alexandriacardinals

Harry’s “cub reporter” caricature has elicited much positive commentary.  And it was a further reminder of the need to adopt a blog photo.  Don’t all columnists post a photo?  Accordingly, we are offering this one time only opportunity to choose a photo appropriate for this site.  A valid birth certificate will disqualify you from voting.  The following photos were chosen in random order by throwing lima beans at a bingo card.  Final evaluation of the voting will be totally arbitrary, and the results will be announced February 30, 2043:

Go Cards!

The Tuesday morning senior men’s league at the Alexandria Golf Club plays a Stableford system with teams determined by blind draw every week.  Every year we end the season with a steak fry and putting contest.  This year we will have two – last night’s being the first.  We were delighted to have Rose and Warren Gibson join us again – they gave up their membership last year, which was bittersweet for us because now we don’t have to “pay” Warren every week.  Long my hero, Warren turns 90 on July 9 – to honor the occasion I followed him around the putting course by video, and he had the lead after 7 holes:

http://www.youtube.com/user/ruthobert#p/a/u/0/8bfQKih27TY

Photos from last night – a sunny, 85-degree, blustery evening (Aside: Went out for the paper this morning; it felt like Washington, D.C.  Like walking into a hot, wet washcloth making it hard to breathe.  We are under a heat advisory today.):

[The Fieldhammers arrive.]

[We thank Donnacha for the unique putting course he set up for us.]

The putting contest winners were:  1st – Bonnie Haaven; 2nd – Dee Berg; 3rd – June Joy; and 1st – Harry Ramaley; 2nd – Loren Berg; 3rd – Roger Riley.

Since I could not improve on last year’s “one-take” efforts, here are the participants from last August 31 (listed alphabetically):

[ . . . beginning promptly at 5:00.]

Finally, as the “cub reporter,” I was honored to have my caricature done by Harry Ramaley.  He captured my propensity to cover girls sports, to his befuddlement.  Many thanks again, Harry!

When last we visited, I had just spent the better part of an après-golf afternoon attempting to resolve issues regarding in-house alarm systems.  I knew waiting in the wings was a more daunting project – the supervisor wanted to change out the kitchen sink faucet.  This had the potential to be catastrophic.

As you may have guessed, my DNA shrieks “white collar-office worker-high rise condominium dweller.”  I see no need for my maintenance skills to extend any further than how to replace toner cartridges in computer printers.  [Editor’s note:  At this point I found myself scurrying to Strunk & White’s The Elements of Style regarding the proper use of “further/farther.” I opted for “further” here.]

Anyway, always wishing to curry favor with the supervisor, the following morning I volunteered to mow the lawn.  This was not a gesture to be taken lightly – I hate lawn mowing (and it’s a job she actually likes, for reasons unfathomable).  Our mower, as noted in the above photo, is a Snapper riding mower – the cheapest riding mower we could find some eight years ago.  It has generally served us well but has recently gotten cantankerous in its older years.  In the last two years, we have had to make a few trips to Ollie’s, pick-up a trailer, drive back home and load up the Snapper, and back to Ollie’s for repair – usually such as broken belts and other things incomprehensible.  The other problem the Snapper has is a design flaw that causes the steering wheel to break loose from its column.  There is a little pin on the under side of the steering wheel itself that tends to break off from the steering shaft under the high-torque maneuvering we use to avoid colliding with various lawn vegetation.  Well, I got about half way through the mow – with storm clouds threatening – when I lost steering . . . again.  Rather than hanging it up for the day until we could get to Ollie’s for a replacement steering pin, the supervisor thought we could jerry-rig something.  Into the house we went, emptied every nut & bolt jar we could find onto the washing machine, and began the quest to find a substitute “steering pin.”  Several trips in and out, sizing the hole with various bolts, getting a flashlight so we could see to align the holes and using an ice pick to maintain alignment, determining there was still a piece of the broken pin in the steering column, going back in for an awl to punch out the broken pin (“I am a good awler!”), eventually finding a bolt and nut to re-attach the steering wheel, and finishing the mow with one hand on the nut (“I heard that!”) so it wouldn’t come loose, and finding the steering as loose as in my ’68 VW sedan!  When I finished and went to parallel park the mower, I took out two begonias and a garden gnome.  But the task was done!  🙂

The kitchen sink. Fortunately for us (unfortunately for him), son-in-law Danny carries the handyman gene.  Yesterday morning, while I escaped to play golf, Danny and the supervisor undertook the task of replacing the faucet.  I knew it wouldn’t be as easy as they, or the packaging, indicated.  When I returned home, they both were on oxygen and looked as if they had been on a 50-mile force hike.  Lime scale corrosion had made removal of the old faucet a use of profanity delight!  Naturally, I was the appreciative beneficiary of their efforts – I paid for Danny’s dinner at Bug-A-Boo!  😉  (The before and after photos are above.)  He went back to Itasca this morning to escape the rigors of home maintenance for the relative ease of putting a concrete floor in their pole barn!

