It Sucked the Machismo Right Out of Me!

There’s nothing like a broken piece of machinery to make an adult feel like a helpless infant. This well known fact became clear to me a few years ago when youngest son dropped our vacuum down the stairs.

At a glance, it looked alright, but when I tried to vacuum the living room, it roared like the devil himself had been sucked up into it and was fighting to get out.

Upon closer inspection, I noticed a little plastic piece, which helped to hold the beater bar in place, had been broken. No problem. I’d have to replace the whole base of the thing, but hey, I’m a relatively intelligent person—the key work here is relatively—I should be able to accomplish the task without too much difficulty.

WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF THE VACUUM: the one machine that can suck a guy’s “MACHO” image away as efficiently as it does dirt.

It seemed to me that all I’d have to do would be to unfasten a few screws, replace the old base with a new one, and I’d have that old vacuum working as if it had never been broken.

By the time I’d undone six or seven screws, a handful of springs, and had various other little parts come tumbling out of that confounded machine, I knew I was in for a long duration of frustration and tongue biting.

After four days of trying to piece together this puzzle, I realized that I was showing signs of premature senility (with each passing day I would forget a little more of how all the parts fit together). It was time to swallow my pride and call the repair shop.

Thirty dollars for them to put together a vacuum, which I only paid seventy dollars for to begin with, seemed a bit ridiculous.

When one considers that I paid nearly thirty dollars for the new part, it didn’t seem feasible to dish out another thirty bucks to have it installed.

Upon the suggestion from former Mrs. Bagley, I contacted ex-father-in-law and asked for his help in solving my mechanical woes. After all, he was and still is more mechanically minded than myself, but then again, so is a baby duck.

By now the vacuum was in several pieces and hardly resembled an appliance used for house cleaning.

Gathering all the different parts, I loaded my truck with them and headed toward my in-laws’ (by the way, what’s the difference between in-laws and outlaws? Outlaws are wanted, but enough frivolity) place.

Confiscating a corner of the basement, my father-in-law and I began to play Joe Mechanic. After 45 minutes and a few words you wouldn’t want your mother to hear, we decided the repair shop had given me the wrong base for my machine.

If I were to make a list of things I detest, returning merchandise, especially a part which had been promised to be the correct one, would have to be in my top five.

If a sales clerk were to make a list of things he detests, being told, “You sold me the wrong part” would probably rate right up there in his top five.

Imagine the response I received when I not only informed the clerk at the vacuum store that he sold me the wrong part, but I told it to him in front of a customer.

I almost had to grab an extinguisher to put out the fire in his yes. It didn’t help matters when he looked at the part I brought in and informed me that it was, indeed, the right one. I was just too unintelligent to figure out how to secure the rear axle of the vacuum in place. Red-faced, I slinked out of the store and once again headed to my in-laws’ house. Back in the deep, musty corner of the basement, father-in-law and I worked feverishly in our attempt to resurrect my vacuum.

Things went rather well until we started working on the height adjuster mechanism. The adjuster looked like it could be attached to the vacuum a number of different ways.

After a period of time—elephant embryos are in the womb in less time—we let out a cheer of celebration; we’d finally figured it out.

Caught up in our little celebration of how smart we were, we’d forgotten to secure the front axle, which happens to sit right under the height adjuster. Yep, you guessed it, we had to disassemble that whole blame thing and start over.

At last, we finally pieced the machine together—well, sort of. When we were done, we had a handful of screws and springs left over, and the handle was as limp as a steamed noodle. That height adjuster we so aptly figured out ended up with only two settings, high and low. Plus, the darn vacuum had to be raised off the floor (which isn’t easy with a limp handle) in order to change the adjustment of the height.

“Plug it in and let’s see if it works,” father-in-law suggested in a tone that let me know it matter whether the vacuum worked or not, we were done.

One of us plugged the vacuum into the nearest outlet, but I don’t remember who. I only remember the cloud of smoke and dust that engulfed us after it was turned on.

