Tolerating Change

A number of times in my life I've had the experience of coming home and opening the front door only to have the horrible feeling that I'm breaking into someone else's place. The chairs aren't where they're supposed to be, the couch is facing the opposite direction from its position only 9 or 10 hours ago, the TV is momentarily lost altogether, and the lamps seem to be on all at once for no apparent reason. A lingering air of dust and sweat completes the strangeness of the new atmosphere. I stare in consternation until I am at last able to recognize a few familiar things which have always belonged in my world and are therefore sure signs that I have not entered the wrong house.

If the date is somewhere between 1957 and 1969, I'll hear my mother's voice asking me to put my books away and help her shove a couch or bookshelf a little further into its new place. If the day has fried my brain too much, I'll slip up and ask something dangerous like, Why did you do all this?" If I ask this between 1975 and 1992, the response will probably be " 'M'on, Mims! It's fun!" "What's fun?" "Change, Mims! Making things seem new!" "Oh. Uh, huh."

If I have stumbled into the scene between 1992 and 1999, the answer will be "Hi, Honey! Guess what Bruce Benson and I found under the carpet. Red oak!" That alone was sufficient to cancel all other plans until the last coat finished drying about a week later. True, the floor was gorgeous, but I was exhausted and the lady next door had become infected with the desire to do the same thing. This left me feeling oddly guilty for her husband, Red, who was a truly nice guy and deserved a little time to sit in front of the tube and watch sports.

These days, the change might be announced with the pitiful tones of "Help me!" coming from another room. These words are spoken by one who knows perfectly well that I'm writing something on the computer or loading cartridges in the garage or deeply involved in a program on the History or Sci Fi channel. But there is nothing sacrosanct about a man's hobbies. Men are just overgrown children, anyway, and they have to be taught constantly that what is important to them is, by definition, not really important.

I learned the other day that our car needs to be replaced. This came as a great shock to me. I still think of it as a relatively new car. It is paid for, since we got it by trading the first Dodge Magnum of all time straight across for the little Neon which Dodge said was painted "Orange Blast." It had seven miles on it, a standard transmission with five forward speeds, and better visibility than the Magnum for which I had written a check of total payment about 4 months before. The Neon got great mileage, the chief reason we had decided not to keep the Magnum. We were just finishing up our world record race through my one-lump retirement package, and, since the Neon was new, I thought I wouldn't have to even think about buying another car for about ten years. I smiled a lot.

Our tires are, admittedly, shot. Our brakes need work. The starter is making a funny little sound, although it still starts the car with absolute fidelity. On the basis of all this, I am told we need a new car. Personages of no less note than the bishop and the father-in-law have joined in the chorus. So I guess we'll be getting a new(ish) car.

We have been looking at the Subaru Outback and the Mercury Mariner and a few others of that general ilk. I have never tolerated change well. Changing girlfriends back in my single days was terribly traumatic to me. Changing wives is a torment which has been inflicted on me twice. I did not handle the process well either time. Indeed, the first time, I would much rather have been shot. The second time wasn't much better, because, in addition to losing a companion, I was losing the frequent companionship of a tiny and much-loved son. All these experiences have made me less, not more, a fan of change. The only time I don't mind change is when it means getting something new without losing something old or familiar.

For example, I have rifles in four calibers right now. I could be reasonably happy with these four for the rest of my life, but I could be deliriously happy if I were able to add just a few more. See? Not change. Just addition. That's the best way to go.

A Non-Hobbyists's View of Cars

Muzzle velocity, ballistic co-efficient, terminal velocity, interior ballistics, exterior ballistics, sectional density, magazine, chamber, bolt face, crane, forcing cone, rolling block, falling block, standing block, cast-off, lock, stock, barrel, boat-tail, meplat, hard cast, jacketed, FMJ, HP, FP, Ballistic Tip, Silver Tip, Model 70, Model 700, Model 77, Model 94, Model 95, Mauser, Mannlicher, Steyr, Czeska-Zbrojovka, Pietro Beretta, Eliphalet Remington, Oliver Winchester, Sam Colt, Savage 110, head space, John Moses Browning, Enfield, Springfield, .45-70 Government, .30'06, .270, 6.5 x 55, 7.62x54R, 7.65 x 53, 7 x 57, 8 x 57, belted magnum, .17 HMR, .22 LR, .22 WMR, shotshell, rimmed, rimless, rebated rim, and gas operated.

There! That ought to hold you. I know that you'll miss dreadfully all the usual firearms gibberish in this post, so I provided some for you right up front.

Since I know as little about cars as anyone, and since the First Amendment has not (yet) been repealed, I thought I would lay a little car talk on you. They really aren't that much different, you know, cars and guns. Both were major strides forward in world technology, both have been used to destroy countless human beings and animals, both have changed the face of warfare, and both are constantly indispensable in civilized society. Both lend an unmistakable air of freedom and independence to their owners. Both can be status symbols, depending on their age, their capabilities, the quality of their construction, or the name which is stamped on them.

