Beverly Hillbillies, Part Deux

[Mark]

A long time ago, I put in a application to be cop, they denied me as I had no history of want to/being a policeman.This was with a city.I was trying stop being a lineman, or it could have been 'it is not what I know but who I know, small towns/big towns all the same.Once again if this ia not appropriate for this application, delete it.

[FoxMike]

I like that British phone booth in the pictures. Those things are heavy!

[m3a1]

I'm surprised more of you aren't all agog over that woodless woody wagon.

[rickf]

You would have to have some serious woodworking skills to go along with the serious bodymans skills. I can do the body but certainly not the wood.

[m3a1]

I looked one up on Google. Not the prettiest car on the planet, even when brand new but, it's fun to be able to see how automobile manufacturers kind of made their way through styling changes.

[m3a1]

Just flew in from Boston....and boy, are my arms tired!

Well, I'll just say this. For a guy from Ohio (via Texas) spending time in New England is quite an eye opener. Doc wanted a romantic getaway for our anniversary and I was asked for my input on the destination. Now, I know what my input is meant to be. Goes like this - I sip coffee and look thoughtful while she rattles off destinations and maybe I ask for a few extra details (just to prove I'm listening) and if I'm feeling particularly energetic, maybe throw in one or two destinations of my own and then, at the end, I approve of whatever she chooses. Happy wife. Happy Life. (usually)

So, we went to Boston.

Have I yet mentioned that Boston isn't particularly warm at this time of year? Did I add that, because Boston is a coastal community, there is always at least a light breeze, making cool air seem more like cold air? But, I'm getting ahead of myself.

We flew into the Boston Logan aeropuerto and the first thing I noticed was a lot of stern-looking uniformed guys standing around the airport who looked like angry Mass State Troopers who had massive child support payments and who had never had a decent, happy cup of coffee in their lives. They must have a selection process that gives extra points for having a resting facial expression that could be mistaken for abject disdain. On balance though, I would later observe that Boston Logan has the nicest TSA employees I've even had to deal with. Very strange.

Over the course of the next few days I saw lots of uniforms. There were so many different uniformed people with badges and guns that I reckoned Boston must be the original Baskin-Robbins of law enforcement...which lead me to ask myself, "Who the heck is in charge around here?!" Might be important to know, right? I'm not John McLane of Nakatomi Tower fame or anything like that but, you never know.

After a long hike to the bus terminal area which promised to take us to rental cars, several plane-loads of people descended upon the bus and attempted to cram themselves, 50's phone booth style, into a flexi-bus which didn't move until a blob dressed in head to toe in high-vis green walked up and told some people in the briefest possible way to get the hell off the bus because it wasn't going anywhere until they did. HA! Welcome to Bahston, yah selfish bahstahds! High-vis Green Guy was the man in charge. That's who!

After that, we and the other, more civilized folk boarded the next bus in a much more civilized manner. I was proud of 'em. I was also proud of High-vis Green Guy.

The bus took us through several miles of crazy airport traffic to the huge car rental facilities that are separate from the terminal. To say they have a lot of cars is an understatement. By my reckoning, the distance we actually traveled (had it been a straight line) was probably little more than four city blocks but, when it came to the matter of pedestrians mixing with the 'I'm late for my flight drivers' around this airport (and it's also a VERY BIG airport) it would have been no-contest for the pedestrians. Thus, the circuitous bus route was absolutely necessary or there would be human tissue pooling in the gutters.

Anyhoo, Doc had rented us a car and we were directed to the parking garage area by some Overtly Happy Dude. Another Overtly Happy Dude, only 15 feet away, was handing out bottles of water to the customers like he was bailing out a sinking ship and after he had determined what class of vehicle they had rented, Overtly Happy Bottled Water-Bailing Dude directed everyone to specific sections where the customers were free to pick whatever car (in their class) they desired. We picked a Hyundai Kona which I knew would probably be little more than a modestly appointed skateboard on wheels but, it was brand spanking new, the paintwork was a lovely Sage color and it was the one parked closest to me. I'm a very practical guy. My knees hurt from being cooped up on the plane and I was anxious to get out of 'Sardine Can Mode' and back into some semblance of normal behavior. Behavior like having only two people in a car that seats four. You know. Personal space...

