Fresh Air and Exercise
There are many types of mushrooms that grow wild, but by far the most popular ones to go after by both amateur and professional mycologist is the morel. They are both easy to identify and delicious. In January, people will start posting lies about having found some in a sunny spot in the timber on a southern slope. This is only an attempt to get people to pointlessly walk around the timber on a cold winter day. Morels do not grow until the ground temperature is above fifty degrees. In our area of southern Iowa, this usually occurs around mid-April. It is pointless and frustrating to hunt much earlier than that. I usually wait until I receive a report of morels being found by a reliable source before I go in search of the tasty morsels. Until that time, if anyone asks, I am looking for shed antlers. I would not want people to think I am walking around in the timber looking for something that is not there.
On Saturday, a friend of
ours, Pat, found one of the smallest morel mushrooms I have ever seen. I would not have spotted it if I had known it was there. I am not sure how he happened to see it out in the timber. They are the same color as the leaves that litter the forest floor and are usually tucked away under a rose bush or under a fallen branch. I think they grow in hard-to-reach places so the deer and turkey do not get them. Any that grow out in the open are eaten by wildlife as soon as they pop up. Sunday was a bit warmer so my wife and I decided to check the timber to see if we could find any mushrooms. While getting ready to leave, we were getting the sad eyes routine from Billie, the poodle. He knew we were going to do something fun and wanted to be a part of it. We were well aware, after a few hours of hunting and running free, he would come back desperately in need of a bath and brushing. Some days a person just needs to let a
dog be a dog. When we said, “ok, you can go,” he and his short friend, Jag, the terrier, headed out, leading to where they knew we were going to go.
My wife and I searched diligently on the south facing slopes of hills and creek banks. We looked around dead elm trees and under maples. We looked everywhere morels were supposed to grow. I think it is just a few days too early for morels to really pop as we did not find a single mushroom.
In the meantime, Jag and Billie were hunting on their own. Billie was digging up mole trails and Jag was tracking rabbits. They would occasionally go to the nearest stream or pond to get a drink and a quick cooling wade in the water. After a couple of hours running and hunting to their heart’s content, both dogs were wearing down. Jag came back to the Ranger, jumped up on the seat, and went to sleep. Billie was not ready to quit but was hunting at a slower pace.
On the way home, Billie still
wanted to run while filthy little Jag was ready for a ride. All of our hunting resulted in no rabbits, moles, or mushrooms, but we all got plenty of fresh air and exercise.
After giving Billie a bath and thorough brushing, everybody was ready to sit for a while.
Flat Tires
The first time I changed a flat tire, it was on my sister Barbara’s car. We had been working at the Runway Café, at the Ottumwa Airport; Barb managed the café for my parents, and I worked for her. Barb was going to run to the bank to get change. It was cold outside so she went to start her car to let it warm up. She came back inside with a frustrated look on her face. “My car has a flat tire,” she said. “Can you go change it for me?”
I was only 15 years-old at the time.
“I’ve never changed a flat tire, but I’ve seen it done before,” I said. “I’ll bet I can figure it out.” Barbara drove a 1971 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight; a big, twodoor luxury car. (AKA a boat!)
Johnny Watts, the airport maintenance man sat in his truck just a with one parking space between us. He had the motor running to stay warm, and poured a cup of coffee from his thermos. He rolled down his window when I walked up. “Would you want to help me change a flat tire,” I asked him.
“No,” he answered blatantly. “It’s cold out there. Why would I want to get out of my warm truck to help you change a tire when I just poured a cup of coffee?”
I knew Johnny from the café and we joked and teased each other, but I was pretty sure he was serious when he said no. Instead, he sat in his truck and watched me.
I opened the trunk and pulled out the bumper jack; I fumbled around until I figured out how it went together. I put the jack on the bumper, and the tire iron in the in the jackhead, then started cranking, but the jack wouldn’t
go up. Johnny rolled down his window. “There’s a little switch on the side of the jack; the one that says ‘Up’ and ‘Down.’ Switch it to the up position. I did, and the jack start raising the car.
I had the jack too close to the center of the car, which pretty much lifted both rear tires off the ground; that was fine with me, at least the flat was in the air. I used the flat end of the tire iron to pop the hubcap loose, then put the other end on the lug nuts to loosen them. They were really tight, and did not want to come lose. Johnny rolled down his window. “You’re turning the nuts the wrong way,” he said. “It’s lefty loosie, righty tightie.” Then, he rolled up his window and watched.
I think he was laughing at me as I was pushing down on the tire iron with everything I had, but the nuts didn’t want to come lose. Finally, I moved to a different lug nut so I was pulling up on the tire iron. The nut was finally coming lose – or so I thought. It felt like I was lifting the whole car, but something was definitely moving.
“Crap!” I jumped away as indeed the car itself was moving. I rock the car too much and it fell off the jack! Johnny rolled down his window. “You’re supposed to loosen the lug nuts before you raise the car.” Then he rolled up his window and continued watching, but he wasn’t the only one watching.
