SouthernN'Proud
Southern Discomfort
So. I go out to get in my truck to head to work this morning. Get in, sit down, situate m'self, mash the clutch, hit the key...nada.
No problem, says I. I jes hop ou'tchere and tighten the ol' battery cable up a bit and be on m'way. No sweat. Says I.
Well. It's pretty corroded up. So I take out me handy dandy pocket knife and commence to scraping'. No problem, says I. Be back on the road in no time flat. Jes reconnect this little doodad hyar, make it good-n-tight, and voila.
Hit the key. Nada.
Hmm. Says I. This might take a bit more inspection, detection, selection and neglection that I thought.
So I set off in search of a 7/16" wrench with which to really put a tightening on that cable end. Retrieve the wrench, get back to the truck, and start tightening.
Won't tighten. Too much crap in the joint of the cable end. Won't loosen either so I could clean it out. Stuck right good it is.
Hmm.
No problem, says I. I bought me another cable end last summer when the one on the lawnmower went kaput. I'll just have to cut this old one off and reattach the new one. Voila. No problem, says I.
So I commence to go fetch my handy dandy hacksaw. No better tool for the task of cutting through thick battery cables, especially at the awkward angle this one is sitting in.
But y'see, my dad has been here. This is the man who owns, quite litterally, over a million dollars in tools and can't find a screwdriver to save his ass. He is amember of the Use It And Pitch It Club. The very concept of returning any tool to a spot within the same zip code as the spot he found it in is alien to this man, who is otherwise a rational, loving, and wonderful person. And apparently, he's had ahold of m'hacksaws. Plural. Ain't one nowhere.
Hmm. Says I.
So I commence to rummaging about me toolbox, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a pair of tin snips, layin' ri'tchere. Git er done!
A scant fifteen minutes later, I have managed to snip through the battery cable, strip the coating from the end without amputating one or more fingers, attach the cable end, tighten sufficiently to last until approximately late June 2013, reconnect the battery, and pick up everything that dropped and rolled to the direct center of the truck on the gravel driveway. With much trepidation, I approach the driver seat once again. Anticipation hangs thick in the morning air, like gas clouds at Lambeau Field. I mash the clutch pedal. I turn the key.
Purrs like a kitten.
Of course, I'm now late for work, but it coulda been worse. Had this thing went south, oh, say in the driveway of one of me convicted felon type persons in a driving rain about 35 miles from civilization, for instance.
**Note to self: Call dad. Ask him just where the merry hell he left m'hacksaws. Plural.
No problem, says I. I jes hop ou'tchere and tighten the ol' battery cable up a bit and be on m'way. No sweat. Says I.
Well. It's pretty corroded up. So I take out me handy dandy pocket knife and commence to scraping'. No problem, says I. Be back on the road in no time flat. Jes reconnect this little doodad hyar, make it good-n-tight, and voila.
Hit the key. Nada.
Hmm. Says I. This might take a bit more inspection, detection, selection and neglection that I thought.
So I set off in search of a 7/16" wrench with which to really put a tightening on that cable end. Retrieve the wrench, get back to the truck, and start tightening.
Won't tighten. Too much crap in the joint of the cable end. Won't loosen either so I could clean it out. Stuck right good it is.
Hmm.
No problem, says I. I bought me another cable end last summer when the one on the lawnmower went kaput. I'll just have to cut this old one off and reattach the new one. Voila. No problem, says I.
So I commence to go fetch my handy dandy hacksaw. No better tool for the task of cutting through thick battery cables, especially at the awkward angle this one is sitting in.
But y'see, my dad has been here. This is the man who owns, quite litterally, over a million dollars in tools and can't find a screwdriver to save his ass. He is amember of the Use It And Pitch It Club. The very concept of returning any tool to a spot within the same zip code as the spot he found it in is alien to this man, who is otherwise a rational, loving, and wonderful person. And apparently, he's had ahold of m'hacksaws. Plural. Ain't one nowhere.
Hmm. Says I.
So I commence to rummaging about me toolbox, and what to my wondering eyes should appear, but a pair of tin snips, layin' ri'tchere. Git er done!
A scant fifteen minutes later, I have managed to snip through the battery cable, strip the coating from the end without amputating one or more fingers, attach the cable end, tighten sufficiently to last until approximately late June 2013, reconnect the battery, and pick up everything that dropped and rolled to the direct center of the truck on the gravel driveway. With much trepidation, I approach the driver seat once again. Anticipation hangs thick in the morning air, like gas clouds at Lambeau Field. I mash the clutch pedal. I turn the key.
Purrs like a kitten.
Of course, I'm now late for work, but it coulda been worse. Had this thing went south, oh, say in the driveway of one of me convicted felon type persons in a driving rain about 35 miles from civilization, for instance.
**Note to self: Call dad. Ask him just where the merry hell he left m'hacksaws. Plural.