What do you do when you have a problem you can’t solve? Chew on it like a dog with a bone that’s too tasty to leave or give up. Real men unfortunately don’t give up. Women on the other had are more practical.
Take Washboard Westover, the countryside’s most proficient grader operator…. According to him. He had been running the roads most of the summer scraping dirt, dragging sods into the middle of the road and generally holding up traffic.
“Goodness, I can barely get over that windrow of dirt you left on that road up in Lake of the Bushes Township,” whined Ziggy as he held out his cup for his fifth free refill and scarfed another peanut butter and jam serving. Ziggy figures toast is simply a more polite way to convey condiment (that’s marmalade for your benefit, Ziggy) to his mouth… besides it keeps falling off his knife.
“And even then you never managed to cut the potholes out of the road. Rough enough to shake the dentures out of a corpse” brayed Ziggy, as he moved his toast out of my reach.
“Well I can’t cut the washboard out without wearing out the carbides and your know how tight Lake of the Bushes is about spare parts. They might cut our Christmas bonus,” objected Washboard as he ordered his own toast.
“But not to worry. It’ll snow soon and I’ll have those potholes filled in, packed down and smooth as a baby’s bottom. Be good for six months. Now if you don’t mind I’ve got to get out to that grader, get the cab nice and warm and settle down to a good snooze… er, a thorough study of the operators Safety and Maintenance Manual.
I remember a similar discussion while travelling with my wife, the Pearl of the Orient back from a visit to the Gene Pool. It had been a long day. The roads were rough, and every motel seemed to have a No Vacancy sign well lit.
“Anyone with a lick of sense would have made a reservation,” observed the Pearl as we bounced across another rail crossing and drove ever deeper into the wilderness of Yupperland.
“There’s one. Pull in” ordered the Pearl as we slowed for the little hamlet of Twin Swamps.
“Looks pretty grungy I observed as I pulled up to the motel office where a half a neon sign blinked, “GOO__F__D.
I dutifully checked in, and dragged the suitcase into the room. It was a little musty and threadbare but the toilet worked and no bugs scampered across the floor when I flicked on the lights.
“Turn off the lights. I’m going to sleep!” ordered the Pearl in a tone that brooked no dissension. I complied, but decided I’d better watch a little TV before dreamland.
The TV was an old one. No remote, small screen. I pushed a couple buttons. A light and a buzz erupted. I cranked the dial for a channel with some reception. Nothing. Just the light and more buzzing. I run through the full rotation of the dial. Nothing.
“I can’t get a darn thing. I think I call the office and complain”, I snorted reaching over the Pearl and fumbling for the phone.
“Of course it doesn’t work! That’s not the TV, it’s the microwave,” explained the Pearl, “Now go to sleep!”
Suitably chastised, I quickly drifted off, my snores suitably rattling the windows and disturbing the Twin Swamps critters.
