Steve: Today’s Special Guest Blogger

Last week, I posted this series of Scary Steve Shots.







I asked you to guess what you thought he was doing and we were very entertained by the following guesses:

• Margie: Maybe that was a car stethoscope & he's going to check the hearts of the cars!
• Jenna: As to what Steve is doing, I have no clue. My best guess is he was smiling brightly while posing for a photo  of him fixing your vehicle. Then, without warning a gigantic bee flew on his leg, terrorizing him and causing him to shriek out and contort his face- just as you snapped the photo!
• Deb: My guess is that they are air conditioning hoses for the car. That of course would explain the face, he was warm! 
• Ann: Have no clue as to what Steve is getting ready to do. I do know whatever it was he did it well and correctly!  

I tried to write a brief description of his Car Repair Process behind the wacky pictures but I got bogged down after the first word or two.  Car Repair Processes are not something I am well versed in.  I finally asked Steve to write a paragraph or two about the story behind the pictures and that paragraph or two turned into “a paragraph or twenty!”  He had fun writing it and I know you all will have fun reading it. 

       

    The story behind the pictures, written by the one and only Steve Smith.

For the past year or so, the power steering pump on our Oldsmobile had been undergoing a slow, painful and leaky death and so I had to constantly check to make sure that the reservoir stayed full of fluid. Despite my best efforts though, sometimes it still left us in in some sticky situations like when it ran dry with Becky 125 miles from home.  (She wrote about this in one of her entries called the The Peach Angel.)


At first, the thing had to be topped off every few weeks; as time went on, however, it had to be topped off every week and then every few days.  It also left us with tasteful, decorative puddles in our driveway.


I finally bit the bullet and ordered a rebuilt power steering pump and belt.  Once the parts arrived, I rented a pulley puller/installer tool and set to work.The most interesting part of the job was heating the pulley to 400 degrees on the grill so that it could be pressed onto the pump shaft with the tool. My mechanical mentor, a German emigrant, used to heat things like this in an old popcorn popper filled with engine oil.


Once the pulley, the unit and the belt were installed, I bled the air from the power steering lines by turning the steering wheel back and forth several times with the engine running. It was then I noticed a generous helping of brand new fluid on the driveway.  Grrr.  I double checked the tightness of the fittings and everything seemed fine; however, it was still leaking.


I asked Sarah to sit in the car and turn the steering wheel while I watched the pump do what pumps do.


Lo and behold, the fluid it didst sprayeth not when the wheel wast held steadily, but the moment that she turneth the wheel, the fluid it did doth verily sprayeth out in a voluminous fashion from the high pressure line right wherein the crimped metal fitting meeteth the reinforced rubber hose thingy. (Sorry.  I felt the urge to get a little Shakespearean for a moment.)


When the fluid started its geyser-like activity, I leapt back.  I shouted excitedly, “Aha!”  And then I told Sarah to turn off the engine.


I went and did some research online about replacing the high pressure power steering line and found a comment from a shade tree mechanic who had done the repair; he described the job as ridiculous, difficult and frustrating.


Greatly encouraged, I hastened with haste to the local parts place and ordered said high pressure line.  It had to be special ordered. 


Of course.


The next day when I picked up the part, I saw that its appearance resembled some sort of genetic mutation of a deep sea worm.  I thought, “Surely GM didn’t really intend to make it this way.”  Ridiculous indeed.  


I got home and jacked the car up and surveyed the situation.  Not good.


I took a break.


Looked at it again.  Thoughtfully this time. 


I took another break.


Then I took a nap.


Looked at it again and finally took the car off the ramps.  Beaten!
I told Becky that it was a difficult fix and that I just didn’t feel like messing with it. I called a local repair shop and found out that they were booked up for two weeks. 
          
I slept on it.


I got up the next day and said, “By gum, (does anyone know what that means?) I am not gonna let this thing beat me!” 


So I mapped out my “strategery” (thanks for that one, “W”)  and got to work.
The job began by running the car up on ramps again.   I found the right socket, fetched my breaker bar and located my beloved six foot piece of pipe.  I wheeled under the car on the creeper and accompanied by manly grunts, I used the breaker bar and pipe to break loose four large, tight, important looking bolts. 


After placing a large hydraulic jack under the engine/transmission cradle to support its weight, I began slowly loosening the bolts to the end of their travel.  The cradle descended slowly.   I lowered the jack further and the cradle didn’t budge; it all just hung there on the forward engine mounts and axels. 
Ah, elbow room.  I had a glorious 1.5 inches in which to reach the steering box and high pressure line.


