All Volkswagens came from the factory with a rudimentary kit of tools as standard equipment. At the dealer each new vehicle was usually gifted with a spare fan belt and complimentary set of spare fuses. Up through the early 1970's it was not uncommon to find these things, untouched and even unopened in many cases, in older Volkswagens at wrecking yards. The tools were unused because the owner had no need of them, thanks to the presence of a Volkswagen dealer in almost every town of any size. Times have changed.
While there are still a few Volkswagen dealers around most of them sell other brands of automobiles as well. Seeing ‘VW’ on a car dealer’s sign today is no assurance they even have a Volkswagen on their lot, VW parts in their storeroom or a mechanic on staff with more than a passing familiarity with an early air cooled veedub.
“You don’t see many of these nowadays,” he says as he opens the engine hatch and stands looking, mystified.
Of course, you see it every day. The only one mystified is the mechanic. Today, your best mechanic is you.
So we carry our own tools... as Volkswagen intended. And carry a few spares, too. The most important spare on board is a new fan belt, for the engine’s cooling system depends entirely on that belt. And the electrical system, too.
One belt. So we carry a spare. Or two.
Fuses are good. Older bugs and buses need only the two sizes -- eight and sixteen amps -- and most of us have learned the wisdom of using the better quality Buss (brand name) GBC-type over the original Bosch or Siemens fuse, with their exposed strip of fuse material.
We tend to not carry the things for which we already have two, such as headlights, tail-light bulbs or wiper blades. But the thoughtful do. And think a bit more, wondering ‘What do I have just one of that might keep me from getting home?’ and in their thoughtfulness add a throttle wire and clutch cable to their load.
Those of us with buses and those who yearn for empty places squirrel away a remarkable assortment of spare parts, often neatly packaged and fastened securely in the engine compartment of our boxy beasts. That lump is a carb, overhauled and ready to run, the one over there a fuel pump, this one a distributor, points gapped, waiting to fire and in doing so, carry me on my way. An alternator or generator is a bit much but not so the bushes for either, or brush-holder with in-built regulator for the latter and regulator for the former, a spare often carried bolted near the first, a regulator-in-waiting needing only the quick transfer of connections.
Volkswagen has no interest in we owners of antiques -- they can’t survive selling fuses and belts, especially so since the fuses they sell are antiques themselves -- the GBC’s are better and the belts cheaper at that place down the street.
Carrying on-board spares adds a bit of weight to the load but prevents the deadly wait on the road, when the nearest clutch cable is in Portland. And you are not.
So carry a few. Well packed and preserved so they won’t go bad. Nor will their prices grow as they surely will if you leave them on the dealer’s shelves. An on-board spare is here, right now. Portland is a Cascade Range away, an hour’s drive or two-days walk and walking is illegal in much of modern-day America, especially if it’s paved.
On-board spares are smart in the same way a Ph.D. is smart who never calls himself ‘Doctor’ and looks at things with quiet, knowing eyes. ’Ron,’ he says as he shakes your hand. He has contributed to man’s sum store of knowledge and is satisfied with that. He’s on a Journey and needs no one to celebrate his ego.
On-board spares are like that -- part of your Journey. Others turn back, drop out, give up.
But with on-board spares you’ve got what you need in your kit and drive on, promising to replace it when next you can. Being smart isn’t the same as being wise but carrying on-board spares is both and says much about the person who does so. Your casual “I’ll be there,” is taken by others as sterling, that you’ll do what you say, because you always do. For some of us it is not a celebration of ego to say we are as good as our word. We think, we plan and carry out those plans. We allow for the unexpected. And we carry a few spares on-board. ’I’ll be there’ becomes not an expression of ego but merely a statement of fact.
And if you think this only about cars, you’ve missed the point :-)
-Bob Hoover (1995)
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Positive Things & VW buses
A recent thread asked for positive examples of the benefits of VW bus ownership. That is the sort of question that reveals far more than it asks. On the surface it appears to be a simple request for information, to which I’ve responded in the first part of what follows. But peering deeper into our navels we’re liable to come upon a lint-ball we’re unwilling to touch.
Those of you who have seen my 1965 bus know it is not a thing of beauty. The paint scabrous and pie-bald. One reason for its rough appearance is because the bus is in constant use, there is no time for cosmetic things.
Tasked with a 900 mile trip several times a year plus an occasional longer jaunt -- more than 1,500 miles to attend the Big Sur outing, or hauling a ton of Portland cement to the top of Mt. Palomar, the bus is expected and required to do all. And it does.
The simplicity of the engine’s design makes it amenable to modification, allowing incorporation of modern technological benefits not available when the vehicle was manufactured, such as electronic ignition, a full-flow oil filtration system, a better cooling system and more reliable electrical components; it now uses an alternator rather than a generator and runs better for it.
The bus handles better than it did when new, thanks to better tires and a stronger suspension system. Most importantly, the bus gets better gas mileage, requires less maintenance and is more reliable. Because of its age the cost of insurance is low, as is the annual license fee and it does not require the biannual smog inspection expected of younger vehicles, although its emissions are an order of magnitude less than those allowed by law.
My bus has not had an easy life and I am at least its fourth owner. It has suffered from collision and all of its major mechanical components have worn out through its years of service. But as things wore out, they were repaired, overhauled or replaced so that today only the front axle assembly and chassis are original as-manufactured parts, and the front axle will be replaced before I set out to drive to Inuvik, a few oceans away.
All of these things argue for the positive aspects of bus ownership yet to the mainstream of American thought, my bus and I are examples of failure. The bus contains not a single molded plastic cup holder. It has neither carpeting, air-conditioning nor stereo. Indeed, it has no radio at all and incorporates none of the supposedly necessary features common to modern vehicles designed for the lazy, thoughtless and immature.
My bus has neither buzzers nor chimes nor even a light that springs on when I open the door. All of that falls to me. If light is needed, I must turn it on. I am responsible for my own safety, and for the safe operation and maintenance of the vehicle. In a society were no one is ever at fault, the buck stops here.
And therein lies the message and the only valid answer. Why do I own and drive an old bus? Because I can.
The reliability -- the honesty and functionality -- of anything is nothing more than a reflection of the person in charge. My bus. My responsibility. If it craps out, it’s my fault. No excuses. This applies equally to every aspect of our lives because we have the capacity to shape our lives and determine our own destiny.
You are the person in charge. You may accept or deny your responsibilities.
The evidence indicates most have chosen denial.
The purpose of this list is not to preach the obvious but to illuminate the obscure. Unfortunately, in the modern age the obvious is often obscured and not by chance alone. If the logic of that is unclear it’s good evidence your life is not your own.
