Adventures In Vermont

Are you part of "the Recovery"?

2011-03-14T11:13:00.000-04:00

Back when I was in college, I worked at a gas station. it was a decent job. i sold gas, snacks and bait. Sure it smelled a little fishy, but it paid and it gave me plenty of time in the afternoons and evenings to study a bit on the clock.

One day a guy came in asking if he could park a truck in the side lot for a bit. He was a furniture distributor from High Point, NC. For those of you who do not know, High Point is a furniture Mecca. I'm not saying that people pray facing there, but there is an awful lot of top quality furniture made there. Folks in North Carolina tell tales of factory-direct deals and how lucky they are to live so close to the source.

Being a savvy guy, I saw an opportunity when this fellow showed up. Now I was neither rolling in money, nor looking for furniture at the time, but I still looked over the selection of furniture up in the back of that truck. it was stacked to the ceiling with couches and chairs, ottomans and tables. All of it was covered in plastic and smelled like a new car. Wow was it clean.

All of you can remember being in college. That first apartment was either furnished by mommy and daddy, or it was picked up a piece at a time off of the side of the road. Think back and we all can remember smelling the couch before calling our friend with the truck. Is that cat pee? Is it smoke? Will the ride in the back of the truck take care of it and "air" it out sufficiently? Still we would haul it home and drench it with Febreeze before throwing a sheet over it and calling it ours.

Not this time, I thought. The cornucopia of furniture I was staring up at in the back of that unmarked box truck was all new. It was exhilarating to think that I might also be able to buy (gasp) my first **NEW** piece for furniture and that I might at the same time be able to take advantage of those great NC deals.

So I did it. I selected a chair. A blue recliner was hefted down to me in the parking lot. I checked it over to verify the feel of the fabric and that no one had ever sat in it before. It was still covered in plastic and amazing to me. The money came out and changed hands. the gas station customers were backing up and complaining that the pumps were not working, but that did not matter. I was busy.

I half-stuffed the prize into the opened trunk of the sedan I was driving at the time and tied the trunklid shut. My responsibilities at the station hit me like a ton of bricks and I finished my shift in a more responsible manner. I never noticed when the truck left or whether it evaporated into a could of mist. It was not until the close of business that I remembered the chair still covered in plastic hanging out of the trunk of my car like some soft and cushy spoiler. I stole directly home and lugged it indoors.

The moment I bumped through the doorway, I hollered out to my (then) girlfriend to come and see my prize. Sharing in my excitement, we finally pulled the plastic off the chair and arranged it in front of the TV in a prime location. My longtime friend, a second-hand vinyl Barcalounger covered in an old blanket was stuffed into a corner; instantly forgotten. Then I sat down and kicked back.

Now let me tell you, friends, that I had made a mistake. I didn't know it until that moment, but I had made an awful mistake. They say "live and learn" and it is true. I learned something valuable that day, something we all should know. So today, I will impart the (costly) lesson I learned on you. Ready?

NEVER BUY A CHAIR WITHOUT SITTING IN IT.

Throughout the process of buying that chair I had never sat on it. I had checked the fabric, turned it upside down to ensure that real wood was used in its construction. I smelled it and made sure that it rocked and all, but I never sat down. It was the most uncomfortable chair ever. it was four or five inches too narrow, and there was a decidedly firm spot at the back of your knees where the padding was compressed. It did recline, but there was no options between laying down and sitting up. The arms were beautifully covered in blue velor, but they also were so square that you could set a beer down on them without threat of it spilling. It was just like somebody had covered a "This End Up" chair in fabric and made it recline. Hard and angular, but built to last.

I sat in that chair every night, too stubborn to admit that it was uncomfortable. But after a time, it was backed into a corner and the 30 year-old Barcalounger was brought back out. Even the cat did not sit in it, despite it being in an afternoon sunbeam. It was an epic Fail. One that I sought never to make again.

Years later my then girlfriend now wearing a ring, and I went around to reputable furniture stores looking for a dining room table for our new house. We were decidedly NOT going to buy off of the back of a truck. I also was NOT going to buy anything without sitting in it first. But we also were not rolling in the money either, so we still were looking for good deals.

After lots of driving and lots of walking and lots of sitting down in chairs, we found a set that we both liked and that we could afford. It fit the room well. It looked both formal and comfortable. It had two leaves and six chairs, so it could expand to accommodate guests and host reasonably sized dinner parties. It was wonderful, clean and new.

And it served us well for the past eight or nine years. But we have recently outgrown it and have been seating teenagers at the kids' play table on a regular basis. We needed a new one, a bigger one. So we looked at our finances, found that we were still poor, but through the miracle of debt consolidation, we could afford a new table and some other home improvements for only $20 extra a month.We were back in business!

Over the years we had picked out a supplier of heirloom-quality furniture nearby. It is an antique dealer who loans space to a furniture builder. We had actually picked out the size, the features, and the chairs in our "dream plan" years earlier, and this was our chance. We went, recently, to pull the trigger and realize our dream.

http://www.smugglersnotchantiques.com

Now with 2 kids in tow we drove an hour to the store and compelled the owner to his post early on a Sunday morning. He was probably hoping to get back in front of the fire after the "browsers" left, but was pleasantly surprised when we declared that we were there to buy instead. We placed our order, priced it, and haggled little over the details. It wasn't until the credit card came out that he made a comment that still sticks with me.

"Oh, so you are part of the recovery, eh?" he said, looking me right in the eye. "I guess so," I replied, not thinking of what he really meant by that. It was later that i thought back to it. There have been all sorts of economic displeasantries recently. I myself have been through the ringer job-wise. This fellow immediately brought it all into perspective. Here he was, standing in the middle of his large *heated barn on a cold spring morning in Vermont surrounded by *thousands of dollars worth of furniture and antiques. The business was not new, and neither was he, being otherwise retired. But he was doing what all sorts of other folks are also doing. Treading water, paying the bills, and hoping that the buyers would once again come in through the door.

And there we were. A family of four ready to spend some money. As the boy ran cars across the merchandise, and the little girl danced to Taylor Swift songs piped through mommy's IPhone, we went to task and probably made his week's profits that day. What is more, we set the chair builders to work as well ordering ten. We were doing it for ourselves, but in the process we helped our community get back on its feet, even if just a bit.

Now we are not sitting pretty. If Congress can not come up with a spending plan, my wife will be furloughed without pay beginning just next week. I am now a builder and also selling wood flooring, but neither of those careers is exactly lucrative, and both depend largely on others. But thankfully, money is still cheap and for those of us with good credit, it is still available. We decided to pay an extra $240 a year (over the next million years) and put a whole series of folks in the local community to work. For that antiques dealer we were part of the country's "solution" to this economic downturn.

For us, we are looking forward to the new table. And for those of you still interested, I sat in those chairs years earlier. I did not need to do it again. And you don't hit your knees on the table legs when you sit at it either.

Eat your Heart Out, Bradbury

2010-11-13T14:32:00.000-05:00

We all read it back in High School. Farenheit 451, the blissful future all schoolkids looked forward to. The day when books no longer existed. No more reading forced upon us by work-crazed teachers who simply did not understand how much time we spent on our hair, or mastering that new trick shot on the basketball court. Back then, we equated reading with work. More specifically, work we did not want to do.

Since our high school days, reading has taken a whole different place in our lives. Now, we read to pass the time, to get a little time to ourselves, and escape. "Don't talk to Mom, she is in the middle of a book," Dad might say to a pleading child one Saturday afternoon, "What can I help you with?"

In adulthood, reading has also become a way to say something. It has become common practice for coaches like Duke's Mike Krzyzewski and Lakers Coach Phil Jackson to give out books before each season. These mentors-of-men often hand out the tomes as a way to teach others a valuable lesson. Even if the book was forgotten on the shelf for years, the day it was read, the lesson would still be just as true. The coaches found that they could impart life lessons through books, which have the unique ability to still stay just as fresh years later.

The thing is, that books do just that. they don't expire, and they don't wilt with age. They are just as good to read after ten or twenty years as they were when they were printed. It is great for books, but not so great for booksellers. There was a time in this country when there was a busy newsstand / bookstore in every town. As the car spread us out, bookstores consolidated into larger stores, spaced farther apart. Gone then was the neighborhood bookstore. As shopping malls popped up across the country, many of the independent bookstores were driven out of business by chains in climate-controlled shopping centers. Fifteen years ago, the really big chains came through. Borders and Barnes and Noble sprouted up across the country and dealt a further blow to small booksellers with sledge hammer grace.

Still, somehow, small booksellers persevered. Singe stores, or small regional chains still eked out a niche in the shrinking market by adding coffee shops and really getting to know their local customer's interests. Some only dealt in used books, leaving the bestsellers for the big chains with their heavily discounted prices. Others became more like local historians, bringing together local authors, and regional histories with avid readers. It was a good thing, until the internet and Amazon came along.

In the past five or ten years, many local, independent booksellers finally threw in the towel when the internet giant Amazon.com came around. Amazon, dealing with publishers to get the best prices on books anywhere, could undercut all others, and what's more, they had literally everything ever published. Even with shipping, they had your book to you in two days, and there was no more going to three shops on a Saturday to find the book you could not live without. Lives were made easier and all was well, but for the independent bookstores.

Now there is an even more foreboding future for the little guys in the book business. It really began in earnest last year around the holidays. With proprietary names like Kindle and Nook, the e-book has come in to the market swinging. Even now, the ads are all over the radio, working hard to make e-book readers the "Tickle-Me Elmo" for adult readers everywhere.

