More Horsepower

Planting time is here and, of course, we have breakdowns.  The 55 recently had a new fuel injector installed and when we tried to start it, all she gave was the sound of silence.  The dealer hauled it back to the shop with a promise that the tractor will be back in two days.  (insert skunk eye)

We also had a main hydraulic cylinder explode on the disk (which has only happened on one farm in the last 100 years) and replacement parts are a week away.  Typical.  Just about the time we are back up and running, the rain will be here to muck it all up.

Despite all the parts that work until we need them and the problems that crop up, we somehow manage to get our seeds in the ground on time.  Scaring them helps.  We name our tractors for that purpose. 

The fields start shaking and break open when the roar of our VelociPlanter gets close and then we stomp ‘em good with the big wheels just to lay a whoop-tail on ‘em.

Our stacks get to schmokin and the disks get to rollin and the packer gets to crushing.  Then we start digging, injecting, and cussing up a storm. There’s always a few wrench throws and busted hands or  broken backs when it comes to fixing on the fly.  Those moments are balanced by the “How Many Times Were You Flipped Off” Competion.  Each operator keeps count of how many California waves they get from the general public–who are always in a hurry.  We go as fast as we can, always, but drivers still get ticked off and make dumb decisions…like trying to pass us on a hill.

We put on our mean mugs

grab coffee jugs;

make our engines lug–

and get the job done.

Good times!

Three Mile Island

We were four brave souls who risked life and limb to participate in an expedition out to Turnip Rock, located three nautical miles from Port Austin, in Michigan’s thumb.  Our cast of characters included explorers from the states of Louisiana and Michigan.

Did I mention that there were titanic sheets of ice on the lake only 30 days ago?

None of us has any real expedition experience; it’s just that some of us have more brawn than brains.  This was risky business; disaster could strike at any moment:

• One spill in the 40 degree waters of Lake Huron
• Getting bombed by seagull poop
• Getting caught in a riptide that dragged us out to sea
• Breaking a nail
• A tsunami could get us, after all, there really was an earthquake that day!

We threw our kayaks and canoes into a black covered trailer (a very covert operation) and made sure our last will and testaments were in good hands.  The trip was a three mile paddle out, three miles back, and it took three hours without “horsing around.”

Of course, we had to film the expedition!  Click on the orange link below to join us on this epic voyage.

Turnip Rock Expedition 2015

Trump Card

This little five year old boy did not “fight a battle with cancer” –  he trumped it with a full house thanks to Marvel Comics.  Nobody who is so brave and fights so hard loses a battle with cancer.  They win because they don’t give up.

At first glance one may think these men

In their colorful suits

Did something special for the boy

–But quite the opposite is true.

Five year old Brayden Denton belongs to all of us.  Our little Super Hero brought out the best in humanity and the gift is real.  He held on to faith in the good guys.  He inspired us to aspire.

He accomplished something in five years that takes many of us a lifetime–he transformed us into something bigger than ourselves.  He mattered.

Today, Brayden is skimming stones across blue water ponds and collecting lightning bugs in a jar.  He is righting wrongs and playing cards with the biggest SUPERHERO of all time.  Through HIS Superpowers, Brayden is sitting on his Mom and Dad’s shoulders–an innocent angel, living life in full color.

~Dedicated to Rick Carmichael who lives two lives.  One for himself, and one for his little boy angel.

You Don’t Know Nothin’ About Machinery

Colloquialisms or expressions/slang that our parents abused used on us while we were busy growing up on the south side of Chicago in the 1960′s and 1970′s have scarred us for life.   These sayings were meant to show us how little we knew of life.

No matter the project or the explanation, Uncle Ted Laszczewski would come back with, “Ahhh, youse guys don’t know nothin’ about machinery.”   But, on the outside chance we did know a little something about nothing, he would remark, “Chihauhua,”  –his one size fits all acknowledgement.

Bad words were only used by kids who wanted to end up at St. Charles or “CharlieTown”,  the juvenile detention center.  We were always being sent there.  Parents posted the phone number to the North Pole next to the rotary phone and threatened to call the Abominable Snowman on us if Santa was busy.  Yeah, Richie Cunningham never experienced “The Chicago Way.”

Economics dictated a lot of what we got in trouble for.  “Turn off the lights!  We don’t have stock in Edison.”

• Get off the phone–it’s long distance!
• Close the front door, you’re letting out the heat.
• Close the refrigerator, you’re letting out the cold.

Then there was the ‘ol collect call trick used when we reached our final destination.  Our parents would tell us, “When you get there, call home collect and then hang up when I don’t accept the call.”

Things told to a ten year old:

Quit your dilly-dallying.   I don’t care if everybody is doing it, you’re not everybody.  I’m not going to tell you twice.  When you are big enough and tough enough, we’ll talk.   What was that?  It sounded like a bomb went off.   I thought I told you not to do that.   Go disappear.    Yeah, well people in Hell want ice water.  Don’t make me take off my shoe.  I’ve seen better heads on lettuce.   You have two legs, walk!    That’s enough from the peanut gallery.  I have eyes in the back of my head.  Stop it or I will give you something to cry about.   Keep your hat on so your head won’t fall off.  Wipe that smile off of your face!  If you had brains, you would be dangerous. You’ve got more excuses than Carter’s has pills. I don’t want to hear a peep out of you.   Use your noggin.  Don’t make me come up there.  I wouldn’t bet the farm on it.    Stop it or you’ll poke your eye out.  Because I said so. Do that and you’re headed to Hell in a hand basket.  Get out of my hair. If your friend jumped off of a cliff, would you?  Don’t call your Mother a “she”.  Oh for cry-eye!  Close the door; you weren’t born in a barn.  Mind your P’s and Q’s.

