Uh-oh

A little local news here, but as you read please keep in mind that Ruby Ridge and Waco were certifiably planned by certified and/or certifiable government planners.

This little county is composed mostly of two middlin' towns and a clutch of tiny contiguous burgs strung around the lakes. The result is that some 18,000 people are governed and taxed by at least seven mayors, seven city councils, the county board of supervisors, and gawd knows how many special taxing units for the sewer, greedy green groups, and so forth.

I just learned that we're beginning another efficiency drive to combine services and all that crap that will either (a) never happen or (b) incur costs higher than "savings." We've heard it before, but this time we've hired an expert, and the radio says, straight-faced and without a hint of irony:

"Alvin C. Blatnik the Fourth (not his real name), who leads the ISU Extension GIS group, will be the lead researcher. He is also a certified planner with the American Institute of Certified Planners."

If all that certifying doesn't curdle your spit with fear I'll kiss your arse at the courthouse flag pole and give you an hour to round up every tax-sucking bureaucrat in the area.

Maytag One-Lunger?

An email friend asked me what that was. Ahh youth.

Okay, squad. School circle.

By about 1949, the Rural Electrification Administration had wired up most of the farms in Calhoun County, so the prosperous Mrs. Kaddidlehopper of Rural Route 1 was able to replace her smelly, noisy, inconvenient gasoline powered washer with a plug-in model. That meant that she could, among other things, do laundry in the house, very handy in a Midwest winter.

Generally, the old gas Maytags went to People's Hardware, aka the junk yard where, as lads, we shopped.

The engines were cute, no other term for it. With a single cylinder, developing in the vicinity of one or two horsepower, and a horizontal shaft they demanded a second life in the transportation industry, and eight- and nine-year-old boys who went wow over newsreel clips of Mauri Rose and his Offenhausers were suckers for them. They pooled their dimes and quarters and negotiated with the junk man.

Now, ol' Elmer Maytag understood you could make a nifty 8 mph racer from his engine, but he probably didn't understand how poor kids could do it. To wit:

Assemble materials. -- engine; 2 x 12 plank about five feet long, (chassis); piece of pipe about 3 feet long, (clutch control); four wheels, preferably all the same size or nearly so; board (front axle ); steel rod (or water pipe) (rear axle) clothes line rope (steering device); flat belt (transmission); pulley for a rear wheel; wood apple box (seat); lard can full of nuts, bolts, washers.

The single great challenge was attaching the drive pulley to the rear axle, and sometimes the boys would seek the mature assistance of a high school kid who had passed shop.

Other than that, it was a piece of cake. Attach rear wheel assembly with U-bolts if you had them, fence staples if you didn't. Bolt engine to plank just slightly loose in the elongated holes so the whole thing could be moved back and forth a little to tighten or loosen the drive belt. This was the clutch mechanism. Lag screw the front wheels to the board and secure it to the plank with a centered and barely tight bolt. Drill two holes in the axle ends to hold the steering ropes (think horse reins). Nail the seat in place and paint your logo on it. ("Varoom!" was popular because you could vary the numbers of "o"s to achieve an aesthetic symmetry.)

You kicked the starter until the engine caught, ran around to the side and jumped on the seat. You grabbed the ropes, reached back to the clutch pipe and pulled it and the engine forward to tighten the belt. Then you were underway, terrorizing any stray dog, cat, or adult in the alley, trying to steer with two ropes in one hand, the other being occupied maintaining belt tension. Yeah, it was a design flaw.

Vibration was a problem, and the braking system primitive and very hard on the soles of your PF Flyers. We made a few improvements over the years until creatures in dresses started flouncing past the front gate, catching our eye and making us feel kind of squishy in the head. About then, for some reason which escapes me, we started losing interest in one-lungers.

I understand this sort of thing has been replaced by television, texting about Paris, and video games.

That is all. DisMISSED

Hippie time

I just quoted a line from the Kingston Trio to Tam, and that kick-started the old Maytag one-lunger that serves as my memory.

Joan Baez. I was actually thinking of Joan Baez and remembered how a whole damned generation -- Young Republicans to Abbie Hoffman -- lusted to embrace that body, either despite of or because of the Aquarian-age nonsense she sang so sweetly.

But she did give us one great moment of defiant libertarian resolve:

"My daddy made corn whiskey

"Grandaddy made it too.

"We ain't paid no whiskey tax since 1792."

For a long time I assumed my 18th/19th Century Appalachian ancestors sat around the fire and sang Copper Kettle while the moon shone bright. I was crushed to learn that the song may have been written as late as 1953.

Grump

(1) The furshlugginer weather continues and is now compounded by the discovery that I have an underground water leak which will deplete the gun fund by a disheartening figure.

(2) Still can't make the new wireless router work in a wireless fashion.