Once it was on, that monster let out a screech which cold beard three countries wide. Like a dragon, it spit fire and moaned as if it were mad at us for waking it from a peaceful slumber, and the handle swished up and down with a thud that shook the beams in the ceiling of the basement. The outer casing, or cover as some call it, spun in circles around the handle like a dog wormed with turpentine.

Quickly turning it off, I cradled that temperamental beast in my arms, carried it outside, gently set it down in the bed of my truck, and headed home.

The next day, I scanned the newspaper for sales on vacuums.

A Warm and Pleasant Memory

It’s said that boys and dogs go together like peanut butter and jelly. Dad must have believed this for though he never cared much for animals, he saw to it that my brothers and I always had a dog during our years at home. One dog in particular that we owned will always hold a special place in my heart.

Pepper, a Pekinese-Cocker Spaniel cross, became part of our family when I was just seven years old. She was a birthday present to me and she was a fur-ball of a dog with the interesting feature of having hind legs that were bigger than her front ones. This created a humorous scene when she’d run down hill, for her front legs couldn't keep up with her back ones, causing her to run sideways, hind quarters even with her front. She was a funny sight but she was my dog and I loved her.

From the time she was a pup, Pepper and I spent a lot of time together. Sometimes Mom and Dad would let her lie beside me at bedtime until I fell asleep--but that came to an abrupt end for a while after the night Pepper and I got to wrestling around and, in her playful puppy way, she bit down on my ear and proceeded to play tug-of-war with it. As the old saying goes I bled like a stuck pig. But that’s the way of puppies; they love to chew on things, and though I was left with a scarred ear no one blamed Pepper for the wound.

As stated earlier, Pepper was a ball of fur and sometimes when rough housing she’d clamp down on the end of a rag, and I’d drag her around behind me, polishing the linoleum kitchen floor with her furry little body.

As we grew up together, Pepper and I became more and more inseparable. During the school year our routine was basically the same; I would arrive home from school, grab something to eat, sit down beside my dog, and tell her about my day as I shared my food with her. Then we’d head across the street to run in the forest.

Growing up in a small town on the Oregon coast there was plenty of forest for us to explore, and most days, one could usually find me in the forest building a fort, playing army, or maybe a game of hide-and-seek with friends. What ever I was involved in, Pepper could be found right beside me, wagging her tail and, so it seemed to me, smiling.

Besides being a compatible companion, Pepper was also a friend who would listen to me and who loved me unconditionally. When the world seemed unfair, many was the time I’d disappear to the garage or the patio, sit down beside Pepper, and while hugging her neck I’d sob on her shoulder as I told her my troubles. She always sat patiently listening, making no judgments, giving me a reassuring lick across my arm every once in a while.

Now, during summer vacations my brothers and I would spend several weeks with my grandparents on their farm in Idaho. As much as I loved spending my summers there, I would get terribly homesick, and by the end of my stay I was always anxious to get back home to my parents and, of course, my dog.

Once I was home, I’d fill Pepper in on all my activities during my time in Idaho and then we’d find something to do—play fetch with a ball, chase each other around the yard, go hiking and exploring, what ever came to mind.

Sometimes, in celebration of my return from the farm, Pepper was allowed to sleep next to me on my bed for a night or two. That came to an abrupt end the summer of my eleventh year, and my young heart was broken in a way I’d never thought possible.

My brothers and I had just returned from spending our vacation on our grandparents’ farm. We burst through the front door of our house and ran to the living room to receive welcome-home hugs from our parents. After hugs were exchanged and my siblings and I recounted our summer adventure, I asked Mom where Pepper was.

“Uh, Bob,” Mom said to Dad as she rolled her eyes in my direction, “where’s Pepper?”
Dad took me aside and explained to me that while I was at the farm my beloved dog was seriously injured by a car as she attempted to cross the street. It was plain to see she was dying and in a lot of pain, so Dad asked a neighbor if he’d take our dog and put her out of her misery. The neighbor obliged.

