Builds 76 Fj40 Face Lift (1 Viewer)
- Thread starter Chungas Revenge
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78fj40mg
TLCA #23510
Nice of @SuperBuickGuy to drop by for couple of seconds!
Chungas Revenge
SILVER Star
- Thread starter
- #763
Well done. I like your moxie!!!
Chungas Revenge
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- Thread starter
- #764
Headed over to the garage this AM for some for some quality time. Going to hit the hangers and pins with another round of PB. May just be able to start the spring swap.
Postman did bring one "Gypsy treasure" yesterday...
Going to play around a bit with the electrical gremlins (still no horn) and a mystery drip of antifreeze...
Postman did bring one "Gypsy treasure" yesterday...
Going to play around a bit with the electrical gremlins (still no horn) and a mystery drip of antifreeze...
Last edited:
rkymtnflyfisher
Trout Bum
Ratchet straps were my friend when I was putting my leaf springs back in. And a BFH.
Chungas Revenge
SILVER Star
Chungas Revenge
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- Thread starter
- #767
He's well trained!...Makes it hard to get a fix on his position...
If your pins are fused to the bushings use some heat and they will come off easily. I used a small map gas torch and it turned an hour of BFH use into a 5 minute job. Make sure the arrows point towards the fixed pin not the shackle side.
Sent from my SM-G920V
Sent from my SM-G920V
Chungas Revenge
SILVER Star
- Thread starter
- #769
Roger that..I have all the "prelim" checking, re-checking dialed in. Springs are equal length, arrows all point home (PER OME specs), ratchet straps, heat, lube, three week PB soak and a variable speed BFH. All I need now is a buxom cheer leader and a shaken (not stirred) martini...
Been running down other OME install threads via MUD and Youtube. I probably could have started this week but, I managed to squeak in some "lift time" over the next few days. Lift vice creeper is the preferred method of application when you factor in the "old man lower back syndrome"...
I'll try and do a better job documenting. Instead of just the before and after pics that I have a tendency to do..Hard to stop mid stream once you get waist deep in it.
Last edited:
Chungas Revenge
SILVER Star
- Thread starter
- #770
Knocking off for some leisurely goofing off and the weekly pilgrimage to the big city for victuals, petrol and a honey brown ale..
My effort this AM, while somewhat productive, did not follow the well laid plan I had envisioned earlier....
I did not make it to the "body panel alignment" portion of my strategy today. But, I did take on a modest effort with the Ambi door(s). I have determined that in the arena of "alignment(s) or Honeymoon's", it's best to have a partner assist with the effort. I have been assured by "distinguished" members of the forum (from the Woodinville area), that each endeavor can be accomplished singly without aid from a willing partner. But, never having attempted each of these intricate undertakings alone, I can not in good conscience recommend the two handed approach.
It was reminiscent of "shopping" with the former Mrs Chunga. One Ambi door was mounted after interminable coaxing, much discomfort, high pitched wailing and gnashing off teeth. The effort, in my opinion, was all one sided. I felt I should of had a bit more cooperation from the door. Nothing lined up, I couldn't find the right size socket and I had to add a lubricant to claim success. It was like I was doing all the work...
Nonetheless, I completed my task and felt at least I garnered a bit of momentary satisfaction. But unlike the former "Mrs Chunga", I expect no discord or temperamental objections when I take-on the other door..
So, in the end I felt like I should have re-mounted my fender instead.
Still needs a bit of tweaking...I'll post up more of the morning effort later..
My effort this AM, while somewhat productive, did not follow the well laid plan I had envisioned earlier....
I did not make it to the "body panel alignment" portion of my strategy today. But, I did take on a modest effort with the Ambi door(s). I have determined that in the arena of "alignment(s) or Honeymoon's", it's best to have a partner assist with the effort. I have been assured by "distinguished" members of the forum (from the Woodinville area), that each endeavor can be accomplished singly without aid from a willing partner. But, never having attempted each of these intricate undertakings alone, I can not in good conscience recommend the two handed approach.
It was reminiscent of "shopping" with the former Mrs Chunga. One Ambi door was mounted after interminable coaxing, much discomfort, high pitched wailing and gnashing off teeth. The effort, in my opinion, was all one sided. I felt I should of had a bit more cooperation from the door. Nothing lined up, I couldn't find the right size socket and I had to add a lubricant to claim success. It was like I was doing all the work...
