January 20 '01         
	  

	  Volume 242
	    

	  Emotional
	  Turmoil Intriguing Inaminate Intimancy
	    

	  

	  I know better than to
	  allowVS755
	  myself to become emotionally attached to inanimate objects, but sometimes
	  I can't help it. If a good parent had an injured child, would he or she not
	  do everything possible to help the child? For me, that's how it is with some
	  of my possessions that have been injured by years of use. It's painful to
	  discard them without making the effort to refurbish them or give them new
	  life.
	  

	  To be sure, some possessions are rather ignoble, such as the commode in my
	  bathroom in Greenville. Yet, it has been faithful to perform its duty as
	  I perform mine. Right now, it could use a new seat, since one of its plastic
	  rim-rests has worn away and the damage to the other rest is notable. It makes
	  for an unsettled feeling with one hip resting a few millimeters off level
	  with the other, but because the seat itself is in otherwise good condition,
	  I have delayed purchasing a replacement.
	  

	  The seat is not injured so badly as to require immediate attention, but,
	  when the mechanism inside the tank that makes flushing possible, suddenly
	  ceased to function one day, immediate repair was needed. You see there is
	  no reason to replace an entire commode, if only a part or two is malfunctioning,
	  but then that depends upon the parts.
	  

	  Being something of a handyman is a part of my bloodlines, so whenever possible,
	  I prefer to make household repairs that I find fit within my varying fields
	  of expertise. Most of the repairs I have made inside the tanks of commodes
	  involved replacing the fill mechanism and an occasional flapper-ball mechanism.
	  Thus, I have some familiarity with the working parts of a commode, albeit,
	  my technical vocabulary may not match that of a plumber.
	  

	  My commode (I call it mine since Barbara's commode is in "her" bathroom)
	  has an unusual configuration regarding the device attached to the handle.
	  A stiff plastic rod has one end attached to the handle where the handle attaches
	  inside the tank. The other end of the rod passes through a device that surrounds
	  the overflow pipe and is attached to the flap. When the handle is depressed,
	  the attached rod functions as a lever, lifting the flap to allow the tank
	  to empty into the bowl. The day the rod broke away from the handle was the
	  day I set about trying to reattach it.
	  

	  After studying the situation I determined that a well-placed screw might
	  solve the problem, and upon drilling a starter hole in the two pieces and
	  inserting a sheetrock screw into the starter holes, the commode was as good
	  as new…well, almost as good as new. With my emotional attachment to
	  my commode intact, I was free to champion other causes.
	  

	  In the same room, as the commode, is (or was) a vintage handheld hair dryer.
	  No, it's not an antique, but it is likely the oldest of the working hairdryers
	  of my two households. It seems that between my wife and me, we have a half-dozen
	  hairdryers¾one for each of us in both
	  houses and one or more to use while traveling away from home, and I've been
	  known to carry a spare, just in case my traveling dryer should fail.
	  

	  I have a special feeling for the aged 1600-watt, Vidal Sassoon model with
	  two heat settings, two speeds, and a burst of cool trigger for anyone who
	  wants a styled set and doesn't want to use hairspray. About three or so years
	  into its life span, the on/off mechanism broke and fell completely out of
	  the handle of the dryer. I discovered the switch itself was still in order,
	  and the part that fell off merely served to slide the switch from one position
	  to another.
	  

	  My challenge was to figure out how to operate the hairdryer without electrocuting
	  myself. If the opening in the handle had been a little larger, the handle
	  of a toothbrush would have sufficed to slide the switch. Fortunately, I had
	  saved one of my inter-dental devices; you know, one of those cutesy little
	  things that have tiny, little interchangeable brushes of varying sizes that
	  are small enough to brush between adjacent teeth. The narrow handle of the
	  dental device proved to be the perfect solution. New life was breathed into
	  the dryer on the day I discovered the fix, and the dryer continued to work
	  for another three or so years.
	  

	  Not only did I use the hairdryer to dry my hair, but I've used it to dehumidify
	  and heat my bathroom, as well. Even though an exhaust fan is mounted in the
	  ceiling, the bathroom mirror fogs up while I am showering. It does this
	  year-round, whether the weather is cold or hot, dry or humid. Believe it
	  or not, I need a heater in my bathroom to knock the chill out of the air,
	  because Barbara can't breathe inside our house if the temperature rises above
	  seventy in either the summertime or the wintertime.
	  

	  While, I can submerse my body in near scalding water, I've learned I stay
	  healthier if I don't have to dry off in a significantly colder room. The
	  small hairdryer circulates enough air to keep my mirror defogged in the summer
	  and provides enough supplemental heat in the winter to make stepping from
	  the hot shower an almost pleasant experience.
	  

