Given that the liberal press and visual media is attacking FOX’s ORielly, and everyone seems busy eating themselves, I’ll confine myself to me.
After all, who else is as important.
I will apologize for missing yesterdays post. I was somewhat tied up with projects and physical projects at that and was whupped at the end.
Which just proves that sitting about during the winter “time off” isn’t all that good on a body.
All the fencing material was gathered. The freezer was stocked. Renters mom’s plot got tilled and the implement change went with a great deal of knuckle busting, mutters, and time expended.
In fact, the two implement installations were the bugaboo. We started around five thirty in the afternoon and finished about a quarter to nine. The tilling actually took twenty minutes work – including the travel times.
It appears that the grease I used when getting ready for the winter hiatus had hardened and we fought the universal joints and the PTO mechanism for most of the evening. The new “press the button, and push the universal onto the drive shaft” actually turned into push the button and wrestle the SOB for an hour.
I think this year I’ll be used an oil of some type rather than grease.
I’ve gotten the wheels of the three point finish mower freed up some what and hope it will not rust like it did last year. The tolerances Bush Hog uses for those shafts are very close and a little moisture squeezing into them rusts and binds very easily if the implement is allowed to sit for any length of time.
The village has been inundated by surveyors and trades folk of all stripes. They are tromping about marking gas lines, water lines and just about any lines of any description and planting little flags of various colors.
All for the implantation of the new water lines that caused our utility bills to double.
I had three Sirs of various ages climbing over my fences looking for a sewer line with the surveying equipment. Those lines I wrote about two or three years ago – that they looked for for two or three years prior to that and, for Gods sake, are still looking for.
I almost hope the magical sewer line continues to find ways of eluding the high tech equipment they’ve thrown at it all these years.
The mental image of a sewer wiggling about nine feet under ground escaping the “wicked” men disturbing its sleep tickles me.
As I’ve said, small pleasures for a small mind.
From the reaches,