When is it going to happen here? When will we do something about our environment, and our cities' aesthetics?
This blight takes the form of innocent-enough plastic conveniences. If you bother to notice, you can see discarded plastic grocery shopping bags all over the place. Especially this time of year, after the snow cover melts and before the leaves come back and conceal the tangled blemishes in their branches, discarded plastic bags seem to be everywhere.
The problem is perhaps worse in urban areas, where the wind can help the lightweight trash escape from uncovered dumpsters behind apartments and shopping centers. A scene from American Beauty, parodied in popular culture by The Family Guy and on YouTube, tries to bring the problem a silver lining, but even artistry ultimately fails to put a good spin on the problem.
Vermont has a history of strong environmentalism, and has not been afraid to seek out its own direction when it comes to the best thing for its people. Vermonters enacted bottle deposits when the containers became a problem on the roadsides. We enacted Civil Union legislation to meet a need there as well. These shopping bags wind up in creeks and ditches, in treetops and on fences looking ugly and causing an environmental problem. We shouldn't just wait for Green Up Day to address the infestation.
Today though, larger cities, like our nation's capital, which face larger problems that come with larger populations are on the forefront addressing this problem, not us. We seem to have bigger fish to fry. It seems as though the Vermont legislature is working on fishing licenses and city charter changes this year instead.I suppose they are important as well.
So it is left to us, the people. We need to make an effort. We need to tell our neighbors to make the change. We need to take a stand, however quiet or refined, and say through actions and deeds that we do not need disposable bags any more. They may be easy, but they take a toll as well.
So what is the answer? We recycle. We reuse. There are lots of ways to do it. There are websites that will show you how to turn extra pillowcases and t-shirts into shopping bags. You can buy the reusable variety from the market, or from web retailers.
The question then becomes one of design and aesthetics. It is nice to show your individuality with the bags you carry. Recycling your old Duran Duran shirt would do that. You also should look at convenience and carrying ability as well.
Talking to others about the issue, the consensus seems to be that the bags should be small and convenient to carry, whether folding up to place in the shopping cart is enough, or stuffing together into a small pocket. They should be large enough to carry three cereal boxes. They should have wide enough handles to carry the weight of milk jugs. They should be washable after handling your meat, and many like the variety that can stand up on their own for easy loading and unloading.
Changing our habits is always a difficult thing to do. Whether we are quitting smoking, or adjusting our route to work because of construction, the change has to be a conscious one. This instance is no different. This is a call to reject the status quo. Say it out loud when you are confronted with the old "Paper or plastic?" question. Tell the clerk that you have brought your own. Tell them "neither". But please remember to bring your own bags with you when you go shopping, and keep the rest out of the trees and creeks of the Green Mountain State.
Cars with character
Different cars have different purposes. That is the way it is supposed to be. Carmakers acknowledge it. That is why we are not all riding around in sedans. They make minivans for families, compact cars for the economy crowd, pickups for working. Each has its place.
In our household, we have taken it to another level. Sure, each of our cars is capable of carrying the whole family (thought the dog might be a tough squeeze in the old Willys Jeep). We have the family car for long trips and the pickup for odd jobs. But we also have another spot in our auto needs filled as well. The old car.
The old car is just as important as the others. It might not shine so much as the new. It might be slower, or less fuel efficient, but it is needed just the same. The old car is the one that we use when it might get a scratch on it. We use the old car when the job is sure to be dirty, when we wouldn't think of driving something we are still making payments on.
In our family the old car is my Jeep Cherokee. It is a '92, and it had lived a good life long before I bought it. Now on its second engine, it has few panels that are not straight. They still all match, mind you, but they have dimples and scrapes. Some people might look upon the dents as blemishes, but to me, they are scars, that each come with their own story. Those stories make the Jeep special.
Take the dent in the driver's door. Apparently, a family from Massachusetts sent the Jeep north with their child to school at Johnson State. They blew a motor on a quiet Vermont road, and took out their anger on the Jeep while waiting for the tow truck. That is no problem. I popped it out as best I could when I bought the Jeep (non-running for $100). Good came from that dent.
The Jeep has a mismatched headlight bezel on the left side. That came after my friend's bachelor party. We all had a good time that night, and the Jeep earned its nickname, "Lefty." The passenger's front fender has a dent from where I tapped a mean tree off-roading last year. I replaced the rockers after they dented the same way.
When I look at my Jeep Cherokee, I see dozens of fond memories in the scratches and dents. I enjoy driving it; using it; and I will enjoy denting it further. I enjoy talking to people about it in parking lots and at gas stations. It is not a beautiful thing to many people's eyes. They might need for their cars to shine, or at least not be crumpled.
I can understand it. I have a friend who has given me straight fenders for it that I refuse to put on. He spent a lot of time making his Jeep shine: fresh paint, new parts. He does preventative maintenance. I drive mine like it is stolen. It is a lot more fun from where I am sitting.
I have half-bald mud tires and refuse to buy new ones until these run out completely. I have a leaky windshield that makes it a bit musty after it rains. Fix it? Why? Chances are that I will meet a low-hanging tree branch some day. It will probably happen the day after I replace it. So what do I do? I cut out the carpets so water will drain out on its own. No musty odor, problem solved.
A friend of mine who used immigrant labor when he built his house taught me the Mexican saying S-O-C-K-S (You have to say each letter out if you ever want to use it for real). "It is, what it is," the saying goes. That is how I look at my '92 Cherokee. It is, what it is. It is old and dented, so I drive it like it is old and dented. It is freeing to drive it. I don't really worry about it much, as long as it starts and runs when I want it to. If you own an old car, you know what I mean.
In our household, we have taken it to another level. Sure, each of our cars is capable of carrying the whole family (thought the dog might be a tough squeeze in the old Willys Jeep). We have the family car for long trips and the pickup for odd jobs. But we also have another spot in our auto needs filled as well. The old car.
The old car is just as important as the others. It might not shine so much as the new. It might be slower, or less fuel efficient, but it is needed just the same. The old car is the one that we use when it might get a scratch on it. We use the old car when the job is sure to be dirty, when we wouldn't think of driving something we are still making payments on.
In our family the old car is my Jeep Cherokee. It is a '92, and it had lived a good life long before I bought it. Now on its second engine, it has few panels that are not straight. They still all match, mind you, but they have dimples and scrapes. Some people might look upon the dents as blemishes, but to me, they are scars, that each come with their own story. Those stories make the Jeep special.
Take the dent in the driver's door. Apparently, a family from Massachusetts sent the Jeep north with their child to school at Johnson State. They blew a motor on a quiet Vermont road, and took out their anger on the Jeep while waiting for the tow truck. That is no problem. I popped it out as best I could when I bought the Jeep (non-running for $100). Good came from that dent.
The Jeep has a mismatched headlight bezel on the left side. That came after my friend's bachelor party. We all had a good time that night, and the Jeep earned its nickname, "Lefty." The passenger's front fender has a dent from where I tapped a mean tree off-roading last year. I replaced the rockers after they dented the same way.
When I look at my Jeep Cherokee, I see dozens of fond memories in the scratches and dents. I enjoy driving it; using it; and I will enjoy denting it further. I enjoy talking to people about it in parking lots and at gas stations. It is not a beautiful thing to many people's eyes. They might need for their cars to shine, or at least not be crumpled.
