Middle-Aged

I decided to try my hand at burning a CD for my truck. It went about the same route as everything I attempt to do on my computer: PhotoShop, DVDSlideshows, uploading pictures, you name it--takes some time. Several times, actually. And a few phone calls to The Family TechnoWizard, Bartonville's finest Auxilliary Police Officer, KevlarJimV.

He hates it. I know he does. It's got to be about the biggest pain in the backside. Challenged Me Calling Him.

Anyhow. My first attempt worked out great, if I was playing my freshly downloaded songs on my computer, but when I took my CD to my truck, the player went "Track 1"...and nothing.

I was totally bummed. I was driving to work in Elmwood the next day & wanted to listen to my own private jam-session.

Does anyone under the age of 25 experience a Jam-Session anymore?

Or is that unique to those of you in My Age Group?

So, after several calls and a couple emails to KevlarJimV, I was successful on my burn and had my new CD ready to roll today while running errands.

Having successfully completed most of my tasks for our "BaseBallParty" tomorrow night, I decided to have a beer in the garage with my husband.

We talked about everything.

And I had another beer.

Just one more.

The next thing I knew, I jumped up, ran to my TrailBlazer and hollered, "Come listen to what I did!"

I jumped behind the wheel, turned the key to "accessory", rolled down my window and began blaring Wild Cherry's "Play That Funky Music White Boy"...and then quickly flipped to the next song for my husband, who slid into the passenger's seat...both of us, beer in hand.

No DUIs for us tonight. No, Officer KevlarJimV, we ain't leavin' our drive...

And I pretty much sang the next song, word-for-word, "Musta Got Lost" by J. Geils Band.

"This was my very first concert!" I hollered over the stereo..telling him who I went to see J. Geils with...

And I'm not sure where, but at some point, beer in hand, jamming on my stereo out in God's country with nothing but stars above me, I began to feel about 17 again...cute guy in the passenger seat...and he could pass for 19...so's long as he leaves his hat on.

According to Van Morrison, you can do that.

You Can Leave Your Hat On...

When the next song I burned turned over...to be Black Sabbath's "War Pigs".

And then I really did feel 17 again...both of us singing along...well, yelling along. I mean, I really wasn't thru my 2nd beer--and at this point, it's all I really need to get me by...with the windows down and no smoke rolling out...

After belting along with Ozzy (it is the unedited, live version and we cackled thru the whole thing, when we weren't singing) and discussing the children's reaction to "War Pigs" we moved onto something from this decade...

"Rock Star" by Nickelback.

Halfway through me singing at the top of my lungs to the steering wheel, no less, my husband now reclined in the passenger's seat, my youngest pops out the garage door...

Poof.

Gone.

No longer 17.

No longer parking with a hot jock from high school jamming to Ozzy, drinking beers...

Nope, I'm a Mom.

I'm pretty much showing my age.

We motioned for Dustin to come to the truck, whereupon his eyes got big as saucers, he spoke not a word and ran in the other direction.

Were we scary?

Two minutes later, Dillon tripped out the back door...and he was equally unimpressed with us.

"Are you going to break this out at the BaseBall Party tomorrow night?" Birdy asks.

"On what? We don't have a CD player in the garage, what do you want me to do, open all the doors on the TBlazer and have everyone gather around?...like we did back in school???"

Then, I had to piddle and that was the end of our trip back in time...

But, it was fun.

Even if we are middle-aged.

I don't feel middle-aged.

I don't.

In my mind, I still feel about 17.

My husband? He IS still 17...always has...always will be...

BallPeen Hammers & Ether

This past weekend, my parents were in Tennessee for the Johnson Family Reunion, my husband needed to use some of Dad's equipment.

My father must've been on the same wave-length as Birdy, because Dad calls me early one morning after apparently having watched The Weather Channel.

"They're calling for rain all week. If Birdy wants to mow with the tractor, tell him to go get it. If he wants to back-drag that hillside, tell him to take the back hoe over, but watch it because the bucket makes it front-heavy."

"Thanks, I'll let him know," I told my dad, knowing full-well my husband would not fetch any of this equipment.

"If he has any problems starting the back hoe, Dustin can help him. Dustin knows how to start the back hoe." This last statement is made with pride.

Personally, I find it rather unsettling knowing that my ten-year old can start a back hoe.

I repeat this conversation to my husband who replies with, "I am NOT going after any of his equipment unless he's on-site to start it. Sure as I'm standing here, I'll break something."

I find this comical. My dad has individual starting instructions for every piece of equpiment on this farm--whether it's a lawn mower or a tractor, every piece is different. There is no such thing as climbing on any fuel-driven implement of destruction on this farm and turning the key.

Guess that's the redneck in him...

Such as the 1948 or 1949 Allis Chalmers endloader that's parked in back. It hadn't been started in years. My father's friend, Buck, suggested my father couldn't get that piece of equipment started. Only six or seven at the time, Dustin posessed enough wisdom to know Papa can start just about anything...

My father chuckled and made Buck a bet, if he started the endloader, Buck got to buy breakfast...of course, armed with a can of ether, the Allis turned over and Buck bought Dad & Dustin breakfast that morning.

I couldn't believe Buck made that bet. I asked him later what he was thinking...and Buck agreed, he should've known better. A can of ether and a ball-peen hammer will take my dad a long way around here, starting just about anything...

Of course, there's the time Dad won a busted-up lawn mower on a bet. My Grampa Lucius bet my Dad that he couldn't start a lawn mower. Grampa Lucius said the mower wouldn't run because it didn't have a blade. Dad told Grampa Lucius the mower didn't need a blade to run. Grampa told Dad if he could start the mower, Dad could have it.

Enter a ball-peen hammer...and a new-to-you mower...

When the stater went out in Birdy's quad, Dad managed to get it running again, if only temporarily, by tapping around with his--you guessed it--ball-peen hammer

I told my dad, on his way home from Tennessee, that Birdy wouldn't use the equipment without dad on-site. Dad chuckled, "That back hoe will fire right up for him."

Monday being the recognized holiday for the 4th of July, my dad called and said he'd bring the back hoe over and get the hillside taken care of before the rain came. Thankfully, he accomplished that since it's rained twice today alone...not sprinkles mind you, torrential downpours...Mother Nature has pulled out all the stops for us on rain this summer.

Dad rolls into the driveway on his back hoe, parks it and comes to the garage for a beverage. "It's a good thing Birdy didn't try to start that back hoe."

Lord. I rolled my eyes, "Why's that?"

"Clutch didn't want to work. Didn't start working until I got up by the house. Must've been the way I parked it, rain probably ran right into the clutch," he explained. "Runs great, now..."

Thankfully.

Birdy passed Dad intransit, on his way over to get the tractor. No sooner than Birdy returned with the tractor, the battery died and Dad had to give Birdy a jump...

Nothing says redneck quite like individual starting instructions for every implements of destruction you own.

Nothing.