Anthroplogy of a Hit and Miss Engine

I know, those of you not inclined to look at old motors will be saying, "What in hell is so interesting about this?" Here is the deal, this is a view of three parts from a couple of my precious hit and miss engines, a Little Jumbo and Hired Man to be exact. To look at them as an uninformed individual I will admit they just look like old, pastuer covered piles of rusted iron---which of course, they are. Admittedly, they are yet to run but hey!

However, as a amateur anthropologist (I had a couple of courses---but not on antiquated motors) one has to notice a couple of faciinating features with these parts. Photo one and two show shafts with rotating parts. It is easy to notice that the fit is not tight--like the word tolerances does not apply!, Oh ya, there is a great deal of play in the moving parts, a huge play. Most Porsche affectionatos would sure as hell note this, "Like dude, I mean, there is a hundreth of an inch there, maybe a couple. How can that be?" My response would be, "Top speed of motor is 400 RPMs. Just ain't no problem. This jewel was made to run down on the farm."

The remarkable thing about this is, clearly this motor was still working while in this condition, and possibly working for years. It is a testament to durability of these monsters. Bang around all you want but, baby, you are still running. I need you and you have to keep going. It is history, it is mechanical anthropology or at least archeology.

The above piece is the timer on the ignition system. It is a bent piece of copper that hits on the push rod to send the spark to the plug at the right moment. It is an clever little add-on that was put there when the magneto broke off. They simply added a Model T coil and a battery and off it went for another 20 years. Totally ingenious, totally functional on the spot repair done in the backwoods of Wisconsin, totally fudged, done probably in a time of need, a time of little money, maybe the depression. I love the story here. It is like a book.

Missionary Position---The Government Spenders and Horse Shit

Every time an election comes around we anxious citizens start hearing this crap about government spending, usually in a tone that implies it is really bad to spend funds on the commonwealth. Grover, the dip-shit, Norquist condemns taxes and wants to drown the entire system in a bath tub and then gets Republicans to pledge to never raise taxes---even though both Ronny and George I raised them horse race style---but called them budget adjustments.

The conservatives praise Lord Ronny like he was a no-spend saint sitting on the right hand of God and condem the Democrates for being reckless with the country's coins. Now, it is true the Donkey Boys do love a good entitlemant for just about everybody, thinking the government has to take care of every individual that has a hang nail, but when it comes to real spending for the big ticket items, there appears to be no match for the Elephant dudes. They really like wars. I suspect because the believe the economy needs a war.

The worse part of the whole deal is that neither one of them really has figured out how to pay for all this stuff. Somehow the GOP thinks by cutting taxes they will have more revenue. The Dems think they can print money and give bailouts, TARPs, quatitative easings and handouts to banks and once the economy recovers they can pay it all back. Oh, I almost forgot the Reps also do that.

It is sad because I suspect neither mode of economics will , in the end, work in a world of finite resources where growth will one day come to an end. Still the little graph here does tell a story, a story the public for some reason never seems to understand. It is one giant soap opera covered with horse shit. 

Trout and Me

Every now and then I like to be full of myself. More often than not this is getting difficult because age has a way of taking the "full" out of the cup. Still, whenever possible it seems important to gloat, maybe pose in what is an impressive position after having actually acomplished something at least impressive to me.

I know this statment has implications of being dilusional but at 68 who gives a moist pile of shit. Ernest Hemingway posed for cameras as a way of building his image, his myth. Georgia OKeefe, I suspect, only became famous because of Stiglitz's photos of her looking intellectual and forlorn there in the New Mexico dessert.

So here I am with a fat Brown Trout while holding my Orvis Flyrod, or is it Eagle Claw, while handsomely fondling the now dead fish. I am full of myself. I caught a fricking big trout and I deserve some recognition even if it is only from me---which I suspect is the case. Blown up like a toad, I am. Come on image, please establish my mythology, my dream place.

Truth is, I caught the damn thing while standing on a bridge over the Cranberry River in the far north. Just for the hell of it I slung my lure, not a fly, down the river and fetched it back. Boom, big trout. Did the same damn thing in the morning and caught a fat salmon. So ya, it is an illusion, or maybe a delusion, no, maybe a deception of sorts. Still, I caught a couple of nice fish. I fished my ass off seriously for two days but only from the stupid bridge did I get a spectacular fish. Just had to be at the right place a the right time. I'm still cool----right.

Grandma Grunt

I write a column for the Community Spirit, a local monthly newspaper. Been doing it for a couple of years. This is the most recent.
                                                    In touch with the Old Ones

The family genealogy collection resting on the cabinet flopped on the floor. Within minutes my mind began drifting through the lives of some of the old ones. As a youngster, a few of these aged ancestors had passed through my life and as a result I was exposed to an interesting smorgasbord of stories, experiences, and  personalities, all still lingering in my memory. 