My first car was a 1968 Volvo 1800S. I can't immediately locate a picture of it, but some of you recall it from when Jacob called it "the baby car." That was at about the time of Shayne's advent to the family. I bought it, because the Air Force Credit Union turned me down for a loan on a fully restored and gorgeous little Austin-Healy "Bug-eye" Sprite. It was too old, they said, having been made in England in 1960 (when I was nine.) The Volvo Sport Coupe, however, although it was in fairly good working condition, was only a 1968, so the AFCU decided they could take a chance on that one.

I spent lots of money repairing and maintaining it, not because it was a poorly made car, far from it, but because I was giving it a year's worth of use every couple of months. The fact that I had been transferred from the Presidio of Monterey (about 20 minutes from Shayne's house) to George Air Force Base (7 1/2 hours from Shayne's house) meant very little to me. She had to be visited at least every other weekend. I was certain of that. And so, the little Volvo had many, many miles put on it on freeways like I-5 and the 101. It also spent lots of time on two-lane highways like California 198 and Palmdale Road. When Shayne and I were in it, the Volvo logged lots of time in Monterey, Salinas, Castroville, and Moss Landing. It drove down Cannery Row innumerable times, and was parked as close as we could get it to the beach at Carmel-by-the-Sea. Naturally, we were more careful about that after Clint Eastwood became mayor there.

I once had a close friend who shared my love of various things such as firearms, airplanes, formula one racing cars, sports cars, history, and the LDS Church. His name was Rusty Black. Rusty was good to us in many ways, one of which truly touched our hearts. The second time we lived in Moscow, Joseph became briefly airborne while swinging with the Jimenez kids. The flight was OK, but the landing left much to be desired. During our boy's six weeks in traction, Rusty came up to the hospital many times with bags full of books to distract Joseph from the immobility which was driving him to distraction. I thought that Rusty knew more about cars than anyone I ever knew. And he did, at least until I met his little brother after Rusty's death from cancer. Kevin Black is a walking research engine (We used to say encyclopaedia there, but this seems more appropriate now, don't you think?) on the history, lore, and racing of cars. Oddly enough, he is now married to the same Sister Jimenez who so generously helped us with just about everything during both our tours in Moscow.

If I were anything like Kevin Black, I could tell you all the good and bad points about every car ever produced. As it is, I can only have a conversation with him if he patiently pulls me along, describing the history and technical philosophy of every car and car maker that has ever existed. When I offer a humble comment, after much thought and trepidation, he is always very kind in the way he corrects me, and he must almost always correct me on something. Only on guns can I keep up with him.

My ignorance of the subject notwithstanding, I still like cars and even love some of them. As the old expression goes, "I may not know art, but I know what I like." That's how I feel about cars. Here are a few I've photographed in the last couple of years.

I was particularly pleased with the results of this photograph since I'd taken it and several of these first ones with my phone.

Guess what name the Chrysler Corp. came up with for this color!

This poor little thing was the first car imported to America

by BMW after WW II.

Perhaps someone would be good enough to write in and tell me what the heck that thing is above the passenger side window.

The Chrysler Imperial had much in common with World War II Aircraft carriers.

You've probably noticed my weakness for cool "kit cars."

The DeSoto. Quite a story there, I understand.

In my teens, many cars were shaped generally like this. Today I find them terribly nostalgic.

Just plain cool. But not plain.

In my twenties, I knew a lot about cars like this.

I think this was the very first model of Corvette.

When I was in grade school, new cars looked generally like this.

That's all for now. I might find more pictures later.

Pocatello's Pioneer Day Parade - A Bit Early

A Target of Opportunity

It had been many years since I attended a Pioneer Day celebration. This one was six days early, but what the heck! The weather was right' the participants seemed to be in the spirit of the thing, and there were things and people of beauty as far as the eye could see. The fact that I had to take these pictures with my phone and then edit them on the computer hours later didn't seem to ruin the overall effect.

The young woman in the yellow who is holding a 5 year old in green is Samantha, daughter of Larry and Wanda Wilde. Larry is one of Sheryl's siblings. Samantha just came home from more than a year as an air traffic controller in Iraq. After this period of leave, it looks like she'll be sent back over there. The kids these days call it being sent "down range." It's a horrid but very apt expression. Down range, after all, is where the bullets impact. Already she has lost friends and co-workers over there. Britney, her 5 year old, hasn't seen her in about a year. She tends to cling to her mom, which seems entirely appropriate to us.

All the cars except the T-bird on top were in today's parade. The T-bird I took as a target of opportunity while walking home last Monday from cleaning up the church building we use. Those T-birds from the early sixties are my idea of what a car should look like. Well, anyway, one of my ideas.