Just ordered tires and brakes for my road bike. they should arrive in a few days. getting ready for the big ride this August
-The Courage Classic. Bicycle tires cost almost as much as the same as car tires. why is that?
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Saturday, May 02, 2009
Work Crew
I got up this morning and made apple strudel pancakes for Becca and I. After lounging around and reading the paper, I realized it was 9:00. Time I promised Ron M. I would be at church to help with mowing and yard work. "Sure I have a lawn mower, and I would be happy to bring it over. I have been cleaning it up and it should be ready to go." Actually I had been working on it, and in a blindly destructive way. I still don't know what’s wrong with it. The mower was bought on Craigslist on Sunday. The guy started it up and it sounded great. I took it home and it sat in the garage until Thursday, when I had a chance to go over it. Wielding a screwdriver and 11 mm socket wrench I began removing plastic parts looking for dirt, grass, to clean off. My big task ended up inspecting the drive train. I knew only one front wheel turned when the self propel bar was engaged. With the front axles nicely re greased and brushed out, I put everything back together and headed to the back yard with a hose and nozzle. Turning the mower on its side I hosed out the deck. Now here is where I don't know what went wrong. With the whole thing back on its wheels I tried starting it. But nothing happened. It sounded ready to go but then after a few dozen pulls I gave up. Nothing. I waited until Friday to try again. And then again on Saturday morning. With a stalled lawnmower in the back of the wagon I made it over to church. Maybe someone could help me make an assessment, or afterwards I could head to a small engine repair shop. This is, I thought, one of the small things I should be able to do on my own, but I have neither the knowledge nor tools to properly fix what I thought was a seemingly easy problem. A flooded engine, and maybe a slight adjustment in the carb, the spark plug or the air intake.
It was 9:30 by the time I arrived at church. The men, all in their 40s and up were already about 3 or 4 laps into their section of lawn. I walked over to the guy on the riding mower. His name was Don, I think, the mower was clanky and grass stuck to the wheels refusing to let go. Rain was falling lightly, ever so, just to make the parking lot darker shade but not enough to call off a Saturday work crew. He made a gesture and coming around the last turn in the race way he idled the mower and we talked. "No one here is really in charge" he said. There are two other guys with mowers. Did you bring yours?" Yea I said "but its umm not really working, it sort of won't start."
I thought maybe someone could help by taking a look at it, or I could work on something else." There is a string trimmer, in the workshop you could get started on. “Don said. I looked around and he had turned off the mower by this time. “I think I hear a mower over there. Maybe go talk to Alan and see what can be done."
" Sure, Sure. Thanks. I'll head over there"
Walking past the main entrance to church I realized what my calling was for that day. Sweep up the flower petals that had dropped off the trees and gathered along the curb. Two weeks ago they were in their glory. White dazzled the eye, a mild fragrant canopy of flowers. For the next 4 weeks the flowers drop and turn a tannish blond color and in the rain the turn to a spongy mush. So the task began. Two sides of the driveway exit and the curb in front of the main entrance. I swept and swept. And swept. I have not done this kind of work in a while. As a kid I remember a family vacation where we parked the motor home on a cement pad somewhere in the northwest. Pine needles lay across the entire camp site. I decided it was my duty to take a pine branch and sweep the concrete pad, out of boredom or neatness, I am not sure which. In the end I had a needle free 14 x 25 foot slab surrounded by a forest floor of pine needles.
Sweeping is fairly mindless, and my thoughts drift to technique, and posture. A guy tried using a leaf blower yesterday but everything was too damp to move. So it’s sweeping. More thought drifting, to the other guys jobs on the crew, to the few people inside doing whatever they are doing. Making copies, committee planning meetings, vacuuming, generally walking around and talking with other people. Back to the rain, and the cracks in the sidewalk that collect flower petals, damp mucky sludge being swept out, and along the curb, dry spots under trees and petals that are stuck to the ground like plastered wallpaper. I wonder how many times this job has been done here. I know I am not the only one who has ever cleaned up flower petals. It’s a task I want done so that tomorrow at church I can say. "Did you see how clean the main entrance to church was or did you not even notice? Yea? I did that. I even swept out the cracks, looks nice doesn't it? yea thanks, it was nothing"
This is not really penance or an act of washing Jesus feet with fine perfume, but my heart says I should pat myself on the back for doing such a simple act. What fool I am.
Eventually I am joined by another guy, we pick up the pace and I sweep while he shovels into the wheelbarrow. We are now union guys working just another union job. We are joined by another and now we are really moving. I only push the wheelbarrow now.
Dan walks out and offers Subway sandwiches and ice tea. We finish the job and Dan heads out to pickup lunch. I stand and talk to one of the guys in the empty church parking lot. The feel is a lot different than on Sunday morning. I point out there is a dead tree in the far corner of the lot and he offers to grab his chain saw from home if I really wanted to be ambitious. "No no" I say. Not really thinking I want to do more work. Just, maybe we could suggest it for the next group if they are looking for things to do." We talk a little bit more. He works two other jobs for about 80 hours a week. I can't believe it. Here is an act of service, spending what little time he has doing yard work at church.