-Bob Hoover
Those of you who have seen my 1965 bus know it is not a thing of beauty. The paint scabrous and pie-bald. One reason for its rough appearance is because the bus is in constant use, there is no time for cosmetic things.
Tasked with a 900 mile trip several times a year plus an occasional longer jaunt -- more than 1,500 miles to attend the Big Sur outing, or hauling a ton of Portland cement to the top of Mt. Palomar, the bus is expected and required to do all. And it does.
The simplicity of the engine’s design makes it amenable to modification, allowing incorporation of modern technological benefits not available when the vehicle was manufactured, such as electronic ignition, a full-flow oil filtration system, a better cooling system and more reliable electrical components; it now uses an alternator rather than a generator and runs better for it.
The bus handles better than it did when new, thanks to better tires and a stronger suspension system. Most importantly, the bus gets better gas mileage, requires less maintenance and is more reliable. Because of its age the cost of insurance is low, as is the annual license fee and it does not require the biannual smog inspection expected of younger vehicles, although its emissions are an order of magnitude less than those allowed by law.
My bus has not had an easy life and I am at least its fourth owner. It has suffered from collision and all of its major mechanical components have worn out through its years of service. But as things wore out, they were repaired, overhauled or replaced so that today only the front axle assembly and chassis are original as-manufactured parts, and the front axle will be replaced before I set out to drive to Inuvik, a few oceans away.
All of these things argue for the positive aspects of bus ownership yet to the mainstream of American thought, my bus and I are examples of failure. The bus contains not a single molded plastic cup holder. It has neither carpeting, air-conditioning nor stereo. Indeed, it has no radio at all and incorporates none of the supposedly necessary features common to modern vehicles designed for the lazy, thoughtless and immature.
My bus has neither buzzers nor chimes nor even a light that springs on when I open the door. All of that falls to me. If light is needed, I must turn it on. I am responsible for my own safety, and for the safe operation and maintenance of the vehicle. In a society were no one is ever at fault, the buck stops here.
And therein lies the message and the only valid answer. Why do I own and drive an old bus? Because I can.
The reliability -- the honesty and functionality -- of anything is nothing more than a reflection of the person in charge. My bus. My responsibility. If it craps out, it’s my fault. No excuses. This applies equally to every aspect of our lives because we have the capacity to shape our lives and determine our own destiny.
You are the person in charge. You may accept or deny your responsibilities.
The evidence indicates most have chosen denial.
The purpose of this list is not to preach the obvious but to illuminate the obscure. Unfortunately, in the modern age the obvious is often obscured and not by chance alone. If the logic of that is unclear it’s good evidence your life is not your own.
-Bob Hoover
The American Way
Speaking as a mechanic, I know from first hand experience that the predications of automobile dealers and mechanics on car owners have kept pace with the systemic dumbing of America. Here in California automotive interests bribed our elected officials to gut the automotive division of the Office of Consumer Affairs; we now have two (!) investigators to handle complaints. The population of California is about 30,000,000.
The bribes were all legal, of course -- campaign contributions and the like.
The official word regarding the staff reductions is that they are part of a State-wide economy move. This at a time when the staff of other consumer protection agencies are being increased. Besides (the legislators argue), the State office duplicated the functions of various city and county offices. Sure they did.
When we have a headache we don’t think of cancer, we pop a couple of aspirin tablets and the pain goes away. Until the next time. But the problem of dishonest dealers and mechanics is only a symptom, the disease is more subtle and far more pervasive. Unless the root problem is dealt with, complaints, civil suits and letters to the editor are about as effective as treating cancer with aspirin.
One reason I own older Volkswagens is because I can maintain them forever, no dealers required. I would rather have the work done by an honest, courteous dealer but I haven’t run into one of those in more than thirty years. If my family is to enjoy the benefits of personal transportation I feel I’ve no choice but to become my own mechanic. (Lucky for me I are one.) I would also like to own a newer car but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the fair market value of the typical new car is from 67% to 73% of its price, according to Kelly’s Blue Book. And insurance companies use the same kind of creative accounting, having one evaluation to calculate your insurance rates, another when settling a claim. This is ‘good business.’ It is taught in our business schools and its sharpest practitioners receive million dollar salaries and Man of the Year awards.
But it is neither fair nor ethical. With the bulk of Americans mechanically challenged with changing a flat tire, their options in personal transportation are limited to a choice between cancer and polio.
Up to this point a lot of people -- possibly a majority -- will agree with me, offering a verbal pat on the back for being the last of the red-blooded Americans with greasy fingernails. But that misses the basic message which is simply that the system doesn’t work. And what lies ahead is definitely dangerous territory.
I’m also prepared to shoot mad dogs and kill my own burglars. This is not a Ramboesque decision, it is an absolute necessity if I wish to ensure the safety and security of my family. This unpleasant choice has forced upon me by our hi-tech mega-buck public safety system that has an average response time of about thirty minutes, if they show up at all. Becuase our courts have ruled that public safety organizations are not obligated to respond to any specific call, only that they provide a uniform level of response to the public as a whole. They’ve also ruled that personal protection is the responsibility of the individual
Everyone please note: Wandering around my property at night may be hazardous to your health.
Far fewer Americans will agree with this latter position but for the area in which I live it is as valid as the need to do my own auto repairs and for the same reason: The system doesn’t work. The only question is, how long before this situation becomes the accepted norm for a majority of Americans.
-Bob Hoover
The bribes were all legal, of course -- campaign contributions and the like.
The official word regarding the staff reductions is that they are part of a State-wide economy move. This at a time when the staff of other consumer protection agencies are being increased. Besides (the legislators argue), the State office duplicated the functions of various city and county offices. Sure they did.
When we have a headache we don’t think of cancer, we pop a couple of aspirin tablets and the pain goes away. Until the next time. But the problem of dishonest dealers and mechanics is only a symptom, the disease is more subtle and far more pervasive. Unless the root problem is dealt with, complaints, civil suits and letters to the editor are about as effective as treating cancer with aspirin.
One reason I own older Volkswagens is because I can maintain them forever, no dealers required. I would rather have the work done by an honest, courteous dealer but I haven’t run into one of those in more than thirty years. If my family is to enjoy the benefits of personal transportation I feel I’ve no choice but to become my own mechanic. (Lucky for me I are one.) I would also like to own a newer car but it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that the fair market value of the typical new car is from 67% to 73% of its price, according to Kelly’s Blue Book. And insurance companies use the same kind of creative accounting, having one evaluation to calculate your insurance rates, another when settling a claim. This is ‘good business.’ It is taught in our business schools and its sharpest practitioners receive million dollar salaries and Man of the Year awards.
But it is neither fair nor ethical. With the bulk of Americans mechanically challenged with changing a flat tire, their options in personal transportation are limited to a choice between cancer and polio.
