Field
Notes - Dispatch 35 – Rose Cottage– American Falls, Idaho, USA
Sunday,
November 12, 2017
Greetings,
Fellow Adventurers!
A person
might think that after decades of changing car oil, I would have
developed a knack for it. Unfortunately, the person would be wrong.
I was
under the “Faithful Subaru Adventure Wagon” the other day, wrench
in hand, thinking about how few of my pals change their own oil
anymore. It used to be everyone did. Now it is just me. As I was
thinking these moribund thoughts the dang wrench slipped on the drain
plug and I barked my knuckles on the cross member of the car’s
frame. Will I ever learn to use a socket for this job? No, of course
not. Why take the time to look for the proper tool when the 12 inch
crescent is handy. After all, I’ve got things to do. No time to
waste.
With
bleeding knuckles I continue. I start spinning out the oil pan drain
plug. Of course, my fingers slip on my own blood and the dang plug
falls out and rockets to who knows where. Instantly the hot, molten,
motor oil comes cascading out, runs into my hand, down my arm and
pools like burning lava in my armpit. I yelp in pain, snap my head up
and plant my forehead on the same steel cross beam that almost took
my fingers off a few minutes earlier. At this point, I begin to once
again question my commitment to self reliance and “can do”
attitude.
All of
this pain and I have not even started thinking about removing the oil
filter which is placed in a location only a highly trained expert
could find, let alone access.
Anyway,
as I lay under the car bleeding and blistering I was thinking about
how few fellows work on their own cars and trucks anymore. This makes
me sad and somewhat envious. They never get the opportunity to mix
their blood with used motor oil or have old mud fall from the car's
frame into their eyes. They don’t get to swear a blue streak or
enjoy the satisfaction of watching the new oil flow into the motor in
a golden arc of sunlit wonderment.
How can
we expect our young people to defend democracy and the American way
when they cannot even change the oil? It’s downright worrisome.
Of
course, MR is always telling me I should have the car taken care of
by mechanics who know what they are doing. I tell her that any city
slicker can lay down a bank card, but to pick a wrench and go to work
is what made this country great! She retorts that those chaps,
cloaked in history, knew what they were doing and that I don’t.
“Humph,” I reply eloquently as I head for the garage.
Well,
eventually I get the task completed. I may look like a sea otter
after an oil tanker spill, but I get to enjoy the satisfaction of a
job well done. Of course, it took me thirty minutes to find that
drain plug and about the same amount of time to clean up the tools
and the mess but so what? This is one American who is ready to defend
democracy one quart at a time!
Over and
out.
PS. MR
got Brownie and snapped a photo of me working.
