Wednesday, October 26, 2016
I dreamed last night that I was attending a class to learn how to start things. Don't ask me what I started, but in the nebulous fog that often accompanies our dreams I do know that I was successful at a couple of start-ups.
I also remember that with one particular item I had successfully started----seems like it might have been a blower of some kind---I couldn't figure out how to shut it off, so I just walked away.
Dreams, they say, can evolve from recent real experiences, and I do vividly recall pulling out my new lightweight rototiller the other day from its resting spot near the shop and dragging it behind me over to the garden area only to have a problem starting it.
Once there, I pumped up the little air bubble six times, stuck my nose almost on the machine to read and punch the on-off switch which is covered up by a plastic protector and flipped the choke switch.
Then, grabbing ahold of the machine to steady it with one hand, I tugged on the cord which came all of about two inches out of its hole. Trying again, I managed maybe another inch.
Going back to reread the "on-off" switch with no glasses and to guess that maybe I had unchoked the rototiller, I flipped buttons and switches, again steadied the machine, yanked on the cord and just about ripped my hand off as the cord stayed put.
Not good, I thought. And, I've used this new machine twice. Do they go bad that fast these days?
My instant inclination, after several years' worth of defeat at the hands of rototillers and lawnmower, is to figure that, of course, this newest machine has certainly gone bust on me.
Rather than work myself into a tizzy, I left the rototiller in its spot and went on to another project, thinking Bill could figure it out when he came home.
These days, in his second phase of semi-retirement from the second job from which he's retired, Bill is around the place a whole lot more.
That means, I have more opportunities to seek help whenever I run into equipment malfunctions or no functioning at all.
Well, Bill came home and then decided to go fishing up Grouse Creek. Thankfully, my ancient brain remembered the stubborn rototiller before he left the driveway.
Bill walked into the garden area, looked over the buttons and switches, asked about the gas, pulled the cord and the tiller started like a dream.
My immediate thought upon watching this focused on those pickle and spaghetti sauce jar lids over the years, the ones which I have twisted the heck out of, almost breaking my wrist in the effort AND they still refused to open, only to have Bill come along, give a gentle twist and instant success!
I was thinking that had to be the case with the rototiller even suggesting that I had, as usual, laid the groundwork for the ground working machine to decide to start and that he had simply finished the job.
Then, I looked to the ground and saw why the rototiller had not started for me.
A big rock had gotten lodged in the tines the last time I used it, and through all my earlier jerking and pulling, the rock had released itself from the tines just in time for Bill to come along, pull the cord and start that baby up.
This time with that discovery, Bill did not receive full credit for saving a damsel aka "damn wife" in distress.
Anyway, that story leads into yesterday's malfunction---the 100-gallon Rubbermaid stock tank in the barnyard.
The other day I noticed that the water in the tank was about a foot down from the top, and that was a day after we'd had some heavy rains. So, I filled it up and noticed a day or two later that the water level was again down.
My sisters came by to visit on Sunday, and I mentioned the tank mystery. They took one look and said that it looked like the plug had come out.
"Look, there it is on the ground," one said, pointing to a green plastic thing just inches from the plug. Wanting to continue with our visit, I said I'd attend to it later.
Later, I came back to the tank, picked up the green thing and quickly determined that it was part of a hose, not the stock tank. So, I decided maybe the tank was off kilter and that I ought to put another board under it to level it up.
That done, I filled the tank to the brim, only to notice the next day that the water level had once again gone down. Yesterday I decided to look a little closer, finally pushing it to one side and completely emptying the tank.
Upon closer inspection, I found the culprit(s): two thin, almost identical cracks on either side of the plug in the Rubbermaid---made to last forever.
Well, this Rubbermaid tank had lasted a little over ten years.
I showed the tank to Bill and then wondered if there is a fix for such cracks. After all, the Rubbermaid is supposed to last forever. Bill didn't seem to know.
So, I went to You-Tube----definitely THE PLACE TO GO when you want to know how to do something.
Well, there seemed to be a way to fix those cracks, but I was having a heckuva time learning the exact procedure because my Internet service had suddenly turned slow on You Tube videos.
After seeing one image every twenty or thirty seconds showing a drill and a bunch of holes and some kind of heavy duty repair glue, I finally gave in and decided to call Co-Op to ask about the Rubbermaid tanks that are supposed to last forever.
George's answer to the "last forever?" query, "Well, supposed to but . . . . "
So, I went back to the barn and told Bill the bad news: a new tank at $102. He told me that he had actually a line on a similar tank that may be cheaper than that. Seems the Presbyterians were gonna sell it at a rummage sale.
He'll said he'd check that out, and, in the meantime, I know there is a future for the Rubbermaid tank supposedly lasting forever.
I'll fill it with dirt and plant some flowers and put it in a nice place to live out the rest of our lives near the barnyard, and I'm guessing that's the part of the tank "lasting forever" that the manufacturer won't tell us.
We are just left to figure it out for ourselves.
After the tank debacle and the dream about learning to "start things," I looked out the kitchen window first thing this morning only to see to total darkness in the barn area.
No outdoor barn light!
"Damn, what next?" I thought. Then, I remembered turning off lights in the barn where Bill had been working on the new stall yesterday. Maybe, just maybe I had accidentally flipped the switch to the outdoor light.
Sure enough, when Bill went out with the dogs, he learned that was the case.
Happily, we have a barn light that works, and I'm thinking in that dream that maybe in some weird way, turning off the barn light yesterday signaled the suggestion that whatever you start up, you'd better turn off rather than just walking away.
Dreams are weird. So is real life at times.
Happy Wednesday. Tomorrow, we'll discuss pumpkin carving---something deer do very well!