Since my husbnnd can fix almost anything, we contemplated changing the belt in the vacuum cleaner as an easy chore, a matter of an hour or so. Ha! We worked on the thing for three hours and came very nearly to the point of throwing it into the trash can. This in spite of the fact that we had an instruction book and had done the job before.
The first step was easy. Remove the two screws that hold on the motor cover (in the back of the vacuum) and the two in the front, recessed in two holes. This we did. The next step proved to be harder. "Grasp either end of the roller bar and pull straight up." It even showed a picture of a hand grasping the roller bar and pulling it up. My husband tried. The bar stayed solidly in place, so he tried the other end. No luck. It seemed to be frozen solidly in place.
"Try prying it up with a screw driver," i suggested. "It must have gotten hot and stuck. It is plastic. Maybe it melted and glued onto the frame."
It seemed a reasonable suggestion, but the bar would not move. We tried prying it up with a cat's paw. We turned the vacuum over and banged on it with a hammer. We even poured W-D forty oil down into the end parts. Except for getting oil all over the brushes and down onto the paper bag we had thoughtfully put under the vacuum, nothing gave.
"Read the instructions again," suggested my husband.
"Grasp either end of the roller bar and pull straight up," I read. My eye wandered down to the bottom of the page, where I had written something in ink. Something mysterious and meaningful and vital to our undertaking. "Make sure the roller bar clears the square hole," I read. My husband uttered a rude remark. He obviously remembered something I had forgotten. Without another word he grasped a small screwdriver and thrust it into the square hole at the end of the roller bar. Pushing in the little prong contained inside, he easily pulled the roller bar up and we finished the job easily.
Why didn't the instruction manual mention the square holes? I remembered, now that my memory had been jogged, that I had called the technician at the company and he had told me about them. Many times we have found ourselves baffled and I have availed myself of technical help to complete the job at hand. Thankfully we were able to replace the belt, clean out the vacuum cleaner, which was filthy, and it now works fine.
All in all, the day had been a success. We finished in time to have dinner, and we hadn't paid out any money to have the appliance fiixed. Once again I had reason to be thankful that my husband has a talent for fixing things.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
I learn a lesson continued
It was a little warmer there on the bench, and as I gradually regained my composure, i realized how hungry i was. How I wished i had a White Castle hamburger, like we got at the hamburger stand just down the block from our apartment.
A light dawned in my brain. The hamburger stand just down the block from the apartment! The trolley passed right by that hamburger stand. All I had to do was ride the trolley until it came to the stand and get off and walk the short way up the hill to the apartment building. I could even get a hamburger or two to assuage my hunger.
As if on cue, a trolley car rumbled up to the stop and a few passengers alighted. A genial driver allowed a few others to board, and I thrust my head inside and inquired hopefully, "Do you go past the White Castle Hamburger stand?" "Sure do," he respnded, "Hop on."
I did indeed, and relaxed inside, injoying the repartee being bandied about between the driver and the passengers, not understanding most of it, it being somewhat too riskee for my naive experience. I wonder now if this was the infamous "Ding Dong Daddy of the D Line" who became notorious for his numberous dallyings with his passengers. But never mind. I will never know.
It wasn't long before the trolley rumbled past the hamburger stand, squealed to a stop, and I hopped off, none the worse for wear and a lot wiser than I had been before. The hamburgers I bought were delicious and I learned to always carry my address with me and watch where I was going.
A light dawned in my brain. The hamburger stand just down the block from the apartment! The trolley passed right by that hamburger stand. All I had to do was ride the trolley until it came to the stand and get off and walk the short way up the hill to the apartment building. I could even get a hamburger or two to assuage my hunger.
As if on cue, a trolley car rumbled up to the stop and a few passengers alighted. A genial driver allowed a few others to board, and I thrust my head inside and inquired hopefully, "Do you go past the White Castle Hamburger stand?" "Sure do," he respnded, "Hop on."
I did indeed, and relaxed inside, injoying the repartee being bandied about between the driver and the passengers, not understanding most of it, it being somewhat too riskee for my naive experience. I wonder now if this was the infamous "Ding Dong Daddy of the D Line" who became notorious for his numberous dallyings with his passengers. But never mind. I will never know.