It is true these remembrances go back awhile because it would appear I am now age challenged myself.  Unfortunately, when one, that would be me, makes references to events and folks during the Eisenhower Administration, or Truman, OK, even the Roosevelt administration it might be a bit of a tip off of duffer tendencies, coot possibilities or codger inclinations.

Never the less, in the momentary fog of two fingers of Mr. Jamison, there are some reflections that still bring a cringe over my face, and in another instant a devious smile.

It seems that as a youngster I had a grandmother. It had nothing to do with me, but with my father, who for reasons I don’t understand, chose this woman Dorothy to be his mother. Or as my father said, “I was born in New York. My mother was there and I felt I should be with her.” My father was young then, there in New York,  but from my point of view, this mother choice of his was a mistake.

 Dorothy, while being well-educated, particularly in those years when women were still considered domestics, ultimately worked as a writer for the Chicago Tribune. She was not stupid.  As children, our experience with grandma Dorothy was limited because my father had no desire to ever again go to Chicago and she had no interest in the back waters of Wisconsin. As a result of this estrangement, she is not a memory in my real early years.

One day my father said, “Son, we are going to be driving to Chicago to visit your grandmother.” There was a pause, and he continued, “Now here is the deal. You are going to hear things coming out of her mouth I don’t ever want you to repeat. I mean, if you ever repeat these words, I’ll smack you to the ground. Do you understand?”

I am sure at the age of six or seven, I stood there not knowing what this was about. “Son, she has a name for everybody who is not just like her and her snooty background. They are bad names, wrong names. She thinks she is from the chosen people.”  From today’s point of view, I suspect she thought she was in the the top two percent---certainly not part of the “47%” who I am sure she despised.

Clearly, Chicago was a place not even slightly similar to the our home on banks of the Wisconsin River in Sauk City. It also turned out, I had never heard people called those names. I didn’t even know what kind of people they were, but she had some names, and “mackerel snappers” was the least offensive.  Every non Anglo Saxon Protestant was targeted with venom. I am sure my mouth was agape as she pillaged every race, religion, and nationality on the globe. There was also a known statement in my family that my father on more than one occasion had said she had served him well by providing a living example how he never wanted to be. 

Throughout the years, Dorothy would occasionally visit our homes in Central Wisconsin. On numerous occasions she, always grumbling,  would walk, almost jack-boot style, through the house pummeling with her feet, everything we constructed, from blanket tents, Lincoln log houses and model airplanes. As a result of this demeanor, we three grandsons called her Grandma Grunt. We tolerated her visits and each time she arrived, the turf wars started and “The Grunter” would lay plunder to our holdings.

Within a few years we brothers, had told the stories around town of the ravages she had caused, always refering to her as “Grandma Grunt” or “The Grunter” until one day a local matriarch approached and was about to introduce herself by saying, “My name is Maude and you are, Mrs. Grunt.” The insulting name was missed as Dorothy corrected her and went about her day untouched by our blunder.

She was not a good person as we knew her. Born in 1888, a lone child, her father left while she was a baby. She lived with her grandparents who both died before she was thirteen. Dorothy went to a boarding school and then to a college. At nineteen she married an older man of 34. She had one child who died as did that husband in 2 years. She married another older man who bore her two children, one died at the age of four and my father survived. Her new husband died two years later.

She married another man who was a financier. They lost all their money in the crash and were divorced, all before I was born. Her life of chaos, and no doubt suffering, was not widely talked about in our family because Dorothy and her antics ruled the day. There was loose talk wondering if this same personality had not done in all the husbands----did she drive them nuts, or did her life make the personality? Such lessons to ponder from the book that flopped on the floor.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

Racism in the Upper Midwest--Revolution Watch

This is a peaceful place. We all get along and everything seems within a normal range of middle class America. Now and then we hear little rumblings that there are some fascist sorts stockpiling 7.62 rounds for the "revolution". They are simply getting ready to shoot intruders when everything goes to hell.

They have been around a long time and we have all heard about them wasting their time getting ready, ranting in some cases, maybe making a compound but generally keeping to themselves. They might have a weekend get-together with like-minded folks to do a little AK shooting, running some quasi military operations and talking about all the people of color threatening them---probably include liberals.

Nothing else to do, I guess, and maybe they are stimulating part to of the economy by securing survival kits, purchasing expensive fire arms, procuring night vision equipment and maybe if they are lucky scoring a used Hummer that could be used to round up hippies.

