It was bound to happen: my car died on me. I know, I'm hurt deeply by it too. Granny's belts slipped up and she couldn't turn, nearly took me with her. As I write this my father is operating on her, trying to get her in running condition so I can get to work. It'll be close.
Me and Granny have shared many memories together, from taking relaxing drives in the country to hunting gophers through rough fields. She's even been shot (no lies). One tough car.
Now I don't know if she's giving up because of the fact that I got a small but burly truck to eventually replace her, or if she just couldn't take the heat. Either way I would dread to see her go this way.
It happened yesterday when I was driving home from Morin Lake. I smelt something burning, so I turned off my air contitioning, and it went away. I turned it on once I hit highway again, merely 5 miles form our house. As I slowed to turn into our approach, I realized that it was extremely hard to turn. I literally threw all my muscle into getting it turned halfway, barrely making the corner. Once I got home I parked her near the shop, and leapt out of the drivers seat, desperate to save my Granny's life. Even with my limited knowledge I knew something was wrong when I saw belts hanging from her underbelly.
Well, there is my story, and I hope she gets better fast. I hope you all feel the same way.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Promise Kept
Well, I finally kept my word: I bought a truck. If you don't already know, it's a 1985 Nissan King Cab, bought from a good friend of our family. In fact, Glenn Gerbrandt used to be the pastor in Mont Nebo, so that's how we know him so well. But anyway, back to the truck.
The truck itself isn't the most pretty thing in the world. It's kinda orange-ish (is that a word?), with little stripes of black down the side. It had more than enough rust, and the passenger side door is actually rusted through! But you can't see through the door because the interior is still intact. It actually has room for 4 people, but that would be very crowded.
Now I imagine some of you are excited with me and want to take a spin in the vehicle. I can't allow you do this however. Now it's not that I hate you or don't want you people contaminating my truck, I have a much better excuse: It shouldn't be driven in its condition.
Yes it runs, but not well. It has major problems that need to be dealt with. It needs a new clutch, muffler, parking brake, speedometer, work on the rear end of some sort, and more than likely another hundred problems. Let me put it this way, if this truck was a human, it would be in sore shape. I picture it as a car crash victim with a busted arm, broken legs, and alot of damaged organs on the inside. Pretty sad shape I'm afraid, but by no means should I give up on the truck. That would be like the doctor taking a look at a patient, saying it's hopeless to do anything and then the doctor walks away. That won't happen with me.
Now, I am again faced with a pretty big dilemma. Just like the Saskatchewan health care system, our shop is backed up. With only one "doctor" on duty, there is alot of work for him. Fist of all the Jetta, which is long term work. It's like open-heart surgery or something. Then their was emergency "patients", like Uncle Rays truck and the work vehicle. My truck will have to wait for at least 3 weeks to even get looked at, which shoots down my plans.
What are my plans you ask? I was planning to fix up my truck before I have to go to Nipawin, and then have a 4 wheel drive vehicle to power myself up their. It's pretty bad in the winter their, alot of snow. Anyway, what would I do with Granny Nesbitt? Well, Granny Nesbitt (my car) would be traded to my sister Klara for her little Tempo and some cash. I would then sell the Tempo, and pocket the money, I want to at least break even, that is my goal.
So I hope that everything goes according to plan, although I hardly think it will. I believe that I will have to have my car for a while in Nipawin, which is sorta unfortunate. However, my truck will be ready for deer season, and that is where it will come in handy most.
The truck itself isn't the most pretty thing in the world. It's kinda orange-ish (is that a word?), with little stripes of black down the side. It had more than enough rust, and the passenger side door is actually rusted through! But you can't see through the door because the interior is still intact. It actually has room for 4 people, but that would be very crowded.
Now I imagine some of you are excited with me and want to take a spin in the vehicle. I can't allow you do this however. Now it's not that I hate you or don't want you people contaminating my truck, I have a much better excuse: It shouldn't be driven in its condition.
Yes it runs, but not well. It has major problems that need to be dealt with. It needs a new clutch, muffler, parking brake, speedometer, work on the rear end of some sort, and more than likely another hundred problems. Let me put it this way, if this truck was a human, it would be in sore shape. I picture it as a car crash victim with a busted arm, broken legs, and alot of damaged organs on the inside. Pretty sad shape I'm afraid, but by no means should I give up on the truck. That would be like the doctor taking a look at a patient, saying it's hopeless to do anything and then the doctor walks away. That won't happen with me.