Yeah. THAT.

After untold hours of air travel and one transfer I was feeling mighty crowded and I really enjoy having my personal space unviolated. There wasn't going to be much chance of having that for the next few days. I was about to experience a big city where people happily live on top of one another. On the other hand, Doc was looking forward to the experience so, who am I to get in the way of that?

We made our way out of the Rental Car Dungeon under large signage that admonished us -
DO NOT ENTER,
STOP,
DO NOT BACK UP - SEVERE TIRE DAMAGE WILL OCCUR,

and my favorite - Careful Snowplows May Be Ahead. Not, "Careful, (comma) snowplows may be ahead" but careful snowplows. Everyone likes careful snowplows, right? Punctuation is probably not the strong suit of many Bostonians. And there were other warnings, which I have forgotten, all neatly equipped with blinky lights....and finally, we got out into the great big city and a slate grey sky.

The first thing I noticed was the traffic. Making that particular observation is something that is deeply ingrained in me. Boston drivers seem very much at home with the idea that there will be delays and that theirs is an imperfect world. Yes, there was the occasional frustrated toot of a horn but, for the most part, everybody was just trying to get along with everybody else despite huge buses making sudden stops and people who were double parked and nowhere in sight.

It would not be long before a couple of Texans in a Sage Hyundai suddenly discovered, when driving a cah on a pahkway at speeds over 50 mph, we went from mutual cooperation to racing hell-bent for leather, just like being at the Talledaga Speedway. People from the Boston area have two speeds. Too slow and too fast.

Traffic enforcement? Occasionally seen, but apparently completely disinterested. I would later find out I hadn't seen nuthin yet. Doc's fancy pants phone hooked up to the cah and I suddenly had directions that could take us to a parking lot but not to our Vrbo which turned out to be a houseboat moored at a slip in Lewis Wharf. Okay. Houseboat? Unexpected, but all well and good, until I saw what this particular parking lot was charging. Then I was spectacularly unhappy. The matter of parking was not mentioned at all in the advert and frankly, Doc hadn't inquired. Parking was stupidly EXPEN$IVE (I reckoned that's why the renter didn't bring it up) and we would soon find out parking was stupidly expensive everywhere we went....so, our hosts were neatly off the hook on that matter. We followed our meager instructions and with no better options, parked in the closest parking lot to Lewis Wharf. After speaking to several people who knew the area, we were finally able to find the well-hidden (and gated) entrance to the gangway which lead down to the 'slip' (aptly named, I might add) and there it was. A boat with no name. All the other boats had cool names. And ours?

Nuthin'.

I was suddenly confronted with the fact that I would be living on a boat for the next few days. Intrigued, I suddenly wondered what life aboard houseboat must be like. Not something I ever really thought about. All the boats I had been in were for skiing, sailing or getting somewhere but not for living on. School was IN. We took one giant step for mankind over the space between boat and dock and made our way to the door upon which hung a cypher lock box. Doc punched in the code and got out the door key which I noted had no little SKF device (single key floatation device) as you would expect to find on any single key on 99.99999% of any OTHER boats in the world. My mind immediately went to calculating the probability that sooner or later, one of us would drop said key as we helped ourselves get aboard over that magnificent, moving gap between boat and dock. The dock was relatively still...so, no problem there. However....the boat was MOVING -and- Doc has a bum knee. After that first boarding I made a point of going first and then turning around and latching onto some part of my bride before she stepped off the dock and onto the boat like Indiana Jones taking the Leap of Faith test in pursuit of the Holy Grail.

Relative motion between three objects. Human. Dock. Boat. (Ominous foreshadowing...)

Duhn-duhn-DUHNNNNN!

It was chilly out and the wind whipped around. We were expecting to be getting cozy in our little home away from home in just a moment. We let ourselves in and...the A/C was on. The Euro style wall-mounted unit was blowing an absolute gale of cold air which was directed mostly on our bed-to-be and our 'home away from home' was as cold as a meat locker. All the various remotes for the place were lined up with their batteries removed. All were dead, like Redcoats on Bunker Hill. Someone had forgotten to finalize the job of prepping the boat for guests and and the new batteries never got put in.

