It really does take the cake. I mean, heck I’m used to God having a little fun with me, planting ideas in my head that seem utterly silly, and yet in the end, I realize they must be obeyed–now or later, I can choose.
My spiritual journey looks to the outsider, like a drunken pinball machine schizophrenic maze mouse route. Like I said, God seems to find me and my life humorous and enjoys it seems screwing with me.
So it should come as no surprise that the disasters of the Black Sunday otherwise known as the day that shall go down in infamy in Iowa, December 13, would not be the last.
When last we spoke, (mere hours ago was it?), things seemed well under control. We had the stove working at least reasonably well such that there was little likelihood that come spring we would be found sitting on the couch defrosting and decomposing at the same time. We were quite warm, thank you very much.
As I related, we had a plan for the Bronco fix. The point today was to execute that plan. And we prepared carefully and properly I assure you. Yet, karma, God, Satan, or the Church lady conspired to make it nearly as horrendous as that Sunday was lo only a few 72 plus hours ago.
The plan was for me to drive the crippled Bronco to the road while the Contrarian followed with the tractor. Once at the road, he would jump start the Ford Taurus with the tractor, and drive it out and then we would proceed to Troy to “Bill’s” shop. So, I completed my leg easily enough–I drove to the road. The tractor needed a quick jump (it was only zero), and I saw it moving forward as I turned the corner and proceeded.
Once at the road, I waited to see the tractor crest the hill. I waited. And waited. And waited. I was sure at least ten minutes had transpired, and finally I drove back to the house, sure that the Contrarian would meet me head on with no place for either of us to turn around. But no, he was still back at the house. The tractor was out of gas, and there was no more. So we drove to Troy, and got plenty of gas, and returned home.
Finally, after much nourishment of gas and additional electrical juice, the tractor started. This time, the Contrarian went first with directions for me to follow and them pass him at a low place he could pull off the “road.” It took him about eight tries to get up the sand hill, but finally we were under way.
We proceeded to the road fairly uneventfully. I pulled up on the road and the Contrarian hooked up jumper cables to the Taurus. No dice. Is this a surprise in my world? No, it’s the norm sad to say. So I have to back the Bronco down, after the Contrarian has plowed out a new drift in front of the Torus. Another thirty minute delay ensues. Most of the time I can remain in my vehicle and keep warm depending on how you define that.
After a good deal of maneuvering, and hand signals ( which are universally understood by even anemic Swedish runway models–thus not me) by the Contrarian, he finishes the moving of the Bronco into proximity of said Taurus. Success ensues and we are off to Troy. We dare not turn off the Taurus, but of course he does when we arrive. He has a new plan.
He finds that Bill can get the Bronco in the garage sans battery, so he takes the battery from the Bronco and pulls the Taurus battery, and places that in. Zoom. . . off we go. We get back to the lane and I get out as the Contrarian parks the Taurus in its little spot at the road entrance.
He backs the tractor up to a neutral area and dumps the last of the snow from the bucket. Then the fun begins. I sit on the bucket lip, swing my legs up and straight along the bed. My head is wedged a bit sideways. I can hang on to the bottom and along the top by bending my arm backward. It is uncomfortable but we have only a half mile to go.
The Contrarian raises the bucket up and off we start. I am hanging on, hoping that a bump will not throw me out and onto the ground, where I shall surely be run over. I think that this is “not such a good day to die,” but realize I well may. I wonder what I should think about to be ready for meeting God. I’m not well dressed for the occasion. In fact I am embarrassingly trundled up like a hick from North Dakota. No apologies, sorry, anybody who lives in North Dakota is definitionally a hick, period.
We start up the middle hill, and get part way up and start spinning. We (really the Contrarian, I’m just riding and trying to relive my life quickly should it be ending suddenly), go up and get spinning at least four times. Finally we make that crest, and I figure we will probably make it. Except that I can no longer feel my butt, feet or most of my fingers. I’m getting a wonderful cramp in my neck from the strange angle it’s wedged in.
I close my eyes and hope that we get to the house soon. As we start down the hill into the trees, I’m now pointing a bit downward. I’m holding on with frozen fingers for “dear life” or not so dear and to hell with it life, at this point. But I hang on. If I let go, I’m rolling out for sure. Did I say it was ten degrees? Yeah right, ten big ones, might as well be zero.
We get to the house, and the bucket lowers to the ground and I literally roll out. My bottom is soaked, my fingers curled into a claw of frozen flesh. I hobble to the house. I’m still recovering. The trip to Troy takes approximately five minutes. Our total time for this enterprise: three hours.
Oh did I tell you? I get to bucket ride back down when we go to pick up the Bronco. I can hardly wait! Top that if you can for a story today!
P.S. And no, our tractor looks nothing so sweet as the one pictured. For starters, there is no enclosed cab. One can dream.
Existential Ennui 