Mark R. Hunter's Blog, page 106
November 26, 2013
It's Funny What We're Thankful For
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
“I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. So I took his shoes. What was he going to do, chase me down?”
I don’t know who said that, but they clearly knew an opportunity when they saw it. It should remind us, this Thanksgiving season, to be happy no one has stolen our shoes … or our feet.
I had trouble coming up with a list of what I was thankful for this year. The old, clichéd stuff is, well, clichéd. My family, my job, my pocket lint collection, my health …
My health? The health thing tripped me up a little, this year. In 2013 I took my very first trip to the emergency room as a patient … and took my wife to her first emergency room visit … and visited my sister-in-law, grandmother, and father after they were all rushed to the hospital. The only time I visited the ER more was in the early 80’s, and that was only because I actually volunteered on an ambulance service.
Believe me, looking down at the cot is way better than looking up.
This year I had two sinus infections and a kidney stone, started getting weekly allergy shots, got stuffed full of meds for tennis elbow (and I can’t even hit a tennis ball), and suffered one of the few migraines I’ve ever had in my life. Then I had to get a heart scan after an abnormal EKG reading and chest pains. I’m on so many medications that the drug company representatives skip the middle man and come straight to my house.
I had to start taking regular aspirin and ibuprofen, and started wearing an arm brace. Then I was diagnosed with plantar fasciitis. Can you believe that? Plantar fasciitis!
Otherwise known as pain from fallen arches. But still … it sounds bad.
But at least I have my health.
Still, when you’re talking Thanksgiving, the first thing you have to conclude is that it could be worse. No, my feet have not been amputated. I haven’t had brain surgery, nor have I been forced to do brain surgery in a disaster situation. I realize that’s an extreme example. Here’s another way of looking at it: I haven’t been poisoned this year, or suffered liver failure, or developed an overwhelming desire to drink human blood.
Believe me, if any of those things had happened, they’d be on the list.
But just because other people have worse problems than yours, doesn’t mean you don’t have problems. Am I to be thankful that I just had a kidney stone? It beats giving birth, or so I’ve heard.
In the end, it all depends on your point of view. I’ve been known to say (usually during winter) that the glass is not half full – it’s half empty, cracked, and slowly leaking.
But I don’t usually feel that way, not really. The truth is – cliché or not – that I’ve been blessed with a wonderful wife, great family, an incipient fiction writing career that seems to be taking off, a good job because writing careers aren’t renowned for their income … and I still live in what is, despite the efforts of those in Washington, D.C., the greatest country in the world. Although I’ve heard Luxembourg is nice.
That ain’t too shabby.
For the rest of it? All those aches and pains, stupidity in government, bills, winter? Why, I deal with all that using the one personal thing I really am thankful for, something that has stood me in great stead and gotten me through some tough times:
I’m thankful for a sense of humor.
Some people don’t have that. We all know those people. They’re usually miserable, and a lot of them want to take everyone else down in misery with them. Just as I don’t understand how people who don’t read fend of boredom, I don’t understand how someone can survive modern life without making fun of it.
I mean, come on. Joe Biden’s our Vice President. Joe Biden! You have to laugh at that, or jump off a bridge.
I’m so thankful that I can make fun of politics and not get arrested. And so many other things, too. Imagine how horribly tragic the Kardashians really are if you can’t make fun of them. Reality TV is a danger to our entire civilization, but at least I can make jokes about stranding Congress on a desert island with crates of canned fruit but no opener. Watched over by Jeff Probst, of course.
It doesn’t even matter if other people think I’m funny, as long as I’m entertaining myself. (This often happens when I’m at parties.) I can go to a PETA sponsored vegan dinner and order steak – rare. Everyone else in the room will be horrified, but I’ll think it’s hilarious.
(I wouldn’t actually do that – those people are scary. They look like they’re always on the verge of giving up and biting into whatever flesh is closest.)
The other day I was using a pair of wire cutters, when the cutters broke in half – without cutting the wire. Anyone else might have cursed and hurled the pieces across the room, but I started thinking up ways of working the story into a column. (Which I just did.)
