Vicarious Living

Sometime during my early teenage years I got the idea that my true identity was that of a great gymnast. After all, I've got great calves. It wasn't until college that I took my first (and only) gymnastics class. Gymnastics 101. As it turns out, it wasn't as heavenly as I thought it would be to realize a life-long dream. In fact, it was down-right awkward. We had to wear leotards. I also learned I was pretty clumsy on the bouncy floor, entirely lacking in rhythm and grace. I wasn't very flexible, either. Obviously, my only recourse was hoping I had kids one day and then giving them the chance to become the great Olympian I was meant to be. The second Talmage was old enough, I signed him up with a Parks and Recs program. We go every Monday morning. I spend the whole time gazing reverently at the uneven bars.The Balance Beams. That's pure, raw talent.

A larvae stage hand-stand.

Walking "like a "bear, as Teacher Kirsten puts it.

"The Market Is Open"

Do you ever play Pit? Then you've experienced this scenario: You go back and forth between a couple of different commodities until you make a lucky trade and one particular commodity gains prominence. In this scenario, let's say your hand tips toward soybeans. After fast and furious trading, you now need only one more soybean to complete your commodity stock. You proffer your solo coffee card facedown on the table: "One! One! One! One!" A willing broker appears amidst the trading frenzy, flashing a single card at you in return. You make the trade, sucking in air to provide wind for the inevitable forthcoming announcement, "Corner on Soybeans!" Only it's not a soybean. It's the bear. Simultaneously, someone slams their hand down on the bell. The market is closed. The sly trader gloats as he fans out his completed commodity collection. Coffee. And you've got that dang bear. Economic ruin.

I might get shot for writing this, since I live in Oregon, but I'm starting to think organic food is like Pit. Seriously. Commodity=organic=bear card=poorhouse. I've dabbled with different organic produce and products because the idea and image of organic is so wholesome. I've left it at dabbling because the price of organics scare me as well as the unconvincing health claims. I have never purchased organic meat or milk. To make the leap into dairy would spell sure-fire economic disaster. Like getting the bear card.

Lemme explain. Because I guess this isn't like Pit at all. Last night I attended a discussion group about organic food and walked away convinced that organic milk was the way to go. Even if your family burns through milk like an SUV through gas. Even if organic milk costs over five dollars a gallon. I mean, can you put a price on your family's health? Knowing organic would be a tough sell to the main bread-winner of this household, I went online and read some more stuff. After reading this article my stance on organic milk did a complete 360 so the conversation didn't even need to take place.

You should know, by the way, that my organic opinions are like my political ones: they depend on who I last talked to. I am like unto a ship without a rudder, tossed to and fro. Or like a terribly confused consumer. I am curious what your stance on "organic" is. Please use references. You do not have to write in cursive. Nor do you have to try to make a parallel to Pit.

Happy Birthday, Nathan

He's still a funny, funny boy. Thirty-somethin' years later ... Happy Birthday, Ke Nan Tang. Sure love you.

The Clutch Can't Get Joe Cool

There are a few benefits to owning older cars. No monthlies, cheaper insurance, lower blood pressure over paint jobs vs. two year-olds' Matchbox cars, and the privilege to say, “I'll take the Bogus” when heading to Winco. Another one is the exciting learning activity and get-yur-fingers greasy with some wrenches... oh, are those my muscles bulging out of this old T-shirt? sorry I'm just holding the crankshaft in place...

I've only been a mechanic in my mind, and at that, only feigning some knowledge of internal combustion and more imagining, from high school shop and college physics, what might be going on under the hood. I felt reassured when super-mechanic brother-in-law (school) whom I'll call Ahab, ur, uh, I mean, Michael Henchard, concurred with my diagnosis that the '94 Ranger's clutch was worn out. Since he was in town and willing and able... alright, let's replace it ourselves.

Ordered parts, had a manual, Michael's bro's tools, cuz yo, with my amazing screwdriver collection on traveling exhibition with curator Little T, my remaining crescent wrench –though mighty-- seemed somehow insufficient. Anyway, a few bolts and screws off later, I called up neighbor Benchpress Bremer who's lent me wrenches in the past –needed a 12point something. Bremer didn't want to miss a clutch party and immediately joined the team. With M & B's skills (and tools) we dumped the truck's bowels on the garage floor in no time. Wow, so that's what a clutch looks like, and that's how it works. I was soaking it up.