Now the fun begins. A guy can sum up the joy of yard work in two words. Power tools.
Earmuffs check. Safety Goggles, Check. Gloves Check. I head over to the workshop and get a string trimmer and fire it up. I have been wanting to edge for a long time. A house was donated to church and it has a nice backyard. I practice in the tall weeds on the other side of the fence. Scalp, buzz, scalp, buzz. I swing the head over the uneven ground, trying to find a rhythm, it can't be that difficult. But it is. The tool does not balance on the handles and the throttle is touchy. I find myself hitting pay dirt and ripping through the tips of the grass all in one pass. Fences are no easy thing either. I file down the plastic cord on the posts. And catch blackberry shoots and massive weeds that send up a mash of green pulp onto my face and chest. Whoops. It looks like a salad gone wild when I am done.
My edging skills are nowhere near perfection as I round the corner into the yard. I keep thinking,”This is your Scalpel, be a surgeon." But there is no hope; I am more like Dr Frankenstein. Maybe it was the comparative thrill of having my hands on a broom and shovel earlier versus a formula one car now. It was hard to control and harder than it looks. I butchered and hacked my way around. And then set out for a final walk through the tall grass to make a path to the parking lot. Easy, since there is no worry of making things look nice. . I was done. The grass was conquered. And my arms, tired.
(Note: I sit at a desk typing all day, not much for upper body strength.)
The rest of the crew had left, and Dan had placed a subway sandwich and a gallon of tea on the bench outside. I sat alone and collected my thoughts. With the work done it was quiet now. Mowers were quiet, and the lot was somewhat vacant. Birds sang from the trees and I stared out on the parking lot. There are so few times in the week that I am able to sit and rest a while, to take something in, in silence and to listen in silence with nothing to do but relax and be. My thoughts turned to my job, and my job during the week. Competency and all the fears and frustrations along with it. They were distant now like a passing car, but present. I was quiet though and did not mull these things over. There was no point to doing so, nor the energy. Life stood still. I instead waited for someone to come from inside and talk, but no one did. I had the place to myself, and I had another Styrofoam glass of ice tea, and sat in silence. I wonder if this is what I was meant to do. I mean not work for a living and get paid, but just hang around the church and make myself available to work there on yard work and meet people and sit and visit. Like my friends in PNG would do. Could Becca and I survive? Probably not. But it’s a thought that maybe I was meant to just be around people and be myself and that's all I have to do.
Again my thoughts change. Is this what old age is like? It’s been a while since I have gone off by myself and been quiet. I wonder where Dan went. I'll give Becca the other half of my sandwich, she would like that. String trimmers are fun but difficult to manage. My arms are tired.
I am now back in my car and I am heading home. Grass is stuck to my pants and my shoes are wet. My jeans are old, not bought new and made to look old, as it is these days, but old as in old. There is a tear in the right knee and the denim is wearing thin around the other knee. They are jeans from about 15 years ago, maybe high school or college. I look in the rear view mirror and remember the lawnmower sitting idle in the back waiting to be repaired. I need to get that thing fixed.
It was 9:30 by the time I arrived at church. The men, all in their 40s and up were already about 3 or 4 laps into their section of lawn. I walked over to the guy on the riding mower. His name was Don, I think, the mower was clanky and grass stuck to the wheels refusing to let go. Rain was falling lightly, ever so, just to make the parking lot darker shade but not enough to call off a Saturday work crew. He made a gesture and coming around the last turn in the race way he idled the mower and we talked. "No one here is really in charge" he said. There are two other guys with mowers. Did you bring yours?" Yea I said "but its umm not really working, it sort of won't start."
I thought maybe someone could help by taking a look at it, or I could work on something else." There is a string trimmer, in the workshop you could get started on. “Don said. I looked around and he had turned off the mower by this time. “I think I hear a mower over there. Maybe go talk to Alan and see what can be done."
" Sure, Sure. Thanks. I'll head over there"
Walking past the main entrance to church I realized what my calling was for that day. Sweep up the flower petals that had dropped off the trees and gathered along the curb. Two weeks ago they were in their glory. White dazzled the eye, a mild fragrant canopy of flowers. For the next 4 weeks the flowers drop and turn a tannish blond color and in the rain the turn to a spongy mush. So the task began. Two sides of the driveway exit and the curb in front of the main entrance. I swept and swept. And swept. I have not done this kind of work in a while. As a kid I remember a family vacation where we parked the motor home on a cement pad somewhere in the northwest. Pine needles lay across the entire camp site. I decided it was my duty to take a pine branch and sweep the concrete pad, out of boredom or neatness, I am not sure which. In the end I had a needle free 14 x 25 foot slab surrounded by a forest floor of pine needles.
