“Diesel-Pickup Guy”

Posted on November 1, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

This time, I was better prepared. Seriously, nothing could possibly keep me from having a successful bike ride, unlike The Long Walk of several weeks ago. I had everything going for me:

* It was early afternoon, nowhere near sunset.
* My phone was with me.
* I now had a pretty good idea of how to change a flat tire.
* And the real ‘ace-in-the-hole’ — Brent and our second-born, Greg, were going riding too. So if I did manage to have any trouble they would ride right by me on their way home. And [probably] help me out.

I took off first, leaving the guys behind with some bike part to adjust, because I was going to make pizza, and Greg needed to start back to his place in a couple of hours. I would barely have time to bake it and enjoy the subsequent feeding frenzy. Besides, as I may have mentioned, I was better prepared and nothing could possibly keep me from having a successful bike ride.

I picked a short but challenging route with some long, slow grades to climb. At the farthest point, I turned toward home and had the thrill of a couple of miles mostly downhill. Ah, time to relax, shift gears to the big chainring, and bump up my speed with little effort!

My front derailleur must be equipped with the sort of heavy-duty suspension springs you would normally use in a big-rig truck. With my scrawny little toothpick arms and arthritic fingers, it is all I can do to shift the chain from the normal chainring to the big one. After a try or two, I got the blasted thing pushed over and proceeded to ride fast (for me) to the stop sign beyond the bottom of the hill.

Then it was time to shift back down to the normal chainring, since the next quarter mile or so is slightly uphill. Fortunately the beefy, macho derailleur spring is much easier to shift back down than it is to shift up. Um… maybe too easy. With a flick of my wrist, I released the derailleur. Ta-wang! Macho Spring ricocheted the chain clear off the crankset and into the little space between the chainring and the frame, where it stuck tight. Great. A bike wedgie; just what I needed.

Being an old hand at re-positioning thrown chains (unlike changing flats), I stopped and got off to make the fix. I figured it would take all of 15 seconds. With one hand, you pull down the rear derailleur to create some slack in the chain, then with the other hand, slip the chain back onto its toothed ring.*

Simple. Unless, of course, the chain is caught in the worst wedgie ever.

It would take two hands to pull the chain from its trap, which can only be done while one hand is pulling the rear derailleur down. If you do the math, you can see that I was not going to get that pizza in the oven any time soon.

After several fruitless efforts, during which both hands became blackened with chain grease, I heard the sound of a diesel motor approaching. Since I was off the pavement and in no danger of being run over, I ignored it. Until it rolled by me and stopped a couple of yards away. It was a white pickup truck, and a man several years younger than myself was getting out.

“I used to ride too,” he said. “What’s the trouble?”

I managed to tell him about the chain without using the word “wedgie.”

“Let’s see if I can get that loose so you won’t get your fingers greasy,” he offered.

“It’s far too late for that, but I appreciate the help,” I assured him, and pulled down the rear derailleur. Even Diesel-Pickup Guy had to give the chain a couple of good yanks, but it finally came free. I was ready to go. Like I said, help would have come along before too long, but now our pizza was a done deal.

I would have shaken his hand, but that wouldn’t have done him any favors, so I settled for profuse thanks. But I would also like to go public and say,

“Thank you, Diesel-Pickup Guy, for taking time out of your day to stop and help a rather grimy damsel in distress. I only wish I could have offered you some pizza.”

How about you? Have you ever been a Good Samaritan or been rescued by one?

Thanks for reading!
Tailwinds,
Jan

* Little-known fact: this is precisely why bike shorts are usually black, so you can wipe the grease off your fingers without losing any style points.

PS: I’m linking up with Jen and the Soli Deo Gloria sisters!

Posted in Thoughts on Two Wheels | Tagged , , , , , | 13 Comments

Bars and Butterflies

Posted on October 26, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

Lately I’ve been studying through the book of Galatians, the apostle Paul’s letter to the church in Galatia. Paul says a lot in a few pages, mostly warning these people, who had started a life of faith, NOT to start trying to keep the Jewish law on top of it. I’m sure they must have been confused… what is “religion” if not living according to a code of conduct? Does God call his own law a bad thing?? Wasn’t Jesus a Jew??

Well, as Paul explains, God has a place for the law, and a place for faith. He gets down to the nitty-gritty in Chapter 3 and the beginning of Chapter 4. The Law “was put in charge to lead us to Christ that we might be justified by faith” (3:24). He compares us to a child, heir of the whole estate but “subject to guardians and trustees until the time set by his father” (4:2). In effect, it’s no different from being a slave.

The way he explains it, people are prisoners of sin (3:22), and the law is like the bars that hold us there (3:23). No one can fully obey the law (in every action, every word, every thought) but we can’t break away from it either. It’s just there, showing us how imperfect we are.

