A Beginner's Tool Box, Part I

 

Some time back, I focused on four (+1) essential shop tools. Today I'll go out to the lumber-yard with my tool bag (or box) to focus on the hand tools for woodworking that every beginner needs. I use a lot of cordless and some corded saws and drills; more on these later. Lately, for a lot of simple jobs, I forego power tools. In fact, for a big job I went hybrid: I used a cordless drill to make pilot holes in 200 or so pieces of weather-board siding, fearing that my new nail gun would split the wood. Then I hand-nailed about 600 siding nails. Worked like a charm. The hardest part of finding the right ringshank nails!

With some luck, a beginner could score all of these tools and a decent tool bag for under $300. A good box may cost more. I won't go into brands in most cases. For saws and hammers, however, some work better than others. Buy the best you can. Check Facebook Marketplace, estate and yard sales, too. Some fantastic tools from the 50s-70s can be had for pennies on the dollar.

Do not let your box look like that! Now here goes for picks:

A Toolbox Saw: A small crosscut saw can do a lot of serious work. I've got two by Stanley called "Fat Max" that I love.

A Hand Plane: These can cost big money, but a savvy DIYer can find excellent antique planes for under $50 that need some refurbishment. I sold a pile of them for $20 each at a farm-swap this year. I've kept several others in good shape for my own use, having seen new planes that run $100-$200. I use planes occasionally for a final fit on a piece of wood, when only a little bit needs shaving off. You'll find many other uses for these versatile tools. Here's a beauty from the article "Unlocking the Mystery of Hand Planes" at Wood News Online.

A Level (or two): Spirit levels come in many lengths, but for the toolbox, get a shorty of 2' or less. Get a vintage one at a yard sale or FB marketplace. They can be had cheaply.

A Framing Hammer: I love Estwing's hammers. I think mine is a 22 oz, which my friend Jeff Warren recommended for it's power but also because a heavier hammer simply wears you out. That's my brand-plug. I've used Stanley claw hammers for years, but a framing hammer that is well made does all a claw hammer can plus has better ergonomics. The  longer handles let a framing hammer do more of the work, at least to a point. 

On a Habitat build once, since the nonprofit will not let volunteers bring nail guns, they issued claw hammers to a bunch of unskilled folk on a framing job. I joined in but I quickly got found out: I drive nails well. Me and the Estwing then got a hell of a workout, since the other volunteers were bending more nails than driving them. They got other tasks while I ended up sore for days. I must have driven 300 nails that day but we stood all the walls before sunset. I felt suddenly Amish.

A Dead-Blow Hammer: This works great for lots of tasks where you did not wish to leave a Mark. The modern plastic version is full of shot. I find it great for tapping in a board when building. The one pictured is 10 bucks at Harbor Freight. I find a cheap one like this works as well as fancy ones. It's an occasional tool. I'd aim for a weight of 3 or 4 pounds. They can scale up to sledge-hammer size!

 

A Nail Puller (or three): I use these often, sometimes in partnership with the puller on the framing hammer to remove nails. I like having a big and little one handy. 

Carpenters Clamps: I have some favorites and will recommend them: Irwin bar clamps. I have dozens of clamps, from antique C-clamps to some beautiful wooden clamps, but the Irwins are a delight: they snug down with hand pressure and release fast. I've used them for holding things during auto repair, too: the plastic jaws, if clean, will not scratch metal. Start small for the tool box, with a pair of shorter ones, but you'll end up with huge ones soon enough, hanging on the wall of the shop.

Wood Chisels: You'll need this for many small jobs to shave off a tiny bit of wood when joining things. Get a set.

A Magnet: Nails and screws and essential parts fall into the grass. Get a magnet on a handle to find them. It saves money and keeps you and others safe later. I once kept half a dozen bored college students occupied on a Habitat for Humanity build, when the crew had no more work for unskilled helpers, by asking the kids to walk the site with two buckets: one for nails, another for screws. We found a gallon or so of each. The one pictured is 8 bucks at Harbor Freight. I have some that are long bars scavenged from machinery, and put on cords to drag over the ground. Sure beats a flat tire on the pickup truck!

Roll of Masking Tape: Tape? Sometimes I need to hold a small piece of trim and don't have a helper. Sometimes I've used tape to mark a spot I'm going to cut, or to keep a piece of wood from splintering when I saw it. It's a cheap companion. And if you want to write measurements on wood without writing on the wood itself, tape to the rescue.

A Speed Square & a Try Square: I managed to finally use a Speed Square to measure angle when we made rafters for a run-in built over an old shipping container. It's the first time I've done that. I then used the square to check the angle on other rafters from a chicken-coop kit. The second tool I love is my try square. These tools often have a small level built in, but for me the magic of the try square is its ability to mark a straight line on a piece of wood that needs to be cut with a circular saw. I use a Sharpie or a pencil.

I found a page on measuring pitch with a speed square, a page with other uses for that tool, as well as a nice resource with all sorts of neat marking tools and advice on measuring here.

A Pair of Rules: I love retractable tape-measures, but I have also begun to carry a folding wooden rule. Why? When you are measuring a long distance without a partner to hold a tape, the old-school wooden rule lets you work solo. Otherwise, I always use a tape.

 So that's my list. What did I forget?  I'll do another post on tools for working with metal and, just maybe, rudiments for my favorite haunt, the auto-shop.

Thanks 2022

 I do believe that I have given thanks in this space before, so in no particular order:

• Courage to say “no,” when a publisher let me know that my planned first-year textbook would cost students $200 per copy.
• Hope from the Midterm results. Evil got its due, and while it could have been better, it could have been far, far worse. I have recurrent bad dreams of neo-fascist militants who worship a certain evil man coming down our driveway. Guns won’t save us. What will? Community and fortitude.
• Perseverance, a related idea. I fixed things on the farm that seemed un-fixable at times: a stalled diesel tractor, a balky electronic ignition in an old truck, an old lock for our pop-up camper.
• Curiosity to try new things, from listening to some new music, reading new authors, to visiting the Grand Canyon. 
• Gratitude that my wife and I enjoyed relatively good health and prosperity. My own arthritis has been stable and my flexibility improved. A good osteopath, Yoga class, and diet have keep my as limber as possible at my age. We found a talented visiting vet to tend to our livestock dogs, and two of them with persistent health issues have also enjoyed better health in consequence.
• Luck when we had a porch finished, despite delays in materials or builders’ mistakes, the fallen white oak that guaranteed enough firewood, or decent fishing so we brought home dinner a few times.
• Company of others, fighting my antisocial tendencies to visit with family and friends.
• Temperance, not a virtue of mine, whenever my academic job seems pointless, my students anxious and depressed about the world we are leaving them, and my university ever more corporate, concerned more at times with branding than substance and learning.
• Restraint, also not my strength, when I kept my mouth shut instead of screaming. I am still working on that one!
• Knowledge to know when to “call some guy” to fix or make something, when to quit for the day, when to stop looking at screens, or when to let others have the last word.

So you get the last word. Tell me what makes you thankful in 2022?

Slowing Down To Save Time

Yes, this sounds paradoxical. But one thing that 10 years of rural life have taught me is this: when you have plenty of space to put things, you can get sloppy about it.  