They have their merits. E-books sell the works for less than the paper copies can go for. You don't have to drive anywhere to get them. If you want to practice your French or Spanish, you can literally flip a switch and there you go. Plus, you have free books made available through Project Gutenberg, and they are search-able. That is, if you just needed to know, you could download the complete works of William Shakespeare and then search out for keywords to find that the three witches were in Macbeth; Act IV, Scene 1.

But where will it leave the stalwart independent booksellers who have not succumbed to the onslaught of competition in the newly global book game? Some are calling it the digital dilemma. Where will the paper guys be left in an age where internet competition can undercut them by as much as 50% instantly, from the couch. They have been valued members of the community for decades. They have built up a loyal customer base, but lets be honest, the face behind the counter is only friendly in this day and age. There might not be much need for them in the future.

The transition will not be as enthusiastic as in Bradbury's novel. Kids may not be left with such trivia as the precise burning point of paper when the last paper book is removed from store shelves. But the end result might be just the same. It could be the end of the line for books. Whittled down from a neighborhood hot-spot, to a file; whizzing through cyberspace in a nanosecond. In Bradbury's story, learning was the enemy. Independent thought went against the rules, and reading was the harbinger of critical thought. In this 21st Century reality, some sixty years after the original hit the marketplace, critical thought abounds. Reading is no longer the enemy, but the book still is.

Back in High School, some friends of mine and I went out to an unpopulated barrier island on spring break. A bad gale blew in and stranded us. We had to burn a school copy of Lord of the Flies to keep warm that night. I thought it was strangely poetic. Perhaps when I am ready to buy my next e-book it should be Fahrenheit 451.

Not a Hunter

2010-10-15T06:22:00.000-04:00

Way back in High School, they beat into your brain just how important time management really is in life. To give you an idea, I usually find the time to contribute to this fine body of work during naptime for my two-year old. I need to be quiet, can't leave the house, and writing fit in well.

Recently, though, I have been working on an old house, renovating it (leaving little time for writing). I am in the midst of mudding and taping the sheetrock, which just takes time. If you have not done it before, you should be aware that each coat of joint compound goes on finicky, and you can't really touch it until it is completely dry. The drying process should in theory take 24 hours, but in all practicality, it is taking longer. I still keep busy while the mud is drying because it is a big house, but honestly, there is no rushing it. Come back too soon and it crumbles under the weight of your tool.

As I have been working, such a monotonous job (lacking in measurements, squaring, planning, and other brain occupiers) has left me time to get to know all of the new radio stations, catch back up with all of today's big hits, and let old songs remind me of past times in my own life. It has been nice going back down memory lane. I have thought of trying to contact a few people I have grown apart from, but who has time for that?

The extra time has also let me think ahead.This weekend, there is a big Jeep club meeting and the (probably) last ride of the wheeling season. I have really been looking forward to both. The Vermont Jeep Association plans to elect me as their president, which is an honor, but the run afterwards has really been on my mind.

Every hour, on the hour they talk about the weather on the radio, more during drive time. On nice days, it goes by un-noticed. These days, for me, I am all ears. There is a coastal low moving up towards Vermont, and they are using the "N" word a lot. (Nor-Easter for the flatlanders out there). The Nor-Easter is great for skiers and snowmobilers, a churning winter storm that could potentially drop 2-4 feet of snow on the Green Mountain state. For me, however, looking forward to the last ride of the season in my open-topped old Jeep, I cringe at the thought of spending all day out in the woods, wet and cold. That doesn't mean I won't go, it just means that I will need to combine ski clothes with a fisherman's hat to make the day comfortable. Ugh. I probably will put the bikini top on for the day ( I haven't any other).

There is practically no chance of me not going. I have permission from the wife to leave her stranded with both kids all day. Such an opportunity is not to be overlooked. If the ride is cancelled due to high water or excessive trail wear, I would understand, but probably still spend the day wrenching. I have found the motor and transmission for some future Hot Rod project, but have been unable to find the time to pull it out of the motorhome it grew up in. I could work on that on Sunday, but I will probably have the kids with me, and so lifting a 351 and c-6 overhead and into the back of the truck is probably not the best family activity. The kids would definitely come home greasy and make for more laundry. Besides, it is supposed to rain.

A plumber I have been working with has been looking forward to deer season. For him, he gets a week pass from his wife, and is off to New York to find the big bucks. Apparently, the Vermont program of passing on spikehorn bucks has not netted the final trophies yet. So he goes away for a week with his brother and a few friends to persue a few extra (antler) points.

It is his yearly trip, a sign of the seasons, if you will. Kudos to him for finding the time. For me, there is always work to be done, or wheeling, or pulling an engine, or watching the kids, or fishing, or football, or... Thank God I am not a hunter too.

Why is the grass greener?

2010-08-11T15:42:00.000-04:00

Harvest time is beginning in Vermont.
Berry crops have been showing up in advertisements on the shoulder of the roads for the past month. The lettuce and beans in my own family garden plot have officially passed, and I am left with the kale my wife planted (and I won't cook), a bumper crop of basil, and the dreams my overflowing pumpkin plants now inspire.

Farmer's markets are in full swing, and a regular town event. If you ever want to see and be seen, dedicate a night and go down to the farmer's market for dinner. Eating your way through the various stands of raw and prepared foods is an awesome task, but somehow, eating more than a mouthful at a time before stopping to chat with a neighbor is the biggest challenge.

The question that prompted this week's post (after a well-deserved vacation south for this writer) was overheard being said by a non-gardener. "I wanted ____ and I thought I said it way back when, but we don't have any ___ now. I guess they didn't like my suggestion."

A children's story my daughter owns came instantly to mind. it is about a little industrious chicken who lives with a lazy dog, gabby goose, and a vain cat. Each of her roommates allows the chicken to cook and clean for the household without lifting a finger to help. When she finds wheat kernels along the road in springtime, she plants them and tends them by herself hearing only the chorus of "Not I" from her roommates when she asks for help.

Our unnamed non-gardener fits that bill to a tee. "Not I" said he when the seeds were started indoors."Not I" said he when the garden needed weeding. Now, as the vegetables come in, he enjoys local cucumbers and the rest, but he still finds the time to look over the fence and wonder aloud why there are no pumpkins growing in his garden this year.

Well, in good taste or not, I should relate the rest of the little chicken's story. She weeded, then she cut and thrashed the wheat. She carried it to the Miller and brought back home the flour. She was the one to bake the loaf of bread in the fall, and it was she alone that ate it in a house full of the smell of fresh bread. The lesson my daughter takes away from the story is to lend a hand when asked.

For me, I think the message is to keep your mouth shut if you don't plan on helping out along the way.

The last time I was down in the farmer's market, I overheard someone comment on the high price produce was fetching as compared to the supermarket down the street. Growing it is not an easy task. Time and energy are valuable commodities. If you are willing to invest in it, a pumpkin can be had for the cost of a seed. Otherwise, just pay what the farmer is asking for it.

Don't mention it.

2010-07-16T09:16:00.001-04:00

The bumper sticker that had obviously resided across the back of the rusty Honda for some time read "I'm a Vermonta, I do what I wanta."

Originally, it called to mind all of the other classic Vermont sayings. "You can't get there from here." "Go right up the road a ways... you can't miss it." And the like. But this one was different. It called to mind the individuality and independent nature of Vermonters. We might just be the most stubborn state in the union.

We really do what we want to. We saw a need, and passed first-in-the-nation same-sex spousal benefits. When Governor Davis saw the clutter and trash lining Vermont's roadways back in the 70s, he shut down the interstate and motivated the entire state to clean itself.

Vermonters way back in history have really done what they wanted too. We were not one of the thirteen original colonies, we were still making up our minds at the time. Most folks don't know it, but Vermont is one of two or three states that was at one time its own country. The Republic of Vermont was a short-lived, but important part of the state's history of independent-mindedness. For more information, a trip to Windsor, Vermont, would be in order.

That independent nature really shows its head in the little things. A recent trip to the lake with a friend on his new-to-him $500 speedboat shows it well.

Of course, the boat started when he first tried it, but then it sputtered and wouldn't start again. The boat's battery was dead, and getting a jump start on the water is a bit more difficult than in the Wal-Mart parking lot. So, while his first mate made a run for a second (hopefully fully-charged) battery, he was left literally holding the boat alongside the dock, hoping to not be in the way as others used the boat launch.

The first mate's trip was only fifteen minutes or so, but that left a lot of comings and goings at the boat launch. Everyone who passed by was concerned. One couple coming in off the water loaned a spare battery and the boat came alive again. He ran it for a minute to charge the first battery, and gave it back.

"Don't mention it," they said. "We've been there before. That is why we carry a spare battery."

A concerned husband and father was milling about, waiting for his wife and kids to get back on their maiden voyage around the lake in a new paddleboat. A friendly conversation sprang up which led to an offer to go out on the powerboat and have a look around the lake, once the first mate got back.

Now, no one would suggest that a new boater on his first time out in a new (and very used) boat would be the best candidate for a rescue mission after a paddleboat, at dusk. But, we were testing the motorboat anyway, and keeping an eye out for the yellow boat was not too much trouble. We saw them at dusk, still quite some ways from the boat dock. They were tired, but still moving.