Nonetheless, I completed my task and felt at least I garnered a bit of momentary satisfaction. But unlike the former "Mrs Chunga", I expect no discord or temperamental objections when I take-on the other door..
So, in the end I felt like I should have re-mounted my fender instead.
Still needs a bit of tweaking...I'll post up more of the morning effort later..
78fj40mg
TLCA #23510
Moving targets are difficult to triangulate.
Chungas Revenge
SILVER Star
- Thread starter
- #772
The grommets between my rear ambi door and license plate bracket are looking old and worn..Spect' I'll need some new ones..
@donniefj55
I chide and rib some of the "Ole geezers" on this thread about their encroaching age and receding silver hair line. That is if they have any hair to recede. I joke about bad eyes, bad knees and the best bran flakes you can buy using a SR discount card and an AARP coupon...Comes with age I guess. Age, hmm, I reckon that's what happens when the road gets a little tighter, the path gets a little narrower, until finally winding down to an overgrown footpath through a barnyard. My uncle Larry Dale once gave me good advice as we were walking along a similar path, on our way out through the barn yard one summer morning, "Be careful what ya step in" was his sage advice. Can't argue with that...
Looking in the mirror this AM while shaving, I was startled then intrigued, by the sudden appearance of a grinning grey bearded fellow. This geriatric apparition seemed to know something I didn't. He was vaguely familiar yet, I couldn't quite place him at first. Meeting his mocking gaze blink for blink, I was confounded by his appearance and put off by his empiric demeanor. Starring intently at this beguiling impostor, I was mesmerized and seduced by this Cheshire Cat reflection in reading glasses..I fully expected this masquerading white haired interloper to explain his sudden appearance and demanded that he disclose the purpose of his bathroom debut. Without preamble or flourish, he opened his mouth and shouted at the top of his ancient and wheezing lungs. With herculean effort he pushed two words through creaking and rusty vocal chords that resonated the following unexpurgated, unexpected and uncensored words: "Horse s***"!! I instantly thought back to my Uncles warning...
I am fifty odd years removed from the weathered old farm house in Calhoun Co WV. But, from time to time, I still find myself wandering down the chip and tar road toward the summer of 1966. Seems to me, as I get older, and I am, the contrast on those one time fuzzy memories becomes a little sharper and in moments of clarity, the color begins to fill in around the edges of things that are a long time forgotten. Memories I left in some foggy hollow of WV, squirreled neatly away as I practiced enunciating my vowels like the civilized folks down rown' Tennessee way............
Before I was fully awake, my nose caught the savory whiff of bacon frying in granny's ancient iron skillet. It mixed wistfully with the strong pungent odor of coffee percolating on the back burner, and drifted deliciously up the stairs to the attic. At six, I had come to associate these tantalizing smells with early mornings spent in Granny's Kitchen. Just six short weeks earlier I stood on the stone path in front of "Grandma's House"and waived good-bye to my parents taillights. It was 1966, It was the summer Granny taught me to shoot.
Cracking an eyelid I ventured a look at the single pane window on the other side of the dark room. A thin silver line began to shimmer and spread over the top of the silo next to the barn. The outline of a distant ridge, the next hollow over, slowly took form and and spread it's tree lined silhouette south towards Glenville . A rooster, waiting patiently for his sunrise signal from the cosmos, let loose an ethereal crow and announced to the late risers of the barnyard, that feeding time was at hand. A distant moo from the back pasture acknowledged the early morning call to forage. Ignoring the feathery flightless call to breakfast, I turned silently to the wall to indulge in the last few minutes of early morning solitude.
I did not see the ten pound feather pillow that came twirling out of the darkness, but I felt the convulsive impact as the down filled missile found it's mark. My small head rebounded with a resounding thud off of the wall and reverberated down my spine exiting through my toes..."Wake-up dummy" my uncle Bill chided as I heard his feet hit the floor.."You going to sleep all day or What" he added bounding across the room and taking up a flanking position next to my bed. Normally, this would be followed by a full on assault, complete with a follow-up pillow, to ensure that I was awake and not merely paralyzed by the blunt trauma. But today he hesitated. Giving me a half heart-ed charlie horse that would manifest later that week as a minor contusion, he announced "You wanna see a dead cow"?. Springing up, I forgot just how close the roof line was in our shared attic bedroom. A second resounding thud echoed through the confines of the small room. The impact buckled my knees as my head found the limits of the attic roof. Forgoing medical attention for my second concussion of the day, I shouted "you know where there is a real live dead cow"? Ssshhhh dummy, you want ma' to find out. She'd never let us go see it, besides only three of us know about it. Chuckie seen it night-before-last when him an Uncle Howard was coon hunt'en over on the Uncle Bud's farm". Said the possums found it too. Heck of a mess. There's blood n' guts all over the place. Bet it draws a a whole pack a' wolves or worse. You sure you wan'na see it?