That is not my tool box. Not by a light year. But before talking about why,  let's consider socket sets. Yes, sockets.

I have hundreds of the things, mostly inherited. The few dozen I brought with me from town were well organized in an old tool box I once purchased with S&H Green Stamps. I could always put my hand on what I needed, fast.

Finding myself with three places where we store equipment, I could see why my father-in-law put tools everywhere. And I mean everywhere. Unlike my small stash, however, these tools were not sorted. He worked at a breakneck pace and the work was good, but organizing things for later use? He called that "piddling," and it was not real work to him.  He had buckets of tools, jars of fasteners, and sockets every darned place you could imagine.

I'm Type-A about clutter, so it drove me bonkers until I discovered a simple truth about any pile of stuff: if you go after it methodically and do not add more stuff, it will eventually sort itself out. So this Fall, I began to organize sockets: 1/4", 3/8", and 1/2" drives, SAE, Metric, "deeps," "shallows," six-point and twelve-point sockets. I have specialty ones for removing oxygen sensors and spark plugs.

I am nearly done, and guess what? I have a full set for each of the places where we park tractors or cars. My father-in-law was always hunting for just the right size. When I'm done, I won't have to do that any more. Any sizes I'm missing I'll buy individually, until everything is ready to roll without me walking to another building to get one measly socket.

Makes one wonder what we might do if we addressed every mess that way. We confront messes daily but if we also clean up a little bit daily, without adding to it, we might save our mental health, our neighborhoods, the places we call home. 

We might save the world.

Creative Commons image from Publicdomainpictures.net

The Day Everything Broke

Today, so close to Halloween, offered up a share of tricks.

Last week, we cruised in our 1968 Chevy truck to go to an apple orchard. I rewarded the truck by putting it on the lift and changing the oil. Afterward, it would not start.

I was not quite ready  to curse. When our John Deere 1250 backhoe would not start, I cursed plenty. I needed it for digging holes to plant some bushes and trees.

I cursed in private, then recalled my recent lessons about turning frustration into gratitude.

So I got serious about diagnosis. The truck? I'd flooded it trying to start it by the throttle under the hood instead of the gas pedal. Solution: pull the spark plugs (due for a change anyway) and let it sit on the lift (for whose repair I'm thankful) and try  again when the new plugs come from Amazon (than you, Jeff Bezos: our local auto-parts store was clueless). While I was at it, I prepared to update everything to an electronic ignition: an invisible and relatively cheap (under $400) upgrade that makes starting an antique vehicle vastly easier.

The backhoe? I spent about $150 for a new battery (being thankful that I had diagnosed the starting problem) but after the beast ran for 5 minutes, it quit. Would I curse more?

A little. I cursed once or twice, until I recalled how my talented brother-in-law Joe fixed a similar problem on a different diesel: a small fuel leak made that tractor stall after a few minutes, as the fuel system pressurized.

I checked the lines on our backhoe. Sure enough, a plastic bowl that separates water from fuel had cracked, and fuel leaked out, starving the big Yanmar motor as it warmed up. A bit of epoxy provided a quick repair, lasting long enough to move the tractor and dig one hole in the ground for a shrub.

A new fuel bowl is on its way. 

By the way, I recalled how my father-in-law pinned himself under the rear tire of that selfsame backhoe, when he did something in haste. He survived, a miracle, but was never the same again. Life is short: make haste slowly, or festina lente, as the Ancients Romans said.

Let's face it: machines are easier to fix (and break) than humans, at least if you know something about machines. Yet some of these same Tractorpunk ideas might help with a difficult, even broken, human.

But first, let's dig some big holes in the ground and burn some rubber!

Gleaning Time

This word will be a good one for my workplace blog, where I propose a Word of the Week and Metaphor of the Month.

On the farm, or even in a small garden, gleaning has a strong purpose of connecting us with the final turn of the season of warmth to the colder, darker months ahead. I tend to glean--gather whatever remains from my final heavy harvest--on the day of first frosts. That would be tonight and tomorrow night in Central Virginia!

I filled a bushel basket with some summer squash, a lone cucumber, a few tomatoes, and many, many hot peppers bound for chopping and fermenting. It sounds sad, this last picking of fruits, but really it's a fun way to say "thank you" to the garden beds and "hello!" to fall plantings: broccoli, lettuce, kale, garlic and onions mostly. 

Nan and I then put heavy row cover on the smallest seedlings and trucked giant piles of dying weeds and garden debris to our two compost piles (a long-term one for weeds, a shorter-term pile for soil amendments, leaves, and kitchen scraps).  We spread fresh straw around the new plants we have for fall (Kale appeared just as the basil finished up) and continued to glean lessons from a rather bad year in the garden. Mostly that was my fault: late start, travel in May, laziness in July and August.

 Next year we will change how we manage our raised beds and mowing our paths, and remove any remaining weed-block fabric. We will rotate basil more mindfully (black spot appeared on it at season's end, so it cannot be composted).  We also gleaned some good ideas about planting a second crop of squash in late August, to beat the squash-bug cycle.  One lesson we gleaned involved herbicides: sadly, we cannot manage 300' of fence-line without some judicious application. With a good deal of that fence now covered in thick vines, we'll cut, spray, and maintain it better to keep weeds out and the sun on our garden. We lost a lot of produce to the shade this year. 

That all said, I managed to put up a gallon of tomato sauce in pint jars, nearly that much Blackberry and Fig jam, and get a fair onion crop. The garlic did not get harvested in time, so it sprouted. I gleaned all that; the soft-neck variety will be trimmed and pickled; the hard-necks went right back into a new bed. Next year, hard-necks will be our speciality as they keep so well.

I hope the lessons you gleaned from your gardens help in 2023.

Better Safe Than...Botulism

When my weirdo friend Gary and I were little, as precocious little boys with a love of reading do, we would say the names of ailments and diseases. We would then laugh like busy pint-sized demons.

Leprosy!
Jungle Rot!
Hernia! (This one we thought should be a first name)
Rickets!
Malaria! (Also a name)
Botulism!

Not so funny now, and we've lost Gary (to none of those listed).  For my part, I want to avoid Botulism if I can. When I can. During canning.

I put up a fair quantity of my Middle-Eastern tomato sauce this year, using my typical recipe and adding lemon juice to each jar, as today's varieties are not as acidic as those our grannies grew.

And being stupid, I canned them in a water bath, as I have long recommended at this site. All the jars sealed, but today I'm going to pop the lids, empty the jars, re-sterilize them, add more lemon, reheat the sauce, refill and can the jars in my pressure-cooker canner.

Why all that work? One, I love that sauce. Two, the jury is out on water-bath canning or pressure-cooker canning for tomato sauces, with my canner's manual recommending boiling water for salsa (is my recipe that?) and the National Center for Home Food Preservation (yay academia!) recommending pressure-cooker canning for spaghetti sauces without meat. Here is their FAQ page. They wisely advise on that page "The specific recipe, and sometimes preparation method, will determine if a salsa can be processed in a boiling water canner or a pressure canner. A process must be scientifically determined for each recipe."