I can understand it. I have a friend who has given me straight fenders for it that I refuse to put on. He spent a lot of time making his Jeep shine: fresh paint, new parts. He does preventative maintenance. I drive mine like it is stolen. It is a lot more fun from where I am sitting.
I have half-bald mud tires and refuse to buy new ones until these run out completely. I have a leaky windshield that makes it a bit musty after it rains. Fix it? Why? Chances are that I will meet a low-hanging tree branch some day. It will probably happen the day after I replace it. So what do I do? I cut out the carpets so water will drain out on its own. No musty odor, problem solved.
A friend of mine who used immigrant labor when he built his house taught me the Mexican saying S-O-C-K-S (You have to say each letter out if you ever want to use it for real). "It is, what it is," the saying goes. That is how I look at my '92 Cherokee. It is, what it is. It is old and dented, so I drive it like it is old and dented. It is freeing to drive it. I don't really worry about it much, as long as it starts and runs when I want it to. If you own an old car, you know what I mean.
Everything is not disposable
We live in a disposable culture. It is often more cost effective to throw away the old than repair it. I can remember a story I heard about a $20 printer that took $80 ink cartridges. You got a set when you bought the machine new, so buying ink was more expensive than buying a whole new machine.The guy bought four printers and sent them to the landfill when they ran out of ink. It is ridiculous.
These days the Maytag repairman is not out of work because the machines are so reliable, it is because nobody is willing to pay for the $90 house call when a new machine is only $40 more. It was not always this way. It used to be that people kept stuff running for more than a year or two. Then, if it started acting up, they fixed it. That kept repairmen in business, and helped the local economy. Isn't that a movement today?
Take my old Willys Jeep for instance. It is a perfect example of the durability of yesteryear. I needed to tune it up and get it running right for the season. I looked through the Universal Jeep Service Manual and discovered with glee that I could do the entire job without buying a thing. Engine oil and spark plugs aside, nothing is discarded. Finally, something that was built to be serviced.
It is a far throw from modern vehicles. Recently, to get a Ford truck back up to par, I saw the grimace on the owner's face when he paid a $350 bill for just one engine sensor. Sure it is a diesel, and sure, the new truck might be easier to drive most of the time than my old Willys, but that convenience sure comes with a price.
The Ford was more than ten times the original purchase price of the Universal Jeep. And replacing that one sensor, even today, costs as much as an entire new suspension on the Jeep. Admittedly, it would take ten CJs to equal the pulling power of the Ford, but that is besides the point.
I have owned my old Jeep for five years now. Over that time I have done a frame-off renovation (I call it a renovation because I am not restoring it to original form, and I am upgrading to more modern pieces where it is possible.) I have been amazed how much easier it has been to work on than modern vehicles, including other Jeeps in my fleet.
I might have broken off ten bolt heads in the work on my Jeep over the years. Ten bolts total. That is unheard of by modern terms. These days, just replacing a wheel bearing, you are sure to break at least one. Have you ever tried to do exhaust work? Imagine the count if you replaced the whole suspension. Add to that the number if you removed the body... (For you non-mechanics, we are well into the POUNDS of broken bolt bits by now. You might as well save them for scrap steel and make a buck.) It is crazy.
It was a different time. Parts back then were made to be fixed, not replaced. Gaskets and wires were hand cut, not bought pre-made. If the engine was running rough, you tuned it by ear, or with a timing light, not by plugging in a code reader.It did require more of a sixth sense to work on, but the old Jeep has stood the test of time, and certainly not left a trail of burnt sensors and throwaway parts in its wake.
The old Jeep is sixty five this year. That is old enough for social security. People don't hold up as well as it has. But, it is easier to replace parts on a Jeep.
These days the Maytag repairman is not out of work because the machines are so reliable, it is because nobody is willing to pay for the $90 house call when a new machine is only $40 more. It was not always this way. It used to be that people kept stuff running for more than a year or two. Then, if it started acting up, they fixed it. That kept repairmen in business, and helped the local economy. Isn't that a movement today?
Take my old Willys Jeep for instance. It is a perfect example of the durability of yesteryear. I needed to tune it up and get it running right for the season. I looked through the Universal Jeep Service Manual and discovered with glee that I could do the entire job without buying a thing. Engine oil and spark plugs aside, nothing is discarded. Finally, something that was built to be serviced.
It is a far throw from modern vehicles. Recently, to get a Ford truck back up to par, I saw the grimace on the owner's face when he paid a $350 bill for just one engine sensor. Sure it is a diesel, and sure, the new truck might be easier to drive most of the time than my old Willys, but that convenience sure comes with a price.
The Ford was more than ten times the original purchase price of the Universal Jeep. And replacing that one sensor, even today, costs as much as an entire new suspension on the Jeep. Admittedly, it would take ten CJs to equal the pulling power of the Ford, but that is besides the point.
I have owned my old Jeep for five years now. Over that time I have done a frame-off renovation (I call it a renovation because I am not restoring it to original form, and I am upgrading to more modern pieces where it is possible.) I have been amazed how much easier it has been to work on than modern vehicles, including other Jeeps in my fleet.
I might have broken off ten bolt heads in the work on my Jeep over the years. Ten bolts total. That is unheard of by modern terms. These days, just replacing a wheel bearing, you are sure to break at least one. Have you ever tried to do exhaust work? Imagine the count if you replaced the whole suspension. Add to that the number if you removed the body... (For you non-mechanics, we are well into the POUNDS of broken bolt bits by now. You might as well save them for scrap steel and make a buck.) It is crazy.
It was a different time. Parts back then were made to be fixed, not replaced. Gaskets and wires were hand cut, not bought pre-made. If the engine was running rough, you tuned it by ear, or with a timing light, not by plugging in a code reader.It did require more of a sixth sense to work on, but the old Jeep has stood the test of time, and certainly not left a trail of burnt sensors and throwaway parts in its wake.
The old Jeep is sixty five this year. That is old enough for social security. People don't hold up as well as it has. But, it is easier to replace parts on a Jeep.
Lost and Found
Can you still get film developed at a drug store?
I asked myself this question after reading one of my kids' Berenstain Bear books. The book was about the worst vacation the Bear family ever took. It was filled with stinky skunks, sunken boats, and leaky roofs. At the end of the book, Mama takes the film to the drugstore, waits a few days, and goes back to get the pictures to share with the family.
After reading the passage, I looked over at my kids (4 and 1 1/2) and wondered to myself if they would even understand what film is when they got older. I suppose they will still have pop references in songs, but I haven't used the real stuff for at least five years, probably longer. We still have the old cameras, though.
I know because I found them while looking for our lost digital camera.
It is amazing how a lost item can drive you crazy. This past weekend, not only did we lose the digital camera, we discovered that the shovels were lost too. I don't know where those could have gone either. At least all four items are together, wherever they are.
When you discover things are lost, there is a reliable chain of events that goes on. First, you look in all of the obvious places the item might be. In the case of our digital camera, that included its normal resting place on top of the buffet, also on the desk near the computer (you get the idea). Then, you look for it in all of the unusual, but still perhaps possible places it might be. Those might include the kids' room, under the couch cushions, etc...
Then some helpful soul, who invariably is not helping you look for the lost item as they should be, suggests that you think back to where you saw it last and retrace your steps. Eureka!