All were without batteries except for one and we had no idea what that one did. Doc transferred the batteries over to the A/C controller and no matter what I did, that sucker blowed.... c-c-c-c-c-cold. We had similar units in our hutments in Afghanistan and I never had this kind of trouble so I concluded the A/C was broken...just not in a good way. Doc was quickly on the phone to the renters and during this flurry of activity I gave up on ever being warm again and zipped up my jacket and got busy checking the boat over, chiefly to ensure that no water was coming in and also to confirm that everything was moving back-and-forth, to-and-fro, back-and-forth, to-and-fro, all things moving together, back-and-forth, to-and-fro, in unison....

just in case this was actually a glitch in the matrix.

Sallah : Indy, why does the floor move?
Indiana : Give me your torch. (Indiana peers into the gloom)
Indiana : Houseboats! Why'd it have to be houseboats?!

Showing signs of faith is important in such situations especially when one's spouse has gone out of her way to make one's vacation time extra special. Nobody likes a whiner. So, I began unpacking and getting settled in; hunting down an extra blanket and looking at what furniture I might be able to use to make a fire.

Finally, Doc had been briefed on the secrets of the remote by the renter. Step One - Stand on one foot (no small task on a rocking houseboat) then, face North, double-click on 'MODE' while simultaneously holding down both the up and down arrows, place the remote over your heart, close your eyes, think of the Queen. Step Two - You put yer left foot in and then take yer left foot out, click yer heels three times and enunciate the following ever so carefully, "There's no place like home, there's no place like home" and when the wall unit beeps three times, yer IN like Flynn. EASY!

We finally had heat, and the furniture remained intact. As a bonus I was quickly beginning to become acclimated to this back-and-forth, to-and-fro business. What I was not prepared for was the dreaded Seventh Wave Scenario. In this circumstance, as soon as you are movin' with the groovin' like a proper sailor instead of careening around the room like a toss-pot drunk, the seventh wave comes and life aboard ship is suddenly a lot like the old Carrom Skittles game, but in this case the invisible seventh wave is the spinning top and the houseboat's occupants are the pins and there's Doc..with a bum knee, moving like she's falling down stairs, HORIZONTALLY. Terrific.

Show me a man who lives on a houseboat and I'll show you a man with unexplained bruises; a man who plants himself firmly in a chair before putting his socks and shoes on.

We would come to find that once off the boat, our inner ears, now fully awakened and our brains enlightened as to how tipsy the world can ACTUALLY BE, well, those body parts now played tricks on us on dry land. Weird.

Now, when it comes to finding a good place to eat when you're new in town, you should ask a local. The hands down favorite, edging out ALL of the many seafood purveyors, was Hanover Street which was home to too many Italian Ristorantes to list them here. It was within walking distance of our houseboat, was also home to Mike's which offered every sweet Italian confection known to man and was generally MOBBED anytime after dinnertime (so get your dessert in a small box tied up with string BEFORE you go to dinner). There was even Vittoria's; a place that served coffees and desserts exclusively. It was also mobbed. Most of the venues were very small and had no more than 10 tables and none of them had a dessert menu. Some had a guy who protected the door like a linebacker and if you made a move to go in, he immediately filled up the doorway and asked, "Do you have a reservation?"

These folks knew that with so few tables, keeping people coming and going directly affected the bottom line so, Welcome to our ristorante...now eat your food and get the hell out. It was sometimes possible to squeeze in without a reservation but you'd have to be very lucky to do it. Some of these places had 'ging' guys standing out front, eyeballing everyone. If there was a table open, they might steer you in. If you looked a bit too much like Five-O they'd just stare at you and make you feel uncomfortable enough to pass on by. Once you got a feel for the order of things, it actually made sense. So we slowed our roll and went with the flow. The bonus of Hanover Street is, that this is the famous North End and the place is chockablock full of historic places of note which brings me to this next observation that I'm rather sure most folks don't think about.

Boston is pretty much the heart of New England but it is neither 'New' nor is it 'England'. To me, it felt like the bottom part of the melting pot where the heat is hottest and where the combining of people from EVERYWHERE takes place every moment of every day (except for people like those who Boston Marathon bombing Guys). There are people from every corner of the globe in Boston and from my limited observations, they all seem to get along with one another very well. And Boston was established in 1630, a mere ten years after the Puritans landed in Plymouth. So there have been people who have been born, lived, toiled, propagated the species, and died here for a long, LONG time which, comparatively, makes Texas seem like brand spankin' new to me.