Night #2 - putting it back together. Benchpress Bremer, you're the man! He benchpressed the whole transmission and held it in place while Michael and I tried fast fingers on the bolts.

Everything zipped right back together. Only one step left: “bleeding the clutch.” That's where you have to get all the air out of the hydraulic line. It involves a coordination ritual with me on the pedal, Bremer on the bleed valve, and Michael on the reservoir. The incantation goes something like this: “push it in” “in” “let it out” “out” [repeat, over and over...] Despite our darndest faith and observance, the ceremony did not put any pressure on the pedal. We puzzled and puzzled, and pried and puzzled. Then my sister cell-phoned Michael for the second time that night, and we knew the curfew bell had sounded.

Night #3 – blogs revealed that the early-90's Ranger series had a very poorly positioned master cylinder, at an angle where air could get trapped. So, we took off the whole clutch line system... Bremer aptly referenced the classic Far Side of the Native American holding up an oddly shaped organ with a few tubes hanging here and there, saying: “[We don't have a clue what this is, but it's the only part of the buffalo we don't use.]” Anyway, we got pressure in system off the truck, put it back on (no small task!), started bleeding the slave cylinder and... whoosh. No pressure! ARG! Took it off again –couldn't get any pressure in it this time. Well, what do you do when you can't figure something out? Yes, you start hitting it with a wrench! That's exactly what Bremer did, and lo, pressure!! Once again, we mounted the hoses and cylinder to the truck, but no pressure by the time it was back on. Well, let's hit it with a wrench again. Hey, pressure! Ok, don't touch anything!!!

First test drive was scary, but it worked. We have our own little theory about the hydraulics, and why it's ok that I'm driving the truck now. I must say there's a great feeling of satisfaction to pull off a job like this on your own, and to picture in your mind exactly what's going on now when you push in that pedal. Thanks Michael and Bremer!!

Going on a Bear Hunt

I can still hear my mom’s voice reading Horton Hatches an Egg. I loved, and still do, the illustrations in Gyo Fujikawa’s Oh, What a Busy Day! I used to stare at the page that had the secret spot picture and imagine myself in there. It’s fun to see what books Talmage enjoys. One of his favorites is We're Going on a Bear Hunt. He’ll often quote the repeated phrase, “Oh no! We’ve got to go through it!” (except his version is like this – in hurried, panicked meter: “Oh no! Go through it!”). Today, we went on an actual bear hunt at a local park. Here is a picture of him approaching a cave...

“A narrow, gloomy cave..."

"...Tiptoe, tiptoe, tiptoe."

What book do you wish you could live in real life?

Summer Concerts

Tonight we grooved to "Groovin'", a live band playing at a local park (no bears here). We happily found the infamous A and her family in the crowd and had a good time chatting. I mean, listening to the music.

Stuck On Sydney

Ding-dong ...

… went the doorbell this afternoon. Standing there was Mr. P., an 80-ish year-old sharp-shooter who lives two doors down, in our anti-poultry-HOA-neighborhood. “Did you know you have a chicken in your front yard?” he asked, with a somewhat perplexed tone to his voice.

A million thoughts raced through my mind. Should I act as perplexed as he? “A chicken! My word!”, I could respond. Should I act offended? “A chicken! The nerve!…” Should I act mortified? “A chicken! Don’t they know that’s against the rules?!?” I could then offer to help root out the CC&R-breaking citizen.

But no. Do you know how I responded? “A chicken. Oh! She must have gotten out when the tree people left the side-gate open.” Way to be clandestine, Robin. I was more caught up with the fact that Mr. P. was calling Lafawnduh a “he”. “He’s over there pecking under the bushes”, “I threw some birdseed at him but he ran away”, “I thought he was wild”, “He looks like a rooster.” “No, no,” I reassured him. “She’s a she.” (and doesn’t ever crow early in the morning). Somehow, he seemed okay with just knowing I claimed ownership; knowing Lafawnduh had a home. He left after I said she would find her own way home to roost by nightfall.

As it turns out, Lafawnduh appeared in the backyard two hours later. I ran around the side of the house and closed the gate. Man. It is very stressful living life as a rule-breaker.