Up to this point a lot of people -- possibly a majority -- will agree with me, offering a verbal pat on the back for being the last of the red-blooded Americans with greasy fingernails. But that misses the basic message which is simply that the system doesn’t work. And what lies ahead is definitely dangerous territory.
I’m also prepared to shoot mad dogs and kill my own burglars. This is not a Ramboesque decision, it is an absolute necessity if I wish to ensure the safety and security of my family. This unpleasant choice has forced upon me by our hi-tech mega-buck public safety system that has an average response time of about thirty minutes, if they show up at all. Becuase our courts have ruled that public safety organizations are not obligated to respond to any specific call, only that they provide a uniform level of response to the public as a whole. They’ve also ruled that personal protection is the responsibility of the individual
Everyone please note: Wandering around my property at night may be hazardous to your health.
Far fewer Americans will agree with this latter position but for the area in which I live it is as valid as the need to do my own auto repairs and for the same reason: The system doesn’t work. The only question is, how long before this situation becomes the accepted norm for a majority of Americans.
-Bob Hoover
The Forever Car
A recent thread (Methyl Hydrate) about fueling your car with alcohol to squeak by an emissions test touched on the morality of violating the spirit of a law intended to provide a healthier environment. The comments circled the mountain but failed to climb it. The real question has to do with the fact that transportation is a necessity of modern-day life and the role government plays in supporting that collective need. But before we can appreciate the ‘morality’ of something as arcane as gasoline versus alcohol we need to understand the fundamental basis for governments, for without that understanding the question of morality with regard to observing a rule imposed by government can have no foundation.
Governments don’t form themselves, they are formed by people in order to gain some advantage, usually to enhance their welfare by forming a group large enough to accomplish collectively what they can not achieve on an individual basis, such as defending their homes. The paradox of government is that the individual must always give up certain personal freedoms in order to enjoy the collective benefits.
The sad thing about governments is that most evolve into parasitic bureaucracies that eventually kill their host. Our founding fathers recognized this flaw and tried to insure against it by stressing certain ‘inalienable’ rights. Once it takes on a bureaucratic form government will eventually become so large that it must prey upon the people who created it in order to survive. Instead of being the servant of the people, government becomes their competitor and eventually, their adversary. but recent history shows all of those rights have been abridged by our government whenever it feels threatened.
The fact remains that we can not earn our livings nor enjoy our ‘inalienable’ rights without access to transportation, it is a collective need. In recognition of that fact we have used governmental powers to foster transportation, from the earliest canals to the latest space flights. Public transportation was very much a part of the overall plan, up until the end of World War II.
When I was a boy the light-rail system of southern California was one of the finest in the world. You could travel by streetcar from Riverside, California to Newport Beach, a distance of nearly a hundred miles for about seventy cents and every metropolitan area enjoyed the use of a similar system. The corruption that lead to the demise of that magnificent rail car systems is a matter of public record and serves as an object lesson for anyone foolish enough to trust an elected official. Or the morality of large corporations. Even more chilling is that having successfully raped the southern California light rail system, the same corporations and agencies repeated the process all across the country. Government and industry acted in concert to destroy an invaluable public asset, replacing it with a few buses and the concept of ‘personal’ transportation. Their motive was greed. Public outcry lead to investigations. and even a few trials in which corporations and government officials were found guilty of a variety of crimes. Their typical punishment was a warning, the maximum fine $5,000. What was good for General Motors was good for America. And to hell with the Americans.
In the nearly two generations since that time the public has been carefully trained to respond to the Pavlovian need for ‘personal’ transportation, squeezed into a succession of smaller and smaller boxes-on-wheels, brainwashed into believing they are doing the right thing. Today, the average American driver is firmly convinced that miles-per-gallon is the major factor in the cost of getting from here to there.
It’s all bullshit. Very carefully thought-out bullshit.
Personal transportation is a luxury, the cost rapidly approaching one dollar per mile. The major portion of that cost is spent buying your box-on-wheels, financing the money used to buy it, for insurance, licensing fees and other taxes. Fuel, oil, tires and maintenance makes up only about eight percent of the cost of personal transportation. Miles per gallon -- and emission standards -- are a bureaucratic joke.
The dollar-per-mile cost of personal transportation is nothing more than a monstrous scam. Car manufacturers, banks, insurance companies and the legions of politicians they have bribed are all parties to this scam. And you are the scam-ee. (Okay, it wasn’t a bribe it was a ‘political contribution.’ If you’re addicted to a diet of bullshit perhaps calling it chocolate pudding will make it taste better.)
The unfaithful stewards who have screwed the American public for so many years are haunted by the thought of old Volkswagens that cost only pennies per mile to run and seem to last forever, or by anyone bright enough to keep their car for five or ten years. Fortunately for them, most Americans aren’t very bright and our concept of history involves what we had for breakfast.
Want to guess what happens if you drop out of the dollar-per-mile cycle by keeping your vehicle for five or ten years?
Economic disaster, at least for the current crop of bean-counters. According to Consumer’s Union, people who drove the same car for ten years or more realized a ‘hidden’ income large enough to buy a new home. In the ‘worst’ case their hidden income was large enough to buy a new home and put two kids through college. This news did not play well in Detroit. Or Washington.
The late John Muir of “...Compleate Idiot” fame awakened me to the Forever Car theme more than thirty years ago. The intervening quarter-century has seen no change in the personal transportation scam or the fundamental ignorance of our society. Nor in the arguments such things engender. Most discussions about the benefits of keeping a car forever are quickly sidetracked by bean-counters who attack the figures, show them to be fallacious in a particular case and plaster that conclusion across the entire argument.
The deeper implications are never discussed and the typical car owner, bombarded with a constant barrage of slick propaganda, chooses the easy way out: they buy a new car every few years and dive back into the tube.
Want cleaner air? Get rid of the cars. Emission standards are akin to trying to cure cancer with aspirin. Want to drive for a penny a mile, own a nice home and put your kids through college? Keep your car forever.
Now, did someone mention morality.
-Bob Hoover
Governments don’t form themselves, they are formed by people in order to gain some advantage, usually to enhance their welfare by forming a group large enough to accomplish collectively what they can not achieve on an individual basis, such as defending their homes. The paradox of government is that the individual must always give up certain personal freedoms in order to enjoy the collective benefits.
The sad thing about governments is that most evolve into parasitic bureaucracies that eventually kill their host. Our founding fathers recognized this flaw and tried to insure against it by stressing certain ‘inalienable’ rights. Once it takes on a bureaucratic form government will eventually become so large that it must prey upon the people who created it in order to survive. Instead of being the servant of the people, government becomes their competitor and eventually, their adversary. but recent history shows all of those rights have been abridged by our government whenever it feels threatened.