In fact, making fun of yourself is one of the best ways to go through life. (I even make fun of my overuse of parenthesis.)
So that’s what I’m thankful for this year: My sense of humor. Or anyone’s sense of humor, really. The world would, by definition, be a sadder place without it. So cheer up, everyone, and have a laugh. Crying does you no good, anyway.
Oh, and keep an eye on your shoes – just in case.
“I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. So I took his shoes. What was he going to do, chase me down?”
I don’t know who said that, but they clearly knew an opportunity when they saw it. It should remind us, this Thanksgiving season, to be happy no one has stolen our shoes … or our feet.
I had trouble coming up with a list of what I was thankful for this year. The old, clichéd stuff is, well, clichéd. My family, my job, my pocket lint collection, my health …
My health? The health thing tripped me up a little, this year. In 2013 I took my very first trip to the emergency room as a patient … and took my wife to her first emergency room visit … and visited my sister-in-law, grandmother, and father after they were all rushed to the hospital. The only time I visited the ER more was in the early 80’s, and that was only because I actually volunteered on an ambulance service.
Believe me, looking down at the cot is way better than looking up.
This year I had two sinus infections and a kidney stone, started getting weekly allergy shots, got stuffed full of meds for tennis elbow (and I can’t even hit a tennis ball), and suffered one of the few migraines I’ve ever had in my life. Then I had to get a heart scan after an abnormal EKG reading and chest pains. I’m on so many medications that the drug company representatives skip the middle man and come straight to my house.
I had to start taking regular aspirin and ibuprofen, and started wearing an arm brace. Then I was diagnosed with plantar fasciitis. Can you believe that? Plantar fasciitis!
Otherwise known as pain from fallen arches. But still … it sounds bad.
But at least I have my health.
Still, when you’re talking Thanksgiving, the first thing you have to conclude is that it could be worse. No, my feet have not been amputated. I haven’t had brain surgery, nor have I been forced to do brain surgery in a disaster situation. I realize that’s an extreme example. Here’s another way of looking at it: I haven’t been poisoned this year, or suffered liver failure, or developed an overwhelming desire to drink human blood.
Believe me, if any of those things had happened, they’d be on the list.
But just because other people have worse problems than yours, doesn’t mean you don’t have problems. Am I to be thankful that I just had a kidney stone? It beats giving birth, or so I’ve heard.
In the end, it all depends on your point of view. I’ve been known to say (usually during winter) that the glass is not half full – it’s half empty, cracked, and slowly leaking.
But I don’t usually feel that way, not really. The truth is – cliché or not – that I’ve been blessed with a wonderful wife, great family, an incipient fiction writing career that seems to be taking off, a good job because writing careers aren’t renowned for their income … and I still live in what is, despite the efforts of those in Washington, D.C., the greatest country in the world. Although I’ve heard Luxembourg is nice.
That ain’t too shabby.
For the rest of it? All those aches and pains, stupidity in government, bills, winter? Why, I deal with all that using the one personal thing I really am thankful for, something that has stood me in great stead and gotten me through some tough times:
I’m thankful for a sense of humor.
Some people don’t have that. We all know those people. They’re usually miserable, and a lot of them want to take everyone else down in misery with them. Just as I don’t understand how people who don’t read fend of boredom, I don’t understand how someone can survive modern life without making fun of it.
I mean, come on. Joe Biden’s our Vice President. Joe Biden! You have to laugh at that, or jump off a bridge.
I’m so thankful that I can make fun of politics and not get arrested. And so many other things, too. Imagine how horribly tragic the Kardashians really are if you can’t make fun of them. Reality TV is a danger to our entire civilization, but at least I can make jokes about stranding Congress on a desert island with crates of canned fruit but no opener. Watched over by Jeff Probst, of course.
It doesn’t even matter if other people think I’m funny, as long as I’m entertaining myself. (This often happens when I’m at parties.) I can go to a PETA sponsored vegan dinner and order steak – rare. Everyone else in the room will be horrified, but I’ll think it’s hilarious.
