Don't Bend Your Hammer!

I intended to write that my mistakes and accidents are usually the culmination of a series of choices/decisions (none of which were really "bad") that put me in a position to make the mistake. Sometimes things just happen, but too often I've chosen to "make do" and make the best of the situation when I should have backed off and started over.

But that post was too complicated. So instead I'm going to share how I bent my hammer.

My house came with a dilapidated 6-foot wooden fence in the back--it was a mess. I tried making repairs, but eventually it had to come down. I grabbed a woodsplitting maul and my trusty hammer. After knocking down all the panels with the maul and removing nails from the panels (to avoid cartoon moments), next it was time to remove the nails that had stubbornly stayed in the fence posts. They were VERY stubborn--and more like long spikes than nails. I should have used a pry bar on them, but that was in the house and I was out at the fence line--I could get it done with the hammer. I was determined.

I got the first few out. The 4th one wouldn't budge. But I was "determined". I prepared for maximum effort. I pulled up on the handle, straining, and finally I could feel the nail giving way. The handle was coming up. But when I looked down, the nail had not moved a millimeter. Instead, I had bent my hammer.









The moral of the story, don't be stubborn--don't bend your hammer. Change course when you know you should.


PS - Accidents sometimes produce positive results--I don't think I ruined my hammer--I think I made it ergonomic! =)

Pretty as a picture!

Okay, so how did that even get to be an expression? ;P

Believe it or not, it's supposed to be quite a compliment. I've read (just today) that it originated (as a compliment) in the 1900's, which makes sense. I remember my grandpa used to say it once in a blue moon, when the situation warranted it. Clearly I'm a fan of old expressions.

As for the picture above, I mean no disrespect to its subjects--they're my kids' ancestors. I imagine them living on Spencer's Mountain, a proud, hard working family trying to eek out a living during tough times...people with a lot of character.

Special Soup II

This isn't a Valentine's post, but it is about caring for someone, sort of. Hopefully it's a nice way to welcome February 13th.

The first time I made lunch for my mom I was in the 2nd grade and did something dumb. Her request was simple--hot tea (weak), light toast, and tomato soup. I put bread in the toaster, made sure there was water in the kettle and put it on the stove. Then I got out the can of soup. The directions were easy. Empty contents into a pan, add one can of water, heat and serve. Simple.

I placed the cutting wheel of the manual can opener on the top edge of the can, clamped the handles together and started to spin the turning key. Everything was going great, for about 2 spins. Then the can stopped spinning when I turned the key. I unclamped and re-clamped the can opener, but it wouldn’t work for more than a few spins. I ended up with a can that had punctures and cuts all around its top, but none that connected enough for me to get the soup out. I considered my options and came up with a great idea.

I went to my father's work bench in the cellar and got a hammer and one of his wood chisels. I returned to the kitchen and proceeded to use the tools to cut around the edge of the can until I was finally able to lift the lid on one side. I poured the soup into the pan, added the water and made special soup for my mother.

What made it special? Love? No. What made it special were the metal slivers that HAD to be in the soup from my use of the wood chisel. Hopefully the slivers settled to the bottom and were not served to my mom along with her tea and toast. But hey, we need iron in our diets, so I'm sure a little tin never hurt anyone! ;P


PS - This was one of my earliest posts. Since the very few people who saw it no longer blog, I thought it would be okay to repeat it. Plus, I've learned since then that what I did wasn't dumb after all. Cans were originally intended to be opened that way--can openers weren’t invented until long after people started canning food. I love it when it looks like I knew what I was doing when, really, I had no idea (it doesn't happen often).

http://www.ehow.com/list_6811631_description-parts-can-opener.html

Mr. Fluffy (Pt II)

(In Pt I, I wrote about Fluffy being a strange cat.)

“In life there are times we have to make difficult choices and sometimes it hurts. But you move on.” That’s a quote from Nashe's mother. It could have come from almost any parent. It’s something we want our kids to learn. It was one of my dad’s top priorities—preparing me to step up and make the tough choices, to do what needed to be done, no matter how unpleasant. But when life presented me with a chance to pass that lesson on to my kids, I choked—and that’s why Fluffy was the most expensive “free” cat I ever had.

Fluffy completely stopped eating and drinking, so we took our kitty to the vet—who wanted to keep Fluffy overnight. The next morning (Saturday) he called to say Fluffy had suffered kidney failure and was almost certainly a goner. We’re not sure it’s related, but the cat liked to lie in the middle of doorways and high-traffic areas. He got stepped on more than once by people carrying laundry baskets and other large items—they just couldn’t see him.

After hearing the news, my wife asked, “Isn’t there anything we can try to save him?” It just so happened there was. For $1,800 the vet would try “something”. Considering our bills at the time, I wasn’t going to spend that on the cat. Even without bills, that was too much (or so I thought).

While I asked the vet to put Fluffy down as gently as possible, my wife broke the news to the kids. When I joined them, my daughter had her right index finger pressed against her temple, close to her eye. She used to do that when she was upset, but not yet crying. She asked, “Isn’t there anything we can try to save him?” I couldn’t lie. I explained what the vet said. She asked if we could please do it. That’s when a responsible parent would have said no. But just as I couldn’t lie, I couldn’t tell my little girl that saving her beloved cat wasn’t worth $1,800. A good dad would have used that moment to teach a life lesson. I went the other way—I told her we would try. I guess I did teach her something that day. It was just the exact opposite of what I’d been taught.

Sadly, Fluffy didn’t make it. The vet was very sorry and gave us a discount. So Fluffy didn’t cost me $1,800, but he could have.