The fact remains that we can not earn our livings nor enjoy our ‘inalienable’ rights without access to transportation, it is a collective need. In recognition of that fact we have used governmental powers to foster transportation, from the earliest canals to the latest space flights. Public transportation was very much a part of the overall plan, up until the end of World War II.
When I was a boy the light-rail system of southern California was one of the finest in the world. You could travel by streetcar from Riverside, California to Newport Beach, a distance of nearly a hundred miles for about seventy cents and every metropolitan area enjoyed the use of a similar system. The corruption that lead to the demise of that magnificent rail car systems is a matter of public record and serves as an object lesson for anyone foolish enough to trust an elected official. Or the morality of large corporations. Even more chilling is that having successfully raped the southern California light rail system, the same corporations and agencies repeated the process all across the country. Government and industry acted in concert to destroy an invaluable public asset, replacing it with a few buses and the concept of ‘personal’ transportation. Their motive was greed. Public outcry lead to investigations. and even a few trials in which corporations and government officials were found guilty of a variety of crimes. Their typical punishment was a warning, the maximum fine $5,000. What was good for General Motors was good for America. And to hell with the Americans.
In the nearly two generations since that time the public has been carefully trained to respond to the Pavlovian need for ‘personal’ transportation, squeezed into a succession of smaller and smaller boxes-on-wheels, brainwashed into believing they are doing the right thing. Today, the average American driver is firmly convinced that miles-per-gallon is the major factor in the cost of getting from here to there.
It’s all bullshit. Very carefully thought-out bullshit.
Personal transportation is a luxury, the cost rapidly approaching one dollar per mile. The major portion of that cost is spent buying your box-on-wheels, financing the money used to buy it, for insurance, licensing fees and other taxes. Fuel, oil, tires and maintenance makes up only about eight percent of the cost of personal transportation. Miles per gallon -- and emission standards -- are a bureaucratic joke.
The dollar-per-mile cost of personal transportation is nothing more than a monstrous scam. Car manufacturers, banks, insurance companies and the legions of politicians they have bribed are all parties to this scam. And you are the scam-ee. (Okay, it wasn’t a bribe it was a ‘political contribution.’ If you’re addicted to a diet of bullshit perhaps calling it chocolate pudding will make it taste better.)
The unfaithful stewards who have screwed the American public for so many years are haunted by the thought of old Volkswagens that cost only pennies per mile to run and seem to last forever, or by anyone bright enough to keep their car for five or ten years. Fortunately for them, most Americans aren’t very bright and our concept of history involves what we had for breakfast.
Want to guess what happens if you drop out of the dollar-per-mile cycle by keeping your vehicle for five or ten years?
Economic disaster, at least for the current crop of bean-counters. According to Consumer’s Union, people who drove the same car for ten years or more realized a ‘hidden’ income large enough to buy a new home. In the ‘worst’ case their hidden income was large enough to buy a new home and put two kids through college. This news did not play well in Detroit. Or Washington.
The late John Muir of “...Compleate Idiot” fame awakened me to the Forever Car theme more than thirty years ago. The intervening quarter-century has seen no change in the personal transportation scam or the fundamental ignorance of our society. Nor in the arguments such things engender. Most discussions about the benefits of keeping a car forever are quickly sidetracked by bean-counters who attack the figures, show them to be fallacious in a particular case and plaster that conclusion across the entire argument.
The deeper implications are never discussed and the typical car owner, bombarded with a constant barrage of slick propaganda, chooses the easy way out: they buy a new car every few years and dive back into the tube.
Want cleaner air? Get rid of the cars. Emission standards are akin to trying to cure cancer with aspirin. Want to drive for a penny a mile, own a nice home and put your kids through college? Keep your car forever.
Now, did someone mention morality.
-Bob Hoover
Beans
Beans are good food. When just sprouted you can eat the entire sprout raw. You may also eat the bean and its pod without cooking when it’s still green. Mature beans are allowed to dry, winnowed then stored. Like all naturally grown food, unless treated with radiation or some form of preservative, beans contain the seeds of their own destruction in the form of fungus spores and microscopic insect eggs. The eggs will eventually result in moths or some sort of beetle but the development of the larvae – the generic weevil – is slowed by cold weather, meaning you can usually count on beans to get you through the winter ... assuming the ones you store are from that fall’s crop.
Unfortunately, a dry bean is a virtually indigestible lump of starch. Grinding them into a coarse flour makes them a bit more digestible but the best way to prepare beans is to cook them and therein lies a tale. And the reason for this article.
Boiling a bean will soften it but it is still little more than a pill of starch and your guts will have a hell of a time getting any good from it.
To prepare beans for cooking you have to wake them up.
To wake up a bean, you soak it in water. The water activates the bean’s chemical engine. It thinks it just got planted and uses the water to begin converting its storehouse of starches into sugars and other good things.
Soak the beans long enough, they will sprout. If you’re showing symptoms of scurvy, eating the sprouts will help, although I think sprouted wheat has more Vitamin C. And you can forget all that ‘MDA’ bullshit. The Minimum Daily Requirement for Vitamin C varies wildly among individuals and even then, reflects only the amount of ascorbic acid needed to suppress the symptoms of scurvy. Suppression of symptoms is a different matter entirely from ensuring good health. If this point isn’t clear it may help if you compare the amount of water needed for survival to the amount needed by someone doing a hard day’s work in a warm climate. Lay quietly in the shade, you can survive on as little as a quart of water per day. But you’ll need at least a gallon a day to get by in the desert and up to five gallons per day if you’re doing heavy labor.
The MDA/RDA bullshit is similar to that quart-a-day figure. The MDA for ascorbic acid is based on a bell curve from data compiled in the late 1930's under one of those WPA make-work programs. By modern standards the test-population was not only too small it was seriously skewed. Bottom line: don’t put too much faith in it.
Sailors know about this stuff. The Chinese figured it out (and wrote it down) about 1100 BC. Native Americans (indeed, Native Anyone) also understood our curious failing – men and hamsters are the only creatures that can’t make their own Vitamin C -- and incorporated a number of antiscorbutics in their traditional ‘primitive’ diet. Western sailors finally figured it out in the late 1700's, largely from their contact with Eastern sailors. Ditto for miners, prospectors, trappers, explorers and so forth, from their contact with indigenous peoples.
But as I said, bean sprouts aren’t a very good source of vitamin C. Dried berries would be a better choice since the vitamin C doesn’t do any good unless people are willing to eat it. Dried cabbage flakes, onion flakes and even tomato flakes are good sources of vitamin C. Cheap, too. Unfortunately, dried vegetables don’t lend themselves to tasty dishes in the quantity needed to prevent scurvy. With dried berries you can feed them to the crew at every meal and be greeted with cheers.
But let’s get back to the bean.