We exchanged messages and tried to tow the little boat, but ended up pulling it sideways and almost swamping it. It was tense there for a minute, but we untied in time and everyone was still right side up. The little boat paddled to a landing nearby, and we continued on our way, making one last trip around the lake testing the steering and pumps.

By the time the motorboat pulled up to the boat launch, the family was safely ashore and they stopped by to say thanks. We didn't even recognize the boaters without their life jackets, and were caught off-guard when they approached us. We were busy trying to get the boat situated on the trailer and out of the water in the dark. For us, I think the chance to help had been a failure.We almost swamped their little craft and they ended up paddling in themselves. For the boaters, however, we must have seemed like a lifeline, with lights and a motor as the sun was going down.

As we were tying the boat down safely on the trailer before heading home, a teenage boy in a too-cool-for-me ball cap abruptly called out, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," we said, hardly looking up from our work. It wasn't until later that it really sunk in. For him to come up to total strangers like that really speaks volumes. We were only doing what any Vermonter would have. We were just doing our part. That night, it made a difference.

Busy Busy Busy

2010-07-06T16:54:00.001-04:00

Summer is here, and the time is right, but why on earth do we do it to ourselves? We literally get so excited with the warm weather that we try to fit it all in.

Lots of folks get so caught up in the longer days and welcoming heat, that they run themselves ragged. Up in the morning, they run out for coffee, then back home for breakfast and to read the paper, before gathering the family up for a bike ride, or trip to the lake catching lunch on the run somewhere in between. Then it is off to dinner and a movie. It is manic, but it is summer, right?

Wouldn't it be better if we treated an average weekend like we do vacation? I'm not talking about a 'bicycle trek across Russia' vacation, I am talking about a 'sit by the pool' vacation. For our family, when we go on vacation, we plan a few activities over the course of a week, but we also schedule a lot of inactive down time too. That is what recharges our batteries the best, a little good for nothing time wasting and enjoying the moment.

So why do we feel the need to fill every moment with another activity, another something to run across town to? If the key to relaxation is actually relaxing, why not relax? When the heat is on outside, why not sit in front of a fan and act like it was a tropical breeze? Sure, you would need to use your imagination, and the kids would surely start complaining after a few minutes, but then a beautiful thing would happen (I hope). They would begin entertaining themselves. They would all of a sudden get up the gumption to drag out the hose and water the yard as they jump through the sprinkler. Sure they would drag grass into the house on wet feet, but we are relaxing. As soon as it dries, we can sweep it up.

Its summer, the heat costs you nothing, and if you have ever torn a muscle or been to a physical therapist you know, heat relaxes. So, give in and get with the relaxing. Let yourself.

Be a 'Giver'

2010-06-25T10:35:00.001-04:00

Time is a funny thing. It is the commodity of our life. It can be spent in exchange for money. It can be spent in exchange for pleasure. We bargain with our time, and divide it between things that are important to us. The most difficult thing may be balancing our time.

Balancing our time between what we want to do, what we need to do, and what we should do is a constant challenge. Is it even possible these days to make time for others? Giving away our precious time for other people, even strangers, is perhaps the most valuable gift we can give, especially if we do it right.

The TV evangelists and charitable organizations might beg to differ. They might say that giving our money would be better. I disagree. I would even say that if we really cared about a cause or an organization, we would volunteer our time.

The best thing about giving away our time to a cause we care about is that we invariably don't do it alone. Nobody really wants to go be with a bunch of strangers, even if the folks you meet volunteering are just about the friendliest bunch ever. That is why we bring the whole family, or at least a good friend with us. Bringing someone along makes the volunteer time more fun personally, and it doubles (or even quadruples) the amount of work that an organization can get done. It is a Win-Win! All of a sudden, what we thought of as a nice way to give back, becomes a fun time for us and our friends or family.

I started thinking about it last week when some Jeeper friends of mine let the off-road community know about a trail system in Vermont's Northeast Kingdom that had been over-used. The Vermont Jeep Association (Group of Jeepers who care) is a member of Tread Lightly! We adhere to their goals in order to keep environmental impacts of four wheeling as low as possible.We do not over use trails, we do not just spin our tires in the mud. We do, however, still get out there and have fun.

When the club learned about the overuse and trash that had accumulated, the volunteer spirit came out. All sorts of folks volunteered to make an organized date, bringing pickup truck beds to fill with trash, and work gloves to repair the trails. It is not too often that the off-road community steps in to work on public land, which is what makes this special.

What we do for the land is also great, but no matter what net impact we might have on the land, giving our time is the greatest show of support. It shows that we really do care about the land, and Tread Lightly! ideals. Just making time to do what we can is the best way to give back to the communities we live in, and love. We are choosing to spend the time for others, not playing golf, or swimming with the kids.

But ya' know what? We'll have just as much fun doing work as we would have at a barbecue. The food might not be as good (PB&J vs ribs), but spending that time with friends is the important thing, and the best way we can give back.

Difficult Decisions

2010-06-10T12:00:00.001-04:00

Andy Gibb (of Bee Gees fame) during his solo career once said, "Love is higher than a mountain, Love is thicker than water." He was right, of course. Love really does hold us all together, and it really does make the world go around. Love has certainly kept my head above water, and kept me moving in the right direction on more than one occasion.Were they only dependent on love, many decisions would be a lot easier to make.

I was talking to my father the other day and he told me the story of how their beloved cat died. Tigre' was a fun-loving tortoiseshell tabby that my sister got when she was still a girl. It was her cat, and even though there were two russian blues in the house as well, Tigre's outgoing personality really made him the center of attention. He had been diagnosed years ago with diabetes, requiring insulin injections daily.

As my father put it, the insulin was no big deal. Catch the cat with the needle in hand and it was over in a second. It guaranteed his health. It was an easy thing to do. When, Tigre oddly stopped eating, the family kept a close watch on him to see when his appetite would return. A day passed, then two. Finally he brought the cat to the vet.

Let me stop here and say that I have tremendous respect for veterinarians and vet-techs for their training and expertise. They are important members of our community, and I value their advice and the care they provide our pets.

In the case of Tigre, the vet ran some blood tests and did everything possible to find out why Tigre was not eating. They sent my dad and the cat home feeling better, but still worried. He was dead the next morning. Everyone was hurt by the loss of a beloved member of the family. Tigre will be missed.

What won't be missed is the vet's bill. The final visit ended up costing nearly a thousand dollars. It did not change the outcome. It couldn't. Still, they needed to be paid for the work they did. And they should be, it was owed to them. But it left my dad wondering if it was right.

Some of the most difficult decisions we ever have to make are regarding our pets. Pets are not people, of course. They are covered with fur, have tails and cannot speak and tell us what is wrong. They are animals, and we love them, but they are animals.

MACY

Because they are animals, I have never been comfortable treating them like they are people, whether they are a loving member of the family or not. I have endured doggy-breath, never taking the vet's advice and having their teeth cleaned. I know that lots of folks swear by the process, and that is their right, but I have never, and probably won't in the future. When my dog locked jaws with a pit bull and proceeded to break her teeth, the vet offered to take them out, but sensing no suffering in the dog, I declined that as well.

I always make sure my dog, Macy's, vaccinations are up to date. I always give her heartworm treatments in the summer (it is Vermont - no bugs in the winter). I have kept tabs on her weight, and made sure she got plenty of exercise. I do take care of Macy, but I am forever conscious of the fact that she is a dog.

So when she got a lump on her chin, I did my homework, looked online and followed the home-therapy advice. I cleaned it and disinfected it, and watched it to make sure it did not get worse. It did. So I took her to the vet in town to get it checked out. They recommended just removing it before it got any worse, and I agreed. Then I got the bill for the visit, and the estimate for what it would cost to have the procedure done.

Wow. (That just about covers it.) The estimate was between $400 and $700 to take a thumbprint-sized mass off of her chin. It was a difficult thing to see as the receptionist went over it with me. Our family is not sitting on so much disposable income, that a bill like that is easy to pay. In shock, I went home to talk about it with my wife.

The vet had said that it might be cancer, and that they would have to send it out to be tested to make sure. They needed to keep her for the day, give her pain medication and put her under for the mass removal. We were forced into the discussion of what we were willing to pay for our dog's health and comfort. We discussed her age (10). We talked about whether or not we would actually give her cancer treatment should the lab tests lean that way.

It is hard to talk about restricting care for someone that you love, but, unfortunately, love is not the only thing to think about. Am I a villain? Is it wrong to vary healthcare by species? Will I be looked down upon by those who might use feline acupuncturists or doggy dentists? Perhaps my view, that my dog is a dog first, then a member of the family, is antiquated. My view might date back to the time when euthanasia of an old dog might be carried out in the back yard with a shotgun. I am nowhere near that savage, but I must admit that paying the bill after losing a friend seemed wrong when my last dog needed to be put down.

Pets are blessed with short (relatively), happy lives full of catnaps and bouncing balls. They are treated like the emperors of the household. They never have to work, or worry. They only need to love us. If care for elderly animals were dependent on only love, they would have enough stored up in the bank for specialists to be brought in from abroad. Unfortunately, it isn't. Unfortunately, these decisions also factor in money and life expectancies. Does that mean that we love our pets less, absolutely not. Does that make us mean?
Maybe.

To let you know, Macy is undergoing the mass removal, but we don't want to know if it is cancerous or not. We decided to let her live out her remaining days with as much happiness and love as possible, and meet her end, if God decides, naturally. We are having the lump removed once. If it comes back, we will love her just as much with it on her chin.

What is appropriate?