Well, not really. Those shovels walked off last fall and could be at one of several friends' houses, or the dump for all that I know. The camera might have had a better prognosis. It was last seen taking pictures of items to be listed on Craigslist. But then, we rearranged the furniture, and it disappeared. Back to square one.
The final effort on my part, was to begin a CSI search of the house, flashlight and all. I started in the mudroom, opened every cabinet, checked every clothes hamper. I looked in places so impossible for a camera to hide, that finding one there would have been tantamount to discovering the missing human evolutionary link under an old service manual in my junk drawer.
Nevertheless, I looked in those places too. I discovered, with my flashlight and latex gloves (OK, so I didn't wear latex gloves, or even yellow kitchen gloves. The ones my wife buys are too small for my hands. But I would have.) dozens of lost toys, a nice ladies bracelet, and that the couch really needs spring cleaning.
I looked in the vehicles, in shoes, in the cellar doorway, and in closets containing big people and small people clothing. I looked int he garage, and in the barn. It was quite extensive, take my word for it.
I never found the shovels, or the digital camera. I did find the big, old, reliable, and hard to lose 35mm SLR cameras. Does anyone know if the drugstore still develops film?
I asked myself this question after reading one of my kids' Berenstain Bear books. The book was about the worst vacation the Bear family ever took. It was filled with stinky skunks, sunken boats, and leaky roofs. At the end of the book, Mama takes the film to the drugstore, waits a few days, and goes back to get the pictures to share with the family.
After reading the passage, I looked over at my kids (4 and 1 1/2) and wondered to myself if they would even understand what film is when they got older. I suppose they will still have pop references in songs, but I haven't used the real stuff for at least five years, probably longer. We still have the old cameras, though.
I know because I found them while looking for our lost digital camera.
It is amazing how a lost item can drive you crazy. This past weekend, not only did we lose the digital camera, we discovered that the shovels were lost too. I don't know where those could have gone either. At least all four items are together, wherever they are.
When you discover things are lost, there is a reliable chain of events that goes on. First, you look in all of the obvious places the item might be. In the case of our digital camera, that included its normal resting place on top of the buffet, also on the desk near the computer (you get the idea). Then, you look for it in all of the unusual, but still perhaps possible places it might be. Those might include the kids' room, under the couch cushions, etc...
Then some helpful soul, who invariably is not helping you look for the lost item as they should be, suggests that you think back to where you saw it last and retrace your steps. Eureka!
Well, not really. Those shovels walked off last fall and could be at one of several friends' houses, or the dump for all that I know. The camera might have had a better prognosis. It was last seen taking pictures of items to be listed on Craigslist. But then, we rearranged the furniture, and it disappeared. Back to square one.
The final effort on my part, was to begin a CSI search of the house, flashlight and all. I started in the mudroom, opened every cabinet, checked every clothes hamper. I looked in places so impossible for a camera to hide, that finding one there would have been tantamount to discovering the missing human evolutionary link under an old service manual in my junk drawer.
Nevertheless, I looked in those places too. I discovered, with my flashlight and latex gloves (OK, so I didn't wear latex gloves, or even yellow kitchen gloves. The ones my wife buys are too small for my hands. But I would have.) dozens of lost toys, a nice ladies bracelet, and that the couch really needs spring cleaning.
I looked in the vehicles, in shoes, in the cellar doorway, and in closets containing big people and small people clothing. I looked int he garage, and in the barn. It was quite extensive, take my word for it.
I never found the shovels, or the digital camera. I did find the big, old, reliable, and hard to lose 35mm SLR cameras. Does anyone know if the drugstore still develops film?
The multitasker and the lazy man
If I am in the garage, I lose all track of time. My wife can tell me three times to come in to eat, but I somehow can't hear her when my hands are busy.
It is a man thing, I am sure. Men, I think, have a harder time multitasking. I know that I do. My wife can do seven things at once, and do them all well. I have seen her folding laundry, while solving an argument between the kids, and making a list for the rest of the day including a trip to the grocery. For me, it is awe inspiring. But I could never do it myself.
I have to focus on what I am doing, or else I will forget to torque the lug nuts or tighten the fan belt.If I am working, I need to physically get up and change environments to deal with a screaming child, or converse like a real person (no grunts for answers). It is not that bad. That way, I can give the distraction my full attention. But, I can only do one thing at once.
The only problem is that, when my wife has her hands full, and she looks over at me doing only one thing, she thinks I am just lazy. I prefer to think of it as being focused.
It is a man thing, I am sure. Men, I think, have a harder time multitasking. I know that I do. My wife can do seven things at once, and do them all well. I have seen her folding laundry, while solving an argument between the kids, and making a list for the rest of the day including a trip to the grocery. For me, it is awe inspiring. But I could never do it myself.
I have to focus on what I am doing, or else I will forget to torque the lug nuts or tighten the fan belt.If I am working, I need to physically get up and change environments to deal with a screaming child, or converse like a real person (no grunts for answers). It is not that bad. That way, I can give the distraction my full attention. But, I can only do one thing at once.
The only problem is that, when my wife has her hands full, and she looks over at me doing only one thing, she thinks I am just lazy. I prefer to think of it as being focused.
Firewood basics for the do-it-your-selfer
Is it strange that on the first sunny week of springtime, many Vermonters are already thinking about winter?
After the long cold winter the woodpile in many homes looks like a shadow of its former self, and many do-it-yourself Vermonters have already begun working to replenish it.
The cost of heating a home has been on the rise, and according to the USDA Forest Products Laboratory, seasoned firewood is the least expensive fuel source, with natural gas, and wood pellets close behind. The only problem is that heating a home with wood requires a bit more work. That work carries on all year.
Typically, trees are cut in the fall, and they lay in log length over the winter. In the spring, as the snow cover recedes, Vermonters will take to the forests on frosty mornings, when their tractors or trucks won't do as much damage in the fragile environment. Then the fun begins.
Logs began drying when they were cut last fall. As the birds come back to Vermont, those logs need to be chunked up and split to fully cure before next winter. The extra steps in the spring make sure that the logs don't rot on the ground, and that when they are burned the most BTUs can come out of the woodstove.
Before you get to work, you should have a couple things in mind.
1) Make sure your chainsaw is running well. Nobody wants to get out into the middle of nowhere and then figure out that his chainsaw won't run. Before you leave, fill it with new gas, and runit for a few minutes at home.
2) Take a look at your blade. Whenever running a chainsaw, in addition to eye and ear protection, you should have your saw's T tool and a file with you. A screwdriver and wrench can replace the tool, but nothing in the woods will sharpen a dull blade. Use the file correctly, pushing its teeth into the semicircular cut on the blade.
Match the number of strokes for each tooth. If you favor one direction or the other, the saw will cut diagonally.
3) Know what you want to get out of it. When you approach your logs, you need to know how long each piece of firewood needs to be to fit in your particular fireplace. Do they need to be 16 inches? Would 18s or 20s work? Use the length of the chainsaw's blade for reference. Most are in the right ballpark.
4) Plan your attack. Are you right handed, or left? it might make a difference on which end of the woodpile you begin your cutting. Righties, for instance, work better moving to the left after each cut. That way, the chunked log falls off away fromthe saw's housing.