Barbara was inside the café watching me out the front door, and she saw the car fall off the jack. She came running outside. “Are you okay,” she asked. I told her I was,
then she started in on me; “I thought you said you knew how to change a tire. You better not have hurt my car; you’re going to pay for this….” As she continued to carry on, I thought to myself, I should have told her I was hurt.
Barb walked over to Johnny who was watching me get chewed out with sadistic glee. “Can you change a flat tire for me, Johnny,” she asked.
“Sure,” he answered. He took another sip of coffee, set his thermos cup on the dashboard, then got out of his truck. “No problem at all, Barb,” he said, smiling. Then he took the tire iron from me, his smile turned to a gloating grin, “Give me that before you hurt yourself or break something.”
Johnny looked at Barbara and said, “Why don’t you go inside where it’s warm.” Then still talking to my sister, he looked at me and said, “You should never send a little boy to do a man’s job.”
When Barb went inside, Johnny went to work changing the tire. He explained what he was doing, and why. “You always loosen the lug nuts before you lift the car, otherwise you could rock the car enough to make it fall off the jack.” He was having fun teasing me as he worked. When he was done changing the tire, I had a question.
“Why did you tell Barb you would change her tire,” I questioned, “But when I asked you to help me, you said no,”
“Because your sister is
(Just the Other Day cont’d from pg 3) a pretty girl, and you’re ugly,” Johnny laughed. “Beside Barb is nice to me, and you’re a little smart-aleck!” Then he raised an eyebrow and looked down at me, “I’ll bet you thought I forgot about you putting salt in my coffee when I came to get my thermos refilled last week, didn’t you?”
Actually, I had forgotten, but we ended up sharing a good laugh about that. When it was all said and done, Johnny Watts taught me how to change a flat tire, and thus my career as a tire changer began.
I’m not sure it was the first time I changed a flat tire by myself, but it was a tire change I’ll always remember; because it was quite embarrassing.
I had a 1974 Chevy Nova with a 350 V-8 motor, more than enough power for that car. I was doing a burn out in front of the Vocational Building on Gateway Drive, to impress some friends in my auto-mechanics class. Naturally, I was power braking to get extra squeal and smoke from the tires. Unfortunately, this was not the first time I had done such a thing; in the cloud of billowing smoke my tire blew out and shredded. Ken Corbett, the auto mechanic’s instructor was standing on the dock watching me.
After the bell rang, we all took our seats in the classroom and our teacher took attendance. “Does
anyone have a project they need to work on today,” Mr. Corbett asked. I raised my hand. “What have you got, Palen?”
“I need to change a flat tire on my car,” I said.
“This wouldn’t have anything to do with that stupid stunt you pulled in front of the school building at lunch now, would it Mr. Palen?” Corbett was on to me, and the lecture began. “You’ll have to go out and change the tire in the parking lot before you can pull your car into the
shop,” he said. I explain the tire was ruined, so I could just drive it in on the flat. “And take a chance on damaging your rim,” Mr. Corbett said. “I don’t think so. Go change the tire. Do you have a spare, or did you burn that out, too?”
After changing the tire, I pulled my Nova into the shop where Mr. Corbett, inspected the tires with me. “You’re going to need four new tires,” he said. Gulp!
“I was just going to run
on the spare for now,” I explained. (I was a high school kid with limited/no funds.)
Mr. Corbett said, “You have steel belts showing on your other rear tire, probably from doing burnouts, and your front tires are bald.” Then showing me where the spare tire was wearing thin on both edges, he said, “That’s from running a tire underinflated.” Is the first time you’ve changed tires on this jalopy?” I told him it was and he started laughing. “Well, I ‘spect when you have to buy your own tires you might think twice about power-braking, Mr. Wisenheimer.”
I tried to reason with him, but Mr. Corbett was firm, “Those tires are not safe. That car is not leaving this shop on those tires. Period!” Then he told me to go makes some calls to price new tires. “Make sure you tell them you’re in the high school auto mechanic’s class,” Mr. Corbett said. “You’ll get the school’s discount.”
“They want $140.00 for four tires,” I reported. Mr. Corbett wasn’t surprised at all.
“Well, did you order
them, or will you be riding the school bus home tonight?” Heaven forbid a high school senior who owns his own car, should ride the bus! “Look at the bright side,” Mr. Corbett said. “You can mount and balance the tires here in the shop, and that will save you seven bucks a wheel.” I ordered the tires and mounted them on my car the same day. I couldn’t believe how much nicer my Chevy rode on a new set of skins!
The next day at school, I was doing a burn out in front of the Vocational Building to impress some friends in my auto-mechanics class. I couldn’t believe how much more smoke came off a set of new rubber. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice Mr. Corbett standing on the dock in front of the school.
After the bell rang, we all took our seat in the classroom and our teacher took attendance. Mr. Corbett looked at me sternly. “Are you a slow learner, or were you just born stupid?” And then, the lecture began.