Before I could form an answer, my grandmothers voice broke through the greying dawn. "What are you boy's doing up there? What's all that bumping going on? Get your rear ends down here before I light your tails with hickory switch". Knowing she was not one to bluff a hand, we grabbed our clothes and made for the hallway steps. Dressing in the dark, under the duress of corporal punishment, is an art form I perfected during my 1st week on the farm. My shorts, T-shirt and "Comstock, Ferre & Company Seed Co" cap rounded out my casual attire for most of the summer. In the event of a formal engagement, my Keds sneakers were pressed into service. My white keds added a flair of canvass, well suited for any discerning county event requiring both shoes.
We bound down the attic stairs, bouncing off the wooden planked walls as we jockeyed for position. The rules of the morning gauntlet were simple, there were no rules. At six, I was prone to misjudging my youthful athletic prowess, the dynamics of flight and the lingering affects of Newtons laws. On more than on occasion I was sent ricocheting off the oak railing and sent unceremoniously flying to the bottom of the stairs. As a result of the proverbial uninterrupted morning flight down the narrow stairs that summer, I couldn't feel any sensation in my fingertips, my toes or focus both eyes simultaneously until the fourth grade. Solemnly bound to the ancient rules of rampart warfare, the "last one down" had to "lime the outhouse" at the end of the week. Dire stakes indeed.
I had learned through trial, bruise and lesser laceration, that the only real chance I had at winning against my long legged "uncle" was to cheat..I was fully prepared to administer the culmination of any misdemeanor-ing plan, I could conjure. I had gone as far as inquire about the rusted and unused bear trap that hung as a relic in the back of the tool shed. Reasoning that I couldn't hide it under the braided rug next to his bed so, I sought a different solution. I pondered any and all solutions that would give me an advantage. I watched endlessly as "Wile E Coyote" tugged and strained under the weight of ten ton safes, shot cannons and utilized rocket propelled roller skates to outwit the speedy "Road Runner". I wondered to myself if Roberts store carried an ample selection ACME Bazookas? I would attempt anything that would send Efie, chin over teacup, down the stairwell and allow me to avoid my weekly ritual of liming the outhouse. In fact, my sole reason for living that summer, was to inflict in kind, an ample measure of the abuse I was absorbing. So far, things had not gone according to plan. I needed to watch "Underdog" for inspiration. That Coyote just didn't seem to get it.
But this was not the day of my victory. My Grandmothers silhouette appeared at the bottom of the steps. Her voice barked through darkness at the bottom of the stairs. "What in Sam-hill are you two heathens doing now? Git down them stairs now before I skin you alive" she warned. The memory of her turning a stringer full of Blue-gills into a pan of fillets without breaking a sweat swept through my thoughts. I eased passed her ample hips an nudged my way toward the relative safety of the kitchen. In an instant, the palm of her hand flicked out like a lightning strike. The tips of her fingers caught the back of my head and grazed my scalp. Hmm, near miss. My reflexes were shaping up nicely. Lately it seemed, I had been the lucky recipient of Granny's customary group punishment, hitherto reserved for the "men" of the family. I felt like one of the "boys", I think she was beginning to take a shine to me..
Two steps into my headlong flight to the kitchen I heard a resounding thud. Efie must have juked the wrong way. He absorbed the full measure of Granny's wrath and let out an exaggerated "Owww". Rounding the steps we made a bee-line for the kitchen. Plowing through the doorway I collided abruptly with the remaining Welch clan members as they exited the kitchen ready for the morning's work.
"Morning cow pie" my uncle Larry chortled briskly rubbing the top of my head with his large calloused hand. "LarryDaleWelch" my grandmother shot back instantly from behind me. "Morning peaches" my uncle said in a thick over exaggerated "county twang". "Watch yer lips in my kitchen young man, your not so big I can't peel the hide off your backside" she replied halfheartedly, stifling a smile as the color rose up in her cheeks. Strange and peculiar vestments were afoot at the Welch farm. As far as I could reckon, a new sense of order had pervaded the once ordered and well regulated household. I turned this intriguing turn of events over in my six year old intellect like a fresh piece of horehound candy. It didn't trouble me so much as intrigue me. Unable to grasp subtleties of the Welch family dynamics playing out in early august of 1966, I watched with growing interest as a new temperament and attitude towards her oldest son began to emerge through Granny's all business persona.