First, I removed the three hose mounts and then loosened the pipe fittings to the steering box, almost giving myself a hernia. My left arm had to thread through the left hand wheel well to get proper leverage on the box end wrench, and my right hand had to get in beside the steering box through the 1.5 inch gap. 


I broke the fitting loose and the top end with its flex hose came down from the pump easily.  It was grimy to say the least.   About half of this line is aluminum custom bent pipe which has limited flexibility before it crimps or cracks.  So I began to thread the thing out of the frame, around the exhaust pipe, around the engine mount and heat shield with the goal of encouraging it to migrate into the right hand wheel well.  The pump is on the upper passenger side of the engine.  


The line starts down to the engine cradle, then travels toward the front of the car for about 15 inches and then does a U-turn and heads right back only to make a 90 degree turn so that it can weave its way through cradle and around various tightly fitted components.


It got stuck several times and once it was finally loose, it took over a half an hour to remove. As you can probably imagine, I was thinking unkind things about whichever GM engineer had designed this particular part.


As the old line came out, I made careful mental notes so that I could attempt to install the new one in reverse.


Yeah, right.


The new one, while identical to the old one in every way, simply could not be cajoled into cooperation.   It refused to go in the way the old one came out.  So I started with the easy part near the pump and worked my way to the hard part.


Got stuck.


Took a break.


Tried again with a little more success.


Took another break.


Prayed. . . really.


Got back to it and began to ever so gingerly bend the rigid part of the line by small increments.  While working with my left arm threaded through the left wheel well and then through the sub frame, my right arm was threaded through every available inch of space as I wiggled, wedged and wound the line through the labyrinth of American ingenuity.  At last, it was in position. 


Except that the slightly bent line was no longer in perfect alignment with the rack pinion unit coupling.  So once again, I grunted and groaned as I re-bent the line so that it would thread into the steering box by hand. 


When that first tread began to bite, I gave a huge sigh of relief.   Smiled a grimy grin. Got it tightened up with the box end, bolted the engine/transmission cradle (sub frame) back into place and torqued the bolts with the handy breaker bar and pipe.


After checking everything, I filled the pump reservoir and fired the engine.
Success. No leaks. Hallelujah!

• Total time invested: Four hours.  (Pretty good considering that I didn’t use pneumatic tools or a hoist.)
• Filth factor:  Every square inch of my person.
• Sweat Excreted:  Gallons.
• Mosquito bites: Numerous.
• Knuckles busted: Two.
• Swear words: None. (This does not include the temptation to utter them, which is a different matter entirely.)
• Money saved: At least $200.
• Opinion of the job:  Ridiculous. 
• Award for perseverance: Priceless.     

Don’t Like It One Bit (A Guest Post From Steve)

Once again, I would like to present to you my favorite husband as he shares the musing-filled missive that he wrote on the way home from Florida last week. It is followed by a few questions I've answered from the comment area. So today you're getting two for the price of one!

Don’t Like it One Bit

“I’m a bundle of confusion . . . . “ Isn’t that what Barbara Streisand sang in “Yentl?”

That pretty well sums up my emotional state as I’m headed home from the whirlwind trip to Florida for Nate’s twenty-first birthday. I’m just plain wrung
out with a singular sense of mental, physical and spiritual exhaustion sitting on my sagging shoulders.

Don’t misunderstand me--the three days with Nathan were positive, replete with lots of laughs, lengthy father/son talks, great food, and an action movie with lots of explosions. (And yes, Beck, the movie did have a modicum of character development and dialogue . . . but not so much as to spoil the fun.)

I enjoyed getting to know Nate’s friends and, of course, getting to see our friends, the Hawleys, was great as well. But on other levels, the visit was difficult, disconcerting, even painful.

During the whole weekend I was torn between wanting to insert myself into Nathan’s challenges and the knowledge that I needed to keep my fatherly fingers off his life. I dealt with restless nights, a swirl of thoughts, a mixed bag of emotions. I was trying to be fully there, redeeming the time, making memories and yet feeling the need to hide, to retreat, to process. The desire to fix and to help was almost genetically driven; however the related fear of encouraging dependence if I helped too much was always in the forefront of my mind.