(I wouldn’t actually do that – those people are scary. They look like they’re always on the verge of giving up and biting into whatever flesh is closest.)
The other day I was using a pair of wire cutters, when the cutters broke in half – without cutting the wire. Anyone else might have cursed and hurled the pieces across the room, but I started thinking up ways of working the story into a column. (Which I just did.)
In fact, making fun of yourself is one of the best ways to go through life. (I even make fun of my overuse of parenthesis.)
So that’s what I’m thankful for this year: My sense of humor. Or anyone’s sense of humor, really. The world would, by definition, be a sadder place without it. So cheer up, everyone, and have a laugh. Crying does you no good, anyway.
Oh, and keep an eye on your shoes – just in case.
November 25, 2013
Daddy date day
On Friday my brother Jeff, his wife Cathy, Emily, and I took Dad out for dinner at Applebees. We had a great time, but more importantly: Dad has his appetite back! Whatever new medicine the docs gave him is working. Also, they might be taking his lung tube out soon, since they haven't found any new fluid in his lungs the last few times they checked. He's tired, of course, but looking okay, and has one more round of chemo to go through in early December.
November 22, 2013
A snippet from "Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights"
In 1859, fire breaks out in the Noble County Courthouse in Chapter One of Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights: A Century Or So With The Albion Fire Department:
John W. Bryant spotted the fire in Albion’s first courthouse at around 1 a.m. on a frigid January morning. He saw flames spread through the clerk’s office on the south side of the ground floor, and gave an alarm that likely consisted of a high pitched scream.
In those days, the entire population of a town would turn out to give what help they could at the call of “fire!” In some communities the law stated everyone had to own at least one bucket. As the alarm spread, people would throw their buckets out the window, where they’d be grabbed up, until everyone formed bucket brigades to splash water on the fire.
How many concussions resulted from fallen buckets hasn’t been documented.
Albion’s first reported fire rescue and injuries followed … you can read the whole book by ordering on Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/Mark-R.-Hunter/..., or from my website at www.markrhunter.com.
John W. Bryant spotted the fire in Albion’s first courthouse at around 1 a.m. on a frigid January morning. He saw flames spread through the clerk’s office on the south side of the ground floor, and gave an alarm that likely consisted of a high pitched scream.
In those days, the entire population of a town would turn out to give what help they could at the call of “fire!” In some communities the law stated everyone had to own at least one bucket. As the alarm spread, people would throw their buckets out the window, where they’d be grabbed up, until everyone formed bucket brigades to splash water on the fire.
How many concussions resulted from fallen buckets hasn’t been documented.
Albion’s first reported fire rescue and injuries followed … you can read the whole book by ordering on Amazon at http://www.amazon.com/Mark-R.-Hunter/..., or from my website at www.markrhunter.com.
November 21, 2013
Hoosiers Go Hog Wild In China
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
We here in rural Indiana don’t tend to think of ourselves as being part of the big worldwide picture. In fact, many people from the east and west coasts can’t tell Indiana from Oklahoma, while some foreigners mistakenly believe Indiana is America’s last Indian reservation.
Granted, Noble County contributed to the world Commissioner of Baseball Ford Frick, writer Gene Stratton-Porter, and me. (My contribution is pending.) Whitley County gave us country singer Janie Fricke, and the Beast of Busco. From Allen County we have actresses Shelley Long and Carole Lombard, not to mention incompetent M*A*S*H surgeon Frank “Ferret Face” Burns. It’s quite a lineup.
Overall, it would seem northeast Indiana outside of Fort Wayne is a mere blip on the economic radar. But then I read about Whiteshire Hamrock, a Noble County farm which recently shipped 1,180 pigs to China.
Specifically, Whiteshire Hamrock ships swine breeding stock, which they’ve sent to 22 different countries. They’re very happy swine. Amorous oinkers, you might say. I grew up down the road from a hog farm, but I’m happy to say I never overheard any of the porkers, um, porking.