During dinner it rained and as I mentioned, the rule is, when you're done eating you're done sitting and out into the rain we went. Doc went across the street to a tiny shop and bought herself a hat which didn't do much to keep her dry. It's the thought that counts.

♪ So we walked back over to our boat with no name. ♫ It felt good to get out of the rain. ♪

Sorry, I couldn't resist that...but it's true.

The boat was finally warmed up. Huzzah! After moving the batteries over we watched some TV. Later, our hosts knocked on the door. They had brought us some batteries for our remotes. Double Huzzah... and later, we finally decided to pack it in for the night. It had been a long day of traveling and getting accustomed to our new surroundings. So, we both began to make ourselves ready for bed and looked forward to being gently rocked to sleep....

and it was then we discovered our little houseboat had no hot water, which is to say it had a flash heater that made a little flash of hot water and then the water resumed being dreadfully cold. REALLY?! Grrrr! We gave up and went to bed. When I woke up, I found Doc had gotten up early and had not only been hiking around Boston and checking off places she wanted to see, but she had also returned from her hike with coffee from Starbucks (along with sugar and creamer!) AND, she had found an electric water boiler in the cabinet and had filled the bathroom sink with hot water...just for me. What can I say? Either she loves me, or I stink....or both.

Coffee AND hot water! Best anniversary gift EVER.

More tales to come, friends.

Cheers,
TJ

[m3a1]

We had temporarily established a base of operations in Boston and I was already ready to go somewhere with less concrete jungle. We decided to go visit Salem and we would get back to Boston later in the day and maybe see some more Boston stuff. By our standards, these forays into the wilderness of Massachusetts were little more than the short drives we Texans take to get some better barbecue.

New England states are remarkably tiny.

But first. Breakfast. We trekked four or five blocks and stopped at a little breakfast nook the Doc had found on her early morning hike. We made it in the door (no linebackers here) and a woman looked at me and before she could utter the famous Boston query, I said, "No" indicating that we had no reservation. (I was figuring Boston out.) We were promptly escorted to a small table. We gave our good mornings to the folks to the right and left of us and dove into the menu. Then, I noticed it. There was Cholula on the table.

Whaaaaat?!

And if you don't know what Cholula is, it's a danged good hot sauce. After putting our order in, be chatted amiably with the Maryland couple at the next table. Doc's keen ears picked up chatter in the room indicating that two other couples were also visiting from Texas. Texans are a rangy bunch. No doubt about it. We ate our food and got the hell out, making room for the next folks. Back to our floating tilt-o-whirl to use the facilities and then we mounted our trusty steed and were off. Well, almost. Getting out of these wharf parking lots is difficult.

First, ya gotta find an opening in the pedestrians in order to get across the sidewalk which is literally wider than the front yards of most Boston suburbanites. Then, ya gotta get across the bike lane which is contiguous to the sidewalk and as wide as a standard lane for car traffic. It is demarcated as two opposing lanes, painted green and dedicated specifically for people who drive electric conveyances such as scooters and e-bikes like they're in the Indy 500. THEN ya gotta nose out past the parking lane and hope to God there is no traffic coming because there is always a line of cars parked nut-to-butt along the curb and it's impossible to see through them. And, IF you manage to nose out into the traffic lane and want to turn left, there is yet ANOTHER layer of road to cross - the bike lane which is situated in between the opposing lanes for automobiles. That narrow center lane is basically reserved for people with larger, speedier, more powerful scooters who are endlessly toiling to deliver food to the 4.367 million inhabitants of Boston. Delivery drivers in Boston must all be former extreme motorcycle stunt show riders. They were utterly fearless and dedicated to their cause.

For those of you about to die delivering take-out, WE SALUTE YOU!

Doc's fancy pants phone linked to our skateboard and we were off to Salem. Past Boston's wharf dedicated to the reenactment of tea tossing (which is a very old custom in Boston). Over the bridge to Charlestown and past the U.S.S. Constitution and the destroyer Cassin Young and past the stately Bunker Hill monument. There are a lot of solemn punctuations to our country's history to be found in Boston and I felt bad for turning my back on 'em for a moment in order to visit Salem which is less like history and more like a street fair (though it is historic, in its own way). Salem was a short hop and I was refreshed to be out on the Interstate, racing alongside people from the Boston area.

