TRUCKING THROUGH ACE HARDWARE

I am babysitting at a house with a temperamental door lock. Thankfully, it's not the tumbler, because that would require more work than I am willing to expend and would definitely exceed my limited mechanical ability. No, it's actually the key mechanism that seems to be faulty. The key needs to be fed carefully, slowly, and with some wiggling akin to the fine art of safecracking or transporting nitroglycerin. To get the key back out again requires the strength of an Olympic powerlifter and the finesse of a brain surgeon.

I know graphite can help ease sticky locks, so I search around the premises for pencils. Not finding any, I have a mechanical pencil with me, so I give it my best shot, but, let's be serious here, folks -- that tiny, breakable piece of make-believe graphite isn't going to solve the problems of the world. I need the real stuff. The Ace Hardware stuff. The powdered graphite that dreams are made of. 

The problem is that my tube of graphite is at home, twenty miles away, in a plastic bin sitting inside a storage bench that is my workshop. I currently live without a basement or garage, so a large ottoman houses all of the tools I own (which are more tools than any uncoordinated person should own, and, by the way, why in the name of all things sane might I need a drywall saw?). In addition to this minor inconvenience, I am in Maine when I remember that I need to go to the hardware store.

My sister, who is more than willing to go on this adventure with me, shows me a spray graphite that she has stored in her garage. She tells me to borrow it, but, if I know me, I'll either lose the cannister or simply forget to return it. Plus, I really want the tube of graphite because I know the dry stuff works.

So, off we go to the local hardware store in southern Maine. (Not to make it sound like Maine has limited hardware stores. Just adding color to the commentary.) I am in search of lock-fixing magic. I grab a few other things that I need before buckling down to find the intended items. 

This explains how I come across something that fascinates me and brings me decades into the past: an old-fashioned kid's pedal truck.

Oh, sure. It's not your Barbie car or your PowerWheel or any of that mamby-pamby battery-operated crap. This isn't a toy for wussies. This is the thing of memories and sweat. If a child wants this truck to go, that kid needs leg power. Leg power and a coordinated steering frenzy, and hugely determined muscles to go up the teeniest incline, as well as nerves of steel when the damn thing picks up break-neck speed on any downgrades. If you think a loaded eighteen-wheeler losing it's brakes on hill is terrifying, then you've never been set loose on a runaway pedal car careening the downgrade to your doom and imminent death, not to mention guaranteed road rash.

Ahhhh, this is a Jean Shepard moment, a thrill akin to that Daisy Red Ryder Model 1938 steel smooth bore barrel 650 shot capacity BB rifle from A Christmas Story.  I turn a corner and find a second red push-pedal truck. Good gravy, it's like childhood nirvana! All we need now is Captain Kangaroo to jump from behind the cash register and tell us to jump into our little red trucks, shouting, "Get out there and help Mr. Green Jeans, you lazy little squeakers!"

I do eventually find and buy a tube of powdered graphite and a small cannister of the spray graphite-WD40 mixture. Better yet, I remember to bring them the next time I babysit. Best news of all, the dang stuff actually works like a charm. I don't worry about snapping the key off in the vise-grip lock any longer. 

I get to unlock my childhood and that silly door all thanks to Ace Hardware. 

SUMMER PUMPKIN ALE

This summer has sucked

Unless you like rain.

My basil plants don't -

They view storms with disdain.

When it's not raining,

Quite rare through these days,

It's hotter than blazes,

Cooking brains into haze.

It's reaching the point

Where we all pray for fall

Because summer has passed 

Without summer at all.

I've been to the pool,

And I've hit the beach twice.

Generally speaking,

The weather's not nice.

But autumn is coming,

Maybe rain's in the rear.

Time for sangria

To change into beer.

So as summer wanes,

Let us all lick our chops

Because now's the time for

Those pumpkin-soaked hops.

That's right! There! I said it!

May the sun strike me dead --

Because Wednesday I drank

My first fall Pumpkinhead.

Now it's official!

Sucky summer shall fail!

We've broken it out:

Pumpkin spiced ale!

DUCK, DUCK, FOOT

I am enjoying a few days of relaxation and recharging with family on Paugus Bay in New Hampshire. Even though it's still considered in-season, the place isn't too crowded. Of course, we are having the worst weather of any recent summer. It has been raining -- downpouring -- off and on since May. It is hard to fathom that there could be any more moisture whatsoever in the sky. This weather may mean less people on the shore, but it does mean more ducks.