"I'm joining the Navy" my Uncle Larry had announced late one warm summer afternoon. I looked up from the black and white television set where some little guy named "Howard" was talking to some fella named "Cash-clay". Except he didn't wanna be called "Cash-Clay" no more. Thoroughly confused, I turned my attention to my Uncle Larry...Why you join'en the Navy? You gonna' be a pirate" I inquired. I had watched him "kick hell outa' the other sea dogs" down at the swimm'en hole. I reckon' he'd make as good a pirate as anyone, so I turned may attention back to "Cash-Clay" and "Howard". "Does ma' know bout this" my uncle Jim asked. "Not yet, but I'm 18 and I been thinking about this all summer. I don't figure I'll stick around and stack horse s*** with you en' Efie my whole life", he pompously announced..My head snapped around as my ears sought out and locked in on my uncles words. With the words "Horse s***" still ringing in my ears I looked up in time to see my Grandmother standing in the doorway of the kitchen wiping her hands on a faded and tattered dish towel. She never moved. She simply stood there silently, unblinking and stoic.
Now, I know I had distinctly heard the words "Horse s***" over "Cash-Clay" yelling at "Howard". I braced for what I knew would be a firework display of Larry-dale being chased around the confines of the living room as Ole' Ahab gave him what for with the palm of her hand. I made it a point edge closer to the sofa.
Nothing....Nothing at all..No words, no talking, nothing.. I know for sure I wasn't suddenly struck deaf, I could still hear "Cash-Clay" yelling at "Howard"....Still nothing. Had I entered some intra-dimensional alternate reality where the laws of cussing in the Welch house had been temporarily suspended? Was I asleep? Maybe I didn't hear it right. Naw, he definitely said "horse s***".
Now "Howard" was talking to some guy named Moo-ham-ed, cept' he looked just like "Cash Clay". I was becoming unbound. Between "Moo-ham-ed" or "Cash-Clay" and "Howard" arguing on TV and the unflinching stare my Granny was inflicting on Larry-Dale, my "Mr Green Jeans" morning had SUDDENLY turned into a "Elmer Fudd afternoon". My world was spinning out of control. Figuring I had nothing to lose I cautiously asked my uncle Larry, "Hey, Uncle Larry did you just say "Horse s***"? A belly laugh erupted from my uncle Bill then quickly throttled down to a muted snicker, finally fizzling out altogether into an uneasy silence. In the background I heard "Moo-ham-ed" telling "Howard" he "was the Greatest"...What was going on? I had just said "Horse s***". Who were these people. Who was Moo-ham-ed? What happened to "Cash-Clay" Time slowed to a crawl and hung suspended upside down. Any and all uncivilized, Moabite barnyard language was not tolerated in the Welch household. Yet within seconds, I had heard and repeated a word that would have otherwise brought out a cake "Dove" faster than salt through a goose..What was going on here? Why was no one speaking? Why was granny not moving. I could find no foothold for my meager logic...Unable to reason through the scene playing out before my diminutive mind, I sought to give life to my voice. I wanted words to right the world again. I wanted words to tame the silence, to tell Moo-ham-ed to shut up!!!!
The words "Pig s***" detonated from my vocal chords.
Bill, unable to stifle a second chance at he-hawing over my new found vocabulary, exploded into an hysterical wave of uncontrolled guffawing. Larry-Dale, catching the spirit, let loose a spontaneous whoop, that echoed my Uncle Jim in a perfect lockstep of thigh slapping, convulsed laughter. Ha! This was my moment. I was in command. The world was righting itself. I was profanity unleashed!!!!
Moo-ham-id was yelling again, My uncles were loosing their collective minds, and the room stopped spinning out of control. My grasp on reality had been upended and I was reveling in it.."I am the greatest, I am the greatest, I am the greatest!!!!!
My Grandmother never spoke a word. She turned silently, without preamble and made her way to the kitchen. The mood in the room swung back to a forced uneasy silence. Shrugging, I turned my attention back to the black and white reality of the 19 inch screen. "Cash-clay", "Moo-ham-ed" and "Howard" were no longer arguing about who was "the greatest". Instead, a man was asking me if I suffered from the burn and itching of hemorrhoidal tissue?