We stopped at a good looking surplus store with a Saracen parked out front with six, fully inflated tires. Being a Gama Goat owner, my pupils automatically dilate when I see six-wheeled vehicles. It wasn't a great store but it was a good store, nonetheless. I bought a cheap knockoff of a WWII German helmet. Just something to spice up my half track a bit..and maybe give some intrepid TSA employee something the talk about on a coffee break.

We went to Salem via Gloucester (pronounced Glah-str by the locals) because Doc wanted to see a lighthouse. This took us through some small town stuff; stopped at a nice Mom & Pop place to eat situated right next to where the working boats tie up. Out on the main road, we found an antique store that was filled to the rafters with all sorts. Eventually we got out to the Massachusetts coastline next to the big water which is apparently designed to tear the bottoms out of boats. There are rocks and shoals and all sorts of stuff meant to trap the unwary seafarer. But the New England shore has its own sense of majesty and the ocean here is a stunningly dark teal blue that is unlike any ocean water I've ever seen (not to suggest I'm any sort of expert on the matter).

It was lovely and idyllic and worth every minute it took to get there.

Salem was easy enough to find and we made our way to a museum dedicated to the Salem witch trials (because who doesn't love a good witch trial?) This museum was oddly located in a former church. After driving around for a few minutes, we found a parking space and walked to the museum, past a lot of really fancy homes surrounding the town common. These people didn't fool around when it came to building wooden homes. They were tall and straight. The house I grew up in, in Ohio, had been built in 1826 and no doubt had replaced some other structure but the plot of land our house stood on had been titled with a Connecticut title. Figure that out if you can. Yes, North Central Ohio was once part of Connecticut. Anyhoo, because of my personal experience, I know an old house when I see one. These structures were OLDER than what my estimation of what an old house was. MUCH older and.... in much better condition!

Woof!

Around the common and gaggling up at the the front of the church-museum, there were a lot of young people with purple hair and stuff stuck through their noses (and other notable body parts pierced with who-knows-what) people whose only wardrobe colors were Black and VERY Black. They were all there to 'carpe diem'. Doc and I apparently missed the dress code memo because anyone could take one look at us and see we were, instead, dressed in 'carpe denim'.

Our particular tour group was ushered into the church and eventually took seats on padded stools in the dark in order to listen to a pre-recorded story of the Salem Witch Trials and observe a variety of quite good wax figures cloistered in small vignettes meant to illustrate the key moments of this bit of darke historie. They were situated all around us, making it necessary for us to kind of rotate around on our stools to see each vignette as it became illuminated. Immediately, the result of bobbing around on our houseboat came back to both Doc and I. Doc just put her head down between her knees (I'm not that flexible anymore so I had to tough it out) and I'm not sure but she may have been muttering The Lord's Prayer. Southern Baptists are all alike. *sigh*

Frankly, the whole thing wasn't all that entertaining...or informative for that matter but, the purpose of it all was to separate excited tourists from their money. In this, the good people of Salem had succeeded. I used to run Ohio's numero uno haunted house venue and I know what good business looks like. These folks had it licked. Oddly, my thoughts turned to what might happen if someone happened to unleash a good, old-fashioned Mississippi Squirrel Revival on my fellow attendees. Alas, I do not keep a squirrel readily at hand but, it would have been the perfect occasion for it. After the show, which ended in a big reveal that the whole 'Witch Thing' had been the result of some young English gals who were just 'taking a pi-s' (to use the English vernacular). Great. A lot of people were imprisoned, tortured, hung, pressed beneath heavy stones and a lot of other people who generally had their lives ruined....all because of some young gals cutting up. That, RIGHT THERE, is the big takeaway from Salem.

Keep your youngsters on a short leash, folks.

Afterwards we walked to an open air mall centered around a closed street and we went in and out of all the shoppes, playing tourist and we actually bought a few trinkets. I was getting hungry so we visited a deli run by two randy old Polish women. One of them made me an Italian deli sandwich that was, by all standards, simply terrific. Then a witch walked in.

I sh-t thee not.