2010-06-08T09:59:00.001-04:00

It might not have been your first thought, but I am really talking about road uses.
This topic came to me this morning when a couple things happened.

First, I caught the President's comment: "I am looking for whose ass to kick" in relation to the oil spill. That got me thinking about whether that was appropriate or not... Actually, I liked his bravado. It was very John Wayne, very American. We all are pissed about this, and he is merely voicing it. Was it appropriate? perhaps not. Should the leader of the free world be able to say "ass"? I think so. Others don't.

Then, There was a report of a Town of Moretown, VT road meeting last night in which the town selectboard discussed the use and keeping of several Class IV roads. For the uninitiated, Class IV roads are the bottom of the barrel, unmaintained roads that are still legal roads for all sorts of travel. They may only look like dirt paths or horse trails, but anyone with a bicycle or pair of shoes is legally able to travel these roads.

So what? you say, we can also travel on the area's bike paths, and recreation trails. Ok, you are right. but did it ever occur to you that many of them do not really go anywhere? Class IV roads connect towns by unmaintained roads. You can actually go over the top of the mountain to get lunch in the next village. You can take a hike to go someplace, rather than walking along the shoulder of the busy roads. If you have never visited one, you should. They are (thankfully) mapped clearly on the good topographical Vermont book maps, and readily identifiable driving around (if you see Road X East, and Road X West, they connect via the Class IV road).

These connector trails / Class IV roads are really a gem, but for the past few years (like 5) the towns and the state have been trying to decide whether each of them should stay on the roster of town roads. On one hand, they cost nothing, hey are unmaintained. On the other, neighbors who might have been misled by a real-estate professional who did not know any better, do complain when people use them. These folks have camps or live next to a road that might only be used one day a week when folks are out of work and have time on their hands. It might only be used once a month. The rest of the time, they mow across it, or park their cars on it, and never have a second thought.

Until, that is, somebody comes riding through on an enduro motorcycle, or walking by their kitchen window unexpectedly using the Class IV road. "How dare they?" the person might ask. "They didn't even knock and ask first," they might exclaim.

Even though the use might be unexpected, on such an unfrequented road, I argue that it is appropriate. The thing is, when these people have such a knee-jerk reaction to travel on such a road, they might yell at the user, or yell at the town. It is a matter of perspective, from their perspective it might seem like folks are just willy-nilly riding bicycles or driving through their back yard. That is a legitimate concern. If they are crunching the vegetable patch, that could be even worse.

The thing is, that even though they might mow it, it is a road. Just like other roads, it is subject to travel. Travel by anyone, or anything legal for travel along the state's roads. Use is to be expected. Use is why they are there. Towns have been wary of eliminating them because of the potential for some eventual benefits of use down the line.

In city neighborhoods, there is use that is unwelcome. Residents are woken by late night motorcyclists, and early morning garbage4 trucks. Just because the garbage trucks tend to use different roads, does not mean that they should be prevented from using Class IV roads. Neighbors of these thoroughfares need to understand that what is appropriate use, and what they might like to see, might be two different things.

That Barack Obama wants to "kick some ass" is his right as an American. That others would have preferred that he sugar coat the message before saying it on TV, does not make it inappropriate.

If you support the position to keep Class IV roads open to free travel, please let the Town Clerk know.

Summer in the Springtime

2010-05-26T08:16:00.000-04:00

Spring is here in Vermont, but it sure does feel like summer. Temperatures in the 90s do a lot to get folks outside and enjoying the Vermont landscape.

A trip to get creemees after dinner really drove the point home. Of course, we were not the only ones with that plan in mind. I decided to drive the (recently through rehab) Willys Jeep down with the family in tow. Driving with the top off really was the only way to stay comfortable int he car without AC.

I wasn't the only one with that idea either. In the village, while we were struggling to catch ice cream drips before they hit my son's shirt, we witnessed one of the better things that comes back with the warm weather.

It seems like everywhere we looked, we saw motorcycles, convertibles, and classic cars out enjoying the warm weather. I talked for a few minutes with a fellow who had just bought his wife's uncle's 1970 Cutlass Supreme. It was a beautiful orange convertible with a 350 and like-original whitewalls. It still purred through its untouched mufflers; none of the growl I would have added to turn heads in town.

The car was a sight. It had white leather upholstery and brown carpet on the lower half of the doors. The owner had it out to take the kids to the creemee stand, just like us.

This time of year really makes living through the long, cold winter worthwhile. Vermonters can enjoy the outdoors, although slathered in bug spray to ward off the black flies, once again. We come out to plant our gardens. Some of us come out again to re-plant out gardens which were killed by the late snowfall last month. We come out to recreate, perhaps bringing a picnic to the park. We come out to swim, though the water is still a bit cold for my tastes. Most of all, we come out to be with those we love. Adding the summer cars to the mix just makes it that much better.

Real Friends

2010-04-27T08:37:00.000-04:00

So it was a nice day for April, and I thought, "Why not?" I would take my '55 to get my daughter from daycare in the village. It was a five mile trip, and I felt confident. I loaded my son in the Jeep and set out.

I had been having trouble with the fuel filter clogging, and had been replacing them regularly, so I installed a cutoff valve. I forgot to open it up.

I ran out of gas in front of my neighbor's driveway.

No big deal, Splash some gas down the carb to re prime it and I'd be off in a jiffy.
I was wrong.

I flooded it, the carb dripped down the engine block and when I tried to start it, a spark caught the gas. It started slowly. I first noticed some smoke, then flames. I got my son out of the Jeep, and shut everything down as much as possible. I had no fire extinguisher with me, and my garage was too far to run for.

Then the cavalry arrived. Dave, a neighbor of mine, and fellow Jeeper happened by on his way home from work. He stopped and watched my son while I went for the fire extinguisher in his car. It was great to have someone pass by whom you could trust like that. There were no questions asked, or worries on either of our parts as I sped away for help, leaving him and my two-year-old on the side of the road watching as the Jeep burned.

I was back minutes later. The extinguisher worked like a charm. The fire was out in a matter of seconds. All were safe, and the crisis was over. Mostly.

He brought us home with enough time to return to the scene to meet the fire chief whom a passer-by had called. A few assurances and an inspection later, he sounded the end of call tones for the approaching engines.

The Jeep? well, there is not much to burn on a old Willys. There is no sound proofing, no insulation. The fire was limited to the distributor, the heater hoses, and some wires. I might have to repaint the hood and cowl, but 90% of the Jeep is fine, and the rest will come along in due time.

I was just lucky that Dave arrived when he did. I owe him a lot for doing what he did.

In case you didn't know, Jeepers are a close bunch. The VJA in particular has done a great job of bringing together a trusted group of people. I don't know of any other civic organizations that would build the level of trust between members required for all of this to happen and end as well as it did.

The old days vs. today

2010-04-15T15:16:00.002-04:00

I got this in an e-mail, so it is hardly mine. I liked this too much to not share it here as well.

If you are 30, or older, you might think this is
hilarious!

When I was a kid, adults used to bore me to tears with their tedious diatribes about how hard
things were. When they were growing up; what
with walking twenty-five miles to school every
morning.... Uphill...
Barefoot... BOTH ways… yadda, yadda, yadda

And
I remember promising myself that when I grew up, there was no way in hell I was going to
lay a bunch of crap like that on my kids about
how hard I had it and how easy they've
got it!

But now that I'm over the ripe old age of thirty, I can't help but look around and notice the youth
of today. You've got it so easy! I
mean, compared to my childhood, you live in a
damn Utopia!
And I hate to say it, but you kids today, you don't
know how good you've got it!

I mean, when I was a kid we didn't have the
Internet. If we wanted to know something,
we had to go to the damn library and look it up
ourselves, in the card catalog!!


There was no email!! We had to actually write
somebody a letter - with a pen!   Then you had to walk all the way across the street
and put it in the mailbox, and it would take
like a week to get there! Stamps were 10 cents!

Child Protective Services didn't care if our parents beat us. As a matter of fact, the parents
of all my friends also had permission to kick
our ass! Nowhere was safe!

There were no MP3's or Napsters or iTunes! If
you wanted to steal music, you had to hitchhike
to the record store and shoplift it yourself!

Or you had to wait around all day to tape it off
the radio, and the DJ would usually talk over
the beginning and @#*% it all up! There
were no CD players! We had tape decks in our
car.. We'd play our favorite tape and
"eject" it when finished, and then the tape
would come undone rendering it useless. Cause,
hey, that's how we rolled, Baby!  Dig?

We didn't have fancy crap like Call Waiting!
If you were on the phone and somebody else
called, they got a busy signal, that's it!

There weren't any freakin' cell phones either. If you left the house, you just didn't make a damn call or receive one. You actually had to be out of
touch with your "friends". OH MY GOD !!!
Think of the horror... not being in touch
with someone 24/7!!! And then there's
TEXTING. Yeah, right. Please!
You kids have no idea how annoying you are.

And we didn't have fancy Caller ID either! When the phone rang, you had no idea who it was! It
could be your school, your parents, your boss,
your bookie, your drug dealer, the collection
agent... you just didn't know!!! You had
to pick it up and take your chances, mister!

We didn't have any fancy PlayStation or Xbox video games with high-resolution 3-D graphics!
We had the Atari 2600! With games like 'Space
Invaders' and 'Asteroids'. Your screen guy
was a little square! You actually had to
use your imagination!!! And there were no
multiple levels or screens, it was just one
screen... Forever! And you could never
win. The game just kept getting harder and
harder and faster and faster until you died!
Just like LIFE!