So let's call my sauce vegetarian spaghetti  (without even one meatball and therefore, no bread. Google that one). And I will use the pressure-cooker method the National Center recommends, since it guarantees that food reaches 240 degrees. That will kill off any bacteria that can cause botulism. 

Boiling water is not hot enough.

Friends, do not trust all the homesteading and DIY-bloggers on this matter. Go with the scientists, and good luck with your late-season food prep.

All The Rain At One Time: Hurricane Season Again

I've written here before about the feeling of living in a shooting gallery as tropical storms and hurricanes roar over ever more frequently.

Hurricane Ian follows a track so close to the one from my 2020 post's image that I'll just be lazy and use the image again.

This year we decided to be a little more proactive as Ian approached. It looks like gale-force gusts tomorrow, but no sustained winds of more than 40 miles her hour. The ground was dry, too dry even, this morning, so we hope the rains do not uproot any trees. I did rush out in the final dry hours to plant some lettuce seeds and a row of peas, hoping to cheat Jack Frost.

I also hope we don't lose power, but I filled up two five-gallon containers with potable water, just in case. Our generator cannot run in the rain, so we'd have to rough it a day or so or until power returns. A whole-house generator is now under consideration.

As Ian looked likely we had ordered a few supplies, including a USB-rechargeable Streamlight flashlight; it's our third by that company. It arrived in a soggy box as the first rain-bands hit. Law-enforcement, the military, and first-responders praise the brand. I find them rugged and waterproof. Cheaper lights exist, but you get what  you pay for in a flashlight.

I had to use the new light right out of the box to help Nan find a chick that had gotten itself under a coop. The little critter would have perished in the mid-50s weather we are having, as the storm passes us.

It seems that I forgot flashlights in my earlier list! You can recharge these sorts of lights from your car's power outlet or USB ports. So let's add USB-Rechargeable light with at least 250 lumens to our storm-prep.

In 2020 we did not have our Walkie-Talkies, one of the best investments we have made. Their battery life would be a few days if we lost power. Add them to the list.

I'll message my nephew Chris Essid with Homeland Security to see what I've forgotten in this and my earlier post. Check in with your neighbors and family in the path of these storms. Good luck until hurricane season ends.

The Silence of The Roosters and Other Fall Traditions

Sad to do it, but we get to the point every year when a few formerly cute little chicks morph into nightmarish teenage boys who fight each other and roughly molest hens. One nearly blinded our former Alpha rooster, Big Daddy. BD now is our Beta, and we'd be sorry to lose him. As Roger our "chicken whisperer" tells us, older males mating with young hens result in fewer male chicks.

Win win.

And the aggressor? That punk teenager went into a dutch oven today. Young roos "taste just like chicken." Only older birds prove too tough to eat, good only for the stockpot.

Culling roosters we cannot re-home with Roger is, thankfully, only one of the annual rituals that begin about the time of the Autumnal Equinox. The heat and humidity have broken, so I get entire days for physical labor of splitting firewood and stacking it, pruning trees ahead of hurricanes, baling a bit of late-cut hay, planting garlic and onions, putting in kale and lettuce, picking figs and last tomatoes for last batches of jam and sauce.

As my full-time professional career nears its end, I'm ever more in love with this perfect time of year. I cannot sit still for long or look at screens except to write or study more about my hobbies. At night I read books, but while there's enough light in the evenings I get a bit more work done. There's also enough cool, dry air to make sweating fun. It's not hunting season yet, but the lakes are good for fishing for quite a while longer.  We even suddenly, after my wife's retirement, have time now for short vacations. It requires a farm-sitter, but the "shoulder months" are good for that, without fretting about animals needing constant attention to water and shade in summer or well-prepared shelter and fresh dry bedding in winter.

With Fall in mind, I went to the movie theater and sat in front of a big screen for the first time since COVID-19. I was deeply moved by Brett Morgen's film Moonage Daydream, about my favorite musician, David Bowie. I've missed his music terribly since his passing; he never seemed to run out of good ideas, even late in life.

Bowie's passing may have left a hole, but the film provided closure appropriately connected to my thoughts about Autumn.

 Fall can seem sad to some folks I know, yet to others "the veil is thin" between us and eternity. Our ancestors seem near. It was a good time to see that film. Bowie left this coda in the film, expressed as a prose-poem, and it fits well with any meditation about Fall:

You're aware of a deeper existence
Maybe a temporary reassurance that indeed there is no beginning, no end
And all at once, the outward appearance of meaning is transcended
And you find yourself struggling to comprehend a deep  and formidable mystery
I'm dying
You are dying
Second by second
All is transient
Does it matter?
Do I bother?
Yes, I do
Life is fantastic, it never ends, it only changes
Flesh to stone to flesh
And 'round and 'round
Bеst keep walking. 

Yes, keep walking. I'm walking outside now to cut up some limbs that fell in the last storm, before what is left of Hurricane Ian arrives.

(Do Not) Beware of Doug

It's been three weeks since I took "Doug," a fast-growing rat snake, to the back of our property and let him loose in a pile of scrap metal, invasive plants, and leaf-litter: snake paradise. "Go get 'em, Tiger!" I said, meaning that Doug would displace a few venomous Copperheads.

I rather miss him. He'd taken up residence in our newest large chicken coop, and once when I took him to the ravine at the western edge of our property, he was back inside a week. I found him curled up, with hens and a rooster just stepping over him. I put out feelers for a name on Facebook, and my grad-school bud Alan came back with Doug, for "I shall return" General Douglas MacArthur. Alan and I are both WW 2 geeks, so it was an easy pitch.

Now Doug is gone. I picked him up that last time with my snake grabber because he was trying to eat eggs, not just mice. And baby chicks were on the way.

I've long enjoyed having black snakes (Black Racers and Rat Snakes) in all our out-buildings, as they keep down the mice that eat wiring harnesses in vehicles and farm equipment. Though I can find no peer-reviewed study of the matter, black snakes are said to keep Copperheads away, which is more than enough reason to want these rather curious and gentle (unless provoked) creatures around.

Doug never tried to bite me, even when being carried and he slipped loose from the grabber, hanging out and inspecting his surroundings. I suspect I'll see him again. I already had a sign on our dog house that references an old Far Side cartoon, pictured up top. It feels like a welcome sign now.

Chainsaw Logic, Part II

In January, I wrote of my feelings concerning Stihl and Husqvarna saws. Now I'm ready for a farm-yard necessity: a second saw.  

It's a good idea to have two chainsaws handy when you cut as much wood as we do, and of course trees fall across roads regularly in hurricanes and ice storms. If one saw fails, the other can be brought right out. We did this for years, and in winter, when our Stihl saws could act up, I loved having a backup chainsaw.

2022 brought down at least 20 trees on our Buckingham County Property, across all the farm roads. Those are the ones I can see. I suspect more than 50 will have fallen, by the time we re-open the back road to our upper field.

Sadly for my wood stove but luckily for the forest, most are pines. I'll cut, season, and burn the pine mixed with hardwood to maintain a good burn temperature and avoid creosote.

Wood cutting with my current "Husky" is just not going to do this job. So several of their larger saws, ranging in price from $800 to $1400, are in contention.