I toured Whiteshire Hamrock once, as part of a pre-plan training for the fire department. The place is amazing. It’s got more pork than the federal budget, but is way better organized. Frankly, the place is cleaner than my basement, roomier than my house, and has a patented air ventilation system that makes the place smell better than my back yard. (In my defense, we have a compost pile.)
The company actually has an office in China. That’s no blip – it’s a swine station!
China owns a huge amount of American debt, but if we ship them enough pigs, we should be out of hock in no time. I do wonder, though, how we actually get them over there. I mean, they have to be alive – they’re breeders. If they fly, do they each have to be belted in? And would the seats be big enough in economy class?
Then, I assume, they become mail order hog brides, happy as a pig in a poke, producing piglets at a prodigious pace.
Sorry if I’m hogging all the puns; I didn’t mean to be a boar.
Then, eventually, they’d be all play-pigged out and some uncaring butcher would haul them away on their little pigs feet, destined to provide hams like me with both joke material and a really excellent Easter dinner.
I realize animal lovers may consider me a swine for thinking of this as such a rib-tickler, but making other things the butt of my jokes is how I bring home the bacon and stay out of hock myself. Believe me, it’s not always a picnic, so spare me. There’s a lot at steak.
Don’t you just love the English language?
According to the 2002 hog census, there were 185 million hogs sold in the US in 2002. I assume the hog census isn’t as complicated as the people census. And yet there were only 715,000 heart attacks, so take that, health nuts.
That’s twelve billion dollars’ worth of ribs, ham, roast, and, of course, back bacon. There’s also something called St. Louis cut ribs, because some cities just have to hog all the attention. Canadian bacon is like regular bacon, only it’s very sorry. I have no desire to know where butt comes from.
Hogs were first domesticated 6,000 years
ago – by the Chinese, so a little irony, there. They started salting pork bellies around 1500. But the hogs didn’t like that much so they sprayed the salt off, giving us the term “hogwash”. Pigs didn’t get to America until 1539, when a Spaniard named Hernando DeSoto brought some over for the first barbeque.
In the early days of New York hogs were allowed to run free, forcing farmers to build a wall to keep them out of their fields. The street that ran along that wall became – wait for it – Wall Street … which explains a lot, doesn’t it?
Harry Truman once said, "No man should be allowed to be President who does not understand hogs." If that’s true, than we should set up Whiteshire Hamrock as the new seat of government: We’ll call it the Whiteshire House, and take our government babyback away from the boneless porkers now stewing their lard in Washington, even if we have to pack it in racks and haul it in a wheel barrow.
So gird your loins for the Hamrock administration and let’s go whole hog, people. We can shoulder the responsibility; and the Whiteshire slab would be a prime location.
We here in rural Indiana don’t tend to think of ourselves as being part of the big worldwide picture. In fact, many people from the east and west coasts can’t tell Indiana from Oklahoma, while some foreigners mistakenly believe Indiana is America’s last Indian reservation.
Granted, Noble County contributed to the world Commissioner of Baseball Ford Frick, writer Gene Stratton-Porter, and me. (My contribution is pending.) Whitley County gave us country singer Janie Fricke, and the Beast of Busco. From Allen County we have actresses Shelley Long and Carole Lombard, not to mention incompetent M*A*S*H surgeon Frank “Ferret Face” Burns. It’s quite a lineup.
Overall, it would seem northeast Indiana outside of Fort Wayne is a mere blip on the economic radar. But then I read about Whiteshire Hamrock, a Noble County farm which recently shipped 1,180 pigs to China.
Specifically, Whiteshire Hamrock ships swine breeding stock, which they’ve sent to 22 different countries. They’re very happy swine. Amorous oinkers, you might say. I grew up down the road from a hog farm, but I’m happy to say I never overheard any of the porkers, um, porking.
I toured Whiteshire Hamrock once, as part of a pre-plan training for the fire department. The place is amazing. It’s got more pork than the federal budget, but is way better organized. Frankly, the place is cleaner than my basement, roomier than my house, and has a patented air ventilation system that makes the place smell better than my back yard. (In my defense, we have a compost pile.)
