Sagadahoc Stories #87:
False Starts
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The sun inches higher and the world begins to green. Peggy's first
daffs opened this week along the south wall and stuff is poking
and wriggling out of the dirt. We began busting up gardens, and
the worms are thick as shags around a fishway.
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Cormorants are about the only fishermen at the falls this year.
Elvering is a bust. Between the collapse of the Asian economy,
and a glut of European eels, the price is down to $25 a kilo,
which isn't worth the grief. Those elver-chasers who coughed up
the punitive license fees are right disgusted. After all the ecological
debate and regulatory angst, simple economics shut down the fishery
for 99. Wanna buy a fyke net cheap?
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Probably be a good early run this Spring. Everything else is.
Frost heaves have settled down. Housing starts are up. Rototillers
are churning. Jimmy's got his docks in, and boat covers are off
all over town. Spandexers are flexing and pedaling along the roads,
and the Cambodians have returned to the Cathance in force. Family
groups from Portland and beyond park their late-model cars at
the landing, then fan out along the waterfront to fish for perch
and carp. By the time boatists are in full launch, the Asians
will have feasted on the trash fish, and moved on. |
| The first week of April is like early November, without dayglo.
Strange vehicles pulled onto the shoulder where the streams cross.
Fishing tackle in the gun racks. It's a bit early for the first
hatch, but eager anglers are wading upriver, waving their magic
wands. Frank is out suckering, lugging his canoe in the pickup.
Christopher is asking about the worms in our garden. |
Jimmy's Boat
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This week was a can of worms, for sure. You long for Winter to
unclench, then when it does you get slapped silly. Suddenly there
are a hundred projects to do and the clock speeds up. Not to mention
IRS. Between one thing and another I didn't make any progress
on the square-toed frigate, and barely got to daub colors on an
image all week. Everything is topsy-turvy. You're either too hot
bundled in winter clothes, or freezing in a T-shirt. You have
to watch your feet to not sink in, while the sky is a ravish with
clouds.
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Fat luscious cumulus sliding overhead, purpled with shadows. A
fine day starts clear and chill with birdcall. By noon a parade
of plump exhalations marches across heaven. As sunlight lifts
all that thawed moisture, clouds thicken, until the day grays
over and the wind laughs up under your kilt.
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Airfield Office
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I spent much of Friday on my back under Ebba with a north wind
hooting me. This old truck demands my full attention, if I expect
her to purr. Harvey and I put in the salvage distributor with
solid-state ignition Wednesday evening, and, after considerable
futzing, got her to fire and run smooth. Harvey adjusted the tappets,
while I mumbled incantations. We figured we had the cold-start
syndrome licked.
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Thursday she was stubborn, but woke up eventually, and seemed
willing to please, once warm. Friday AM she was dead iron. Turned
the key and CLUNK. Like a dead starter. I broke down and lugged
my tool box from the shed to the lady, installed it in the shotgun
position. Crawled under the beast with a handful of wrenches,
and began to grease myself. There's no alternative, you know.
If you insist on affecting vintage automotives, you simply have
to assume the position, and blood your tools. That back-to-the-land
tradition.
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I swore off auto mechanics a number of years ago, when we acquired
a car I couldn't fix. Without regret. It was delightful to discuss
diagnoses with a hired mechanic, and walk home to a warm shop.
I thought that skinned knuckles and greasy nails were another
youthful excitement, now behind me. When I was smitten by this
classy old truck, I somehow imagined she would run like a top.
Just spit on the chrome, and say a kind word.
I'd forgotten how jealous iron ladies are of your time. How you
must never drive them without anxious expectations. How they want
you to lie awake at night tracing ignition circuits in your head.
How much they love to hear you groan. I whispered sweet nothings
to her underneaths as I yanked out the damned starter.
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When I put the jumpers to it, the starter spun just fine. So I
fiddled with the wires and contacts and put it back in. Nada.
Same CLUNK. Well, the Bendex was obviously worn anyhow (she'd
been false-starting with a grind about half the time), so I was
ready to speculate on a new (reconditioned) starter. Saturday
AM I took the car and went for parts. Slapped that new starter
in her and..CLUNK. I went out of earshot and gave a blessing.
Disconnected this, wiggled that, poked and prodded, scraped the
battery contacts. Was loudly abject. Approached the state of obsequious
groveling that iron maidens prefer.
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Fowler must have heard me moaning, because he came over and stuck
his head under the hood. After a while he suggested cleaning off
the contacts on a cable clamp I'd overlooked. With faint hopes
I reconnected it, and VAROOM. The battery is still weak, but that
283 is burbling. And I'm reinitiated to vintage truckery. Which
reminds me of Bryce's Law of Antique Auto mechanics: If you can
fix it, YOU will.
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| Things come full circle in the Spring. Forgotten muscles get stretched.
Bygone habits are resurrected. Old thoughts return.Turning earth
is a ritual recollection of human history. I think of all my ancestors
who grubbed in the ground. Straightened their backs and blew.
That's one reason I do it with a shovel and a mattock, to hear
the voices. The other is I'll be damned if I'll bring another
internal combuster into my life. |
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Planting seeds is an act of faith in the great wheel. We're so
hyped on progress and ends in this Christian epoch that we forget
time moves in a circle, too. The constellations come round and
the trees bud out and we can postpone the important doings we're
supposed to aspire to. Practice the soil magic again. Be content
in the perennial pattern.
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Of course there are new patterns out there. I heard the crowning
ice-out story this week. There's a pair of cousins in Richmond
who like to drift on the tide, and you may encounter them floating
around the Bay on their raft in the Summer. Every Spring they
celebrate the opening waters by jumping aboard a large flow and
riding it down tide and back. Been doing it since childhood, in
the 50s.
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In recent years they've had to stop this sport on the Kennebec
because too many people call the authorities reporting a tragedy
in progress. So they've moved their observance to the Abby, where
they've gone unmolested. Until this year. Some Samaritan called
the county, and the wardens went in hot pursuit.
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The boys had set off with a couple of oars and lunch, all you
need for a ceremonial excursion, but when the authorities caught
up with them they were cited for lack of proper equipment. No
life-jackets, horn, flares. No registration on their vessel, for
that matter. They said the older warden was a bit embarrassed
by his partner's zeal, and brought them a pair of vests, but the
offense got written up. By the time they got home there was a
call in that the charges had been dropped. Somebody realized a
judge might laugh it out of court. The boys said they felt lucky.
The flow was all of 60 feet long, and they might have been fined
for a lack of skipper's ticket and life boats.
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When the episode was told around town it brought up an old tale.
How Sam, back when he was on the fire department, used to ride
the cakes on the river for sport. One year he got spotted by someone
who waved. Sam waved back extravagantly, and the good soul rushed
to call the fire department to the rescue. The siren went off
in the Town Hall tower. Sam heard it, figured he was needed, paddled
to shore, went up the road, and hopped a ride to the station,
where a mission was being readied. "Somebody said it looked a
lot like you," they told him. |
| Maybe spoiling your sport isn't a new pattern. Maybe taking responsibility
for your own skin has bothered the timid before now. The rush
to regulate every detail of life would indicate that the spirit
of adventure is an endangered species. But as long as there's
Spring and boys and ice, good fun still has a chance. |
Man on Ice
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