And if that's not a good Puritan joke, I don't know what is. Anyway, this positively ancient witch hobbled in. Wow. Dinner AND a show! She really had it goin'. Black cloak and cowl that seemed too heavy for her hunched and meager frame. White scraggly hair. Bloodless skin. Long, boney fingers. A face that looked like it had been carved from an apple and then dried on a window sill and a walking stick made from briar wood. In her other hand, a shopping bag which HAD to be a some sort of ruse, meant to distract others from the fact that she was a witch. If she had had an apple instead of a bag it would have been Splitsville for me. Her method of walking was to reach out with a terribly gaunt arm and ceremoniously plant the briar wood stick like she meant to drive it through the tile floor. CLUNK... and then kind of hobble up as though she was dragging herself to it and slowly repeat the process. After several iterations of that, she stopped and eyeballed everyone in the store. I made eye contact with her over the top of my sandwich. I know I shouldn't have but it's a cop thing, like being seated so that you're facing the door.

The randiest (and therefore the most outgoing) of the two ladies approached the witch who had, by that time, made her way to the deli counter and was studying all the meats and cheeses behind the glass.

Randy Polish Lady: How may I help you?
Witch with a thick eastern european accent: I would like... ... ...samples.
Randy Polish Lady: Of?
Witch (after a very pregnant pause): EVERYTHING.

The last time I had heard that accent, Gary Oldman was playing the lead role in Bram Stoker's Dracula.

I stopped chewing and looked at Doc and said, "I hope that samples doesn't mean us as well." Doc whispered back, "Oh TIM" like somehow I was wrong for bringing it up. Well, turns out I know a witch when I see one. Randy Polish Lady absolutely FILLED her shopping bag, no charge, while the witch gummed a paper thin slice of ham. Must have been a hundred dollars worth of stuff in there. The witch turned her head very slowly and looked me right in the eye around the edge of her cowl and continued to gum her ham slice. I'm a body language expert. She was wordlessly threatening me. I scowled, tilted my head to the side, raised my chin, lowered my sandwich and then raised an eyebrow in a wordless reply. This is a natural human posture when threatened, Kind of like a cat turning sideways and arching its back.

And, the best defense is a good offense...ESPECIALLY with witches!

With her bag filled to the top and on her way out, the witch paused and gave me one more sideways glance around the edge of her cowl. Nope. Not today, lady. I'm on vacation and I'm closed for business. I'm not taking a hex. I casually finished my sandwich and we got the hell out, just like in Boston. Passing into the open air I scanned around for the witch who had by now disappeared from view.

One can never be too careful.

Afterwards we returned to Boston via the Massachusetts State Raceway. Eventually we drove over to Bunker Hill in Charlestown. Bunker Hill is a real serious hill and is-was definitely a bad place to have a gunfight. Made my blood run cold just looking at it. Parking was non-existent but I wasn't too keen to walk that ground anyway. I was too tired.

Later, we enjoyed a late dinner (fine Italian dining, of course) on Hanover Street. We ate, and then we got the hell out, as is customary.

Cheers,
TJ

[rickf]

I was rolling as you were describing the boat motion. I grew up on small racing boats so Multiply that motion times ten. Even more when anchored along a creek side eating lunch. Best to eat standing up due to the boat rolling side to side 25-30 degrees. These were not racing sailboats with a deep keel that kept them steady, these were 12 to 16 foot 1200 horsepower alcohol fuel boats. Small V bottom on most although the 12 footer had an almost flat bottom. Houseboats to us were luxury yachts.
Since you were in Boston you should have dropped down to NJ for a visit. You would have to keep in mind that I am in "New Jersey" as opposed the "Noit Joisey" which is the northern part of the state. When you are greeted here it is "Hello" where in the north it is " YO".

[Redlight]

My son works just down the street from you, and i live less than 10 miles away. If you are still in Boston I would love to show you around the city.
Redlight
Bruce McCoy

[m3a1]

We are home now.