5) Work in sections. There is nothing worse than cutting a log, then tripping over it all afternoon. The best way to work is in sections. Cut a bit, pile some up in an out of the way place for the splitter, then go back and cut more. When working with powertools, (especially those used in horror movies) sure footing is essential. You don't want anything taking your attention away from that saw in action.
The old saying goes, "Firewood warms you twice, once when you stack it, then again when you burn it." For do-it-your-selfers, firewood might warm a few more times than that.
After the long cold winter the woodpile in many homes looks like a shadow of its former self, and many do-it-yourself Vermonters have already begun working to replenish it.
The cost of heating a home has been on the rise, and according to the USDA Forest Products Laboratory, seasoned firewood is the least expensive fuel source, with natural gas, and wood pellets close behind. The only problem is that heating a home with wood requires a bit more work. That work carries on all year.
Typically, trees are cut in the fall, and they lay in log length over the winter. In the spring, as the snow cover recedes, Vermonters will take to the forests on frosty mornings, when their tractors or trucks won't do as much damage in the fragile environment. Then the fun begins.
Logs began drying when they were cut last fall. As the birds come back to Vermont, those logs need to be chunked up and split to fully cure before next winter. The extra steps in the spring make sure that the logs don't rot on the ground, and that when they are burned the most BTUs can come out of the woodstove.
Before you get to work, you should have a couple things in mind.
1) Make sure your chainsaw is running well. Nobody wants to get out into the middle of nowhere and then figure out that his chainsaw won't run. Before you leave, fill it with new gas, and runit for a few minutes at home.
2) Take a look at your blade. Whenever running a chainsaw, in addition to eye and ear protection, you should have your saw's T tool and a file with you. A screwdriver and wrench can replace the tool, but nothing in the woods will sharpen a dull blade. Use the file correctly, pushing its teeth into the semicircular cut on the blade.
3) Know what you want to get out of it. When you approach your logs, you need to know how long each piece of firewood needs to be to fit in your particular fireplace. Do they need to be 16 inches? Would 18s or 20s work? Use the length of the chainsaw's blade for reference. Most are in the right ballpark.
4) Plan your attack. Are you right handed, or left? it might make a difference on which end of the woodpile you begin your cutting. Righties, for instance, work better moving to the left after each cut. That way, the chunked log falls off away fromthe saw's housing.
5) Work in sections. There is nothing worse than cutting a log, then tripping over it all afternoon. The best way to work is in sections. Cut a bit, pile some up in an out of the way place for the splitter, then go back and cut more. When working with powertools, (especially those used in horror movies) sure footing is essential. You don't want anything taking your attention away from that saw in action.
The old saying goes, "Firewood warms you twice, once when you stack it, then again when you burn it." For do-it-your-selfers, firewood might warm a few more times than that.
Modern Life or the Old Ways
Technology is wonderful, except when it isn't. Modern mechanisms have been making our lives a little bit better since the invention of the spoon. Little pieces of insight and creative thinking cradle us in convenience.We surround ourselves with them and show them off to our friends. "Look at my phone!" or "The game is on the Plasma."
In a book I just read, the villain tried to detonate atomic bombs all around the globe, not to bring about nuclear holocaust, but to send out an electromagnetic pulse that would render useless anything with a transistor or circuit board. "Dear God," the President commented, "That would be far more savage than nuclear war." Maybe it would be. But that is only because we as humans living in the 21st century continue to fight for technology every day.
We fight for technology without knowing it. We say that going "paperless" is being environmentally conscious. We also notice that it will save us money on paper and printing costs. It is good, and good for us too. But what has come of the hand scrawled Thank You note Emily Post still recommends we write? Now, we are so tempted by e-mail and Facebook posts, that people actually need to be prodded a bit to take up a pen and paper the old way. Ridiculous.
There is even a growing market in Vermont for landowners to have their forests logged by ancient means. They call it responsible forestry, touting how it can repair damaged land. No, the lumberjack isn't going back to the hand saw or axe, but they are using teams of draft animals rather than giant tractors to haul the wood out. It is really quite inspiring to watch, take my word for it. Engine noise and exhaust fumes are replaced by heavy breathing and footsteps. The only down side is the view driving the team. Who really wants to stare at the rump of a horse all day?
That reminds me of a great Vermont story I heard from my in-laws a few years back. A fellow was out moose hunting on the last day of the season. He was miles from a road and shot a big bull moose. The animal weighed more than a thousand pounds. Being the last day of the season, he had to weigh it in by sundown or face a fine. He drove a 2wd Toyota pick up that stood no chance of traversing the muddy forests, and appealed to a farmer nearby for use of his tractor. The farmer said no, but offered instead his team of oxen. Those who watched it that day, and those who retold the story afterward still speak in awe of the sight of that team hauling the muddy moose out of the woods that day. They go on to laugh at the memory of ten big farm boys picking up and setting that muddy moose in the bed of the tiny Toyota pickup as well; feet sticking out one way, the antlers over the other side.
There was no need for technology that day. The old method was even better suited to the task. Those oxen left no ruts in the soft forest ground. They burned no fossil fuels (though they did release methane gas, I'm sure). They did the job the old way, and made a real impression on a lot of people because of it. Just like that hand-written Thank You note does.
So why did I mention it? Well, we are in the midst of March Madness. For the uninitiated, that means picking teams and filling out those college basketball brackets. Personally, college basketball is the one sport I do follow. I am too busy Jeeping all summer to follow baseball. Football is only good in the playoffs. College basketball gets me in from the garage at the muddy end of March. It is fun to make your picks and see how far off you really are from what really happens. Up until this year, I filled out my picks on paper. I have managed office pools, and spent hours in front of the television with a highlighter figuring out who was ahead.
This year, I tried to us technology to make my life easier. I usually embrace new technology. I have the patience to tinker my way through most of it. Not this time. Managing the brackets has always been a practice that focuses on the playing ability of the teams. This time it turned itself into a computer nightmare. It all started so easily. Click on a link here, follow instructions there. It turned into a four hour process taking up two computers and three separate e-mail accounts to see if it worked. And it didn't. Ugh!
Technology truly can be a wonderful thing. Unless you are the President staring down a threat to transistors everywhere, technology really can be a blessing. But when things don't work right, boy can it go wrong. Nobody ever had a problem with a prototype spoon that affected people the same way computers can. Nobody ever spent four hours online trying to get a piece of paper to work. With the advent of the Kindle, and IPad threatening to overtake books and newspapers, we need to remember that. The old ways are sometimes better. Whether through Thank You notes, or teams of draft animals, the old ways still can bring people together at a personal level. It is better than struggling to overcome the emotional distance that an e-mail creates.
Perhaps the emotional distance can be a good thing as well. As it is, nobody at CBS Sports knows what I was really thinking when I tried to fill out my brackets online.
In a book I just read, the villain tried to detonate atomic bombs all around the globe, not to bring about nuclear holocaust, but to send out an electromagnetic pulse that would render useless anything with a transistor or circuit board. "Dear God," the President commented, "That would be far more savage than nuclear war." Maybe it would be. But that is only because we as humans living in the 21st century continue to fight for technology every day.
We fight for technology without knowing it. We say that going "paperless" is being environmentally conscious. We also notice that it will save us money on paper and printing costs. It is good, and good for us too. But what has come of the hand scrawled Thank You note Emily Post still recommends we write? Now, we are so tempted by e-mail and Facebook posts, that people actually need to be prodded a bit to take up a pen and paper the old way. Ridiculous.
