Falling into Autumn

Where has all the summer gone?
The flip-flops, suntan oil, shorts and pool gear will soon be packed away for another year, if you haven't done so already.
Fortunately, my wife and I will have a bit of a lease on the summer during the month of October.
We spend a week at Hilton Head Island, South Carolina each year, courtesy of my in-laws, who own a condo on the island.
Over the past few years, we've chosen to take the trip during mid-September, around the time of our anniversary.  Not being fond of crowded beaches peopled with a thousand or more screaming kids in near triple-digit temperatures, we enjoy September and the nearly-deserted beaches the post-tourist season brings.
But since we had a half-decade marker this year, we opted to stay closer to home and take the trek down south a month later.
One of the beauties of Hilton Head is the fairly consistent mild weather, and the ability to enjoy summertime activities after the kiddos return to class.
This will be our third trip down there with our now-two-year-old daughter, and what we've enjoyed are the changes we've seen in her ability to travel since she was a baby.
It's still hit or miss, but lately we've had success with a portable DVD player set-up in the back seat.  She enjoys that while Margie and I indulge in a Jeff Foxworthy or Bill Engvall CD or a game of Mad Libs.
Since Savannah's vocabulary has all but exploded since the Fourth of July, it's going to make me wonder if she's learned that well-known phrase that's all but music to every parent's ears:
"Are we there yet?"
I'll find out for sure this trip.
And if she has learned it, I'm sure I'll yearn for the days when she was two months old, screaming her head off, and my wife and I unable to find our hotel because the GPS doesn't recognize the address.
Because "Are we there yet" will be heard every hour on the hour (if I'm lucky) for all 13 hours of the trip.
Happy Motoring.


NEXT WEEK:  Walk the Plank

Keep on Keepin' On...

...Keep on Truckin', Keep the faith, Stand by your man, etc.
It's all about resilience.
The ability to withstand adversity to overcome the curveballs life throws at you.
We did that just last week.  For that reason, there was no column.
We observed the ten-year anniversary of a deliberate and unprovoked planned attack on the United States, and how forty people on board a hijacked jet airliner, in a display of unswerving patriotism, turned the tables on their captors and gave their lives so that others may be saved.
We now call it Patriot Day.
We don't close school.  It's not a national holiday.  To even request it to be designated as such would be just plain tacky.
Our forefathers put it on paper in Philadelphia.  It would be paid for in blood in many places over the years.  Especially in Pennsylvania.  Valley Forge, Brandywine, Germantown.  A couple centuries later, Shanksville would be added to the list.
Despite the root word, it's never been 'free'.  Nor will it ever be.
Americans have been called many things...fat, lazy, entitled, pick your own adjective.
Threaten our freedom and our way of life, and we'll show you just how fat, lazy and entitled we are...as we pick up our guns and fire a couple rounds of lead, tin and antimony into your sorry backside.
And despite how much we complain about the younger generation, many women and men still answer the call of our country.  They take the oath to 'preserve, protect and defend' the constitution of the United States.
Those who are willing to fight for those who can't. 
Usually when I hear about a young person's desire to enter into the armed forces, I often have a sit-down with them to find out why.
And I usually leave with a smile on my face.
Because while the benefits they offer these young people nowadays, it's more of an afterthought to them.
It's about a cause greater than they ever imagined.  One that requires discipline, duty, honor and courage to be successful.  The willingness to lay down one's life for someone you may not even care for.
Remember what Patriot Day is.
It celebrates the American Patriot.  Not just the ones who led the Revolutionary War, but countered the so-called 'revolutionaries' in 2001 who believed that their acts would bring America to its knees.
To paraphrase an Elton John song from the early 80s, "we're still standing".
Yeah, yeah, yeah.

