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| "Do you hear what I hear?" Solitary Refinement By John R Greenwood Christmas night solitude The season's simplest gift A relieved balsam - with job complete Lights shining brighter rests satisfied and proud Empty streets and full bellies Remnants of December's 24th and 25th Presents rest peacefully with all the bustle gone Long lines invisible, now just a memory Such heart and soul placed on one day Close your eyes and imagine a child far away - in a manger |
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| "Home" |
Take one unexpected and historic Nor'Easter, add a pre-Halloween Saturday, sprinkle it with crazy and you've got a story to tell. I thought I was doing pretty good this year. I felt so proud; I was preparing my snowblower hours before the approaching storm. Normally, my preparation for Storm #1 consists of waiting until four to six inches of wet, backbreaking white slop has settled in the driveway. Over the years I have found it more rewarding to wait until after dark. It’s more challenging when you have to hold a slippery metal flashlight under your chin while digging through the cluttered shed trying to extricate the Toro 828XLE Power Max. It is my opinion that only sissies prep their machines in August or on a sunny Saturday in September. Experience and bad words have injected me with enough intelligence to spend the extra money for something that will start on the first pull. I warmed * "Thoro" the Toro up for a few minutes then shut him down and drained the tar from his crankcase. I guess I napped through Engine Oil Change 101, because I'm pretty sure I missed this step last year. Now all I needed was a replacement quart to refill "Thoro." I must have been late the day they discussed having fresh oil to replace the one you drain. Luckily Stewart's is just a sip of coffee away. Off I sped. With a fresh quart of engine oil for "Thoro" and a buttered hardroll on the front seat for me, I returned home to fill our bellies. With "Thoro" full of fresh oil all I needed to do was lube his dry cables and squeaky parts and we were ready for anything Bob Kavachick could throw our way. Wait! There's one last thing to check. I grabbed a crescent wrench and loosened the small plug on the front of the gearbox. The same gearbox that keeps "Thoro" moving forward through snow and bank. I crouched low like Camilo Villegas eyeballing a long birdie putt. Nope, not a drop of oil in sight. I tipped him forward, still dry. "Thoro" was three years old, how long was his gearbox dry? Week #3's class, 'Importance of Proper Gearbox Maintenance' was a waste. I must have gone fishing that day. Even Stewart's can't fill this order. Off to Home Depot with a detour to Price Chopper for carrots and a box of Ditalini. Mrs G.’s intuition tells her I will need a bowl of hearty soup after this goose chase. After weaving through four lets-pretend-we-are-busy orange vested customer service specialists I found the rack containing engine oils of all viscosities and temperature ranges but the only oil not found, was you guessed correctly, gearbox oil. After asking a bewildered man with an orange vest where the gearbox oil would be, I cut my losses and skipped happily to the exit. Where to now? Sears and the Blue Crew are just around the corner. Now there's a manly man's store. They have shiny Craftsman tools, with Lifetime Guarantees, argh, argh. I’m positive they'll have large wide shelves bursting with gearbox oil. I circled around and around the lawn tractors waiting for Blue Crew Boy to finish with his sale. When he was done he attempted to slink off to chat with his clustered Blue Crew co-semi-workers. I tackled him so quickly Brian Urlacher would have been impressed. When he regained consciousness, I asked him, just for the pure joy of watching his eyes cross,"Where is the gearbox oil?" As Judge Judy would say, "Um, is not an answer." He returned to his semi-worker buddies and they huddled up like the Giants on a third and goal-to-go. In unison they grunted, "Automotive," clearly passing me off like that annoying neighbor kid no one wants to play with. Storming around the corner I startled the Automotive Specialists who looked like a pair of 2am bar leaners at Gaffney’s. Thumbing quickly through the Blue Crew, "What not to do." training manual, and with no gearbox oil in sight, they directed me to the Napa Auto Parts store across town. I was now faced with a man-dilemma. Do I traipse across town for a quart of gearbox oil or do I move an acre of snow with a dry gearbox? This was a tough one. After all, "Thoro's" gearbox had probably been dry for three years anyway, what's one more storm going to hurt? As I whistled and sang my way to the Sear's exit a bolt of brilliance smacked me forehead high. Tractor Supply was only one green arrow south. The night was young. I entered the land of tractor parts, birdhouses, and $2.00 tool bins with a bit of trepidation. If Tractor Supply is gearbox oil free, I may lose what’s left of a counterclockwise mind. I proceeded warily. Peering around corners like the cast of Ghost Hunters, the fear of failure began to sink in. I will brave one last attempt at asking the question I have yet to find the answer to, “Where can I find gearbox oil?” As luck would have it, the only weekend part-timer in sight was sitting on the floor assembling a pile of metal. He appeared surprised there was a customer in the store. His customer service failed response was to point vehemently backward over his shoulder toward what appeared to be the rest of the store. Surprisingly I was encouraged by this because this meant he felt strongly that the store did in fact contain the item I was in search of. Look out Uncle Jed, I smell bubbling crude! There it was glistening in the fluorescent lighting like the Hope Diamond, GL-5, SAE 85-95 Gearbox Oil. I cradled it like a pound puppy. Smiling like a chubby-cheeked kid with a bag of candy I headed for the register. Patting my right ass cheek to check for my wallet, a cold chill ran quick up my spine... |
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As I sit here, quietly, protected and safe in my own home, in a prosperous community within the Empire State, my mind races with fear. The world and it’s people are rolling backwards like a brake failed auto. We send our pets to camp while our children live homeless and hungry. Here I sit, warm and full, while mad-men set off bombs and weak ones in masks kill neighbors. Our cars have heated seats, a half-dozen cupholders, and Disney movies. Our water is infused with imitation fruit flavor and sugar substitutes. Our priority is, ‘us’, not them, ‘me’, not you. We want to look good and feel good no matter how much it hurts. Stop the madness. Stop pushing, start praising. Pull the wheels off bandwagons of hatred and fill the bus with optimism and community spirit. As a child I was encouraged to be polite and respectful. Polite, respectful children are now a rarity. What happened? Didn’t we pay attention? Paying dues doesn’t always involve a $20. Putting in your time shouldn’t simply involve a union contract. Looking out for others must be more than a Defensive Driving maneuver. It’s easy to put words on paper. It’s harder to send a child to war or to show up once a week at the firehouse for drill night. I’m all pen and little product. I simply felt a need to say it. We all complain, like this, daily. We do it on-line, on-air, and at the office.
