jumpingfish › version 3.0

Mike

Mon, 3 Jul 2023, 09:41 PM (-06:00)

This is a bit out of sequence. Before Michigan on this trip, before Wisconsin, before Minnesota, there was a northward trek across Central Iowa. This story is about that day one week ago.

And my apologies in advance: this one is kind of long in the telling.

—

1. Low Pressure

It’s Sunday. We are driving north on an empty, two-lane US-63 thru Central Iowa. It’s a gray day, and the wind is blowing from the west. The corn is bent over in waves that sweep across the fields that cover the rolling hills.

A low tire pressure warning message pops up on the dashboard. We are south of Traer. We decide to check the tires there.

Two minutes later the display changes to an ominous stop-the-car-now message. I pull over at the next intersection, where we can get the car and trailer off the road onto flat pavement instead of a sloped gravel shoulder.

There is a yellow farmhouse across the street and three grey Butler silos on this side. The wind blows my door open. I get out to check the tires. The right rear is almost completely flat, and there is visible damage to the sidewall, and it has a leak. We clearly aren’t going to Traer on it.

2. Trying to Change the Tire

The skies in the west get dark. The wind is fierce. We unpack the car to get the jack. We unpack the car-top carrier to get the spare tire. Within 30 minutes, someone pulls over to see if we are ok. We were fine, we say. A few minutes later, someone else. We say we have a spare and are ok, but thanks.

The western sky gets black. The wind begins to howl.

The car goes up on the jack easily enough, but I am unable to crank the lug nuts loose. Trudy calls AAA — fortunately we have two bars. They tell her that we’ll have to have the car towed and leave the trailer behind. At this point I kick the tire wrench hard to loosen the nuts which works. Trudy cancels the AAA request.

The bad tire comes off. (It is really, really bad. We’re lucky we didn’t have a blow-out.) I lift the spare tire up only to discover that the lug nuts don’t fit. The fair and industrious Trudy calls AAA again who again tell us we’ll have to leave the trailer behind, but we really have no choice. They file a service request for a truck to come get us.

A half hour passes, and it starts to rain. We rush to repack the car. Another half hour passes. It rains hard. After another 30 minutes, Trudy calls AAA to check on the status of our request. We’re next on the list, they say. We begin to think about the details of me driving with the tow truck and Trudy staying behind in the trailer.

The rain stops, but the wind keeps blowing, and the sky over the hill to our west still looks black.

3. Mike

A truck pulls up beside the trailer. A guy gets out to see if we’re ok. His name is Mike, and he owns a auto salvage yard.

“I came by here earlier and saw you. I felt guilty later about not stopping.”

Mike’s wife is in the truck, and his teenage daughter is in the back seat. They are on the way to a pool party. He looks at the bad tire and the good tire and the car up on the jack and asks if he can help. We explain the story about the leak and the spare and the lug nuts but explain that AAA says we’re the next on the list.

Mike turns to leave and then looks back at the tires. He walks over to them, bends over and squints.

“You know,” he says. “I have a friend, Dale, who lives a mile down the road. He has a tire machine. I can put your spare tire on the good wheel.”

His offer sounds better than anything out AAA has offered us.

“Really? Sure!”

He pulls out his flip-phone and explains things to his friend Dale. When he hangs up, he walks over to the car and picks up the flat tire and wheel under his one arm and the spare tire and wheel under the other and walks over to his truck.

“I’ll be back in five minutes.”

He throws the wheels into the back of his truck and drives off. Trudy calls AAA and cancels our ticket.

Fifteen minutes later Mike, his wife, and his daughter come back with the spare tire ready to go. Within minutes he has it back on our car. (Right. He doesn’t just give us our new spare tire, he puts it onto the car, tightens the lug nuts, and takes the car off the jack.)

What kind of thanks are sufficient for something like this?

“Thank you so very, very much,” we say.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Pay it forward.”