Later that day, I would find my Grandmother standing at the counter of the kitchen sink. Unknown to her, I walked in to find sobbing softly over a half carved stack of carrots. "What's wrong Grandma" I asked breathlessly, "Did you cut yourself. "No child this happens every time I chop green onions" she said without turning around. I slipped out of the kitchen as silently as I had entered, puzzling over her mis-identification of the carrots.
From that day on Grandma and Uncle Larry-Dale seemed to harbor a different feeling for one another. It was an unspoken yet tangible shift that defied my ability to grasp. The mere utterance of the words "Horse s***" had somehow changed the entire atmosphere of the household. Aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors and friends all seemed to drop by unexpected for the rest of the summer. They all hugged and patted my Uncle Larry on the back and told him to write often and buy a camera so he could send pictures back. The rest of the summer, Uncle Larry would eat early breakfast with my Grandfather and hug my grandmother without any good reason. Granny even took to saying "Thank-you" when he would bring water from the well house or carry something heavy to the cellar.
I wasn't there when Uncle Larry Dale "shipped out". I was busy traversing the tribulations of the second grade. I remember my mother and "Aunt Betty" talking about some place my uncle was visiting, someplace called Vietnam. Far I as I could tell it must have been over the other side of Ohio or somewhere else pretty far away.
I have only seen my uncle once since 1966. He is suffering from cancer, brought about from exposure to Agent Orange, during his tour in Vietnam. He currently resides outside of Johnson City Tennessee.
@donniefj55
I chide and rib some of the "Ole geezers" on this thread about their encroaching age and receding silver hair line. That is if they have any hair to recede. I joke about bad eyes, bad knees and the best bran flakes you can buy using a SR discount card and an AARP coupon...Comes with age I guess. Age, hmm, I reckon that's what happens when the road gets a little tighter, the path gets a little narrower, until finally winding down to an overgrown footpath through a barnyard. My uncle Larry Dale once gave me good advice as we were walking along a similar path, on our way out through the barn yard one summer morning, "Be careful what ya step in" was his sage advice. Can't argue with that...
Looking in the mirror this AM while shaving, I was startled then intrigued, by the sudden appearance of a grinning grey bearded fellow. This geriatric apparition seemed to know something I didn't. He was vaguely familiar yet, I couldn't quite place him at first. Meeting his mocking gaze blink for blink, I was confounded by his appearance and put off by his empiric demeanor. Starring intently at this beguiling impostor, I was mesmerized and seduced by this Cheshire Cat reflection in reading glasses..I fully expected this masquerading white haired interloper to explain his sudden appearance and demanded that he disclose the purpose of his bathroom debut. Without preamble or flourish, he opened his mouth and shouted at the top of his ancient and wheezing lungs. With herculean effort he pushed two words through creaking and rusty vocal chords that resonated the following unexpurgated, unexpected and uncensored words: "Horse s***"!! I instantly thought back to my Uncles warning...
I am fifty odd years removed from the weathered old farm house in Calhoun Co WV. But, from time to time, I still find myself wandering down the chip and tar road toward the summer of 1966. Seems to me, as I get older, and I am, the contrast on those one time fuzzy memories becomes a little sharper and in moments of clarity, the color begins to fill in around the edges of things that are a long time forgotten. Memories I left in some foggy hollow of WV, squirreled neatly away as I practiced enunciating my vowels like the civilized folks down rown' Tennessee way............
Before I was fully awake, my nose caught the savory whiff of bacon frying in granny's ancient iron skillet. It mixed wistfully with the strong pungent odor of coffee percolating on the back burner, and drifted deliciously up the stairs to the attic. At six, I had come to associate these tantalizing smells with early mornings spent in Granny's Kitchen. Just six short weeks earlier I stood on the stone path in front of "Grandma's House"and waived good-bye to my parents taillights. It was 1966, It was the summer Granny taught me to shoot.
Cracking an eyelid I ventured a look at the single pane window on the other side of the dark room. A thin silver line began to shimmer and spread over the top of the silo next to the barn. The outline of a distant ridge, the next hollow over, slowly took form and and spread it's tree lined silhouette south towards Glenville . A rooster, waiting patiently for his sunrise signal from the cosmos, let loose an ethereal crow and announced to the late risers of the barnyard, that feeding time was at hand. A distant moo from the back pasture acknowledged the early morning call to forage. Ignoring the feathery flightless call to breakfast, I turned silently to the wall to indulge in the last few minutes of early morning solitude.
