Keys, An Outhouse, And A 57 Chevy

It wasn't fair. That's what I remember. I used to do things when I was young. I've been told that I would do things just because someone told me not to. Now, I don't believe it...... although I do take full responsibility for pulling cats tails, throwing rocks at chickens and the mile long white line down the middle of the road (another future story). But this time it just wasn't fair. It just happened, that's all, it just happened !!!!

Near as I can remember, I must have been 6 or so. My brother Mike had a 57 Chevy. It was green...... green with the big chrome fins on the back. Really a pretty car and a collectors item even in 1962. Mike had taken me and a couple of distant cousins from California up the Umpqua River to do some fishing. I don't remember much about fishing that day. What I do remember was having to answer nature's call really bad.

The rivers in western Oregon flow down to the Pacific from high in the Cascades. Along the corridor of the Umpqua River the water flows through canyons flanked by towering mountains covered by equally towering fir and pine trees. Nestled among these trees along the river are campgrounds that are unequalled anywhere I have been. Many of the campsites are as close as a few feet from the water. With the river flowing down the canyons tumbling over volcanic rocks, there is a constant and relaxing sound that once you have heard it, stays with you for the rest of your life. This is the setting for this story, a camp ground along a beautiful river high in the Oregon mountains.

We parked the car in an available campsite as most folks do, and went up the river a ways to get to the best place to fish. Those of you who have fished fast moving rivers know that there are good spots, and better spots. These spots change at any time, based on water height, clarity of the water, temperature, and what bugs are flying around. Being around 6 I had no appreciation for these facts other than I knew fish were in the river, and they ate bugs. If bugs were attached to your fishing line, then they might eat your bug, and wind up as dinner. I think that's a pretty good summary of a 6 year old's understanding of fishing. Needless to say, I got bored, and I'm sure I became more of a nuisance than an good little brother.

The time came when I just had to go. Being a typical 6 year old farm boy, I was perfectly happy to find a tree, which as described earlier, was easy. There are trees everywhere, and each one was inviting. But that's not the relief I was looking for. I have always been confused about the whole #1 and #2 thing. I remember in the second grade being really anxious because we were supposed to know which was which, but I could never keep it straight. Both have the possibility to be equally urgent, but for some reason it made a big difference to Mrs. Clark, who apparently was keeping track statistically. If you raised your hand to use the restroom, you were supposed to show one finger or two fingers. Now that doesn't seem too difficult, but I remember that it didn't really matter which fingers I put up, I still was not allowed to leave the classroom. That's probably why it was so confusing to me. If it didn't matter, why the choice in finger count........ anyway, I had to go what I now understand to be #2, which does not necessitate a tree. If anyone reading this blog has a different understanding of what #2 signifies, please let me know........... on second thought, don't. I'd just get confused again. On with the story........

Somehow, I convinced my brother that I had to go to the outhouse back at the campground. I remember that it was within sight of where we were on the river, so it's not like I was a 6 year old wandering through the woods. What happened next I have not been able to remember why exactly.......... I was supposed to get something from the car. So........I had my brother's keys.

As I headed up the trail Mike hollered after me "don't drop the keys down the hole!!!" I remember those words exactly..... I can hear his voice....... I can see the green trees and the path I was walking on. I can see the river behind him as I looked back and yelled "I won't!!!"
As I walked I said to myself; "don't drop the keys down the hole, don't drop the keys down the hole, don't drop the keys down the hole".