That's right; I said it: DUCKS.

They are everywhere. To top it off, the ducks are bold and cavalier. They are also cheeky and forward. They come right up to people and stand there, doing the duck equivalent of webbed-foot stomping, completely ignoring the fact that humans could trip over one and send it to the Duck Morgue. 

I do my best to shoo these feathered demons away. I'm sitting in a beach chair, trying to read, and watching the fiends come closer to my toes. The tenacity needed to ward off the ducks is nearly as strong as their tenacity to bother people. This may well end in a standoff.

Later, I am sitting in a tall bar chair on the outside deck, enjoying lunch and a beverage with family and friends. My feet, crossed at the ankles and perched on a chair rung, seem safe from mallard marauders. Until, that is, up to the moment that one of those ducks nips at my left heel. 

I yelp a little and pull my legs toward my sternum. It doesn't really hurt, but it's darn irritating. I spend the next few days keeping my appendages close to my inner core. I am on constant vigil while reading, while at the tiki bar, and, to be honest, everywhere except inside my room at the inn.

Look, folks. If something is going to be doing any foot nibbling, I'd prefer a little polite conversation, possibly dinner, first.

MARTY MAGNET

I am in Stop & Shop, trying to find something at the bakery and also waiting for a wine tasting to start. I am minding my own business in the small floor space between the brownies and the cookies when all of a sudden Marty appears.

For those of you unfamiliar with Marty, it is a large, tube-like robot that roams around the store. No one is quite sure what it does, but whenever I am in the store, Marty follows me around like it is obsessed with my rear-end. And no, for the love of all things sane, I am well-past the age of having what one might consider a "nice ass." 

I am a Marty Magnet.

I am basically trapped by Marty in the bakery. No one else is around because it's a quiet store anyway, and the bakery staff has gone home. I wait patiently for Marty to pass, then I wrongly assume Marty will continue on its route around the store. I let my guard down and move past the cookies to the cupcake display, completely oblivious to everything except buying dessert for a meeting, and making a quick stop at the wine tasting.

My hands leave the grocery cart, and I balance a package of frosted brownies in one hand, and a box of Hershey chocolate chip cookies in the other while bending over to check out the prices and selection of cupcake treats when suddenly I sense a presence quite literally at my left butt cheek.

Damnation and crap on a cracker! It's Marty!

I shoo Marty away, as if it will listen to me, throw items into my cart, and attempt to move past the robot. I finally make a get-away but have to escape in the wrong direction. Instead of approaching the check-out area and the wine tasting, I am now somewhere in frozen food and heading toward eggs and cheese.

Peering around every corner, I finally get my items into a bag and proceed to the alcohol and beverage section of the store. I love wine tastings because it gives me a chance to be social with other people, some of whom know much more about wine than I ever could, and it's fun to be educated while sipping tasty samples. 

Many of us at the table know each other by sight as we run in the same wine tasting circuit, so we are laughing and sampling and telling stories. I decide to tell them about my bakery encounter with Marty. Everyone chuckles as I say, "I swear someone is in the upstairs office with a joystick, controlling that robot so it follows me everywhere."

Suddenly, my friend nudges her husband as her eyes widen. No sooner have the words left my mouth when sneaking right up behind me, close enough to pinch my fat tush, rolls Marty.  I practically spill the wine, which would be a bloody shame because it's a Chianti Classico and mighty tasty. Instead, I turn, look Marty in its make-believe eyes, and sigh. 

Really, dude? Seriously? But, that's not the strangest part.

As soon as Marty passes, it heads to its docking station, between the wine tasting and the exit. Marty just stops there, facing me at a distance of about five yards. The people at the wine tasting turn to me and voice exactly what I am thinking: Marty is waiting for me and will attack me on my way out of the store.

I won't lie. As soon as I am done shopping, I look right at Marty, make sure the coast is clear of humans, and run the carriage toward the automatic doors. No, I do not return my carriage to the inside of the store. I leave it outside on the sidewalk near the store entrance. And no, I do not look up at the door when I roll the carriage over there. I am truly afraid I will see Marty staring out at me, plotting for the next time it sees me, and waiting for me with true Hitchcock-ian evil in its robot heart.