For instance, on Thursday after he picked me up at the airport in Orlando, I was aware of something that needed attention and attempted a rescue to which Nate responded (very respectfully) that he wanted to handle it himself. Oops. So I backed off.

His big celebration was on Saturday night and he had requested that his party be a game style event; as a result, Ping Pong, corn toss and Frisbee football were all offered. Nathan invited me to play Frisbee football with the guys but I told him that since my right shoulder had been painful lately and I also had stitches from the removal of some suspicious moles, my Frisbee-ing would probably be brief. I did play, but I ran back and forth on the field as more of an accessory than a team member--complete with jiggling tummy. The young studs brilliantly and effectively avoided tossing the Frisbee to me.

It didn’t take long before I retired to the sidelines to eat watermelon and lick the wounds of my no-longer-youthful pride. Nate, of course, carried on happily without me.

After the games and before the birthday blessing over the meal, the whole gang gathered in a circle in the kitchen and all fifteen of us said something about Nate that we liked or appreciated. I was last and by the time my turn arrived I was choked up, listening to the funny and heartfelt words being spoken, and so grateful that Nathan is surrounded by such quality people. I felt such deep love and pride and I was busting-my-buttons proud of the man he has become and is becoming.

I croaked out a heartfelt line or two of affirmation and said a brief blessing over the meal, ending by thanking God for Ping Pong (which earned a hearty laugh) in order to help mask my emotions. I was so proud of him and yet so sad that he is starting his adult life 825 miles away from Becky, Sarah and me. And yet I was convinced that he is tracking true--he’s right where he should be with the best kind of people around him.

After the games and meal, it was time for Nate to open his gifts. Before ripping open the wrappers, he read Becky and Sarah’s cards out loud; then he read the inscription on my card. He squinted and stumbled over my handwriting, which resembles an amalgam of Egyptian hieroglyphics, chicken scratch and kindergarten scribble-scrabble. He kept asking “What is that word?”

He finally handed the card to me to read. The problem was that between my scrawl and my tears, I couldn’t read it either. Finally I croaked to the finish line and he went on to open all of his gifts with great appreciation.

I was really anticipating attending the Sunday worship service with him at Garden Grove Assembly, which is pastored by Revs. Frank and Sherry Hawley, the parents of Nathan’s girl friend. They are terrific people who both wear super hero capes and “leap tall buildings with a single bound.”

Here they are with their daughters and son-in-law.

Nate had invited me to sit in with the praise band as they don’t currently have a bass player. I was honored and excited at the prospect and even considered bringing my custom-built, Carvin bass guitar with me. (I finally decided against it, due to the risk of damage and additional luggage expense.)

Nathan had told me that the church had an old bass that needed some repair, so on Saturday morning, he and I dropped it off at the musical store with the guitar tech guy who came complete with obligatory ponytail and John Lennon glasses. Happily, he got the thing working again and as I paid him, I was so pleased that Nate and I would get the chance to jam out in church together. “I’m finally going to be needed,” I happily told myself.

Well, when Sunday morning came and it was time for rehearsal, the bass guitar rolled over and played dead. (I could even hear it saying “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah.”) No amount of fiddling, prodding, battery or cord changing could get it to cooperate. So when service time came, instead of getting to be up on the platform making music with my son, I sat out in the congregation and watched from a distance as my son expressed his musical gift. And you know what? He “done good” without me.

But I didn’t have to like it.

Sunday afternoon after a quick lunch, Nate and Meagan took me to the Orlando airport for my trip home. During the ride we talked about a variety of issues and in the middle of one particular chat Nate said, “So what do you do?”

Answering another question from the conversation that had been swirling in my head all weekend I said absently, “I let go.”

We were speaking on entirely different planes, the question and answer overshooting each other on different azimuths and altitudes, like airliners X-ing in the sky.

He probably didn’t even notice my odd answer, focused as he was on the stuff of young adult life--dreams, fears, and great expectations. Those same things he’s facing, from my middle aged perspective, look more like dreams altered, fears faced, failures learned from, and a few expectations greatly lowered. It’s amazing how the years can change your vantage point and perspective.

And now here I sit on the plane headed home, my ears popping even as the pilot helpfully informs me that we have begun our descent into Norfolk. I’m pounding and clattering away on my computer, with my tray table not yet in its “full and upright position,” eyes tearing up, spilling my guts into an inanimate machine while sitting among strangers. Such is modern life.