These dudes are out there and really no one pays them much mind. For the most part, they seem normal. I did think it was a touch odd that I was able to easily sell thousands of rounds of AK ammo that I inherited---right here in Amherst. All legal, all up front.

Well, in the last few months we have this new sign welcoming folks to out town. Fortunately, it got defaced after a couple of months. This at least shows there is at least one person who is not afraid to make a counter statement. It is also sad that the same billboard writer also supports our new right-wing governor. I suspect this is no coincidence. It all just tells us where we stand in this world, who is out there and maybe also tells us something about what human behavior might be like if we had some real hard times.

Church Auction----A Real Missionay Position

America is a wonderful place in that can produce the damnedest things, some right here under our vary peace-loving noses. So we go to the local bar to slam a few beverages, get a nice two beer buzz, tell a few ribald stories, maybe lament the poor performance of Obama--which he will straighten out, and harass the waitress who can not make any sense of us what-so-ever. There on the table is this place mat from the local Catholic Church advertising an up-coming auction.

Personally, I think it is a great spot to put advertising because every yahoo that comes in almost has to see it. It also helps that most of the patrons usually toss down some alcoholic beverages and might be easily subliminally influenced. Whether or not is a church, I could care less as they are a commercial enterprise like everything else and they pay their fair share of taxes.

We got to looking at it, particularly the starred portion that says "25 Guns"  and really get excited  because guys need guns and here for $20, a person can get 3 chances to win one of these blasters. Plus, if all goes well the church will make a bundle to help the poor of the world. It is a win-win affair. Maybe the poor folks can use the cash for a nice gun themselves.

I couldn't find anywhere on the flyer where it says where to buy the tickets which was a bummer because I wanted my shot then and there. Now, I assumed that the bulk of these beauties were hunting pieces but after looking at the list, some of which I was familiar with, I noticed a 50 cal. rifle. Sweet Jesus, that is one big hunting rifle. I wondered if the cartridges were armor piercing. There was a short list of hand guns but nothing fancy. Still they were mostly the type used to blast people. I could use one of those.

While it seemed a good idea and I am sure it went over well (after all, I am in if I can find a vendor) but guns to kill people? Must be about the revolution. I do love "The Circuit Judge" a 410 pistol. Ya baby.

The Last Tomato of Summer Fell

It finally froze and took with it the weak, that would be the squash, mostly wasted tomatoes and the remaining beans. The Brussels sprouts laughed and plowed on intent on doing some serious growth now that they now have "their" weather.

Last night I meandered through the failing garden and rounded up the remnants of the year's efforts and like always, there are good things to be found buried among the vines and towering plants. This tomato was one of the year's largest. We had been holding back its harvest waiting for it to ripen. Match that baby!

We will eat it like a apple, a slice here and a slice there. This year there was great difference between the varieties, some so sweet and non acidic we canned them with a pressure cooker. But it is all over now and we can go to pouting and laying about sloth-like.

We also found a raft of peppers draping from the huge vines. Some like these Jalapenos don't get the same attention as the bells and chilies because if improperly ingested the bulk of ones digestive track can be consumed in smoke and fire. Still, we dry them up thinking they will make a nice Christmas decoration. Few get eaten, but some do by the bold. I am reading for the garden to be over.

Smarty Pants Phones----as I see them

My life with a modern contraption


I have a cellulite phone. Now, now, I was told it was a CELL phone by someone who thought I was an idiot. Generally, I think it is an okay tool, but it can be intrusive to the point of annoying. There are quiet moments when the last thing I want to hear is the silly, computerized rock song called a ring tone on the cellulite gizmo .

No sooner does the cellular device become familiar, then an eye phone shows up, or is it a “smarty pants” phone, not sure. I first noticed these smarty phones when I saw people walking down the street staring at this hand-held contraption, sometimes they talked incoherently to themselves or sometimes they laughed as if just out of the nut house. Always, they paid no attention to what was going on in the outside world.

Everywhere it is the same, make a small statement of doubt and out comes the smarty phone and in comes data from God knows what source. It is so bad that it is almost impossible to have a conversation without triggering a casual flip-out of the screened device and in turn a snooty diatribe on the subject.

To top if off, if a slight mention should be made that this space age, beam-me-up-Scotty piece of technical fluff is of questionable value, one is looked at with new age disdain, with an “L” held over the accuser’s forehead. This used to imply LOSER but now it also means LUDDITE.

So Dave from New York shows up at our house and as is commonly the case, he informs me that I am not of the modern age and frankly, don’t seem to care, because of my ridicule of his character and his “smarty pants” phone.  He insists he is hip because he just retired from teaching and he is “one” with youth and the rapidly changing world.