Soaking a bean wakes it up. Waking it up triggers a chemical change. Among the several changes resulting from that on-going chemical alteration is a change in the way the bean tastes. The flavor of the bean varies according to how long it is soaked before cooking.
The older the bean, the longer it has to soak before the changes kick in. Once the chemical change begins, it proceeds at a slower pace in older beans.
Every variety of bean has it’s own signature flavor; Small Northern White beans taste uniquely different from Pinto beans and so forth. And as you might suspect, the range of flavor variation that results from soaking varies according to the type of bean. For some, the variation is subtle, for others it’s so extreme that people will insist you’ve doctored the pot with spices.
As foods go, beans are pretty smart. They’re versatile, nutritious, come in a shape that is easily packaged for transport and are simple to prepare. But preparation must take the bean’s unique characteristics into account. If you just throw them in a pressure cooker and nuke-til-soft you’re liable to have mutiny on your hands.
-Bob Hoover
Unfortunately, a dry bean is a virtually indigestible lump of starch. Grinding them into a coarse flour makes them a bit more digestible but the best way to prepare beans is to cook them and therein lies a tale. And the reason for this article.
Boiling a bean will soften it but it is still little more than a pill of starch and your guts will have a hell of a time getting any good from it.
To prepare beans for cooking you have to wake them up.
To wake up a bean, you soak it in water. The water activates the bean’s chemical engine. It thinks it just got planted and uses the water to begin converting its storehouse of starches into sugars and other good things.
Soak the beans long enough, they will sprout. If you’re showing symptoms of scurvy, eating the sprouts will help, although I think sprouted wheat has more Vitamin C. And you can forget all that ‘MDA’ bullshit. The Minimum Daily Requirement for Vitamin C varies wildly among individuals and even then, reflects only the amount of ascorbic acid needed to suppress the symptoms of scurvy. Suppression of symptoms is a different matter entirely from ensuring good health. If this point isn’t clear it may help if you compare the amount of water needed for survival to the amount needed by someone doing a hard day’s work in a warm climate. Lay quietly in the shade, you can survive on as little as a quart of water per day. But you’ll need at least a gallon a day to get by in the desert and up to five gallons per day if you’re doing heavy labor.
The MDA/RDA bullshit is similar to that quart-a-day figure. The MDA for ascorbic acid is based on a bell curve from data compiled in the late 1930's under one of those WPA make-work programs. By modern standards the test-population was not only too small it was seriously skewed. Bottom line: don’t put too much faith in it.
Sailors know about this stuff. The Chinese figured it out (and wrote it down) about 1100 BC. Native Americans (indeed, Native Anyone) also understood our curious failing – men and hamsters are the only creatures that can’t make their own Vitamin C -- and incorporated a number of antiscorbutics in their traditional ‘primitive’ diet. Western sailors finally figured it out in the late 1700's, largely from their contact with Eastern sailors. Ditto for miners, prospectors, trappers, explorers and so forth, from their contact with indigenous peoples.
But as I said, bean sprouts aren’t a very good source of vitamin C. Dried berries would be a better choice since the vitamin C doesn’t do any good unless people are willing to eat it. Dried cabbage flakes, onion flakes and even tomato flakes are good sources of vitamin C. Cheap, too. Unfortunately, dried vegetables don’t lend themselves to tasty dishes in the quantity needed to prevent scurvy. With dried berries you can feed them to the crew at every meal and be greeted with cheers.
But let’s get back to the bean.
Soaking a bean wakes it up. Waking it up triggers a chemical change. Among the several changes resulting from that on-going chemical alteration is a change in the way the bean tastes. The flavor of the bean varies according to how long it is soaked before cooking.
The older the bean, the longer it has to soak before the changes kick in. Once the chemical change begins, it proceeds at a slower pace in older beans.
Every variety of bean has it’s own signature flavor; Small Northern White beans taste uniquely different from Pinto beans and so forth. And as you might suspect, the range of flavor variation that results from soaking varies according to the type of bean. For some, the variation is subtle, for others it’s so extreme that people will insist you’ve doctored the pot with spices.
As foods go, beans are pretty smart. They’re versatile, nutritious, come in a shape that is easily packaged for transport and are simple to prepare. But preparation must take the bean’s unique characteristics into account. If you just throw them in a pressure cooker and nuke-til-soft you’re liable to have mutiny on your hands.
-Bob Hoover
Biscuits
Why? Because I thought everyone knew how to bake biscuits. Turns out, I was wrong, big time. So here ya’ go. But first, let me clue you in about flour.
All fish aren’t the same, other than being fish. Same is true for tomatoes, chili peppers, women, dogs and pick-up trucks. Wheat, too. Lots of varieties of wheat. Some wheat has more starch, others have more gluten, some have a higher water content, some got a bigger kernel.
Different wheats produce different flours. Nowadays they mix them all together, try to convince you this All-Purpose crap is just as good as honest Bread Flour or Pastry Flour. It’s not, which you can prove for yourself if you can get your hands on the Real Thing. Trying to make good biscuits outta All-Purpose flour is like trying to make planked salmon outta sardines.
So if you wanna bake biscuits, go find yourself some real Bread Flour.
And some lard. And some salt. And some baking powder.
Most folks use cow’s milk for mixing if they can get it. Not the skimmed stuff, real milk. Of course, if you can’t catch a cow or don’t know how to milk, you’ll have to use something else. Out at sea, you can mix up instant milk. Tastes like hell but it’s okay for cooking. Or you can use water. Or even beer if the crew is hungry enough.
Ready to make some biscuits? If you’ve got an oven, go turn it on. Hot; up around 450. If you’ll be using a Dutch Oven you should have started the fire about an hour ago. I never had much luck baking biscuits in a pueblo oven; too cool or something. But a Dutch Oven will work fine. Fishing, prospecting or just traveling around, I generally use the Coleman stove because it’s faster.
Batch of biscuits is four big handfuls of flour, big pinch of salt and a palm-full of baking powder. I like Clabber Girl but Calumet works okay. (Durban, Loreto or Vancouver, they won’t know what the hell you’re talking about even if they speak a little English. But the local chandler will know what works, can usually give you a list or even buy it for you, plus his usual bite of course.)
That’s all the dry stuff. Throw it in a bowl and mix it up. Use your hand. If you been out for a while the flour will usually have some weevils. You’ll have to sift them out if the crew is college boys or picky sorts but weevils won’t hurt you once they’re cooked.
Lard comes next. Two scoops-worth. Use your first three fingers as the scoop. Squish it into the flour with your hand. Squish it good; the flour will be kinda crumbly if you do it right.