There is even a growing market in Vermont for landowners to have their forests logged by ancient means. They call it responsible forestry, touting how it can repair damaged land. No, the lumberjack isn't going back to the hand saw or axe, but they are using teams of draft animals rather than giant tractors to haul the wood out. It is really quite inspiring to watch, take my word for it. Engine noise and exhaust fumes are replaced by heavy breathing and footsteps. The only down side is the view driving the team. Who really wants to stare at the rump of a horse all day?
That reminds me of a great Vermont story I heard from my in-laws a few years back. A fellow was out moose hunting on the last day of the season. He was miles from a road and shot a big bull moose. The animal weighed more than a thousand pounds. Being the last day of the season, he had to weigh it in by sundown or face a fine. He drove a 2wd Toyota pick up that stood no chance of traversing the muddy forests, and appealed to a farmer nearby for use of his tractor. The farmer said no, but offered instead his team of oxen. Those who watched it that day, and those who retold the story afterward still speak in awe of the sight of that team hauling the muddy moose out of the woods that day. They go on to laugh at the memory of ten big farm boys picking up and setting that muddy moose in the bed of the tiny Toyota pickup as well; feet sticking out one way, the antlers over the other side.
There was no need for technology that day. The old method was even better suited to the task. Those oxen left no ruts in the soft forest ground. They burned no fossil fuels (though they did release methane gas, I'm sure). They did the job the old way, and made a real impression on a lot of people because of it. Just like that hand-written Thank You note does.
So why did I mention it? Well, we are in the midst of March Madness. For the uninitiated, that means picking teams and filling out those college basketball brackets. Personally, college basketball is the one sport I do follow. I am too busy Jeeping all summer to follow baseball. Football is only good in the playoffs. College basketball gets me in from the garage at the muddy end of March. It is fun to make your picks and see how far off you really are from what really happens. Up until this year, I filled out my picks on paper. I have managed office pools, and spent hours in front of the television with a highlighter figuring out who was ahead.
This year, I tried to us technology to make my life easier. I usually embrace new technology. I have the patience to tinker my way through most of it. Not this time. Managing the brackets has always been a practice that focuses on the playing ability of the teams. This time it turned itself into a computer nightmare. It all started so easily. Click on a link here, follow instructions there. It turned into a four hour process taking up two computers and three separate e-mail accounts to see if it worked. And it didn't. Ugh!
Technology truly can be a wonderful thing. Unless you are the President staring down a threat to transistors everywhere, technology really can be a blessing. But when things don't work right, boy can it go wrong. Nobody ever had a problem with a prototype spoon that affected people the same way computers can. Nobody ever spent four hours online trying to get a piece of paper to work. With the advent of the Kindle, and IPad threatening to overtake books and newspapers, we need to remember that. The old ways are sometimes better. Whether through Thank You notes, or teams of draft animals, the old ways still can bring people together at a personal level. It is better than struggling to overcome the emotional distance that an e-mail creates.
Perhaps the emotional distance can be a good thing as well. As it is, nobody at CBS Sports knows what I was really thinking when I tried to fill out my brackets online.
Bring It On!
Rain, Rain, go Away.
It has been a wet weekend here in Vermont. The rain coming off of a warm coastal storm drenched southern New England. Then it drifted north and hit us too, though less severely. It did, however manage to melt most all of the snow left in the backyard. With the snow gone, I made a few discoveries.
I discovered about a dozen lost dog toys. Tennis balls, and squeaky toys lost throughout the winter. It was like Christmas morning for my lab. There were lots of "other things" left behind by the dog over the course of the winter as well. (I'm not looking forward to collecting those presents from under the tree, though.)
I also discovered all of the little gardening projects that I didn't finish last fall. No magical gnomes came to finish them over the winter, though I keep hoping. The flower gardens that I abandoned at the first snowfall still need work. The dead tree branches blown down by winter storms are still there. The blanket of white erased them for a while, but they never really left. We have the normal mole activity beneath the snowpack that I will need to rake out, but we also have a few areas that the frost decided to push and pull on.
Ground frost is a powerful thing. You won't find it everywhere. There are lots of areas in the northeast that are free from ground frost. Perhaps they have better drainage. Perhaps they clear more of the snow. Whatever causes it, ground frost is a formidable force her in Vermont. We even named our basketball team after it.
Ice is strong enough to expand in the dirt and send sections of earth skyward. Under the pavement of your favorite by-way, frost heaves can make a Sunday drive seem like a motorcross event. One particular spot makes my Chevy jump and change lanes if I drive more than 25 mph across it. Don't ask what it does to my Jeep. That thing is meant for low gear only.
This year, the frost found a few spots in my back yard. It sent a patch of dirt under my grill up about four inches, then it turned an adjacent piece into a shallow pond. I stepped on the paving stones next to the wallow trying to circumnavigate the new landscaping feature, and they shot into the muck like a slip-and-slide. I managed to keep my pants clean that time, but I am steering clear just in case. I was really looking forward to grilling as soon as the rain stopped, but I don't want to pull on the muck boots to do it. I guess those Omaha Steaks will stay frozen a while longer.
Besides the dog's excitement, there has been some good to come of the melt this weekend's rain has brought. In a few choice spots where southern exposure or the warm wind graces it, I can see little green points emerging from the dirt. Our day lilies are alive. Amidst all of the chores, the mud, trash, and dog toys that were found beneath the snow, a glimmer of hope was found too. Those few shoots have really given me hope that spring will one day come. Hope that my son will be able to walk off of the deck without needing a change of clothes. Hope that the dirt will actually drain. Hope that warmer weather will actually let us use our lawn again.
My wife and I have been talking about what marks the first day of spring with my four-year-old. I said the first robin. They are waiting for the first spring flower. We have already found the first bug of the year, and whatever comes next: bird, bud, or black fly; I am glad to see it.
It has been a wet weekend here in Vermont. The rain coming off of a warm coastal storm drenched southern New England. Then it drifted north and hit us too, though less severely. It did, however manage to melt most all of the snow left in the backyard. With the snow gone, I made a few discoveries.
I discovered about a dozen lost dog toys. Tennis balls, and squeaky toys lost throughout the winter. It was like Christmas morning for my lab. There were lots of "other things" left behind by the dog over the course of the winter as well. (I'm not looking forward to collecting those presents from under the tree, though.)
I also discovered all of the little gardening projects that I didn't finish last fall. No magical gnomes came to finish them over the winter, though I keep hoping. The flower gardens that I abandoned at the first snowfall still need work. The dead tree branches blown down by winter storms are still there. The blanket of white erased them for a while, but they never really left. We have the normal mole activity beneath the snowpack that I will need to rake out, but we also have a few areas that the frost decided to push and pull on.
Ground frost is a powerful thing. You won't find it everywhere. There are lots of areas in the northeast that are free from ground frost. Perhaps they have better drainage. Perhaps they clear more of the snow. Whatever causes it, ground frost is a formidable force her in Vermont. We even named our basketball team after it.
Ice is strong enough to expand in the dirt and send sections of earth skyward. Under the pavement of your favorite by-way, frost heaves can make a Sunday drive seem like a motorcross event. One particular spot makes my Chevy jump and change lanes if I drive more than 25 mph across it. Don't ask what it does to my Jeep. That thing is meant for low gear only.