Somehow, I was able to hold back mourning for my dog throughout the day. But that night, while lying in bed with no Pepper beside me, I sobbed uncontrollably. My Pepper was gone and I felt like a piece of my heart had been torn right out of my chest.

That night, and for many nights thereafter, I cried my self to sleep, but with time the tears dried and Pepper became a warm and pleasant memory.

Now when I look back on my life I understand the important role Pepper played in my childhood development and can’t help but realize that there truly is something special about the relationship between a boy and his dog.

So Pepper, you and all the other dogs that have been my pals over the years, keep a warm spot for me up there in Heaven, and when it’s my time leave the surly bonds of earth, what a reunion we will have.

Inanimate Objects Have a Life of Their Own

If anyone tells you that inanimate objects are lifeless, don’t believe them. Experience has taught me that, in fact, the opposite is true.

Clothes hangers, for instance, are good examples of what I’m talking about. I’ve never seen a closet with just the right amount of hangers in it. There’s always a few extra. In fact, just shut two of those frisky little rascals in a dark, empty closet, then stand back and watch them multiply. In a month’s time they’ll be taking over the house; you’ll find yourself tripping over them everywhere. And there’s not a whole lot you can do to relieve yourself of the problem either.

Giving away your excess hangers isn’t really an answer. First off, most people, like your, are madly fighting their own personal battles in the war against clothes hanger overpopulation. More than likely, if you call someone on the phone to ask them if they would like some clothes hangers, as soon as you ask, you’ll hear a click and then nothing but silence on the phone.

Now, even if you do happen to pawn the little happy breeders off on someone, you still have to keep some clothes hanger around for personal use. There in lies another problem—all it takes are two those succors left alone in a dark closet and in a very short time, once again, you’ll be hearing click and then nothing but silence on your phone. It’s a vicious circle.

Another case-in-point are socks. When I was a youngster I could never figure out what happened to my socks after I’d put them in the wash. My socks would always come back missing their mates. Were they taken prisoner in some sock war that goes on in the washer or dryer after the lids on those contraptions were shut? I didn’t know.

Actually, I blamed my mamma. I thought it was some diabolical scheme she’d thought up as punishment for being the petulant child that I was. But when I got married, the problem still persisted. Perhaps my mom taught my ex-wife how to punish me for being the petulant husband that I was. Not so. I’ve learned different.

The truth to this most exasperating problem came to me when I took over the wash of our household. Because I was working out of the home at the time, I took charge of the wash. And you know, nothing changed when I took over. Socks were still turning up in the wash without their mates, and my kids thought it was some diabolical scheme on my part to punish them being the petulant children that they were.

Now, I’d put every stitch of dirty clothing into the washer and dryer, so I knew I was not responsible for the disappearing socks. Somewhere between the time that I put them in the washer and the time I took them out of the dryer, they disappeared. The only logical conclusion I could come up with is that one or both of those machines was feeding on socks. It’s the nature of those beasts. And since our dryer at the time was acting like it was choking on a sock, I suspected it was the culprit.

One last group of items I’d like to bring to your attention as evidence that inanimate objects do live is pens. These rascals not only live, they have a sense of humor and can read your mind.

It doesn’t matter what I’m doing (as long as it doesn’t require using a pen), I find them everywhere, always in my way. But the minute I even think of writing something down on paper all the pens in a twenty mile radius disappear. Where they run and hide is anybody’s guess. I can tear the house apart and the only thing I’ll come across that remotely resembles a pen is the carcass of one someone has dismantled.
I’ll place a pen by the phone to use for writing down messages. Five minutes later the phone rings. It’s a business call. I need to take down important notes. No pen. I’ll ask the person I’m talking with to hold on a minute while I look for a pen, but to no avail. They’ve all run off to where ever it is they go when they run away, and I end up using a crayola the size of an elephant’s leg to scribble down the important information.