First off, for most home-owners and casual sawyers, a small saw like my current one will be more than anyone needs. You can see other tips at my earlier post. And for your safety, please read this guide for using a saw from The University of Missouri's extension service. With hurricane season coming, there will be many emergency-room trips for new saw-owners. Do not become one of them.

Yet there comes a point when only a bigger saw can do the trick.  I'm still not ready to buck and fell large trees, a job best left to a professional. But our situation in Buckingham remains in my realm of experience, with the right tool in hand (both hands).

What is "bigger"? In a saw, it does not mean a longer bar but a more powerful engine. With that power, however, comes weight. Let's consider stats for two saws I may purchase as soon as next week:

• Husquvarna 572 XP: 5.3 hp, max torque 8200 rpm, 14.5 lbs.
• Husquvarna  372 XP X-Torq: 5.5 hp, max torque 6600 rpm, 14.6 lbs.
  

Both feature a 20" bar though longer ones can be had (and are not of interest to me). My current saw, a 440, has an 18" bar and gets categorized as a "residential" rather than professional model. It weighs 9.7 pounds and has 2.4 hp. It suffices for cutting limbs and firewood, as well as felling small trees (a foot or less in diameter and perhaps 30' tall). 

Both of the contenders are a LOT heavier than my current saw, which means no lifting the saw high. It's unwise to use a saw by reaching up above one's shoulder, in any case. 

Most of my heavy-duty cutting involves keeping the saw's center of gravity below belly height. I learned early to "let the saw do the work" by never pushing on a saw; that's a recipe to get the bar pinched or worse, have it kick back right at your face. Keeping the saw low avoids exhaustion, in any case. Gravity becomes friend.

Of one thing I'm certain: I want their pre-computer models. I've already had a long telephone conversation with one of my dealer's salespeople. Their newest saws promise smoother power and lower emissions but are not user-friendly to a DIY mechanic like me. That means I cannot replace key parts like a carburetor. I'd depend upon service, likely expensive service, at the shop.  If the X-Torq system (which does lower emissions and fuel consumption) can be had without too many electronics, one of these saws will be coming home with me.

If I were to go the really high-tech route, I'd consider their professional-grade electric saws, but I need to learn a lot more about Husqvarna's battery tech first. I dislike being what I call a "Dewalt orphan" with a bunch of 18V cordless tools for which the maker no long makes replacement batteries. In consequence I have to source re-manufactured battery packs from China. These replacements work until they don't.

I will continue this series as I get a new saw and put it to work stacking logs. As noted in my first post, the old saw is not going to be idle. It already got its annual tune up: new fuel pickup, spark plug, and air filter. Now is the time for a second chain in the case and maybe a new bar. I'll have my dealer look at the old 440 when I go shopping.

Stay safe in the woods. The dealer does not stock new arms or legs.

A Mechanic's Lesson From the Yoga Mat

Before you know it, seven years pass. It has been nearly that long since I purchased a deceptively decent-looking 1974 Buick Apollo advertised at Hemmings.

My next column for Hemmings (the 12th installment of "Project Apollo") will focus more on some lessons leaned from failure, but here I want to wax a little more philosophical for my general Tractorpunk reader.

After more than $5000 invested over 6 and a half years, the car does run well enough to take regional road trips, but despite the money spent and many skinned knuckles since 2015, it's been on the lift since February 2022. Why would I do such a thing? Old cars are meant to be driven, right?

The answer is "it depends." My goal for the car has also as rolling classroom, so I'd get over my fears of being a first-time restorer and novice mechanic. To a large degree, I've met that goal. I have a 99 Miata to flog on backroads when I want some cheap thrills.

What I did not anticipate, however, was how failure with a relatively minor-seeming repair would lead me to realize an important lesson that applies far from the garage.

Gearhead Yoga, Parking Pawls, and Flight Attendants

During the pandemic, my Thursday evening Yoga practice moved to a Zoom conference. One benefit of Yoga, physically, has been my ability to contort myself in a car, while seated upside down on the front floor, legs over the driver's seat as I cram my head under the dash to fix wiring.

Little did I know a more subtle and probably more important benefit would happen. Our teacher, Kerry,   shares a short mindfulness lesson with us early in class, as we begin to warm up for the stretching and strength-building ahead. One week she noted how a woman on a crowded, tense, and very uncomfortable flight summoned an attendant for some small need. It took a while for the flight attendant to arrive. Just before barking at the airline employee about how awful things had gotten, an epiphany struck the passenger. Instead of barking, she apologized for interrupting the harried woman and thanked her, personally, for what she'd done on the flight thus far to make it as pleasant as possible.

Instantly, the attendant's face went from wary to grateful, and she and the passenger talked for several happy minutes. A weight was lifted  and of course the passenger's need got addressed speedily. The lesson? Try to turn frustration into gratitude. 

I began to try this with humans, and the effect resembles a magician's spell. It fails sometimes: the UPS clerk who replied to my "How are you?" with "I'm here" answered my "better than the alternative" with "not really." But I tried, and by being pleasant, I got a real smile by the time I left the UPS store. 

Outside, the sky was tumbling with storm-clouds that said something to me about the need to look at the sky. Life is short. You can fix a car easier than a life. Two days later, a tornado ripped through a spot about five miles from that UPS store.

Trying the Technique on the Toughest Person of All

Then I tried Kerry’s idea on myself. My car's parking pawl, a small metal piece in the guts of the Apollo's transmission, looks undamaged, but it does not hold the car in park, no matter what I try. I've replaced the spring, checked the fit of the rod that engages the pawl, and kept the bottom of the transmission off while doing all this work. While I was at it, I realized that the car needed new universal joints. Getting the correct size for the front of the drive shaft proved tedious, involving calipers, some guesswork, and lots of searching around local parts stores. When I got a fit, I saved the empty box for next time!

The delays taking off parts and re-installing them multiple times were infuriating for a while, until I recalled Kerri's story of the passenger. A few worn parts, some hard to source, are not my fault. Would I rather be stuck by the road with the drive shaft on the ground, something that happened once to a friend's 1974 Dodge Dart? So I would tell myself "every time you do a chore again and again, you are turning it into muscle memory. Soon you will be able to remove a drive shaft or install a universal joint blindfolded. Be grateful for the lessons."

When I got both u-joints home, the attitude learned in Yoga Class made all the difference. I learned to install the joints with my shop vise, lubed them properly, reinstalled the drive shaft, and went back after the errant pawl, teaching myself to adjust the car's shift linkage in the process (I did that at least five times. It is getting there). When the flimsy plastic tab that holds the shift-indicator needle in the dash broke, instead of screaming I took the dash out for the seventh or eighth time, and using a pin vise from my scale-modeling supplies, I drilled a tiny hole for hooking the little spring in place. It's better than stock now.

Even when I learned that the parking pawl could not be mended without pulling the transmission, I decided to be grateful. Now at least I'd isolated an issue to its probable cause. I will pay a shop a thousand bucks or more (if the gear the pawl engages is worn) to fix it later. Maybe I'll eventually pony up $2000 and have the entire transmission rebuilt, as I know a good shop for that work. Meanwhile, parking the car in gear is not an option as it is on my manual-transmission Mazda. I'll keep a chunk of 4x4 wood in the Buick's trunk as a backup to the emergency brake, so the car does not roll off, park it on level ground or touching a wall (Yay, 1970s 5 mph bumpers with thick rubber pads).