	  Thus, you can imagine my dismay on the twelfth of January, when, after having
	  shaved, showered, and, upon having dressed, was ready to blow-dry both of
	  my curly locks, I found the dryer blowing only cold air. I looked long and
	  thoughtfully at the dryer I held in my hand, remembering all the mornings
	  it had served me in conditions of both high and low humidity. I thought of
	  all the hairs it had helped shape, even those that were uprooted in the process.
	  I thought of all the mornings whose chill it had broken in the tiled porcelain
	  room. Silently, I thanked it for its years of faithfulness, and rather than
	  take it apart in hopes of extending its usefulness, set it aside and resolved
	  to replace it.
	  

	  At lunch that day, I drove to the Wal Mart in Indianola and looked at the
	  available selections. I knew I could not locate another one exactly like
	  mine, but I was confident I could find something to my liking.
	  

	  I quickly narrowed my choices to three 1875-watt models, one of which was
	  a Vidal Sassoon. After comparing prices and features, I chose the Vidal Sassoon,
	  partly because of brand familiarity, partly because of its mid-range price,
	  but mostly because it was purple. No, skip the last part. I didn’t pick
	  it because it was purple. Though, I did like the fact I could remove the
	  lint catcher and clean it without needing a screwdriver to dismantle the
	  hair dryer, and, overall, I liked its compact size.
	  

	  I still have not brought myself to trash the old dryer. Instead, I boxed
	  it up and set it away for a rainy day project. Who knows? It may be fixable;
	  it may not. Either way, it won't be discarded anytime soon. At least, not
	  until I'm past the adjustment period with my new hairdryer.
	  

	    

	  Toy Story II
	  Slingshots & Slings 
	    

	  

	  A few months ago, I recounted some of the homemade toys of my youth. I shared
	  my fascination with a wooden caterpillar made from an empty spool of thread,
	  and of my experiences with a homemade bow and arrow. This is the second in
	  a series of articles dealing with homemade toys of my childhood and youth.
	  

	  From a historical perspective, the sling preceded the slingshot, but for
	  me it was the other way around. I had a homemade slingshot a long time before
	  a sling. As with my first homemade toy fashioned from a wooden spool, I cannot
	  remember who introduced the device to me, though perhaps the deed was handled
	  by some of my cousins or by boys in my neighborhood.
	  

	  Slingshots were easy to make using simple tools and readily available materials.
	  A small tree limb with a Y-shaped branch would form the handle and arms of
	  the slingshot and could be carved crudely or handsomely, depending upon one's
	  skill. A small patch of leather was needed to hold the projectile or ammunition
	  being shot, and such a piece of leather could be formed from the tongue of
	  an old pair of leather shoes. The only other critical piece needed was the
	  rubber bands that connected the leather pouch to each arm of the slingshot,
	  and since those were the days when automotive tires required rubber inner
	  tubes, the availability of used inner tubes was high.
	  

	  While not every family saved old inner tubes, enough folks did to allow plenty
	  of material for plenty of slingshots. Once the rubber strips were cut and
	  tied to the arms of the slingshot and to the leather pouch, a youngster was
	  ready for hours of fun. A few fortunate youngsters might have had access
	  to steel ball bearings to shoot in their slingshots, but most of us country
	  boys used "gravel rocks."
	  

	  Slingshots are not much fun to shoot, unless they are targeted at something.
	  In my neighborhood, tin cans, cats, birds, and some dogs made for interesting
	  shooting. I don't recall ever hitting a living thing with a slingshot, but
	  I had plenty of fun trying.  
	  

	  Today's
	  slingshots
	  bear only a passing similarity to the homemade ones of yesterday, as you
	  can see from the picture. Those are some high-tech stabilizers out front
	  and a wristlock behind. Look immediately below for a close-up view of the
	  sights. (Photos borrowed from Trulock.)  
	  
	  

	  A sling is a less complicated device than a slingshot. Like the slingshot,
	  it has a leather pouch for the projectile, but its power is not derived from
	  stretched rubber bands. The sling is basically a pouch centered between two
	  cords or narrow strips of leather. Swung rapidly overhead or alongside the
	  user, centrifugal forces provide the sling its power, and that power can
	  be lethal.
	  

	  Though the sling is a simple weapon, it was made famous in the battle between
	  David and Goliath of Biblical fame. In the days that I attempted to harness
	  the power of the sling, I never developed the skills mentioned by David as
	  he defended his abilities to slay the lion and the bear with a sling. With
	  my skills, I don't think I could have come close to wounding either beast,
	  let alone burying a stone in the forehead of a giant on my first attempt.
	  However, as surely as the Lord was with David when he battled the Philistine
	  giant, he was with this writer many years ago involving an incident with
	  a sling.
	  

	  I would have been around the age of twelve or thirteen at the time. The incident
	  happened as Keith Gillespie and I were honing our respective "slinging" skills.
	  I was in a neighbor's yard, slightly in an uphill line from where Keith stood
	  on the street below.
	  