Sweeping is fairly mindless, and my thoughts drift to technique, and posture. A guy tried using a leaf blower yesterday but everything was too damp to move. So it’s sweeping. More thought drifting, to the other guys jobs on the crew, to the few people inside doing whatever they are doing. Making copies, committee planning meetings, vacuuming, generally walking around and talking with other people. Back to the rain, and the cracks in the sidewalk that collect flower petals, damp mucky sludge being swept out, and along the curb, dry spots under trees and petals that are stuck to the ground like plastered wallpaper. I wonder how many times this job has been done here. I know I am not the only one who has ever cleaned up flower petals. It’s a task I want done so that tomorrow at church I can say. "Did you see how clean the main entrance to church was or did you not even notice? Yea? I did that. I even swept out the cracks, looks nice doesn't it? yea thanks, it was nothing"
This is not really penance or an act of washing Jesus feet with fine perfume, but my heart says I should pat myself on the back for doing such a simple act. What fool I am.
Eventually I am joined by another guy, we pick up the pace and I sweep while he shovels into the wheelbarrow. We are now union guys working just another union job. We are joined by another and now we are really moving. I only push the wheelbarrow now.
Dan walks out and offers Subway sandwiches and ice tea. We finish the job and Dan heads out to pickup lunch. I stand and talk to one of the guys in the empty church parking lot. The feel is a lot different than on Sunday morning. I point out there is a dead tree in the far corner of the lot and he offers to grab his chain saw from home if I really wanted to be ambitious. "No no" I say. Not really thinking I want to do more work. Just, maybe we could suggest it for the next group if they are looking for things to do." We talk a little bit more. He works two other jobs for about 80 hours a week. I can't believe it. Here is an act of service, spending what little time he has doing yard work at church.
Now the fun begins. A guy can sum up the joy of yard work in two words. Power tools.
Earmuffs check. Safety Goggles, Check. Gloves Check. I head over to the workshop and get a string trimmer and fire it up. I have been wanting to edge for a long time. A house was donated to church and it has a nice backyard. I practice in the tall weeds on the other side of the fence. Scalp, buzz, scalp, buzz. I swing the head over the uneven ground, trying to find a rhythm, it can't be that difficult. But it is. The tool does not balance on the handles and the throttle is touchy. I find myself hitting pay dirt and ripping through the tips of the grass all in one pass. Fences are no easy thing either. I file down the plastic cord on the posts. And catch blackberry shoots and massive weeds that send up a mash of green pulp onto my face and chest. Whoops. It looks like a salad gone wild when I am done.
My edging skills are nowhere near perfection as I round the corner into the yard. I keep thinking,”This is your Scalpel, be a surgeon." But there is no hope; I am more like Dr Frankenstein. Maybe it was the comparative thrill of having my hands on a broom and shovel earlier versus a formula one car now. It was hard to control and harder than it looks. I butchered and hacked my way around. And then set out for a final walk through the tall grass to make a path to the parking lot. Easy, since there is no worry of making things look nice. . I was done. The grass was conquered. And my arms, tired.
(Note: I sit at a desk typing all day, not much for upper body strength.)
The rest of the crew had left, and Dan had placed a subway sandwich and a gallon of tea on the bench outside. I sat alone and collected my thoughts. With the work done it was quiet now. Mowers were quiet, and the lot was somewhat vacant. Birds sang from the trees and I stared out on the parking lot. There are so few times in the week that I am able to sit and rest a while, to take something in, in silence and to listen in silence with nothing to do but relax and be. My thoughts turned to my job, and my job during the week. Competency and all the fears and frustrations along with it. They were distant now like a passing car, but present. I was quiet though and did not mull these things over. There was no point to doing so, nor the energy. Life stood still. I instead waited for someone to come from inside and talk, but no one did. I had the place to myself, and I had another Styrofoam glass of ice tea, and sat in silence. I wonder if this is what I was meant to do. I mean not work for a living and get paid, but just hang around the church and make myself available to work there on yard work and meet people and sit and visit. Like my friends in PNG would do. Could Becca and I survive? Probably not. But it’s a thought that maybe I was meant to just be around people and be myself and that's all I have to do.
Again my thoughts change. Is this what old age is like? It’s been a while since I have gone off by myself and been quiet. I wonder where Dan went. I'll give Becca the other half of my sandwich, she would like that. String trimmers are fun but difficult to manage. My arms are tired.
I am now back in my car and I am heading home. Grass is stuck to my pants and my shoes are wet. My jeans are old, not bought new and made to look old, as it is these days, but old as in old. There is a tear in the right knee and the denim is wearing thin around the other knee. They are jeans from about 15 years ago, maybe high school or college. I look in the rear view mirror and remember the lawnmower sitting idle in the back waiting to be repaired. I need to get that thing fixed.
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