The Dealership

By John R. Greenwood 

"Tail Light"

It's no surprise that the online appointment at my local car dealership never reached its intended destination. I would have been more surprised if it had. The young woman at the Service Counter assured me it wasn't a problem. She said there'd been two no-shows anyway, so they would get me in asap. Her voice sounded sincere, but after decades of repair nightmares, my gray-haired skepticism kept me on alert.  I've resigned myself to treating any positive experiences as unexpected gifts. Based on my previous post about refreshing my personal page to positivity, I will keep my word and edit this post accordingly. 

First of all, I have no reason to complain. After years of questionable decisions and limited resources, Mrs. G. and I now own two reliable vehicles. They both have low miles for their age, indicating a lack of car payments with a dash of crossed fingers. They are the two most reliable things on four wheels that have ever parked in our driveway. We consider ourselves extremely fortunate in the transportation department. Even after its long winter slumber, my seventeen-year-old motorcycle with 60k miles started without hesitation. 

I've owned dozens of motorized vehicles in my life. The first was a Lil' Indian minibike with a 3.5hp Briggs & Stratton. It was serviced by the ten-year-old who rode it. I treated it like it treated me—with pure joy. I've tried to recreate the experience of that first taste of freedom for the last half-century. I conclude that the goal is unattainable as a full head of hair and 34 waist Levi's. 

Now back to the dealership. 

This place is as clean as Urgent Care up the road, and everyone is as pleasant as a Holiday Inn receptionist. That's when I wait for the proverbial hammer to drop. 

"Your tires are riddled with road fungus. We can treat them with tire antibiotics for $49.95 per tire. Plus tax."

"I'm sorry for the wait, but we don't carry the rare viscosity oil your car requires, so we had to order it on eBay. It will be here next month. Do you want to make that appointment now or do it online at your convenience?" 

"Did you know there's a recall on the brake pads we installed last year? They say they may burst in flames and fail without warning. Did you want us to take care of that for you? We have an opening in 2022." 

None of these scenarios played out this morning. I'm only two hours in for my, maybe it was, or maybe it wasn't a scheduled appointment, and I'm still in the "positive lane." I'm starving and have a headache, but I remain smiling under my masked facade. I'm praying that if I'm out of here by noon, I'll be okay. 

Another waiting room resident just received her doctor's report. The service rep informed her that her car would be done shortly. She and her two preschoolers were glad to hear the news. Have you ever waited more than an hour with two little ones with no toys and a Deadliest Catch Marathon locked in on TV? She handled the information that even though her tires were still legal, she should consider new ones before the next snowflake hit the ground. No worries, she's told they have a 12-month promotion on tires. Buy three for an inflated price, get the fourth free! If she takes the bait and gets reeled in, I'm confident she'll end up paying for new valve stems. There I go again, drifting over into the opposing lane. This positive reboot may take some time. 

It's the next day, and I'm putting the final touches on this sarcastic slice of reality. In the end, the service on my vehicle was executed without incident, and the bill was fair. They didn't try to upsell me any additional services, and I was home in time for lunch. Whether it's an oil change, tire rotation, or battery replacement, I always feel like I'm involved in high-stakes gambling. I'd label this trip a break-even one. In my book, that rings positive. Tomorrow I head down the Northway for a doctor's appointment. Let's hope that routine maintenance has the same outcome. Doctor visits, another nail biting evaluation that puts us at the mercy of others. After a year of playing Russian roulette with a virus, we could all use some good news. With shot #1 one in my arm and #2 a week away, this spring is shaping up better than the last and just enough to keep me thumbs-up happy.  

Peace. 

A Shot In The Arm

A Shot In The Arm
By John R. Greenwood 

A Shot In The Arm

felt like the appropriate title for a story about writing after hitting the pause button for a while. This is my first post for 2021 and I’m about to head to CVS for my first dose of the Covid-19 vaccine. I’m hoping it will be the shot that will prolong the inevitable dirt-nap and the shot that will refresh my outlook on the future. Simply put, I’m exhausted from the daily discourse that has coated my brain with negativity and despair. I’ve tried to climb out of the ditch, but every time I start to whistle again, a wave of political poison places a boot heel on my forehead and knocks me back in the hole.

I’ve become zombie-like in my daily routine. The difficulty putting pen to paper has been a lack of caring. I’ve reverted to child-like selfishness that melts when I see others struggling but re-ignites when someone scrapes their opinions onto my plate. Reading the xenophobic refuse that people share on social media makes my head hurt, and my heart cringe. It’s unnecessary and consuming. It devours my ability to function in a positive light for more than a day. Even as I plunk down these ramblings, I feel a sense of pissing in the wind.