Things told to a seventeen year old:

“E” does not stand for Enough…if you run out of gas, don’t call home.  Aint isn’t a word.    They’ll never buy the cow if they get the milk for free.  I asked for a reason, you gave me an excuse.   This is not a popularity contest.  You don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground.   Money doesn’t grow on trees.  “Hey” is for horses, grass is cheaper.  Keep your knees together if you don’t want to get pregnant.  Who do you think you are…The Queen of Sheba? or King Farouk?  Make sure your underwear is clean.  See, there’s the problem…you were thinking again.  Don’t let that change burn a hole in your pocket.  Guess what…the world doesn’t revolve around you.  If bullshit was music, you’d be a brass band.  You’re going to break that mirror if you keep looking in it.  This is not a flop house.  That outfit leaves nothing to the imagination. You don’t know shit from apple butter.  Here’s a nickel, go call someone who cares.  This job needs a bigger hammer;  or, get me a left-handed screwdriver.   “You smell like a French whore”  (if we wore too much perfume).  If you think I’m going to say yes, you have another thing coming. “I don’t know” is not an answer!

The Theory of Relativity:

• Lose a game?  We could count on being cheered up with, “Well, when it rains, it pours” or “Cry me a river” or my favorite, “Go play in traffic.”
• Confused?  Then you don’t know whether to shit or go blind.
• Want your dad to get moving?  He says,   “I can’t.  I have a bone in my leg.”
• Want a dog?  “Go pet your brother, Pete.”
• Need stitches?  “Time to get the chainsaw out.”
• Blocking the view of the only TV?  “Your dad wasn’t a glass maker, Move!”
• Bullied?  Go kick ‘em where it counts.
• Making faces?  “Cut it out or your face is going to stay like that.”
• Need to use the restroom?  Go bomb Tokyo or go see a man about a horse.

Moms had their own mafia.  One mom would catch you up to no good and cuff you for it.  Then, when you got home, your own mom would double down.  After that, you’d have to explain it to your father when he gets home.  We went to bed without supper.  We were made to fix what we broke and return what we stole.  By the time our parents got done with us, we knew just enough about machinery to not be dangerous.

Can’t People Wait Anymore?

You ruined it.  Sadly, once again, the 2015 Budweiser Clydesdale Superbowl commercial has been released prior to the game.  Somewhere there sits a “genius” who ran the numbers and is proud of this act of debauchery.  No more beer for you.

It is the same horror as seeing Valentines explode on grocery store shelves while Santa’s milk and cookies plate is still in the dishwasher.

Back off, at least to the 20 yard line, because I’m going to be pissed all day now.  What ticks me off even more is that I wrote about it, proving the strategy a good one. I need a superhero to go face punch someone in St. Louis.

http://www.today.com/money/super-bowl-commercials-2015-clydesdales-puppy-reunite-budweisers-ad-2D80453380

Conehead, the Barbarian

Zipping through open fields on a frosty winter morning, hunting Birdies in Michigan, is all fun and games until someone ends up sporting a cone. 

Miss Priss had been working those ditch rows for pheasants, racing for hours with the grace and agility of a pronghorn antelope–or maybe it was like the “seven lords a leaping,” ~you decide.

At times, she was only wild ears flopping and rapid-fire recon eyes with a heart that wouldn’t quit.  The switchgrass is so tall; she was essentially running blind and bursting up through it.  She made course corrections this way.  You don’t have to teach a dog to hunt, you have to teach a dog to listen and to obey.

All day, she cut right or left to the whistle and aligned herself with the shotgun and the man that would ultimately produce her prize.  Teamwork.  After a couple of productive hours, our son, Adam,  had six birds in the bag. 

 Then there was the blood.  On the floor.  That night.   Diagnosis:  a torn front foot pad. 

We put a little bootie on her foot and added a blow up donut ring around her neck for “insurance.”  Everyone went to bed.  In the morning, the bootie was gone.  She ate it.

Next up, the cage muzzle.  We didn’t have one so I ran to two pet stores to find the best fit. This way, I thought, she could get around easily, heal up, and it would prevent  her licking the paw to death me from having bruised shins and calves (if we had to go nuclear with a cone).  I tied extra straps to it for “insurance” and confidently went to work.  I am an overachiever, after all.

When I came home, she was at the door with an angel face–but the devil is in the details:  she was dragging all the yarn, five miles of medical tape, and the muzzle from her collar.  The foot was inflamed,  raw meat was hanging off of it, and she crapped a blue bootie, too.   Next stop, the vet’s office.

Yes, Remi,

my industrious

German Shorthaired Pointer,

my liebling gummibärchen,

you have earned that cone of shame.