The company actually has an office in China. That’s no blip – it’s a swine station!
China owns a huge amount of American debt, but if we ship them enough pigs, we should be out of hock in no time. I do wonder, though, how we actually get them over there. I mean, they have to be alive – they’re breeders. If they fly, do they each have to be belted in? And would the seats be big enough in economy class?
Then, I assume, they become mail order hog brides, happy as a pig in a poke, producing piglets at a prodigious pace.
Sorry if I’m hogging all the puns; I didn’t mean to be a boar.
Then, eventually, they’d be all play-pigged out and some uncaring butcher would haul them away on their little pigs feet, destined to provide hams like me with both joke material and a really excellent Easter dinner.
I realize animal lovers may consider me a swine for thinking of this as such a rib-tickler, but making other things the butt of my jokes is how I bring home the bacon and stay out of hock myself. Believe me, it’s not always a picnic, so spare me. There’s a lot at steak.
Don’t you just love the English language?
According to the 2002 hog census, there were 185 million hogs sold in the US in 2002. I assume the hog census isn’t as complicated as the people census. And yet there were only 715,000 heart attacks, so take that, health nuts.
That’s twelve billion dollars’ worth of ribs, ham, roast, and, of course, back bacon. There’s also something called St. Louis cut ribs, because some cities just have to hog all the attention. Canadian bacon is like regular bacon, only it’s very sorry. I have no desire to know where butt comes from.
Hogs were first domesticated 6,000 years
ago – by the Chinese, so a little irony, there. They started salting pork bellies around 1500. But the hogs didn’t like that much so they sprayed the salt off, giving us the term “hogwash”. Pigs didn’t get to America until 1539, when a Spaniard named Hernando DeSoto brought some over for the first barbeque.
In the early days of New York hogs were allowed to run free, forcing farmers to build a wall to keep them out of their fields. The street that ran along that wall became – wait for it – Wall Street … which explains a lot, doesn’t it?
Harry Truman once said, "No man should be allowed to be President who does not understand hogs." If that’s true, than we should set up Whiteshire Hamrock as the new seat of government: We’ll call it the Whiteshire House, and take our government babyback away from the boneless porkers now stewing their lard in Washington, even if we have to pack it in racks and haul it in a wheel barrow.
So gird your loins for the Hamrock administration and let’s go whole hog, people. We can shoulder the responsibility; and the Whiteshire slab would be a prime location.
November 20, 2013
Yes, I'll finish that dragon
Yes, I’ll finish that dragon: A review of Barry Parham’s newest humor book:
http://www.amazon.com/review/R1U8GHOF...
“Thanks to Barry Parham, I’ve gained five pounds and have chocolate smeared across my face. I guess that technology’s still in beta.”
http://www.amazon.com/review/R1U8GHOF...
“Thanks to Barry Parham, I’ve gained five pounds and have chocolate smeared across my face. I guess that technology’s still in beta.”
November 19, 2013
Be prepared
We had a lot of damage in Noble County from the storm Sunday, including what may have been a tornado touchdown up in the northeast area of our county, but no injury reports that I’m aware of. Other people had it much, much worse – a hundred million people in 26 states were in the path of the storms. There were six deaths reported as of last time I checked, and it was the third largest tornado outbreak in Indiana history. Hundreds of thousands of people were without power.
Parts of central and southern Indiana had it really bad, as did areas of Illinois. This is a call for disaster preparation: Tornadoes are rare in the northern Midwest in November, but it happened yesterday and it happened in November of 2001. There’s no place where bad things can’t happen, whether natural or manmade. Have your emergency supplies, disaster plans, and ways of being notified. Pay attention and be prepared. Nobody thinks bad things will happen to them … but they do.