NEXT WEEK:  Ain't it the Fall

Class Reunion

Man, I love Facebook.
It makes me wonder how we lived without it.
Especially when it comes to reconnecting with those whom we haven't seen in years. 
My 20-year high school reunion is a great example.  I got the invite, sent in the money, then waited for the date.
During that time the anxiety set in...did I do enough with my life to really serve any purpose there?  Would anyone remember me?  Would it be like "Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion"?  Would an old adversary from 'back then' want to finish some unfinished business?
So I went.  To my surprise, it was different than what I expected, not having any idea of what to expect in the first place.  Oh well.
Then I heard talk of a 25th reunion.  I would have liked to see that happen, but doubted it would, only five years from the last one and with busy lives and family, who has time to plan it.
Apparently, I hadn't reckoned with two women from my graduating class, with a more determined work ethic that I had ever imagined, putting out an invite to attend a planning meeting on Facebook.
They weren't part of the 'popular preppy' cliques in school.  But they weren't the outcasts, either.  They were the girl-next-door types who cherished their high school years, despite the 'hardships' of being a teenager, and were willing to find the time to do the work that few were able or willing to carry on.
Once I learned who was leading the planning, I decided to try and do my part to help.
We all met at a popular tavern near the high school where our parents likely frequented then as well as now.  There were six of us.  We came from a graduating class of more than 400. 
We spent about two hours over drinks and appetizers, trying to come up with ideas for a venue, a printer, name tags, and gifts. 
"The girls", were way ahead of me, in terms of planning.  So I offered to help by getting prices on a couple of things the next day, which was my day off. 
We made arrangements to meet again in another month, and kept in touch over the weekend as to how we were progressing.
Since I had attended my 20-year, I had attended two more reunions.  What we did with our twenty year clearly outclassed the next two, which looked and felt 'thrown together'.  While better than nothing at all, I thought more could have been done.
It made me all the more determined to do my part to make sure our 'silver anniversary' reunion reached a 'gold-standard'. 
It reminded me of an old Beach Boys tune:
"Be True to Your School"
I would come to see those years as some of the best in my life.  While they won't come back, we can gather together to revere all the crazy things we did.
And how far we've come since then.
Love ya, Kiski.

NEXT WEEK:  Keep on Truckin'

Over Your Head

During my days of "Gravely Therapy", I take advantage of the time I spend on my tractor to look for things that need improved upon or even replaced.
Since my wife and I bought our house almost two and a half years ago, I've made a mental list of things I needed done around the house, and prioritized them likewise.
One of them was the roof.  I noticed a shingle had pulled itself loose from the roof last fall.  No worries.  Just nail it back in place come spring.
Then came other projects.  Trimming hedges.  Weeding out overgrown vegitation.  Putting in a work bench.  Removing unused appliances.  The patio pad.  My daughter's swing set.  Remodeling the bathroom.  Fixing the A/C which chose to go on the blink in the midst of a heat wave pushing the mercury near 100.
Oh, yeah...the roof.
A couple more shingles came loose, I noticed.  I've got to remember to get that ladder from my dad.
Then a couple weeks later and a few very windy thunderstorms too.
Uh-oh.  Exposed wood on the roof.
We're in trouble now.  I could just feel dollar signs jumping in my head.
Fortunately, the former owner of my home is on Facebook.  I should also take this time to mention that not only did he meticulously care for this house while he lived in it, he kept meticulous records of updates and repairs he did over the years.
I sent him a message asking him about the roof.  He gladly replied and told me that what I was seeing was in fact a cemented-on panel 'for appearance only' over an older 'shake style' roof and that the shingles were part of the design.
Oh.
His email went on to tell me that he had the roofer who installed it to come out and simply re-attach the shingles.  It had happened before and there should be paperwork on it. 
I found the paperwork.  This wasn't so bad.  They came out in 2007 and reattached the shingles and resealed the roof, which according to the proposal, had a life of 15 years left on it.  Which would mean 11 now.
So I called the roofer.  He said the 11 years was probably a conservative figure, but it could last 15, more than likely. 
Bullet dodged.  What I estimated to be a $5,000 job would possibly end up to be $500 or less. 
Whew.
At least we can put that money we didn't have in the first place towards the tap-in for the new sewer line that supposed to go through this year or next.
Until something else breaks or is in need of repair.
Such is the life of a 'happy' homeowner.

NEXT WEEK:  Reunited

Grill Master

Though I am the king of my castle, the queen outranks me.  That much is true.
However, no one beats me on the grill.
NOBODY.
OK, at least at my house, anyway.
Our grill, though only five years, has seen the use of one used perhaps a decade, if not more.
We received it as a wedding present from my in-laws.  This has survived gale-force winds at our former home on top of a hill overlooking the city of Butler, Pennsylvania, which have knocked it to the ground and even off its perch.
Let's not forget the grease and spatter of many a meal. 
Plus the times when no one was watching it as it was pre-heating, pegging the temperature gauge on the front to well over 900 degrees...which is the working temperature of most self-cleaning ovens.
That would be why the paint has peeled off the inside.
And there's the symptom of where it's blazing hot in some areas of the grill area, and barely warm in others.
Oh yeah, and the touch-and-go igniter that sometimes requires the necessary push from a lighter.
The temperature had come to my attention as I was cooking some pork chops over the grill one weekend.
I noticed that some of the flame was coming out of a place too big to be a burner hole.
"What's wrong?" my wife asked as I looked at the burner rather quizzically. 
"Looks like the burner's going to need replaced," I said.
"I think we might need to replace the whole grill, honey."
Mmmm...time to go shopping.
So many to choose.  Fortunately for me, there's plenty of shopping days left until next grilling season.
And I stumbled upon something I never knew existed.
An inline propane fuel tank gauge.
Connected between the LP gas cylinder and the gas line running from the burner, this will tell you how much propane you have left in your tank.
This will save you the $50 you'd have to shell out for a spare propane tank to have in the event you run out in the middle of cooking.
The gauge sells for $10 at Sam's Club.  You may be able to find it at some high-end home improvement stores.
But in the meantime, we'll keep our present grill busy, as there are plenty of grill days left in the season.
And if it doesn't last, I can always cook dinner over a spit I can rig up in the backyard.
The way the caveman intended.