As we returned from Wausau, my charming wife insisted we seek out some sweet potato fries, the ones she knew were being promoted by one of the national burger shops. There was a brief hemming and hawing until Dave in a smug tone informs us exactly where to find these orange fries because he has it locked into his GPS system on his silly phone. In the process of announcing his find, he turns in my direction with a grin that portrays his not-so-subtle glee and at the same time implies I am an idiot. “Hey Wright, have you had a chance to get your horses out of the livery, yet?”

With that observation floated, the discussion turned to his shinny phone-like device. Now, I knew that it can be used for what is called texting, another useless service that consumes too much good work time, and it can also be used for taking photographs or movies of unsuspecting people like royalty and politicians---all in compromised situations. I did not know it could be used to identify a song by Kenny Chesney and really was not aware it could identify the flight number, aircraft and pilot from a contrail passing over head.

“You think you are so smart playing your old fiddle but look at this.” and he demonstrates how the smarty phone can be used as a flute. “You have to blow in it, then finger the holes on the screen.” What? “Listen dude, I can hold this thing up to the night sky and it will identify the constellations because I got this great App.”

At this point I am looking at him with full intention of doing bodily harm because it has been made clear I no longer need to know anything. Just buy a few apps. “I am going fishing.” I stated. “There is no need for that mind-controlling piece of technology, that mass hypnotism.”

“Hey let me show you this?” He then hands over the little TV and on it are a bunch of swimming fish, gold fish. He says, “Touch the screen.” When I do the fish move and there is a sound of water splashing. I know where he is going, and running through my mind is the idea of getting my bow and arrow and doing a little bow fishing right through the touch screen.

He is by now full of himself and grinning like he had been awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. “It can also make white noise for you to sleep and can you believe this? It can also be used to fly these small remote controlled airplanes.” About then, my mind is starting to fry and it occurs to me that maybe this contraption could also fly drones, launch missiles, take away my private life and who knows what else.

On the way home, it occurred to me having a horse in the livery might be a good idea.

Ann Herzog Wright---New Paintings

Every now and then I put up some of our art thinking just maybe, just maybe I can generate a little interest in what we do, thereby laying the ground work for a sale. In the spring Ann and I visited France and Italy in search of Van Gough and other earless wonders who pained in Provence. While we did not find any of those guys we did see some of the haunts.

Here is a painting of a vineyard to the west of Lavandu. We stayed on the coast with the painter Francesca Giorgio and her mother, Harriet. While we were supposed to house sit, we hit it off so well they never left which for us was a great pleasure as we had a chance to get enlightened.

Ann painted while there but also has been using collected material to continue painting here. The vineyard was just beginning to show spring colors and the fruit tree was in full bloom. It was warm, clear and the air filled with the Mediterranean. The roads were insane along with the drivers--I did my best to matching their behavior as it was the only way to survive.

Below is a painting of a lonely dove she found in a castle in Italy. It was puffed up to ward off the chill but place appropriately to grab the warming sun.

It is fall now and time to paint in the comfort of her studio.

The Califlower that Went Wild

I am a very handsome 6'3", well sort 6'3" if I don't count shrinking,. Handsome is in the eye of the beholder and I am beholding to no one. Whatever. So, we planted these seeds from France supposed to be some form of Cauliflower and this is what we got, a 5"14",  rangy, headless monster that occupied way too much garden space, so much space that the amount of vegetables lost could cause our scurvy to return by early spring. I like, so hate scurvy.

I lost real space, maybe100 sq/ft and got nothing recognizable as eatable. I don't think a person can even smoke the stuff. I suspect that dried the leaves might be used for thatching on a hut, or maybe a cheap chew with no medicinal value.

I let them grow because by the time it was realized I had a genetically profound, stinking frankenplant it was too late for a recovery, no more planting things. It was a loss. Had I been a subsistence farmer things might have been dire. The dudes with the cart would have been yelling "bring out your dead." One can only imagine what it was like to plant an important plant, say cabbage for kraut, a famine food, only to find it was going ballistic, shot skyward like the shuttle, extended outward over precious soil. Death would have rained down on this monster.

So what is the deal? Do the French not know how to genetically modify their seeds for the American market--I did smuggle them in. Was it the weather? I did plant them a touch late. I will fess up to that, but in truth, it had to be the summer, the new normal, the new heat, the days of temperatures over 90, dispersed rain. A changing climate. Shit! Every day I have to get used to something else. It is hard enough getting old but why weird--that would be the plant.

The loss of potato space could have forced me to eat the neighbors dog, or pine needles. Ann say I could have lived off the fat of the land meaning my pleasantly accumulated fat. "Hell, that would be good for two months." Oh well, the rest of the garden pretty much kicked ass---and we did get some nice Shitaki mushrooms.