You had to use a little book called a TV Guide to
find out what was on! You were screwed when it
came to channel surfing! You had to get
off your ass and walk over to the TV to change
the channel!!! NO REMOTES!!! Oh, no,
what's the world coming to?!?!

There was no Cartoon Network either! You could only get cartoons on Saturday Morning. Do you
hear what I'm saying? We had to wait ALL WEEK
for cartoons, you spoiled little rat-finks!

And
we didn't have microwaves. If we wanted to
heat something up, we had to use the stove!
Imagine that!

And our parents told us to stay outside and play...
all day long. Oh, no, no electronics to
soothe and comfort. And if you came back
inside... you were doing chores!

And car seats - oh, please! Mom threw you in
the back seat and you hung on. If you were
luckily, you got the "safety arm" across the
chest at the last moment if she had to stop
suddenly, and if your head hit the dashboard,
well that was your fault for calling "shot gun"
in the first place!

See!
That's exactly what I'm talking about! You
kids today have got it too easy. You're spoiled
rotten! You guys wouldn't have lasted five
minutes back in 1980 or any time before!

Regards,

The Over 30 Crowd

(Send this to someone you'd like to make smile)

Take a message

2010-04-09T10:19:00.000-04:00

A teacher I knew once covered his classroom's clock with a sign that said "Be Here Now." It is all that a person can ask for from people around them. Perhaps it is the perfect message to our youth.

The other day someone older than myself commented on how younger people did not have a good work ethic. They were right, of course. Young people, IMO, do have a harder time deciding to get started, a harder time keeping going, and a harder time seeing a job to its end than people even a few years older than themselves.

It might be normal maturation. It might be a factor of our modern civilization. Perhaps we can blame it on MTV like people used to do back in the 80s and 90s.

In the past, older folks, who noticed young people flitting about from one thing to another like a fly checking out a summer barbecue decided that the problem was TV. It had to be. MTV, they said was the cause. It narrowed 'normal' TV from half-hour shows to five-minute videos. People were basically the same. They still got up in the morning, and went to sleep in the evening. They still put their pants on one leg at a time. So they decided the cause of the generational difference in attention span was technology.

Today is no different. People still notice that younger folks are constantly distracted. Today, TV is an accepted piece of life, whether in hour-long or minute-long doses. Few people continue to argue that we should turn off the set and go back to books and board games every night. Today, folks blame the short attention spans and lack of follow through on cell phones, texting, and instant messaging.

All of those things do draw a young person's attention away from those near to them (geographically speaking). (I would be remiss, however, if I did not pause to note how the text messages and such also bring young people together as well. New devices electronically connect friends instantaneously across town, and across the world. They remain connected whether they are sitting bored at home, commuting, or at work. That is a real accomplishment.)

The problem, though, is that there are only so many moments in the day people spend with each other. If young people are constantly surfing Facebook posts or awaiting a chime on their phone, how can they get work done? If they keep a watchful eye on their mobile phone, how can they truly converse with the people around them? Saying, "Hold on," to the people around you does not make up for the fact that you are breaking off from a conversation with them.

Taking a phone call has always warranted an "Excuse me, please." In times past, the person would retire to take their call in a separate room. Today, there are no phone booths left. Maybe we should bring them back. We take calls sitting at a table in a restaurant or in an elevator. We don't think much about it, but it is wrong. It is egocentric to talk on a cell phone when others are around. It distracts you, whether driving, or walking. You, the people around you, and whoever you are talking to all deserve your undivided attention. Giving them less is insulting.

Manners aside, I think it is wrong to keep the cell on all of the time to begin with. When a person really concentrates on his or her work, there is no room left in the brain for an incoming call or text message. Sure, everybody needs a distraction once in a while. Studies have shown that frequent breaks increase productivity. There is, however a difference.

Those studies are talking about working for twenty or thirty minutes, then taking a five minute breather to move and decompress. That pattern of brain activity lets the information sink in. It allows a person to reflect on what they are doing, and make changes so that he or she does it well. When a person works for ten minutes then receives and responds to a text, then works for another minute before the next text comes in, nothing is really getting done. That person is texting, not working. His mind is on the phone, not on his work.

Today we need to acknowledge the vision of our elders. In just the same way that our parents made us turn off the TV while we did our homework, we need to turn off the messaging. We need to admit that there are lots of times, and lots of places that it is just wrong to keep the cell phone on. Movie theaters remind us to turn them off before a picture. We need to be responsible enough to turn them off before getting to the restaurant, or getting into a conversation. There is nothing wrong with letting a few messages build up and then responding to them all at once.

If your face-to-face relationships, and your work can benefit from your undivided attention, why not acknowledge that each is important and turn off your personal distraction device? Maybe old people will begin to notice how much work you are doing, and what you have to say, not how often you excuse yourself.

In this day and age, no one tries to "Stick it to the man." We might not "Fight the establishment" the same way any more. The differences those sayings highlighted years ago between generations do still exist. They will always be there, as sure as ants at a picnic and sand in your swimsuit at the beach. Today we need to recognize them, and do what we can to bridge those generational gaps. The OFF button is the first step. You might be surprised with the results. MTV might not play videos any more, but now they are an accepted art form.

mayB txtN wl B d nxt art 4m.

ROFL. jst tnk of it ;-P

Getting out

2010-04-05T08:34:00.001-04:00

Happy Spring.

Happy Easter as well. It was a wonderful wekend in Vermont. We enjoyed unseasonably warm temperatures, bright sunshine, and no lack of things to do.

I even took the old Willys out for a ride yesterday. It was nice to not freeze in the doorless Jeep. It also was nice to see that the roads are drying up a bit. The thing I liked the best was seeing the people outside once again after the long winter.

As I drove first on a test run, then over to my friend's house, I was heartened to see people stop and wave as I drove by. Sure, that is part of the fun of owning a Beryl Green antique auto, but a lot of that sentiment comes with the season, here in Vermont.

There were people taking in the last maple buckets after the spring sap run. They waved as I drove by.
A little down the road, visible only because the trees had not filled in yet, were a couple of guys building a bridge across a creek. They looked up from their work as well. The lady raking her yard did too.

I don't think that it was me, necessarily, that garnered the attention. I think that it is a factor of where we live.

Vermont is a strange sort of place. There are not many of us living here. The entire state, for instance has about the same population as an average sized American city. The difference here is that we are all spread out. There are usually a number of freeways and main artery surface roads that link people together in cities. In Vermont, we all share just one highway. Two if you count the one we share with New Hampshire. Three if you count the seven or so miles of four lane road that Route 7 builds to south of Rutland before dwindling back to two.

So what does it mean? It means that most of us live a little further from eachother than the rest of the world does. It is almost an uncommon thing to see someone driving by our houses. There is really a good chance that if we see people walking on our road, we know their names or at least have a good idea where they live. We can spot Jehovah's Witnesses a mile away.

It is actually a nice feeling. it gives our spread-out populace a small town feel. Those guys were not just looking up from their work as my bright green Jeep drove by. I think that they were curious who was using their road. Aside from neighbors, there might not be a dozen cars down it on a sunny afternoon. I think they genuinely wanted to see who might come a visiting; who might be by to lend them a hand finishing that bridge before the black flies come out.

The warmer weather certainly brought Vermonters outside this past weekend. Driving home in time for the kids baths and bed on a school night, families could be seen in dooryards, and on front porches together. Campfires were lit against the cold; warming bare arms and legs bleached white over the winter.Vermonters were brought together by Easter traditions, but also by the season. Spring brings us outside. Spring brings us together with our neighbors and family.

As the weather warms, Vermont kicks off her winter blanket of white. The state sends up shoots from the ground and buds from the trees. Each of them call its residents to congregate outdoors. After the long winter, we can really use it.

Paper or Plastic? Neither

2010-03-30T10:48:00.000-04:00

When is it going to happen here? When will we do something about our environment, and our cities' aesthetics?

This blight takes the form of innocent-enough plastic conveniences. If you bother to notice, you can see discarded plastic grocery shopping bags all over the place. Especially this time of year, after the snow cover melts and before the leaves come back and conceal the tangled blemishes in their branches, discarded plastic bags seem to be everywhere.

The problem is perhaps worse in urban areas, where the wind can help the lightweight trash escape from uncovered dumpsters behind apartments and shopping centers. A scene from American Beauty, parodied in popular culture by The Family Guy and on YouTube, tries to bring the problem a silver lining, but even artistry ultimately fails to put a good spin on the problem.

Vermont has a history of strong environmentalism, and has not been afraid to seek out its own direction when it comes to the best thing for its people. Vermonters enacted bottle deposits when the containers became a problem on the roadsides. We enacted Civil Union legislation to meet a need there as well. These shopping bags wind up in creeks and ditches, in treetops and on fences looking ugly and causing an environmental problem. We shouldn't just wait for Green Up Day to address the infestation.

Today though, larger cities, like our nation's capital, which face larger problems that come with larger populations are on the forefront addressing this problem, not us. We seem to have bigger fish to fry. It seems as though the Vermont legislature is working on fishing licenses and city charter changes this year instead.I suppose they are important as well.

So it is left to us, the people. We need to make an effort. We need to tell our neighbors to make the change. We need to take a stand, however quiet or refined, and say through actions and deeds that we do not need disposable bags any more. They may be easy, but they take a toll as well.