Now you can add the milk. Or beer. Or whatever. Little at a time, starting with about one glug, which works out to about as much as you can put in your cupped palm. Moisture and heat activates the baking powder, which generates carbon dioxide, which makes your biscuits fluffy. But you don’t want too much moisture or the biscuits will come out tough. Just Right is when the dough peels away from your hand without sticking; too wet, it’ll stick.
Flour your cutting board and flop the dough onto it. Knead it with your palms and fold it back, then turn it end for end and do the same, then flip it over and do it all over again. Now pat it out and use a tin can to punch out the biscuits.
If you’ve got an oven, put your biscuits in a big iron skillet or on a cookie tin or whatever and stick ‘em in there. Hot oven, should take about a quarter of an hour.
Dutch oven should be just about too hot to touch before you put in the biscuits. Pack them in the bottom, put on the lid, rake some coals off the side and sit the oven over the coals, then put about one pie pan’s-worth of coals on the lid. How long depends on the wind and the weather but south of sixty, ten to twenty minutes is about the norm.
Back over on the cutting board you got that Swiss cheese looking mess of dough. Knead it into a ball then take something round and roll it out thin, like a pie crust. Grab a lump of butter and smear it all over the dough. Sprinkle some sugar on the butter and some cinnamon onto the sugar then roll it up like a tortilla. Slice the roll into little wheels and bake them along with the biscuits.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Wacky as all that sounds, it has produced superlative biscuits for more than half a century, afloat and ashore, from the arctic to the tropics. There’s a bit more to it of course; experience counts for something. But the basic message is that making biscuits isn’t rocket science; anyone should be able to whip up a batch of biscuits from scratch. Preparation of food is mostly common sense. Unfortunately, common sense is a remarkably uncommon commodity in modern-day America.
If all you’ve got is All-Purpose flour, go ahead and use it. But you’ll be shooting yourself in the foot. Oh, it’ll make a biscuit. Or a pie, cake or whatever. But it isn’t the right flour for any of those things. (Makes good pancakes, through.)
Don’t want to use lard? Then use something else. But privately, if it’s the first time. I’ve used everything from seal blubber to coconut oil. Some things work better than others; lard’s the best shortening for biscuits.
You’ll note that all of the measurements are relative to the cook. I’ve learned to do without cups or teaspoons or ounces because as soon as you become dependent on such things you’re screwed when you don’t have them. But you’ve always got your hands and your senses.
Can’t boil water without a cookbook? Then get acquainted with Fannie Farmer. She’s been telling Americans how to prepare good food for more than a hundred years.
Bob Hoover
All fish aren’t the same, other than being fish. Same is true for tomatoes, chili peppers, women, dogs and pick-up trucks. Wheat, too. Lots of varieties of wheat. Some wheat has more starch, others have more gluten, some have a higher water content, some got a bigger kernel.
Different wheats produce different flours. Nowadays they mix them all together, try to convince you this All-Purpose crap is just as good as honest Bread Flour or Pastry Flour. It’s not, which you can prove for yourself if you can get your hands on the Real Thing. Trying to make good biscuits outta All-Purpose flour is like trying to make planked salmon outta sardines.
So if you wanna bake biscuits, go find yourself some real Bread Flour.
And some lard. And some salt. And some baking powder.
Most folks use cow’s milk for mixing if they can get it. Not the skimmed stuff, real milk. Of course, if you can’t catch a cow or don’t know how to milk, you’ll have to use something else. Out at sea, you can mix up instant milk. Tastes like hell but it’s okay for cooking. Or you can use water. Or even beer if the crew is hungry enough.
Ready to make some biscuits? If you’ve got an oven, go turn it on. Hot; up around 450. If you’ll be using a Dutch Oven you should have started the fire about an hour ago. I never had much luck baking biscuits in a pueblo oven; too cool or something. But a Dutch Oven will work fine. Fishing, prospecting or just traveling around, I generally use the Coleman stove because it’s faster.
Batch of biscuits is four big handfuls of flour, big pinch of salt and a palm-full of baking powder. I like Clabber Girl but Calumet works okay. (Durban, Loreto or Vancouver, they won’t know what the hell you’re talking about even if they speak a little English. But the local chandler will know what works, can usually give you a list or even buy it for you, plus his usual bite of course.)
That’s all the dry stuff. Throw it in a bowl and mix it up. Use your hand. If you been out for a while the flour will usually have some weevils. You’ll have to sift them out if the crew is college boys or picky sorts but weevils won’t hurt you once they’re cooked.
Lard comes next. Two scoops-worth. Use your first three fingers as the scoop. Squish it into the flour with your hand. Squish it good; the flour will be kinda crumbly if you do it right.
Now you can add the milk. Or beer. Or whatever. Little at a time, starting with about one glug, which works out to about as much as you can put in your cupped palm. Moisture and heat activates the baking powder, which generates carbon dioxide, which makes your biscuits fluffy. But you don’t want too much moisture or the biscuits will come out tough. Just Right is when the dough peels away from your hand without sticking; too wet, it’ll stick.
Flour your cutting board and flop the dough onto it. Knead it with your palms and fold it back, then turn it end for end and do the same, then flip it over and do it all over again. Now pat it out and use a tin can to punch out the biscuits.
If you’ve got an oven, put your biscuits in a big iron skillet or on a cookie tin or whatever and stick ‘em in there. Hot oven, should take about a quarter of an hour.
Dutch oven should be just about too hot to touch before you put in the biscuits. Pack them in the bottom, put on the lid, rake some coals off the side and sit the oven over the coals, then put about one pie pan’s-worth of coals on the lid. How long depends on the wind and the weather but south of sixty, ten to twenty minutes is about the norm.
Back over on the cutting board you got that Swiss cheese looking mess of dough. Knead it into a ball then take something round and roll it out thin, like a pie crust. Grab a lump of butter and smear it all over the dough. Sprinkle some sugar on the butter and some cinnamon onto the sugar then roll it up like a tortilla. Slice the roll into little wheels and bake them along with the biscuits.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Wacky as all that sounds, it has produced superlative biscuits for more than half a century, afloat and ashore, from the arctic to the tropics. There’s a bit more to it of course; experience counts for something. But the basic message is that making biscuits isn’t rocket science; anyone should be able to whip up a batch of biscuits from scratch. Preparation of food is mostly common sense. Unfortunately, common sense is a remarkably uncommon commodity in modern-day America.
If all you’ve got is All-Purpose flour, go ahead and use it. But you’ll be shooting yourself in the foot. Oh, it’ll make a biscuit. Or a pie, cake or whatever. But it isn’t the right flour for any of those things. (Makes good pancakes, through.)
Don’t want to use lard? Then use something else. But privately, if it’s the first time. I’ve used everything from seal blubber to coconut oil. Some things work better than others; lard’s the best shortening for biscuits.