My only pix today are of some turtles by the North park entrance right where the Mississippi begins its journey out of the park.  The one was laying her eggs and the other was just there for moral support….. – A further report from Danny from the Itasca area.

You know, of course, snapping turtles have pretty much existed in their current form for 215 million years.  (At that time you could only get three cable channels and Chinese take-out was just in its infancy.)  Homo Sapiens didn’t actually show up until about 212 million years later, unless you believe the planet to only be 6,000 years old (but that’s a topic better addressed in my political blog).  Last night, Danny & I enjoyed a boys night out at Bug-A-Boo – on the way home, we stopped mid-road (checking the review mirror first!) until a mud turtle had traversed from one side of the asphalt to the other.

On his return trip from Itasca, Danny stopped and picked up the annual edition (“whether there’s news or not!”) of the Dorset Daily Bugle.  I have never heard of Dorset, but it is somewhere in the vicinity of Itasca and has a population of 22!  The unincorporated town bills itself as “The Restaurant Capital of the World!”

Finally, after Danny left this morning, the supervisor coerced me into a maintenance and cleaning operation on the Moby Obie.  The pontoon has sat idly on its lift since it was installed in late April.  Surprisingly, the battery still had a charge and the 15-year old Yamaha 50 hp 4-stroke motor eventually started – we let it idle while we cleaned.  The water is still incredibly high, so we had to work all slumped over under the canopy.  The supervisor eventually released me from this onerous detail so I could  . . . go golfing!  Family is expected for the holiday weekend – look for the Moby out on the chain (I think we can get it out from under the lift canopy?).

The Readers Write:

Tom, finally catching up with my emails. This story is HILARIOUS and well written. I suggest you shop it around to various publications. It is worthy of wider circulation.

Seriously, think about submitting the Maintenance story to a Mpls. magazine, which has contributors like the Washingtonian mag. Or, possibly Reader’s Digest. You know, the most READ publication. – Gretchen (well, she’s my sister)

Tom: No one can “top” your Mr. Maintenance story. Regards, Woody Allen (a/k/a “Crazy” Dave, well, he’s my agent)

Oh, the ol’ it’s-really-the-carbon-monoxide-alarm-trick! Agent 86 would have been proud of you. Ruthie’s peonies are enviably beautiful, and only out shown by her own beauty.
– Sue (well, she’s my protégé)

Peonies bud,
and then they bloom,
then you cut them for
the living room,
but as soon they are there,
you know you will find
large black ants
on the floor all the time.
— Burma Shave
– Mark (well, he’s a fellow ‘crat)

Great photos! Those are some beautiful peonies. Loved the proof of global warming too!
– Linda (well, she’s my cousin-in-law)

In response to an e-mail entitled “Schmock, Schmock” about the U.S. triple jump champion, Amanda Smock, who is from Melrose, Minnesota, 30 miles down I-94 from here:

I was stationed in Iceland from 1964 to 1966 and Steve Allen was the late night television host on NBC. He always was saying “Schmock, Schmock” and the Icelandics would roar with laughter. Schmock is Icelandic for prophylactic.
– Terry (well, we go back 60 years together)

Did I send this before? Greg Trumm with a telephoto lens across the gym. OMG, I look like Uncle Deek! – the editor
I thought it was Uncle Deek, but the hat gave you away! – Nanner (well, she’s Nanner!)
Nancy, you are so right. The thumbnail picture looked like Deek until I opened it up and yikes, could that really be my older brother??!!! – Gretchen
Yes, you definitely are an old Gooba and look like Uncle Dick. – Gretchen
Funny. – Nanner

Rog submitted the following:

Now is the summer of our discontent – William Shakespeare (well, what he would have
said).

After three miserable weather days in a row, Thursday dawned miserable as well . . . but at least it wasn’t raining. Golfing would, at long last, be an option again. Arriving at the course at 8:30 am, I joined “Dr.” McCoy on Mt. Teebox where I discovered the wind chill to be about 20 – this was officially the second day of summer. I repaired back to the car for a third layer of clothing.

http://www.startribune.com/local/blogs/124462239.html

I ultimately returned home after my worst round of golf in several years. Worst not because of the weather – we’ve played in much worse several times this year – but probably because of the weariness of not ever having at least 70 degree, sunny weather.

