Library Notes
May 22, 2003
By Pansy Hundley, Librarian.
Okay, if you recall, we’re going to finish the tire part of the lawnmower story this week.
After having to stop and air up that back tire on that mower every time she made a round in Cheyenne’s "pasture", Suzanne decided enough was enough.
Outstanding mechanics that we are, we had written down everything we could find on that tire. On the next trip to Wal-mart, we ascertained that they carried the size needed and checked the price. They would give one away for $35.00. Kind of them.
The next problem at hand was to get that wheel off to cart in for exchange. You should bear in mind that that wheel is not attached with bolts like my John Deere. It has the questionable little doohickeys that look as though you push this and pull that and the tire should slip right off? Wrong!
Now, you men out there, don’t smirk at my terminology. I have no earthly idea what you call that thing on that wheel and there was no super-duper lawnmower man around to ask. We will continue to call it a doohickey until someone comes and tells me the legal name for it.
The fact of the matter is, that wheel would probably have slipped right off, had a man been doing the pulling. BUT, when that mower saw two women approaching, determination on their faces, it just clamped down on that wheel and refused to let go. And don’t tell me that machines can’t do that, washing machines, dryers, cars, any of them are capable. You see, all these machines are of the male species. Yeah, they are!
Suzie sat on the ground, propped her feet on that mower and pulled with all her might on that tire. It moved not one inch. She beat on it with a hammer, put WD-40 on it and pulled some more. Nothing gave.
You know, when two controlling women tackle the same project, one has to hold the flashlight or the tool while the other one does the work. There is no way both can be in control at the same time. Suz is usually the controller and I’m the assistant. Unless it becomes necessary to step in and over-control the controller, in a situation where the assistant may have prior knowledge and mechanical knowledge of said project. In such circumstances, voices do tend to get a little raised sometimes. In which case, you men should just sneak off somewhere, keep your mouths closed and know that peace will rein again shortly.
Back to the wheel. We walked to the other side of the mower and closely examined the other wheel to compare to the stubborn feller.
Suz returned to the ground, grasped that wheel again and lining it up as nearly as she could with the way the other doohickey looked, pulled with all her might again.
Gradually that thing began to slowly move, and finally came loose. We could have yelled with elation at the final success.
We hauled that flat, stinkin’ tire to Wal-mart and told them to put a new tire on it. But not one that was flat and had a leaking plug in the side of it.
New tire in hand, after doing some other shopping, we took ourselves home. It was dark by then. So we put the tire back on, by flashlight, and it went on much easier than it came off.
Too late to mow. So we pushed it back into the shed to await another day. That other day came the next afternoon. We gassed up, checked oil and rolled that dude out. It started right up. But we had discovered that the blade was now engaging when the mower was cranked. Not right!
I was standing to the side and I could see the sparks flying as the blade turned. I yelled over the racket, "Turn it off, sparks are flying." And she did.
The last time the belt was put back on the pulleys, something did not go around something as it should have. Everything was shut down and we rolled it back into the shed. We’re gonna wear it out, pushing it around.
Suzie has no book that tells her how the belt should be routed. So, what did she do? Got on the Internet, naturally. Found a book for the mower, paid $7.00 for the stinkin’ book that should have been free from the company.
The book has arrived and as soon as the opportunity, and the mood, presents themselves and the high grass and weeds get too high to be ignored, we shall endeavor once again to belt that machine and mow Cheyenne’s "pasture."
We will trust that all tires are standing straight and tall, The gas tank is full. The belt is on correctly. The thing will start. And we can mow til the cows come home or it gets too dark to see the grass and weeds. And we’ll be back in control!
Well, I’m plumb tuckered out, after all that work. So, let’s do what we always do when all else fails, read a book! And what other book should we read, than one written by the man who wrote about my best mystery in this library, "Nathan’s Run". His name is John Gilstrap and this latest effort of his is entitled "Scott Free".
"Sherry Carrigan O’Toole can’t seem to apply the prescriptions she offers in her best selling self-help books to her own life. Six years after her marriage to Brandon disintegrated and he won custody of their son, Scott, there’s no room in their lives for her. Hoping to win back the teenager’s heart, Sherry arranges a week’s skiing at the plush Sky Top Village resort.
But Scott has other plans. Determined to evade his mother’s clutches, he jumps at the chance to join a foolhardy adventure: flying a Cessna through a nighttime storm to Salt Lake City for a Metallica concert. After the plane crashes, Scott is lost and alone in the frozen wilderness, miles from anywhere anyone would search for him.
As Brandon and Sherry revisit the old battles that tore them apart, they have to fight a bureaucracy that wants to abandon the search even as their son struggles to survive impossible odds.
Barely alive, Scott finally finds a cabin for shelter. He thinks his troubles are over. When he discovers the truth about the man who lives there, however, it’s clear that his terror has hardly begun."