I did not see the ten pound feather pillow that came twirling out of the darkness, but I felt the convulsive impact as the down filled missile found it's mark. My small head rebounded with a resounding thud off of the wall and reverberated down my spine exiting through my toes..."Wake-up dummy" my uncle Bill chided as I heard his feet hit the floor.."You going to sleep all day or What" he added bounding across the room and taking up a flanking position next to my bed. Normally, this would be followed by a full on assault, complete with a follow-up pillow, to ensure that I was awake and not merely paralyzed by the blunt trauma. But today he hesitated. Giving me a half heart-ed charlie horse that would manifest later that week as a minor contusion, he announced "You wanna see a dead cow"?. Springing up, I forgot just how close the roof line was in our shared attic bedroom. A second resounding thud echoed through the confines of the small room. The impact buckled my knees as my head found the limits of the attic roof. Forgoing medical attention for my second concussion of the day, I shouted "you know where there is a real live dead cow"? Ssshhhh dummy, you want ma' to find out. She'd never let us go see it, besides only three of us know about it. Chuckie seen it night-before-last when him an Uncle Howard was coon hunt'en over on the Uncle Bud's farm". Said the possums found it too. Heck of a mess. There's blood n' guts all over the place. Bet it draws a a whole pack a' wolves or worse. You sure you wan'na see it?
Before I could form an answer, my grandmothers voice broke through the greying dawn. "What are you boy's doing up there? What's all that bumping going on? Get your rear ends down here before I light your tails with hickory switch". Knowing she was not one to bluff a hand, we grabbed our clothes and made for the hallway steps. Dressing in the dark, under the duress of corporal punishment, is an art form I perfected during my 1st week on the farm. My shorts, T-shirt and "Comstock, Ferre & Company Seed Co" cap rounded out my casual attire for most of the summer. In the event of a formal engagement, my Keds sneakers were pressed into service. My white keds added a flair of canvass, well suited for any discerning county event requiring both shoes.
We bound down the attic stairs, bouncing off the wooden planked walls as we jockeyed for position. The rules of the morning gauntlet were simple, there were no rules. At six, I was prone to misjudging my youthful athletic prowess, the dynamics of flight and the lingering affects of Newtons laws. On more than on occasion I was sent ricocheting off the oak railing and sent unceremoniously flying to the bottom of the stairs. As a result of the proverbial uninterrupted morning flight down the narrow stairs that summer, I couldn't feel any sensation in my fingertips, my toes or focus both eyes simultaneously until the fourth grade. Solemnly bound to the ancient rules of rampart warfare, the "last one down" had to "lime the outhouse" at the end of the week. Dire stakes indeed.
I had learned through trial, bruise and lesser laceration, that the only real chance I had at winning against my long legged "uncle" was to cheat..I was fully prepared to administer the culmination of any misdemeanor-ing plan, I could conjure. I had gone as far as inquire about the rusted and unused bear trap that hung as a relic in the back of the tool shed. Reasoning that I couldn't hide it under the braided rug next to his bed so, I sought a different solution. I pondered any and all solutions that would give me an advantage. I watched endlessly as "Wile E Coyote" tugged and strained under the weight of ten ton safes, shot cannons and utilized rocket propelled roller skates to outwit the speedy "Road Runner". I wondered to myself if Roberts store carried an ample selection ACME Bazookas? I would attempt anything that would send Efie, chin over teacup, down the stairwell and allow me to avoid my weekly ritual of liming the outhouse. In fact, my sole reason for living that summer, was to inflict in kind, an ample measure of the abuse I was absorbing. So far, things had not gone according to plan. I needed to watch "Underdog" for inspiration. That Coyote just didn't seem to get it.
But this was not the day of my victory. My Grandmothers silhouette appeared at the bottom of the steps. Her voice barked through darkness at the bottom of the stairs. "What in Sam-hill are you two heathens doing now? Git down them stairs now before I skin you alive" she warned. The memory of her turning a stringer full of Blue-gills into a pan of fillets without breaking a sweat swept through my thoughts. I eased passed her ample hips an nudged my way toward the relative safety of the kitchen. In an instant, the palm of her hand flicked out like a lightning strike. The tips of her fingers caught the back of my head and grazed my scalp. Hmm, near miss. My reflexes were shaping up nicely. Lately it seemed, I had been the lucky recipient of Granny's customary group punishment, hitherto reserved for the "men" of the family. I felt like one of the "boys", I think she was beginning to take a shine to me..
