I’m struggling to get started on my blog today, but I haven’t had my morning jolt yet. I hate to admit that I have some kind of dependency problem but if you want to be a stickler about what an actual chemical dependency entails— “an addiction to a mood or mind altering substance” then I’d have to say that I fit that description. I don’t function on all cylinders until I’ve had a nice big cup of black, sweetened with Splenda coffee… It’s still brewing.
That reminds me… When I was young, poor, and stupid—well, maybe not poor— it’s just that Rolly and I had no money for anything but an old junker car; it would never go in the mornings so that he could just get on his way to work without a fuss and bother. My job was to pour a few morning jolts of gas directly into the watchamacallit that’s on the engine, where the little flap would open and shut—just like the flu on a stove-pipe. Once in a blue moon the temperamental engine would start up without any assistance, but most mornings Rolly would attempt repeatedly to get it to turn over and it refused. That’s when the poor man would realize “Hey! This thing is a lot like my wife! She just needs her morning jolt to wake her up before she goes on her way!” and then he would head off to get the gas can (for the car that is—for me he would have to bring a cup of instant Maxwell House Coffee.)
After retrieving the gas can he would call me from the kitchen doorway, and I would throw on a pair of flip-flops or winter boots under my nightgown and head out to the gravel driveway. When it was time, he would yell at me through the open hood of the car, which thankfully screened my face from view, “Ok! Pour it in!” (I don’t like being yelled at, even when it is necessary for someone to make themselves heard, and my grouchy expression with furrowed brows and gritting teeth in response always shows it.) I pour in a capful of gasoline. There’s a pop as it explodes and the engine starts!
I didn’t know that this was very dangerous until years later. It’s just not anything anyone ever told me. I took Home Ec. while Rolly took Shop classes (including Auto Repair, no doubt!) When I found out that I could have been killed…No?…Lost my hand in an explosion?…No?…Burned?…Well maybe.Then I was mad!
“You know I could have been killed doing that! Don’t you?”
“I could have!”
“Not likely.” was definitely not the right response to the mother of two children who valued her life more as an asset to her offspring, and necessary for their survival in those early years, than for any other reason! Especially, with a crazy nut like that for a dad! (Love you Honey! I really do!) I could just imagine what would happen if I was gone…”Carrie Ann, Honey, Could you just get up there on Steven’s shoulders and pour some gas into the carburetor?”
(Hurray! I just remembered the name of the gizmo! My morning coffee finished brewing a few minutes ago, and the caffeine jolt has finally kicked in! )
Well, I survived! (obviously) and we moved on up in the world— the brewed coffee, new car world, anyway, with the purchase of a nice avocado green electric coffee pot and a new shiny blue 1972 Plymouth Duster. Things started looking up when Rolly got a job as an auto assembler at the Ford Motor Company in Talbotville, Ontario. He and I stayed married, and he survived!
Meanwhile he disregarded the “DO NOT WALK NEAR CREVICES!” Sign on the Columbia Ice fields.He ignored the “DANGER DO NOT WALK HERE! signs over the smoldering underground coal seam fires near Drumheller, Alberta. He can vividly describe what looking straight down a mile, from the very edge of the unfenced North— rim of the Grand Canyon felt like while his agitated wife screamed at him to “GET BACK! GET BACK!’ He survived a rapid and painful 28 pound weight loss over a 12 day period after he ate two hot dogs in the work canteen on the day of our tenth anniversary.
Hot dogs which were sometimes known to be broiled within “The Pit” where a fellow auto worker ran a hidden hibachi- grilled hot dog operation right under the unsuspecting noses of the supervisors who could only see the cars passing
over the bootleg cook’s head. The source was not always questioned when lunchbreak time was short and “dogs” were passed around the table. Whether this was the source of contamination or not was not much of an issue, as the rumour that constantly circulated around the
plant was that the food servers never washed their hands.(Probably started by all the cafeteria’s undercover competitors.) Either way, hot dogs were ill advised as a food option, or even as a weight loss aid, as they had not been previously approved by the FDA, (despite how rapidly they worked!)
Rolly came home that day with a full lunch pail of sandwiches and a rolling stomach, to the soon-to-rise ire of his wife— I have often wondered if “ire” has anything to do with the root word for Ireland as Rolly always says that my red hair and temper of former days were likely from Irish ancestors—no doubt some with a little ire of their own, and for very good reason considering their mistreatment under their ruthless landlords.
“What!… You ate what?…HOT DOGS?!…I PACKED YOU SALMON SANDWICHES! WHY WOULD YOU EAT HOT DOGS?”….”You probably have salmonella now! if you had just eaten the salmon sandwiches you wouldn’t have salmonella!…So what if everybody else at the table was having hot dogs? If every one else was jumping off of a bridge would you jump off of a bridge too?…WHAT DID YOU SAY?… WITH A WIFE LIKE ME?!….Man! You always were a risk taker!…What do you mean ‘YOU MARRIED ME’?”
Yep! There was a little too much gas that day for my carburetor, but at least Rolly didn’t look around for a new model. He never broke his arm. He never broke his leg. He never fell down into a burning mine shaft or a freezing crevice. And Rolly never got food poisoning ever again! He is sleeping in the other room right now—like a baby. Calm, placid, even-tempered, and able to leap over a building in a single bound. He’s got the legs for it! Just not my permission!