I suspect that a young man with an earring, reading a book (novel idea . . . rim shot!) sitting across the aisle from me might be looking over my shoulder at my musings. After all, the font is set for MIDDLE-AGED-HUGE on my PC.

And I’m quite sure that he heard me sniff a couple times and maybe thought, “Just some middle-aged dude with a paunch trying to be cool with ‘product’ in his hair writing some drivel about his latest midlife crisis.”

Whether he was even thinking those things or not isn’t important (he likely wasn’t, but isn’t paranoia fun?!), I still felt like putting on my parental persona and saying to him, “Tuck your shirt in already. PULL UP YOUR PANTS. Don’t slouch. Did you call your mother on her birthday? Are you saving money? Did you rotate the tires on your car at your last oil change?”

But alas, those speeches are for all those yesterdays when the world was younger and the young men of the world were still boys. Speeches like that are for all those long ago moments when I didn’t need bifocals and was still one of the young studs, sans jiggling tummy, playing Frisbee football with the guys.

Middle age has eclipsed my youth and manhood has dawned for my son and now I have to continually make the decision to let him be, to let him go, to keep my mouth shut, to pry my fingers off his life and to let him spread his wings. I want him to take the risk, take the plunge, and take on the adventures of life—wherever they may take him. Even if it’s away from me.

But I still don’t have to like it. Not one little bit.

NOTE: I am fully aware that some parents who read this missive have faced horrendous suffering with your children such as death, illness, divorce, dysfunction, addiction, imprisonment, to name just a few. This entry isn’t even a blip on the radar of pain in light of what many of you have faced. It was merely an account of my journey of a normal process every parent must face--namely a child leaving home.

_______________________________________________

A FEW QUESTIONS/ANSWERS FROM THE COMMENTS SECTION

Yesterday’s Casserole Recipe

Anon said, “I want to make this recipe for dinner soon! Can I use an 8 inch square casserole instead of a 6 by 10 one??? Thanks . . . love your recipes, they are good and usually do not require a trip to the grocery store for exotic ingredients! Unless you consider mayonnaise and the fact that you were out of it exotic!”

Anon, I think the 8 inch pan would work great; in fact, I think more people would tend to have that size, rather than the 6x10 size the recipe calls for.

Krueth said, “Sounds delicious! I will be making it in the next few days! I also did not know you could buy cornflake crumbs..LOL I always just dump some in a Ziploc bag and crush away.”

Dumping and crushing sounds good to me! That would be a much more economical way to get the crumbs.

Chick-Fil-A Post

Krista wrote, “ . . is that cheese sauce for the fries?!”

Jill said, “Yum! Chick-fil-A, Whataburger, and 5 guys are the best fast food when I splurge on junk! Oh, I like the "Polynesian" sauce and the newer "Chick-fil-a" sauce with my Chick-fil-A.

Harriet said, “I love Chick-fil-A also! That looks like the kids' meal size. You probably already know this, but at least at our Chick-fil-A stores here in GA, you can trade in your unopened kids' toy for a free small ice cream. Another yum!”

Love Being A Nonny said, “I get a kid's meal too and I always trade in my toy for a dream cone! The honey roasted barbecue sauce is THE BEST!!!”

Buff said, “I love Chick-fil-A also! And we do have them in Carmel....but something you must try if you haven't already...5 Guys...burgers & fries...I know there is one on the by-pass...Kitty Hawk, maybe?

Wow. Nice to meet so many other Chick-Fil-A fans! Although we used to live two minutes away from a Chick-Fil-A, now we’re a couple hours. So whenever I get to eat at one, it is a big treat.

My favorite part about eating there on my “doctor visit days” is going through the drive through, parking the car in an out of the way spot, turning on my book-on-CD, and spreading out my feast “just so” on my lap. Ahhh . . . the luxury of it all. I always get TWO packs of Chick-Fil-A sauce because not only is the sauce perfect for dipping the chicken tenders, it is also marvelous with the waffle fries! In fact, I love the sauce so much I am sometimes tempted to dab it behind my ears!

And to Krista who asked if that is a cheese sauce, it’s not. But I don’t really know how to tell you what it is—except to say that it is really good!

To those of you who mentioned trading in the toy at Chick-Fil-A for a cone, I had actually heard that a long time ago but had forgotten all about it. Next time I go, it’s gonna be a cone for me!

And yes, we do have a 5 Guys within about 20 minutes of us. I LOVE their hamburgers—they’re amazing. (Although I’m not as thrilled with their fries.)