It wasn't long before the trolley rumbled past the hamburger stand, squealed to a stop, and I hopped off, none the worse for wear and a lot wiser than I had been before. The hamburgers I bought were delicious and I learned to always carry my address with me and watch where I was going.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
I learn a lesson
I LEARN A LESSON
Prologue: It was 1943 and I was down in Milwaukee with my two cousins waiting to obtain security clearance for our soon-to-be defense jobs. I was twenty and the world was my oyster. I feared nothing and no one, and was about to learn a lesson I never forgot.
I had taken the trolley down to the waterfront and was getting
my first look at Lake Michigan. And what an eye-opener that
was! I was used to the crystal clear, dazzlingly blue lakes of
Wisconsin and Minnesota. I stood on the pier, looking at the
dirty, gray, polluted water lapping at the pilings, and wondered
why no one had warned me. An oily, scummy film covered the
surface and here and there floated orange peels and bits of
decaying wood and objects too disgusting to describe. I was
deeply disappointed.
It was big, all right, and from far away I heard the mournful
moan of a foghorn, and above me, all alone, flew a seagull,
shrieking into the wind. The fog had settled in, making it hard
to see and I felt all alone out there on the swaying, decrepit old
pier. A cold wind was blowing in from the lake, and I shivered
in my thin summer outfit. I hadn’t even brought a sweater.
To add to my discomfort, there was the unmistakable odor of
decay emanating from the regions around the pier. It smelled of
garbage and things long dead. Mixed in was the distinct odor
of coal oil and industrial fumes. I was down in the industrial
area and the air was thick with pollution.
Looking out over the vast expanse of water, I could see the dim
outline of a freighter, lights muted, slipping away from the
shore, heading for who knows where. I thought of my boyfriend
who was in the navy and was perhaps out on the ocean at
that very moment. Like all young ladies I fancied myself in love
and yearned for my beloved. The fact that we had grown up
together and had fought like cats and dogs most of our lives
didn’t ease the pangs of separation. It was wartime and I was
supposed to be in love.
I realized that it was getting darker, and turned to go back to
solid ground, when I saw that the street lights had come on, and
that here and there were hurrying figures on their way to work.
They paid no attention to me, and one man, approaching the
edge of the water, paused to add his contribution to the murky
water below. Standing in the warm glow of the street lamp, and
ignoring all rules of modesty, he calmly completed his mission
and tucked everything back into place. Then he walked away,
buttoning his buttons as he went.
Was I shocked? Not really. I had grown up as a countrygirl
with brothers, cousins and uncles. I knew that necessity often
dictated unconventional solutions. Which brings us to my own
dilemma, which we shall pass lightly over. We need only note
that it was dark out there on the pier and I was all alone. In a
few moments I was picking my way back to solid ground.
I began to be afraid, and shivered as I carefully found my way
back down the center of the old, decaying walkway. I stepped
over and around bits of garbage, and prayed that there were no
loose boards or worse yet, no rats to scurry over my feet. With a
great sigh of relief, I stepped onto solid ground and crossed the
trolley tracks to a boarding platform and a wooden bench. I sat
down and rummaged around in my purse for trolley tokens.
At that moment I was paralyzed with fear. I began to shake
and almost cried out. I had forgotten the address of the
apartment! I had no idea how to get back or even what
direction to take. I was cold, tired, hungry, afraid and all alone.
I was alone and lost in Milwaukee! To be continued tomorrow
Prologue: It was 1943 and I was down in Milwaukee with my two cousins waiting to obtain security clearance for our soon-to-be defense jobs. I was twenty and the world was my oyster. I feared nothing and no one, and was about to learn a lesson I never forgot.
I had taken the trolley down to the waterfront and was getting
my first look at Lake Michigan. And what an eye-opener that
was! I was used to the crystal clear, dazzlingly blue lakes of
Wisconsin and Minnesota. I stood on the pier, looking at the
dirty, gray, polluted water lapping at the pilings, and wondered
why no one had warned me. An oily, scummy film covered the
surface and here and there floated orange peels and bits of
decaying wood and objects too disgusting to describe. I was
deeply disappointed.
It was big, all right, and from far away I heard the mournful
moan of a foghorn, and above me, all alone, flew a seagull,
shrieking into the wind. The fog had settled in, making it hard
to see and I felt all alone out there on the swaying, decrepit old
pier. A cold wind was blowing in from the lake, and I shivered
in my thin summer outfit. I hadn’t even brought a sweater.
