8/24/98.. Revenges.

"...and thus the whirligig of time brings in his
revenges." W. Shakespeare

Peggy gave me a big golden gazing ball for my birthday last month, and I spent considerable time contemplating its proper installation. I solicited suggestions far and wide. My favorites were (1) to make a base that portrayed Atlas in drag, and (2) mounting it over an air pump which would keep it hovering in mid air. I settled on erecting a 4 foot fluted column, and surrounding the classical vision with dancing crows.

Last Wednesday I put the ball and column on the front lawn, and cut out the crows, ready to paint. Thursday morning there was a pale pink flamingo alongside the ball. A volunteer. THE FORCE is working. Lawn Wars begin again. Is this what Brautigan meant by "The Revenge of the Lawn"?

Other just desserts are being served up in this dooryard. My father warned me to be careful what I dreamed, it might come true. Now I have my fondest desire: a classy old truck in the picture, and the whirligig is in spin.

I tumbled on a book in the 70s called "Truck", which wrapped up the mechanic's dream nicely. The author had decided to find the perfect old truck, one he could restore and maintain in perpetuum, and do so. After much research he settled on a 1950 Dodge halfton. The same model as Hepzibah, our erstwhile 1948. "Truck" chronicled the search for parts, the lessons of antique design, the joys of reassembly. The author had the same trouble with rear ends, and discovered that it required a special tool, and knowledge, to fix his, which made me feel better about Hep's demise. But the crown of the piece was the discovery that once you've restored an old truck, you then have all the ongoing troubles of old trucks to live with. I laughed heartily, in sympathy, back then, and moved on to more contemporary iron.

How soon we forget.

Thursday I set off on my first woodrun in Ebenezer. Up to Simon's operation on Rt. 17 in Washington. Picked up Torbert in Whitefield for conviv, and slid into the lumber yard smooth as silk. Simon had picked out 120bf of wide board Spanish Cedar for me. Planks twenty inches wide by fourteen feet long, an inch thick. We canted them over Eb's cab and laced it down. Jawed over the money, and rolled back out.

Cruising up the third long hill Eb started missing and losing power. And again. Nary a tool in the truck. We swung into Torbert's with my heart in my throat, and a sinking feeling lower down. Jim was all for diagnostics, and I had images of truck in pieces in North Whitefield. I fled immediately. Hoping for the best.

Water in the tank? He'd been sitting for a year. Wrong gas? How do these old jewels run on MBTE? Should I be feeding it high octane, or tetraethyl additives? Coil? I vaguely remember hot coils fading. Timing? Carburation? All the ancient questions rise up. This isn't the nostalgia I bargained on.

Eb was now losing it on the flats as well as the hills, and I was working the clutch and gas rhythmically to an antic beat. Downshifting and muttering prayers between backfires. In Pittston I pulled into a local convenience store, fed him the drygas and topped off with hi-test. It only got worse. She died twice in Richmond, and twice on the River Road. But each time I either jumped her, or got her cranking. I limped into town in first gear, and whined up the drive. Dismayed.

You may notice the shift in gender. Try as I might, I can't think of this gaudy red truck as HE. Peggy likes the idea of a masculine truck, sort of on the dogs are males, cats are females, analogy. But my instincts rebel. Torbert says it may be a Maineish truck. "EBENEZAH." Sounds good to me.

Ebba will have her fun. My first parts run brought home the wrong coil and condenser. I used to be able to recite the ritual numbers for a slant six in my sleep. Now I have to learn all the permutations for this 283. After a deep huddle at Morin's, I was handed the right coil. Memorizing the arcana is all part of the reinitiation into the mechanics' circle.