Sigh. All of this food talk is making me hungry. I think I’ll go gnaw on a carrot stick.

Or not.

Steve's Inimitable Take on Marriage

Just as I promised, today I'm featuring a guest writer here at Smithellaneous, one that I am well acquainted with and can recommend to you for wise and insightful advice on marriage. I also happen to know that he is married to a really fabulously wonderful woman.

(And might I just add that if you leave several thousand comments saying how much you enjoyed this piece, he might even be compelled to guest post more often!)

And now, I present to you . . . . Steve Smith.

Ok, so, um Queen Rebecca has asked (commanded?) me to respond to a great question written by a Smithellane-ite about, “How we stay happy together” with associated germane tips and/or advice.

Firstly, our marriage is not perfect; no such marriage exists. But our marriage continues to grow. That-being-said[1], we do hereby and forthwith step down off of any and every pedestal of perfection. Only Jesus gets that prize.

Secondly, both of our parents and their parents were married 50 plus years (some 60 plus years!) before one of them died. That is quite an example. None of them was/is perfect but they were/are committed Christians who also know how it is to “run with feet of clay.”[2] They persevered through hellish times, forgave and put up with each other and overcame daunting obstacles.

Thirdly, Becky and I were friends before the bonfires of romance kindled and we remain best friends to this day. This does not happen by accident, but by intention. “Good marriages may be made in heaven, but they are maintained on earth.”[3]

Fourthly, we have sought out Christian marriage counseling during several seasons of our marriage. The first was during a time when we were stressed by the behavior of others that threatened to tear at our love. And then there was Sarah’s cancer journey. Eighty percent of child-cancer couples divorce. We sought Christian counseling individually and together because the thing was bigger than we. Us. (Not sure which usage is correct.)

Fifthly, we make the bed together almost every day; we learned this from Dr. and Mrs. Charles Cookman, (Charles Cookman is the late leader of our denominational state office. His wife's name started with an “E” but I can’t remember it.[4] I do remember, though, that he always called her “My Queen.”)

Sixthly, we both love words, reading, songwriting, singing and communication in general. This helps to keep conversations lively.

Seventhly, we insist on a family meal, sans electronic entertainments, several times a week. We do our best to ignore the phone during meals, too.

Eighthly, we have both needed forgiveness from each other and have both given forgiveness.

Ninthly, we both try to not nag each other with the little stuff. We praise each other in front of others and never, ever, criticize each other publically, even in fun.

Tenthly, we have both learned to laugh at ourselves.

Eleventhly, I like the sound of this word. It kind of bunches up on the tongue when I say it. Maybe I just made it up. Hopefully I will receive royalties from Webster’s Dictionary for it.

Twelfthly, we are both committed to helping the other to fulfill their dreams and God-given potential. (Hey, Beck. . . about that two seat roadster. . .and the flying lessons. . . )

Thirteenthly, we waited a few years after marriage to have kiddiwinkies. This helped us to get to know each other and to do some growing up. Which we needed.

Fourteenthly, we do not bring up negative stuff at the dinner table. Dinner is a time of renewal, celebration, rest and connection. (This one could have been part of the seventhly part, but I’m getting paid by the word.)

Fifteenthly, we write stuff in our greeting cards to each other at birthdays, holidays, etc. How can I expect Hallmark to know what I want to say? Besides those cards are often filled with smarmy rhymes.

Sixteenthly, we have maintained healthy boundaries with extended family.

Seventeenthly, I am willing to go to a chick flick with her and she will go with me to see things blow up. However, she does prefer that the action flicks have character development. (Huh? Is that even possible?)

Eighteenthly, we are both active listeners and actively listen to each other; though she is better at it than I am.

Nineteenthly, I’m almost done.

Twentyteenthly, we discuss purchases with each other to help keep the spending in line.

Twentyoneteenthly, . . .this is how my sermons end. They just kinda wind down and peter out, generally leaving the congregation either stunned or comatose.

Twentytwoteenthly, I’m done.

---

[1] Dashes are one of my hobbies because they are cheap. . . for that matter so are ellipses.

[2] I’ve no idea who said this, but it makes me feel spiffy to do another footnote: collegiate-like, ya know?

[3] Author unbeknownst; I wish I had thought of it. If no one else claims it; I made it up.

[4] Oh, I remembered while trying to think of a witty fortheenthly; her name is Esther.