Once home, I was greeted by the supervisor who ordered, “Don’t go upstairs without taking the step ladder with you.” It seems the smoke alarm in the sunroom – conveniently located 12 feet above the floor – had been “chirping” all day annoyingly chasing the supervisor to the lower level. We both knew, of course, this was the sign of a failing back-up battery. All laddered up, I reached the offending device, removed the battery, the chirping continued in an indication our initial analysis was correct. It required a 9-volt battery – we were out of them. A short trip by the protagonist to Casey’s yielded a replacement. Back up the ladder, pop in the new batter, and voila . . . except the chirping continued. The fun was just beginning.

Now puzzled, we checked the two other smoke alarms in the house. We exchanged batteries amongst them – no change. Chirp, chirp, chirp continued. Next on the maintenance schedule, we knew, involved cleaning. Cleaning involved taking the 6-foot ladder back down stairs and exchanging it for the 8-footer – we needed to get up close and personal. Hair dryer and Q-tips in hand, I ascended to greater heights, performed minor surgery, and popped the new battery back in. Chirp, chirp, chirp!

Well, now I’m getting grumpy. We turn to the internet. On-line commentary indicates hard-wired smoke alarms have a life span of about 7-years! Who knew? Our house is 10-years old. Now the supervisor makes her move. Budget Building Supply is not far away – maybe they have smoke alarms? Nope, she had to go into town to Ace. But now we have a replacement alarm. Back up the ladder I go, waited for the supervisor to switch off every circuit breaker in the house to make sure I didn’t accidentally curl my hair (?), and installed the new alarm – a major achievement for Mr. Maintenance in and of itself! Circuit breakers back on and . . . chirp, chirp, chirp!! A panic phone call to the electrician who wired the house yields nothing – logically enough, he just hooks them up but doesn’t know how they work . . . or don’t work.

As we began to make plans to move out of the house (the incessant chirp was like water torture or finger nails on the blackboard), the supervisor attempted a “Hail Mary” by calling the smoke alarm manufacturer. The technician suggested all the things we had already tried – other than the “hold the button down for 30 seconds to drain out the static electricity” trick one uses with computers. But he did want to hear the chirp. Ruthie held the phone up to the alarm – it chirped (as regular as “Old Faithful”) – and the guy said it didn’t sound like a smoke alarm chirp; did we have any other devices in the vicinity that would make such as noise? Well, I have to admit I had thought of that previously but couldn’t think of anything. Ruthie hung up, prepared to do the static electricity routine, and went into the bedroom on the other side of the wall from the smoke alarm. Aha!! There she spotted the carbon monoxide alarm on the dresser hidden among framed photographs. We had totally forgotten about them – and that was it. They are free standing, battery powered only. The chirp was of such a pitch that when we were within one-foot of the smoke alarm, we could swear that’s exactly where it was coming from. Then the next chirp would sound like it was on the far side of the room? But thus, instead of my usual post-golf nap, is how we spent Thursday afternoon.

Addendum: There may be an addendum. Sitting in the on-deck circle is a new faucet for the kitchen sink, a replacement for the current “drippy” one. This exchange apparently will be attempted by in-house staff, without seat belts or a safety net!

Addendum, deux: Admittedly not a Mr. Maintenance, I will lay claim to being a turtle herder, nonpareil. Brother Cam and I have been known to perform the reptilian version of storm-chaser when turtles are on the move. We search out their attempted crossings of vehicular roadways, stopping to help them complete their endeavor – ever alert to their only defense mechanism which is to pee on you! On the way home from the winery yesterday, we made the turn around Atikwa’s Hole No. 1 on Arrowwood Drive and discovered crossing the road a mud turtle heading west and a snapping turtle heading east. We stopped – the mud turtle bolted the rest of the way off the road (they can be foot herded), but the snapper is a horse of a different color. When I tried to herd him off the road, he turned to attack! Cars are slowly moving past in both directions watching this dance – the girls giggling, the guys just shaking their heads. I finally found a stick big enough for him to bite down on – I then lifted and carried him to the ditch and to safety? I hope he and the mudder successfully reached their ultimate destinations. [Note: The photos are not of “my” turtle – I was a bit busy at the time. But this snapper was captured this week by our son-in-law Danny by the Mississippi River on Highway 2 between Bagley and Bemidji.]