Two steps into my headlong flight to the kitchen I heard a resounding thud. Efie must have juked the wrong way. He absorbed the full measure of Granny's wrath and let out an exaggerated "Owww". Rounding the steps we made a bee-line for the kitchen. Plowing through the doorway I collided abruptly with the remaining Welch clan members as they exited the kitchen ready for the morning's work.
"Morning cow pie" my uncle Larry chortled briskly rubbing the top of my head with his large calloused hand. "LarryDaleWelch" my grandmother shot back instantly from behind me. "Morning peaches" my uncle said in a thick over exaggerated "county twang". "Watch yer lips in my kitchen young man, your not so big I can't peel the hide off your backside" she replied halfheartedly, stifling a smile as the color rose up in her cheeks. Strange and peculiar vestments were afoot at the Welch farm. As far as I could reckon, a new sense of order had pervaded the once ordered and well regulated household. I turned this intriguing turn of events over in my six year old intellect like a fresh piece of horehound candy. It didn't trouble me so much as intrigue me. Unable to grasp subtleties of the Welch family dynamics playing out in early august of 1966, I watched with growing interest as a new temperament and attitude towards her oldest son began to emerge through Granny's all business persona.
"I'm joining the Navy" my Uncle Larry had announced late one warm summer afternoon. I looked up from the black and white television set where some little guy named "Howard" was talking to some fella named "Cash-clay". Except he didn't wanna be called "Cash-Clay" no more. Thoroughly confused, I turned my attention to my Uncle Larry...Why you join'en the Navy? You gonna' be a pirate" I inquired. I had watched him "kick hell outa' the other sea dogs" down at the swimm'en hole. I reckon' he'd make as good a pirate as anyone, so I turned may attention back to "Cash-Clay" and "Howard". "Does ma' know bout this" my uncle Jim asked. "Not yet, but I'm 18 and I been thinking about this all summer. I don't figure I'll stick around and stack horse s*** with you en' Efie my whole life", he pompously announced..My head snapped around as my ears sought out and locked in on my uncles words. With the words "Horse s***" still ringing in my ears I looked up in time to see my Grandmother standing in the doorway of the kitchen wiping her hands on a faded and tattered dish towel. She never moved. She simply stood there silently, unblinking and stoic.
Now, I know I had distinctly heard the words "Horse s***" over "Cash-Clay" yelling at "Howard". I braced for what I knew would be a firework display of Larry-dale being chased around the confines of the living room as Ole' Ahab gave him what for with the palm of her hand. I made it a point edge closer to the sofa.
Nothing....Nothing at all..No words, no talking, nothing.. I know for sure I wasn't suddenly struck deaf, I could still hear "Cash-Clay" yelling at "Howard"....Still nothing. Had I entered some intra-dimensional alternate reality where the laws of cussing in the Welch house had been temporarily suspended? Was I asleep? Maybe I didn't hear it right. Naw, he definitely said "horse s***".
Now "Howard" was talking to some guy named Moo-ham-ed, cept' he looked just like "Cash Clay". I was becoming unbound. Between "Moo-ham-ed" or "Cash-Clay" and "Howard" arguing on TV and the unflinching stare my Granny was inflicting on Larry-Dale, my "Mr Green Jeans" morning had SUDDENLY turned into a "Elmer Fudd afternoon". My world was spinning out of control. Figuring I had nothing to lose I cautiously asked my uncle Larry, "Hey, Uncle Larry did you just say "Horse s***"? A belly laugh erupted from my uncle Bill then quickly throttled down to a muted snicker, finally fizzling out altogether into an uneasy silence. In the background I heard "Moo-ham-ed" telling "Howard" he "was the Greatest"...What was going on? I had just said "Horse s***". Who were these people. Who was Moo-ham-ed? What happened to "Cash-Clay" Time slowed to a crawl and hung suspended upside down. Any and all uncivilized, Moabite barnyard language was not tolerated in the Welch household. Yet within seconds, I had heard and repeated a word that would have otherwise brought out a cake "Dove" faster than salt through a goose..What was going on here? Why was no one speaking? Why was granny not moving. I could find no foothold for my meager logic...Unable to reason through the scene playing out before my diminutive mind, I sought to give life to my voice. I wanted words to right the world again. I wanted words to tame the silence, to tell Moo-ham-ed to shut up!!!!