There is good news out there, but you have to mine it like gold. It’s always buried beneath a pile of scare tactics, warnings and conspiracy theories. There’s a never-ending army of naysayers waiting to trounce on every uplifting sprout.

From here on out, I’m going to focus on the positive—the ability that used to come to me naturally. These days I have to use a pair of jumper cables to get me started. Thankfully spring is headed our way. Mowing is better than snow-blowing. Tee-shirts and shorts beat out puffy parkas and neck gaiters any day. Releasing the lawn furniture from the basement is just a few weeks away.

I haven’t been completely stagnant. Indoor projects continue to commandeer my time. Sprinkle in an occasional appointment or a visit to the grocery store, and winter has scooted along like an aluminum saucer on crusted snow, but the stress of the outside world has taken a toll on my desire to sing. I’m fighting it like a Tiger comeback, but it’s not going to be easy. There’s a lot of pain out there, and it’s hard to move ahead without looking back. In the past, a day in the woods with the sun shining on my face would do the trick. Spring 2021 may take something extra. Maybe a combination of a motorcycle ride around the lake, a bike ride around the neighborhood, and an old-fashioned pickup-run to the transfer station will do it. The key is not to wave the white flag. Keep swinging. Keep swatting away those pesky gnats of negativity. Keep telling yourself you’ve been through worse and always exited the other side.

This shot in the arm needs a little more than before. Pandemic and politics are no match for the human spirit. At least that’s what I keep telling that voice on my shoulder.

Shot #2 is scheduled for the end of the month.

Look out, April, here I come! 

The Obituary of Leaf Rake

The Obituary of Leaf Rake 

By John R. Greenwood

Leaf Rake 

October 25,1100 B.C. — November 19, 2020

Saratoga Springs, NY

Leaf Rake, age 3120, passed away this morning on West Ave., Saratoga Springs. Mr. Rake was born in China in 1100 B.C. His first years were spent clearing fields of leaves and plant refuse. His childhood friends described him as being made entirely of wood—wooden tines attached to a wooden head. His facial features remained wrinkle-free and relatively unchanged for his entire 3120 year existence. 

Leaf Rake graduated with honors from Garden State College at the age of 5. His hard work and long hours made him outstanding in his field. He never asked anything of his handler that he wasn’t willing to do himself. After college he spent centuries on farms all over the world. In the 20th century he committed his remaining years to suburban yards across the globe. He was never boisterous or condescending and was always willing to work in the front, side, or backyard at a moments notice. 

At the time of his death Leaf Rake lived in the dark recesses of sheds and garages. During his last days he might be found leaning against the back of the house, rusty and neglected. Leaf met his demise today at the hands of the “Blower Boys.” A posse of masked marauders in hoodies, brandishing gas-fueled death-wands of hurricane force winds. Leaf Rake was doomed. His manually operated handle and tines had zero chance of survival based on the shear numbers of his staggering opposition. 

I witnessed the murderous act in real time. It brought personal sadness and despair. Leaf Rake and I spent most of our lives together. When we were kids we made soda and candy money together. We bonded instantly. We went from elementary school through high school together. When I needed money for the movies or a new bike tire, Leaf was there. He never let me down. When we got older and started families of our own, Leaf and his cousin Garden would show up at my house to help seed the new lawn or fill in the low spots over the septic tank. He let my rambunctious sons play pretend landscaper minutes after they’d used him as a makeshift axe on the old maple out front. He and his cousin were tough cookies right to the end. 

As the scene above unfolded I pulled over to the side of the road. I yelled out in anger but my voice was smothered by the roar of two-stroke horsepower. My efforts were nullified by progress and the unstoppable future. A tear rolled down my cheek, and as it did an oak leaf floated in my truck window as if to say, “Don't worry, Leaf's okay and you will be too. You two had a good run together. You made memories and money. You bent his back, he gave you blisters, but you remained friends until the end. You both paid your dues, let the Blower Boys have their fun. Things always come full circle. Someday you’ll both be remembered fondly for your hard work and low maintenance."

"Most of all be proud of all those mountainous leaf piles of autumn you two made." 

"The Blower Boys can’t do that now, can they?"