This year, the frost found a few spots in my back yard. It sent a patch of dirt under my grill up about four inches, then it turned an adjacent piece into a shallow pond. I stepped on the paving stones next to the wallow trying to circumnavigate the new landscaping feature, and they shot into the muck like a slip-and-slide. I managed to keep my pants clean that time, but I am steering clear just in case. I was really looking forward to grilling as soon as the rain stopped, but I don't want to pull on the muck boots to do it. I guess those Omaha Steaks will stay frozen a while longer.
Besides the dog's excitement, there has been some good to come of the melt this weekend's rain has brought. In a few choice spots where southern exposure or the warm wind graces it, I can see little green points emerging from the dirt. Our day lilies are alive. Amidst all of the chores, the mud, trash, and dog toys that were found beneath the snow, a glimmer of hope was found too. Those few shoots have really given me hope that spring will one day come. Hope that my son will be able to walk off of the deck without needing a change of clothes. Hope that the dirt will actually drain. Hope that warmer weather will actually let us use our lawn again.
My wife and I have been talking about what marks the first day of spring with my four-year-old. I said the first robin. They are waiting for the first spring flower. We have already found the first bug of the year, and whatever comes next: bird, bud, or black fly; I am glad to see it.
Spring Cleaning
Why can't I ever seem to throw anything away?
Some folks say that being a packrat runs in your blood. I might just believe that. My grandmother had the bug for certain. When she died, years ago, it almost took the corps of engineers to go through all of the stuff that she had accumulated over a lifetime.
I'm not that bad yet. My wife might have a different opinion. I still shudder at the thought of tossing a perfectly straight coffee can with lid. It might be useful holding nuts and bolts in the garage some day.Or it could turn into a set of stilts for my daughter to get hurt on. Those things have a million uses, after all. So, I stash it away with the old ice cream container and the old mesh fruit sack (those make a good scrub brush for car tires if you ever need one).
I do try to get rid of useless stuff, but somehow, I can always seem to find a use for most of what responsible people might send to the dump. You know that "Reuse Zone" they have at the transfer station? That was practically built for me. I have rescued books, skis, and sundry other items as well. Stopping in that little shed is almost as exciting for me as bringing stuff to the dump is for my wife.
Perhaps it comes with space. Years ago, when I lived in an apartment alone, my life could fit in the bed of my pickup truck. Over the next few residences, each a bit larger and nicer than the last, I somehow acquired more and more stuff. The house I live in now has a barn. It was a major selling point when my wife and I bought it. I didn't ever think that I would be able to fill it up. But time passed, we had kids, and I did it.
Somehow over the last eight years or so, I have covered the floors of the four horse stalls with snow tires, play pools, a boat we don't use, lumber, furniture, and boxes of leftover junk from my youth. The open areas now have a conglomeration of Jeeps and Jeep parts. it is getting so that it is difficult to walk through there these days in the dark. What to do? What to do? What to do?
Or, do I need to do anything? I have seen those shows about the people who horde everything under the sun away in their tiny houses stacked to the ceiling. I am not that bad, I don't think. Birds still use the barn for a home in the summertime. They can fly through there. That is proof enough for me.
Why, you would have to be standing in my back yard to see the piles of firewood and old scrap steel lying in the snowdrifts. From the road, my house is as clean as the statehouse (both of which are prone to the occasional dog chasing a ball across the grass, mind you). But despite appearances from the outside, I feel the need to do something about my growing piles of stuff.
Spring is in the air. Before we know it, the warmer weather will prompt the annual garage clean out... and the house clean out... and the barn clean out. Dutifully, as a husband and certified junk collector, I will go through and half-organize, half hide away, half junk my amassed collections. Why you might ask? Well, I am more than familiar with the habits of Vermonters all across the state this time of year. Many will be doing the same. And with the great clean-out comes the other springtime tradition, the great garage sale.
Did I tell you that I got a working chainsaw at a garage sale last year for $3.85?
Yes, the decimal is supposed to be there, and yes, I now own two.
I am a junk collector, after all.
Some folks say that being a packrat runs in your blood. I might just believe that. My grandmother had the bug for certain. When she died, years ago, it almost took the corps of engineers to go through all of the stuff that she had accumulated over a lifetime.
I'm not that bad yet. My wife might have a different opinion. I still shudder at the thought of tossing a perfectly straight coffee can with lid. It might be useful holding nuts and bolts in the garage some day.Or it could turn into a set of stilts for my daughter to get hurt on. Those things have a million uses, after all. So, I stash it away with the old ice cream container and the old mesh fruit sack (those make a good scrub brush for car tires if you ever need one).
I do try to get rid of useless stuff, but somehow, I can always seem to find a use for most of what responsible people might send to the dump. You know that "Reuse Zone" they have at the transfer station? That was practically built for me. I have rescued books, skis, and sundry other items as well. Stopping in that little shed is almost as exciting for me as bringing stuff to the dump is for my wife.
Perhaps it comes with space. Years ago, when I lived in an apartment alone, my life could fit in the bed of my pickup truck. Over the next few residences, each a bit larger and nicer than the last, I somehow acquired more and more stuff. The house I live in now has a barn. It was a major selling point when my wife and I bought it. I didn't ever think that I would be able to fill it up. But time passed, we had kids, and I did it.
Somehow over the last eight years or so, I have covered the floors of the four horse stalls with snow tires, play pools, a boat we don't use, lumber, furniture, and boxes of leftover junk from my youth. The open areas now have a conglomeration of Jeeps and Jeep parts. it is getting so that it is difficult to walk through there these days in the dark. What to do? What to do? What to do?
Or, do I need to do anything? I have seen those shows about the people who horde everything under the sun away in their tiny houses stacked to the ceiling. I am not that bad, I don't think. Birds still use the barn for a home in the summertime. They can fly through there. That is proof enough for me.
Why, you would have to be standing in my back yard to see the piles of firewood and old scrap steel lying in the snowdrifts. From the road, my house is as clean as the statehouse (both of which are prone to the occasional dog chasing a ball across the grass, mind you). But despite appearances from the outside, I feel the need to do something about my growing piles of stuff.
Spring is in the air. Before we know it, the warmer weather will prompt the annual garage clean out... and the house clean out... and the barn clean out. Dutifully, as a husband and certified junk collector, I will go through and half-organize, half hide away, half junk my amassed collections. Why you might ask? Well, I am more than familiar with the habits of Vermonters all across the state this time of year. Many will be doing the same. And with the great clean-out comes the other springtime tradition, the great garage sale.
Did I tell you that I got a working chainsaw at a garage sale last year for $3.85?
Yes, the decimal is supposed to be there, and yes, I now own two.
I am a junk collector, after all.
Being a Vermonter
You know, it really does take a special sort of person to live in Vermont. I'm not talking about the wherewithal to live through the seven-month winters or black flies, either. It is one thing to forgo pizza delivery and corner markets voluntarily in the move, (The latter is here of course, but that corner might be a ten minute drive away) it is another to embody the real spirit of Vermont.
Lots of people have been born into the role of Vermonter. For those folks, they might never have seen what the other side is like. Living here has kept them naive to major crime, racial tensions, or the need to lock your doors and windows. Even light pollution at night is foreign to many true Vermonters.