I got what I needed from the car, what ever it was, and headed for the outhouse. I kept repeating "Don't drop the keys down the hole". It was your standard wooden US Forest Service red outhouse with a single door. Back then there were no plastic "cubicles" or fancy molded fixtures. "Don't drop the keys down the hole". These were wooden buildings built over a big hole in the ground and the door had a big spring on it that swung the door back shut with a bang. There wasn't smelly foo foo chemicals to make them smell better either. So guess what...... they stunk. "Don't drop the keys down the hole". So there I was, feeling confident and trusted, but about to open a door that I knew was going to hit me in the butt when I walked in. "Don't drop the keys down the hole". And then, I'd be in that dark, unlit little room with a bottomless pit beneath a hole in the bench that was big enough to swallow me up. I walked up to the outhouse, made sure I had a good grip on the keys, "don't drop the keys down the hole", and pulled the big heavy door opened. I gave it a big pull, hard enough to swing wide so I could jump inside, which I did with all the energy of 6 years. As I stood there, looking at that gaping hole in the bench in front of me, the door slammed back shut, sure enough, smacking me in the rear and knocking me even closer to that bottomless pit. At that point slow motion life took over. People talk about seeing their life flash before them, or seeing the accident in slow motion. I had both. My life flashed before me, which didn't take long because, after all, I was 6. But the slow motion thing I can still see in my mind. The door hit me in the butt and the keys went flying through the air. How they left my hand I do not know. It was like a movie in slow motion...... like when Ralphie hits the hubcap full of lug nuts and they go flying (Christmas Story). Only with me, it was the keys. They went high in the air and landed about an inch to the right of the hole, bounced once, and slid ever-so-slowly slightly to the left. Then, like a slinky, they disappeared into the darkness. All the while I could hear "don't drop the keys down the hole". It seemed like forever, I was in denial....... until I heard the tell tail "splat". Not a splash, not a thud or a plunk, but a gooshie, wet, gooey "splat", and I just knew my life was over. Just as I was coming out of the outhouse door, brother Mike and my cousins were coming up the path from the river. Yep, my short life was over.

I had nothing..... nope.... nothing. No reason, no excuse, no root cause or underlying cause, no earthquake or attacking wildlife, nope.... nothing. It was me, all me. There was nothing I could say other than "I don't know what happened". I still think, after all these years, that hearing that from me had to sound really lame, coming from a kid that was usually guilty of everything. Having survived the initial allocution, we peered down the hole and decided there must be a better way to get home.

Mike's 57 Chevy had a funny quirk. You could remove the keys from the ignition with the engine running. The ignition had "wings" on it much like today's cars, and even with the keys out, you could turn the car on and off, provided the key was never turned all the way to the left before the keys were removed. There was an anxious moment as we looked at the ignition switch in the car. Hallelujah !!! We didn't need the keys !!!!!

When I see that outhouse at Eagle Rock campground on the North Umpqua, I know that there's a set of keys at the bottom of that bottomless pit that fit a shiny green 57 Chevy with chrome fins. Several things remind me of that day. When I put the keys in my ignition, because it's shaped the same way, when I open an outhouse door, when I go fishing. All those things remind me of that day, but what I remember the most is that my brother Mike did not get mad, did not raise his voice, and did not make me feel bad. Most of all, he did not accuse me of doing it on purpose, and I'll always be grateful to him for that.

Lesson Learned?
Outhouses have big heavy doors, and big brothers are kind and forgiving.

Object Lesson?
Whether it's keys to a 57 Chevy or a cell phone, pants have pockets that should be used BEFORE entering outhouses.

Have a great week !!

Martin

You Shouldn't Shoot Skunks Under the House

There are things you learn in life, and things you shouldn't have to learn. I think this story falls into the latter category. It's another one of those "seemed like a good idea at the time" things, like driving into the river mentioned in one of my previous posts. Anyway, here's how it went as best as I can remember.

We lived in a big house on a ranch in the country in western Oregon. Now, for those of you that have enjoyed rural living, you are probably well acquainted with the critters in nature that live there with you. I mean after all, their grandparents probably lived there for uncounted generations before your house was built. They probably sat around watching the neighborhood grow, and if they were like the rest of us, they waited until the workers left for the day and then walked through what was soon to be a completed house (I hope I'm not the only one who does that). Well, our house had been there for a few years by this time, but that didn't mean we had any fewer wildlife visitors. Seems there was quite often deer, quail, possums, raccoons, snakes, and of course the ever present skunks.