So what is the answer? We recycle. We reuse. There are lots of ways to do it. There are websites that will show you how to turn extra pillowcases and t-shirts into shopping bags. You can buy the reusable variety from the market, or from web retailers.

The question then becomes one of design and aesthetics. It is nice to show your individuality with the bags you carry. Recycling your old Duran Duran shirt would do that. You also should look at convenience and carrying ability as well.

Talking to others about the issue, the consensus seems to be that the bags should be small and convenient to carry, whether folding up to place in the shopping cart is enough, or stuffing together into a small pocket. They should be large enough to carry three cereal boxes. They should have wide enough handles to carry the weight of milk jugs. They should be washable after handling your meat, and many like the variety that can stand up on their own for easy loading and unloading.

Changing our habits is always a difficult thing to do. Whether we are quitting smoking, or adjusting our route to work because of construction, the change has to be a conscious one. This instance is no different. This is a call to reject the status quo. Say it out loud when you are confronted with the old "Paper or plastic?" question. Tell the clerk that you have brought your own. Tell them "neither". But please remember to bring your own bags with you when you go shopping, and keep the rest out of the trees and creeks of the Green Mountain State.

Cars with character

2010-03-29T10:24:00.000-04:00

Different cars have different purposes. That is the way it is supposed to be. Carmakers acknowledge it. That is why we are not all riding around in sedans. They make minivans for families, compact cars for the economy crowd, pickups for working. Each has its place.

In our household, we have taken it to another level. Sure, each of our cars is capable of carrying the whole family (thought the dog might be a tough squeeze in the old Willys Jeep). We have the family car for long trips and the pickup for odd jobs. But we also have another spot in our auto needs filled as well. The old car.

The old car is just as important as the others. It might not shine so much as the new. It might be slower, or less fuel efficient, but it is needed just the same. The old car is the one that we use when it might get a scratch on it. We use the old car when the job is sure to be dirty, when we wouldn't think of driving something we are still making payments on.

In our family the old car is my Jeep Cherokee. It is a '92, and it had lived a good life long before I bought it. Now on its second engine, it has few panels that are not straight. They still all match, mind you, but they have dimples and scrapes. Some people might look upon the dents as blemishes, but to me, they are scars, that each come with their own story. Those stories make the Jeep special.

Take the dent in the driver's door. Apparently, a family from Massachusetts sent the Jeep north with their child to school at Johnson State. They blew a motor on a quiet Vermont road, and took out their anger on the Jeep while waiting for the tow truck. That is no problem. I popped it out as best I could when I bought the Jeep (non-running for $100). Good came from that dent.

The Jeep has a mismatched headlight bezel on the left side. That came after my friend's bachelor party. We all had a good time that night, and the Jeep earned its nickname, "Lefty." The passenger's front fender has a dent from where I tapped a mean tree off-roading last year. I replaced the rockers after they dented the same way.

When I look at my Jeep Cherokee, I see dozens of fond memories in the scratches and dents. I enjoy driving it; using it; and I will enjoy denting it further. I enjoy talking to people about it in parking lots and at gas stations. It is not a beautiful thing to many people's eyes. They might need for their cars to shine, or at least not be crumpled.

I can understand it. I have a friend who has given me straight fenders for it that I refuse to put on. He spent a lot of time making his Jeep shine: fresh paint, new parts. He does preventative maintenance. I drive mine like it is stolen. It is a lot more fun from where I am sitting.

I have half-bald mud tires and refuse to buy new ones until these run out completely. I have a leaky windshield that makes it a bit musty after it rains. Fix it? Why? Chances are that I will meet a low-hanging tree branch some day. It will probably happen the day after I replace it. So what do I do? I cut out the carpets so water will drain out on its own. No musty odor, problem solved.

A friend of mine who used immigrant labor when he built his house taught me the Mexican saying S-O-C-K-S (You have to say each letter out if you ever want to use it for real). "It is, what it is," the saying goes. That is how I look at my '92 Cherokee. It is, what it is. It is old and dented, so I drive it like it is old and dented. It is freeing to drive it. I don't really worry about it much, as long as it starts and runs when I want it to. If you own an old car, you know what I mean.

Everything is not disposable

2010-03-25T11:20:00.000-04:00

We live in a disposable culture. It is often more cost effective to throw away the old than repair it. I can remember a story I heard about a $20 printer that took $80 ink cartridges. You got a set when you bought the machine new, so buying ink was more expensive than buying a whole new machine.The guy bought four printers and sent them to the landfill when they ran out of ink. It is ridiculous.

These days the Maytag repairman is not out of work because the machines are so reliable, it is because nobody is willing to pay for the $90 house call when a new machine is only $40 more. It was not always this way. It used to be that people kept stuff running for more than a year or two. Then, if it started acting up, they fixed it. That kept repairmen in business, and helped the local economy. Isn't that a movement today?

Take my old Willys Jeep for instance. It is a perfect example of the durability of yesteryear. I needed to tune it up and get it running right for the season. I looked through the Universal Jeep Service Manual and discovered with glee that I could do the entire job without buying a thing. Engine oil and spark plugs aside, nothing is discarded. Finally, something that was built to be serviced.

It is a far throw from modern vehicles. Recently, to get a Ford truck back up to par, I saw the grimace on the owner's face when he paid a $350 bill for just one engine sensor. Sure it is a diesel, and sure, the new truck might be easier to drive most of the time than my old Willys, but that convenience sure comes with a price.

The Ford was more than ten times the original purchase price of the Universal Jeep. And replacing that one sensor, even today, costs as much as an entire new suspension on the Jeep. Admittedly, it would take ten CJs to equal the pulling power of the Ford, but that is besides the point.

I have owned my old Jeep for five years now. Over that time I have done a frame-off renovation (I call it a renovation because I am not restoring it to original form, and I am upgrading to more modern pieces where it is possible.) I have been amazed how much easier it has been to work on than modern vehicles, including other Jeeps in my fleet.

I might have broken off ten bolt heads in the work on my Jeep over the years. Ten bolts total. That is unheard of by modern terms. These days, just replacing a wheel bearing, you are sure to break at least one. Have you ever tried to do exhaust work? Imagine the count if you replaced the whole suspension. Add to that the number if you removed the body... (For you non-mechanics, we are well into the POUNDS of broken bolt bits by now. You might as well save them for scrap steel and make a buck.) It is crazy.

It was a different time. Parts back then were made to be fixed, not replaced. Gaskets and wires were hand cut, not bought pre-made. If the engine was running rough, you tuned it by ear, or with a timing light, not by plugging in a code reader.It did require more of a sixth sense to work on, but the old Jeep has stood the test of time, and certainly not left a trail of burnt sensors and throwaway parts in its wake.

The old Jeep is sixty five this year. That is old enough for social security. People don't hold up as well as it has. But, it is easier to replace parts on a Jeep.

Lost and Found

2010-03-23T08:19:00.000-04:00

Can you still get film developed at a drug store?

I asked myself this question after reading one of my kids' Berenstain Bear books. The book was about the worst vacation the Bear family ever took. It was filled with stinky skunks, sunken boats, and leaky roofs. At the end of the book, Mama takes the film to the drugstore, waits a few days, and goes back to get the pictures to share with the family.

After reading the passage, I looked over at my kids (4 and 1 1/2) and wondered to myself if they would even understand what film is when they got older. I suppose they will still have pop references in songs, but I haven't used the real stuff for at least five years, probably longer. We still have the old cameras, though.

I know because I found them while looking for our lost digital camera.

It is amazing how a lost item can drive you crazy. This past weekend, not only did we lose the digital camera, we discovered that the shovels were lost too. I don't know where those could have gone either. At least all four items are together, wherever they are.

When you discover things are lost, there is a reliable chain of events that goes on. First, you look in all of the obvious places the item might be. In the case of our digital camera, that included its normal resting place on top of the buffet, also on the desk near the computer (you get the idea). Then, you look for it in all of the unusual, but still perhaps possible places it might be. Those might include the kids' room, under the couch cushions, etc...

Then some helpful soul, who invariably is not helping you look for the lost item as they should be, suggests that you think back to where you saw it last and retrace your steps. Eureka!

Well, not really. Those shovels walked off last fall and could be at one of several friends' houses, or the dump for all that I know. The camera might have had a better prognosis. It was last seen taking pictures of items to be listed on Craigslist. But then, we rearranged the furniture, and it disappeared. Back to square one.

The final effort on my part, was to begin a CSI search of the house, flashlight and all. I started in the mudroom, opened every cabinet, checked every clothes hamper. I looked in places so impossible for a camera to hide, that finding one there would have been tantamount to discovering the missing human evolutionary link under an old service manual in my junk drawer.

Nevertheless, I looked in those places too. I discovered, with my flashlight and latex gloves (OK, so I didn't wear latex gloves, or even yellow kitchen gloves. The ones my wife buys are too small for my hands. But I would have.) dozens of lost toys, a nice ladies bracelet, and that the couch really needs spring cleaning.

I looked in the vehicles, in shoes, in the cellar doorway, and in closets containing big people and small people clothing. I looked int he garage, and in the barn. It was quite extensive, take my word for it.

I never found the shovels, or the digital camera. I did find the big, old, reliable, and hard to lose 35mm SLR cameras. Does anyone know if the drugstore still develops film?

The multitasker and the lazy man

2010-03-19T09:42:00.000-04:00

If I am in the garage, I lose all track of time. My wife can tell me three times to come in to eat, but I somehow can't hear her when my hands are busy.