The words "Pig s***" detonated from my vocal chords.
Bill, unable to stifle a second chance at he-hawing over my new found vocabulary, exploded into an hysterical wave of uncontrolled guffawing. Larry-Dale, catching the spirit, let loose a spontaneous whoop, that echoed my Uncle Jim in a perfect lockstep of thigh slapping, convulsed laughter. Ha! This was my moment. I was in command. The world was righting itself. I was profanity unleashed!!!!
Moo-ham-id was yelling again, My uncles were loosing their collective minds, and the room stopped spinning out of control. My grasp on reality had been upended and I was reveling in it.."I am the greatest, I am the greatest, I am the greatest!!!!!
My Grandmother never spoke a word. She turned silently, without preamble and made her way to the kitchen. The mood in the room swung back to a forced uneasy silence. Shrugging, I turned my attention back to the black and white reality of the 19 inch screen. "Cash-clay", "Moo-ham-ed" and "Howard" were no longer arguing about who was "the greatest". Instead, a man was asking me if I suffered from the burn and itching of hemorrhoidal tissue?
Later that day, I would find my Grandmother standing at the counter of the kitchen sink. Unknown to her, I walked in to find sobbing softly over a half carved stack of carrots. "What's wrong Grandma" I asked breathlessly, "Did you cut yourself. "No child this happens every time I chop green onions" she said without turning around. I slipped out of the kitchen as silently as I had entered, puzzling over her mis-identification of the carrots.
From that day on Grandma and Uncle Larry-Dale seemed to harbor a different feeling for one another. It was an unspoken yet tangible shift that defied my ability to grasp. The mere utterance of the words "Horse s***" had somehow changed the entire atmosphere of the household. Aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors and friends all seemed to drop by unexpected for the rest of the summer. They all hugged and patted my Uncle Larry on the back and told him to write often and buy a camera so he could send pictures back. The rest of the summer, Uncle Larry would eat early breakfast with my Grandfather and hug my grandmother without any good reason. Granny even took to saying "Thank-you" when he would bring water from the well house or carry something heavy to the cellar.
I wasn't there when Uncle Larry Dale "shipped out". I was busy traversing the tribulations of the second grade. I remember my mother and "Aunt Betty" talking about some place my uncle was visiting, someplace called Vietnam. Far I as I could tell it must have been over the other side of Ohio or somewhere else pretty far away.
I have only seen my uncle once since 1966. He is suffering from cancer, brought about from exposure to Agent Orange, during his tour in Vietnam. He currently resides outside of Johnson City Tennessee.
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Jeff:
While I'm older than you by more than a little, your memories bring back the days of my youth. My hair is gone, my eyes are blurry and my joints ache. But, I can still smell the bacon you describe so well!!
You should make a career out of writing... you do it so well and appear to love doing it!!
While I'm older than you by more than a little, your memories bring back the days of my youth. My hair is gone, my eyes are blurry and my joints ache. But, I can still smell the bacon you describe so well!!
You should make a career out of writing... you do it so well and appear to love doing it!!
Chungas Revenge
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Funny isn't it..I had a similar conversation with some old man in my bathroom this AM. I am finding I have less use for a comb, more use for a heating pad I can't read without the glasses.
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Wait until the hair follicles on your head die and the roots start sprouting out of your nose and ears.
I simply let the ear hair grow and combed it over my bald pate, intertwining one side with the other and pasting it down with Pomade.
I donate my nose hair to charities that create wigs for cancer patients... You might consider doing the same...
I simply let the ear hair grow and combed it over my bald pate, intertwining one side with the other and pasting it down with Pomade.
I donate my nose hair to charities that create wigs for cancer patients... You might consider doing the same...
I presume you're familiar with Patrick McManus?
Quite the history, but I must ask.... does this always happen to you when you find a faulty grommet?
Quite the history, but I must ask.... does this always happen to you when you find a faulty grommet?
Chungas Revenge
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That's me!
Chungas Revenge
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:"Real ponies don't go oink" should be required reading. Grommets are optional. But, I do get on a ramble every once in awhile..
Chungas Revenge
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Going to redo my ambi door access panel. It was installed at some point with sheet metals screw's (very loosely installed). Just wondering if sheet metal screws are the standard fastener..?
