The typical motorcycle has two levers on the handlebar, and one day I managed to break both of them.
Actually I’m being too modest.
Snapping off those levers required little more than an hour of
basically effortless ineptitude on my part, as near as I remember.
If I’d had the whole day I might have dismantled the machine
altogether, like one of those exploded view pictures they put in repair
manuals so mechanics can figure out which washer goes on first.
Although to be precise I can’t claim sole credit for the damage.
The ground helped.
I didn’t, you know, grab the levers and wrench them off, as though they were turkey drumsticks.
What I did was crash the motorcycle.
But not on purpose.
This was a recurring problem for me.
The point when you know, beyond all doubt, that you’re the worst
wingshooter alive is when a fleeing bird slows right after you’ve fired
And I mean “at it” in the theoretical rather than the literal sense.
It’s as if the bird, having recognized that the person wearing the
vest with a recoil patch is about as malignant as a kangaroo rat, is
curious to see how wildly astray the next wad of pellets will fly.
This is, of course, a dangerous habit for a chukar to indulge in.
The odds are good that the next hunter who comes along will pose a rather more immediate threat.
Actually the odds are better than that — 100 percent, not to put too fine a point on it.
In my hands a 12-gauge is not so much a weapon as it is a noisemaker that litters lead.
Although I suppose I could inflict grievous wounds on a bird by
clubbing it with the shotgun’s butt, if only the bird would sit still
for a moment and let me get my feet set.
Baker City never seems to me quite so old as it does around Christmas.
I mean this in a good way.
With rare exceptions such as fine wine, advanced age is associated with
an inexorable deterioration in utility, vigor and appearance, whether
the object is animate or not.
Both cars and people, for instance, tend to accumulate sludge in their
circulatory systems as their mileage rises. This comparison doesn’t
hold up, of course — you can sometimes cure a balky fuel injector by
simply pouring a bottle of additive into your gas tank; fixing a
clogged artery is a rather more ticklish task, and not one you’d be
wise to tackle with that tool set you got at Sears for 59 bucks.
Anyway, the sense of age I’m talking about, as regards our city, is more clearly expressed with a different analogy.
The notion I’m getting at is akin to the way the face of an elderly
person can attain a peculiar beauty, when its wrinkles are clearly the
brands left by a lifetime of smiles. The sight pleases our hearts as
much as our eyes; we feel the welcome weight of many decades of love
and laughter, and bask in their kind warmth.
I must confess: I overdosed on peanut brittle.
Well, actually, I prefer almond brittle, and even then I seek out the shards without any nuts.
And when you’re the one pulling the molten candy across a greased surface, it’s easy to “make” these nutless pieces.
I blame my aunts, Betty Braswell and Evie Plankinton, for my addiction to this wonderful sweet.
The recipe, smudged with years and years of candy-making, came from
Aunt Evie. Aunt Betty was the one who decided peanut (and almond)
brittle would make a wonderful addition to the holiday baskets she
delivers to family and friends.
Near as we can figure, it was 17 years ago that we — my cousin, Emily,
Aunt Betty’s friend Connie Howerton and me — first spent a few hours
Let me explain the process, for those of you who have never made this candy.
When I think of Don Clark I think first of him standing in a college
football stadium, surrounded by people clad in clothes bearing the
vibrant colors of their school.
Don is wearing a brown coverall.
Which is neither vibrant nor, so far as I know, a color affiliated with any college’s athletic teams.
It might have been a Carhartt, that coverall.
The garment certainly gave the impression, at a glance, of being a Carhartt.
Although I don’t believe the company has patented that particular loamy shade which is its trademark.
Possibly Don himself didn’t know on that chilly October evening in
Pullman, Wash., whether he was, as they put it in the high-fashion
business, “wearing Carhartt.”
(As in, the model is “wearing Dior.” Whenever I hear that grammatical
construction I envision a waifish woman lurching along the runway with
Christian himself riding horseyback.)
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