It is a man thing, I am sure. Men, I think, have a harder time multitasking. I know that I do. My wife can do seven things at once, and do them all well. I have seen her folding laundry, while solving an argument between the kids, and making a list for the rest of the day including a trip to the grocery. For me, it is awe inspiring. But I could never do it myself.

I have to focus on what I am doing, or else I will forget to torque the lug nuts or tighten the fan belt.If I am working, I need to physically get up and change environments to deal with a screaming child, or converse like a real person (no grunts for answers). It is not that bad. That way, I can give the distraction my full attention. But, I can only do one thing at once.

The only problem is that, when my wife has her hands full, and she looks over at me doing only one thing, she thinks I am just lazy. I prefer to think of it as being focused.

Firewood basics for the do-it-your-selfer

2010-03-18T14:30:00.000-04:00

Is it strange that on the first sunny week of springtime, many Vermonters are already thinking about winter?
After the long cold winter the woodpile in many homes looks like a shadow of its former self, and many do-it-yourself Vermonters have already begun working to replenish it.

The cost of heating a home has been on the rise, and according to the USDA Forest Products Laboratory, seasoned firewood is the least expensive fuel source, with natural gas, and wood pellets close behind. The only problem is that heating a home with wood requires a bit more work. That work carries on all year.

Typically, trees are cut in the fall, and they lay in log length over the winter. In the spring, as the snow cover recedes, Vermonters will take to the forests on frosty mornings, when their tractors or trucks won't do as much damage in the fragile environment. Then the fun begins.

Logs began drying when they were cut last fall. As the birds come back to Vermont, those logs need to be chunked up and split to fully cure before next winter. The extra steps in the spring make sure that the logs don't rot on the ground, and that when they are burned the most BTUs can come out of the woodstove.

Before you get to work, you should have a couple things in mind.

1) Make sure your chainsaw is running well. Nobody wants to get out into the middle of nowhere and then figure out that his chainsaw won't run. Before you leave, fill it with new gas, and runit for a few minutes at home.

2) Take a look at your blade. Whenever running a chainsaw, in addition to eye and ear protection, you should have your saw's T tool and a file with you. A screwdriver and wrench can replace the tool, but nothing in the woods will sharpen a dull blade. Use the file correctly, pushing its teeth into the semicircular cut on the blade.

Match the number of strokes for each tooth. If you favor one direction or the other, the saw will cut diagonally.

3) Know what you want to get out of it. When you approach your logs, you need to know how long each piece of firewood needs to be to fit in your particular fireplace. Do they need to be 16 inches? Would 18s or 20s work? Use the length of the chainsaw's blade for reference. Most are in the right ballpark.

4) Plan your attack. Are you right handed, or left? it might make a difference on which end of the woodpile you begin your cutting. Righties, for instance, work better moving to the left after each cut. That way, the chunked log falls off away fromthe saw's housing.

5) Work in sections. There is nothing worse than cutting a log, then tripping over it all afternoon. The best way to work is in sections. Cut a bit, pile some up in an out of the way place for the splitter, then go back and cut more. When working with powertools, (especially those used in horror movies) sure footing is essential. You don't want anything taking your attention away from that saw in action.

The old saying goes, "Firewood warms you twice, once when you stack it, then again when you burn it." For do-it-your-selfers, firewood might warm a few more times than that.

Modern Life or the Old Ways

2010-03-16T10:22:00.001-04:00

Technology is wonderful, except when it isn't. Modern mechanisms have been making our lives a little bit better since the invention of the spoon. Little pieces of insight and creative thinking cradle us in convenience.We surround ourselves with them and show them off to our friends. "Look at my phone!" or "The game is on the Plasma."

In a book I just read, the villain tried to detonate atomic bombs all around the globe, not to bring about nuclear holocaust, but to send out an electromagnetic pulse that would render useless anything with a transistor or circuit board. "Dear God," the President commented, "That would be far more savage than nuclear war." Maybe it would be. But that is only because we as humans living in the 21st century continue to fight for technology every day.

We fight for technology without knowing it. We say that going "paperless" is being environmentally conscious. We also notice that it will save us money on paper and printing costs. It is good, and good for us too. But what has come of the hand scrawled Thank You note Emily Post still recommends we write? Now, we are so tempted by e-mail and Facebook posts, that people actually need to be prodded a bit to take up a pen and paper the old way. Ridiculous.

There is even a growing market in Vermont for landowners to have their forests logged by ancient means. They call it responsible forestry, touting how it can repair damaged land. No, the lumberjack isn't going back to the hand saw or axe, but they are using teams of draft animals rather than giant tractors to haul the wood out. It is really quite inspiring to watch, take my word for it. Engine noise and exhaust fumes are replaced by heavy breathing and footsteps. The only down side is the view driving the team. Who really wants to stare at the rump of a horse all day?

That reminds me of a great Vermont story I heard from my in-laws a few years back. A fellow was out moose hunting on the last day of the season. He was miles from a road and shot a big bull moose. The animal weighed more than a thousand pounds. Being the last day of the season, he had to weigh it in by sundown or face a fine. He drove a 2wd Toyota pick up that stood no chance of traversing the muddy forests, and appealed to a farmer nearby for use of his tractor. The farmer said no, but offered instead his team of oxen. Those who watched it that day, and those who retold the story afterward still speak in awe of the sight of that team hauling the muddy moose out of the woods that day. They go on to laugh at the memory of ten big farm boys picking up and setting that muddy moose in the bed of the tiny Toyota pickup as well; feet sticking out one way, the antlers over the other side.

There was no need for technology that day. The old method was even better suited to the task. Those oxen left no ruts in the soft forest ground. They burned no fossil fuels (though they did release methane gas, I'm sure). They did the job the old way, and made a real impression on a lot of people because of it. Just like that hand-written Thank You note does.

So why did I mention it? Well, we are in the midst of March Madness. For the uninitiated, that means picking teams and filling out those college basketball brackets. Personally, college basketball is the one sport I do follow. I am too busy Jeeping all summer to follow baseball. Football is only good in the playoffs. College basketball gets me in from the garage at the muddy end of March. It is fun to make your picks and see how far off you really are from what really happens. Up until this year, I filled out my picks on paper. I have managed office pools, and spent hours in front of the television with a highlighter figuring out who was ahead.

This year, I tried to us technology to make my life easier. I usually embrace new technology. I have the patience to tinker my way through most of it. Not this time. Managing the brackets has always been a practice that focuses on the playing ability of the teams. This time it turned itself into a computer nightmare. It all started so easily. Click on a link here, follow instructions there. It turned into a four hour process taking up two computers and three separate e-mail accounts to see if it worked. And it didn't. Ugh!

Technology truly can be a wonderful thing. Unless you are the President staring down a threat to transistors everywhere, technology really can be a blessing. But when things don't work right, boy can it go wrong. Nobody ever had a problem with a prototype spoon that affected people the same way computers can. Nobody ever spent four hours online trying to get a piece of paper to work. With the advent of the Kindle, and IPad threatening to overtake books and newspapers, we need to remember that. The old ways are sometimes better. Whether through Thank You notes, or teams of draft animals, the old ways still can bring people together at a personal level. It is better than struggling to overcome the emotional distance that an e-mail creates.

Perhaps the emotional distance can be a good thing as well. As it is, nobody at CBS Sports knows what I was really thinking when I tried to fill out my brackets online.

Bring It On!

2010-03-15T09:48:00.000-04:00

Rain, Rain, go Away.
It has been a wet weekend here in Vermont. The rain coming off of a warm coastal storm drenched southern New England. Then it drifted north and hit us too, though less severely. It did, however manage to melt most all of the snow left in the backyard. With the snow gone, I made a few discoveries.

I discovered about a dozen lost dog toys. Tennis balls, and squeaky toys lost throughout the winter. It was like Christmas morning for my lab. There were lots of "other things" left behind by the dog over the course of the winter as well. (I'm not looking forward to collecting those presents from under the tree, though.)

I also discovered all of the little gardening projects that I didn't finish last fall. No magical gnomes came to finish them over the winter, though I keep hoping. The flower gardens that I abandoned at the first snowfall still need work. The dead tree branches blown down by winter storms are still there. The blanket of white erased them for a while, but they never really left. We have the normal mole activity beneath the snowpack that I will need to rake out, but we also have a few areas that the frost decided to push and pull on.

Ground frost is a powerful thing. You won't find it everywhere. There are lots of areas in the northeast that are free from ground frost. Perhaps they have better drainage. Perhaps they clear more of the snow. Whatever causes it, ground frost is a formidable force her in Vermont. We even named our basketball team after it.

Ice is strong enough to expand in the dirt and send sections of earth skyward. Under the pavement of your favorite by-way, frost heaves can make a Sunday drive seem like a motorcross event. One particular spot makes my Chevy jump and change lanes if I drive more than 25 mph across it. Don't ask what it does to my Jeep. That thing is meant for low gear only.

This year, the frost found a few spots in my back yard. It sent a patch of dirt under my grill up about four inches, then it turned an adjacent piece into a shallow pond. I stepped on the paving stones next to the wallow trying to circumnavigate the new landscaping feature, and they shot into the muck like a slip-and-slide. I managed to keep my pants clean that time, but I am steering clear just in case. I was really looking forward to grilling as soon as the rain stopped, but I don't want to pull on the muck boots to do it. I guess those Omaha Steaks will stay frozen a while longer.