Parts of central and southern Indiana had it really bad, as did areas of Illinois. This is a call for disaster preparation: Tornadoes are rare in the northern Midwest in November, but it happened yesterday and it happened in November of 2001. There’s no place where bad things can’t happen, whether natural or manmade. Have your emergency supplies, disaster plans, and ways of being notified. Pay attention and be prepared. Nobody thinks bad things will happen to them … but they do.
November 15, 2013
The Publishing Plan
At the moment I have two short stories sent in to science fiction magazines, a third to a writing contest, and a revised novel to a publisher, and I’m waiting to start the editing process on a second novel that’s been accepted by Whiskey Creek Press (The Notorious Ian Grant). There’s also a self-published novella that should come out early next year, and a space opera series I’m working on that you’ll hear more about next year.
That’s certainly the most number of my babies I’ve ever had out in the cold, cruel publishing world at the same time … and I’ve got two more novels that just need a little polishing before they’re ready to go. It’ll be a juggling act, but my plan is to keep them all out there until they’re sold.
Oh – and my friend Barry Parham donated a copy of Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights to his local library down in South Carolina! Another print copy has also been sold through CreateSpace to someone in England. My plan for 2014: Keep the momentum going.
That’s certainly the most number of my babies I’ve ever had out in the cold, cruel publishing world at the same time … and I’ve got two more novels that just need a little polishing before they’re ready to go. It’ll be a juggling act, but my plan is to keep them all out there until they’re sold.
Oh – and my friend Barry Parham donated a copy of Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights to his local library down in South Carolina! Another print copy has also been sold through CreateSpace to someone in England. My plan for 2014: Keep the momentum going.
November 14, 2013
book review: Final Hours
Long overdue review of Final Hours, by N.L. Beishir:
http://www.amazon.com/review/R22P09VQ...
Yeah, I’m trying to catch up on some six or eight books I meant to review … some of which I haven’t even had time to read yet. I will say I don’t plan to leave a review on a book I wouldn’t recommend, so you won’t see many one or two stars from me. Also, after a great deal of consideration, I’m thinking the only way a book will get a five star review from me is if a bookmark reaches out while I’m reading and feeds me chocolate … especially since I’ve heard many readers mistrust books with multiple five star reviews. That’s the system I came up with.
http://www.amazon.com/review/R22P09VQ...
Yeah, I’m trying to catch up on some six or eight books I meant to review … some of which I haven’t even had time to read yet. I will say I don’t plan to leave a review on a book I wouldn’t recommend, so you won’t see many one or two stars from me. Also, after a great deal of consideration, I’m thinking the only way a book will get a five star review from me is if a bookmark reaches out while I’m reading and feeds me chocolate … especially since I’ve heard many readers mistrust books with multiple five star reviews. That’s the system I came up with.
November 13, 2013
Turning on furnace gets cool reception
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
This has been the fourth year out of the last five when my furnace didn’t want to work in the fall. Who can blame it, really? My internal energy source also goes out this time of year.
My house is heated by water—not steam, but hot water that circulates through radiators. Downstairs it’s the nicest, most even heat I’ve ever had. On the second floor … well, it doesn’t get to the second floor. It used to. There’s one radiator up there, and it compares to the others the way a weak early January sun compares to a clear August day when the sun strips your skin off.
My furnace dates back to the mid 70’s. According to my research, that makes the boiler just middle aged, by hot water furnace standards. But I’m also middle aged, and some days I can barely make it down the stairs to where the heat is. Has my furnace been eating donuts for breakfast, ice cream for lunch, and Mountain Dew for supper, the way I did before my wife beat me into submission? Is it possible it needs … I don’t know … maintenance? (For those who don’t know, maintenance is that stuff other people do in their homes. I’ve been meaning to try it.)
Speaking as a person who once had a sink trap explode in his face, I feel very strongly that my best approach to home heating systems is to not touch them. Still, there are times when I’ve had to, and those times usually ended badly.
In the spring I have to shut the furnace down, which isn’t much of a problem. Power equipment often shuts down when I touch it.