One Over-Torqued Bolt

As I finish work under the hood (at least until I add a heater) I'm focusing on upgrades, such as new finned valve covers, plugs and wires, and a dipstick from the parts car I found in South Carolina. Yes, the cheap aftermarket one that a prior owner had installed broke, with the end of the dipstick falling off.

Remember how Tom and Ray Magliozzi warned us about that, on their wonderful, and sadly gone, Car Talk radio show?

So be careful when you check that oil!

One justifiable, rather than cosmetic, upgrade to the car is a new transmission pan with a drain plug. Transmissions notoriously spill fluid everywhere when a pan gets removed for service or a fluid change, so lots of gearheads add a drain to the existing pan or switch to a pan that has a drain, as I wanted to do. Summit Racing has some good aluminum pans for my car's TH 400 transmission, so I ordered one to the tune of $130.

I installed it with an upgraded gasket and new filter in the transmission. Yes, I was proud of myself. Too proud.

On the final bolt, tightened to spec of 10 foot-pounds by the manufacturer's instructions, the pan cracked. I felt it rather than saw it.  Looking up, I saw the pan was ruined, a solid crack running from the bolt hole down the side of the pan.

It would have really been  easy, even on a Sunday when Summit's phone lines are closed, to "scream" at them through their text-messaging service. Instead, heeding that lesson from the Yoga mat, I texted what had happened and said how sad it made me, because I like the product and so appreciated all the other products I'd purchased from them over the years for the car and others. What might we do next?

In five minutes, I had their customer-service person thanking ME and sending me a return authorization, under warranty.  Everyone was smiling. I got a full refund and for now, my stock steel transmission pan goes back on the car, which then goes back on the road. Maybe later I'll tap it for a drain plug. Steel lasts.

 Out of the Shop and Into the Mean Check-Out Lines

Side benefits of this new approach to frustration continue to multiply. I am the least-likely peacemaker imaginable but recently I stopped a fight in the making in line at Food Lion. 

Letting a man with two items in his hands go ahead of me, I thought to an unattended shopping cart. I figured he'd forgotten two things and stepped back to fetch them. No. Another man came rushing up and began berating the shopper for pushing into line past HIS cart. The man I'd let in line retorted with an unfortunate and unearned "I think you should show some respect." That the speaker was white and the man with the cart was black turned those words into a dangerous spark.

There I was, with two badly over-torqued bolts. 

It hit me to take the blame. So I said "Gentleman, Let's show some mutual respect. It's all my fault." I quickly told them what I'd done. They both looked at me, none too happy, so I rushed on. "Everyone is so angry nowadays. I'm to blame. I'm sorry. Life is short. "

It ended there. They both gave me a nod and though neither apologized to the other, we all checked out and went home. I needed a stiff drink after that. It could have blown up into a fist fight. And these days, maybe one or both of them would have a gun.

Still, my words worked. Maybe breaking aluminum pans and fixing a balky transmission "well enough for now" provides a life-lesson to take outside the shop into our imperfect, angry world.

 Coda: Let The Good Times Roll, Even When The Car Won't

The Buick is about to go back on the road with the old steel pan back on. I fired it up--no leaks!--but it won't move in any gear. Time to adjust the shifter linkage--for the nth time. It will roll. I have an assembly manual for the car now.

I even changed the oil. When it rolls, I can get back to upgrades for the engine bay and a center console I'm building for the interior.

So what frustrations repairing things have you dealt with, creatively? And have you turned frustration into gratitude, like the lady on the airplane?

A Simple Fix For Old Stihl String-Trimmers

I avoid like the Plague any advertisements online that claim "One Simple Trick..." because I know click-bait when I see it. So for this post, I avoided the urge.

But really, I did find one simple trick to avoid a common frustration: My two-line string-trimmers (with heads like the one shown) getting tangled, no matter how fastidiously I wind the line. From the factory, a Stihl line-head seems to work like a miracle, but over time and wear, they fall short, with lines breaking and tangling. I nearly switched to Husqvarna, as I did with my chain saw, but decided that I have a lot invested in the two premium trimmers (one is a multi-tool with six or so attachments).

These trimmers are great, unlike Stihl saws, which I find finicky to start in cold weather despite my attention to every detail (including seasonal settings for the air-intake and using 93 octane non-ethanol fuel). Every year I add a tune-up kit and once, for the older unit (perhaps 14 years old now) I changed the carburetor, an easy job but one that needed a lot of tuning later to get the trimmer to run to spec, which it does.

None of that helped with lines tangling, and just at home I have to trim some 400' or more of borders, tall weeds that hide rabbits and Copperheads, weekly.  The trimmer simply MUST work.

So I started seeing what local groundskeepers and lawn services do. To a one, when I observed them they had a SINGLE line, not two, coming from their trimmers. Looking over the line-head, I figured that the bottom-most spool would be best.

Winding it in my type-A way, I began this one simple trick. Guess what? Not a tangle in two years. Lines break off, especially hitting stone edging and posts, but my frustration level has gone down 90%, the remaining 10 being the humidity and heat of July and August. I went out before 8 today to trim and though I needed a shower after, it was done perfectly. Look out marauding rabbits and Copperheads. I now can see you.

So try this with your trimmer and let me know how it works.

Image Source: Stihl

Rock and Sun: Desert Solitaire at Age 61

 

When did I first run into Edward Abbey? My 20s, certainly: a dangerous age to make his acquaintance. Had life gone in a different direction, I might have blundered out into the desert and died there. Lots of young men get tempted to do stupid things after reading certain authors.

Nearly 40 years later, nearly the same age as Abbey when he passed, I found myself in his neck of the desert, the place he most felt at home. In Prescott Arizona's Old Sage Bookshop, a copy of Desert Solitaire appeared. My wife spotted it, thank God, because I'd given my old paperback away and had been hankering to read the book again while we were in the West. I wanted to see if Abbey could cast his spell on me a second time.

The essays in the 1968 book, set during Abbey's time as a ranger at Arches National Monument in the late 50s, opened up for me in a way they'd never earlier. Partly I've lived a lot more, and partly I have become familiar with authors Abbey notes well, from Joyce to Chuang-Tzu. The man Abbey, at least his younger, angry self who did this writing, did not escape my censure so easily. He was in his late 20s and early 30s when he did this writing, and he comes off as a bit of womanizing misanthrope, a guy we might call a Doomer today, eager to see technological civilization collapse. Easy to claim that at such an unripe age, I thought; one broken ankle and your post-collapse adventures would end forever. The naive enthusiasm and egotism that leads him to get trapped in a side-canyon that nearly kills him remind me of the antics of the Beats; they too have sent more than a few young men to their dooms. I'm looking at you, Chris McCandless and Timothy Treadwell.

Yet Abbey redeems himself, in the prose he crafts and in his ultimate, hard-earned humility. His epiphanies of being so small in so vast and uncaring a landscape make an older reader nod in recognition, something a selfish 20-something could never do.

