Magnetic plots are like a crack pogo sticker. You’re up for the express purpose to drop back down. But not for long. Back up you go.
Boing.
Sometimes I feel like I’m on the stick. No, scratch that. It’s not a pogo stick. It’s a teeter-totter. I feel like I’m on the see-saw at times. At the top waiting to come back down but somebody’s pressing the other end down, trying to poke a hole all the way to Hong Kong Disneyland. Instead of enjoying the view, I’m bracing for the drop not knowing when it will come. It’s stressful.
I don’t just mean big stress, mighty problems. I mean little vernacular simple every day happenings. Like trying to buy and sell a house. We just did this. It felt like I was riding an EKG tracing.
Would you like to hear it? Here it goes:
Up: We have an offer on our house!
Down: They want the riding lawn mower. They also want us to remove an old, unused heating fuel tank in the basement. Not atypical when selling a house.
Up: I come to grips with losing the lawn mower I just bought and agree. The tank is no big deal. Meredith’s cousin is an ironworker and removes items like these with two legs tied behind his back to promote world peace. He comes over about a week before we close on the old house to help me remove the tank.
Down: We, that means he, cut through the pipes connecting the tank to the wall. We, that means both of us, start to pull it away from the corner of the basement. It doesn’t want to move. That’s when we discover it’s about 1/3 full of 20-year-old heating fuel. If it was a lowland Scotch I wouldn’t have minded. He gives me the number to a company who reclaims old fuel. Gonna have to empty the tank first. Meanwhile, the lawn mower sits stoically in the garage, no longer able to deposit grass clippings into the bagging system. The belt that drives that attachment shredded on me. Gonna have to order a new one and put it on before we close.
Up: I get ahold of the company to reclaim the fuel. They want $350 to test it and then $.50/gallon to remove it. I call around and a friend reminds me that another friend works at a scrapyard and will know what to do. I call Jeff. He indeed knows what to do. His boss can use the fuel. He can help empty the tank and then take the fuel and the tank to the scrapyard. Jeff can come over that very night, the night before we move out to the new house. Perfect timing.
Down: Jeff shows up with two 50 gallon drums, a trailer and an “historic” hand pump and garden hose. We start pumping. It’s working. 12 seconds later the pump falls apart inside of the tank. Yippy Skippy. We remove what amounts to 75 gallons of fuel one bucket at a time for 3 1/2 hours.
Up: We transport the defrocked tank to the stairs via two lengthy 2×4’s reminiscent of Cleopatra parading high above and beyond her subjects. It’s at the foot of the stairs. 8 stairs separate us from cementing our dynasty.
Down: Dang, this thing is heavy. Really heavy. Somehow I’m on the bottom. The tank is halfway up the stairs now, so nobody can shimmy down to give me a hand. There are four, 6-inch feet welded onto the bottom of the tank. They get caught on the lip of each step. Wouldn’t want any of the steps to feel left out. Did you hear the one about the guy who saved $350 plus $.50/gallon and ended up with 9 herniated discs?
Up: Like Samson, blinded and being scorned by his enemies for entertainment, I’m bestowed a final surge of super-strength. I topple the pillars and the fuel tank’s palace comes crashing down. We’ve got it on flat ground in the garage. I win. Jeff and I lift the tank onto the trailer. He texts me the next morning after weighing it in at the yard. 250 pounds. Good thing I Jazzercise.
Down: It’s moving day. My basement smells like diesel fuel. Not terribly. Just the natural amount you’d expect after removing 75 gallons of it and the tank it rode in on. So I prop a basement window open. They’re oversized but surprisingly light. They have magic hinges that keep them open at the top of the their swing. This window was propped for 4 hours the night before as we removed the fuel and tank. It couldn’t make it 10 minutes this morning. I’m in the garage explaining the game plan to the movers. Crash. Looks like I’ll be repairing a broken window.
Up: The window is repaired courtesy of my friend, Reid. I’ve got the belt for the mower, extra hands not included. My father is meeting me at the old house to install it. It’s Thursday night now. We close tomorrow morning. Down to the wire but we’re gonna make it. I’m feeling frisky.
Down: After much manhandling, and a little help from my Uncle Mark who lives around the corner, we get the taught new belt on the last pulley. Let’s test this Mamma Jamma out. “Do you smell something?” “Is that a glowing ember sparking from the mower deck?” I threaded the belt on almost the correct way. Not playing horse shoes or hand grenades, this is bad. The time on the game clock has now expired. We’re going into overtime. Looks like I’ll be ordering another new belt.
Up: Though damaged, this heartier belt is still functional and will be for some time. We thread it properly and retest. I think the clouds parted and heavenly light showered down. It was hard to tell because we were in the garage. The bagging attachment works. But, I’m a sensitive fellow and felt badly that it wasn’t how the new owners deserve. I ordered the new belt and it’s being shipped directly to them. They can replace it if/when they see fit. The house closed at 9 a.m. the following morning.
It’s something, how long we can hold our breath and not even realize we’re doing so.
Photo credit: Lawrence OP