In the fall I have to start it up, and that’s where the trouble begins. Starting the pilot light? That involves natural gas, and matches, and me. I’m pretty good at putting out fires, but I’m also pretty good at self-first aid, and I’d rather not do either in my own home. I used to wear eye protection when lighting the pilot, but after thinking about it I’ve taken to putting on a full face mask. People look ridiculous without eyebrows. Also, I’ve had this mustache for forty years … that’s my longest successful relationship.
About half the time the pilot, after lighting just fine, refuses to stay lit. Cursing doesn’t help. That usually means I have to replace something called a thermocouple, or thermalcouple, or thermoscoffee, or something like that. By which I mean someone else has to replace it. I try to cycle through all my family members, so they don’t get too tired of me.
This item apparently—and I’m just guessing here—couples things thermally. Once it’s up and running we proceed to stage two, which is figuring out what else doesn’t work. Once it was some doodad electrical thingy on the side of the furnace, which apparently does … something. But, when it’s not the pilot light, it’s usually the thermostat.
I just had my thermostat replaced for the third time. This is apparently unusual, which makes me wonder what I’m doing wrong. (Could it be it’s not my fault? Maybe, but I gotta go with the odds.)
This year the pilot started just fine, with no burned hair smell in the basement. Then I turned on the thermostat and—surprise!—the heat kicked right on. It heated the place up to 68 degrees, then kicked off. Then didn’t come back on again.
Naturally, I checked the pilot light, which was just fine. It was the only warm place in the house. Being a methodical person, I then went to the thermostat and dialed it all the way back and forth about twenty times. The heat came back on, and I declared to everyone who would listen that I had fixed the problem.
You take your victories where you can get them.
Then it shut back off, leaving me faced with the challenge of turning the thermostat like a ship’s wheel every time we needed heat. In the dead of winter, in a house that old, that would mean duct taping myself to the wall at night so I could set an alarm and reach over to twist the heat on every half an hour.
I’m not sure that old wall would hold me, and the dog already thinks I’m crazy as it is.
So I spun what I call my 911 Wheel: brother, dad, step-dad, coworker, stranger on the street who seems to have some mechanical aptitude … and it landed on my son-in-law. He’s a mechanical genius, quite capable of fixing or maintaining anything. When I win the lottery I plan to make him my chief engineer, if he’ll let me call him “Scotty”. I just don’t know if he can do the accent.
In theory there’s a happy ending: Thanks to him we now have a working heat source in our home, outside of building a fire in the bathtub. (Not that I’ve ever done that—and by the way, pull the shower curtains away, first.)
But now I have a programmable thermostat. In theory, that’s an improvement.
In practice … now I have something that can break down mechanically and electronically.
This has been the fourth year out of the last five when my furnace didn’t want to work in the fall. Who can blame it, really? My internal energy source also goes out this time of year.
My house is heated by water—not steam, but hot water that circulates through radiators. Downstairs it’s the nicest, most even heat I’ve ever had. On the second floor … well, it doesn’t get to the second floor. It used to. There’s one radiator up there, and it compares to the others the way a weak early January sun compares to a clear August day when the sun strips your skin off.
My furnace dates back to the mid 70’s. According to my research, that makes the boiler just middle aged, by hot water furnace standards. But I’m also middle aged, and some days I can barely make it down the stairs to where the heat is. Has my furnace been eating donuts for breakfast, ice cream for lunch, and Mountain Dew for supper, the way I did before my wife beat me into submission? Is it possible it needs … I don’t know … maintenance? (For those who don’t know, maintenance is that stuff other people do in their homes. I’ve been meaning to try it.)
Speaking as a person who once had a sink trap explode in his face, I feel very strongly that my best approach to home heating systems is to not touch them. Still, there are times when I’ve had to, and those times usually ended badly.
In the spring I have to shut the furnace down, which isn’t much of a problem. Power equipment often shuts down when I touch it.
In the fall I have to start it up, and that’s where the trouble begins. Starting the pilot light? That involves natural gas, and matches, and me. I’m pretty good at putting out fires, but I’m also pretty good at self-first aid, and I’d rather not do either in my own home. I used to wear eye protection when lighting the pilot, but after thinking about it I’ve taken to putting on a full face mask. People look ridiculous without eyebrows. Also, I’ve had this mustache for forty years … that’s my longest successful relationship.