But when Christ came, faith was revealed and we could place our trust in him. He justifies those who trust him, and we are no longer under the supervision of the law (3:24-25). We become part of the covenant that God made with Abraham centuries ago (3:6-9), where God promised to bless those who, like Abraham, believe him.

As I grappled with these concepts, I began to picture a man in a jail cell, throwing himself against the bars again and again, unable to justify himself by his own efforts. Exhausted and bruised, he finally gives up and, by faith, just asks for forgiveness. When he does, God’s grace transforms the prisoner into a butterfly, who can fly out between the bars at will.

The bars are still there, but now the prisoner is free. God’s grace has transformed him into a creature that the bars were never meant to contain.

I hope this picture is useful to you, and would love to hear your thoughts on this.

Thanks for reading,
Jan

This week I am linking up with Jen at Soli Deo Gloria.

All quotes are from the New International Version of the Bible.

Posted in A Page From My Journal, Near As I Can Figure... | Tagged , , , | 4 Comments

Creature of Habit

Posted on October 19, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

Most of my habits are innocent enough, even helpful. I brush my teeth at least twice a day and clean the dryer’s lint screen after every load. Yay, me!

But sometimes habits control me. “Autopilot,” I call it, because that sounds so much better than “not thinking.”

For example, consider my “office habit.” Brent’s and my desks are set up in opposite corners of our computer room, which is actually a spare bedroom. I had done most of my work there, day in and day out, for two years or so. Every time I needed to throw something away, I would roll my chair back and to the left, lean way over and attempt a bank shot off the south wall, into the wastebasket by Brent’s desk in that corner. (I missed about half the time, but then it’s a little bitty wastebasket.) Being a bit of a perfectionist, plus using lots of little reminder notes to myself, I had plenty of drafts and expired reminders to throw away. The roll / lean / bank shot sequence became a habit.

Then one day we happened to be in a Container Store in north Dallas, and I noticed these really cute wastebaskets woven of newspaper. A brilliant idea began to take shape. Maybe I could have… my own wastebasket! Beside my own desk! Think of the time it would save! And what could be more perfect than a really cute one woven of newspaper? Minutes later, the deal was done.

When we got home, I sat down at my desk hugging my prize, and reached for my scissors to cut off the hangtag. The next step, of course, was to throw away the hangtag. So then, with my new wastebasket in my lap, I rolled my chair back and to the left, leaned way over and started to attempt a bank shot off the south wall…

Stopping myself just in time, I looked down into the empty basket in my lap, said “Oh,” and dropped the hangtag into the very receptacle from which it had come.

I am happy to report that it took very little time for my habit to change. These days I drop those drafts and expired reminders into the newspaper basket without a thought. Wrappers, bits of junk mail — in they go.

Now, if I could only remember to turn left when I’m heading toward town, rather than my usual right turn out of the neighborhood. Remember, it’s called “Autopilot”…

Thanks for reading,
Jan

I am linking up with Jen and our Soli Deo Gloria friends
and
Company Girls Coffee, with Rachel Anne.

Posted in I Remember When... (my OWN stories) | Tagged , , , , , | 11 Comments

Do You Hear What I Hear? Life in a Rural-ish Suburban Neighborhood

Posted on October 14, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

I’m having morning coffee with my Company Girls friends today. Thanks for hosting, Rachel!

One thing I like best about our neighborhood, besides the great bicycling roads and even better neighbors, is the way it sounds.

Quiet.

Without the racket of traffic and industry, you can hear life going on. Any time we step outside we might hear…

Children playing, shrieking as they jump into swimming pools, calling dogs.

The neighbor’s dog and our little canine, woofing it up through the fence as they run back and forth.

Goats. Goats always sound cranky, a bunch of baritones and tenors interrupting and trying to upstage each other. Somebody nearby has sheep now. Sheep sound sort of like goats but more dignified.

An occasional horse.

Rarely, a donkey. (Even more rare, delightfully rare, is the sound of a police or fire siren passing along the farm road.)

Cows are pretty quiet but sometimes several of them moo in the evening. It might be feeding or milking time.

At night, sometimes, a coyote — or a whole mess of coyotes.

A small regional airport lies about three miles from us. I enjoy hearing little single-engine planes taking off or landing. Some of the planes that drag advertising banners use that airport. Once or twice a year, we are treated to a stunt airshow — at least, the parts of the show that are visible above the treetops from three miles away. One time an Osprey orbited around for two hours. I got NOTHING done that morning.

For me, one of the more compelling sounds is the Chinook military tandem-rotor helicopters that touch down at the airport from time to time. The dense, slow “thub-thub-thub” of a Chinook on approach sends me outside to look every time. I mean, those things block the sun.

Regular, commercial-type helicopters fly in and out from “our” airport, too. Somebody must give helicopter flying lessons there, as we often hear them doing “touch-and-go” takeoffs and landings. They don’t have as appealing a sound as, say, the playing children, but they don’t bother us at all.