And the writing! Kerouac would never type a sentence like this:

Turning Plato and Hegel on their heads I sometimes choose to think, no doubt perversely, that man is a dream, thought an illusion, and only rock is real. Rock and sun.

The beautiful indifference of wild nature, moving according to its own calendar, redeems Abbey and his essays, published in the rebellious year of 68. Time does that; petroglyphs from 700 years ago look permanent, until one grapples with the deep-time of a 600-million-year-old vista where the artists put down their marks. As Abbey learns these truths, he's at his best when confronting a stubborn rattlesnake or when the side-canyon temporarily defeats him and he breaks down crying, facing starvation, then mummification, in a spot he cannot escape. Nature repeatedly slaps him silly, and he learns from the harsh lessons. Kerouac and Neal Cassady never learned; Kerouac died a sad drunk, and the same year as Abbey published the  book, Cassady's body was found beside a railroad track in Mexico, dead from exposure following a party. Neither Beat made it out of their 40s. They had raced across the desert in a car they drove to pieces, saying they were "digging" it but really only digging the sound of their own unceasing voices. They should have shut up for a while and listened to their friend Gary Snyder. Or Abbey.

Conversely, Abbey spends a lot of time in this book being quiet. After all, he's alone for much of it. To whom is he going to speak? A Prickly Pear?

If you do not know Abbey's fiction, save them and start here first, but read with care if you are still young or impressionable. The book spawned a cult following for many reasons, some good. Abbey and the writers he knew and influenced, like Terry Tempest Williams, in turn changed the nation's ideas about the sanctity of untouched wilderness. Even as what he called "industrial tourism" thrives, we rarely hear any longer calls to dam the Grand Canyon or run paved roads into every remaining tract of wilderness. The Park Service is not perfect, but it stands a little closer now than in the late 50s to Abbey's vision in its "leave no trace" philosophy. Tourism helps to fund preservation.

Perhaps I'm overly charitable in a time when a new and global threat to civilization has arisen. The pressures on us grow every year with additional gigatons of carbon dioxide. We might end up, in a few centuries, with little more to show for our folly than postmodern petroglyphs beside drowned coastal cities. 

I would like to leave a better world to the bright and eager young people I teach. Their children will hate and curse our selfishness and laziness, as bitterly as Abbey did at  his bleakest moments.

I am uncertain if I will read Desert Solitaire again. I don't have another 40 years, but one other fact remains clear. The past 40 mark how far I have come from the angry young man who, like young Abbey, felt it best for a rotten and rapacious civilization to fall.

Now I want us to make it. Not for my short-lived self, for a human nation sure to fall some day, or even for an undying God. I'm a Deist and know now in my bones that God, who blessed us with this lovely world, does not meddle. I learned that from Primo Levi and Elie Wiesel. We are free to wreck or thrive. God made chaos and put evil inside us too. Get behind me, Satan, you sham, you lie. Loser in the basement, you don't exist, but we have hell enough in each of us to make a hell right here.

Why keep hoping we'll endure and do better? Hope makes one happy. Even if it is all just rock and sunlight, we have others around us. Human contact is sacred, too, in whatever time each of us has.

Restaurant Nation? Maybe Not

 Today I spent just over $130 for groceries at Kroger. That seems alarming for the contents of 2 (admittedly very heavy) reusable bags. In another era, I'd have said "obscene" but consider this: for two nights we ate dinner in Abingdon, VA, at admittedly fine-dining establishments. Each meal cost the two of us more than I just spent at the supermarket.

Why the photo of Andy Warhol shopping for his preferred subjects? The artist brought the quotidian to our attention: the design of everyday (and humbly priced) things. One wonders if today he'd paint the boxes of artisanal pastas or containers of Seventh Generation's guilt-free, eco-safe detergents in refillable containers. Since his time, we've become (at least among the educated elite) a nation of gourmands...I mean foodies. Consider our cooking shows, our urban districts chock-full of bespoke dining options, even after COVID.

Expensive groceries, however, do not compare to $40 entrees.

Discovering this, made a decision to not eat out as often, recently. Our garden is a bit smaller this year, because we traveled at peak-planting time. But we have a vegetable stand nearby and these things called cookbooks. I do like recipes on the iPad, but something about a paper text, ad-free, on the counter charms me.

When away from home, we've learned the art of using lunch to test a restaurant out, but more often lunch means a picnic or a modest place like a taco-truck or burger place. It continues the trend we noticed, nationally, during the pandemic. I can also safely say that we won't again be eating at fine-dining places more than once or twice per year: an anniversary and a birthday, perhaps. Or not at all? Maybe not until restaurants offer more down-market options; a looming Recession may force their hands. 

Even now, options abound without resorting to a Big Mac: one of our favorite places in Richmond, a bistro called Bacchus, attracts a diverse crowd and is understated cool without being trendy. It features specials for about half the price I quoted, and the food is wonderful. I no longer feel the need (never a very strong need) for "restaurant as experience." Besides, at one place in Abingdon, the noise inside was deafening. We insisted on the patio, telling the hostess "inside is too loud." In Charlottesville for a concert, we found Sal's Caffe Italia, surrounded by upscale eateries, still offering an 80s vibe of oil paintings, quiet dining, and reasonably priced yet amazing Italian food. We'll be back.

I'm baffled why people enjoy overpriced, over-hyped, and overly loud dining but even more baffled by how anyone thought building an economy around going to movies and eating out could be sustainable. Someone enlighten me. 

Somehow, somewhere, we lost a thread of dining that once looked like this (courtesy of 1950sUnlimited at Flickr), to build an entire economy (it seems) out of going to dinner.

My family never looked or ate out like that, but we knew folks who did. Except for the very rich, those  experiences were reserved for special occasions. We all, however, aspired to be like Jet-Setters, who apparently lived like that all the time.  Remember, that was a time before credit cards. Now we can pretend to be the elite, paying later.

It won't end well, and maybe the $40 entree signals that the end is nigh. Good.

Thank you, Harry!

Dear reader, the object above is a tiny piece of lead (shown far larger than actual size) called a "crankshaft key" or "flywheel key" (or to some a Woodruff Key!) for a push lawn-mower. The little part sacrifices itself when when mower hits an unmovable object: rock, stump, Godzilla's little toe. It shears in half, along its longest dimension, to keep the mower from bending internally and breaking permanently.

Now why on Earth am I talking about such a thing? 

It's the first DIY job on a motor I ever did, with the encouragement of Harry Delolian, our neighbor. He was the son of Armenians who had fled the genocide in the Ottoman Empire and he was one of the most resourceful human beings I've ever known. Harry kept both a giant Ham-Radio antenna and the fuselage of a single-engine airplane in his tiny yard, which earned him weirdo points with adults and cool points with 1970s kids.

Harry showed me how to fix our very expensive Toro mower, my dad's pride. I'd used it to cut a neighbor's grass, as I did for several folks in order to earn model-airplane money. Dad was livid when I "broke" the mower, because dad, for all his great qualities, was no DIYer. To him a tool box consisted of a pair of slip-jaw pliers, a claw hammer, and one 16D nail about 4" long. Plus lots of cussing and sweating. If those items would not fix something, it was time to "call some guy."