When I was in junior high we were relocating the water heater and had to re-route the supply lines under the house. The timing for doing this was such that my sister Susan and Mom had gone for the last part of spring break to stay with another sister that lived in Portland. Since it was just going to be Dad and I at home for the rest of the week, it seemed like a good time to do some remodeling. Looking back now, it seems that when we were the only ones home is when Dad and I usually got in the most trouble. I think that gets passed from generation to generation. At least my family would probably say so. Anyway.... we had crawled under the house to do the pipe work. It was muddy under there. The spring rains had soaked into the ground and the way that part of the house was situated, during the rainy season there was always some run-off from the hill behind the house that found its way into the crawl space. This meant it was cool, damp, full of spiders, and of course only enough room to scoot along on your stomach or back, wiggling through the mud. After doing some things under the house that afternoon, we quit for the day, leaving the crawl space cover off. Mistake #1.

The next day while under the house, Dad and I got wind of a very familiar smell. From the title of this post you can probably guess what it was. Being "farm folk" we had been exposed to this smell over the years on accident. This time was different. We were crawling head first into a black hole,.......the black hole of spiders, snakes, worms and now skunks. I remember thinking that what we smelled was just what the skunks had left behind, kind of like you can tell when a wet dog had briefly snuck in the door. They are not there, but you can tell they had been.

We had flash lights with us, since we were under the house about 30 feet or so where there was no light. To get there was a maze. We had to crawl into the hole, make a 90 degree turn to the left, shimmy about 5 feet, turn 90 degrees to the right, slide in the mud about 20 feet, turn 90 degrees left, slide again about 5 feet, then turn right and wiggle about 8 feet to where the pipes would go through the floor. This process took all of 5 minutes, longer when you stopped to look at the spider that was looking at you just before the light went dead.

Well, there we were, at the end of the maze, drilling holes in the floor while the faint but unmistakable fragrance of skunk filled the stale air under the house. While Dad was drilling, I took the opportunity to flash my light around the black hole we were in. Across the width of the house, and looking across the bottom of the floor joists, I could see multiple spider webs, shiny slug trails, beetle carcasses, and a shed snake skin. Down the length of the house parallel with the joists, I could see much further, and more spider webs, slug trails, bugs hanging in webs, and 3 sets of eyes sparkling in the flashlight beam. Each of these sets of eyes was separated down the middle by a white stripe. Being a pretty sharp kid, I remembered that the white stripe and the ever present odor went hand in hand. We had company in the black hole.

There is a moment that comes in life where you have a choice to make. Like if you are going to run out of gas, should you drive slower to make it last?, or drive faster to get there before you run out?. The choice here was do we play Mexican Standoff and see who twitches first, or get the heck out of Dodge, risking a confrontation that we would probably lose. Now Dad, I knew from experience, was pretty effective at making your eyes water. But I don't think the skunks knew that, so leaving Dodge was the more prudent of options. I was, surprisingly, able to get Dad's attention without causing too much excitement among our new friends. That is until we headed for the opening. At that point Dad was about the same age as me today. But no way could I move as fast today as he did then. It was a scramble for the light, the square opening at the end of the maze, a scramble to safety and fresh air. A race between Dad and me would have been fine, but this was a race between Dad, me and 3 sets of eyes. And they had racing stripes !!!

Well, this story isn't about having a close call that day with the skunks. This is about what came next. As we talked about what to do next, the main concern was to get the skunks out from under the house. Over the course of the week we tried several tactics, including putting cat food at the opening with the intent of closing the cover when they came out. The main problem with this is that skunks come out at night, and hide during the day. The plan didn't work. And the cats ate the food. This became mistake #2.

Desperation set in. It was Saturday of spring break and Mom and my Sister Susan were coming home on Sunday. We had to get the water heater project done before they got home, which meant we had to get the skunks out. The discussion turned to "if they were shot, would they spray?'. This was the beginning of mistake #3.

Dad always thought I was a good shot with the 22 rifle. It was a great rifle, a Winchester pump, and at that close range of about 20 feet I didn't see how I could miss. We crawled back under the house and prepared to do the deed. Funny how when you get frustrated you always look for a bigger stick, figuratively speaking. Having a 22 rifle I guess we figured we had the weapon of mass destruction. And after all, we were men with a rifle........ what could go wrong?
Ahhhhhh.... Mistake #3.