Well…. except for night-flying lessons. Once in a while, around 11:30 at night (just as we are nodding off to sleep), a helicopter takes off and starts doing “touch-and-go” exercises. This may go on for half an hour or more, the engine sounding really loud in the quiet of the night. It never gets very far away. In fact, the pilot does a sort of square flight pattern that comes pretty close to our neighborhood before turning a corner and heading back toward the airport.

Yes, that’s one nuisance big enough to lose sleep over. Occasionally. But as near as I can figure, it’s easier to put up with night helicopter lessons than have to listen to car wrecks, gunshots, ambulances, police sirens….

Does your neighborhood have a sound of its own?

Thanks for reading,
Jan

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Hankies and History

Posted on October 10, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

The flat gift box, about 10 by 12 inches, was buried between some envelopes of old snapshots and a stack of bags containing Mom’s high school reunion programs, newspaper clippings and other mementos. I lifted off the lid, covered in silvery paper.

Inside were more than 20 handkerchiefs, a small silver jelly spoon and an envelope. Most of the hankies were folded and pressed in full “display” mode to show off the designs on their corners, their labels still clinging to the fabric.

They are all made of linen, I think, some with pulled-thread openwork, delicate appliqué or fine, satiny embroidery. Two or three are almost as sheer as a bridal veil. Some are plain white ones hemmed with lace; several are printed and very soft. A couple look homemade and hand-embroidered, one of them with the letter “C” and a sprig of lily-of-the-valley. In other words, a real mixed bag.

I pulled two hand-lettered poems from the envelope, both of them written in farewell. It turns out that my grandmother Sylvia’s friends, who called themselves the “Wednesday Club,” had given her a handkerchief “going-away” party. After about 15 years in their small town, she and my grandfather were moving into the city, just 22 miles away. My grandfather had a job with the state finance department, overseeing small independent banks across the state.

The shorter poem, just six lines, explained the purpose of the party:

Her husband handles banks
But what she likes is hanks! …

The longer one spoke in a lighthearted tone about the friendship between the women, encouraging Sylvia to remember them and stay in touch. Though I knew the party had happened long before I was born, the delicate hankies called to mind my grandmother’s ladylike ways and how her hair was always done just so. But then some lines in the last two stanzas of the poem struck a foreign note:

So when we get crooked with rationing points
And land in the great big jail,
Please don’t forget to call on us,
And offer to pay our bail!

and the last lines,

…but we want you to save a lot of your gas,
To come back and visit us.

What on earth….??

Then I noticed the date at the bottom. The party took place in January 1943. Right in the middle of World War II, when resources were scarce and the military had “dibs” on most of them. When silk was for parachutes, not handkerchiefs, and 22 miles was a long way because you had to hoard gasoline ration points to drive it.

This is my favorite kind of history lesson… when I can see for myself how a war that never came onto U.S. soil impacted the everyday lives of a group of genteel Midwest ladies.

Have you ever touched the past through some family treasures or photos?

Thanks for reading,
Jan

PS: I have yet to find out what’s with the silver jelly spoon…
PPS: If you’d like, come join me at Jen’s for the Soli Deo Gloria linkup.

Posted in Everybody Has a Story | Tagged , , , , | 12 Comments

“Frazz” Comics (Book Review)

Posted on October 5, 2011 by Jan C. Johnson

If you know me, you know I love to laugh. And read. So it is with great delight that I recommend two comic books that are on our shelf at home, as well as my virtual shelf. (I bet there are more books out by now… Note to self: check for latest titles!)
I think my Company Girls friends will love these.

Mallett, Jef. Frazz: Live at Bryson Elementary. Andrews McMeel, Kansas City, 2005.
AND
Mallett, Jef. 99% Perspiration. Andrews McMeel, Kansas City, 2006.
It all started when Brent sent me the link to a comic strip he had been reading online. The main character is Frazz, a young songwriter whose day job is elementary-school janitor. Besides talking with the kids about philosophy, literature and cafeteria food, he enjoys outdoor sports. Here’s the clincher: Frazz is a cyclist (okay, a triathlete). I ordered the first book online to give Brent for Father’s Day a few years ago. It arrived one day when Brent was at work but both our boys were home. The three of us fought over it for two hours and, by Father’s Day, had all read it cover to cover. Fortunately it didn’t get too rumpled before we wrapped it. The second book is just as great. What is so appealing about Mallett? Gene Weingarten sums it up well: “…Jef Mallett fearlessly mines truths–sometimes uncomfortable truths–with humor and wit, and occasionally with a poignancy that can summon tears…” I predict that English nerds, triathletes, teachers, kids and anyone who cares about kids will love both books!

Thanks for reading,
Jan

Posted in Everybody Has a Story, Thoughts on Two Wheels | Tagged , , , , , , | 5 Comments