[m3a1]

Plymouth, MA was enlightening. Doc wanted to see The Rock. Alrighty then! Let's go! On the way down I noted that the U.S.S. Salem was moored in Quincy. Let's tuck that away for sometime in the future. We arrived in Plymouth in time for brunch and found a nice little place on the water, several blocks down from Plymouth Rock and the Mayflower replica. That earned us parking privileges (BONUS!) and after a nice meal, Doc went straight to an adjacent shop to buy herself a sweater because we were facing yet another blustery day. Naturally, she bought the one I hated the most. But I didn't have to wear it and I figured this might be the first and last time I would ever see her wear it. At least she didn't buy the one that declared her a 'Wicked Pissah' which is actually a complimentary term, thereabouts.

Anyhoo, with Doc somewhat warmer, we strolled down the sidewalk where the real salesmanship began and we warmed ourselves in every shoppe along the way. I found a tee shirt that I cannot wait to wear, that simply states in big block letters- "I AM the man from Nantucket" and if have to explain why that is funny to you, well then...I cannot explain it to you. I'm also betting that I'll be the only person in Texas with that particular tee shirt. New Englanders have a rare sense of humor.

Now, Plymouth (if you have never been) is built very much on a precipitous slope that descends to the sea with Plymouth Rock located very much at the base of the oldest part of the community, circa 1620 to be exact. As it turns out, the story of Plymouth rock, as most of us have come to believe we know it, isn't quite right, just as Salem's popularly recounted witch story has made its own very keen departure from reality. Both have their own, far more practical stories. So here, I'm going to add a photo so that you can see and read it for yourself, without having to go see a rock.

C5C7A436-A56E-496C-8833-94D8D467FE3A_1_105_c.jpeg

I am going to suggest what may be an even more practical alternative adaptation of the Plymouth Rock story. The Pilgrims land at what is now known as Plymouth. Eager to trade with the natives and prove themselves as important contributors to the local economy, they knew they had to establish a base of trade in order to make a sustainable home for themselves and not be looked upon as moochers so, the Pilgrims declared a rock (of all the things they might have chosen...a ROCK!) as one of the most highly visible and important focal points of their being there, and expected that everyone from miles around would sail to Plymouth to come see their Rock (much as Doc and I had just done)....whereupon they threw up some shoppes all around ye olde rock and became purveyors of Puritan coffee cups, snow globes, bumper stickers, refrigerator magnets, key chains, sweaters, hoodies, tee shirts, lobstah caps, insulated tumblers, place mats, mood rings and what have you.

Oh my God these run-on sentences are killing me!

Then someone had the not-so-bright idea to move said rock UP the hill and sales fell off dramatically because no one in their right mind wanted to get off a sailboat after being at sea for months and rush straight into stretching their sea legs by climbing some ding-danged hill for souvenirs and a snapshot of the rather dubious rock. Finally, the good people of Plymouth said, "Hey, business stinks. Let's get that rock back down to the water, stitch it back together with the other bit and maybe business will pick up." And here we are, four hundred and four years later, still selling and buying chachkies by the sea...and a by a rock.

Wicked Smaht, if you ask me.

'MERICA!

By now, most of you are asking if maybe I might find a moment to recount some tales of something we all know and love; Former Military Vehicles. The answer, Dear Reader, is a resounding YES. We headed back to Boston and stopped to pay a visit to the U.S.S.Salem, a heavy cruiser now berthed at the Quincy Ship Yard where she was born. When we parked, the first thing I noticed was a very rare bird indeed. And honest-to-God Seehund! I had seen only one other in person and that one was displayed at the Imperial War Museum in London, it being opened up like a soup can so that visitors could see its guts. To say that a Seehund is a rare artifact is a vast understatement and I am proud to say I have now chalked up two of 'em.

We had only 30 minutes to spend before closing. I took a minute to introduce myself and ask the docent a few questions that would allow me to maybe see something I hadn't seen before. I promised him we would not keep him there after closing on our account. The poor guy looked cold. Doc went straight to nosing around while I made a few pointed inquiries of our host who mentioned that he had been following the efforts being made to get the battleship Texas sorted out very closely....and what person who works on one of the many retired warships hasn't, eh? So, I dashed about trying to get a sense of the ship which is IMMENSE. A heavy cruiser is basically a battleship with any and all elbow room removed. The Salem was a real FORTRESS and amazingly, still very much intact. It embodies what was state of the art for naval warfare in the 50s.

Our docent friend tracked us down just before we left and offered to take us to some of the closed compartments since we and only a few others were still aboard. So, we had our own short and sweet little tour which was very decent of the fellow. If you get a chance to see the Salem, DO make the time for it. It is an amazing ship and a real time capsule.