As dad held the light and I leveled my sights on the first set of eyes I remember thinking "how am I going to hit all three with one shot?". Well...... I didn't have to think for long, or fire a shot for that matter. It soon became obvious that the skunks had a plan too. As I was about to pull the trigger, the lead skunk charged toward the light, mouth open, hissing and chattering loudly. Imagine if you will, laying on your stomach in the mud in a very cramped position, unable to move quickly in any direction, having a screaming skunk charging at you through the darkness from 20 feet away. The last thing I wanted to do was start shooting. I wish the skunk had felt the same way. There was no way I could get out of his way, or Dad's either. Both the skunk and Dad were trying to get out of Dodge and I was blocking the path. The skunk being small and quick shot past us stopping long enough to raise it's tail and fire about 2 feet from my face. This was followed by skunk #2 who also gave us both barrels, and then skunk #3 who was a baby about 3 or 4 months old ran by spraying as it ran and stopped, ran and stopped all the way out the crawl hole. Don't let anyone tell you that baby skunks don't smell as bad. They do.

So, big tough guys with a gun got hit with the original weapon of mass destruction. We lost without firing a shot. This was bad enough in itself. But it was to be worse than that. To name the obvious, it's Saturday, we got hit by 3 skunks from 2 feet away, the weapons of mass destruction were set off UNDER the house, so everything inside burns your eyes with the oh so sweet aroma. This means clothes, furniture, bedding, food, clothes, shoes, clothes......... did I mention clothes? Not just any clothes, like Dad's and mine, but also the clothes of the two ladies of the house that will be coming home the next day, unaware, tired from the long drive. Back to school on Monday....... Panic set in.........

Luckily the wind was blowing. We opened every window and door, letting the wind blow through the house all night. That took away the burning, but nothing could take away the part of skunk smell that stays around for weeks. I don't remember exactly what happened when my Mom and Susan got home. I know it wasn't good. If I remember right, I was trying to stay scarce, and stay out of the house. I do remember we ate out a lot and did a lot of ranch work the next few weeks. School was a different story, but not as bad as I had feared. I smelled like skunk. No doubt about it. But that was a common occurrence in that part of the country. Luckily I was not alone that week. A few others had been spewed during spring break. We ate lunch together.

What did I learn from this experience?
Two things.......






Tomato Juice is a wonderful thing. I don't know how many quarts we bought that Saturday, but it was enough to fill the tub a few inches.






Stand-offs escalate. A 22 rifle is no match for weapons of mass destruction.


Have a great week, and be kind to our furry friends.
Martin

PS. No animals were harmed in writing this blog.

Sheep Dung and Mr Lengele

It's bad to have something stuck to your shoe, or stuck anywhere on you for that matter. Like wearing your lunch on the front of your shirt or blouse because you attacked that juicy sandwhich from the wrong angle. Or more appropriate to this story, walking out of a public restroom with Charmin trailing along behind you. That's another story, and now that you have recalled something in your past that you'd rather forget, imagine having something worse than that tagging along behind you all day, every day......... Bummer huh? Bummer is a term I heard as a kid raising sheep. A bummer was a lamb that was an orphan, or that had been abandoned my it's mom. Maybe that's where the 70's term came from. It had many uses, fitting into any subject from "bummer of a zit man", to "drafted? bummer man" I think it's time to bring that phrase back, but that's not what this story is about. It's about sheep, but not necessarily bummer lambs.

When I was a few months old my family bought a ranch in Lookingglass Oregon. It was a pretty place, with red barns with white stripes, wooden fences painted white and orchards full of apple, plum and pear trees. There were green pastures dotted with white fluffy sheep sweeping northward toward a flowing creek at the base of the hills that rimmed the valley.

My earliest memory is at about 3 years old I would guess. I am guessing 3 because when the sheep were in the corral, I remember looking them square in the eye, and the sheep weren't standing on their toes. I always thought they wanted to EAT me. Seeing a flock of sheep spread across green fields brings warm fuzzies and memories of watching the movie "Babe", however, shearing time with a hundred or so sheep is no short or easy task. I remember the process; get the sheep in the pens, funnel them into the west side of the barn, and then grab what ever sheep you can get your hands on. The next step was to route them into the shearer for the wool removal. This removal was done by a man with an incredibly strong back. He would work all day, bent over those sheep, shearing off the wool with lightening speed and gentleness. I swear he knew each sheep personally, because as soon as they were in his hands, they laid back without a care in the world and allowed the shearing to take place.

