, someone, namely me, wondered where the cat had gone. No one had seen her all day. We called her and coaxed her. We shut Steve in his doghouse to see whether that would precipitate her appearance, but she had seemingly vanished.
We got the family together and held a conference. Where was the last place the cat had been seen? And the last time?
“The last time I saw her, she was jumping down from on top of the spare tire under the car.--“
“Is that where she was hiding when she went under the car? Someone see if that’s where she is now.”
No cat.
Youngest child: “I saw a cat that looked like her down at the church.”
“What?”
Child two: “So did I. ”
Ding-a ling-a-ling.
“Why didn’t you say so? Where at the church?”
“She was running fast toward the field next to the parking lot. Oh-oh.”
---We went back to try to find her, but no cat. I just hope the neighbor who gave her to us didn’t find her there.
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