You’ll note that all of the measurements are relative to the cook. I’ve learned to do without cups or teaspoons or ounces because as soon as you become dependent on such things you’re screwed when you don’t have them. But you’ve always got your hands and your senses.
Can’t boil water without a cookbook? Then get acquainted with Fannie Farmer. She’s been telling Americans how to prepare good food for more than a hundred years.
Bob Hoover
Neighbors
Since Old Man Foster died back in ‘66 the place next door has fallen on hard times. His son came over from Borrego and sold off about half the acreage and moved into the house but he was a barber and we already had two in town and it’s not that big a town, or at least it wasn’t back then. He finally had to sell out and move. I never got to know him. They was only here a couple of years and I was in the Navy then and it didn’t help that I sported a beard, then and now. Barbers have a natural dislike for beards.
After that, the Foster place really went to hell, first bought by a bunch of hippies who were going to live off the land, except none of them knew a thing about farming nor much about work, spending most of their time talking about things they didn’t understand which was just about everything, and smoking funny-smelling cigarettes.
They lasted about two hungry years, the last one living mostly out of our garden.
Then there was the rock group, flush with cash and eager for a place in the country where they could play loud music day and night. It took about two years to sue them into silence.
Three times. The third time the judge slapped them with a fine so big they decided it was time for another World Tour and left one night without even saying good-bye. Or locking the doors. Or paying the fine.
Our next new batch of neighbors were quiet as the grave. Sorta stand-offish. Lots a coming and going, always at night. Lotsa UPS deliveries of chemicals and laboratory apparatus. Then the ether exploded and put their speed-cooking chemist in the hospital and didn’t do the house much good either. Me and the other neighbors put out the fire; we’re in the country and it was all volunteer back then. Don’t know what happened to the owners. They dumped their buddy at the door of the Emergency Room and kept right on going.
After that the place stood vacant for a couple of years, slowly going to ruin.
It got broke into by wetbacks who let their cook-fire get away from them and burnt off the west end of the back porch before we could get it out. They was cooking up one of the neighbor's prize Nubian goats. We’re all afraid of fire up here on the hill, what with no water to speak of the closest help some distance away. After the second fire we started taking turns checking on the place at night, chasing away the lovers and the wetbacks and the what-nots.
That’s why I throwed down on the new owners with a shotgun, I thought they was burglars or Messicans or some damn thing. It was only loaded with bird-shot so I snuck up good and close before I announced myself. He just about had a heart attack and she peed all down her leg when I shouted “Hands up, you mother lovers!”
Strange car, middle of the night. It seemed. the thing to do. Except I didn’t say lovers. But they got my drift. The For Sale sign went up about six months later, right after the coyotes chased their cat up a tree and ate it. City cats never believe how well a coyote can climb.
The School Teacher Family was nice enough. Man and his wife, both teachers, one little boy about six. They wanted to get to know us and we was willing but the spiders got in the way.
I’m no naturalist but I’m naturally curious and we got some really strange spiders up here on the hill. There’s a big green one with brown spots that makes these beautiful webs, some as big as a bed sheet, nets her dinner then eats it along with the web... then spins herself a new one. There’s another spider looks pretty much the same except she’s mostly brown with green spots, makes a web about the same size. But damn if she don’t patch her web instead of eating it. No kidding. She nets her dinner, wraps it up, hauls it off, then comes back and patches the hole in the web. Damnedest thing I ever saw.
That got me curious as to which is the better strategy, a new web or a patched one, so I started watching those guys real close. The spiders hide-out during the day but you can tell one web from the other because the Patcher always has an odd number of radials in her web while the Eater’s web has an even number of radials.
Each time I’d find a new web I’d figure out who it belonged to, measure the web then come back after dark and measure the spider, keeping track of which kind grew the fastest.
I was hunkered down in the weeds counting the radials of a new spider web I’d discovered when Mrs. Teacher and the boy comes down the drive. I was keeping track of the radials using a mechanical pencil as a pointer, counting my way around the clock of the web as they drove by. Real slow. Heads turning. I gave them a friendly wave and a nod but kept on counting. Some of them webs have nearly a hundred radials and you’d be there all day if you lost track.
The Teachers put up the For Sale at the end of the school year but it wasn’t until they’d gone that we learned they hadn’t seen the web, couldn’t see it from their drive. But they had a nice view of me taking a crap in the bushes while conducting an invisible orchestra, or at least that’s what they told the neighbors. And that I was a Peeping Tom, creeping around at night with a flashlight.
Funny thing is, the other neighbors never doubted them for a minute, not since I clipped the top of the eucalyptus doing a slow-roll over the house in a biplane a couple of years before.
The next batch of neighbors were into horticulture in a big way, growing America’s favorite herb on the back of their newly acquired property, or trying to. I had to show them how to break down ‘dobe soil with acid, helped them get the mulch just right. They lasted about two years. Four crops. Number Three was some primo shit. Or so I heard. Then came The Raid, with helicopters and SWAT teams and insane German dogs and more Deputy Sheriffs than a John Wayne movie.
So what’s this got to do with Volkswagens? Well, it’s like this... We got some more new neighbors, haven’t met them yet but we sent them a Bread & Butter note like we always do, welcoming them and inviting them over for cocktails some evening; their option.
Gave them our private phone number in case of trouble; call the Sheriff, they don’t hardly bother unless there’s shooting involved. But one of the talkative neighbors had already been there, giving them the history of the place and of their ‘strange’ neighbor with the airplane in the yard and all the antennas on the roof. We weren’t expecting to hear from them any time soon.
So I’m laying under this Karmann Ghia that has a bad CV. Got its ass hiked up on jack stands and my legs are sticking out from under. I’ve got the joints all cleaned and go to mark them and I can’t find my white stencil pencil, which is what I use for marking. Snuck in the house and borrow a bottle of my daughter’s nail polish and used that. Neat little ‘L’ on the left axle, little ‘R’ on the right, with perfectly painted little arrows and alignment marks.
It’s not easy, using nail polish laying on your back, holding the bottle in one hand, brush in the other and trying to keep things neat. Sure enough, I got a piece of black gunk on the brush and can’t get it off. Can’t put it back in the bottle or my daughter would kill me. Shuffle out and get all greasy in the process; I’m not using the creeper. Sit down on a sawhorse and try to clean the brush. Bottle’s in my left hand, brush in my right, big greasy thumb right there when I’m looking for something to sorta skim the brush on. Used my thumb nail.
Nail Sticks ‘Pearlescent.’ Real pretty, sorta pearly white. Makes a good marker for CV joints. And it went on my thumbnail neat as anything, nice smooth coat.
I had to just about paint my whole thumbnail to get the black booger off the brush but I finally got it. Looked up and there’s the new neighbor, jaw hanging down to here, eyes sticking out like a couple of boiled eggs.