To add to my discomfort, there was the unmistakable odor of
decay emanating from the regions around the pier. It smelled of
garbage and things long dead. Mixed in was the distinct odor
of coal oil and industrial fumes. I was down in the industrial
area and the air was thick with pollution.
Looking out over the vast expanse of water, I could see the dim
outline of a freighter, lights muted, slipping away from the
shore, heading for who knows where. I thought of my boyfriend
who was in the navy and was perhaps out on the ocean at
that very moment. Like all young ladies I fancied myself in love
and yearned for my beloved. The fact that we had grown up
together and had fought like cats and dogs most of our lives
didn’t ease the pangs of separation. It was wartime and I was
supposed to be in love.
I realized that it was getting darker, and turned to go back to
solid ground, when I saw that the street lights had come on, and
that here and there were hurrying figures on their way to work.
They paid no attention to me, and one man, approaching the
edge of the water, paused to add his contribution to the murky
water below. Standing in the warm glow of the street lamp, and
ignoring all rules of modesty, he calmly completed his mission
and tucked everything back into place. Then he walked away,
buttoning his buttons as he went.
Was I shocked? Not really. I had grown up as a countrygirl
with brothers, cousins and uncles. I knew that necessity often
dictated unconventional solutions. Which brings us to my own
dilemma, which we shall pass lightly over. We need only note
that it was dark out there on the pier and I was all alone. In a
few moments I was picking my way back to solid ground.
I began to be afraid, and shivered as I carefully found my way
back down the center of the old, decaying walkway. I stepped
over and around bits of garbage, and prayed that there were no
loose boards or worse yet, no rats to scurry over my feet. With a
great sigh of relief, I stepped onto solid ground and crossed the
trolley tracks to a boarding platform and a wooden bench. I sat
down and rummaged around in my purse for trolley tokens.
At that moment I was paralyzed with fear. I began to shake
and almost cried out. I had forgotten the address of the
apartment! I had no idea how to get back or even what
direction to take. I was cold, tired, hungry, afraid and all alone.
I was alone and lost in Milwaukee! To be continued tomorrow
Saturday, March 14, 2009
My Pet Termite
I must warn my readers that the material contained in this blog is both graphic and disgusting. So you must read at your own peril. My story goes as follows:
"What do you think this is?" asked my husband as he came into the cabin. "It was in that old stump under the cabin." He was carrying something on a small piece of plywood, and seemed to be somewhat aftraid of dropping the thing.
From where I was standing by the sink, it looked like a freshly dropped turd, and I hurriedly demanded that he flush it down the toilet and throw the piece of plywood into the fire.
"I can't do that," he responded, coming a little closer, and then I saw that the thing was alive. Not only was it alive, it was surrounded and partly covered with tiny, squirming worms. Now I knew what it was! Just what we had always wanted - termites. The large creature, a queen, was a dirty white. She was about five inches long and seemed to pulsate. The little whitish ones, now trying to cover the queen, were the workers.
"Those are termites," I informed him, "and I don't know how to kill them. I suppose we could spray them with something and kill them that way."
"Good idea," he responded and sprayed them with mosquito repellent, which caused the little workers to curl up immediately and fall lifeless onto the piece of plywood. The queen remained placidly pulsating and opening and closing her mouth. She had no eyes and seemed not in the least uncomfortable in her new surroundings. In fact, she began to open and close the aperture from which the eggs would emerge, and we were at a loss to know what to do with her.
"Let's put her in a jar and keep her for a couple of days," suggested my husband. "We could think of her as a pet."
It was not an unreasonable idea. Over the course of many years, we had had not only the usual dogs and cats, but a turtle, a hermit crab, an ant farm, fish, a bird and a pet snake. My mother had a pet toad. So why not a queen termite?
"Or," suggested my husband, who is exceptionally practical, "We could eat it. I have the barbecue out on the deck. We could barbecue it."
Why not? We have always been adventurous eaters. In the course of my long life, I have eaten and enjoyed frogs legs, pigs brains, blood sausage, head cheese, pigs feet,, snails, oysters, shrimp, crawdads and so on. I have even eaten ants and grubs in sour cream dip, and once, I tasted crow and had several feasts of eels. What could be so horrible about a queen termite.
We could even pan fry her, But alive? We couldn't figure out how to kill her.
In the end, we kept her for several days in a jar, and watched with interest as she placidly lay there, waiting for help from her workers, who never came. There seemed only one thing to do - we tossed her into the wood burning stove while a good fire was going and cremated her, still alive.