RIP Leaf Rake 

Cover-Up (A Greenfield Memory)

Cover-Up (A Greenfield Memory)

By John R. Greenwood 

I want to share a father/son moment that took place in 1968. I was thirteen and had saved enough money for a new bicycle. I bought my Raleigh Rodeo 3+2 at Globe Supply(presently Soave Faire) on Broadway in Saratoga Springs. It was a stingray bike styled like the muscle cars of that era. It had a Hurst-like, 3-speed shifter on the frame in front of the seat. Next to it was a smaller shift knob, which gave you two more pedaling speeds. It was gold in color and my pride and joy. I parked it on its kickstand every night in the garage. Saturday mornings, while dad washed our International Scout, I would wash my Raleigh next to him.

My father instilled the importance of taking care of your things. The better the care, the longer they will last. I came up short a few times because I remember being on the receiving end of "That Look" after I misplaced or broke one of his tools. Parents hope that if a child buys something with their own money, they will take better care of it. Hope is just that. The chances of your child having the conscientious-trait is a crapshoot. Some get it; some don't. Most kids fall somewhere in between. I probably leaned more to the caring side because I feared "That Look" worse than a kick in the shins. 

In the 1960s, it was popular to ride your friends on the handlebars. They would rest their feet precariously on the small bit of threaded axle sticking out from the front tire. The other option was to let your legs swing free, which was much more difficult for both rider and the one pedaling the bike. It was also an excellent way to get run over by a car. My father was adamant that I do not try this with my bike or with anyone else's. I was a compliant son, and I was also much too afraid of my father to break that rule—that is until Glen came along. Glen was older, bigger, and wanted to get from point A to point B one day. He insisted that I provide a taxi service from the Greenfield General store to his friend Tom's house at the bottom of Cemetery Hill about a quarter-mile away. Glen was the Eddy Haskell of our neighborhood. He was an instigator and possessed a larger than life personality. He was the type of kid that could get you in trouble quicker than a wink, but at the same time, his presence helped you remember those events with overwhelming fondness. On this particular summer day in 1968, everything above fell into place.

Because Glen was too big to ride on my handlebars, he strong-armed me into the role of hood ornament. Boys at thirteen are about as coordinated as a giraffe on skates, and I was no exception. A few hundred feet up the road, my sneakers slipped off the axle bolts, and my toes got caught in the spokes. Glen, the Raleigh Rodeo, and I went ass over tea kettle. When the dust settled, a friendship and a brand new bike were in a bit of a pickle. I remember having to push my bike a mile back to my house, the whole time thinking about how mad my father was going to be. He would be upset about the bike, but even more so because I disobeyed him. The front wheel was a bent mess. The spokes had a pretzel quality to them. 

What do I do? 

You do what any red-blooded thirteen-year-old would do—cover it up! This virtual cover-up included an old blanket. Like a reprieve from the governor, it would buy me time to devise a brilliant scheme. The words "brilliant scheme" and "teenager" mix like oil and water. It did take a couple of days for my father to decipher why I was walking the mile up the road to the village versus riding my brand new $70 bike. Fathers are more observant than we think. My teenage sons learned this factoid about the same time their father did. 

"Why is there a blanket over your bicycle?"

Here's where you begin to weigh your options heavily. I didn't have enough time to concoct a viable lie. Even if I had (my wife will confirm this), I'm a terrible liar—especially if she or my father are involved. It was time to plead for mercy. 

"Um, I, I, well, uh, I messed up." (add tears here) 

Here's where parenthood takes a moment of silence. It's a silence that doesn't pay dividends until your grown children recognize the honesty you instilled in them. In my case, it took a couple of days and an eagle-eyed father to bring it to the surface, but it proved that honesty is the best policy no matter what the outcome. 

The following Saturday, dad loaded my Raleigh Rodeo, with the crumpled front wheel, into the back of our Scout. The two of us took it down to Globe Supply and dropped it off for repair. A week later, after putting several miles on my Converse, we returned to pick it up. I'm not sure who paid the bill, but my parental guts tell me it was the man whose "look" is all I ever needed. It was all that was necessary. 

Stories like this filled my teens and my life. 

Man, I miss my father. 

Dad, I Finally Fixed The Switch

Dad, I Finally Fixed The Switch 
By John R. Greenwood

New switch on the lower left

This bandsaw is the first power tool my father taught me how to use. He used a lot of different tools to make a living, but when he was in his own garage/workshop, he enjoyed this *1945 Delta/Milwaukee 14 inch bandsaw. I was around ten when he first let me flip the switch and go solo. My father was firm when teaching me the dos and don'ts of anything with death or injury potential. Whether he was giving me instructions on the handling of a 30/30 Winchester or a 1940s bandsaw, I knew when he meant business. The word 'firm' may not be strong enough to describe dad's safety speeches. 