	  The lines of his sling became tangled as he released one of them to send
	  his rock flying. His intended target was in a direction away from both of
	  us. The rock was errantly hurled directly toward me with blinding speed.
	  I'm not sure I saw it coming, but I felt it as it struck my chin. It hit
	  with a thud, and I still remember it took a minute or so for me to feel the
	  pain, as though the nerves in my face were too stunned to transmit the signals
	  to my brain.
	  

	  I also remember being scared I would have a disfiguring scar. It was not
	  that I had a pretty face, but with all the other insecurities of my early
	  pubescent years, I didn't want to be nicknamed "scar face," too. Fortunately,
	  the facial cut produced was less than a half-inch, and the ensuing scar slowly
	  slipped below my chin as I grew. No one ever had reason to call me "scar
	  face," and as far as I can remember, I never truthfully explained to Mom
	  how I cut my chin.
	  

	  Mom was fortunate to have raised my older brother Fred past his first few
	  years, as he was prone toward self-inflicted injury, and her fretting over
	  her him would carry over into the lives of all four of her children. Had
	  Mom known about the "sling-thing," she'd have worried herself sick, and,
	  thereafter, every time I wanted to play somewhere I would have been warned
	  about the deadly potential of slings and would probably have been prevented
	  from participating in a lot of boyhood outings.
	  

	  I may not have had much sense in my youth, but I had enough to know I was
	  lucky. I came out of the sling incident smelling like a rose. I could have
	  easily lost an eye, a few of my permanent teeth, or my life, for that matter.
	  I did not realize it at the time, but I have come to acknowledge my luck
	  was not really luck at all. Rather it was something akin to divine intervention,
	  or perhaps it was intervention by an angelic being that thwarted the course
	  of a rock that might have otherwise produced a disaster in my life. You have
	  the right to believe differently, but that's my story, and I'm sticking to
	  it.
	  

	    

	  Bodock Beau
	  Mere Mortals 
	    

	  

	  We all know there is no such person as the perfect man. Yet, Dave must have
	  come pretty close. We are not privy to many of the details concerning Dave,
	  but Morris, a man on the street, is about to hear some of them.
	  

	  Morris walks out of his office, into the street, and manages to hail a taxi
	  just going by.
	  

	  He gets into the taxi, and the cabbie says, "Perfect
	  

	  timing. You're just like Dave."
	  

	  "Who?" replied Morris.
	  

	  "Dave Aronson. Now, there's a guy who did everything right. Like my coming
	  along when you needed a cab. It would have happened like that to Dave."
	  

	  "There are always a few clouds over everybody," claimed Morris.
	  

	  "Not Dave. He was a terrific athlete. He could have gone on the Pro Tour
	  in tennis. He could golf with the pros. He sang like an Opera Baritone and
	  danced like a Broadway star."
	  

	  "He was something, huh?" asked Morris.
	  

	  "He had a memory like a trap, and could remember everybody's birthday. He
	  knew all about wine and which fork to eat with. Why he could fix anything.
	  Not like me. I change a fuse, and I black out the whole neighborhood," answered
	  the cabbie.
	  

	  "No wonder you remember him," Morris replied.
	  

	  "Well, I never actually met Dave," admitted the cabbie.
	  

	  "Then how do you know so much about him?" Morris inquired.
	  

	  "Because I married his widow."
	  

	  --------------------------
	  

	  Plane travel makes some of us uncomfortable, thus we can identify with the
	  passenger mentioned below.
	  

	  A plane had just taken off from Kennedy Airport.
	  

	  After it reached a comfortable cruising altitude, the captain made an
	  announcement over the intercom, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain
	  speaking. Welcome to Flight Number 293, nonstop from New York to Los Angeles.
	  The weather ahead is good, and therefore, we should have a smooth and uneventful
	  flight. Now sit back and relax…Oh, my God!"
	  

	  Silence followed and after a few minutes, the captain came back on the intercom
	  and said, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I am so sorry if I scared you earlier, but
	  while I was talking, the flight-attendant brought me a cup of coffee and
	  spilled the hot coffee in my lap. You should see the front of my pants!"
	  

	  A passenger in coach said, "That's nothing. He should see the back of mine!"
	  

	  --------------------------
	  

	  A young woman married and had 13 children. Her husband died. She soon married
	  again and had 7 more children. Again, her husband died, but she
	  

	  remarried, and this time she had 5 more children. Alas, she finally croaked.
	  

	  Standing before her coffin, the preacher prayed to the Lord above, thanking
	  him for this loving woman who had fulfilled his commandment to "go forth
	  and multiply."
	  

	  In his final eulogy, he prayed, "Thank you Lord, they are finally together."
	  

	  Leaning over to his neighbor, one mourner asked, "Do you think he means her
	  first, second, or third husband?"
	  

	  The other mourner replied..."I think he means her legs."
	  

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