Summer Saturday with Snow Blower

Dad came over Saturday, the last weekend of summer, to help with my snow blower. My snow blower. I can’t afford such luxuries. When he sold his house to move in with his new wife, he parceled out multiple unneeded belongings. I live in the country with a long driveway, so I ended up with the snow blower. For free. I’m grateful.

Not as useful a device as would seem, though. It’s heavy, and my driveway faces an incline to the road. Even with the tires driving, getting this machine up to the road (I don’t even try to park at the bottom of the drive during winter) is quite a task. Just shoveling is often easier. However, at the end of last winter, snow fell and fell and fell, a few feet each day. Time for the snow blower—but it wouldn’t start, even after heroic efforts.

This is too great a waste of expensive machinery, so when my niece and nephew cancelled a “grandfather” project over schoolwork concerns, Dad suggested coming out to my place to help.

I accepted. Not lightly. Dad takes over. This would mean all day Saturday. He’s retired. I’m buried in career issues. Still, I can’t fix it, he might be able to fix it (he’s much more of a mechanic than I), and it needs fixing. He’s trying to balance out the grandfatherly attention my siblings’ families receive, but nonetheless, admittedly, damn nice of him.

Dad considers this a mission. Early in the morning, he calls—needs the make, model, engine number and so forth. He’s on his way to purchase spark plug, new oil, and garnish whatever information he can at the shops along the way. I find the information, and go run my own errands.

Early afternoon, he’s here. I’m ready—snow blower outside, cord ready for electronic start. I don’t do any of the usual things I’d do for such a favor—food and drink ready, for example—because I know he’ll disregard all of them. He’ll disregard everything. For example, when he asks if I have a certain size screw on hand, I offer to run to the store. No. We make do. I don’t know why. He always does this—along with recommending later that I go get that size screw.

Early on, I get stung by a wasp. First damn time all year. I’m pissed. Right in the back of the neck. Can’t see it, of course. But Dad’s here. If I can find tweezers. I have them. Can’t find them. We go to the store—he wants to talk to the snow blower repair guy anyway. We have just enough time before they close. He ends up with carburetor cleaner. I end up with “After Bite.” When I finally get tweezers, I’m too swollen to find the stinger. I’m pissed. I hold my tongue.

He’s absorbed with the snow blower, sounding like he’s talking to me, but really not. “I’m going to go cut some grass while you do this, OK?” I ask. “Go ahead,” he nods, barely noticing.

I cut grass. After a bit, I hear snow blower over the sound of the lawn mower. Dad’s still engaged. I keep mowing for a while. Eventually, I cut the engine and mosey over.

“Well, we’ve got it running,” Dad notes, “but it’s running hot. That bolt just shot out of the exhaust.” I look—a six inch lies in a black line on the grass. “It was glowing,” Dad adds. I notice my normally gregarious dog has moved from her favorite spot near where Dad is working to the opposite end of my yard. Smart dog.

I leave Dad to puzzle it out, and return to mowing. Eventually, I hear the snow blower start again. I keep mowing. Again, eventually, I mosey over. Oil everywhere. Still runs hot. Dad is stymied. “Soon as it starts,” he notes, “when you turn the choke, it just runs fast!” I look. “What if you don’t turn the choke all the way to the left?” I ask. Dad considers. He tries it. The machine runs roughly, but without glowing parts threatening to blow up the engine.

I ask if he can change the oil while he’s at it, knowing he’ll actually welcome this. He asks if I have a pan to catch the oil. I find one. He changes the oil, and spends a long time spraying every moving part with WD-40, whipping and cleaning everything possible, leaving everything in as good a shape as possible.

That’s Dad.

Writer

Memorial Moment

Twice a year, in November and May, the U.S. officially celebrates its men and women in uniform. Veterans Day can slide by quickly with a speech and a raised flag, given its midweek status in late fall, but Memorial Day, a three day weekend and the unofficial start to summer, is more likely to inspire a parade—along with a party, a barbeque, and a fair amount of beer.

As a kid, I biked all over our suburb’s streets, and consequently, some vigilant porch sitters and I noticed each other, spoke to each other, and began to look forward to our visits. What I remember most is talking about World War II. I can’t say I learned a lot about the war itself, but I clearly saw that something about this was a really big deal. I listened respectfully and intently, tried to understand the period novels I read, and when the subject came up in social studies, I paid attention.

Growing up in the sixties, I was to learn a lot more about armed conflict. As one speaker put it, “List four people you know between the ages of 18 and 24. Now cross off the first name on your list. That’s what war in Vietnam meant.” Ironically, President Johnson made Memorial Day an official U.S. Holiday, in 1966.

Today, the cry is constant—support the troops. God, I hate that word. Sounds better when “troops” are killed rather than “people”? But why the animosity often associated with the cry? Where are the groups crying, “Oppose the troops!”? Oh yeah—no such groups. Who doesn’t support the troops? And frankly, maybe that support shouldn’t be so blind. The massacre at My Lai? Prisoner abuse at Abu Grahab? The “retaliatory” murder of an innocent Iraqi citizen? One of my acquaintances, a Navy veteran, insists that we must support all of the troops no matter what.

I can’t agree. Such myopic reasoning allows troops to become little more than political pawns—any opposition brings the cry “Support the Troops!” Take Rumsfeld’s insistence—against the advice of the Pentagon—to run the Iraq war on the cheap. Friends, families and neighbors chip in to help buy the body armor the government neglected to supply. Soldiers raid junk yards to protect their vehicles from road side bombs. Where’s the support for the troops there? And when the Bush administration’s policies have clearly failed, the President grasps for a magical solution—more troops, with no clear plan, but clearly ready to sacrifice more lives on the chance he can still save face. So Congress finally tries to use the only real weapon it has to stop this nonsense—cut funding. Time for the cry—“Support the Troops!”

I’m quite ready to honor the troops, to remember those who gave so much to their country. But I’m not happy about it, especially now. I’m not naïve—as former President Carter noted when awarded the Nobel Peace Prize, war is sometimes a necessary evil. At the same time, however, “it is always an evil,” and not a course of action a country should so rashly follow.

So today we honor fallen troops. I am grateful to them, but I’d rather we were honoring them as the parents, spouses, doctors, lawyers, scientists, teachers, businessmen, mayors, and citizens they should have been.

Writer