The wool would be gathered and stuffed into a very tall gunny sack. These sacks were suspended from a hoop on a stand that was about ten feet in the air. You had to stand in the back of the pickup to reach the opening to get the wool into the sack. After the sack was full, it was tied off and another sack was started. Later, the sacks full of wool would be loaded into the truck and hauled into the co-op to be sold. When we went to town with the wool, I had to stay in the truck, because I was so little, and there was a lot of activity going on as the men at the rail car would unload the wool. I could see Dad as he sold the wool, but I was never allowed out of the cab of the truck.

Here's where my job came in. I don't know how young I was when I was given this job, but it seems like I was very young like I mentioned above. As the shearer trimmed the wool off the sheep, he would trim off the manure that was clinging to the back of the sheep. If the sheep was carrying a lot of wool, there would be quite a lot of these "tags" as we called them. I don't know if that's what they are really called, but that's what we called them. That's what I am referring to at the beginning of this story. Seems like it would be a real bummer to have those things hanging off your rear for all the world to see. Worse yet for the sheep, they dry into a hard ball a little larger than a golf ball and when the sheep walks or runs, it sounds like a wooden wind chime flapping in the wind. Seems like that would be pretty embarrassing. Anyway, back to the story......

All the "tags" that were trimmed off the back of the sheep were tossed out the door of the barn for me to pick up. I'd gather these up, pull off any clean wool that may be attached, then put them into a standard size gunny sack. When the shearing was done and we sold the wool, Dad would give me a couple of bucks, which I thought was big money !! We sold all the sheep when I was about 8, and switched to cattle.

Fast forward to 1972:

I had a friend in high school school named Laura Lengele. She lived on a farm in Tenmile, another valley close by. We would talk about our life experiences living on a farm, and one day when I was 16 she asked me if I could help her dad shear sheep. Being ready to impress a pretty girl, I readily agreed and showed up on a sunny Saturday. They had 50 or so sheep if I remember right, so it took us the better part of the day to get them all done. We used the same process that was used when I was a kid, with one exception. Mr. Lengele didn't collect the "tags" into a gunny sack. When I asked him, he said he wasn't aware that you could do this, so I found a sack, and gathered them up, again picking the good wool off and making sure I got all the valuable tags into the bag. This properly impressed Mr. Lengele as well as his pretty daughter who reluctantly helped me separate wool from dung. To top it off, I had a pickup, so I told Mr. Lengele that I'd be happy to haul the wool into town for him. It was a sunny day, I made some points, life was good !!

We did a lot of business at the Farmer's Co-op, so, being a small town, it was not uncommon for the guys at the Co-op to greet you by name as you walked in. This was my first trip to the Co-op to sell wool on my own, but hey....... I remembered the process from when I was a kid, so I was pretty sure I could handle it. I walked up to the counter and told the guys I had a few bags of wool to be credited to Mr. Lengele's account, and also a couple sacks of "tags". The guys looked at me with a puzzled look on their face, until one of the older guys that had been there for many years looked at me and busted out laughing. "Aren't you Art Loerts' son?" he asked. "Yep" I replied, "but I'm helping the Lengele's today, this is their wool and tags". They all started laughing at that point, and the older guy said "son, we don't buy 'tags', we always tossed them in the trash for your dad". The only thing I could think of to say was "you mean I don't get my 5 bucks???"
Well, that got them all rolling on the floor.

When I got home and walked in to the house Dad asked how the day went. I told him "the shearing went fine, did you know 'tags' were up to $15 a bag ? How come I always only got a couple of bucks?" He had his back turned and I could see that he was trying not to laugh, then he turned around and started laughing so hard that he was snorting. Now that I think about it, I heard the question "Aren't you Art Loerts' son?" a lot over the years. I wonder........

Then came my next problem........