This story has an odd ending. My wife wanted to bury Fluffy in our backyard. When she picked him up Monday from the vet’s office he was frozen. She and the kids (and their friends) said their goodbyes to a frozen Mr. Fluffy. Instead of waiting for me to dig the hole, they did it that afternoon. But they didn’t quite make it wide enough. You see, he was frozen, and his tail was sticking out just a little. When they were trying to fit him in the hole, they (and the kids’ friends) heard a distinctive little “snap”.

You know how little kids are. Hearing the cat’s tail snap was startling—and made all of them shriek (gross!!!) and laugh. So Fluffy’s funeral was not all tears. The kids were sad, of course, but there were giggles too and happy stories about their adventures with the cat. Without realizing it, my kids learned that saying goodbye to loved ones is part of life and that life goes on despite the sadness. They would smile again and hold onto their memories.

(Note: Did you notice that my daughter used exactly the same wording my wife did when she asked if there was any chance to save the cat? Coincidence??? Hmmm…)

Hard Work (how I got that $5k)

I'm a fairly hard worker. In fact, I have to work at not being a workaholic. I blame my parents (and grandparents, it can't be my fault). My dad kept me plenty busy digging ditches, cutting down trees, building sheds, etc., etc. (there was always a project)--and then there were the routine chores and helping in my grandmother's store. I never received an allowance, but that is not unusual. However, sometimes I needed money. So I found time and ways to make it.

In the 2nd grade I sold Fireballs @ school with ridiculous mark-ups (my grandmother made me stop). When I was 9 I sold fresh ears of corn door-to-door using my little red wagon (the police made me stop--something about needing a license). The summer I was 13 I found old railroad ties and dragged them home one-by-one to sell as landscaping timbers--this was one of my favorites. I'd wrestle the old ties up onto the tracks (they're heavy) and drag them over the rails using a rope. Technically I was tresspassing on railroad property and, again, the police told me to stop (which I did after I got them all home). I even tried my hand at babysitting. The parents really liked my German methods (the kids not so much).

The summer after 5th grade I started a handyman business--I wanted to make sure I had money to pay for a class trip to Williamsburg, VA the next year. My parents said they couldn't afford it, so I decided to fund it myself. I typed up flyers using an ancient typwriter I found in our attic and I got a LOT more work than I expected (from households that didn't have the benefit of free child labor--LOL). I made more than I needed for the trip, all tax free (the good old days). But when it came time for the trip, my folks wouldn't let me go--money wasn't their only concern. So what I made went in the bank.

When I started working fast food @ 16, I was a dull boy--all work. My co-workers tried to get me to relax. But I was getting paid, I didn't want to mess that up. I'd heard we were entitled to a .25 raise after six months, so when the time came I asked the manager about it. He said he had something else in mind for me and asked if my birthday was coming up. I told him it was, in March (did you get that everyone, my b-day is in March). I didn't know what he meant, but the something else turned out to be a promotion to assistant manager. That violated company policy--you had to be at least 18 (I was turning 17). But everyone thought I was older (and I didn't know the policy). That caused me some troble later.

Anyway, I worked a lot of hours, so I was fortunate to have money for necessities (dating) and still be able to put money in the bank. Thank goodness I didn't need time to study.

This all explains how I was able to loan my older brother $5,000 when I was 18 (and then make his wife cry). Of course, eventually I blew all my savings on something frivolous (tuition) and I've never fully recovered. ;P

I Can't Win!

That's what I would say in response to the situation I'm about to share below. But I can't say that anymore, because I DID win something. Knitter extraordinaire Kristie (of North of 49) held a giveaway during the holidays and I won a beautiful knit scarf, handmade from verrrry soft wool (Cascade 220). It's my wife's, but I have borrowed it once or twice--I've never really been a big fan of wool before, but this changed my mind--it's really soft. Thank you, Kristie!!!

Speaking of my wife, yesterday she told me she's really lucky to have me. Before you let that warm your heart, I should point out that her birthday is in a few weeks. Her motives are suspect. But even so, I felt like I couldn't just leave that hanging out there without saying something back to her. So I told her I was lucky too. Then she put her hands on her hips and asked if I was trying to upstage her. Since she didn't want to be upstaged, I smiled and said, "Okay, I'm only almost as lucky as you are." Next thing I know, I'm getting smacked and hearing what sounded like "Chuckie" running away (remember the sound of those creepy little running footsteps???) and she was gone. Hit and run!

I couldn't have been more accommodating in that exchange, right? Yet somehow I still got a little smack on the arm--I can't win!!!


PS - For the sake of the post, I'm pretending I don't know why I got hit and also pretending I didn't intentionally provoke it. It was all good fun, honest--we were both laughing. Teasing almost never gets me in trouble. Almost. ;)

Starving Monkey

I'm in the doghouse. Last night I decided to have a graham cracker. When I grabbed the box from the cabinet, I noticed a familiar problem. The top flaps were both ripped nearly off and the wrapper inside was ripped open all the way down. In my house, that happens to almost every box or bag that contains food. Cereal, cheese, crackers, chips (including chocolate), whatever, you name it.

Upon seeing the condition of the packaging, I mentioned to my wife (as I laughed) that she and the kids open food packages like they're starving monkeys and I would be happy to help by opening things for them. She laughed, but then realized I included her (and was offended).

The left side of my brain is telling me to make this a running joke with her and the right side is telling me to never mention it again. Left or right, which way to go??? =)


PS - To be fair, they shred the packaging of non-food items as well. It's as if everything is a Christmas package and they can't wait to rip it open.