4. Epilog

Four hours after the first warning lit up on our dashboard, we are on the road northward, again. And in spite of the delay, we make it to the campground in time to set up before dark.

We plan to cancel AAA when we get home.

Michigamme Roadside Park

Sat, 1 Jul 2023, 10:30 AM (-06:00)

At the Michigamme Roadside Park on Lake Michigamme about 20 minutes west of Ispheming, MI. It’s killing me not walk across the highway and snag a rock that’s sheered off the cut into the bedrock. For the Fair and Industrious Trudy, of course, who has returned to the pressure dome over Texas.

Given the traffic on US-41, it would kill me if I did. This’ll have to do.

A Wisconsin wayside

Sat, 1 Jul 2023, 10:10 AM (-06:00)

US-51 north out of Minocqua, WI. There’s a line of traffic strung out behind me waiting for a chance to pass. With each minute, the line gets longer, and almost certainly to the chagrin of most of them the truck right behind me seems to be equally happy with 55 mph, making passing both of us a chore.

A blue sign announces WAYSIDE 1/2 MILE. I slow down and turn left off the highway. The traffic behind me continues on northward. The wayside road winds left and then right, descending into to a shady grove.

There’s are picnic table here across a green lawn under large Oaks and Pines. And there’s a trail beyond that goes thru a woods, dropping further down to a small lake with gentle waves reflecting the afternoon sunlight. A cool breeze blows off the water.

A Red Pine root makes a perfect seat. It’s peaceful here. A good place to spend a few minutes and let more yearning traffic drive north. But the sun will go down behind the treetops before long, and there’s a campsite to set up before dark. It’s time to go.

I walk back up the trail thru the woods, climbing the gnarled tree root stairway. Then, after just a few steps, a loon calls loudly once. Then twice. Then again a third time.

Oxbo, Wisconsin

Fri, 30 Jun 2023, 04:20 PM (-06:00)

The door was heavy and resisted pushing. There was a step down just inside, and after the bright sun outside it was hard to see. The floor was wooden and worn, and there were bundles of firewood stacked for sale just inside.

There was a long bar with a few people sitting at it. This was a bit of a surprise, since the place looked like a store to a non-attentive observer, although as for that the Hamm’s sign outside should have been a hint.

There was a second room to the left that lit by the afternoon sun reflected off the river. A sliver of it flickered down the bar of the otherwise dark room and lit the face of a woman serving a couple seated at the right end of the bar. She looked up and smiled as I walked toward her.

“Is it ok if I park in the lot for a few minutes and sit down by the water?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I have a gray teardrop trailer. I didn’t want you to think I was setting up camp.”

She smiled again. “That’s fine. I saw you drive in.”

“Thanks,” I said again from the door and went down to the river.

Take Me Away

Fri, 30 Jun 2023, 04:51 AM (-06:00)

“You want to take me away?” she asked me from her wheelchair.

“You want to go away?” I asked her.

“Yes. You wanna take me?”

I looked down at the cat who had jumped into the chair with me.

“I would but I have a kitty on my lap.”

“I’m talking about me,” she said.

She rolled her chair past me and then stopped after a few feet and sat still staring at the wall.

—

A conversation from a few years ago.

He Did It

Fri, 26 May 2023, 09:23 AM (-06:00)

After the students had walked out onto the field… After the band stopped playing Pomp and Circumstance… After the sun went down behind the bleachers… After the students had walked across the stage… After the tossing of mortar boards… After the fireworks… After all that, I saw Jon amid the blue.

“I’ll be right back,” I said to Mr. Edgar.

Jon saw me coming.

“Mr. Hasan!” he shouted.

“Jon!” I said, returning his broader than usual smile.

He was standing with Isabel. She and he and a group of rascals were in my fifth period class a year ago. She did well. He did not. And he made a point to remind me that I had failed him whenever the two of them passed my classroom this year, although he would do it with a smile on his face as we bumped fists and they continued walking down the hall.