Besides the dog's excitement, there has been some good to come of the melt this weekend's rain has brought. In a few choice spots where southern exposure or the warm wind graces it, I can see little green points emerging from the dirt. Our day lilies are alive. Amidst all of the chores, the mud, trash, and dog toys that were found beneath the snow, a glimmer of hope was found too. Those few shoots have really given me hope that spring will one day come. Hope that my son will be able to walk off of the deck without needing a change of clothes. Hope that the dirt will actually drain. Hope that warmer weather will actually let us use our lawn again.

My wife and I have been talking about what marks the first day of spring with my four-year-old. I said the first robin. They are waiting for the first spring flower. We have already found the first bug of the year, and whatever comes next: bird, bud, or black fly; I am glad to see it.

Spring Cleaning

2010-03-12T16:11:00.000-05:00

Why can't I ever seem to throw anything away?

Some folks say that being a packrat runs in your blood. I might just believe that. My grandmother had the bug for certain. When she died, years ago, it almost took the corps of engineers to go through all of the stuff that she had accumulated over a lifetime.

I'm not that bad yet. My wife might have a different opinion. I still shudder at the thought of tossing a perfectly straight coffee can with lid. It might be useful holding nuts and bolts in the garage some day.Or it could turn into a set of stilts for my daughter to get hurt on. Those things have a million uses, after all. So, I stash it away with the old ice cream container and the old mesh fruit sack (those make a good scrub brush for car tires if you ever need one).

I do try to get rid of useless stuff, but somehow, I can always seem to find a use for most of what responsible people might send to the dump. You know that "Reuse Zone" they have at the transfer station? That was practically built for me. I have rescued books, skis, and sundry other items as well. Stopping in that little shed is almost as exciting for me as bringing stuff to the dump is for my wife.

Perhaps it comes with space. Years ago, when I lived in an apartment alone, my life could fit in the bed of my pickup truck. Over the next few residences, each a bit larger and nicer than the last, I somehow acquired more and more stuff. The house I live in now has a barn. It was a major selling point when my wife and I bought it. I didn't ever think that I would be able to fill it up. But time passed, we had kids, and I did it.

Somehow over the last eight years or so, I have covered the floors of the four horse stalls with snow tires, play pools, a boat we don't use, lumber, furniture, and boxes of leftover junk from my youth. The open areas now have a conglomeration of Jeeps and Jeep parts. it is getting so that it is difficult to walk through there these days in the dark. What to do? What to do? What to do?

Or, do I need to do anything? I have seen those shows about the people who horde everything under the sun away in their tiny houses stacked to the ceiling. I am not that bad, I don't think. Birds still use the barn for a home in the summertime. They can fly through there. That is proof enough for me.

Why, you would have to be standing in my back yard to see the piles of firewood and old scrap steel lying in the snowdrifts. From the road, my house is as clean as the statehouse (both of which are prone to the occasional dog chasing a ball across the grass, mind you). But despite appearances from the outside, I feel the need to do something about my growing piles of stuff.

Spring is in the air. Before we know it, the warmer weather will prompt the annual garage clean out... and the house clean out... and the barn clean out. Dutifully, as a husband and certified junk collector, I will go through and half-organize, half hide away, half junk my amassed collections. Why you might ask? Well, I am more than familiar with the habits of Vermonters all across the state this time of year. Many will be doing the same. And with the great clean-out comes the other springtime tradition, the great garage sale.

Did I tell you that I got a working chainsaw at a garage sale last year for $3.85?
Yes, the decimal is supposed to be there, and yes, I now own two.
I am a junk collector, after all.

Being a Vermonter

2010-03-11T13:01:00.001-05:00

You know, it really does take a special sort of person to live in Vermont. I'm not talking about the wherewithal to live through the seven-month winters or black flies, either. It is one thing to forgo pizza delivery and corner markets voluntarily in the move, (The latter is here of course, but that corner might be a ten minute drive away) it is another to embody the real spirit of Vermont.

Lots of people have been born into the role of Vermonter. For those folks, they might never have seen what the other side is like. Living here has kept them naive to major crime, racial tensions, or the need to lock your doors and windows. Even light pollution at night is foreign to many true Vermonters.

For the rest of us, we might have fled from those issues or others when we moved here. (OK, maybe not the pizza delivery) The Green Mountain State really is a holdout in the modern world. it is a throwback to the times when people were civil. Vermont can really surprise you if you let it.

Take last weekend for example. My family was hosting some friends of ours up from Boston. We were doubling our household from 2 adults and 2 kids to 4 and 4. We were entertaining. So, I did what any responsible person might, I picked up a local newspaper event listing and poured over it while we were waiting for the guests to arrive late Friday night. The listings for the weekend were bleak. The paper mentioned a star-gazing sleigh ride (but neglected to mention the $50 cost for a family of four to go), and an event at the local library.The circular was published monthly, so it had advertisements all over it for the '2010 Maple Open House Weekend' that would happen three weeks later. Oh well. There was always skiing.

Of course, bright and early Saturday morning, I got up and made pancakes for our guests. (Eight people can eat an amazing quantity of pancakes. I was truly impressed as I made the second batch, and frightened for the future of Octomom. OMG, is she in for it.) We served the last of our family's gallon jug of syrup from last year. My wife mentioned that we bought it from a sugarhouse up the road, and it lasted us the perfectly for a year.

I didn't think a thing of it as I was furiously flipping flapjacks that morning, but come Sunday, I was worried. Our friends wanted to pick some syrup up before heading home, and we tried to call ahead to the sugarshack, but then deciding to just show up.

Now let me tell you, when I lived in real cities, in apartment buildings or condominium complexes, I loved the Pop By. They were fun distractions from the tedium of normalcy. Friends would pop in, we would end up running out for a bottle of wine or some beers, and a good night would follow. Somehow in the rural life of Vermont, this practice has been lost. Perhaps it is the thought of driving ten minutes to get to the neighbor's house, only to find them away, but we ALWAYS call first these days. I haven't done a good Pop By for years. Even when I was living in the city, we would never have dreamed doing one before 10am.

Yet here we were: two cars pulling into the driveway (and home) of the Stokes Family Sugarworks. I was quietly mortified; thinking how I might react if all of these mostly strangers (I did buy syrup from them a year earlier) pulled into my muddy driveway unannounced expecting a tour one Sunday morning.

I got out, and slowly ambled through the mud towards the sugarhouse, looking for any friendly faces I might remember from last year. Slogging up, I made excuses to the first friend I met, and promised to buy some syrup if they would let us take a look around. He disappeared into the house after a couple bottles, and I motioned for the rest of our posse to unbuckle the kids and debark.

This turned out to be a fine example of Vermonters in action. As the kids came up rattling off questions as fast as they could talk, the rest of the family inside the house pulled on their mud boots and came out to meet us. They gave us a proud tour of the dilapidated building that included the story of how a cut off tree trunk hanging in the rafters saved the building from the south wind a few seasons prior. Sure, they sold us $15 worth of syrup, but they were happy to do it on an early Sunday morning. I truly believe that if this were not Vermont, we would have been turned away. Well, we might have been able to buy the syrup before we were kicked out.

It really is a shining example of Vermonters in action. My friend was even invited inside for a look at the resident's woodburning of the sugarhouse embossed on his living room coffee table. Would you get that anywhere else?

Rust is a Funny Thing

2010-03-11T11:18:00.003-05:00

I was looking through craigslist postings for an engine donor for my old Jeep. I was amazed at what people want for cars these days.

One post I saw wanted more than $2000 for a 93 GMC Jimmy 2wd!

Sure, it may be a southern car, but no serious Vermonter would want to pay that for it.
The problem with southern cars is that they were initially sold in the south. Frankly, car companies deliver different vehicles to different areas of the country. The south gets no factory rustproofing. No amount of 'Rubberized Undercoating' can make up for bare metal inside the cavities of a southern car.
Let me give you an idea. I moved to Vermont in 2000. in anticipation of the move, I bought a Jeep Cherokee 4x4. When I bought it, the flatlander dealership thought I was nuts. The state did not see snow - ever - and the only thing they could think of was that i would turn it into a "mudder". I bought it nonetheless, and promptly moved to Vermont.

I hardly drove it. at age four, it only had 45,000 miles on it. I lived near to Newton's Car Wash in Burlington at the time, and washed it every week, summer and winter alike. I sprayed on the rubberized undercoating fromthe hardware store, and did everything else that I could to try and keep the rust at bay. I was good.
Today, if you look under that truck next to another Jeep of similar age and experience, it is like night and day. The rust got it where the tow bar kept moisture, the rust got it when the cold nights forced condensation inside the unprotected framerails. It is practically falling apart.

Back to the craigslist posting. In Vermont, that bluebook value goes right out the window. It doesn't matter how many miles, or where a car was from. Unless it is never driven, a southern car will succumb to Vermont's red scourge within four years. I guarantee it. The fact that that Jimmy was 2wd rather than 4wd is even more of a reason that its owners will be disappointed when it does not sell. Somebody they work with, or a neighbor needs to explain it to the owner. Kelly BlueBook is not accurate in the Green Mountain State.

As a matter-of-fact, someone should publish a GreenBook for Vermonters. I can see it now. the book would have listings based on real market value here. A 97 Hyundai would be accurately listed for $450 with the words "Winter Beater" next to it. A 1993 GMC Jimmy 2wd (Southern Car) would list an accurate $750 and the phrase "solid engine, many parts."