Were we monsters or humanitarians? Since the termites had already eaten up a good part of the cabin, we considered
that we had gotten even, and had the cabin tented and eliminated the whole bunch. If there was only one queen, that is. We may never know. In the end, I think the termites will win.
"What do you think this is?" asked my husband as he came into the cabin. "It was in that old stump under the cabin." He was carrying something on a small piece of plywood, and seemed to be somewhat aftraid of dropping the thing.
From where I was standing by the sink, it looked like a freshly dropped turd, and I hurriedly demanded that he flush it down the toilet and throw the piece of plywood into the fire.
"I can't do that," he responded, coming a little closer, and then I saw that the thing was alive. Not only was it alive, it was surrounded and partly covered with tiny, squirming worms. Now I knew what it was! Just what we had always wanted - termites. The large creature, a queen, was a dirty white. She was about five inches long and seemed to pulsate. The little whitish ones, now trying to cover the queen, were the workers.
"Those are termites," I informed him, "and I don't know how to kill them. I suppose we could spray them with something and kill them that way."
"Good idea," he responded and sprayed them with mosquito repellent, which caused the little workers to curl up immediately and fall lifeless onto the piece of plywood. The queen remained placidly pulsating and opening and closing her mouth. She had no eyes and seemed not in the least uncomfortable in her new surroundings. In fact, she began to open and close the aperture from which the eggs would emerge, and we were at a loss to know what to do with her.
"Let's put her in a jar and keep her for a couple of days," suggested my husband. "We could think of her as a pet."
It was not an unreasonable idea. Over the course of many years, we had had not only the usual dogs and cats, but a turtle, a hermit crab, an ant farm, fish, a bird and a pet snake. My mother had a pet toad. So why not a queen termite?
"Or," suggested my husband, who is exceptionally practical, "We could eat it. I have the barbecue out on the deck. We could barbecue it."
Why not? We have always been adventurous eaters. In the course of my long life, I have eaten and enjoyed frogs legs, pigs brains, blood sausage, head cheese, pigs feet,, snails, oysters, shrimp, crawdads and so on. I have even eaten ants and grubs in sour cream dip, and once, I tasted crow and had several feasts of eels. What could be so horrible about a queen termite.
We could even pan fry her, But alive? We couldn't figure out how to kill her.
In the end, we kept her for several days in a jar, and watched with interest as she placidly lay there, waiting for help from her workers, who never came. There seemed only one thing to do - we tossed her into the wood burning stove while a good fire was going and cremated her, still alive.
Were we monsters or humanitarians? Since the termites had already eaten up a good part of the cabin, we considered
that we had gotten even, and had the cabin tented and eliminated the whole bunch. If there was only one queen, that is. We may never know. In the end, I think the termites will win.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
Tax Time
Ye Gods! It is income tax time again and I have dutifully sent off my little offering and the check has been cashed already. Not that I had to pay a lot but I hang on with both hands for as long as I can, since they don't spend the money as I wish anyway. I fill out an easy form now, not at all as it used to be. In days long gone it would take me several evenings, with a bottle of cream sherry at hand to cheer the process and a box of chocolate candy on the table. I filled the papers out at night, after the dishes were washed and put away, and the children were in bed asleep. The darkness of night would be pressing against the window panes and I would feel the loneliness of my position there at the kitchen table. My husband was in the Air Force and most of our early years he was overseas or at a base a thousand or more miles away, so the task of paying the taxes fell to me. One year our little cat went into labor on the living room sofa and I was so absorbed in my work that I didn't even notice until I heard the little kitten voices. She only had two, one white and one orange, and she was a wonderful mother.
But I stray from my lament. Income Taxes should be simple and straightforward. The idea of paying someone to fill out my taxes irks me no end. I would far rather that taxes be levied against purchases (I think what they call flat taxes) and then all of the loopholes and special interests could be abolished. But what the heck! I sent them off and the job is done for another year. And the world goes on. Take care and keep in touch. I love to year from you.
But I stray from my lament. Income Taxes should be simple and straightforward. The idea of paying someone to fill out my taxes irks me no end. I would far rather that taxes be levied against purchases (I think what they call flat taxes) and then all of the loopholes and special interests could be abolished. But what the heck! I sent them off and the job is done for another year. And the world goes on. Take care and keep in touch. I love to year from you.
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