For the rest of us, we might have fled from those issues or others when we moved here. (OK, maybe not the pizza delivery) The Green Mountain State really is a holdout in the modern world. it is a throwback to the times when people were civil. Vermont can really surprise you if you let it.
Take last weekend for example. My family was hosting some friends of ours up from Boston. We were doubling our household from 2 adults and 2 kids to 4 and 4. We were entertaining. So, I did what any responsible person might, I picked up a local newspaper event listing and poured over it while we were waiting for the guests to arrive late Friday night. The listings for the weekend were bleak. The paper mentioned a star-gazing sleigh ride (but neglected to mention the $50 cost for a family of four to go), and an event at the local library.The circular was published monthly, so it had advertisements all over it for the '2010 Maple Open House Weekend' that would happen three weeks later. Oh well. There was always skiing.
Of course, bright and early Saturday morning, I got up and made pancakes for our guests. (Eight people can eat an amazing quantity of pancakes. I was truly impressed as I made the second batch, and frightened for the future of Octomom. OMG, is she in for it.) We served the last of our family's gallon jug of syrup from last year. My wife mentioned that we bought it from a sugarhouse up the road, and it lasted us the perfectly for a year.
I didn't think a thing of it as I was furiously flipping flapjacks that morning, but come Sunday, I was worried. Our friends wanted to pick some syrup up before heading home, and we tried to call ahead to the sugarshack, but then deciding to just show up.
Now let me tell you, when I lived in real cities, in apartment buildings or condominium complexes, I loved the Pop By. They were fun distractions from the tedium of normalcy. Friends would pop in, we would end up running out for a bottle of wine or some beers, and a good night would follow. Somehow in the rural life of Vermont, this practice has been lost. Perhaps it is the thought of driving ten minutes to get to the neighbor's house, only to find them away, but we ALWAYS call first these days. I haven't done a good Pop By for years. Even when I was living in the city, we would never have dreamed doing one before 10am.
Yet here we were: two cars pulling into the driveway (and home) of the Stokes Family Sugarworks. I was quietly mortified; thinking how I might react if all of these mostly strangers (I did buy syrup from them a year earlier) pulled into my muddy driveway unannounced expecting a tour one Sunday morning.
I got out, and slowly ambled through the mud towards the sugarhouse, looking for any friendly faces I might remember from last year. Slogging up, I made excuses to the first friend I met, and promised to buy some syrup if they would let us take a look around. He disappeared into the house after a couple bottles, and I motioned for the rest of our posse to unbuckle the kids and debark.
This turned out to be a fine example of Vermonters in action. As the kids came up rattling off questions as fast as they could talk, the rest of the family inside the house pulled on their mud boots and came out to meet us. They gave us a proud tour of the dilapidated building that included the story of how a cut off tree trunk hanging in the rafters saved the building from the south wind a few seasons prior. Sure, they sold us $15 worth of syrup, but they were happy to do it on an early Sunday morning. I truly believe that if this were not Vermont, we would have been turned away. Well, we might have been able to buy the syrup before we were kicked out.
It really is a shining example of Vermonters in action. My friend was even invited inside for a look at the resident's woodburning of the sugarhouse embossed on his living room coffee table. Would you get that anywhere else?
Lots of people have been born into the role of Vermonter. For those folks, they might never have seen what the other side is like. Living here has kept them naive to major crime, racial tensions, or the need to lock your doors and windows. Even light pollution at night is foreign to many true Vermonters.
For the rest of us, we might have fled from those issues or others when we moved here. (OK, maybe not the pizza delivery) The Green Mountain State really is a holdout in the modern world. it is a throwback to the times when people were civil. Vermont can really surprise you if you let it.
Take last weekend for example. My family was hosting some friends of ours up from Boston. We were doubling our household from 2 adults and 2 kids to 4 and 4. We were entertaining. So, I did what any responsible person might, I picked up a local newspaper event listing and poured over it while we were waiting for the guests to arrive late Friday night. The listings for the weekend were bleak. The paper mentioned a star-gazing sleigh ride (but neglected to mention the $50 cost for a family of four to go), and an event at the local library.The circular was published monthly, so it had advertisements all over it for the '2010 Maple Open House Weekend' that would happen three weeks later. Oh well. There was always skiing.
Of course, bright and early Saturday morning, I got up and made pancakes for our guests. (Eight people can eat an amazing quantity of pancakes. I was truly impressed as I made the second batch, and frightened for the future of Octomom. OMG, is she in for it.) We served the last of our family's gallon jug of syrup from last year. My wife mentioned that we bought it from a sugarhouse up the road, and it lasted us the perfectly for a year.
I didn't think a thing of it as I was furiously flipping flapjacks that morning, but come Sunday, I was worried. Our friends wanted to pick some syrup up before heading home, and we tried to call ahead to the sugarshack, but then deciding to just show up.
Now let me tell you, when I lived in real cities, in apartment buildings or condominium complexes, I loved the Pop By. They were fun distractions from the tedium of normalcy. Friends would pop in, we would end up running out for a bottle of wine or some beers, and a good night would follow. Somehow in the rural life of Vermont, this practice has been lost. Perhaps it is the thought of driving ten minutes to get to the neighbor's house, only to find them away, but we ALWAYS call first these days. I haven't done a good Pop By for years. Even when I was living in the city, we would never have dreamed doing one before 10am.
Yet here we were: two cars pulling into the driveway (and home) of the Stokes Family Sugarworks. I was quietly mortified; thinking how I might react if all of these mostly strangers (I did buy syrup from them a year earlier) pulled into my muddy driveway unannounced expecting a tour one Sunday morning.
I got out, and slowly ambled through the mud towards the sugarhouse, looking for any friendly faces I might remember from last year. Slogging up, I made excuses to the first friend I met, and promised to buy some syrup if they would let us take a look around. He disappeared into the house after a couple bottles, and I motioned for the rest of our posse to unbuckle the kids and debark.
This turned out to be a fine example of Vermonters in action. As the kids came up rattling off questions as fast as they could talk, the rest of the family inside the house pulled on their mud boots and came out to meet us. They gave us a proud tour of the dilapidated building that included the story of how a cut off tree trunk hanging in the rafters saved the building from the south wind a few seasons prior. Sure, they sold us $15 worth of syrup, but they were happy to do it on an early Sunday morning. I truly believe that if this were not Vermont, we would have been turned away. Well, we might have been able to buy the syrup before we were kicked out.
It really is a shining example of Vermonters in action. My friend was even invited inside for a look at the resident's woodburning of the sugarhouse embossed on his living room coffee table. Would you get that anywhere else?
Rust is a Funny Thing
I was looking through craigslist postings for an engine donor for my old Jeep. I was amazed at what people want for cars these days.
One post I saw wanted more than $2000 for a 93 GMC Jimmy 2wd!
Sure, it may be a southern car, but no serious Vermonter would want to pay that for it.
The problem with southern cars is that they were initially sold in the south. Frankly, car companies deliver different vehicles to different areas of the country. The south gets no factory rustproofing. No amount of 'Rubberized Undercoating' can make up for bare metal inside the cavities of a southern car.