“Mr. Hasan,” he said. “I did it!”

“You did it,” I said and held my fist up for a bump.

“I need to give you a hug,” he said.

So we hugged each other. And Isabel and I hugged, too.

“You did it!” I said to him again, pointing a finger right at him. “You did it.”

Isabel smiled.

On the Merits of Having a Hole in the Bucket

Tue, 23 May 2023, 08:52 PM (-06:00)

There used to be Pyracanthas against that wall. Winding branches. Dark green oval leaves. Orange berries. And pokey thorns that burned like fire. But they didn’t make it. Years ago, one withered and died. Soon after the other.

When we planted Coral Honeysuckle on a trellis against the wall, the curse remained. The vines struggled and put out only a blossom or two in a season. But the curse turned out not to be a curse after all but rather a simple matter of not enough water. The wall, you see, is under an overhanging eave.

It seems that water is somehow a vital ingredient in the life cycle of plants. Who knew!?

…which brings me to the bucket.

We have a little metal bucket that we use to water plants in the yard. It’s a fine bucket. Been around for a long time. But there’s a hole in the bottom, and when you fill it up, the water trickles out. As such, the bucket isn’t good for much — except the Coral Honeysuckle. Fill the bucket up. Set the bucket down. The water runs slowly out. Do it once; do it twice. Do it today; do it tomorrow. The water gently soaks the base of the honeysuckle. The honeysuckle is happier.

Tonight as I stepped over the Salvia to set down the holey bucket, a Dwarf Salamander slithered away from the base of the trellis and into the leaves under the Dwarf Yaupon Holly.

It seems that water is somehow a vital ingredient in the life cycle of amphibians. Who knew!?

Time to Mow?

Sun, 21 May 2023, 08:31 PM (-06:00)

The front yard is… well… Is it time to mow? How to do?

Morning Birdsong

Sun, 21 May 2023, 07:22 AM (-06:00)

It was a Cardinal that woke me up. Singing in the canopy in the distance. No wait, that’s not it. You can’t hear the outside with the patio door is closed. So why on earth was I out of bed so early?

Highly nonstandard.

The bedroom was dark when I threw off the sheet. I fumbled for glasses and slipped into shorts and pulled a maple leaf teeshirt over the dishevel. Thusly configured, I opened the patio door to let in the early morning air.

It was at this point that birdsong surrounded me. There was a Cardinal singing in the distance. And there was a noisy Wren somewhere nearby. And before long there were Chickadees chattering in the dawning light.

“Morning, baby,” Trudy said as she wandered into the kitchen.

Despite my best efforts, I had not been sufficiently quiet in the making of the coffee.

You Would Have

Sat, 20 May 2023, 11:11 AM (-06:00)

You would have enjoyed this morning. It wouldn’t have made any difference, front yard or back. You would have enjoyed it. Enjoyed the birdsong. Enjoyed the greenery. Enjoyed the wildflowers. Enjoyed the breeze.

You would have sung back to the Wrens in the Cedar Elms. You would have thanked the overcast sky holding the heat of summer at bay. And although our definition of the 70+-degree morning and the oncoming 80+-degree temperatures would have hardly qualified for you as a cool spring day, you would have been outside from morning until the sun went down.

It’s hard to know where you might have chosen to sit. In front, you might have basked in the glory of the wildflowers making our once-conventional suburban lawn a miniature wilderness. In the back, you might have listened to the Wren and the Cardinal and the Titmouse in the distance. You might have commented on the various varieties of Salvia blossoming in purple. And you might have spoken to the squirrel drinking from the birdbath on the stump where the Ash tree used to grow.

Over the years that you came down from the north, our springtimes didn’t cooperate much. One year it was too hot, another too cold. One year it was too dry, another too wet. Although there was that spring in 1991 when you came with Nani and Bunka and we all wandered in the Bluebonnets and Indian Paintbrush. That was a good spring. This one is too.

You would have loved it.