Dad was ready to load the Toro into the Pontiac's trunk but Harry waved that off. "Joey," he said to me, "go to Lorraine Hardware and buy a crankshaft key for a Toro." As I walked down the street I kept saying "crankshaft key," so I would not look the fool in front of the serious and slightly judgemental men at that emporium of all things holy and perfect. I preferred (and still do) a hardware store to a church, since I think God meant for us to fix things, as part of some inscrutable and larger plan, not sit around with people we don't know well while singing poorly.

In any case and for under a dollar, I soon had the part. Harry pulled the top cover off our mower, thus ushering me into a realm of metallic mysteries. He talked me through every bit of the work, something he'd probably yell at kids in boot camp (he was an Army DI who had served in The Battle of the Bulge and as a Recon Scout in Korea).  The tiny part dropped right into place, and as soon as the Toro was screwed back together, it started and ran as well as new.

I thought of Harry the other day when I broke the crankshaft/flywheel key on our 13-year-old Craftsman self-propelled. When the mower would not start, I knew right away what I had done and said "thanks, Harry!" Two YouTube videos later, I knew how to find my mower's engine number and how to change the key. But it was Harry's hand that guided me. Amazon, not Lorraine (long and sadly closed) supplied the Briggs and Stratton key (I ordered 2, because things happen). Price now? $2.49 each. But imagine the cost of taking a mower to the shop.

The old Craftsman fired up on the first pull. That it still runs after 13 seasons is also testimony to Harry's annual reminders to change oil, swap spark plugs, clean air filter, sharpen blades, and keep the deck clean above and below.

Now don't you want to go fix something? Don't be like another neighbor who filled the gas tank with the motor oil supplied with the new mower (of course not reading the owner's manual). That new mower never, ever ran right.

 So fix something instead of breaking it!

It's God's tractorpunk plan for you. See you in the yard on Sunday.

Of Desert Rats and Deep Time

Winter and now Spring flee before my calendar. Concurrently, my posts here have been a bit thin on the ground, as thin as trees in the high deserts of northern Arizona. 

We have been there for a short visit, one that somehow seems longer. I would love for time to always pass in this manner. My wife and I have a theory that when we travel, time slows down. We do not go fast enough for time-dilation to occur, except psychologically.

I also have a particular theory about this vacation. The desert itself has something to do with our altered sense of time’s passage. Without driving all that far in a rented Mustang convertible (highly recommended) we have seen many varied arid and semi-arid landscapes in just a few days. Save for the scarcity of water, one might not expect such diversity in the same state. We visited the Granite Dells near Prescott, the scrubby and arid grasslands around Williams, the magnificent rock temples of the Grand Canyon, the primordial landscape of Petrified Forest National Park, the Ponderosa Pine-Forest above Flagstaff, the red-rock coffee-pots, broken arrows, and Snoopy Rock (kinda-sorta) of Sedona.

I loved the Western desert the first time I saw it, outside Phoenix, going on 25 years ago. At that point, I was a young writing teacher with big ideas about a technological revolution in the classroom, at the annual meeting of the CCCC in Phoenix. Now I approach retirement having slowed, marveling at the haste and earnestness of that younger self. The revolution occurred and computing is ubiquitous. Students still struggle to make the transition to writing academic prose, albeit with more distractions and new sources of dopamine addiction. Sometimes the Internet, so wild a frontier in 97, seems a desert and not a majestic one.

Now where did a quarter-century fly off to?

This post cannot answer that, but in an odd manner, returning to the desert did.

We have met decidedly eccentric Arizonans who live under a vast sky with ravens, jackrabbits, Bighorn sheep (saw one!), elk, rattlesnakes, and coyotes. They (human and animal) know something the rest of us don’t. Arizona’s “desert rats” share some inside joke about how one lives in harmony in an unforgiving but majestic place, under all that sky.

Could I learn how to be in on their joke? I doubt it; I do not have enough decades left on this rock. Soon enough I was looking forward to going home, humidity and all. By the time we got to Sedona, our last stop, my favorite place was the Ace Hardware. I was looking forward to working in the garden and seeing the place we live. Something in me changed, and I didn't feel the "further" urge on my wanderlust 20s.

What did I learn? Watching how other visitors react interests me a great deal. Silence, often. Now past (thank God) a stage in my life where I condemned what Edward Abbey called “industrial tourists,” I instead enjoy talking to all sorts of folks on holiday. Even if their idea of paradise is a packaged resort somewhere, I get a window into their world.

Reactions to deserts particularly prove educational. Nan and I chase ghosts of Puebloan cultures while others rush through ancient homelands, pulling 40’ long RVs into fast-food places. I admit, their choices no longer disgust me, as they once did. I don’t even mind a McDonald’s cheeseburger from time to time, mostly for nostalgic reasons. Out of my own discomfort about time passing, I feel some empathy for those who want the security of hauling every conceivable item from home along. The desert unnerves me, just beyond the town limits. Night falls so fast and utterly. But it also draws me like a magnet. Was it Dutch novelist Cees Nooteboom who told someone that he liked the Spanish Meseta because he thought that was what he looked like, inside?

The flat expanses between Flagstaff and Winslow (where you can indeed stand on a corner) might be an excuse to put the pedal down on I-40, since old 66 is gone, the ghost of the Mother Road buried under the new superslab. Yet even that open and ostensibly monotonous landscape holds old tales, even old civilizations.

Like the vanished swamps that became the Petrified Forest, the Pueblo ruins of the Sinaguan people teach lessons about time that can terrify or comfort. The night after visiting The Petrified Forest, where I actually had two mild bouts of vertigo because of the altitude as well as the distortion of distances, I could not go to sleep. I thought I was about to stop breathing. The vista of 230 million years of history makes one less than a speck on top of a speck.

Luckily, some saline spray to open desert-dry nostrils restored me.

At Walnut Canyon, one of the Park Service’s final sign boards notes how the Hopi and Navajo believe that “migration is not abandonment.” When life changed the Sinaguan people moved on. A theory holds that they merged with other local tribes, and some current traditions reach back, many centuries, to those old and sacred pueblos.

Compared to the mineralized tree-trunks two hours away, the Sinaguan people were here yesterday. One day something happened. We know a drought sizzled for five years, and dry-land farming cannot survive that. A Hopi man I met described his corn, beans, and squash farming. His photos revealed a very canny way to irrigate from saved water in the monsoon season and from snowfall.His son is working to teach young Hopi how to garden as their ancestors did, to insure food that is healthy and shares a spiritual connection to their ancestors.

That mission, not purported vortexes of energy above Sedona’s T-Shirt shops and celebrity mansions, sticks most with me. The Permian rock that looms above the town will see the Earth’s next Ice Age. We won’t likely be here then.

That continuity of growing food and remembering one’s ancestors may be all we can ask for.  Maybe, all we need.

Get busy with that.

Where Have All The Ringshanks Gone?

A bout of COVID, and it was not fun, kept me occupied for far too long last month, so this blog, as well as my DIY projects slipped their schedules. Now that I'm finally putting homemade weatherboard siding up on our addition, in place of hideous, unsustainable vinyl or expensive cement-board, I have a problem.

Nails.