Being so confident that I knew all about shearing sheep, I had told Mr. Lengele and his daughter that the "tags" used to bring a few bucks a bag 10 years earlier, so I'd bet they were a lot more valuable now. He wanted to know how much they brought, and I was to give the credit receipt for the wool and the tags to Laura at school on Monday. This was a long time ago, but I remember Laura sitting there at school, intently listening to me relate this story, then staring at me for a few seconds trying to maintain a straight face..... which of course she could not. Being the sweet girl that she was, she tried......but what started out as an understanding chuckle quickly turned into hysterical laughter. So much for impressing Mr. Lengele and a pretty girl.

Object lesson?
Even though you may be proud of all the "tags" in your bag, you may be the only one impressed.

I'll bet sheep say the word bummer. Only in sheep talk. Like heeeeeeeey Fluuuuuuuffy, you miiiiiiiissed the sheeeeeeareer. Yourrrrr buuuuutt loooooks awwwwful. Buuuuummmmmmmmrr duuuuude !!!!

Have a great week,
Martin

Bucking Septic Tank

To start with, you read the title correctly. Yes, it says "Bucking" Septic Tank. Now I'm sure this brings to mind many ideas as to what this is referring to. As many as there are readers anyway. So I'll say this..... you can read it literally. I was bucked off a septic tank. If you're still interested....read on for the rest of the story.

My grandparents lived in a house next door to my parents on the ranch in Lookingglass. It was a home built in the early 40's I'd guess, and they were experiencing the dreaded 'septic sink hole' problem. The tank was made of cedar, and the top had finally rotted through, meaning the whole tank had to be dug out and a new one installed. We hired a backhoe to do the digging, and my dad and I did the rest.

The replacement tank was to be a 1200 gallon white plastic tank.
These tanks are pretty cool actually, as septic tanks go. They are sleek in design... almost pleasing to look at, and very direct in their functionality. They only have to do one thing. Store ....... well you know, poo. And they do it very well. Too bad no one can see how well they work, cos they're underground !!!

Anyway, continuing on....

The tank was situated about 30 feet west of the house, with the feed line crossing the yard about 2 feet underground. The hole was dug to fit the tank, about 8 feet deep. The tank was placed and the lines hooked up. To comply with local septic code, the tank was covered with sand, which slid down around the tank ensuring it was 'nested' correctly and snugly in it's new resting place. On top of that was placed a layer of topsoil about 6 inches deep so it was like it wasn't even there.

When the lines were laid to the house, we had to turn off the water supply to the house. The main water line from the meter out front crossed right over the septic line to the house, so we had to cut the heavy black PVC water line. After the tank was in, we re-connected the water line, covered the line trenches and stood back to admire our work, which at this point looked like what used to be a big hole in the ground that someone had filled in and nicely raked over.

Properly impressed, Dad and I turned the water back on and I poked my head in my Grandparents door informing them they could use the water, the bathroom and do all those things they had been wanting to do with their septic tank for the past several hours. We then went next door to my parents house and had a richly deserved sandwich or two, or three and a glass of milk. As we sat there, re-living the mornings accomplishments like any septic-tank-conquering-hero's would do, the phone rang.

Being closest to the phone, or because Dad had dozed off, I can't remember which, I answered. It was Grandmother. Now this sometimes was enough to strike fear into the hearts of the brave, and this was no exception. However, the fear I was to know was deeper than I had reckoned. The first words I heard from the other end of the line was "Martin, we don't have any water" said in a grandmotherly but accusatory voice. As I quickly processed this information I deftly transferred the blame and said "Dad must have forgotten to turn it back on, I'll be right there".