NEXT WEEK:  Rough Roof

Mowed Over

A couple of months before my wife and I bought the house we live in now, I went shopping for a riding mower.
I told Margie that I had something very specific in mind for mowing grass around the near-acre of property we were about to close on.  It was a tractor that I had grown up with almost exclusively since 1978. 
You may have heard of it, and you may have not.
Gravely.
For those of you who are not familiar with Gravely, they are, without a doubt, the best-built tractors money can buy.  In recent years, folks have been scouring places like eBay and Craigslist, either as collectors or those wanting a built-to-last tractor to restore to showroom-new glory or near it.
You won't find these at places like Home Depot or Lowe's.  They're solidly built, with transaxle-type transmissions, front tires that would dwarf the rear tires on the bigbox-store machines, and an average weight of three-quarters of a ton.
Rank them up there with the likes of New Holland, Kubota, and the higher-end John Deere machines.
My dad has a reputation of punishing equipment and vehicles.  If a Gravely can survive my dad and his 18 acres of rolling hills and trees, it surely can survive my yard, a postage stamp by comparison.
And as I found out recently, it's been able to survive my wife.
I make it a point to offer Margie the tractor and mow the grass if she so desires every now and then. 
I find a lot of freedom in mowing the grass with the tractor...especially when I cue up the tunes on my iPhone and enjoy some good music while doing a chore.  I call it "Gravely Therapy". 
And about a month ago, this session of therapy was especially brutal.
She came into the house as I was on the computer in our living room.
"I think I broke the tractor, please don't be mad".
As she explained what happened on the way to the garage, I thought it might not be so bad. 
Then she handed me one of the mower's three blades.  Something told me there was a bigger story to tell under the mower deck.
After pulling the deck off, I saw the shaft for the blade spindle was broken off at the bolt that held it in place. 
She was not familiar with the cleanout drain in our septic leach bed.  Some grass had grown over the cover, and the blade struck the terra cotta pipe going through the ground's surface.  At around 10 miles an hour, she didn't know what had happened until after the fact.
I managed to find the part on eBay, after getting a couple of outrageous quotes from some local dealers, who told me that since these parts are no longer produced, prices are going up.
Turned out the part didn't fit the mower, but my dad, knowing these machines inside and out, was able to make it fit rather effortlessly.
To him, that's what a hole saw is for.
"This was a freak thing," he said about the incident that resulted in its breakage.  "This couldn't happen again in a million years."
Margie's been reluctant to get back on it since I got it put back together earlier this week. 
Of course, I anticipate that changing later on.
When you've got an iPod or iPhone (actually any MP3 player) to help pass the time, it's hard to resist.

NEXT WEEK:  Grill me up, Scotty

Who's Got My Back?

Ever have pain so intense that you feel nauseous?
Anyone who's ever had a migraine will agree with this.  If the pain isn't enough to make you upchuck, then the shot of Imitrex to kill it just might.
Last week, an old 'friend' came back for a visit.
For the past 14 years, I've been putting up with lower back pain.  Some days are better than others, and the 'others' sometimes flare up as if to say "hey! didja miss me?"
Prompting me to reply "if I say yes, will you go away and never come back?"
Rrrrright.
It started Tuesday morning of last week with a little nausea.  Then the nausea graduated into stiffness.  Then the stiffness took its graduate degree by manifesting itself in the worst pain in the world.
I ended up leaving work early that day.  I called in sick the next day and went to see my doctor.  He wasn't there, but I ended up seeing his associate instead.
Vicodin and Prednisone became my new best friends.  After another day to allow myself to heal to something close to normalcy, I began to feel better by the end of last Friday.  By this past Tuesday, it was the closest I'd ever be to feeling back to 100 percent.
During my doctor's visit, I began to realize just how many doctors out there have back issues of their own.  My own had two back operations that all but failed, and his associate that saw me had broken his own back at one point.
The doc suggested gentle yoga that included some mild stretching that would keep my lower back in line.
A former classmate of mine who teaches it also offered me some mild yoga exercises to consider as well.
"Us old farts gotta keep in shape," said the doc rather wryly.
Ugh.
I hate it when he's right.
I might have to snag my wife's Pilates video and give that a try.
That might be the closest you'll get me to a yoga class.
I might reconsider that stand...after I'm loaded on a stretcher.

NEXT WEEK:  Mowed Over