Now, I am again faced with a pretty big dilemma. Just like the Saskatchewan health care system, our shop is backed up. With only one "doctor" on duty, there is alot of work for him. Fist of all the Jetta, which is long term work. It's like open-heart surgery or something. Then their was emergency "patients", like Uncle Rays truck and the work vehicle. My truck will have to wait for at least 3 weeks to even get looked at, which shoots down my plans.
What are my plans you ask? I was planning to fix up my truck before I have to go to Nipawin, and then have a 4 wheel drive vehicle to power myself up their. It's pretty bad in the winter their, alot of snow. Anyway, what would I do with Granny Nesbitt? Well, Granny Nesbitt (my car) would be traded to my sister Klara for her little Tempo and some cash. I would then sell the Tempo, and pocket the money, I want to at least break even, that is my goal.
So I hope that everything goes according to plan, although I hardly think it will. I believe that I will have to have my car for a while in Nipawin, which is sorta unfortunate. However, my truck will be ready for deer season, and that is where it will come in handy most.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
A Long Haul
Another interesting day in my life. As I was outside cutting grass by myself, just being the good kind of son that I am, I got a phone-call. Of course, I can't hear the phone because I am outside and I am sitting on top of a huge lawnmower. Well, she must have called our neighbours next because as I was ripping around the spinning swing thing at the back of the house, Linda came into view around the corner. I nearly died of fright as I was home alone and I wasn't expecting anyone to be around.
Anyways, she came over to tell me that my mom was trying to get ahold of me. "Ohhh, big deal" I said, "she can wait until I'm done". However, Linda then tells me that mom broke down in the city, and she needed me to come and get her. I went and parked the lawnmower, went inside to pretty myself up a bit, then I hopped in my car and headed off into Prince Albert.
After I got in, I had to try to find my auntie and uncle's house. "No problem" I thought, just turn down that one street that mom told me go down. About 30 minutes later I found the house, which was supposedly there when I drove by it the first time. Quite frankly I don't believe it, but that's the story they are sticking to.
So I walk into the house, and was confronted immediately by mom. She told me to give me my keys and go home with the tow truck driver. "Great" I thought to myself, "I drive 1 hour to the city, spend 30 minutes trying to find an invisible house and then go home with some dude I don't know". Good grief, eh?
However, I hopped into the tow truck and spent another hour in a noisy truck with a silent driver. When we got home he put the car right into the shop, must be a veteran. Of course, there is no rest for the weary, I got straight back on the lawnmower and cut for another hour or so.
As of right now we still have no clue what in the world is wrong that car, stupid Jetta's, foreign rice burners they are. Get a good North American vehicle, it will last a lot longer.
Anyways, she came over to tell me that my mom was trying to get ahold of me. "Ohhh, big deal" I said, "she can wait until I'm done". However, Linda then tells me that mom broke down in the city, and she needed me to come and get her. I went and parked the lawnmower, went inside to pretty myself up a bit, then I hopped in my car and headed off into Prince Albert.
After I got in, I had to try to find my auntie and uncle's house. "No problem" I thought, just turn down that one street that mom told me go down. About 30 minutes later I found the house, which was supposedly there when I drove by it the first time. Quite frankly I don't believe it, but that's the story they are sticking to.
So I walk into the house, and was confronted immediately by mom. She told me to give me my keys and go home with the tow truck driver. "Great" I thought to myself, "I drive 1 hour to the city, spend 30 minutes trying to find an invisible house and then go home with some dude I don't know". Good grief, eh?
However, I hopped into the tow truck and spent another hour in a noisy truck with a silent driver. When we got home he put the car right into the shop, must be a veteran. Of course, there is no rest for the weary, I got straight back on the lawnmower and cut for another hour or so.
As of right now we still have no clue what in the world is wrong that car, stupid Jetta's, foreign rice burners they are. Get a good North American vehicle, it will last a lot longer.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
When I grow up......
Well, another bear season has come and gone without me even seeing one. A huge disapointment, but I suppose I could have went out more then I did. Kinda lazy I am. But it gets expensive after a while, driving there and back. Anyways, there is the end of August and beginning of September yet.
But as I sulk about my unfortunate luck I remember the good old hunting days. Yes, even before I could hunt. I would wait for the beginning of hunting season like I would wait for Christmas, not being able to sleep and all. My dad wouldn't hunt alone of course, he had his usual bunch of guys that came up. Uncle Phil, Uncle Ray, Uncle Glenn (who isn't my uncle at all, but he was the local pastor and he came over about 6 days a week, so he was considered an uncle), Mike, Paul, and sometimes people like Will and Ken would come up.