I went to the table and grabbed my sandwich, telling Dad I was going down to turn the water on. Dad said, "I thought you did that.... I watched you, remember?" At that moment there occurred one of those instances people talk about, where their life flashes before their eyes and what seems like a large span of time is condensed into a nanosecond. I had one of those. What flashed before me was a conversation I had with the backhoe guy several years earlier when he put in my own septic tank. We did it in February, and he said to fill it immediately with water because even though it was made of concrete, it would float like a beach ball if water got into the hole. This thought hit me right after Dad said "you turned it on". If I had turned it on, like I know I did, and Grandmother said she had no water, that meant the water line where we had cut it and then mended it again had split apart and the the only place the water could go was into the hole WITH the septic tank. This in effect would make a swimming pool of the hole where the tank was. You can probably guess what went through my mind next....... The septic tank is like a beach ball in a swimming pool 8 feet deep, 15 feet long and 6 feet wide that is rapidly filling up with water. The tank is a beach ball...... beach balls float......that's a septic tank.....it's underground..... I have a beach ball underwater....... IT'S GONNA FLOAT!!!!!!

That's what I yelled to my dad as I ran out the door. That and "turn off the water on your way down!!!! As Dad heard this he yelled back to me "it's not going anywhere, what's the hurry?"

As I got to the tank, I could see the sand and dirt had shifted somewhat in the hour or so since we had left. I ran over to it and sat square in the middle of the newly covered hole and underground tank. As I sat there I thought.... "where's Dad......dang it, I should have turned off the water !!!". I forgot dad had two bad knees and wouldn't run down there, in fact he drove !!!

I could hear the water running under ground, full blast out of a 1 inch supply line at full unregulated pressure, which was about 100 psi.. I knew I had made a bad choice, but I didn't dare move.

Dad got to the meter and turned the water off, then walked around the side of the house to see me sitting on the ground with an anxious look on my face, at which point he said "what are you doing?"

"I'm holding the tank down!!!" He started to laugh, which I countered by saying "SHE'S GONNA FLOAT!!". Just then Dad's eyes turned down to the ground I was sitting on. The whole area, 8 feet by 15 feet was shaking like a grain sifter uses a screen to separate wheat from chaff. The sand and dirt that was at ground level was now shifting to the sides and where I was sitting was not level with the surrounding ground any more. I was having a mini earthquake. I was riding a beach ball, holding it underwater with my weight and the weight of the quickly receding sand and dirt. Before any more could be said, the septic tank - beach ball came roaring to the surface. Not just to the surface, but launched !!!! As the tank had been shifting upwards, the dirt and the lines attached to it had held it in place. Once they broke free, the tank shot skyward, with me sitting on top of it like I was breaking a wild horse on the Texas prairie. Imagine a beach ball that held 1200 gallons of air !!! Imagine holding it underwater then releasing it. You get the idea........

Well, the tank went high into the air. I was bucked off the tank somewhere around 12 feet I think. Dad said as he watched the show he could see the entire tractor that was parked on the other side of the hole, so that would make the bottom of the tank about 6 feet in the air. The tank was about 6 feet itself, and I was sitting on top of it, so that's where I get the 12 feet. Being on top of the tank, and weighing less than the tank, I assume I was lifted a bit higher, catapulted like getting bucked off a horse at the rodeo, but how much higher I'll never know. What I do know is that it seemed like it took a long time to come down. Long enough that I was looking for a place to land. There was a pile of dirt and septic sludge next to the hole. You guessed it....... that's where I landed. Now I'm glad I didn't land on the tank, or under the tank, or on the tractor, or in a tree. A slimy pile of soft dirt was just fine. As I lay there, checking bones, I could hear and see Dad laughing so hard he was on his knees holding his stomach. After a few minutes of laughing uncontrollably, and after the pain and tears stopped, we recovered enough to regain some composure. That is until Grandmother shuffled around the corner or the house and asked "will the water be off much longer, your Grandfather has to use the toilet"...........

Object lesson?

Yep........ unless it's full of it, even tanks float.

Have a great week and keep 'er flushed.

Martin

It Didn't Look That Deep !!!

There are things that happen to you. Things that result from what seemed like a good idea at the time. Things that happen because someone else did it to you (my mom seldom believed that either). And things that just happen because you are there. I had a tough time deciding what life experience to share this week, but decided on one that falls under the "good idea at the time" heading.