My first lessons on the Delta consisted of dad reaching over my shoulders and guiding my kid-hands with his heavily callused, blue-collar hands. Two fingers on his left hand held deep scars from a saw accident he'd had before I was born. He admitted that they were the result of carelessness. The apple didn't fall far because, in my early twenties, I earned the nickname, "Nine Fingers." We'll table that story for another episode. At first, I was only allowed to use the saw when dad was in the shop. My first build was probably a birdhouse. Once I proved I could be "fairly" responsible in the shop, I was shown where the key was, and as long as I asked, I could use it without supervision. I really enjoyed those quiet times building things. I loved using the bench vise and all the different hand tools. 

My father owned every tool imaginable. He also built a wall of shelves filled with Gerber Baby Food jars. The ones with the metal half-twist lids. Each jar was neatly marked and filled with every size nut, bolt, or screw ever made. If you needed it, it was there—somewhere. It wasn't a fancy shop, but it was functional.

Made in Milwaukee USA

With a year of retirement under my belt, I now have more time to tackle home improvement projects that have been neglected for years. Having the ability to visit places like Home Depot or my local hardware store during the week is a DIY'er's dream. Weekend visits are worse than Walmart on Black Friday. Now that Mrs. G. and I are at the tail end of our big projects, we have time to take on a few of those on the way, way, way back-burner. Today as I was rummaging around the cellar, I walked by dad's beloved bandsaw sitting neglected and cobweb-covered. I could hear my father preaching to me about taking care of my tools. It struck a chord. I decided to clean up the 75 year-old and take her for a spin.

I took my $30 Sears handcart and pulled the 300lb cast iron saw up out of the cellar, one cement step at a time. I'm not sure how I did it alone, but something tells me I wasn't. The old girl looked great in the June sunlight, but she needed a little sprucing up. She hadn't been out on a date in decades, so I grabbed a whiskbroom and some 3-In-One oil and got to work. The lead cord seemed okay, so I plugged her in. When I first flipped the switch, there was nothing but silence. I gave the belt a few turns by hand and wiggled the switch again. Suddenly like Rip Van Winkle (Goggle it kids) waking from his slumber, the electric motor began to moan and groan back to life. Another few hand-spins of the belt and the old Delta was singing once more. The sound of that old motor and spinning saw blade brought me back to dad's shop and the 1960s in an instant. The smell of pine sawdust, and that old musty shop filled the air. Best of all, I could hear my father breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe the kid finally gets it? It took a lifetime to grasp the impact of his lessons, but they all came flooding back like a tsunami. Cleaning up dad's old bandsaw had become a Father's Day gift I wasn't expecting. 

 

Work Light with old GE Bulb 

Once I had the saw cleaned up, it was time to try it out. I found an old piece of trim and flipped on the switch—nothing. I wiggled it a little, and as it snapped back to life, I suddenly remembered something. It had always been bad. It was 1968, and I could hear my father as clear as day saying, "I have to fix that switch someday." Well, dad, it's June 2020, today's the day! I ran back into the cellar and found a new one. It took less than five minutes to take something off a fifty-year to-do list. I'm sure I could detect a smile on the Delta/Milwaukee when I flipped her on this time. I'm guessing dad was smiling down too. It felt so good I even replaced the lead to the work light dad had mounted on the saw years ago.

Time to make a new key rack

I did leave the vintage socket and 60W GE light bulb intact as a reminder of days gone by. Bringing that 1945 saw back to life gave me more than good memories; it gave me the inspiration to tackle more long-overdue projects. I think the first one will be to use an old wooden pattern I saved from dad's shop. It's the cutout of a large key. You add hooks to it to hang your various keys on. My parents had one hanging in the kitchen for as long as I can remember. Dad had all the hooks marked with those plastic Label-Maker labels you made one letter, one squeeze at a time. The hook I remember most clearly was the one labeled "Shop." 

Happy Father's Day! 

Love,
John 


* Founded in 1919, DELTA Power Equipment Corporation is still in existance and making bandsaws. The 2020 version of this saw is not all that different than the 1945 version I own. I was able to verify the year of manufacture by calling Delta Machinery's 1-800 number with the serial number. I was surprised to learn it was 10 years older than I thought.