Anyway, they would all come the night before and plan for their escapades in the morning. I hovered around like a moth to light, mainly keeping my mouth shut and learning the abundant knowledge that oozed from their mouths. I watched them point out random spots on the maps they had spread across the table, discussing times and places of interests. They would then talk about "pushing bush", a term that I loved to use when talking to my minor hunting pals at school. Then, after all plans would be made, the visitors would head downstairs and sleep in the woodroom.
After I would get home from school on opening day, I would throw my backpack inside and run off to the shop, desperately hoping a monster buck would be lying in the shop. Most of the time there would be three or four, but usually no monsters. After the end of the day, they would come in and eat supper before those who lived farther away, such as Uncle Phil and his friends, would go home. I sat and listened intently to the stories of the day, like the deer that ran past the posters during a push.
Among some of the more interesting stories I heard was the one about Uncle Phil and the buck that almost was. Uncle Phil was hunting and he saw a buck and let off a few rounds, then followed a blood trail for goodness knows how long. He eventually found the buck, and he then began to gut it out. When he was done, he was just starting to notch his tags when two other hunters pulled up. There they claimed the deer as their own, telling Uncle Phil that they had shot it but had forgotten their tags. They then had to go home and grab their tags, so Uncle Phil, being to kind person he is (he was also outnumbered by armed men).
Meanwhile, all the hunters that had returned home were gathered around the shop, when we (as in the hunters and myself) heard several quick gunshots. These were followed by more, until it started to sound like a war. I think we counted 13 or 14 gunshots within the minute. My Uncle Ray was cracking jokes about how it was probably Uncle Phil, as he is infamous for his ability to get running deer to go faster. I think that that image has dimished over the years, as I remember him nailing two running deer with three shots one year. Dropped them about 100 yards from each other.
Anyway, we all waited until a weary and depressed Uncle Phil walked into view. Immediately the group of hunters rattled off dry remarks, asking him if he had to come back for more shells and what not. To everones surprise he to them he hadn't fired off one of those shots, and then related the heartbreaking story to us.
Of course there are many, many more stories for other days, but this shall do for right now.
But as I sulk about my unfortunate luck I remember the good old hunting days. Yes, even before I could hunt. I would wait for the beginning of hunting season like I would wait for Christmas, not being able to sleep and all. My dad wouldn't hunt alone of course, he had his usual bunch of guys that came up. Uncle Phil, Uncle Ray, Uncle Glenn (who isn't my uncle at all, but he was the local pastor and he came over about 6 days a week, so he was considered an uncle), Mike, Paul, and sometimes people like Will and Ken would come up.
Anyway, they would all come the night before and plan for their escapades in the morning. I hovered around like a moth to light, mainly keeping my mouth shut and learning the abundant knowledge that oozed from their mouths. I watched them point out random spots on the maps they had spread across the table, discussing times and places of interests. They would then talk about "pushing bush", a term that I loved to use when talking to my minor hunting pals at school. Then, after all plans would be made, the visitors would head downstairs and sleep in the woodroom.
After I would get home from school on opening day, I would throw my backpack inside and run off to the shop, desperately hoping a monster buck would be lying in the shop. Most of the time there would be three or four, but usually no monsters. After the end of the day, they would come in and eat supper before those who lived farther away, such as Uncle Phil and his friends, would go home. I sat and listened intently to the stories of the day, like the deer that ran past the posters during a push.
Among some of the more interesting stories I heard was the one about Uncle Phil and the buck that almost was. Uncle Phil was hunting and he saw a buck and let off a few rounds, then followed a blood trail for goodness knows how long. He eventually found the buck, and he then began to gut it out. When he was done, he was just starting to notch his tags when two other hunters pulled up. There they claimed the deer as their own, telling Uncle Phil that they had shot it but had forgotten their tags. They then had to go home and grab their tags, so Uncle Phil, being to kind person he is (he was also outnumbered by armed men).
Meanwhile, all the hunters that had returned home were gathered around the shop, when we (as in the hunters and myself) heard several quick gunshots. These were followed by more, until it started to sound like a war. I think we counted 13 or 14 gunshots within the minute. My Uncle Ray was cracking jokes about how it was probably Uncle Phil, as he is infamous for his ability to get running deer to go faster. I think that that image has dimished over the years, as I remember him nailing two running deer with three shots one year. Dropped them about 100 yards from each other.
Anyway, we all waited until a weary and depressed Uncle Phil walked into view. Immediately the group of hunters rattled off dry remarks, asking him if he had to come back for more shells and what not. To everones surprise he to them he hadn't fired off one of those shots, and then related the heartbreaking story to us.
Of course there are many, many more stories for other days, but this shall do for right now.
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