He didn’t say nothing but you could tell what the damn fool was thinking. So I fanned-out my fingers like a girl, blew gently on the thumbnail and put on a second coat.
At supper my wife asks: “What’s that all over your thumbnail?”
“Met the new neighbor today.”
“Oh gawd,” she sez real slow. “Not again.”
-Copyright 1995 -Robert S. Hoover-
After that, the Foster place really went to hell, first bought by a bunch of hippies who were going to live off the land, except none of them knew a thing about farming nor much about work, spending most of their time talking about things they didn’t understand which was just about everything, and smoking funny-smelling cigarettes.
They lasted about two hungry years, the last one living mostly out of our garden.
Then there was the rock group, flush with cash and eager for a place in the country where they could play loud music day and night. It took about two years to sue them into silence.
Three times. The third time the judge slapped them with a fine so big they decided it was time for another World Tour and left one night without even saying good-bye. Or locking the doors. Or paying the fine.
Our next new batch of neighbors were quiet as the grave. Sorta stand-offish. Lots a coming and going, always at night. Lotsa UPS deliveries of chemicals and laboratory apparatus. Then the ether exploded and put their speed-cooking chemist in the hospital and didn’t do the house much good either. Me and the other neighbors put out the fire; we’re in the country and it was all volunteer back then. Don’t know what happened to the owners. They dumped their buddy at the door of the Emergency Room and kept right on going.
After that the place stood vacant for a couple of years, slowly going to ruin.
It got broke into by wetbacks who let their cook-fire get away from them and burnt off the west end of the back porch before we could get it out. They was cooking up one of the neighbor's prize Nubian goats. We’re all afraid of fire up here on the hill, what with no water to speak of the closest help some distance away. After the second fire we started taking turns checking on the place at night, chasing away the lovers and the wetbacks and the what-nots.
That’s why I throwed down on the new owners with a shotgun, I thought they was burglars or Messicans or some damn thing. It was only loaded with bird-shot so I snuck up good and close before I announced myself. He just about had a heart attack and she peed all down her leg when I shouted “Hands up, you mother lovers!”
Strange car, middle of the night. It seemed. the thing to do. Except I didn’t say lovers. But they got my drift. The For Sale sign went up about six months later, right after the coyotes chased their cat up a tree and ate it. City cats never believe how well a coyote can climb.
The School Teacher Family was nice enough. Man and his wife, both teachers, one little boy about six. They wanted to get to know us and we was willing but the spiders got in the way.
I’m no naturalist but I’m naturally curious and we got some really strange spiders up here on the hill. There’s a big green one with brown spots that makes these beautiful webs, some as big as a bed sheet, nets her dinner then eats it along with the web... then spins herself a new one. There’s another spider looks pretty much the same except she’s mostly brown with green spots, makes a web about the same size. But damn if she don’t patch her web instead of eating it. No kidding. She nets her dinner, wraps it up, hauls it off, then comes back and patches the hole in the web. Damnedest thing I ever saw.
That got me curious as to which is the better strategy, a new web or a patched one, so I started watching those guys real close. The spiders hide-out during the day but you can tell one web from the other because the Patcher always has an odd number of radials in her web while the Eater’s web has an even number of radials.
Each time I’d find a new web I’d figure out who it belonged to, measure the web then come back after dark and measure the spider, keeping track of which kind grew the fastest.
I was hunkered down in the weeds counting the radials of a new spider web I’d discovered when Mrs. Teacher and the boy comes down the drive. I was keeping track of the radials using a mechanical pencil as a pointer, counting my way around the clock of the web as they drove by. Real slow. Heads turning. I gave them a friendly wave and a nod but kept on counting. Some of them webs have nearly a hundred radials and you’d be there all day if you lost track.
The Teachers put up the For Sale at the end of the school year but it wasn’t until they’d gone that we learned they hadn’t seen the web, couldn’t see it from their drive. But they had a nice view of me taking a crap in the bushes while conducting an invisible orchestra, or at least that’s what they told the neighbors. And that I was a Peeping Tom, creeping around at night with a flashlight.
Funny thing is, the other neighbors never doubted them for a minute, not since I clipped the top of the eucalyptus doing a slow-roll over the house in a biplane a couple of years before.
The next batch of neighbors were into horticulture in a big way, growing America’s favorite herb on the back of their newly acquired property, or trying to. I had to show them how to break down ‘dobe soil with acid, helped them get the mulch just right. They lasted about two years. Four crops. Number Three was some primo shit. Or so I heard. Then came The Raid, with helicopters and SWAT teams and insane German dogs and more Deputy Sheriffs than a John Wayne movie.
So what’s this got to do with Volkswagens? Well, it’s like this... We got some more new neighbors, haven’t met them yet but we sent them a Bread & Butter note like we always do, welcoming them and inviting them over for cocktails some evening; their option.
Gave them our private phone number in case of trouble; call the Sheriff, they don’t hardly bother unless there’s shooting involved. But one of the talkative neighbors had already been there, giving them the history of the place and of their ‘strange’ neighbor with the airplane in the yard and all the antennas on the roof. We weren’t expecting to hear from them any time soon.
So I’m laying under this Karmann Ghia that has a bad CV. Got its ass hiked up on jack stands and my legs are sticking out from under. I’ve got the joints all cleaned and go to mark them and I can’t find my white stencil pencil, which is what I use for marking. Snuck in the house and borrow a bottle of my daughter’s nail polish and used that. Neat little ‘L’ on the left axle, little ‘R’ on the right, with perfectly painted little arrows and alignment marks.
It’s not easy, using nail polish laying on your back, holding the bottle in one hand, brush in the other and trying to keep things neat. Sure enough, I got a piece of black gunk on the brush and can’t get it off. Can’t put it back in the bottle or my daughter would kill me. Shuffle out and get all greasy in the process; I’m not using the creeper. Sit down on a sawhorse and try to clean the brush. Bottle’s in my left hand, brush in my right, big greasy thumb right there when I’m looking for something to sorta skim the brush on. Used my thumb nail.
Nail Sticks ‘Pearlescent.’ Real pretty, sorta pearly white. Makes a good marker for CV joints. And it went on my thumbnail neat as anything, nice smooth coat.
I had to just about paint my whole thumbnail to get the black booger off the brush but I finally got it. Looked up and there’s the new neighbor, jaw hanging down to here, eyes sticking out like a couple of boiled eggs.
He didn’t say nothing but you could tell what the damn fool was thinking. So I fanned-out my fingers like a girl, blew gently on the thumbnail and put on a second coat.
At supper my wife asks: “What’s that all over your thumbnail?”
“Met the new neighbor today.”
“Oh gawd,” she sez real slow. “Not again.”
-Copyright 1995 -Robert S. Hoover-
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