Well, I could go on and on, but I won’t. I have an important task to accomplish today—I’m going to straighten some wire clothes hangers and use them to bind together all of my dirty socks in the clothes hamper. That’ll keep them from getting separated during the wash. While I’m at it, I think I’ll super glue a pen to my phone. Works for me.

Getting "Hosed"

At a campground, the sewer hose running from the Wilson’s trailer to the park’s sewage system became blocked. So, Mr. Wilson took a garden hose, hooked one end to an outside water faucet and carried the other end to the trailer’s commode to flush the blockage down.

Mr. Wilson asked Skunky and me to help him with this project, and I suspect the invitation had something to with our using dynamite to rid the Wilson’s barn of cow pies—Mr. Wilson was so touched by our handy work he was left speechless.

“What I want you to do,” he said to us, “is to stand by the faucet and listen for me to yell out the bathroom window for you to turn on the water. Then, when I’m finished I’ll yell for you to shut it off. Can you handle that?”

Could we handle that? What a kidder. He knew from past experience that we could handle it, but he always gave us a hard time, acting like we were going to make a mess of things. Why, he could be so convincing with his tone of voice that someone who didn’t know better would think Skunky and I was a couple of goof balls. Ha! What I guy.

So there we were, standing by the faucet, waiting for our instructions.
“O.K,” Mr. Wilson shouted, and Skunky turned the faucet on.

After 10 to 15 minutes of power flushing the commode, Mr. Wilson yelled for us to shut the water off. We did. But for some reason Mr. Wilson changed his mind for we heard a faint, albeit, kind of scratchy, high-pitched voice yell, “OK!” We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and Skunky cranked the water back on.

“What the . . . !” we clearly heard Mr. Wilson holler, and what a sight did we behold. The trailer rocked violently back and forth as things inside of it crashed, banged, cracked, and went wham! And water was coming out of that trailer from everywhere, through the window screens, out the trailer door, down the steps, and on to the ground, forming a puddle.

Not fair! They were having a water fight in there and Skunky and I were left outside with only our imaginations to envision the fun they were having.

Well, Mr. Wilson exited the trailer and he did not have a fuzzy, warm, kindly look on his face—I’ve seen mug shots on the show America’s Most Wanted that looked more serene and tender.
According to Skunky’s mom and siblings, when the garden hose regained life, it acted like one of those “water weenies” they used to advertise on TV. It wiggled out of Mr. Wilson’s hands, flip-flopped around in all directions, spraying water everywhere.

Pictures went flying, nick knacks on the counters went sailing through the air, knocking people in the head, and everyone tumbled over each other as they looked for cover.

Skunky’s younger sister took a direct hit between the eyes from the water cannon and his dad bruised his shoulder diving to the floor in an effort to smother the thing and gain control of it.

Finally, he did regain control of the hose and bolted out the door with it in hand. Always the kidder, he pretended like he wasn’t having fun and blamed all the chaos on Skunky and me.

“Why the heck did you crank the water back on after you shut it off?!

“We did what you told us to do,” we were laughing so hard at his “act” we could barely speak.

“What are you talking about?!” he asked.

“You said to turn on the water when you shouted ‘OK.’

“Yeah, so why’d you turn it back on after I yelled to cut if off?!”

“Because you again said ‘O.K.’”

“No I didn’t, and lying about it is just going to make it worse.” He was really out doing himself with his teasing this time.

“We swear dad,” Skunky said, “we heard you say ‘O.K.' after we turned off the water.”
He acted like he wasn’t convinced.

“Well, you two stay out here ‘til I figure out what to do with you.” Hmmm, sounded like we were going to get a special treat or something for helping him with the water fight.

Suddenly, from inside the motor home parked in the spot next to us, we heard that squeaky, high-pitched voice again say, “OK.” Seems our neighbors had a parrot that was very quick at learning new words.

Still, Mr. Wilson wasn’t totally convinced that we couldn’t tell the difference between his voice and a parrot’s. But he eventually calmed down and Skunky and I were allowed back inside the trailer . . . the next morning.