Let me give you an idea. I moved to Vermont in 2000. in anticipation of the move, I bought a Jeep Cherokee 4x4. When I bought it, the flatlander dealership thought I was nuts. The state did not see snow - ever - and the only thing they could think of was that i would turn it into a "mudder". I bought it nonetheless, and promptly moved to Vermont.
I hardly drove it. at age four, it only had 45,000 miles on it. I lived near to Newton's Car Wash in Burlington at the time, and washed it every week, summer and winter alike. I sprayed on the rubberized undercoating fromthe hardware store, and did everything else that I could to try and keep the rust at bay. I was good.
Today, if you look under that truck next to another Jeep of similar age and experience, it is like night and day. The rust got it where the tow bar kept moisture, the rust got it when the cold nights forced condensation inside the unprotected framerails. It is practically falling apart.
Back to the craigslist posting. In Vermont, that bluebook value goes right out the window. It doesn't matter how many miles, or where a car was from. Unless it is never driven, a southern car will succumb to Vermont's red scourge within four years. I guarantee it. The fact that that Jimmy was 2wd rather than 4wd is even more of a reason that its owners will be disappointed when it does not sell. Somebody they work with, or a neighbor needs to explain it to the owner. Kelly BlueBook is not accurate in the Green Mountain State.
As a matter-of-fact, someone should publish a GreenBook for Vermonters. I can see it now. the book would have listings based on real market value here. A 97 Hyundai would be accurately listed for $450 with the words "Winter Beater" next to it. A 1993 GMC Jimmy 2wd (Southern Car) would list an accurate $750 and the phrase "solid engine, many parts."
One post I saw wanted more than $2000 for a 93 GMC Jimmy 2wd!
Sure, it may be a southern car, but no serious Vermonter would want to pay that for it.
The problem with southern cars is that they were initially sold in the south. Frankly, car companies deliver different vehicles to different areas of the country. The south gets no factory rustproofing. No amount of 'Rubberized Undercoating' can make up for bare metal inside the cavities of a southern car.
Let me give you an idea. I moved to Vermont in 2000. in anticipation of the move, I bought a Jeep Cherokee 4x4. When I bought it, the flatlander dealership thought I was nuts. The state did not see snow - ever - and the only thing they could think of was that i would turn it into a "mudder". I bought it nonetheless, and promptly moved to Vermont.
I hardly drove it. at age four, it only had 45,000 miles on it. I lived near to Newton's Car Wash in Burlington at the time, and washed it every week, summer and winter alike. I sprayed on the rubberized undercoating fromthe hardware store, and did everything else that I could to try and keep the rust at bay. I was good.
Today, if you look under that truck next to another Jeep of similar age and experience, it is like night and day. The rust got it where the tow bar kept moisture, the rust got it when the cold nights forced condensation inside the unprotected framerails. It is practically falling apart.
Back to the craigslist posting. In Vermont, that bluebook value goes right out the window. It doesn't matter how many miles, or where a car was from. Unless it is never driven, a southern car will succumb to Vermont's red scourge within four years. I guarantee it. The fact that that Jimmy was 2wd rather than 4wd is even more of a reason that its owners will be disappointed when it does not sell. Somebody they work with, or a neighbor needs to explain it to the owner. Kelly BlueBook is not accurate in the Green Mountain State.
As a matter-of-fact, someone should publish a GreenBook for Vermonters. I can see it now. the book would have listings based on real market value here. A 97 Hyundai would be accurately listed for $450 with the words "Winter Beater" next to it. A 1993 GMC Jimmy 2wd (Southern Car) would list an accurate $750 and the phrase "solid engine, many parts."
Mud Season / The Trouble with Mud
Flatlanders, that is people who don't live in Vermont... uh, or people who moved to Vermont at some point in their lifetime, might not know much about the many seasons of the Green mountain State.
We have the four regular ones, and then we have a series of less publicized, yet highly important sub-seasons that mark life here.
For instance, between fall's colors (full of white license plates on the highways), and winter's white blanket, (we will take a look at the seasons of winter at some other point) we have stick season (when all of the hardwood trees in the state look like sticks).
Right now, due to a series of unseasonably warm days, The Green mountain State is quickly advancing towards Mud Season. Well, at least in the unpaved reaches, we are. Burlington never really sees Mud Season. The Frost is leaving the ground, and as it melts, all of the ice crystals turn to soup. Cars and trucks steer for themselves across the soggy, rutted byways. Chidrens' shoes are converted from insulated to waterproof, and they are kept strictly by the door if possible.
"Never mind that hat, Jimmy," mom might call out, "it'll be warm today." (42 degrees is warm after winter here)
A warm southerly wind really adds to the trouble with mud when it melts the rain soaked snowpack even faster than the sun's bright rays. That breeze can send a torrent of melt water down the hills. It will face challenges of still-frozen culverts, and ditches full of ice, then escape from the lowlands across your lawn. Formerly firm grass turns to a sponge waiting for the first toddler's knee, or dog foot to soak. If that runoff meets soil, barren of greenery, it waits for the slightest traffic to escape gravity's constraints and move indoors attached to even the smallest heel, or dragging pant hem (damn my short legs).
Indoors, the soil smears into the cracks between the dry floorboards, across linoleum, or stains carpets. (This is one of many times that I am happy we do not have North Carolina's red clay). Every time the lab comes back inside from barking at the neighbors, my house (and poor sofa) looks like wreck again.A friend of mine just takes up the area rugs and refuses to wash the floor more than once a week. There is wisdom in that.
It is Mud Season, after all.
The rest of the state is muddy, perhaps I can embrace it in my home as well.
We have the four regular ones, and then we have a series of less publicized, yet highly important sub-seasons that mark life here.
For instance, between fall's colors (full of white license plates on the highways), and winter's white blanket, (we will take a look at the seasons of winter at some other point) we have stick season (when all of the hardwood trees in the state look like sticks).
Right now, due to a series of unseasonably warm days, The Green mountain State is quickly advancing towards Mud Season. Well, at least in the unpaved reaches, we are. Burlington never really sees Mud Season. The Frost is leaving the ground, and as it melts, all of the ice crystals turn to soup. Cars and trucks steer for themselves across the soggy, rutted byways. Chidrens' shoes are converted from insulated to waterproof, and they are kept strictly by the door if possible.
"Never mind that hat, Jimmy," mom might call out, "it'll be warm today." (42 degrees is warm after winter here)
A warm southerly wind really adds to the trouble with mud when it melts the rain soaked snowpack even faster than the sun's bright rays. That breeze can send a torrent of melt water down the hills. It will face challenges of still-frozen culverts, and ditches full of ice, then escape from the lowlands across your lawn. Formerly firm grass turns to a sponge waiting for the first toddler's knee, or dog foot to soak. If that runoff meets soil, barren of greenery, it waits for the slightest traffic to escape gravity's constraints and move indoors attached to even the smallest heel, or dragging pant hem (damn my short legs).
Indoors, the soil smears into the cracks between the dry floorboards, across linoleum, or stains carpets. (This is one of many times that I am happy we do not have North Carolina's red clay). Every time the lab comes back inside from barking at the neighbors, my house (and poor sofa) looks like wreck again.A friend of mine just takes up the area rugs and refuses to wash the floor more than once a week. There is wisdom in that.
It is Mud Season, after all.
The rest of the state is muddy, perhaps I can embrace it in my home as well.
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