In the town where I grew up there is a river.... the South Umpqua River to be exact, that runs through the portion of the town where the west side joins the east side. There are two bridges, one for east bound and another for west bound traffic. Between these two bridges is an area of the river where you can drive down into the river bed at low water season and gather rocks. Wonderful round rocks that we call "river rock" in the northwest because.... well just because. They are all sizes, worn round from river erosion and wearing on other rocks. The bedrock will actually have round "bowls" worn in the surface from these boulders moving around due to the river current and over years and years, make the riverbed look like it's covered with craters. This action will also have the same effect on the softer river floor, where water flowing around large boulders, stranded logs etc will dredge out "bowls" on the down stream side of the obstacle. When the water level drops, the result is puddles. Some small like the size of a beach ball, some large like the size of a dump truck. Now that you have visualized this part of this story, it's time to move on to what this story is really about.

We lived on a ranch west of Roseburg. One of the things we would do every summer was to drive the truck down to the river and gather 50 rocks or so and take them back home to use for landscaping the yard. Over the years we had quite a collection, and had built several planters, walls etc from these fantastic rocks. It had become tradition to drive splashing through a certain "bowl" each year when we drove down into the riverbed. The water was always about a foot deep, and would make a huge splash that the kids loved. This particular year was no different. Today it was myself and all four kids, with Cody, the youngest, being about 8 months old. Today it was the same bowl. Today was going to be the best splash ever, because MOM wasn't with us. Today was going to be a great DAD / KIDS bonding day. We headed for the bowl at about 10 mph. The kids squealing, me focused on splashing BIG, engine revved and pedal to the floor as we hit the water. Did I mention the water was ALWAYS "one" foot deep?....... Something happened the previous winter. Apparently the bowl got deeper. "How much deeper?" you are asking? As the water cascaded over the hood of the truck and hit the windshield I was asking myself the same question...... which I soon found out. With the engine dead (well flooded literally) we were pointed at approximately a 45 degree angle and water was over the hood, up to the windshield and coming in around the doors. Now I knew how deep the bowl was. Deep enough to swallow a pickup truck. Since we are all still alive today you have guessed we all got out okay, and we did. But not un-noticed. Did I mention there were two bridges overhead? Yes, two bridges with walkways so the passers-by could look down at the beautiful river, and the red pickup truck half buried in water with its rear end sticking up in the air for all the world to see. Amazing how quickly a crowd gathers....... must have been 30 people watching us climb out of the cab and wade to dry land. That was embarrassing yes, but not as embarrassing as walking all four kids to a friends house and asking them to drive us home to get the tractor. Once home I then had to ask my dad to help me get the truck out of the river. Now you wouldn't think this would be pleasant either, but the fact is I had, over the years, pulled my dad out of creeks, ravines, mud holes, ponds, wells, bogs and ditches enough times that I had learned to never, never ask him how he got in there. I was fortunate that in this rescue he extended me the same courtesy. Never asked.....and I never told. There was a nice crowd gathered as we drove the tractor down into the riverbed to retrieve the red pickup truck with it's rear pointing skyward. Not 30 people this time, but more like 100 on each bridge. 200 pairs of eyes wondering what redneck had driven into the river, and 200 pairs of hands applauding as a big John Deere pulled a waterlogged truck to dry land and the 7 mile tow home.

A moral to the story? Always. There is an object lesson in everything we do. I suspect there are things we do that we shouldn't. Things that even though we have done them before and things worked out fine, we may get surprised. The river is it's own force and does things below the surface that we can't see. Change is inevitable in things you have no control over, and it's wise to always check how deep the water is before you drive ahead full steam. Especially if part of the consequence is wondering what we're going to tell mom when we get home. And yes..... it did seem like a good idea at the time.

Have a great week and stay dry !!
Martin

Smartin

I suppose there's many things a person could be called or would be called or should be called or might want to be called or might not want to be called... The name that seems to have stuck for me as deemed appropriate by my children is a reflection of the manner I would greet people when answering the phone. Never being one to sound to formal over the phone, I would shy away from saying 'This Is Martin' in a very distinct manner. I would simply say the abbreviated version of 'This is Martin', which to some one on the other end, sounds like 'Smartin'. It actually appeals to the natural born process engineering side of my brain because it's expeditious in greeting.

And so, we have the name of this, my new blog. Life of Smartin.