From Veeduber@aol.com  Wed Sep  6 04:36:19 1995
msgnum: msg15170
Date: Wed, 6 Sep 1995 05:36:19 -0400
From: Veeduber_at_aol_dot_com
Subject: Hair-ball run, D minus 1

     
                     Hair Ball Run, Part One
                           Packing Up


The freshly assembled engine spent 5.8 hours on the test stand
before I decided that was enough.  I was working in the sun and
it was hot.  I left the engine to cool, began sorting tools.

I've got too many tools.  Some are pets, still in my kit long
after they should have been retired.  I took some time wiping
them down, gently laying aside those that must stay behind.  They
weren't dirty, the wipe-down wasn't needed.  The handling was. 
Tools are like soldiers guarding some outpost, keeping the faith. 
I was culling them out, telling the ones I would leave behind
they were not forgotten.

Each tool has a history, some good, some bad.  Some are pretty to
look at and a comfort in the hand, others scarred from many
battles.  I went through them twice, weighing the merits of
experience against the strength of youth.  The veterans carried
the day.  There will be other battles, and tools like hearts, can
break.

The proper tool box was a dilemma.  I might have to carry it home
and 1,300 miles is a fair stroll, smaller was better.  Yet it had
to be big enough.  The torque wrench and 3/4" breaker bar
dictated the length and that narrowed the choice to three
candidates.  One was my brother's and took a bold pace forward. 
In life we had never worked well together but in death he is
always on my mind.  He was a good mechanic, although of
helicopters instead of real airplanes, but the thought of
carrying what he had carried pleased me.  

I let the tools decide how they wanted to ride, dismantling the
cooled engine as a test.  They jostled one another at first, some
eager, others grumpy, a few knowing I couldn't leave them behind
and wanting to get on with it.  By the time the engine was
stipped to a long-block the tools had found places ready to my
hand and were comfortable with each other.  There was room to
spare.  I could of added more but had reached the point of
diminishing returns, the weight would rise faster than justified
by the convenience.  Even so, it was not a trivial load nor
incomplete, with back-ups for all but the breaker bar and torque
wrench. 

Loading the dismantled engine called for the help of a friend. 
The heat was brutal and we were dripping with sweat by the time
we muscled the long-block over the high lip of the trunk and got
it positioned atop the rear axel.  All else was anti-climatic,
I've been down this road before.  Spare spark plugs inside of
ducting, oil lines stored in tail pipes.  Fragile things swaddled
into anonymous lumps.  The trip would be wasted if a single thing
were forgotten or damaged.  The loading took about two hours.

Again, there was room to spare and with it a strong desire to add
tidbits here and there, an urge suppressed despite the clamor of
"Take me!  Take me too!" from the very boards beneath my feet,
for some of the load was wood.  Eight blocks, two sets of four,
the means whereby an engine could be made to rise above the
ground two inches at a time, rocking back and forth until it was
high enough to accept the floor jack run-up like a sixteen-
pounder on its own two-piece deck, two pieces so one could be
laid down before the other making a gun-deck as long as I wished. 
Wood can be burned for fuel or whittled into wedges or used as
drifts or... wood is handy stuff to have around.

The parts and tools married in my mind, a meld of task and means. 
Neatly packed, secured against the weather, I am done by early
afternoon and turn my mind to personal things.  A couple of
shirts, some underwear.  To stay alert I'll gnaw bagels and sip
coffee on the way, a useful trick picked up during long-distance
solo flights, ferrying aircraft.  From the closet I take the
first bag that comes to hand, throw things into it, zip it shut. 
My wife looks on, amazed.  Snatches it away, lays everything out
like a Seabag Inspection -- Junk on the Bunk.  In a trice
everything is folded and tucked and patted and placed and the bag
is only half as full as before.  Then she added socks, which I'd
forgotten.  And handkerchiefs and spare glasses and pills. 
Geezer-dom's rite of passage is how many pills you need to stay
alive.  I'm still a Novice Geezer.  But getting there.

Then comes the Interrogation.  Is this trip REALLY necessary?. 
It would take too many life-times to explain why some things
simply need doing.  She doesn't like shrugs so I nod.  Did I have
the phone numbers?  Did I have the directions?  What will I do if
it rains?  "Get wet" proved to be the wrong answer.  Her sigh
questioned my sanity but she continued in patient tones, a Girl
Scout helping an old lady across the street.  Credit card? 
Change for the telephone?  And you WILL be sure to call...  I nod
at the appropriate times.  Interrogations usually last about
twenty minutes, this one runs a little long.  

She will worry while I am away.  And I will probably find some
precious portion of her household money in my bag, tucked into a
sock or other place where it can't be overlooked.  I'll use it
for flowers when I return, and won't go away again.  Until the
next time.

-Bob