My buddy John, in San Diego, sent this message in response to "Old Iron":

"Mr. Muir,

Your lengthy somewhat convoluted rationalization for purchasing your new '66 could have approached it from other angles:

1. The economic structure of rural America has many hidden corners. While Micro-soft and Del battle for our bucks, there are, in every town a group of fringe characters who traffic in mostly legal, yet hidden, black-market goods. Late at night you can see the glimmer of light bulbs and neon, the sparkle of weld arc, as these shadowy silhouettes move about their hidden skeletal frames, axles, shelves and concrete floors stacked with mysterious tangles of metal, wire and chromed items of obscure origin. The cognoscenti know, a comment such as: "Thirty nine Ford, bumper bracket" or " "Way to go bubba, where'd you find the battery stand , I've been looking for that for years ! " will allow even a stranger to enter the crescent of light radiating from the "shop" and may even get him past the dog.

At this point, time is suspended, work stops and a mystery tour into the arcane, secret and mysterious world of the owner begins. It could last for hours. If you intend to put the next needed piece on your "totem", you best be patient now, slowly moving about the relics, showing the respect necessary to make the next step. You do not talk of "your" need, this is time to marvel, to handle lovingly, twisted, formed parts, covered in grease and rust that reveal secrets not even imagined by many people. But you care, your eyes glint and glances are passed, wonder is seen and visions grow in the bug filled light."

It all comes back now. I had moved out of the charmed circle. My knuckles had healed over. There isn't a dollop of grease cutter on the property. How could I hope to keep a tempestuous lady like Ebba happy, without a constant laying on of hands? Without muttering the proper syllables? What was I thinking?

Friday evening I went in for a consultation with Harvey. There I met a neighbor I'd never even seen before, let alone talked to. He was fondling the curves of Harvey's shortbed Aztec, as Harvey fitted a new fender bracket. When I described Eb's symptoms he clambered over the piles of parts on the shop stairs, thumped about in the upper chamber, and returned with a new brass gas filter for her carb. I was instructed to try one of these and report back in the morning.

Saturday morning I overhauled my tool boxes. Tossed out all the Chrysler products. Reclaimed the auto tools which had migrated to other toolkits. Lugged the new travel box out to Eb. Capt. Ken arrived for an excursion to the annual Antique Vehicle Auction at the Owls Head Transportation Museum, and we burbled down the drive in Ebeneza.

Didn't get out of town before she was sputtering and popping. Swung her round, and limped up the hill to Joe's for advice. Five hours later I had been readmitted to the guild. Plugs, points, timing. We'd had the entire ignition system out of her and put back. Ken had long since gone off in his brand new Toyota pickup, smiling, but I was grinning, too. I'd clambered up into the engine compartment and communed with hot iron. I'd begun to prove my mettle to our new steel companion.

It's hard to get emotional about brand new machines. Either they run or they don't, and they usually do. You can't tinker with them, and they are beyond understanding. You don't find yourself pleading with them on dark roads. In short, they have no personality. We had to drive the Owl to Vancouver before he acquired a name. But an old pickup demands recognition immediately. Obeisance. Personality is the essence of their charm, and a damned nuisance. I'd chosen to forget the latter. Nothing like being broke down alongside a country road to poke your memory.

Webster says that Ebenezer has two meanings. (1) The stone of help, set up by Samuel in commemoration of the Israelites' victory over the Philistines at Mizpah; and (2) anger or temper, as in "he got her ebenezer up." Looks like a rocky relationship ahead of us.

Yesterday I fitted Spanish Cedar racks into Ebba's stake pockets. Now I'm pondering ornamentation. I still have the mermaid hood ornament that graced M'dear. But M'dear was a nasty marine aqua, and somehow a downeast mermaid doesn't fit with this tempestuous red.

John Bean, in Indiana, sent me one of his song lyrics, in honor of our acquisition:

"Some fellas when they're drivin'
will take along for luck
a rabbit's foot or baby shoes
to hang inside their truck
But I don't worry none because
I'm under good control
I got that little chrome bulldog
to keep me on the road.

cho: Slippin' down a mountain
or gliding through a fog
I don't worry none because
I got that chrome bulldog."

I'm not sure about a chrome bulldog. Maybe a fiery Salamander rearing over the hood would tell it. And I wonder who's out planting flamingos.