About half the time the pilot, after lighting just fine, refuses to stay lit. Cursing doesn’t help. That usually means I have to replace something called a thermocouple, or thermalcouple, or thermoscoffee, or something like that. By which I mean someone else has to replace it. I try to cycle through all my family members, so they don’t get too tired of me.
This item apparently—and I’m just guessing here—couples things thermally. Once it’s up and running we proceed to stage two, which is figuring out what else doesn’t work. Once it was some doodad electrical thingy on the side of the furnace, which apparently does … something. But, when it’s not the pilot light, it’s usually the thermostat.
I just had my thermostat replaced for the third time. This is apparently unusual, which makes me wonder what I’m doing wrong. (Could it be it’s not my fault? Maybe, but I gotta go with the odds.)
This year the pilot started just fine, with no burned hair smell in the basement. Then I turned on the thermostat and—surprise!—the heat kicked right on. It heated the place up to 68 degrees, then kicked off. Then didn’t come back on again.
Naturally, I checked the pilot light, which was just fine. It was the only warm place in the house. Being a methodical person, I then went to the thermostat and dialed it all the way back and forth about twenty times. The heat came back on, and I declared to everyone who would listen that I had fixed the problem.
You take your victories where you can get them.
Then it shut back off, leaving me faced with the challenge of turning the thermostat like a ship’s wheel every time we needed heat. In the dead of winter, in a house that old, that would mean duct taping myself to the wall at night so I could set an alarm and reach over to twist the heat on every half an hour.
I’m not sure that old wall would hold me, and the dog already thinks I’m crazy as it is.
So I spun what I call my 911 Wheel: brother, dad, step-dad, coworker, stranger on the street who seems to have some mechanical aptitude … and it landed on my son-in-law. He’s a mechanical genius, quite capable of fixing or maintaining anything. When I win the lottery I plan to make him my chief engineer, if he’ll let me call him “Scotty”. I just don’t know if he can do the accent.
In theory there’s a happy ending: Thanks to him we now have a working heat source in our home, outside of building a fire in the bathtub. (Not that I’ve ever done that—and by the way, pull the shower curtains away, first.)
But now I have a programmable thermostat. In theory, that’s an improvement.
In practice … now I have something that can break down mechanically and electronically.
November 12, 2013
Smoky Days at the library
Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights: A Century Or So With The Albion Fire Department is now a library book.
The Noble County Public Library has four copies: one each at the Albion, Cromwell, and Avilla branches, and a forth at the Albion branch in the genealogy/reference area. I know, right? I’m a reference book! So much for all those gym teachers who said I’d never amount to anything.
That puts my name on three books at those libraries: Smoky Days, Storm Chaser, and My Funny Valentine … and they’ve already expressed interest in getting The Notorious Ian Grant when it comes out next year. Here’s the library’s website:
http://www.nobleco.lib.in.us/
Too bad Storm Chaser Shorts is only out as an e-book but, as usual, you can order any of them from my website at www.markrhunter.com, not to mention Amazon, while the novel and short story collection are at www.barnesandnoble.com, and www.whiskeycreekpress.com.
The Noble County Public Library has four copies: one each at the Albion, Cromwell, and Avilla branches, and a forth at the Albion branch in the genealogy/reference area. I know, right? I’m a reference book! So much for all those gym teachers who said I’d never amount to anything.
That puts my name on three books at those libraries: Smoky Days, Storm Chaser, and My Funny Valentine … and they’ve already expressed interest in getting The Notorious Ian Grant when it comes out next year. Here’s the library’s website:
http://www.nobleco.lib.in.us/
Too bad Storm Chaser Shorts is only out as an e-book but, as usual, you can order any of them from my website at www.markrhunter.com, not to mention Amazon, while the novel and short story collection are at www.barnesandnoble.com, and www.whiskeycreekpress.com.