Before the chronic shortages and inflation of our recent past hit, I purchased a Cadillac of nail-guns: a Paslode cordless that uses gas cartridges for framing. It's perfect for doing work from ladders where a long cord to a compressor could prove deadly. My old framing gun blew its seals years ago. 

First, I found that the gas cartridges are in short supply, and I want to save what I have for a Fall 2022 project to expand our hen-yard with a new coop. Second, nail guns can split thin weatherboard at the ends, so I planned to hand-nail every nail after drilling a pilot-hole. We did an entire house that way once; it's slow, meditative, Amish-style work, especially when a family member cut down the trees, ran the logs through a sawmill, helped you strap down and "sticker" the lumber to season, before you planed the boards.

That type of work makes one not waste a single scrap of wood. Not one. I even use the chips from the planer in our hen houses and in muddy spots during the winter.

In times past, I would go to the big-box or local DIY place and find lots of galvanized nails with "ring shanks." These little rings make it hard to remove a nail. That's a pain when taking down siding, but it also slows down the way in which a board exposed to the elements will pull away from the building, warp, twist, and do all sorts of non-linear things after just a few years in heat and cold.

So to Lowes, Home Depot, Pleasants, Lacy's Hardware, and the gem of Crozet VA, Crozet Hardware I went. 

At the small stores they knew what I wanted. At the big ones? Crickets. The problem has been that for years, because of the omnipresence of nail guns, shops no longer carry the variety of hand nails they once did. I scored a few tiny boxes at Pleasants, enough to keep the siding job going. 

No one carries my favored brand, Stormguard, that are USA-made and very reliable. Even I rarely bend any. 

So what did I do? Amazon had Stormguards, of course with free shipping for a five-pound box at a price that did not make me scream. I did not check the amazing lumber-yard Siewers, but I will and buy a few pounds of nails if they have them in stock. 

 For some reason, this situation scared me more than seeing empty grocery shelves and expensive gasoline. When we forget how to hand-nail things, it seems a moment in a slow descent into barbarism.  Machines break. Hammers, rarely.

 My father-in-law, who weathered the Great Depression, never ran short of fasteners: he kept pounds and pounds. Now, I will, too.

 So far, 2022 has had many bad omens. Add this particular shortage to my worry-list.

Image courtesy of QC Supply: stock up! 

Chainsaw Logic, Part I

 

So it's winter. We get ice storms and heavy, wet snow that brings down limbs, entire trees. As in hurricane season, this weather sends people who have never owned a chainsaw to big-box stores to buy them.

For many, the next stop becomes an emergency room. Or a graveyard.

But this post is not about safety with saws; it's about the saw to buy if you really think you need one. I've been using a chain saw regularly for over 15 years, a blink of any eye by the standards of my wife's family. I'm still too much a novice to fell any tree bigger around than my leg and 30' tall. After that, I call my brother-in-law. Larger trees that fall I do cut up, even making them roll where I want them. That trick for the experienced sawyer is not something to be handled in this post, either.

No, I want to discuss a topic as sensitive as Ford v. Chevy for pickup owners or Deere v. International when it comes to tractors. I'm thinking Stihl v. Husqvarna.

Why these two?

These two brands are considered premium saws; so is Echo, but I've no experience with the brand, though it's been highly recommended to me.  Down-market brands might be fine for occasional use, and much of what I recommend would still apply.

Three years back, I switched brands to a "Husky" after I found my Stihls hard to operate in cold weather and fiddly to service. Briefly, there are some strengths and weaknesses for either saw:

• Stihls tend to cost a bit less, and have a larger dealer network in my part of the country.
• Stihls have a reputation for more power in the same size saw.
• Husvarnas are simpler machines, especially the starting method and electrics. I found myself constantly needing to remove the carb cover on my Stihls to adjust things.
• My Stihls were harder to start, and I run all my saws on ethanol-free 93 octane, mixed properly with 2-cycle oil. I run about 3 gallons of gas through my saws and weed whackers each year (operating on average a couple of times monthly for the saws, weekly for the other tools in warm weather).
  
• Stihls have really weak gas caps that break easily and two bolts to hold the bar that are easily stripped if you over-torque them. Husqvarnas have a single bolt that goes into metal, not plastic.
• My Husqvarna needs more attention to keep the chain tight than did my Stihl. Since it's wise to check the chain regularly, this seems not much of a bother. I stop the saw occasionally, check the chain tension, then adjust as needed.
  
• The Husqvarna chain-brake system is as safe as Stihl's, but it will break if you try to remove the saw cover with the brake set (I did just that and ordered a new cover).

Much of what I've found has been seconded by another writer.  In the end, and despite its caveats, I'll buy another Husky. I'm going to get a slightly larger saw for "bucking and felling" medium trees.  

So what about an electric saw? Stihl has a really nice line of light-duty tools that run on batteries. We have one of the weed-whackers. 

I'm not sure such a saw would work for me, but they do offer the advantage of not fiddling with gasoline, carbs, or cold-weather starting problems.  They can still maim or kill you.

When you use a saw...

Other things I have learned about running chainsaws: 

•  Most homeowners can do just fine with a 16" bar and a light duty saw for cutting limbs up or fallen logs for firewood. I've only recently moved up to a slightly more powerful saw.
• If you have NEVER used a saw, find out if the extension service offers classes. Here's a sample from New Hampshire. And buy from a dealer, not a big-box. Stihl only sells from dealers. Dealers will start the machine to check function and may give you some free lessons.
  
• Stop working as soon as you get tired. Otherwise, you may not live to saw another log.
• Invest in sawyer's chaps and a forestry helmet, for God's sake. Spending another $200 may save you from serious injury or worse. 
  
• One cold-weather tip: bring the saw inside the night before use, though not into the house. A garage or shed above freezing should do.
  
• A sharp chain is safer than than a dull one. I bought a bench-top electric sharpener for under $300, and I touch up my saw's chain regularly. I also own a spare chain and swamp them out when one gets dull. If you don't cut as much wood as I do, your dealer will sharpen a chain for a few dollars.
  
• 93 octane no-ethanol fuel should be the choice, and if it cannot be found, go with 93 and remove all the gas when done sawing. Ethanol forms crystals in the fuel lines of small engines, and its best to run the saw dry to be sure not a drop remains. I run my mowers and weed-whackers on Ethanol-free 93 as well.
• For the very occasional user, Stihl makes this fuel premixed in metal cans. It's pricey but will keep a while. Most folks would not need more than a gallon per year.  
• Every year, change the spark plug, filter in the gas tank, and the air filter. These tune-up kits can be found at a dealer or ordered online. Never scrimp on this annual chore.  
• When the saw's bar gets worn it's time to replace it. I can find them for around $40. A good bar will ensure better operation and safety. You don't want a chain to jump off a running saw, even with a chain brake to save you.
  
• Your saw may prove an exception, but don't expect a modern chainsaw to last more than a decade. These modern machines are cleaner and more complex than the 1950s and 60s Pollans my father-in-law used. Those saws had no safety features and scared the hell out of me.

Final word: the next time some old-timer, actual or wannabe, says that old saws were superior, just remind him (it's always a guy) that the hardware store sells new saws but does not stock arms and legs.