Cheers,
TJ

[D Pizzoferrato]

I found a tee shirt that I cannot wait to wear, that simply states in big block letters- "I AM the man from Nantucket" and if have to explain why that is funny to you, well then...I cannot explain it to you.

When are you visiting Moline? That would make another great tee shirt to add to your collection.

[m3a1]

Now now.... Be careful with those invitations, fellas. I actually have awful manners and I'm barely house-broken.

Besides, I'm probably going to be terribly, terribly, TERRIBLY busy. On my brief absence from home, I find Home Depot has been pestering me to write a review about my latest purchase.

E5250012-A6BA-4E08-9329-B0A37CE7D821_1_105_c.jpeg

If I respond to this in the way that I would like to respond to this, I may be banned from the store.

What to do?
WHAT TO DO!

[rickf]

"Don't know, I can't review it because I lost the key."

[m3a1]

Hmmm! That might do very well!

I've been helping Dave with the WC-6 Command Car and I figured we had peeled back as many layers as might reveal something else that was wrong. First day back from vacation it was back to work on Dave's rig.

Turned out there would be another layer of NOPE to deal with on this front axle..

Parts had been trickling in, Dave was checking off what he had against what we needed and I was dealing with some odds and ends; components that required yet another cleaning, inspection and perhaps also needed to have an old bushing removed and replaced. We needed to hang some new parts on this rig! I did the left spindle and finally got around to the right spindle. As with the left spindle, on the right spindle I bisected the internal bushing, stripped it out and began the process of deburring anything that needed deburring, running my hands over bearing surfaces and wire-wheeling everything that needed wire-wheeling. After that, a final bath in the parts washer and a wipe down in preparation for its new bushing.

This seems excessive, I know but, having parts that are as good as they can possibly be and fully prepped makes the reassembly process a very pleasing and trouble-free experience which, in turn, allows one full use of one's brain to make sure nothing is overlooked or forgotten. As I had left the right spindle to air dry I noticed a small area that was still wet in a very narrow area on something of a crooked line on the mounting flange. It went from a bolt hole to the outer edge of the flange. THAT caught my eye! Then I saw the same thing directly across the bolt hole, and extending into the belly of the spindle. It was a crack. A very tiny crack, but a crack nonetheless and that crack was holding a bit of the rinse water.

UNSAFE!

I red-lined that part. Dave looked very unhappy. Count on ol' TJ to find something like that. No doubt this spindle had been on the truck when the axle broke and the flange had been yet another casualty. Also, no doubt that it had been getting along fine for all the years after. But we're not in the business of just 'getting along'. We want it right. So, a new spindle was ordered and once again, the merry-go-round broke down and our forward momentum was slowed somewhat. But, we put the new seals in the axle tubes and fitted some other stuff and removed the original gas tank and began prepping that for an overhaul. That's how ya do it. Five things going at once and when one job stalls, you move on to another.

Forward. EVER FORWARD.

Today, Bill and I tackled the old '92 Jimmy he had bought for his daughter to putt around in. Left rear brake was locking up and Bill had purchased quite a few parts in preparation for a worst case scenario. After hearing Bill's description of the scenario and then, being able to ask questions while examining the thing, I elected to tip-toe up to the problem and decided to just adjust the brakes on the LR a bit to see if that did the trick. I backed them off three clicks on the star wheel and we went for a test drive. That small adjustment settled the matter. Stomp on the brakes and the steering wheel stayed dead center and Bill got to return all the parts. Money saved. One can only imagine what might have happened if he took it over to a shop.

But wait! THERE'S MORE!

So we took the truck out for a further shakedown and we began to hear a low moan from the back of the vehicle and it was difficult to pin down exactly where it was coming in (which is a hint in and of itself). Billyboi complained that the truck was now acting like a dog. Diagnosis - The in-tank fuel pump was getting ready to die, so we skeedaddled back to Bill's driveway and parked the Jimmy. So now we have another job but, the good news is, we'd rather find these problems before the Billmeister has to leave town for 3 weeks. The goal is to get his daughter's new ride as close to 100% as we can.

This is how it goes. One thing after another but, we're getting it done.

Cheers,
TJ